When Alfred was clear of the crowd, he paused for a moment, and looked around with a vacant stare. In that moment his eyes fell upon Mr. David Sheldrake, who accosted him gaily. Alfred's parched lips moved in response, but no sound came from them. He thought he had spoken aloud, however, and his eyes, after the first swift recognition of Mr. Sheldrake, sought the ground miserably. Mr. Sheldrake made a pretence of not observing Alfred's uneasiness, and he went on to say airily, that he had had a slice of good luck in the City and Suburban, and that he had strolled away from the betting-ring to cool his excitement.
"I was looking for you before the race," he said: "I wanted to give you the tip. I was told by the best jockey of the day that Digby Grand could not be beaten, and I backed the horse, and I wanted you to back it also. But perhaps you did."
He paused for a reply, but Alfred said no word. He was in a stupor of despair. Mr. Sheldrake continued,
"You'll be able to square up now, I suppose. I don't care so much for myself, although, of course, the money will come acceptable, but Con Staveley swears he'll be down on you to-morrow. He says he'll go to your place of business, and if you don't pay, he'll split on you to your employers. That would be serious, wouldn't it? I should advise you not to have anything more to do with Con; he's a hard nail. How much have you won? A couple of monkeys at least, I hope. You must let me into the secret of that new system of yours."
Still no reply from Alfred. Mr. Sheldrake's tone grew grave. He laid his hand upon Alfred's arm, and Alfred shivered at the touch, and feebly endeavoured to shake off the grasp.
"I must insist upon an answer, Alf. Have you won or lost?"
"Lost!" muttered Alfred hoarsely.
"How much?" demanded Mr. Sheldrake.
"Every shilling I had in the world. Let go my arm."
"Be still, or I'll set the police on you! Be still, and tell me," said Mr. Sheldrake with distinct emphasis, "How you are going to replace the money you have taken from your office?"
Alfred trembled violently, but did not raise his eyes.
"You wonder how I know, I daresay," pursued Mr. Sheldrake; "but I know more than you are aware of. What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," replied Alfred, and moved away slowly, Mr. Sheldrake following him thoughtfully.
They were not the only actors in this the last act of the sad drama. An old man, whose eyes never left them, was following them watchfully and warily. A pause of several moments ensued. Then Mr. Sheldrake said, weighing every word,
"I don't like to desert an old friend, even when he has behaved shabbily to me, as you have done. It seems to me that, unless something is done for you at once, it is all up with you. You daren't go back to the office until your accounts are squared, and you daren't go home. The detectives will be on the look out for you. I daresay if Tickle and Flint could get back a portion of the money you have--we may as well speak plainly--stolen, they would be inclined to let you off. I'll see if I can serve you."
Alfred's white face was raised imploringly at this glimpse of hope.
"But I must have authority," continued Mr. Sheldrake, "I must have something to show your people, and to prove to them, if necessary, that they may trust me. Here--write as I dictate."
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and handed it to Alfred, with a pencil.
"Put the date first--that's right; and the place--Epsom. Now write: 'I am in great trouble and danger, and cannot come home; my friend, Mr. Sheldrake, is the only man I can trust, and the only man who can save me. Put full faith and trust in him.--Alfred.'"
Alfred, dazed and helpless, wrote the words, and Mr. Sheldrake took the paper, and placed it in his pocket.
"I must get back to the ring now," he said, with a friendly nod; "you know where to find me when you want me."
With these words he turned away: the old man who had been watching him and Alfred tried to avoid him, but Mr. Sheldrake had left Alfred very suddenly, and the old man's movements were not quick enough. Mr. Sheldrake's sharp eyes lighted upon him instantly.
"Hallo, Muzzy!" he exclaimed. "What brings you here?"
"I came to see the race run," said Mr. Musgrave, standing before his employer in a submissive attitude. "It's my favourite race, and I've not missed a year. I was at the first City and Suburban in 1851, when Elthiron won; and the next year, when Butterfly won; and the next, when Ethelbert ran a dead heat with Pancake. I lost a hatful of money over Pancake, at the very moment I thought I had made a fortune."
"It's always the way, Muzzy. You're a regular walking racing calendar! Did you back the winning horse this time, old man?"
"No, sir; I had nothing on."
"Found out the error of your ways, eh? Well, now the race is over, you can do a little business for me. You see that young fellow," pointing to Alfred, who was walking away with hanging head.
Mr. Musgrave shaded his eyes with his hand.
"My eyes are not so good as they used to be, but I fancy I know him."
"O, you know him well enough. It's Alfred, Lizzie's young man."
"Ah, yes; to be sure, to be sure. I recognise him now."
"Keep your eye on him; watch him; don't let him go out of your sight. I want to know what he's up to, and where he is going to."
"I suppose he'll go home to-night," said Mr. Musgrave.
"I am not so sure of that; and if he doesn't, you must see where he puts up, and keep near him. I may want him."
"For what?"
"What's that to you?" retorted Mr. Sheldrake. "Perhaps he owes me money, and I don't intend that he shall give me the slip. Perhaps he's lost on the race and can't pay, and I want to do him a service."
"For the sake of his pretty sister," suggested Mr. Musgrave humbly.
"You dog, you!" retorted Mr. Sheldrake, half angrily, half approvingly. "Whatever it is, it's my business, and not yours. Mind that, old man. If you don't want to be turned off at a moment's notice, do as you're told, and ask no questions. And look here, old man, you know the Myrtle Inn? Well, inquire there the first thing in the morning for a note. I may have to write to you, to give you instructions. And if the place is handy, you can put up there to-night."
Mr. Musgrave nodded submissively, and crept away in the direction that Alfred had taken.
"Mind," said Mr. Sheldrake, overtaking him, "he's not to see you, and not to know that you are watching him. You can drop me a line to-night, telling me where he puts up. Here's a sov. to pay ex's."
Although the old man took the sovereign in silence, his manner did not seem to please Mr. Sheldrake, who muttered, as he looked at the slouching figure creeping away,
"I'd give him the sack if I could; but I must get things straight first. He knows too much. I'll square up the concern, and get rid of him this year. I'll have all the books and vouchers moved from Ivy Cottage this very week."
