CHAPTER XI.

TAKING A MEAN ADVANTAGE OF A FIRE.

_Important disclosures--The fire at the theatre--The evidence of the opera glasses--The startling meeting at the Inns of Court Hotel._

The dreadful disaster at Vienna brings back vividly to my mind strange incidents connected with the burning down of the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, sixteen years ago.

"I am in a terrible mess, old fellow!" exclaimed Augustus Graham, as he hurriedly entered my office in Edinburgh one morning in the year 1865.

"Sit down," I said, "and let us put our heads together. Perhaps a way may be found out of the maze."

"Impossible: things have gone too far, and the climax has come to-day. My bills will be protested."

"Then you favour me with a visit when your circumstances are desperate beyond relief."

"I have been buoyed up with false hopes, but now I must inevitably sink."

"There is one thing you have done well--you have kept up appearances; nobody suspects anything."

"But at what a cost! For months I have not known what it is to have a good night's rest."

"It is entirely a financial difficulty, of course--much?"

"Yes, and without remedy; the amount is so large. But there is another dilemma."

"And what is that?" I enquired; "the other is bad enough."

"You know I am engaged to Miss Kingston."

"So I understood. She has money; why not frankly explain your position to her father, and, if there is no objection, marry her."

"I have just posted a letter resigning her hand."

"That was a very unwise step, I think; it appears to me to be your only chance. I should make haste to withdraw that letter."

"But I could not marry Miss Kingston, even if she were willing."

"Another complication. I knew you had a talent for getting into scrapes."

"No, it would be a mockery to pretend that I have any feeling but that of friendship for Kate. She is much too good for me. The fact is, Jim, I am over head and ears in love with old Murray's wife."

"And not ashamed to own it?"

"If you knew our histories you would pity us. We are separated by a cruel wrong."

"Oh, I daresay! Disappointment in early life, I suppose; the miscarriage of a letter, or she found you making love to another young lady who afterwards turned out to be your own sister, and in a fit of jealousy made haste to marry a man old enough to be her father."

"Her grandfather."

"His age does not prevent him being her lawful husband. Now as you are at it, you may as well confess whether Mrs. Murray reciprocates this much-to-be-regretted passion."

"I have reason to believe she does."

"Well, you won't get absolution from me. You are a bad as well as an unfortunate man, Mr. Augustus Graham."

"If you only knew everything you would, I am sure, think differently of both of us."

"Doubtful, very; the lady is married. What license have you to interfere with her husband's happiness? No sophistry will make me think that marital bonds should not be respected. I have seen too many lives and promising careers blasted by such impudent intrigues."

"Don't judge us so harshly without a hearing."

"Do you recollect your putting a peculiar question to me one day some months ago, and asking what I would do under the embarrassing circumstances? I see now you were the _A_ of this skeleton case, and Mrs. Murray the _B_. What was my answer? Did I not tell you it was the duty of any man, calling himself a gentleman, to hold his friend's wife sacred?"

"I tried hard, but it was all in vain."

"You used to be clever in getting out of as well as into scrapes, but you seem to be caught fast this time. I am really sorry, for the sake of old school days, that you must go to the wall. Is there nothing I can do for you?"

"Yes, you can lend me--your opera glasses."

"Is that all? Keeping it up to the end--going to the theatre?"

"Yes, will you come? I have a box; I am taking Mr. and Mrs. Murray."

"I am engaged this evening, and after what you have disclosed to me I would not feel comfortable. Take the glasses, and go your wicked way."

Before I saw those glasses again a dreadful calamity occurred. The Theatre Royal to which my friend and Mrs. Murray went was burned down, and many lives were lost. It was impossible to recognize the charred bodies, but as they were never seen again the presumption was that the two lovers perished in the flames. A pair of opera glasses much damaged by fire were shown to me by the Procurator Fiscal, and I proved by the initial that they were my property. I need not say that I carefully preserved them. Poor Murray, who did not accompany his wife, became distracted over his loss, and only lived two or three years after her unfortunate death. She was an exceedingly pretty and amiable lady, and however much her affection for my friend was to be deplored, no one could help feeling sorry for her frightful end.

It was found after the disaster that Graham's affairs were in a helpless state, and when a balance sheet was drawn up it was seen that the estate would not pay more than sixpence in the pound. He had displayed immense ability in tiding over from time to time the difficulties which were ultimately bound to ruin him. We had been schoolfellows together, and the friendship formed in those happy days ended only with his life.

