In the passage Felix was confronted by the colourless housekeeper. He had a kindly feeling for her. She had been his father's housekeeper ever since he could remember. She was a young woman and well-looking when he was a little child. When he came home, a man, she had addressed him in the old familiar way, and he was surprised at the change in her; but he soon recognised that living all her life within the influence of his father's house had made her what she was. Now, as, she confronted him, he gave her a kind nod, and would have passed her: but she laid her hand upon his arm to detain him.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Into the churchyard," he answered.
"Where, after that?"
"A subtle question, Martha. Who knows where he goes to after he gets into the churchyard?"
"Where, after that?" she repeated.
"Ask the worms," he replied; and added, somewhat bitterly, "or the preachers."
"Answer me, Felix," she said.
"I can't;" and again he attempted to pass her.
"Nay," she said, almost entreatingly; "let me speak to you for a minute or two."
"Come outside, then; I cannot speak to you here."
She followed him into the porch. The chair which he had brought for Lily was there, but Lily was gone. The fragrance of the scented water he had sprinkled upon his handkerchief lingered in the air. He placed his hand upon the chair, and in his fancy the sweet air became associated with the tender girl who had rested there awhile ago. He smiled, half gladly, half sadly, as the fancy came upon him. The housekeeper watched him earnestly, as if striving to read his thoughts.
"Now, Felix, where are you going afterwards?"
"I can't tell you, Martha," he replied--softly, for he was thinking of Lily. "My plans are unformed."
"When do you return?"
"Never; unless something dearer than life brings me back."
"You have had a quarrel with your father?"
"You are a witch," he said lightly, "and ought to be burnt."
"You have had a quarrel with your father," she repeated, showing no temper at his light manner, but even seeming to take pleasure in it.
"Something like that. We don't agree. There are not two rights, are there, Martha?"
"I am not sure; there may be."
"Iamsure. My father's right and mine are as the north and the south pole. If I am right, I must not stay here and vex him: it would be unfilial. If he is right, I must sit in sackcloth and ashes, and pray for fresh blood and bone and brain before we can meet again. Any way I must go; that is settled."
"Who settled it?"
"He, or I, or both of us. Are you not witch enough to guess for yourself? It came, somehow. That is enough. If you entertain the idea that the difficulty is to be smoothed over—"
"I do not," she interrupted. "I know your father."
"And me--do you think you know me?"
"I think I do."
"Therefore you must see how impossible it is that he and I, having disagreed upon a vital point--itisvital, to my thinking--can live together. I have a fancy in my head, Martha; I'll tell it to you. To have a father and not have a father--as is the case with me--is dreadful. For father and son to disagree is dreadful also. So I shall imagine a father, and as he is sure to agree with me, we shall be the best of friends. I shall picture him tender, and good, and kind; tolerant, yet conscientious; merciful, yet just. I can see him, and I love him already!"
Light as his words were, there was a vein of seriousness in his tones that showed how deeply his feelings had been stirred.
"When I left the Continent," he continued, "I had a friend with me who also had been absent from home for years. At intervals during our journey, he spoke with enthusiasm of home delights and of the happiness in store for him when he and his family came together. He showed me letters from them which made me think. We crossed from Paris to Dover, and there he met his father, who had travelled a hundred miles to welcome his son the moment he set foot on English soil. They threw their arms round each other, like boys, and laughed to keep away the tears. When I came to the railway station here--just half a mile from where we stand--I looked about me with a dim hope thatmyfather had come that distance to welcome his son home. But there are fathers and fathers, Martha. Now, if I had been wise, and had set up my imaginary father before the train stopped, I should have seen him waiting for me on the platform; I should have been able to throw my arms round his neck, to press him to my heart, and to see in his eyes a kindly welcome; I should have been able to grip his hand, and to say, 'Bravo, dear old fellow! I love you!' But I was not wise, and to be forewarned by my fears was not with me to be forearmed. It is not too late, though--it is never too late. Away, you shadows!"
He flicked his handkerchief in the air, as if the reality oppressed him with a phantom presence, and said in a mock-serious tone, in which earnestness struggled not vainly for a place:
"Here I raise a father whom I love. I kiss his hand, and vow to pay him all respect. He shall go with me, and we shall live together."
There was nothing in the housekeeper's appearance to denote that freaks of the imagination would find favour in her eyes, and yet gleams of pleasure--all the more strange because she sought to suppress them--brought light to her dull white face as Felix with fantastic grace stooped to kiss the hand of the shadow he had raised. But these signs faded away as soon as Felix had finished speaking, and her face resumed its usual dulness of expression.
"Those persons who have just gone, Felix--had they anything to do with your quarrel with your father?"
"I never saw them before," he replied.
"Had they anything to do with the quarrel with your father?" she persisted.
"There's something of the bull-dog in your nature, Martha," he said, laughing. "You never leave a subject until it is settled."
"I would not hurt you, Felix," she said, softly.
"I don't believe you would. Well, yes, theyhadsomething to do with the immediate cause of my leaving--though it would have come to the same thing without them. We were on the verge of the precipice as they entered. I must go and see how they are getting along, and if I can be of any use to them; but I shouldn't wonder if they shrunk from me and looked upon me as an unclean thing. Are you surprised at all this, Martha?"
"No," she replied tranquilly. "This is no house for sunshine. I knew when you came that you would not be here long."
"You can do me a service. I shall soon look my last on this place; will you pack up such things as are mine, and give them to a messenger I shall send?"
"Yes; they shall be ready this evening."
"Then that is all, and the world is before me for me to open. Where is my oyster-knife?" He felt in his pockets with a comical air. "Ah, it is here," and he touched his forehead confidently. "So now good-bye, Martha."
She did not relinquish the hand he held out to her, but clasped it firmly in hers.
"You will let me know where you live, Felix?"
"O, yes; I will let you know."
"I have but little money of my own, unfortunately—"
"Stop, stop, stop!" he cried, with his fingers on her "Enough has been said, and I must go. Good-bye."
"Good-bye; I think you do right to leave, Felix."
"I should be compelled to leave, sooner or later," he replied; "I could not live without love or sympathy. The cold austerity of this house is enough to turn heart and face to stone. I pity you, Martha. I have sometimes wondered how you could have stood it so long."
"I earn money here, Felix. Your father pays me liberally--for him--because I suit him; and I am not entirely without love. I have something to work for, thank God. Good-bye. May every good fortune be yours!"
When Felix reached the churchyard, the grave was still empty. The coffin lay upon the earth by its side, and the women of the party were sitting on convenient tombstones. Of the men, only Alfred remained; Gribble junior and the old man were absent.
Gribble junior's baby was sleeping peacefully beneath the umbrella tent, the gay outside of which had caused the two old men to go for two other old men, and the girls in dirty pinafores to go for other girls in dirty pinafores. These new-comers were as interested in the unusual sight as their friends, and expressed their admiration by staring persistently in the dullest possible manner.
