Fighting the Flames | Page 4

was uncertain whether the reference to
her countrywomen was complimentary or the reverse.
"Now," continued Mrs Rose, "the matches."
Matty placed the box of matches on the chimney-piece.
"Very well; now you've got to look round to see that all's right."
Matty looked round on the dark portraits that covered the walls
(supposed to be ancestors), on the shelves of books, great and small,
new and old (supposed to be read); on the vases, statuettes, chairs,
tables, desks, curtains, papers, etcetera, etcetera, and, being utterly
ignorant of what constituted right and what wrong in reference to such
things, finally turned her eyes on Mrs Rose with an innocent smile.
"Don't you see that the shutters are neither shut nor barred, Matty?"
She had not seen this, but she at once went and closed and barred them,
in which operation she learned, first, that the bars refused to receive
their respective "catches," with unyielding obstinacy for some time;
and, second, that they suddenly gave in without rhyme or reason and
pinched her fingers severely.
"Now then, what next?" inquired Mrs Rose.
"Put out the gas," suggested Matty.
"And leave yourself in the dark," said the housekeeper, in a tone of
playful irony.
"Ah! sure, didn't I forgit the candle!"

In order to rectify this oversight, Matty laid the unlighted candle which
she had brought with her to the room on the writing-table, and going to
the chimney-piece, returned with the match-box.
"Be careful now, Matty," said Mrs Rose earnestly. "There's nothink I've
such a fear of as fire. You can't be too careful."
This remark made Matty, who was of an anxious temperament,
extremely nervous. She struck the match hesitatingly, and lighted the
candle shakily. Of course it would not light (candles never do on such
occasions), and a long red-hot end of burnt wood projected from the
point of the match.
"Don't let the burnt end drop into the wastepaper basket!" exclaimed
Mrs Rose, in an unfortunate moment.
"Where?" exclaimed Matty with a start that sent the red-hot end into
the centre of a mass of papers.
"There, just at your feet; don't be so nervous, girl!" cried Mrs Rose.
Matty, in her anxiety not to drop the match, at once dropped it into the
waste-paper basket, which was instantly alight. A stamp of the foot
might have extinguished it, but this did not occur to either of the
domestics. The housekeeper, who was a courageous woman, seized the
basket in both hands and rushed with it to the fireplace, thereby fanning
the flame into a blaze and endangering her dress and curls. She
succeeded, however, in cramming the basket and its contents into the
grate; then the two, with the aid of poker, tongs, and shovel, crushed
and beat out the fire.
"There! I said you'd do it," gasped Mrs Rose, as she flung herself,
panting, into Mr Auberly's easy-chair; "this comes of bein' in a hurry."
"I was always unfort'nit," sighed Matty, still holding the shovel and
keeping her eye on the grate, as if ready to make a furious attack on the
smallest spark that should venture to show itself.

"Come, now, we'll go to bed," said Mrs Rose, rising, "but first look
well round to see that all is safe."
A thorough and most careful investigation was made of the basket, the
grate, and the carpet surrounding the fireplace, but nothing beyond the
smell of the burnt papers could be discovered, so the instructor and
pupil put out the gas, shut the door, and retired to the servants'-hall,
where Hopkins, the cook, the housemaid, and a small maid-of-all-work
awaited their arrival--supper being already on the table.
Here Mrs Rose entertained the company with a graphic--not to say
exaggerated--account of the "small fire" in the study, and wound up
with an eloquent appeal to all to "beware of fire," and an assurance that
there was nothing on the face of the whole earth that she had a greater
horror of.
Meanwhile the "little spark" among the papers--forgotten in the
excitement of the succeeding blaze of the waste-paper
basket--continued to do its slow but certain work. Having fallen on the
cloth between two bundles, it smouldered until it reached a cotton
pen-wiper, which received it rather greedily in its embrace. This
pen-wiper lay in contact with some old letters which were dry and
tindery in their nature, and, being piled closely together in a heap,
afforded enlarged accommodation, for the "spark," which in about half
an hour became quite worthy of being termed a "swell."
After that things went on like--"like a house on fire"--if we may
venture to use that too often misapplied expression, in reference to the
elegant mansion in Beverly Square on that raw November night.
CHAPTER TWO.
ANOTHER LITTLE "SPARK."
Whistling is a fine, free, manly