While this scene was being enacted, Alfred pursued his sad way. His great desire was to escape from the crowd, among which probably there were persons who were acquainted with him. He must get to some place and among people where he could hide himself and would not be known. Mr. Sheldrake had rightly said that he dared not show his face at the office. To-morrow all would be discovered. It had been his unhappy fortune yesterday to receive an uncrossed cheque, payable to bearer, in settlement of a large account due to his employers. This cheque he had cashed, and had used the proceeds in backing the horses of the false prophet upon whom he had placed all his hopes. This was not the only money he had used; for some time he had pursued a system of falsifying the books of the firm, and of appropriating such payments as would be the least likely to be missed. Discovery was imminent every day, every hour. All this money had been lost in betting, and in vainly striving to recover what had gone before. Even in the midst of his despair he groaned to himself that he had done his best, that he had tried system after system, prophet after prophet, with the same result; and that ill-fortune, and not he, was to blame. There was some special reason for each fresh loss--some special reason applicable to that case alone, and which could not by any exercise of forethought have been anticipated or avoided. It brought that smallest of consolation to him which consists in the reflection that the same thing would have happened to anybody else placed in his position; but it brought sharp stings also in the reflection that he might have known, or ought to have known, that such and such a thing might have been anticipated, or suspected, or guessed, and the unfortunate result avoided. No consideration of this description, however, intruded itself in what had occurred to-day in his speculations on the City and Suburban race. Here was a prophet, whose name was known to every betting boy and man in the kingdom, who had actually named five horses as the winner of the race, and not one of these five horses came in among the first three. In the eyes of a reasonable being such a circumstance would be sufficient to stamp this prophet as the veriest impostor and incapable that ever put pen to paper; and he might feel a natural indignation that such mischievous utterances should be openly allowed to lead weak men to acts of folly and crime. Even Alfred, never given to moralising, caring only for himself, and not one jot for the public, cursed this false prophet as he staggered over the Downs, and gave vent to weak imprecations against the man whose cruel prophecies had brought him to this stage of infamy and disgrace.
What would they think at home? Would they guess the truth? What would Lizzie do? He thought mostly of her. If he could get to some new country with her, where they could commence a new life, what happiness it would be! If he could undo the past! In the midst of all these repinings and vain repentances, the terrible thought intruded itself that there was no escape for him. He had but five shillings in his pocket; every article of jewellery he possessed had been mortgaged to raise money to swell the fatal stake he had played this day. The detectives would soon be after him. Could he disguise himself in any way, so as to escape detection? His nerves were strung up to such a high pitch that the slightest unexpected sound was sufficient to terrify him, and the roar from the distant race-course which proclaimed that another race had been decided was converted by his fears into the shouts of pursuers on his track. He quickened his steps instinctively, preparing for flight, but the next his reason returned, and he ascribed the shouts to their correct cause. With a faint smile on his lips, he turned his head in the direction of the cries, and as he turned he suddenly saw Mr. Musgrave. The sight of the old man gave Alfred a shock, and the first thought which flashed through his mind was that the old man had been set to watch him. That this presumption was the correct one was due, not to Alfred's perspicacity, but to his fears. In his condition, every face that was familiar was a face to be suspected. Alfred cast furtive glances at the old man, who, having seen Alfred's recognition of him, looked about listlessly in every direction but that in which Alfred was. He seemed to have come to the spot entirely by accident, and Alfred was partly thrown off his guard by the old man's manner. "But I will make sure," thought Alfred, and he set traps, into which the old man unconsciously fell. Alfred slunk behind a hedge, which was not thick enough to hide him completely from sight, and remaining there for fully a quarter of an hour, watched and waited, and when he emerged into the open plain, the old man was still there, looking about him with ill-concealed listlessness. "Heiswatching me!" thought Alfred, trembling in every limb. "Who set him on? How can I escape?" He had no thought of addressing the old man to ascertain his purpose. No cordiality had grown between them during their acquaintanceship; Alfred knew that in some way Mr. Musgrave was connected in business with Mr. Sheldrake, and this circumstance was sufficient to convert the old man into a spy, if not into an enemy. Faint, despairing, and weary, Alfred stumbled on across the Downs, and stopped at a quiet inn. The old man was still on his track. Alfred called for brandy, and tried to eat, but the food almost choked him, and he put it aside, sick at heart, and drank more brandy. "Can you give me a sheet of paper and an envelope?" he asked of the girl who served him. She gave him what he required, and pen and ink as well, and he sat down in the parlour, looking at the blank paper, and trying to think. A voice at the bar roused him. It was Mr. Musgrave's voice asking for refreshments. For a moment Alfred thought of going boldly to the old man, and appealing to him, for Lizzie's sake; but he dismissed the thought immediately. "It will be betraying myself," he muttered; "but I must let Lizzie know. How can I get a letter to her?" He went to the rear of the inn, and asked an ostler if he knew any one who was going to London that afternoon. Yes, the ostler said, a man from the yard was going to London by the next train, which would start in a quarter of an hour. The ostler pointed out the man to Alfred. Returning to the parlour, Alfred wrote:
"I have been miserably unfortunate to-day, and I dare not come home. I am at Epsom, and I don't know where to turn for safety. At this very moment I am being watched by an enemy; you know him well, but I will not pain you by naming him. I have done you injury enough already, and I can never, never atone for it. All hope has left me, and I wish my miserable life were ended. I can only ask you to think kindly of me and to forgive me. If I did not love you, I should not be as unhappy as I am. I am afraid to think of the future.--I send this by a stranger. I want you to get it to-night, and the post would not arrive in time. No one must know that you have heard from me. God knows what will happen to me. I have brought shame and disgrace upon all.--A."
Alfred enclosed and addressed the letter, and seeing the man going to the railway station, ran after him, and bargained with him to deliver the letter for four shillings, which was all the money he possessed.
"Don't deceive me," said Alfred imploringly.
"Do you take me for a thief?" was the surly answer. "The young woman shall have the letter all right. You look as if you've been backing the wrong horse, young fellow."
Alfred did not reply, and when the man was out of sight, walked to a quiet spot, and threw himself on the ground, waiting for night to hide himself and his despair from the sight of man.