Pollypod, wandering about, was in a state of delight and wonderment. Truly the old churchyard was a world of wonders to the child. To her young mind there was nothing suggestive of corruption in it. The "Here lies" and "Here lieths" brought no melancholy thoughts to her, although she was curious about them. But, when she asked, wanting to know, her mother bade her "Hush!" as she had done in the coach, and Pollypod was fain to hold her peace. It was not difficult for her to let the matter rest for a time, as there were plenty of other things to occupy her mind. Now and then a butterfly flew by, and she watched it with delighted eyes till it was out of sight. She found ladybirds on leaves, and wished that she had a little bottle to take them home for father. But she could take him some buttercups and daisies, and she was plucking the prettiest and the most golden when her eyes lighted on Felix.
Pollypod was not by any means a bashful child. She had her likes and dislikes, as all children have, but she had more of the former than of the latter. And she was fond of society. She had tried to make friends with the dirty girls who stood staring at the umbrella and the coffin, and the strange folk, but had not been successful. All her advances had been received with stupid stares, and not a word could the little maid extract from the juvenile bumpkins. Then she had tried the old men; but when she plucked their trousers, they moved away without a word. She had therefore given up the attempt as hopeless. Now, all at once, here was a handsome young man, handsomely dressed, and he immediately became an object of interest to Pollypod. Felix, seeing the child gaze at him, smiled at her, and Pollypod smiled in return; and to show that she was prepared to give good interest for amiability, came and stood by his side, and looked into his face with frank interest and curiosity. The healthy exercise had brought bright sparkles into Pollypod's eyes, and a bright colour to her cheeks. Felix was fond of children, and invariably found favour in their eyes. At parties where grown-up people and children were, the youngsters always claimed him as one of themselves, and played and romped with him without restraint. Children have an instinct for the discovery of amiable matures in their elders, which is very seldom wrong.
"Well, little girl," said Felix, by way of commencement. The sight of the child's artless face did him good, and tended to dispel the vapours which clouded his mind.
Pollypod nodded a reply, and arranged the buttercups and daisies in her hand, without looking at them. Her attention was fixed upon his smart clothes and bright face, and the flowers in his coat. These latter had an especial attraction for her. She thought how pleased father would be if she could take them home to him in the middle of a bunch of buttercups and daisies. But suddenly, as she looked, her face became clouded, and she retreated a step or two.
"What's the matter, little one?" he asked, seating himself upon a tombstone. "You are not frightened of me, are you?"
"I don't know," replied Pollypod; and then, with her finger to her lips, and her head inclined forward, she said solemnly, "Are you the naughty man?"
"What naughty man?" he inquired, amused at the child's attitude and manner.
"The naughty man who won't bury Lily's mother."
The cloud on the child's face was reflected on his as he replied, "No, I am not."
Pollypod came close to him immediately.
"I am glad of that; I'm very, very glad of that!"
"Why, little one?"
"Because I like you."
The artlessness of the child pleased and soothed him. It was nature speaking.
"If the naughty man was here," continued Pollypod, clenching her little fist, and stamping her little foot, "I'd beat him for making Lily cry."
"Is that Lily?" pointing to the girl.
"Yes, that's Lily, and that's Lily's brother Alfred, and that's Mrs. Gribble, and that's my mother, and that's the baby. And that's Lily's mother in the coffin. Who are you?"
"My name is Felix."
Pollypod pondered upon the name, and presently nodded her head two or three times, to express approval, In proof that she was disposed to treat him fairly in the matter of information, she said,
"My name's Pollypod."
"Polly—"
"Pod. Father's name is Jim Podmore, and I'm his little Pollypod."
Thereupon--confidential and affectionate relations being completely established--she sat down on the tombstone beside him. She put him at once upon on equality with her by asking, in the most serious manner,
"Do you like butter?"
And gravely held a buttercup beneath his chin, he laughingly submitting to the test. The golden reflection of the flower being seen on his chin, she declared that hedidlike butter, and the triumphant tone in which she announced the discovery evidently enhanced his value in her eyes. Then she asked, Did she? and held up her face for the test, which Felix applied with becoming seriousness. The answer being satisfactory, they became more confidentially familiar.
"This is a churchyard," said the little maid.
"Yes."
"Where people are buried."
"Yes."
"Lily's mother is going to be buried here."
"Yes."
"I want to know if Lily's mother is shut up in a box, how can she be up there?"
Felix, seeing that he was in danger of being entangled in a theological disputation with an opponent who thirsted for facts, answered simply,
"God lives there, and when we die we go to Him."
"Mother has told me so often and often, but I want to understand."
"Inquisitive little maid!" exclaimed Felix. "Is not that a beautiful place?" pointing upwards.
"Itispretty--and bright; that cloud looks like blue-and-white feathers. Mother says we'll go to heaven if we're good. And that's heaven. I'm going to be very good. But I want to know! How can we be here and there at the same time?"
Felix felt that it was a hard question to answer, and he despaired of making it clear to so young an understanding.
"See now," he said, with an attempt at simplicity; "you are a little girl. By-and-by you will become a woman; then you will grow older and older, and your hair will turn white, and you will be an old woman. When we are old, we die."
"Mustwe die--all of us?"
"All of us, little one. But God gives us a soul which is always young; it never grows old, and when our bodies are worn out, our souls go back to God and heaven."
"I give my soul to God to keep," murmured Pollypod, repeating a line which she said in her prayers every night. She did not understand, but she had faith in Felix. She murmured the words so softly that Felix did not hear them.
"So that our body is here, and our soul is there, little maid. Earth takes care of one, and heaven takes care of the other."
"I suppose it is right," said Pollypod, with her hands clasped in her lap, where the flowers had fallen loose. She looked into his face as she spoke.
"Yes, little one, it is right."
"And Lily's motheristhere, although I can't see her."
She gazed earnestly, at the clouds for a few moments before she spoke again. "I want to know!" she then said. "Everybody who dies is not old."
"Some die young. God wants them."
"I hope God won't want me till I'm old, for I want to grow up to be a woman—"
"And then, little maid?"
"And then you shall marry me," said Pollypod, coming down to earth, and placing her hand in that of her companion. "I'll be your little wife."
"That's a bargain," said Felix merrily; "we're sweethearts from now."
"You ought to kiss me," said the forward little maid; and after being kissed, she fell to bunching her buttercups and daisies together.
"And now tell me, Pollypod," said Felix, anxious to learn something of Lily and the old man. "Where do you all come from?"
"O, along, long, long way! It was such a nice ride!"
"Then you live a long way from here?"
"O, yes, we live in London, in Soho."
"That is a long-way indeed, Pollypod. Are you Lily's cousin?"
"O, no; we're none of us relations, not even the baby! But we all live together. Lily lives on the first floor; baby and Mr. and Mrs. Gribble live on the second floor--they're umbrella makers; father and mother and me live on the third floor."
"That's very high up, Pollypod!"