I was always afraid his daring speculations would bring him to grief--he was in such a hurry to get rich. Montaigne informs us that, if you look carefully for it, you will discover there is some consolation to be derived even from the death of a dear friend.

In some respects the sudden termination of the two lives was a blessing--the honour of Mrs. Murray remained inviolate, at least so far as the public knew, and Graham was saved a world of trouble with his exasperated creditors. Good and evil are so mixed together in this world of ours that it is impossible to keep them apart.

If my readers will turn to the papers of that day they will find all the particulars of the burning of the theatre and a list of the persons that perished, for "taking a mean advantage of fire" is, with the exception of the names, a faithful record of what actually happened.

Ten years passed quickly away in the worry and turmoil of a daily increasing business, when a morning delivery brought me a strangely-worded invitation to dinner at the Inns of Court Hotel. I had transferred my business to London by this time. The note I cannot put my hands on for the moment, but it was to the effect that a gentleman who was once well acquainted with me, and who had been out of the country for some years, would be glad if I would dine that day with him and his wife. The signature was not familiar to me, but I had so many clients it (the invitation) might have emanated from one of them. I decided to accept, and wrote a line to that effect to my unknown host.

A few minutes to seven--the hour mentioned--I presented myself at the hotel, and was ushered into a sitting-room on the first floor, where preparations had been made for dinner, but there was no one present. In a minute or two, however, the door of the room opened, and a heavily-bearded man entered, whom I did not know from Adam, who heartily shook hands with me.

"So you don't recollect me?" he said with a laugh.

"I have not that pleasure," I answered. "A client, I presume."

"Why, Jim, you are more stupid than I thought; has ten years made such a difference in your old schoolfellow, Augustus Graham?"

It was a few minutes before I could speak--I was so utterly taken by surprise. He was the very last man I expected to see on earth. When the film of doubt had at length been removed from my eyes, he went into the next room, and came back leading a lady.

"My wife!" he said.

"We are old acquaintances," said the lady, smilingly.

It was Mrs. Murray, looking as beautiful as she did ten years before.

"So you did not perish in the theatre that night, after all?"

"Not a bit of it. Are you sorry? You can pinch us if you like--we are really flesh and blood; and you shall see us eat, for here comes dinner. The Richmond air has given us an appetite."

After dinner I heard their wonderful story. Early in life they had loved each other, but a malicious friend, in the interests of Murray, separated them. When they again met, a few words of explanation from both sides showed them that they had been made the victims of a clever plot; but, unfortunately, Isabella Crighton had in the interval--in a mad fit of jealousy--changed her name, and given herself to a man nearly thrice her age.

They agreed that the proper thing to do was not to refer to the past again, and meet as seldom as possible. But such resolutions, wherever they were recorded, were soon broken; and now that it was necessary that there should be restraint, the old passion revived with redoubled force. The husband originally intended to accompany his wife to the theatre on that eventful evening, but was prevented, owing to a sharp attack of gout. The piece--it was "Othello"--did not have much of their attention, their conversation was to them of far deeper interest. Graham told Mrs. Murray of his desperate circumstances, and that in a day or two he would be off to Australia.

There were tears shed, as is usual on such occasions, and the lady never expected to see her lover again, when such a vast waste of waters lay between them. As many of my readers probably remember, when the fire did break out, the theatre was consumed in an incredibly short space of time. Graham saw his opportunity--I told you he was good at getting out of scrapes--and when his startling proposal was whispered into the ear of his fair companion, I am afraid there was not much resistance. In the confusion they got to the Waverley Station unobserved, and took the first train going south.

In Australia Graham soon recovered his position, and when the death of Mr. Murray was announced he immediately married the partner of his flight. He was now arranging with his solicitor to pay his creditors in full, and settle down in the neighbourhood of London. I spent a gay and pleasant evening with my two "defunct" friends, and rated them soundly for not letting me into their secret. On rising to depart, at a very late hour, Graham said, with all the old mischief beaming in his eyes--

"We have often laughed over your evidence in the _Scotsman_. We are deeply indebted to you. You settled us both in the most conclusive manner. By the way, I owe you some recompense."

"What for?"

"I kept the programme, but sacrificed your glasses."