All unconscious of the terrible crisis that was occurring, Lily went about the house that day as blithe as a bird. Her life seemed to be brightening, and the shadows that had hung over it appeared to be clearing away. She ran up and down the stairs, and in and out of the rooms, singing her old songs. She was in the happiest of moods, and her grandfather listened with a grateful heart to her fresh voice. He expressed his delight to Mrs. Podmore, who came down-stairs with Pollypod, dressed for walking. Mrs. Podmore had a basket on her arm.
"Lily is like her old self again, Mrs. Podmore," he said.
"Bless her heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Podmore. "It does one good to hear her. It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the fire has done Lily the good turn of sending her here, where the air is fresher for her. Polly likes it, too, don't you?"
"O, yes, mother," answered the child.
"So we've got to be thankful even for misfortune," said Mrs. Podmore, with a half sigh. "It was a hard blow for Jim, though, was that fire. It'll take us a long time to get over it."
"How much worse it would have been," said Old Wheels, "if some of us had been hurt and burnt, instead of our clothes and sticks of furniture!"
"Ah, yes, indeed, Mr. Wheels. It's downright wicked to grumble, after all. But I never shall forget it, never! I shall remember Jim carrying Polly and me down the rope, to my dying day. Jim's never been himself since then, Mr. Wheels. I wish he was anything but what he is, and that he could get a living in a reasonable way, where he wouldn't be worked to death as he's being worked now. It ain't fair to flesh and blood, and flesh and blood can't stand it. Dear, dear! here I am grumbling again! I don't know what's come over me. We're going to London, Polly and me, to get one or two little things. We sha'n't be home till night. Can I do anything in town for you, Mr. Wheels?"
"No, thank you."
A silence ensued, caused by Lily commencing a verse of a favourite song, which they paused to hear.
"She sings like a bird," said Mrs. Podmore; and added, with a meaning smile, "but there's something else besides fresh air to account for her lightheartedness. Here's Mr. Felix himself to bear me out in what I say."
"And what is that, Mrs. Podmore?" asked Felix, who entered as she spoke, and heard her last words.
"Ah, that's a little secret between me and Mr. Wheels," replied Mrs. Podmore with another smile of much meaning, intended especially for the old man; "but I've got Jim's dinner in the basket, and I must go and give it to him."
"There's another thing to be thankful for, Mrs. Podmore," said Old Wheels. "Your husband hasn't so far to go home when his work's done as he had when we lived in Soho. You see how lucky the fire was, after all, to bring you here to live, so near the station where your husband works."
"Well, we know who we've got to thank for it," replied Mrs. Podmore, with an affectionate look at Felix: "don't we, Polly?"
And with other grateful words, the mother and child left the house.
"You have come early to-day, Felix," said Old Wheels; "has any particular business brought you?"
Felix, looking both anxious and happy, answered,
"Yes, sir, one or two very particular things. First, a stroke of good fortune. Through the influence of my friend Charles, of whom I have spoken to you, I am appointed London correspondent to a leading colonial newspaper. By his advice, I sent an initial letter--in my best style, of course; a regular trap for them," added Felix, with a light laugh--"and the result is, that I have obtained the appointment. It adds a hundred pounds a year to my income, and the labour really is very light."
"That is good news indeed," said Old Wheels, rubbing his hands; "I congratulate you heartily on it."
"I am becoming quite an important person," said Felix, with comic seriousness, "from a worldly point of view. But there are other matters I wish to tell you of. I have spoken to you of my father's housekeeper—"
"Martha Day?" interposed Old Wheels. "Yes."
"She has left my father's service suddenly. I do not think I have told you that Lizzie, Alfred's sweetheart, is related to Martha Day."
"No; this is the first time I have heard it."
"It was a matter of no great importance for you to know; but as Martha has left my father's house, and may be more nearly connected with me, it is right that you should be acquainted with everything that concerns me. Martha is with Lizzie at the present moment at Mr. Musgrave's house. And interrupting myself here, it seems strange to me that you and Mr. Musgrave should never have met."
"It is strange," said Old Wheels, after a little pondering; "and now that you speak of it, it comes to my mind that, on every occasion when we were expected, in the natural course of things to meet, sudden business has called Mr. Musgrave away. You are not acquainted with any reasons why he should avoid me?"
"No; I know of none."
"He is eccentric, perhaps; disinclined to make new acquaintances. Some men are so."
"He is exceedingly fond of Lily," observed Felix.
"That makes it all the more strange," said Old Wheels, with a thoughtful air; "and yet I should not say so. The child would win her way to any heart. It speaks well for him I am very glad to hear it. Exceedingly fond of Lily, you say!" He repeated these words, as if he wished to make some obscure thing clear to his understanding.
"I think he shows more tenderness towards her than towards his adopted daughter. It seems to me as if he feels that he cannot be considerate enough of her. That is Lily singing, is it not?"
"Yes, the dear child! She is more cheerful than she has been for a long time past."
Felix listened, with a pleased expression on his face, and the old man watched his attitude and manner with a curious mingling of hope and anxiety. Presently Felix resumed,
"I am doing nothing but flying off at tangents, and I have so much to say. About Mr. Musgrave: he and I have had confidential business together lately. Business, I hope, which will turn out well."
"Profitable?"
"Well, not in the common sense of the word; that is, it will not put money in my pocket; but it will do something better perhaps. You will hear of it, I daresay, very soon. Now, about Martha Day. Hers is a strange story. She has lived all her womanly life with my father, as his housekeeper, and has out of her savings brought Lizzie up, given her a tolerable education, and supplied her with money. My father, it appears, knew nothing of this; he supposed that Martha had no family ties. Lately, however, he has discovered her connection with Lizzie, and has discovered something else also. Lizzie, it appears, is not Martha's niece, as I understood: she is her daughter. The story that Martha tells of an early marriage and of being deserted by her husband, who enlisted and died in India, my father refuses to believe. He insisted that Martha should promise not to see Lizzie any more, and Martha indignantly left his service. She has been with him for a great many years, and she says that it suited her; that she was fit for nothing else, and that it supplied her with means to pay for Lizzie's early training. What memories, what fears, or what fanciful idea that Lizzie's future would be happier if she were brought up in the belief that Martha was her aunt, instead of her mother, neither you nor I can guess. The web of the simplest life seems to me to be made up of tangled skeins, and one of the highest duties of life consists in kindly judgment of each other. Martha's life has been one of sacrifice, and what joy and comfort she has experienced in it have come from this girl, for whom I have a great esteem."