"I like it because of that; there's such a lot of light! It's nearer the sky, father says. Father's a railway man, and comes home so late! But we play in bed every morning. And we've got a dog; Snap's his name. He goes out to work every morning with father, and comes back at night. We have such fun together! We've got such a nice room."
"Only one, Pollypod?"
"Yes; we don't want more, do we?" inquired the little maid. "There's such pretty paper on the walls. Roses--suchred ones! Father's fond of flowers, that's why. I like to look at them before I go to sleep; sometimes I see pretty faces in them, like Lily's. I dream of everything. I shall dream of you to-night, and shall look for your face among the roses. I'm making a bunch of buttercups and daisies for father, but they're all one colour"--with a wistful look at the flowers in her companion's coat.
Felix saw the wish in the look, and taking the flowers from his coat, gave them to Pollypod.
"If you put these in the bunch," he said, "there will be more than one colour."
Pollypod held up her face to be kissed again, and nestled closer to him.
"I knew you were good," she said.
When she had arranged the flowers, Felix found a piece of string in his pocket, and tied them together for her. The party near the coffin were in the same position as they had been when he came into the churchyard; the old man and Gribble junior had not returned. Having nothing better to do, and burning with a desire to know more of the fair girl whose acquaintance he had made in so strange a manner, Felix resumed his conversation with little Pollypod. He had no difficulty in doing so; Pollypod was brimful of talk.
"So you dream of everything," he said.
Pollypod nodded, repeated "E-ve-ry-thing" under her breath, and held up her bunch of flowers admiringly, turning them this way and that, and thinking how pleased father would be with them.
"What did you dream of last night?"
"I don't remember," replied Pollypod, after a little consideration. "I know what I dreamt of the night before."
"Of what?"
"Of my Doll," said the little maid, showing by her manner that the subject was of very serious importance. "And, O, it looked so beautiful! It had large blue eyes--and moved them!--and a pink face, and red lips, and it was dressed in blue silk, with such a lovely bonnet!"
"Was it as pretty as your own doll?" inquired Felix.
Pollypod shook her head a dozen times, and pursed her lips. "I haven't got one," she said wistfully, "I never saw it; I only dream of it."
Felix did not say anything in the pause that followed, knowing that he was about to be enlightened.
"It's in father's ship. Father told me, O, such a long time ago! that when his ship came home, he would give me the Doll; and the naughty ship won't come home. Father is so angry sometimes because it's so long away. There's a toy-shop not far from where we live, with such funny things in the window--and there's a Doll in the middle of them, just like mine that's in father's ship. Father says mine is handsomer, and that mine has a smaller nose and pinker lips. I go to look at it whenever I can, and wish, and wish, and wish that father's ship would come home! I often dream that it has, and when I wake up I say, 'Father, has your ship come home?' and he says, 'No, Pollypod;' and I know by his voice that he's sorry."
"Now, Pollypod," said Felix, holding up his finger to denote that she was to give him all her attention, "I'm going to tell you something. I'm a wizard."
"A wiz-ard," repeated Pollypod thoughtfully; and then said, with a sharp look at Felix, "I want to know!"
"What a wizard is! So you shall, little one. A wizard can see things, and tell things before they occur."
"Can he!" exclaimed Pollypod, her blue eyes dilating. "Can you see and tell anything now?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"I can see a little girl lying in bed, looking at the roses on the wall."
"That's me," said Pollypod, in a tone of infinite content. "Who's in the room with the little girl? Not father!"
"No; not father, because father comes home so late."
"And the little girl is asleep before he comes home."
"Fast asleep, Pollypod. But there's some one else in the room--mother is there, working."
"That's right! that's right!" cried Pollypod, twining her fingers together in her excitement. "Youarea wizard!"
"The little girl is lying with her eyes open, looking at the roses. She fixes her eyes upon one, and it changes. Lips come--like Lily's; eyes come, bright--like Lily's. Presently Lily's face is in the rose, smiling at the little girl. But the face fades—"
"Does it?" whispered Pollypod anxiously.
"And in its place a Doll appears—"
"Yes! yes!"
"And the little girl falls asleep and dreams of it, and holds it in her arms. And while she dreams, I see a ship coming over the seas—"
"Father's ship!" cried Pollypod in ecstacy.
"No; another ship."
"O!" sighed Pollypod, drooping.
"Here it comes sailing--sailing--sailing; and the waves are curling--curling--curling; and the captain is bowing--bowing--bowing; and the stars are shining--shining--shining into the waters, lighting them up with smiles! But what is this I see on the ship? A Doll!"
"Doll!" cried Pollypod, reviving. "For the little girl?"
"Yes, for the little girl. The little girl's Doll! Pollypod's Doll! And as sure as we sit here talking, the captain, if he's alive, will bring it home before the week's out."
In a very flutter of delight Pollypod jumped to her feet, and clasped her hands.
"You mustn't be frightened of me, Pollypod," said Felix, sharing in Pollypod's delight; "I'm a good wizard."
"I know that! I know that!" said the little maid, almost in a whisper. "But I want to know! Is She beautiful?"
"Yes, she is beautiful," replied Felix, dwelling long on each syllable.
"And has she got blue eyes?"
"The bluest in the world."
"And a pink face?"
"As pink as this rose, Pollypod."
"And red lips?"
"Red as cherries."
"And what is She dressed in?"
"Blue silk, with a large sash behind, and mauve boots, and the loveliest bonnet that ever was made."
So filled with joy that she could not speak, Pollypod sat down on the tombstone, shut her eyes, and saw Her in all Her silken glory. The little maid was in a state of beatific bliss; and she saw the ship sailing, and the waves curling, and the captain bowing, and the stars shining, and the beautiful Doll eclipsing them all.
Presently she opened her eyes, and said reflectively,
"I hope Snap will like her. You're sure he'll come?"
"The captain? As sure as can be. Mother's calling you."
Away raced Pollypod, the happiest little girl in all England, towards her mother; and Felix strolled out of the churchyard with the idea of ascertaining why the old man and Gribble junior were so long absent.
He was arrested in his purpose by an incident that claimed his attention.
Near to the entrance to the churchyard was the mourning-coach which had conveyed the party from Soho, and near to the mourning-coach was the driver, in a condition bordering closely on intoxication. Whether it is that sorrow requires inward moistening, or that there is some other equally strong cause to account for it, every churchyard has in its immediate neighbourhood a handy public-house, or two, or three--according to whether the churchyard does a flourishing business or otherwise. There is nothing strange in the circumstance; for public-houses are everywhere, and churchyards should no more be deprived of the consolation their presence affords than other places. No sooner had our driver got rid of his load of flesh and clay than he sought the handy ale-house, to bait his cattle and moisten his sorrow. The former task was quickly accomplished, but the latter occupied a much longer time--a proof that his sorrow was very keen, and needed a great deal of moistening. When Felix approached him, he had paid at least half a dozen visits to the ale-house, and his sorrow had turned into anger at the time he had been kept waiting. His face, which had grown puffy in the exercise of his profession, was inflamed, and he was muttering to himself that he would see the whole party in a very warm place before he would wait for them a minute longer. The assertion was not only irreverent, with a churchyard in view, but (as he would have to be there to see) it was injudicious as regarded his own fate after he had shuffled off his mortal coil.
