The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow
Of flames on high, and torches from below;
The shriek of terror and the mingling yell.

He climbs the crackling stair—he bursts the door,
Nor feels his feet glow, scorching with the floor;
His breath choked, gasping with the volumed smoke,
But still from room to room his way he broke.
—Byron.

The events of the morning in which he had taken so prominent a part presented to Hal Vivian, when alone in his chamber, that evening, rather a wide field for contemplation. He was glad of the opportunity which the close of the day’s labour gave him to retire to the solitude of his neatly furnished bedroom, because, unobserved, he could there review the circumstances which had that day occurred, and give to them the colouring most agreeable to the feelings which had recently taken possession of him.

He threw himself into an easy chair, and was quickly engaged in drawing deductions. Not for a second was the fair face of Flora absent from his vision. The rugged visage of Jukes, the grimy features of his satellites, the impassible countenance of Nathan Gomer, which seemed moulded out of fine gold, the bright, frank aspect of Lotte, by turns floated across his mental speculum, but never to displace that of Flora.

Out of the past a future was to be formed; he tried to construct it, and in doing so set himself honestly to work to examine those feelings which prompted him so strongly to undertake the task.

He sought to understand why he should interest himself at all in the affairs of the old gold-worker; what motives should have induced him to interfere and take part in what had happened that morning, or why he should be so very eager to effect certain happy results he had in contemplation, and the answer which constantly presented itself to these and other questions was—Flora Wilton!

Hal Vivian was just out of his time; but a few days, and his—
Seven long years were out.

He was at that age in man when love partakes very strongly of the imaginative, and clothes the object of affection with an excellence and perfection which, though it be not always just, makes her whom he loves to him a beau ideal. Almost every youth creates in his mind a standard of perfect loveliness, and if he, perchance, meets with a face which presents some resemblance to the mental image he has formed, he at once proceeds to invest it with all the charms with which he has endowed the unreal. The maid is elected to the first place in his heart—she becomes his guiding influence—he busies himself by contemplating schemes of impossible delights for her, is anxious to be at her side whenever apart, and most loth, when with her, to tear himself from her.

No doubt a very considerable amount of mental deception is practised during this phase of youthful existence, and when marriage has bestowed upon the lovesick swain the object he has so ardently coveted, he perhaps finds that he has been gazing through, what he now considers, the wrong end of the telescope.

Harry Vivian was, however, like all youths of his age, in no condition to believe that the being he had made his representative angel could ever prove the reverse. He had always seen her mild and gentle, soft in manner, courteous in speech, amiable in expression, and exquisitely lovely in person. He could suppose no other side to the picture, and so, as she outwardly resembled an angel, he gave her credit for being inwardly a saint. His intimacy with her was slight, his opportunities of seeing her—save during the past year, when he had made them—had not been many; he had interchanged but few words with her, and they were of a very commonplace description. He had not hitherto thought of her, more than that she was a girl of rare and delicate beauty, whose features he should like to reproduce in some of the choice modellings of the precious metals entrusted to him, for it seemed to him that no artist, however marvellous his skill in delineating the female face divine, had ever succeeded in producing one so beautiful as her’s.

Love had, however, taken no part in this admiration; he had gazed upon her and thought of her as he would have done of the best efforts of the greatest masters of art—“a thing of beauty,” but animated with life. Her sudden appearance at the window, the golden sunbeams falling on her face, her hair, her light dress, bringing her beauty out in strong relief from the dark chamber in which she stood, altered at one stroke the condition of his feelings.

Passion sprang into life simultaneously with the glance he turned upon her—it intermingled with his admiration, and became love.

He was not conscious of the change wrought within him when he instinctively surmised that trouble and trial hovered over her, and that he should take an active part in endeavouring to avert it. He had not a notion of it even when seated with Mr. Harper, his uncle, discoursing on the position of the Wilton family, he employed himself devising how the all but orphaned child of their skilled workman might be rescued from destitution.