"I too, Felix; Lizzie is a good girl."
"It sounds strange that so simple a circumstance should induce my father to part with a woman who must have been wonderfully useful to him; but I think I am to blame for the severance of that connection."
"In what way?"
"My father knows of my movements, so Martha tells me; knows of my friendship for you and your grandchildren, and knows of the tie which binds Alfred to Lizzie. It is in some way to punish me that he has provoked this breach; but, indeed, it is no punishment to me, for I believe and hope that it will turn out for the good of all of us."
"Is there no hope of a reconciliation with your father, Felix?"
"None, sir," replied Felix firmly; "our natures are too wide apart. In all probability, we shall never meet again: both he and I are too steadfast to our beliefs, which are as the north and the south poles. It is wonderful by what roads men arrive at totally different estimates of things! My father will judge me harshly, perhaps, all the days of his life; but he is my father, and it will best become me to be silent as to his judgments and motives. I am but a young man, but it seems to me that my life is clear before me. I do not aspire to riches. I have one great hope, and if that is fulfilled, I shall be content to work with others of the world's workers, satisfied with moderate competence, proud if the track in which I work will enable me to leave a mark for good behind me. I have flown off at a tangent again, and must come back to Martha. Looking upon myself as the cause of her misfortunes, I purpose to set up some sort of a home, in which she can live in the same capacity as she has done in my father's house."
"What does she say to your plan, Felix?"
"She is delighted with it; but she will say nothing decisive until after she has talked to Lizzie about it, and until after the result of my visit here to-day is ascertained. Acting upon my advice, Martha is telling Lizzie the secret which she has kept all her life, and Lizzie probably knows by this time that she has a mother. Now, sir, I come to my one great hope. I have waited until now, when not only my position is assured, but when another matter which has caused you and Lily much anxiety--I refer to Alfred's connection with Mr. Sheldrake looks less hopeless than it has done for some time past. If you guess what it is I am about to say, will you give me permission to speak more plainly?"
"Speak, my dear lad," said Old Wheels, trembling with eagerness.
"It is about Lily—"
But the old man rose suddenly, and in a tone of deep agitation said,
"One moment, Felix."
It was joy at the prospect of his darling's happiness that compelled him to rise. He stood with averted head, silent for many moments; then turned, and said, with the tears running down his face,
"Go on, Felix; go on, my dear boy."
"I love Lily, sir, and I ask your permission to tell her, and to ask her to be my wife."
Old Wheels grasped Felix's hand.
"God bless you, my dear lad!" he almost sobbed. "These are tears of joy that you see. How I have prayed for this! But I feared that some scruple of just feeling--some motive of honour and tenderness, for which I should not have esteemed you less, Felix; no, not one whit--I feared that something of this sort might have prevented you from speaking. The sad day that we met is the happiest of my life. God bless you, Felix! Go to my darling; go to her, and then come down to me together, that I may see my dearest desire accomplished."
Lily, very busy setting things to rights in the house, and very happy in her work, did not know that Felix had come, until he stood close to her. She gave a little cry of surprise and pleasure, and then, seeing something in his face that she had never seen before, stood for an instant pale and trembling. But her heart was animated by the dawn of a tender hope. His nature was too earnest to dally at such a time. He held out his hand, and retaining hers, said,
"I have come straight from grandfather, Lily."
And paused, as earnest lovers do who are about to play their great stake. She stood silent, her hand in his, waiting for him to speak.
"I have been telling him of some good fortune that has befallen me. I have obtained another London correspondenceship for a colonial paper, and I am growing rich. My income is quite three hundred pounds, and there is a fair prospect before me. I have schemes in my head. One of these fine days I may put the finishing lines to a book, and by good luck I may find a publisher who will publish it; or to a play, and by good luck I may find a manager who will produce it. Whichever it is may be successful, and another hundred pounds may come in my purse. If I do not do either, or if I am unsuccessful in the doing, my position is good enough, and I shall be happy and satisfied, even if it does not improve very much. But I want a home--a helpmate. And there is but one woman in the world who can be to me what my heart yearns for. Lily!" He had released her hand, and she stood before him with drooping head; the sun was shining behind the bright clouds. "Will you be my wife?"
Whether he took her into his arms, or whether she crept into them, neither knew; but she was there, with her head on his breast, and with such joy in her heart as seemed to make life too happy. A long silence followed, a silence that was like a prayer; their feelings were too deep for words, and when, after a long, long dream, they spoke, their voices were tremulous.
"Are you glad, Lily?"
She nestled closer to him.
"Lily, my dear, I devote my life to your happiness."
"And I to yours, Felix." She spoke the words softly and solemnly.
"So I have two objects in life, and these will be sufficient--my wife and my work."
He repeated the words "My wife!" tenderly. She raised her bright face to his.
"And I have but one."
"That is—"
"Felix."
His pulses were charged with grateful music as he stooped and kissed her.
"Love and Labour would not be a bad motto, Lily, or a bad title for my book or play. Let us go down to grandfather."
"You perceive, sir," said Felix to Old Wheels a quarter of an hour afterwards, "what my scheming has come to. The first time I saw Lily, I thought to myself, There is my wife; and I schemed for the result. I have acted my part very well, I think. Now, will you still dispute my proposition that every action in our lives is dictated by selfishness."
Felix and Lily were sitting hand in hand.
"I am too happy, Felix," replied Old Wheels, "to dispute anything with you; you must have everything your own way. I have no doubt that Lily has made up her mind--as I have made up mine--that you are as heartless and selfish as it is possible for man to be."
But a little while after that Lily and Felix were speaking together more seriously. In the suddenness of her happiness, Lily had lost sight for a time of Alfred's troubles. Now they recurred to her, and brought with them the image of Mr. Sheldrake and the memory of his threats. Felix saw the change that came over her, and guessed the cause.