Felix saw the state at once, and saw also that the driver was not in a fit condition to drive the party home. A very few words with the man convinced him of this. He was quick at expedients, and eagerly took advantage of the opportunity that presented itself.
"My guv'ner," said the driver, in a thick voice, and with occasional hiccoughs, "didn't bargain that I was to stop here till I got blue in the face."
Which (supposing that the contract had been entered into between him and his "guv'ner") was so manifestly impossible of accomplishment in sight of his inflamed countenance, that Felix could not help smiling.
"Andinconsequence," continued the driver, with sarcastic emphasis, "as it wasn't in the bargain, and as the job's paid for beforehand, and as I've got my family to look arter, you can tell the party inside, as you're a friend of their'n, that I'm off."
With that he gathered up the reins, and prepared to mount. His foot was in the air when Felix invited him to "Come and have a pint."
The invitation was not to be resisted, and they adjourned to the ale-house, where, over the pint, Felix learnt the name of the street and the number of the house in which Lily lived. His purpose being served, he allowed the man to depart, and, with some satisfaction, saw the mourning-coach on its way to London.
"There would have been an accident for certain," said Felix to himself, as if in apology for allowing the man to depart, "and it will be better for them to have a sober driver than a drunken one. Besides, I myself must sleep in London to-night."
Then he went to an hotel of a better kind, where he was known, and made arrangements for the hire of a waggonette and a pair of good horses, and ascertained where he could stable them for the night in London.
"Harness the horses," he said, "at once, and let them stand at the entrance of the churchyard: I shall return in the morning. I wonder," he mused, as he walked towards the churchyard again, "Whether they will refuse to accept a courtesy from my father's son."
"Though the prayers of a priest are denied to you, not less sanctified is the ground in which you lie. Tender thoughts and tender remembrance accompany you, and these are the best of prayers. It is better as it is, perhaps; better that your dust should be buried thus in silence; than that the cold words of a harsh sorrowless minister should fall upon your grave. Peace be with you!"
These words were spoken inly by Lily's grandfather, as he stood, with head uncovered, by the side of the grave into which the coffin was being lowered. He and Gribble junior had been in search of a Methodist minister, in the vague hope that something might be suggested to afford consolation to the dead woman's children; but their search had been unsuccessful, and as the day was waning and they had far to go, they had no alternative but to comply with the Reverend Mr. Creamwell's decree. As they stood about the grave, the men were silent and sad; tears were streaming down the faces of the women; and Pollypod for a few moments forgot her Doll and the ship that was bringing it home over the seas. The heir of the house of Gribble junior was awake and in his father's arms, and the enthusiastic umbrella-doctor tilted the baby over the grave, so that the child might have a good view of the coffin, in the belief probably that it would "open up his ideas, as a body might say." Notwithstanding the minister's decree, Lily's mother was not buried: in complete silence; for the twittering of birds and the soft hum of insect-life were heard, and the breeze was as peaceful, and the clouds as bright, as if a thousand human voices had been raised in her glorification. The old man picked up a handful of dust, and scattered it lightly upon the coffin, and then the earth was shovelled in and the grave was filled. Slowly they walked out of the churchyard, Pollypod in a state of restlessness about Felix, and wondering what had become of him. When she caught sight of him, standing by the waggonette he had hired, she ran eagerly to him, and plucked his coat. He inclined his head to hers.
"The Captain's sure to bring my Doll this week?" she whispered.
"Quite sure, little maid," he answered.
"Do you see the ship now?"
"Yes," he said, "and the wind is fair."
But when he raised his eyes, and saw a shadow on the old man's face, he was not so certain that the wind was fair. He had a task to perform, however, and he addressed himself to Gribble junior, and telling him that the mourning-coach was gone, delivered the driver's message, in milder terms than he had received it. The old man, listening, glanced sharply at Felix.
"I think it is as well," pursued Felix, addressing the company generally, though he looked only at Gribble junior, "that the manhasgone, for he was drunk, and in no fit condition to drive you home."
"Then how are we to get back?" inquired Gribble junior in perplexity, more of himself than of Felix.
"I feel that I am in some measure responsible for the difficulty," rejoined Felix, "for I might have detained the man, though, as I have said, the wisest course was to let him go. Will you allow me to place this waggonette at your disposal? It will be pleasanter driving than in the close coach, and you will reach home more quickly." All but the old man looked up gratefully at the proposal. "The evening will be fine, and I will ensure a safe and speedy journey. Nay," he continued hurriedly, in answer to a motion of the old man's hand indicating refusal, "before you decide, grant me the favour of one minute's private conversation."
There was much in the voice and manner of Felix to recommend him, and the old man saw that he had found favour in the eyes of the rest of the company. He himself also, against his own judgment as it seemed, felt inclined to the young man. This feeling, no less than his perplexity, induced him to comply with the request, and they stepped aside, out of hearing of the others.
"Sir," then said Felix, "the offer is made out of pure disinterestedness, believe me."
He blushed slightly as he said this, for he thought of Lily, and of the share she unconsciously bore in the transaction.
"It is somewhat incomprehensible," said the old man, gazing attentively at the earnest face of Felix; "I cannot be mistaken. You are the young gentleman who was present during my interview with the minister."
"I am he, sir," replied Felix, "but—"
"And you are his son," interrupted the old man.
"There is no doubt of that. I am my father's son--in the flesh. For the share I took in that interview by my presence, I humbly ask your pardon. Do me the justice to believe that I am in earnest."
"It would be hard to believe otherwise."
"Thank you, sir."
"Yet it is difficult to reconcile." As he spoke he thought of the young man's kindness to Lily, and it seemed to be not so difficult. But if the kind offer sprang from sincere and unselfish impulse, father and son must be at variance. "Your father—" he said.
But Felix broke in abruptly with, "Nay, sir, pardon me. Do not let us speak of fathers and sons. The subject is a painful one. My father and I differ upon certain points. I am under suspicion, I know; I should be surprised were it otherwise. But come, sir, your own sense of justice will grant me this. Let me be judged, not by you alone, but by those who accompany you. If they decide against me, I will drive to London alone, with only my thoughts for company. If they decide for me, I will resign my whip, or drive you home, as you determine."
By this speech Felix proved himself to be a master of generous cunning. He knew that he had a true friend in little Pollypod, who necessarily carried her mother's vote, and he hoped also that Lily and her brother were on his side. But he did not know that when he said, "Do not let us speak of fathers and sons; the subject is a painful one," he had unconsciously uttered words which served him in good turn with the old man also. Thought of Alfred's father, who had brought shame on all of them, came to the old man's mind as he heard the words. He walked to where the others were standing, and found Pollypod in a state of feverish delight at the prospect of being driven home in such a beautiful carriage. Mrs. Podmore, of course, was equally pleased, because of the treat in store for her child, and because she fell in love immediately with any one who was kind to Polly. Gribble junior spoke in enthusiastic terms of the handsome offer; and Alfred, quivering with eager anxiety to know whether Christopher Sly had won the Northumberland Plate, fretted at every moment's delay that kept him from the London streets, where the evening's newspapers would tell him the news. Lily was silent, but the old Man saw in her eyes that she wished him to accept the offer. This at once decided him, and he waived all personal feeling in the matter. He returned to Felix, and said,
"They all decide for you. I am the only one against you."