Here, in his chamber, alone in deep meditation and self-examination, it flashed through his mind. A sudden glow of heat pervaded his frame, and he sprang to his feet impulsively—a strange tremor thrilled through him—a feeling of apprehension crept over him—and a species of sadness oppressed him; wherefore, he could not comprehend. Here was food for contemplation, indeed; and he resumed his seat to pursue this new subject through its many ramifications until he should arrive at some kind of ultimate result.

One fact followed from this discovery made by him. Up to this moment he had been, in his knowledge of the world, a mere boy. He was, at a moment, transformed into a man.

He had “something to love,” and the affection was not of the same nature as that entertained for kith or kin. He had taken up a responsibility, and at once there was something to live for, work for, seek for, and to win. Fame, wealth, honour, were now worth striving to gain, because there was one, whose approbation he coveted, to share the wealth and honour to be secured by persevering energy and untiring ardour.

In commencing his struggle with the world, here was an incentive to ambition beyond a mere love of art or the desire to excel, and a motive for reaping golden opinions beyond the common wish to become rich.

It is true there was nothing in Flora’s manner to lead him to believe that he had created any such impression upon her as she had upon him, and the probabilities were that she did not see him in any other light than as a gentlemanly and good-hearted young man, who had been kind and considerate to her father in business, and singularly generous and friendly to her in her moment of trial. All this he quite understood; and, though he felt himself over head and ears in love with her, he did not deceive himself into any other notion than that to win her love his work was yet to commence, to be prosecuted with faithful perseverance, and in an honorable and unselfish spirit.

As true love looks to marriage as its goal, so did that possessed by Hal; but romantic, generous, and noble-hearted as he was by nature, he had yet so much of the common leaven in him that it struck him it would be worth consideration to ascertain into what kind of family he should introduce himself by an alliance with Miss Wilton.

His own position was very soon determined. He was the son of a deceased sister of Mr. Harper, the goldsmith—was apprenticed to him, and would, in all probability, be his heir, as his only son had turned out wild in his youth, and had, after the commission of some outrageous piece of profligacy, disappeared. It was supposed he had fled to India, but from his departure to the present hour he had not been heard of.

Mr. Harper had mentioned to Hal an intention that he had formed, of taking him into partnership with him, but he had decided first on subjecting him to a probation of a year or two, to try whether the promise of steadiness and sobriety, which his youth had given, would be realised.

Hal’s future might, consequently, be said to be formed for him; and it was into his uncle’s family he should introduce Miss Wilton as his wife, if ever the union took place. Therefore, while considering his own happiness, he felt it to be his duty not to overlook that of his uncle, who had behaved to him from his infancy as a tender, just, and generous father. It would be a task he should impose upon himself, to ascertain, as far as possible, the previous history of old Wilton. Not that he feared the result would turn out other than he could wish, but he could not conceal from himself that there was a mystery hanging over the old worker in gold, which it would be proper, if possible, to penetrate.

Some years back Wilton had suddenly presented himself at the shop of Mr. Harper for employment in carving in gold. Inquiries elicited that he had not been bred to the business he professed, but was what might be termed a scientific amateur. Mr. Harper was struck by his language, and by his remarks upon the processes and art of modelling and chasing; and being much pressed at the time with an excess of business, he entrusted him with some valuable work—the more readily when he found that old Wilton resided exactly opposite to him.

Wilton returned with his task accomplished in a manner greatly to Mr. Harper’s satisfaction, and from that time he had been employed by him. He always executed his work excellently, but he was not always punctual, and twice or thrice Mr. Harper, in anger, had threatened to discontinue employing him; but Wilton generally contrived to smooth away his irritation, and they went on as before.

Nothing was known of him—whence, or when, or how, he came he seldom went out, and only worked for Mr. Harper. So much Hal knew—no one knew more—and yet they do know a good deal about each other in Clerkenwell. Hal resolved now that his knowledge should not sleep here, although at the present moment he could not see quite clearly his way to learn more.

His future cogitations were terminated by a call to supper, and that meal being discussed, he retired to rest—to think again, as before, and to fall into a deep, heavy slumber.

He dreamed.