"You are thinking of Alfred," he said. "To-night, when he comes home, we will take him into our confidence, and coax him to confide freely in us. I know your love for him, Lily, and you know, my dear, that nothing that is in my power shall be left undone to release him from his anxieties."
Then, without being asked, Lily told Felix all that had passed between her and Mr. Sheldrake; she told him first of Mr. Sheldrake's confession of love for her, and how it terrified her; and then, going back, she told him of their meeting in Bushey Park, and of her seeing Lizzie for the first time on that day; of the story of Mr. Sheldrake's goodness that Alfred had related to her (Felix smiled gravely at this); of the persistent manner in which Mr. Sheldrake had impressed upon her that it was for her sake, and for her sake only, he was her brother's friend; of Mr. Sheldrake forcing a partnership upon her on that day, suggesting that they should enter into a compact to work together for Alfred's good; and of his saying that when Alfred was safely through his troubles, he would have no one but Lily to thank for his release.
"But since that day," continued Lily, "Alfred has been getting into deeper and deeper trouble, until a time came--only a little while ago, Felix--when I was afraid to think of what might occur to him--and to me," she added in a dreamy tone. A moment after she had uttered the words a shudder came over her. Felix took her in his arms, and she clung to him for protection.
"I feel happy and safe with you, Felix."
"I understand your feelings towards Alfred, my dear," said Felix encouragingly; "but I must have my treasure grow strong, and I must strive to wean her from her dreamy fancies. I shall watch my sensitive flower very jealously, and she must trust to my judgment wholly. You have doubts! Why, I have had them! and for a long time have been afraid to speak. So you see, little weakling, that I, strong as I am, have shared some of your anxieties with you. I saw you on the day you went to Hampton Court with Alfred."
"You, Felix!"
"Yes, my dear; I was there, watching over you even then, although I had not the right to do so that I have now."
"And you would not come to me and speak to me, Felix!"
"Dearest! I saw that you were happy, and I felt that I might have been the cause of disturbance, of which Mr. Sheldrake probably would have been glad to avail himself. So I kept myself in the background."
"And suffered," she said, wistfully and tenderly; "for you loved me then, Felix; I know it."
"Yes, darling. I loved you then. But love often shows itself in self-sacrifice."
She paused for a little while before she spoke again. "You said once, Felix, that there is a higher attribute than love--duty!"
"How do you know I said that, Lily?"
"Grandfather told me. Do you believe that duty is a higher quality than love? That supposing these two stand before us, duty on one side, love on the other, duty should be followed and love put aside?"
"Can you not take your answer, Lily, from what I hinted to you on the night you came from the theatre? Dutyshouldbe followed first; much that is bitter in life it makes sweet. But when love and duty clash, we should examine ourselves strictly, sternly perhaps, out of justice for others—"
"As you did, Felix," she interrupted in loving tones, "when you restrained yourself from telling me your feelings until to-day. Ah, I know! Love has made me wise. Now we will not talk of this any more now; we shall have plenty of time by and by. How I have thought over every word you said to me that night, Felix!"
"Every word, Lily!"
"Yes, every word; you made me very happy!"
"Darling! But you could not repeat to me what I said."
"One part I could."
"I am listening!"
"You said, it is the dearest privilege of affection to share the troubles of those we love. If I were married (you said), the first consoling thought that would arise to my mind, should misfortune overtake me, would be, 'Thank God, I have one at home who will sympathise with me, and by her sympathy console me!'" She paused awhile, and said, "This privilege is mine now, and love and duty can go together."
In this way she poured out her full heart to him. His duties called him away in the afternoon, and he left her, saying he would run down in the night, at about ten o'clock, for an hour.
"We will wait supper for you, Felix," said Old Wheels.
Felix went his way to town, the happiest of the happy.
Tea was over, and Lily and her grandfather were sitting by the fire. The night without was chilly, although it was now the middle of spring, and a raw cold wind was blowing. But the room was warm and cozy, and the occupants were thoroughly happy. Lizzie and Martha Day had been to see them in the afternoon, and had spent an hour or two with them. When Lizzie came in, she said simply, "Lily, this is my mother;" and both received a warm welcome from Old Wheels and his darling child. Martha's pale face had a flush of happiness in it, and the sombre effect of her black dress had been lightened by Lizzie, who had insisted on her mother's wearing one or two pieces of bright ribbon. Yet, notwithstanding the joy which the disclosure of their nearer and dearer relationship must have brought to both Lizzie and Martha Day, uneasy shades of expression rested occasionally on their features. The cause of this uneasiness in Lizzie seemed to be entirely within herself, and to be in no way connected with any person present in the room; but with Martha it was different. It was evident that her uneasiness was caused in a direct way by something that she saw in her daughter; and every now and then her eyes would rest on Lizzie's face with a look of wistful pain. They were not long in the society of their friends before the news of the engagement between Felix and Lily was told them; and Lizzie, forgetting for a few moments the great anxiety which pressed upon her, danced about the room in delight.
"Next to Alfred," she said, "I love Felix. There is only one other thing wanting now to complete our happiness."
She was pressed to tell what that "other thing" was; but she refused in as light a manner as she could command. That "other thing" was that Alfred might be lucky that day, and that he might get out of Mr. Sheldrake's toils. It was hard for her to show a bright face when, as it seemed to her, Alfred's fate and hers was being decided. Strangely enough, she also dwelt superstitiously in her thoughts upon the three times seven kisses Alfred had given her when he parted from her in the morning. "They will be sure to bring him luck," she had said to herself a dozen times during the day. She thought of them hopefully now, and murmured, "To-night all our troubles will be over." A happy future indeed was spread before them if fortune smiled upon Alfred. How she longed for night to come, and Alfred with the glad tidings!
"We'll all live together," she said aloud.
And Lily nodded and laughed. It was like a bright dream, where everything that was good in nature was around and about her. The woods were beautiful with various greens; sweet breezes was stirring the leaves, and stealing their secrets from them; there was not a dark cloud in the sky. The two girls crept into a corner, and with their arms around each other's necks, whispered confidence to each other. One thing--her most precious secret--Lizzie was burning to tell her friend; but she restrained herself. She had solemnly promised not to speak of it until Alfred gave her permission. In the evening, when she and her mother were at home again, she said she was tired, and she went to her room to lie down for half an hour. Thither, after a time, Martha crept, and sat by her daughter's side. Lizzie was murmuring in her sleep, and although her tones and every word she murmured were charged with love and tenderness, the sorrowful tears ran down Martha's face as she heard.