The young man's face flushed with delight.
"You will not be always against me, sir. Shall I resign my whip?"
"I doubt if any one is competent to take it. And after all, it would be but a churlish way of accepting your courtesy. No; the obligation shall be complete, if it is not trespassing too much upon your time."
"I am alone in the world, sir. My time is my own."
He turned his face towards his father's house, and gazed at it for a few moments, not with regret, but with a grave consciousness that this was a serious epoch in his life. Martha the housekeeper was sitting at one of the upper windows, evidently watching him. He waved his hand to her, and walked slowly to the waggonette, where Gribble junior was busy arranging the party.
"Will you let me sit next to you?" asked Pollypod of Felix.
"I am going to drive, little one," replied Felix, "and you might fall off."
"I'll take her in my lap," said Gribble junior, and by this offer secured the place of distinction on the box.
So it was arranged, and in a few moments they were all seated, and on their way to London. As Gribble junior declared afterwards, it was the pleasantest ride that he had ever had in his life, notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion. He and Pollypod and Felix chatted together in the pleasantest manner, but in a subdued tone, so as not to intrude upon the grief of the mourners in the waggonette. Pollypod told all about the ship that was bringing home her Doll; and Gribble junior, understanding in a literal manner the kindness of Felix, entered readily into Pollypod's enthusiasm, and looked upon that young gentleman as a model of generosity. Gribble junior himself was not disposed to be silent. He was fond of expatiating upon his establishment and business, and he seized the opportunity of airing himself and his views after his own harmless fashion.
"Why hospital?" he repeated, in reply to a query from Felix. "Well, in the first place, it's curious, and curiosity is a good advertisement. It brings business. You see, what you've got to do nowadays if you want to get along is to strike out. That's what I'm always telling father. Strike out, I say; but he hasn't got it in him. All he does is to shake his head and put his hands in his pockets. As if a man can get along that way! When that youngster's knickerbockered," with a backward notion of his head toward his baby, lying in his wife's lap, "I've made up my mind that his clothes sha'n't have any handy pockets in them where he can hide his hands. It breeds idleness. I've seen lots of fellows who think when they've got their hands in their pockets that they're following an occupation. I believe itisa real business with a good many. That's a good advertisement, isn't it?" he asked, opening his blue-silk umbrella, with its yellow announcement painted on it, and gazing on it in pride.
Felix nodded, amused, and remarked that it must puzzle a good many persons.
"I dare say but then they've got no brains," said Gribble junior. "If they'd only consider a little, they'd soon find out the sense of it; but more than half the people in the world are fools. An umbrella has ribs and bones and a frame and skin, like a human being; and they break their bones and get bent and out of order, like human beings. I call myself the surgeon; I set the limbs and ribs, and put the frame in order. My wife is great in skin complaints. She patches up and mends the alpaca and silk."
In this manner he chatted on, and Felix for the most part listened in amused silence. Before they were a great way on their road home, they overtook the mourning coach which had conveyed them from Soho. The driver was in a state of perfect happiness, and his countenance was more inflamed than ever; but he evidently resented the circumstance of their driving home in such a smart carriage, for as Felix drove briskly past him, he whipped his horses and tried to overtake the party. But his cattle knew their business, and had been too well brought up to do more than amble; all the whipping in the world would not have made them gallop.
Felix had placed refreshments in the waggonette, of which they all partook, even Lily and the old man. The sincerity and honesty of their driver were so apparent, that they could not regard him with any but grateful feelings. It was past sunset when they entered the London streets.
"This is my world," Felix thought exultantly.
The brilliant lights and the thousands of people hurrying hither and thither quickened his pulses. It seemed to him as if he were born into a new life. Unfettered, free to do as he pleased, and blessed with that great blessing, a grateful nature, he gathered from everything about him hope for the future. He saw no shadows; did not dream of them. He turned to look at Lily. Her head was resting upon the old man's breast; she was asleep, and there was peace in her face. The old man smiled gratefully and thoughtfully upon Felix, and the smile made him glad. How could shadows come? Everything was fair for him. He felt a soft touch upon the hand which was not occupied with the reins; it was Pollypod's hand stealing into his. Another good omen. The little maid was very sleepy, but she was filled with joy; this had been the most eventful day in her young life. In a very little while they were winding through the labyrinth of the narrow streets of Soho.
"I am so sorry," said Pollypod.
"Why, little one?"
"We are just home. This is our street. And I should like to keep riding all night."
"Stupid little Pollypod! Why, you are so sleepy and tired now that you can't keep your eyes open."
"That would make it nice. I should like to sleep and wake up, and keep on riding and riding!"
Felix smiled; he, like the child, regretted that they had come to the end of their journey. The rattle of the smart waggonette brought all the neighbours to the doors and windows again, and Felix was scrutinised and discussed in a manner that ought to have made his ears tingle, if he had any respect for old-fashioned proverbs.
"I can but repeat my thanks," said the old man to Felix, as they stood by the street door. "You have laid us under a deep obligation."
"I hope not," replied Felix; "indeed I believe not. I have a theory of my own that every human act is dictated by a feeling of selfishness. What I have done, I have done to please myself."
The old man shook his head.
"You believe better of human nature than your theory would lead one to suppose. Of that I am certain.--Will you step upstairs?"
"No, I thank you," said Felix, after a moment's hesitation, during which he decided that the presence of a stranger was not desirable after the day's fatigue; "but if you will allow me, I will call in a day or two to pay my respects."
The old man expressed acquiescence, and looked round for Alfred; but the young man was gone. He had slipped away to obtain an evening paper, in which he would learn whether Christopher Sly had won or lost the Northumberland Plate. Instead of Alfred, the old man saw Mr. David Sheldrake, who, happening to pass through the street, paused when he saw the group at Mr. Gribble's door. Mr. Sheldrake raised his hat.
"I heard of your loss," he said to Lily, in a tone of confidential respect, "and I beg you to accept my sincere sympathy. The White Rose is quite disconsolate at your absence. I hope it will not be long before we hear your charming voice again. This is your grandfather. Allow me to present myself: Mr. David Sheldrake. I know your grandson, sir, Master Alfred; a fine young fellow, sir. We all grieve, for your granddaughter's sake, at the loss you have sustained."
The old man bowed, but did not reply, and Mr. Sheldrake, raising his hat again, passed on. Although he had not seemed to notice Felix, he had really, in a quiet manner, observed Felix closely, and had taken note of the handsome waggonette.