He thought he met with Flora in some leafy coppice and in secret, and that, while conversing with her in a strain of loving tenderness, they were interrupted by the tramp of a body of persons approaching. He fancied that he seized Flora in his arms, and fled with her, but was pursued, and that his pursuers shouted and uttered fierce threats. He looked back, and saw that old Wilton headed Jukes and his followers, as well as Nathan Gomer and his uncle, who seemed to be the most excited of the party, and called him by name loudly. Then, as he still fled, he observed that his pursuers were armed, and he heard his uncle call to them to fire upon him.

He fled on; still his uncle’s voice shouted in his ear—

“Fire! fire! fire!”

At last he sprang up in his bed, suddenly awakened, and still the voice vehemently cried—

“Fire! fire! fire!”

A heavy hand beat violently against the panels of his chamber-door, and completely aroused him.

He at once leaped to the floor, and unlocked his door. He found his uncle without, in a state of great excitement—he was half-dressed.

“Oh, Lord!” he cried; “I thought you would never wake; there is a fire; throw on your clothes, Hal, my boy!”

“A fire! where?” asked Hal, hastily.

“Over the way,” returned Mr. Harper; “be quick! while I pacify your aunt, who is frightened to death.”

He lit Hal’s candle as he spoke, and shuffled hastily away in his slippers.

Over the way! Why Wilton’s house was over the way. Hal felt his blood rush violently through his veins. Over the way! What if it should be there? He drew on his clothes with hasty swiftness, and he heard the low, hoarse sounds of a gathering mob in the streets. The tramp of running feet, the violent knocking at doors, and the shouts of boys and men crying “Fire!”

All that was absolutely essential to wear, but nothing that would impede his activity or application of strength, did Hal put on, and then he hurried to one of the front windows of the house and looked out.

It is impossible to describe the sudden and violent shock that ran through his frame. Though he had thought it possible, he had not believed it probable that it could be Wilton’s abode which was on fire, yet his first glance told him that the lower part of that house was in flames.

A mob had gathered round; an active policeman was pushing it about to clear the way for the inhabitants to bring out their furniture from the burning house—that is, if they had a chance to do aught beyond saving their lives.

The door of the house was open, and volumes of smoke were pouring forth. A dull red flame, throwing a ruby glare, was to be seen gleaming through the windows of the kitchen and the parlour. The upper part of the house seemed lost in wreathing dull, gray, cloudy masses of vapour, which rolled up from the seat of the fire.

Rising up above the hoarse roar of the assembled mob, came the shouts of those who were on their way with the first engine. It seemed to be the herald of succour, but, alas! it was only the parish-engine, brought up by an energetic beadle, four men, and about twenty dirty ragged boys.

The turncock arrived with it, and he, though able in the daylight to find the plug-hole blindfold, could not without great difficulty discover it, with his eyes briskly exercised, at night.

At lengthy when the parish engine, bravely foremost in the rank, was ready, a mass of volunteers sprang forward to pump it. Mr. Turncock succeeded in pulling up the plug, and saturating a dozen venturesome persons, who with engineering spirits watched the operation. The hose of the parish-engine was at once connected with the stream of water, and with a hurrah the volunteers began to work the handles of the pump, but though they were made to sound jar-jar, jar-jar, jar-jar, briskly, nothing came of it. The parish-engine, as it has ever been from the hour it was first invented to the present time, was found to be practicably useless. No water could be forced into the directing pipe to play upon the burning house.

The flames grew fiercer, the smoke denser, and crackling sounds of wood splitting, and the sputtering of sparks, were more distinctly heard.

Then there was suddenly a mighty cry from the mob.

At the upper windows appeared, shrieking for aid, the forms of two young girls. They were in their night dresses, and had evidently only just been aroused. Three or four brave young fellows rushed into the passage of the house to ascend the stairs to save them, but a sheet of flame suddenly leaped forth, and drove them back scorched. Thus victorious, it seized the staircase in its blistering embrace, and hissed and sputtered as it danced and darted upwards, cutting off with a species of savage joy all means of egress by that route.

