“Well, I don’t know as I feel much worse
about myself than I do about poor Mr. Evans.
Why, I’ve got the ticket in my pocket now that
he gave me for the Wednesday matinee! I do wonder
how he’s gettin’ along! I guess they’ve
got you to thank, if they’re alive to tell the
tale. What did you do to get that woman
out alive?” Lemuel looked blankly at her, and
did not answer. “And Mr. Evans too!
You must have had your hands full, and that’s
what I told the reporters; but I told ’em I
guessed you’d be equal to it if any one would.
Why, I don’t suppose Mrs. Evans has been out
of her room for a month, or hardly stepped her foot
to the floor. Well, I don’t want to see
many people look as he did when you first got him out
of the house.”
“Well, I don’t know as I want to see many
more fires where I live,” said her nephew, as
if with the wish to be a little more accurate.
Jerry asked Lemuel to watch Mrs. Harmon’s goods
while he went for a carriage, and said sir to him.
It seemed to Lemuel that this respect, and Mrs. Harmon’s
unmerited praises, together with the doom that was
secretly upon him, would drive him wild.
The evening after the fire Mrs. Sewell sat talking
it over with her husband, in the light of the newspaper
reports, which made very much more of Lemuel’s
part in it than she liked. The reporters had
flattered the popular love of the heroic in using Mrs.
Harmon’s version of his exploits, and represented
him as having been most efficient and daring throughout,
and especially so in regard to the Evanses.
“Well, that doesn’t differ materially
from what they told us themselves,” said Sewell.
“You know very well, David,” retorted
his wife, “that there couldn’t have been
the least danger at any time; and when he helped her
to get Mr. Evans downstairs, the fire was nearly all
out.”
“Very well, then; he would have saved their
lives if it had been necessary. It was a case
of potential heroism, that contained all the elements
of self-sacrifice.”
Mrs. Sewell could not deny this, but she was not satisfied.
She was silent a moment before she asked, “What
do you suppose that wretched creature will do now?”
“I think very likely he will come to me,”
answered Sewell.
“I dare say.” The bell rang.
“And I suppose that’s he now!”
They listened and heard Miss Vane’s voice at
the door, asking for them.
Mrs. Sewell ran down the stairs and kissed her.
“Oh, I’m so glad you came.
Isn’t it wonderful? I’ve just come
from them, and she’s taking the whole care of
him, as if he had always been the sick one, and she
strong and well.”
“What do you mean, Lucy? He isn’t
ill!”
“Who isn’t?”
“What are you talking about?”
“About Mr. Evans—”
“Oh!” said Miss Vane, with cold toleration.
She arrived at the study door and gave Sewell her
hand. “I scarcely knew him, you know; I
only met him casually here. I’ve come to
see,” she added nervously, “if you know
where Lemuel is, Mr. Sewell. Have you seen anything
of him since the fire? How nobly he behaved!
But I never saw anything he wasn’t equal to!”