"Who is this interloper?" he thought, as he walked away; "but Master Alfred will tell me. Where is he, I wonder?" He pondered for a few seconds, and his countenance brightened as he thought, "Ah, they have just come from the funeral; the woman was to be buried in the country, I heard. And Master Alfred has disappeared to look after Christopher Sly. You're a sharp one, David; never at a loss."
With which self-paid compliment he turned the corner, smiling.
"Then we will wish you good-night," said the old man to Felix.
"Good-night," said Felix, shaking hands with the old man. Lily held out her hand, and gave him a grateful look, which, supposing any payment were required, paid him a hundred times over for the little service he had rendered them. When Lily and her grandfather had passed indoors, Felix would have departed, but his left hand was in Pollypod's, and she held it tight.
"Good-night, Pollypod. I must go now."
"No; you mustn't go yet," said the forward little maid; "I want you to carry me upstairs."
"Don't tease the gentleman, Polly!" exclaimed Mrs. Podmore; "you mustn't be tiresome."
"She isn't tiresome," said Felix good-naturedly, taking Pollypod in his arms; "I'll carry her up-stairs if you'll allow me."
Certainly if ever man had the knack of winning a mother's heart, Felix had it; and if he could have read Mrs. Podmore's thoughts as he stepped into the passage with her child in his arms, he would have found himself there enshrined as the very pink and perfection and pattern of goodness.
"Go up slow," whispered Pollypod to him, as she lay with her head on his shoulder; the cunning little maid was in a delicious trance, and was wishful not to wake up too soon; "isn't it nice and dark? Can you see the Ship?"
"Yes."
"And the Captain?"
"Yes."
"And the Dollisthere?"
"I can see it, Pollypod."
"And the stars are shining?"
"Beautifully, Pollypod."
"Yes," she murmured, "it is night, and the stars are shining."
The roses on the wall of Mrs. Podmore's room were red enough to assert themselves even in the dim light, and Felix thought that Pollypod's idealisation of them was one of the prettiest of pretty fancies.
"I'm sure we're all very much obliged to you, sir," said Mrs. Podmore to him as he placed the child on the bed.
"You could not be more welcome to anything," replied Felix. "Good night, little maid."
He stooped to kiss her, and she encircled his neck with her arms.
"There's a kiss for the Ship," she whispered, "and a kiss for the Captain, and two for You! I shall tell Snap about you when father comes home."
Gribble junior was waiting on the landing of the second floor to wish him good night.
"Did you see that gent that stopped and spoke to Miss Lily?" asked Gribble junior.
"Yes."
"What do you think of him?"
Felix smilingly replied that it was impossible for him to form an opinion.
"I don't think much of him myself," said Gribble junior dryly; "he ain't one of my sort."
"Tell me," said Felix, "if it is not rude to ask, what did he mean by saying that the White Rose was quite disconsolate at Miss Lily's absence? What is the White Rose?"
"Don't you know the Royal White Rose Music-hall?" interrogated Gribble junior, wondering at the young man's ignorance. "That's where Miss Lily sings. You should see her and hear her! She looks like an angel, and sings like one. She's not like any of the others. You see, a girl must do something, and between you and me, I don't think the old gentleman would be able to get along if it wasn't for the money that Miss Lily earns. Master Alfred, he doesn't do much."
About an hour afterwards, Felix found himself in the Royal White Rose Music-hall, wondering that so pure and simple a girl as Lily should be associated with some of the things he heard and witnessed there. "But," he thought, "to the pure all things are pure. And there are stranger contrasts in life than this."
He had engaged a bed at an hotel where a night porter was kept, so that he could get to his room at any time. He stopped out until late, thinking over the events of the day, and musing upon the future. He strolled over Westminster Bridge, and lingered in admiration; thinking, and thinking truly, that he had never seen a more wonderful and beautiful sight than the dark solemn water and the waving lines of lights presented. And as he lingered and admired and mused, his thoughts wandered to the little crowded house in Soho—
Where Lily was sleeping peacefully;
Where Pollypod, pressed to her father's breast, and with her face towards the roses, was dreaming of her Doll and of the Ship that was sailing over the shining seas;
Where, in the solitude of his room, a young man, with wild, haggard, despairing face, was reading for the twentieth time the account of the race for the Northumberland Plate, which had been won by an old horse called Taraban; and muttering, with white and trembling lips, imprecations on the false prophets by whose advice he had backed Christopher Sly with money that did not belong to him.
At the corner of a desponding thoroughfare in the neighbourhood of Vauxhall is a chemist's shop, where every cure for every ailment is dispensed. The thoroughfare is one of a numerous family of streets so exactly alike in their melancholy aspect, that you can scarcely tell one from another; they are all very sad-looking, and they are all composed of rows of private houses, two stories high, exactly of a height, and of a dismal flatness, which look dejectedly at one another across the road. The name of Dr. Cadbury is over the door of the chemist's shop, and a neat inscription on a brass plate informs the public that the doctor may be consulted (gratis) at from 11 till 1 o'clock in the morning, and from 6 till 8 in the evening. It is a queer-looking shop and wonderfully comprehensive, notwithstanding that it is much cramped. The consultation-room is a small apartment at the back of the shop, and, viewed from the outside, has quite a pretentious appearance. The word "Surgery" over the door is suggestive of dreadful instruments of bright steel, which shine with a savage desire to cut into you; but there is really nothing to be alarmed at in the apartment, the most noticeable article in it being a turn-up bedstead; for at night it is converted into a sleeping apartment for the doctor's assistant. This assistant, who has a passion for too much bitter beer, and who tells the customers under the pledge of secrecy that he is a partner in the concern, is a moon-faced, bald-headed man, who has walked the hospitals, as the women whisper to one another. He is mysteriously spoken of as being very highly connected, and he continually talks of going down somewhere for a week's shooting; but he never goes. His present lowly position is popularly supposed to be due to his having been a little wild, and it is rumoured that he is in hiding, which immensely enhances his reputation. The queer little shop has quite a bustling appearance during the hours of consultation; but very different pictures are presented in the morning and evening. In the morning it is the males, who, chiefly in their dinner-hour, throng to the doctor for his advice; but the evening is sacred to the wives. As the consultation hour draws nigh, all the poor women in the neighbourhood who are in an interesting condition gather together until the little shop is crowded with them. They wait to consult the "dear doctor"--he is such a dear man! they say to one another; and while they wait they relate their experiences, and exchange pleasantries with the moon-faced assistant. The doctor's fee for confinements is only a guinea, attendance and medicine included, and this guinea he sometimes takes in instalments, and sometimes does not take at all--which is not his fault, but his misfortune. It is quite a relaxation to the poor women to assemble together on these occasions; and when they come away from their consultation, they have none but words of praise for Dr. Cadbury, who is such a pleasant man, and has told them such funny stories, that they declare they would send for him--ah, that they would!--in the dead of night, if they lived ever so far away. For which marks of favour Dr. Cadbury could not be, and certainly was not, sufficiently grateful.