Shouts were raised for the fire-escape, as the attempting rescuers were forced back by the blinding burst of flame into the streets, and preparations were made, if the worst came to the worst, to receive with as much safety as possible those who would be called upon to leap from the dizzy heights of the upper floor as a last desperate resort to save their otherwise doomed lives.

A distant hubbub, growing louder as it drew near, announced the approach of the fire-escape. Its advent was hailed with lusty shouts, and fifty volunteers rushed to facilitate its arrival, but impeding and retarding its progress in their meritorious desire to get it up to the scene of disaster as quickly as possible.

This was the state of things when Hal looked out of window to ascertain where the fire had broken out.

A downward glance at the rolling masses of smoke, and intermittent flashes of forked flame; an upward glance at the windows, where, huddled together, were the shrinking, weeping, distracted females, and he was the next minute in front of the house making a mad attempt to ascend the burning staircase.

The serpent-tongued fire had, however, obtained complete possession; it roared, and licked as it roared, every particle of woodwork within its reach, brightening up as if with ferocious glee as it gained strength, and sending forth showers of coruscations, sparkling and glittering, seemingly to mark as a festive occasion one of the most dreadful visitations to which human society is occasionally subjected.

Blinded and suffocated, Hal was compelled to give back, to save the life which might yet be successfully employed in rescuing that of others.

As he reached the doorway, the fire-escape came up, the conductor placed it against the wall; but before he could commence his perilous ascent, a light, youthful figure sprang past him on to the wheel, caught in his hands the nearest rundle of the ladder, and ran lightly upwards, followed by a cheer from the mob and a shout from the conductor to come down again; for inexperience, no matter how honorably influenced, is, in most cases, a sad marplot.

In such emergencies, surrounded by frightful danger, exposed to fatal consequences by a false step or an error in judgment, the safety of valuable lives hanging upon a thread, experience allied to calmness, and cool self-reliance under the most trying contingencies, is essential to successful operation. In these cases, knowledge is indeed power. To know how to act and when to act, what to use and how to use it, with the necessary courage to do and dare all that may be required, is the battle, and victory rarely fails to follow it when it is properly conducted. It can be understood, therefore, why the conductor of the fire-escape, who had saved many lives, enraged at the act of Hal Vivian, shouted so vehemently to him to return.

He knew by many instances that such a proceeding as that of which the youth was guilty, while it imperilled the rescue of those sought to be saved, added to the number he was called upon to preserve. His own life was always in jeopardy in the performance of his duty, to which he was quite equal, and it was vexing to find another placing himself in peril without occasion for it, and, in all probability, doing far more harm than good.

Quick as he was in his chase after Hal, he failed to reach him before he was at the window, where clustered the affrighted girls. Ere he could clutch hold of him, Hal sprang on the window-sill, and was the next instant in the room.

He was recognised immediately by those whom he came to deliver.

Flora, as she saw Hal’s form upon the edge of the window, and witnessed him bound into the room, uttered a cry of joy.

As the light from the street flashed upon his animated excited countenance, her heart received upon it the impression of a face it was not likely to permit easily to be effaced.

“Heaven reward you, Mr. Vivian!” she exclaimed, hysterically, “you have come to save us.”

“Or perish with you!” he replied, excitedly, “for I will not leave the room until you are all safely down.”

“God bless you! God bless you!” sobbed Lotte Clinton, who, as white as death, was trembling like an aspen.

“Now then, young fellow,” cried the conductor, putting his head into the window, “since you are here, you must make yourself useful, and be as cool as a cowcumber. Recollect, we ain’t here to spend a week. Shut that door; look sharp, or you’ll all be stifled in a minute.”

No sooner commanded than done.

At the same instant the clattering of horses’ feet at full gallop over the ringing stones, the heavy rumble of whirling wheels, the rattling cheers of a mob which was fast growing into a multitude, announced the arrival of the first practicable fire-engine.

By this time Lotte was placed within the cradle of the fire-escape, and was safely lowered down to those beneath.

A roar of gratification burst from the lips of the spectators as they beheld one added to the list of the saved.