"Is this a judgment upon me for my neglect and deceit?" she asked of herself, between her sobs. "I should have looked after her better! I should have looked after her better!" But when Lizzie awoke, Martha was careful that her daughter should not see any traces of agitation. "I will wait until Alfred comes home," she thought, "and then I will tax him and discover the truth." Everything seemed to depend upon Alfred's return.
And now it was night, and Old Wheels and Lily were together in their room. Old Wheels was reading aloud, and Lily was working. There was no one else in the house. Mrs. Podmore and little Polly had gone to London for some bits of clothing which friends had gathered together for them; they were expected to return by train at about ten o'clock. Every now and then, Old Wheels paused in his reading, and made a remark. Lily understood very little of the story the old man was reading; she was thinking. Scarcely anything but Felix was in her mind.
"Mrs. Podmore will be delighted to hear the news," said Old Wheels in one of the intervals; "although she has been hinting at it mysteriously from the very first day we saw Felix--when he drove us home in the waggonette. That's eight o'clock striking. Alfred ought to be home before now."
"It's nine o'clock sometimes before he comes home," said Lily; "but I wish he was here. I want to tell him."
Old Wheels read, and Lily worked, for another half an hour, and at the end of that time the old man laid his book aside.
"I shall have to read all this over again," he said, with pretended petulance; "I am sure you have not been attending to me."
"I haven't," she replied, with a happy light in her eyes; "I have been thinking all the while of Felix."
"So I've been reading nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix; and you've heard nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix. Well, well, my darling; I am more than satisfied. Now, then," he said merrily, "come to the window, and look out. It is blowing quite cold, dear child. Let me keep you warm in my arms. Ah, Lily, Lily, now I can die happy when my time comes. But what am I thinking of? To speak of such a subject at such a time! Talk of dying, indeed! I intend to live, and to see my darling's happiness. Ah, God is good!" Then, after a pause, he said, slyly, "But really this is serious--if it's to be nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix! Look along the road--what do you see?"
"Felix," she replied, entering into his humour, and to dispel his sadness; "he's a long way off though, for he'll not be here for an hour and a half. But I see him coming."
"Of course you do. Now look up at the ceiling--what do you see?"
"Felix."
"And into the lamp. What do you see?"
"Felix."
"And into the fire. What do you see?"
"Felix."
"Ah, child!" he said, touching her eyelids gently; "Felix is not on the road, nor in the room; he is here."
"No," she replied in the tenderest of tones, taking his hand, and placing it on her heart; "he is here."
She was on her knees before the fire, looking into it, and remained so for many minutes, the old man standing quietly by her side, with his hand on her shoulder, looking down upon her. "A happier fate awaits her, thank God!" he thought, "than fell to her mother's lot."
He sat down in his chair at the thought, and mused on the time gone by, and thought of Lily's father too, and wondered as to his fate.
"Strange," he mused, "that one so unstable as he should have been so faithful to his written promise. Strange that I have never heard of him since that dreadful time! If he is living now, would it not be a good thing that he should witness his daughter's happiness? But if the old vice is in him still!—No, it would be impossible to find him, and it is better as it is. This is a happy turning-tide for all of us."
Nine o'clock struck. Lily started up.
"I wish Alfred was home," she said impatiently. "I do so want him to know!"
"Perhaps he's at Lizzie's," said the old man. "Shall I run round and see?"
"Yes, yes," cried Lily, "and tell him to come at once. Let Lizzie come too, and Mr. Musgrave. Mr. Musgrave is very fond of me, grandfather, and I like him very much. But want Alfred most."
She was tying a muffler round the old man's throat, when she suddenly exclaimed, "It's a shame to let you go;I'llrun round, grandfather."
"No, child. You will catch cold. And think," he added gaily; "Felix may come in any moment. I shall not be gone long."
She listened to his footsteps and to the slamming of the street-door, and then knelt before the fire again. What a day has this been--never to be forgotten! the white day of her life! In an hour her hero would be with her. She rehearsed the scene that had taken place between them again and again. "I want a home--a helpmate. And there is but one woman in the world who can be to me what my heart yearns for. Lily--will you be my wife?" His wife! Why, if all the world were before her to choose from--if she could fix her own lot, her own destiny--that is what she would choose to be. Ah, how happy she would try to make him! A thought of Alfred crept in. Felix would be a good friend to him--a true friend. How much happier Alfred had been these last few days! his troubles seemed to be over. His smiling face, as she had seen it this very morning, when he ran back and kissed her, appeared in the fire among her other fancies that she conjured up there. Alfred and Lizzie married--herself and Felix in their little home—. She saw every room in it, and saw them all smiling at one another in the fire before which she was kneeling. But why was not Alfred here now? Swiftly she thought, "He cannot be with Lizzie; for the first thing Lizzie would tell him about would be about Felix and me, and Alfred would have run home to me at once." She started to her feet, and ran nervously to the window; and as she looked out into the dark roadway, a knock came at the street-door. "That is Alfred!" she cried, and ran down-stairs; but when she was in the dark passage, she remembered that the knock was not Alfred's. Alfred always knocked at the door with a flourish; this that she had heard was a single knock. It could not be her grandfather, either; for he had a latch-key. Perhaps it was Mrs. Podmore. The knock came again, and she mustered up sufficient courage to go to the street-door, and ask who was there. A strange voice answered her. "Did Mr. Wheels live there?" it asked. "Yes," she answered.
"Is his granddaughter at home?"
"Yes."
"I want to see her."
"What for?"
These questions were asked by Lily through the closed door: she was alone in the house, and was frightened to draw the lock.
"What for?" she inquired again, faintly.
"I can't say, unless I see her."
"She is speaking to you now; I am she."
"Is anybody with you?"
Almost overcome with fear, Lily answered, "No; what do you want me for?"
"To give you a letter."