The doctor occupies only the ground-floor. Who occupies the upper portion of the house? Let us step up and see. The first-floor will be sufficient for our purpose.
It is the day after the running for the Northumberland Plate, and a man about thirty-five years of age has just laid down a paper where he has read, not for the first time, how that the morning opened unfavourably at Newcastle, the rain pouring steadily down, and how the sporting fraternity grew despondent in consequence; how deserted the Newcastle streets were, when upon every previous Plate-day they had been crowded with betting men; how the weather took a better turn about noon, and hope revived in the ardent breasts of the men who laid the odds and the dupes who took them; how the special trains from Northumberland and Durham began to arrive with eager excursionists, and matters began to look brighter; how all considerations of the weather, and every other consideration whatsoever, paled to insignificance before the news that a noble sportsman had insisted that Christopher Sly, the sensational animal of the day, who had been backed for pounds, shillings, and pence, should carry a ten pound penalty for winning another race a short time since; how the question was discussed and what excitement it caused, those who had backed the horse trembling in their shoes lest they should be "done" out of their soon-to-be winnings at the last moment; how the stewards were unable to decide the point before the race, and how the horse declined in the betting from 6 to 4 to 2 to 1, still being first favourite however; how eight runners came to the starting-post, Christopher Sly being one and looking as fresh as paint; how, after two or three false starts, the horses were fairly slipped; how, soon afterwards, Christopher Sly threw his jockey clean over his head, and then tumbled down and rolled over the lad, who was carried off the field in an insensible state; and how, after some other slight mishaps, an old horse, Taraban by name, came in the winner, to the discomfiture of more persons than one, and to the utter confusion, and if they have any shame in them (which may be reasonably doubted), of every prophet and tipster in the United Kingdom. All this and more the occupant of the room reads with exceeding relish, slapping his thigh and rubbing his knees in delight, as if it is the finest joke he had ever heard of.
"Not one of 'm thought of Taraban," he exclaims; "not one. What a sell for the talent!"
He says this in a tone which implies that the "talent," whatever that may be, is his natural enemy, and he rejoices in its discomfiture. The furnishings of the room in which he sits are very simple--a deal table, three or four chairs, and a safe. But that it is a room in which serious work is performed is evident from the appearance of the table, upon which are pens and ink, piles of letters, half a dozen different descriptions of circulars, some account-books, and cuttings from newspapers. From the addresses on the letters, the firm which he represents must be an extensive one, comprising many partners. Here is one pile addressed to Adolphus Fortescue, Post-office, Rugby; here is another addressed to Horace St. John, 43, Diddledom-place, W.C.; here is another addressed to James Middleman, Box 67, Post-office, Leicester; here is another addressed to W. and B. Tracey, 87 1/2, Essex-road, E.C.; and others to other names and other addresses, all of which he has opened with his own hand, as if he were one and all of these persons combined. Perhaps he is; he looks confident enough and shrewd enough to be a score of men in one. Perhaps his own proper name, which any detective would be able to tell you without going to the bottom of a well to seek for it, is too common a one for his profession; and if the success of that profession depended on the catching of gudgeons, the presumption is that many an unwary one which would have turned up its nose at plain Smith or Robinson would for a certainty fall into the spicy trap labelled Adolphus Fortescue or Horace St. John. But, unexplained, it is a very riddle to the simple and uninitiated. Riddle me riddle me ree, tell me who this man can be? Perhaps some of the documents on the table will supply a clue to the seeming mystery. Here is an advertisement cut out of a sporting newspaper. What does it say?
"An Absolute Moral for the Doncaster St. Leger. Horace St. John is in possession of certain important information concerning this race, which he is willing to impart to Gentlemen and to no others. The Horse that will Win is a dark horse, and has been reserved especially for the Leger. No one else is in the secret, except the Stable, and they have kept it dark, and intend to back it for every shilling they can raise. Not one of the favourites has a chance. Horace St. John is no vulgar tipster, but a Gentleman moving in the very Highest Circles, and his honour is unimpeachable. AterrificSum will be won upon this Moral Certainty, which will absolutelywalk in. But remember--only to Gentlemen will this secret be imparted, and only upon the understanding that it will not be imparted to outsiders. At present, 100 to 1 can be obtained. This is the greatest certainty in the annals of racing. Send immediately 5s.worth of postage-stamps and your Word of Honour that, after the race, you will remit five per cent of your winnings to Horace St. John, 43, Diddledom-place, W.C., and the name of the horse with all particulars will be forwarded by return post. Subscribers, remember the enormous sums you won over H. St. J.'s tip for the Derby--remember his earnest words, 'The Zephyr Colt and no other'--and send at once, before the bookmakers take the alarm. To those who wish H. St. J. to undertake their commissions for them, 100 to 1 will be obtained."
Here is another advertisement, in which James Middleman, Box 67, Post-office, Leicester, vindictively advises you (impressing it upon you after the manner of Macbeth's Witches) to--
"Break the Ring! Break the Ring! Break the Ring! If you want to know the Winner of the Chester Cup, send six stamps and a stamped directed envelope for the greatest certainty on the face of the earth. Break the Ring! Now or never! Now's the day, and Now's the hour! Faint hearts never won great fortunes yet. Trust not to stable-boys and specious impostors, but send six stamps and a stamped directed envelope immediately to James Middleman, and reach the height of your cupidity! (sic.) The horse could win with three stones more on his back. The greatestcoupon record. Now or never! James Middleman, Box 67, Post-office, Leicester."
Here is an advertisement from W. and B. Tracey, who "implore you not to throw away your money upon ignorant tipsters, whose worthless selections will bring you to ruin. Send a stamped envelope for our system--our infallible system--by which loss is rendered an impossibility. £10,000 is waiting for you this season. With a capital of £5, a fortune is certain. Be wise in time."
Here is another, addressed,
"To gentlemen of honour.--A Turfite of high position (recent owner of race-horses and member of Tattersall's) desires to communicate the Winner of the Goodwood Stakes to Gentlemen who will Pledge their Honour to respect his confidence, and send him ten guineas from winnings. This advertisement emanates from no common tipster, and well merits the confidence of the public. To prevent merely inquisitive and unprincipled persons from benefiting by it, a post-office order (or stamps) for 7s. 6d. must accompany each application."
But, indeed, you may spend hours in reading the traps for the unwary set by the person who occupies the room, and who is known to his private friends as Con Stavely. He is a sharp cunning rogue indeed, and has as many aliases as Argus had eyes; and the mine in which he digs is rich enough, in all conscience, to make the fortunes of a thousand such rogues as he. Gulls and dupes abound, and it has become part of our social system that, turn which way you will, spiders may be seen lying in wait for flies.
Some of Con Staveley's systems are simplicity itself. It was only last week that, in the innocence of his heart, he was explaining to an intimate friend the machinery of one which seldom failed to bring grist to his mill.