Hal watched until Lotte was lifted out of the escape, and then he turned to Flora, to request her to be in readiness to take her place in the little life-boat.

It must be understood that these operations were performed with the utmost rapidity consistent with safety. The room was more than half filled by a dense smoke when Hal entered; and, although the door was since closed, it had streamed in through crannies and chinks so as to fill it—the open window rather holding it in the room than suffering it to escape.

When Lotte and her companion, the conductor of the fire-escape departed, the atmosphere had become heated and stifling. It was also so thick that scarcely a thing a foot off could be distinguished. Hal’s astonishment and alarm can be imagined when, on the return of the cradle, he spoke to Flora and received no answer.

But a moment past and she was at his elbow; she was now gone—he could not see her—he called to her, but received no reply. He felt about the room, but he was nearly suffocated, without succeeding in finding her. He heard the roaring of the flames beneath him: the smoke grew each moment thicker and denser: large drops of perspiration poured from him: instinctively he cowered to the floor and spread his hands in all directions, afraid to open his mouth for fear of being stifled.

The conductor of the fire-escape now poked his head into the window, and shouted for the pair to save their lives while they had a chance, but he received no answer.

He leaped into the room, and threw himself on the floor, groping about upon his hands and knees. He uttered a shrill cry, but met with no response. He persevered as long as he could breathe, but without meeting the bodies of either the youth or the maiden.

It was his impression that, overpowered by the smoke they had sunk senseless upon the floor, but he could nowhere find them, and at last mystified, and all but suffocated, he was compelled to retreat to the window.

The fire was at the door of the room, shooting its long forks of flame into the old wood of which it was composed, and with such intense heat, that it was quickly one mass of flame, and sputtering sparks.

With a heavy heart, the conductor got out of the room, on to his machine, and he was barely upon it, when a long blast of flame followed him with the speed of lightning, and darted out of both windows, cracking and smashing the fragile glass panes, causing them to fly in all directions, playing fantastically over, and wreathing up the architraves of the windows, lighting up as it did so the excited faces of the swaying, yelling mob below.

The conductor slid down the escape, and communicated the appalling intelligence, that in the burning rooms above were two miserable young creatures who, by the time he was relating the occurrence, had become shapeless, blackened, charred masses of human clay.

The scene had now grown intensely exciting; more engines had arrived, and hundreds of persons were added to those already assembled. A body of policemen were employed in forcing the turbulent crowd back, so as to give the firemen room for their exertions. The street was turned into a river, and the fire brigade—accoutred like the heavy dragoons of a former period—were plashing through the muddy stream, getting their engines into working order with the systematic, and, as it appeared to the anxious gazers, the rather apathetic regularity of organised action.

Frantic occupiers of adjoining houses were flinging out their furniture—their little all, and that uninsured. The beds and chairs, tables and drawers, formed, as they were brought, or thrown, hastily into the streets, a motley jumble—some of them being borne away by active parties, never more to be returned to the original owner.

“Two persons burned to death!” was a cry which ran through the crowd, and was again and again re-echoed by the individuals of which it was formed, a thrill of horror accompanying it wherever it went.

An explosion, and up shot a body of flame into the air, attended by a shower of sparks, fragments of burning wood, and flaming articles, the volumes of smoke, of gold and rose-blush tint rolling away, painfully contrasting with the violet-hued heavens.

The roof was gone!

A brilliant glare was thrown over all objects, far and near, making the place around as light as day.

Lo! a sudden and tremendous cry burst from the agitated multitude, pressing, crowding, and crushing upon the foot and roadways.

“There! there!—look there!” burst from a thousand throats, and as many hands pointed to a particular spot.

The adjoining house to Wilton’s—now a burning mass—had a tall, irregular, but pointed roof, as though two rooms had been built above the old roof of much less dimensions than those beneath, at the smallest possible cost, and with an utter disregard of architectural rule.

Up the jagged side of this slanting erection a human figure was observed climbing slowly, his arm encircling a form all in white. His position was terrifyingly dangerous—the least slip, and he, together with his burden, would be precipitated into the burning ruins, still roaring, spluttering, and flaming below him.