Lily hesitated still: the voice was that of a stranger, the locality was somewhat of a lonely one, and her grandfather had warned her not to open the door at night to any person she did not know, if there was no man in the house.
"Wait," she said, "until my grandfather returns. He will be here presently, and then I will take the letter."
"Then I can't give it to you, miss," the voice said. "My instructions are to give it into your hand, and into your hand only, when there is no one near."
"Why? What is the letter about?" she asked, in an agony of terror, and murmuring inly, "O, why doesn't grandfather return?"
"I don't know what's in the letter. But the gentleman who gave it to me told me to say, if anything like this occurred, that it was a matter of life or death to some one that you loved."
Life or death to some one whom she loved! She hesitated no longer, but tore open the door, panting. A man, who looked like a common labouring man, stood in the dusk.
"I am only carrying out my instructions, miss," he said, touching his cap. "Here is the letter, and I am to wait for an answer. You can shut the door while you read it, if you're afraid. I'll wait outside."
She closed the door, and running like a deer up-stairs into the light, opened the letter. It was as follows:
"My dear Miss Lily,--You must read this letter by yourself, and no other person must see it or know of it. I would come instead of writing, but my appearance, and the circumstance of our conversing privately in your grandfather's house, might excite suspicions. Your brother cannot come home, and it is probable that his life hangs upon your prompt action; his safety certainly depends on your secrecy. He is in the greatest danger. If you love him and wish to save him, come and see me immediately. I am waiting at the end of the road, at the corner of the True Blue public-house. The messenger who brings this will take your message, or will accompany you to where I am waiting for you. You must decide without one moment's delay. If you resolve not to come--a contingency I cannot contemplate, knowing you--you may never see your brother again. In any case, believe me to be your faithful friend,
"David Sheldrake."
There was so much in the note of hidden and terrible danger to the brother she loved so dearly that, without considering, she ran to her room for her hat and mantle, and hurried into the street. The messenger was waiting.
"Do you know where the gentleman is who gave you this letter?" she asked breathlessly, as she tied the ribbons of her hat.
"Yes, miss; he's waiting at the True Blue, and told me to bring you to him if you asked me."
"I will come with you. Walk as quick as you can; I'll keep up with you."
The messenger, without answering, walked at once at a rapid pace in the direction of the True Blue, and Lily followed him. The road was long, and was but dimly lighted. When they arrived at the meeting-place, Lily was completely out of breath, and her heart beat so violently that she reeled and would have fallen, but for a friendly arm held out for her support. She clung to it instinctively, and looking up the next moment, saw that it was Mr. Sheldrake who had come to her assistance. He waited in a considerate and respectful attitude until she had recovered herself, and when she withdrew herself from his support, did not press his attentions upon her.
"I am glad you have come," he then said: she was about to speak, but he anticipated her; "it is a great relief to me. Alfred was not mistaken in you, nor am I."
"Where is he?" she asked, in an agitated tone. "What is the matter? Has any accident happened to him?"
"No accident has happened to him," replied Mr. Sheldrake gravely. "But we can scarcely talk here; it is dangerous; the very walls have ears. There is a private room in this public-house in which we can talk for a few minutes undisturbed. Nay," he said, in a sad tone, "do not hesitate at such a time. When we can talk without being observed, I will instantly convince you that I am not worthy of being suspected."
"Why cannot we talk here?"
He looked round cautiously, and lowered his voice. "Because, if any person overheard us, your brother would be lost. It would be out of your power then to save him."
Lily thought of Felix, and hastily glanced through the partially-open door of the public-house. There was a clock hanging up, and she saw that it was half-past nine. A comfortable-looking woman was standing within the bar, and her husband, with his shirt-sleeves tucked up, was busy serving the customers.
"There is a private room behind the bar," said Mr. Sheldrake; "that little parlour with the door open. You can ask for the use of it yourself, if you like. But I warn you not to delay. Time is precious."
He spoke in a cold tone, and as if his feelings were deeply wounded by her suspicions of him. Lily walked into the public-house, followed by Mr. Sheldrake, and beckoned the landlady aside.
"Can I have the use of your parlour," she asked, "for a very few moments, undisturbed, to speak with this gentleman?"
"Yes, miss," answered the landlady. She knew Lily, and was surprised at her appearance there. "You can come round this way; no one shall disturb you."
Lily and Mr. Sheldrake walked into the little room, and the landlady closed the door of communication between it and the bar. Lily, standing near this door, waited in painful suspense for Mr. Sheldrake to speak. He had noticed that when she entered the room she had moved timorously towards the door as if for protection, and he experienced a feeling of mingled anger and mortification, any outward exhibition of which, however, he successfully repressed. When he spoke he spoke slowly, as if studying his words.
"Your behaviour towards me is ungenerous to a degree. At any other time, and under any other circumstances, I might be disposed to wash my hands of this affair at once. Notwithstanding the feelings I entertain for you--do not be alarmed; I am not going to speak of them--I owe to myself a certain amount of self-respect, and I stand in danger of forfeiting this, and of placing myself in a false light, by silent submission to your distrust of me. But"--and here his voice grew less restrained, and his words were expressed with more warmth--"I can afford even this renunciation of self-defence, simple as it is, and unsupported, except by my consistent behaviour towards yourself and your brother, in the consciousness that what I am doing is done out of pure disinterested friendship and esteem."
"For mercy's sake," she implored, "speak more plainly, and tell me for what purpose you have brought me here."
"For no purpose of my own; for your brother's sake. It is a matter of life or death to him."
She clasped her hands, and could not find words to speak for her agony. She had never appeared more fascinating in his eyes than she appeared to him now, as she stood before him in pleading attitude. But although he was under the spell of this fascination, and although he knew that she was at his mercy, he was instinctively conscious, bold and unscrupulous as he was, that he held no power for ill over her. Her innocence and trustfulness were a stronger armour than any which cunning and artifice could supply. As he gazed at her in admiration, he thought how proud he should be of her if she was his, and thought, too, taking credit for the generosity of the sentiment, that if the worst came to the worst, he would marry her.
"Where is the note that I wrote to you?" he asked.
"Here it is."
"Had you not better be seated?" he said, as he took the note from her hand. "You will want all your strength."