"It is very easy," said Con. "Here, now; the Northumberland Plate is going to be run for. You advertise, a fortnight or three weeks beforehand, that you will send the winner for twelve stamps, and a promise of five per cent. on their winnings. Throw in something strong when you write the advertisement. Say you will forfeit a thousand pounds if the horse you send doesn't win, or that you will eat the horse, or something of that sort. Plenty of fools'll believe you. You'll get lots of answers, and any number of stamps--more than enough to pay for your advertisements six times over. Well, then, you make a list of the horses that are likely to start for the Plate. You've only got to know the ropes to do this easily. There won't be many starters; about ten or a dozen, probably. Here is your list:--The Boy. The Dwarf. Christopher Sly. Mineral. Taraban. Lord Hawthorne. Falkland. Cap-Ã -pie. Myosotis. Miss Hervine. You get some circulars printed, leaving a space to write in the name of the horse."
"But why," asked Con's friend, "send answers at all? Why not stick to the stamps and have done with it?"
Con Stavely winked, thrust his tongue into his cheek, put a wing to his nose, and in other delicate ways asserted the superiority of his judgment to that of his friend.
"My very worthy and particular," he replied oracularly, "you've got a thing or two to learn before you're quite awake. Why? Because it pays better the other way. To each one of your subscribers you send a circular, with the name of one of the horses from your list, so that if you get three hundred subscribers, and divide the list fairly, there will be thirty subs to every horse. Of course the circular says that it is impossible for the horse to lose; that the stable are backing it heavily, and all that sort of thing. Well, one of the horses wins--Taraban, Christopher Sly, or any other--it doesn't matter which. Then you look out the names of the subs to whom you sent the winning horse, and you send them congratulatory letters--you hope they have won a pot, and that they will send you a percentage on their winnings; you've got a rare good tip for the next big race, which you will be glad to send to them. You'll get something from them, depend upon it, if it's only half-a-crown's worth of stamps. A fellow sent me a fiver only last week, and I've got plenty of post-office orders for sovs. That's the reason why, my worthy particular. Because it pays better, and because" (tapping his nose with his finger knowingly) "honesty's the best policy."
If all Con Stavely's systems are as simple as this one, gulls must abound, indeed, to make them profitable.
As Con Stavely sits and smokes and works on this summer afternoon, he hears an uncertain foot upon the stairs.
"It's the old un," he says.
The reference to the "old un," which to uninstructed ears might have borne a diabolical signification, applies to an old man--older than his years, which may be about fifty--who presently enters the room. An old man, with restless eyes that seek the ground, as if fearful of looking any one in the face; a very shabby, sad, and worn old man. All his clothes are too large for him, and are kept together by a very few buttons and a great many pins.
"Well, Muzzy," says Con, "got plenty of letters?"
Muzzy, with trembling hands, produces letters from every pocket, and deposits them on the table. All these letters are addressed to Captain Leonard Maginn, who, as represented by Muzzy, is certainly not a credit to the army; and they all contains stamps from persons eager to be let into the precious secret which Captain Maginn, otherwise Muzzy, is willing to impart to them for a trifling consideration.
"Is this the lot, Muzzy?" inquires Con Staveley, when the old man has completed the slow process of emptying his pockets.
"Yes, Mr. Con, that's the lot," is the answer, in a shaky, hesitating voice.
"Haven't kept a few stamps back to get drunk with, eh, Muzzy?"
"No, sir; no, Mr. Con," in querulously indignant tones, and with a vain endeavour to express injured innocence with his eyes; but he can't get them to the level of Con's face, strive as he may. "I haven't kept a few stamps back, Mr. Con. You ought to know better, Mr. Con, than to ask me such a question. I don't want them, sir, I don't want them. I backed the winner yesterday; I backed the old horse. I put a dollar on him, and the governor said he'd get me starting-prices--twelve to one, that's what the old horse started at."
"Why, who put Taraban into your head?" asks Con, good-humouredly, as he opens the letters Muzzy has brought. "Not one of the prophets went for him. You ought to set up in business for yourself, if you're as clever as that."
"No, sir; no, Mr. Con; I'm too old, sir--too old. My time's gone by. If I were younger, as young as you, Mr. Con, I'd make a fortune. I'll tell you how I spotted the winner, Mr. Con. I wrote the names of the horses on pieces of paper, sir, and shook 'em up in a hat, and the first one I drew out was Taraban so I backed him for a dollar. Back your luck, always, Mr. Con, if you want to win; back your luck always."
Muzzy's voice and his hands and his whole body tremble and shake in sympathy, as he relates the luck that has befallen him.
"I hear the governor's step," he says. "Yes, that's him, on the stairs. I'll ask him for my twelve dollars."
"You're precious sharp on him, Muzzy; it isn't settling-day yet."
"I know it isn't, Mr. Con, I know it isn't; but the governor's always good to me. I'll give him a dollar if he let's me have the money now. I'll take eleven dollars--eleven fives are fifty-five. That's good interest, Mr. Con, and that's what the governor likes."
"Hullo, Muzzy," exclaims Mr. David Sheldrake, as he enters the room, "what are you shaking and quavering about for, eh? How much did you back Taraban for altogether?"
With an easy nod to Con Stavely, Mr. Sheldrake seats himself and lights a cigar.
"Only a dollar, sir, only a dollar with you," replies Muzzy. "I'd have backed it for more--for all I could raise--but a dollar was all I had, and I couldn't raise another shilling."
"Just like your luck, eh, Muzzy?"
"Yes, sir, just like my luck. I've spotted many a winner, sir, and never had the money to back them. But luck's been against me all my life, sir--all my life!"
He passes the back of his hand slowly across his mouth half a dozen times, and stands looking timidly at Mr. Sheldrake, with an uncertain look in his eyes.
"Well, Muzzy, what do you want now?" asks Mr. Sheldrake, with an inward chuckle, knowing the old man's thoughts.
"I thought, sir, you might be so good as to pay me the odds on Taraban. I'm in want of money, sir, badly, very badly."
"To get drunk with, eh?"
"No, sir; I don't drink, sir; I've given it up," cries Muzzy, with no consciousness that everything about him gives the lie to his words. "I've taken the pledge a dozen times--a dozen times, sir, and I'll take it again if you want me to."
Mr. Sheldrake laughs; but something in the old man's earnest imploring manner makes him suddenly serious, and he gazes attentively at the shaking form before him.
"Listen to me, old man," he says impressively.
Muzzy leans forward to denote obedience.
"Look at me."
But Muzzy finds it impossible to comply with this demand. He raises his eyes a dozen times, but he cannot control them. Invariably they seek the ground.
"I see you, sir," he murmurs apologetically.
"Do you think it possible that you could look respectable if you had a respectable task to perform?"
"Yes, sir, I think so; I am sure so, sir; but I should want better clothes than these," in apology for his rags.
"And possible to keep sober, if it was worth your while?"
"I'll take a solemn oath, sir, not to touch another drop of drink as long as I live--not another drop! Shall I take my oath now? I'll take it this minute, sir, upon the book!"