He lay almost flat upon his face on the rough tiles, his right hand grasping the carved edge of the angle of the roof. Gradually he worked his hand upwards, and by a tremendous exertion of strength, he drew himself and his companion up a foot at each movement. It was desperate labour—a fearful struggle with death. It seemed to those who gazed upon him a mere impossibility that he could save himself and the girl whom he still clutched round the waist.

On he went slowly, the bright flames lighting him in his task, but reducing his strength by the intense heat they threw out. He succeeded in getting one leg across the angle of the roof, but in doing so he slipped back at least two feet.

A shriek of horror burst from the crowd, and rose up in the air like a death-wail.

The youth did not yet despair, but with desperate exertion he arrested his descent with his knees.

He paused but a moment, and renewed his efforts to ascend, using his knees now to enable him to maintain his position on the roof, while he elevated his body so as to extend his reach until he obtained a hold higher than before, that he might thus ultimately gain a place of comparative safety.

It was Hal Vivian who was with Flora Wilton in this frightful situation. He had crawled in search of her into an adjoining apartment to that which he had entered from the street. She had hurried thither to save something to which she knew her father attached great importance, but, overpowered by the smoke, she had, after securing it, fallen senseless.

Hal fortunately found her as soon as he got into the room, and the reflection from the fire below enabled him just to see the window. He tore it open, and saw that the parapet adjoined the roof of the next house.

He sprang on to it, and commenced the perilous task of endeavouring to escape a horrible death, and of saving, with his own, a life he esteemed far more valuable.

The falling roof of the house he had just quitted, when it sank with its dreadful crash, was within an ace of taking him with it. It was a fearful moment, but he surmounted it, and attempted to proceed at the instant the crowd caught sight of him. He heard not their cry, saw nothing, thought not of aught but the endeavour to reach a place of safety with her. He strained every nerve and sinew to accomplish his object, but human endurance, though backed by the urgings and influence of a strong will, has its limits.

He now reached that point when, with sickening dismay, he found his strength failing him, and although his firmness and determination were unshaken, his power to go on was departing. To slacken his tenacious hold was to be hurled into the yawning gulph of fire behind him. He knew this well; that knowledge had as yet sustained him, and he clung to the roof still with desperation, resolved, notwithstanding the quivering of his fingers, the agonising aching of the arm which supported Flora, and the trembling of his knees, to continue to the last his exertions to save the maiden, or to pass out of life with her.

Slowly rising up, as before, he made a clutch at the top of the roof, and caught it, but he found that, beyond drawing himself and the form of the senseless girl a little higher, he could do no more. It required an effort of unusual strength to reach the summit, where he believed he could remain safe until rescued, and that effort exhausted nature was incapable of making. Nay, he felt that he could but a few minutes longer cling there, and if some Heaven-sent aid did not reach him, his almost superhuman exertions would have been made in vain.

He remained motionless, trying to recover his spent breath, and, while in this position, the hoarse cries of the people thronging in the streets reached his ears, and seemed to rouse him from his slowly approaching listless inanition. He breathed a prayer; a thought what Flora yet might be to him, and what that great world, of which he had yet seen so little, might have in store for him, flashed through his brain. The effect upon him was like the sound of a trumpet to the soldier at the moment of some fearful charge, in which death is the alternative of glory.

He drew himself upwards, struggling with the obstacles which seemed to try and force him backwards, and, almost with a scream upon his lips, he found himself oscillating upon the spot he had with such trying exertion sought to reach, exhausted, and unable to make another effort.

A shadow fell upon him; he turned his feeble eyes upon the occasion of it, and saw one of the fire brigade, who, having laid a short ladder against the side of the roof, had mounted it and reached him.

Behind this man rose up the helmet of a second fireman, closely following his comrade in his work of mercy.

Hal knew at a glance that Flora and himself were saved. He no longer strove to continue the battle with fate, and did not attempt to resist the embrace of insensibility as he felt the grip of the fireman upon his collar, and heard undistinguishable words fall from him greeting him.