She sank into the chair he handed her, and he, glancing at the note carelessly, put it into the fire.
"There must be no chance," he said, when it was destroyed, "of such evidence falling into strange hands. For your brother's sake."
"You said in it," she said, in exquisite distress, "that his life--his life! hangs upon my action."
"And upon mine; we two can save him. The compact we entered into for his good can now be carried out. I am ready to perform my part; are you ready to perform yours?"
"I will do anything for my brother--anything. But I do not understand your meaning."
"Your brother must see you immediately; he will tell you in what way you are able to save him."
"I am ready to see him!" she cried; "I want to see him! Where is he! O, Mr. Sheldrake, if you respect me, let me see him at once."
"That is my wish, and the reason why I am here. You know that I respect you--you know that I—" The shudder that seized her warned him of the indiscretion he was about to commit. "But this is no time to speak of anything but Alfred. Every moment's delay now may be fatal to him. What is done must be done at once."
"Bring him to me, then; I will wait. Bring him to me, but do not torture me with suspense! Have pity on me!"
She held out her hands imploringly to him, and he took them in his, and looked steadily into the pale agitated face.
"Idosincerely pity you, Lily; my heart bleeds for you. But it is in your power to avert all this misery. Listen to me calmly. I cannot bring Alfred to you; he is in hiding, and dare not show himself. I can take you to him. I have a cab at the door. Come."
She withdrew her hands from his grasp, and retreated a step or two, nearer to the door of communication with the bar. He smiled bitterly.
"Still distrustful!" he exclaimed, with a frown. "Well, be it as you will. To-morrow, when shame and disgrace are at your door--shame and disgrace which, by the simplest of acts, you could have averted--to-morrow, when you learn the miserable fate that has befallen the brother who loved you so fondly--you may repent what you have done. But, unjust, and cruel as you are in this, do me then at least the justice of acknowledging that I did my best--more, I believe, by heaven! than any other man in my position would have done--to save both him and you. Good-night."
He had acted well, and as he turned from her, his heat beat exultantly at her next words.
"Stay, for pity's sake! There is no sacrifice that I would not make for Alfred's sake. He knows it--he knows it!"
"He believed it, firmly; and he in his turn would be ready to make any sacrifice for you. I have heard him say so dozens of times."
"I know, I know. He has been so good to me! But all this is so sudden and terrible, and I am so much in the dark--with no one to advise me—" She could not proceed for her tears.
"I did not think," said Mr. Sheldrake gently and with a touch of pride, "when I sent for you that any persuasion would be necessary to induce you to act as your heart must surely prompt. I wished my disinterested conduct to speak for itself. Knowing my own motives and the more than good-will to yourself which prompted them, I wished you to depend upon me, and to trust in me, as you may do implicitly, believe me. I have in my pocket proof of my sincerity and faithfulness, but I did not intend to use it. I almost despise myself now for doing so, but I do it out of pity for you--out of a warmer feeling which you know I entertain for you."
He took from his pocket-book the paper which Alfred had written at his dictation on Epsom Downs.
"Read this, and decide; for I cannot stop one minute longer."
Lily read the paper with difficulty; the words blurred in her sight:
"I am in great trouble and danger. My friend, Mr. Sheldrake, is the only man I can trust, and the only man who can save me. Put full faith and trust in him.--Alfred."
"Will that satisfy you?" asked Mr. Sheldrake, almost tenderly. "You know Alfred's handwriting. Will you come and see him now?"
"Forgive me for my suspicions," said Lily, almost distracted by conflicting doubts; "I will come with you. But I must send a line to my grandfather first, explaining my absence."
"Not explaining," said Mr. Sheldrake, placing writing-materials before her; "no mention must be made of Alfred or me."
Lily wrote hurriedly:
"Dear, dear Grandfather,--I am compelled to go away suddenly for a little while. Do not be anxious about me. I will return soon, and you will know that I have done right. Tell Felix this; I dare not explain now.--Your loving child,--Lily."
"The messenger who brought my note to you will take it," said Mr. Sheldrake. "If you can contrive to look less sad--if you could even smile--as we go out, it might avert suspicion, should any one have been on the watch."
They went out of the public-house together, and Lily called a sad smile to her lips, although her heart was fainting within her at the prospect of Alfred's danger. The messenger who had brought Mr. Sheldrake's note was outside, talking to his companions. She hurried to him, and giving him the paper she had written to her grandfather, asked him to deliver it, putting sixpence into his hand at the same time. The next moment she was in the cab.
"One moment," Mr. Sheldrake said to her hurriedly, "I want to settle with the landlady."
He had seen the messenger who was to deliver Lily's note to her grandfather go into the public-house; Mr. Sheldrake followed him.
"The young lady has changed her mind," he said to the man; "give me the letter back. Here is a shilling from her."
The man delivered up the letter, glad to dispose of it on such good terms; and Mr. Sheldrake, throwing half-a-crown on the bar, said, "Give your customers some beer, landlady;" and departed amidst a chorus of "Thank'ee, sir," from the men standing about inside.
"Perhaps you'll prefer sitting by yourself," said Mr. Sheldrake to Lily; "I'll get up outside, and sit by the driver. Keep up your courage."
This act of delicacy on his part seemed to assure her.
"Thank you," she said hurriedly and nervously; "shall we be long?"
"No; I'll tell the driver to drive quick?"
He was on the box, and the driver had started when he saw a number of men running along the road, with alarm on their faces.
"What's the matter?" he called out to them.
"An accident on the line," they called out, in answer, as they ran past towards the railway station. Mr. Sheldrake did not stop to ascertain its nature, and the cab drove quickly off.
Meantime Old Wheels made his way to Mr. Musgrave's house. He was surprised to find, when he arrived there, that all within was dark. He knocked at the door more than once, and obtaining no reply, walked round the house, endeavouring to find an explanation for the cause of the strange desertion. He saw no person, however, and he returned to the front door. As he stood there irresolute, the same thought came to his mind that had occurred to Lily; that Lizzie would have been certain to tell Alfred of the engagement between Felix and Lily, and that Alfred would have come home immediately to hear all the news concerning it. "Alfred could not have passed me on the way," he mused; "I should have been certain to see him. Nor did Lizzie." He could arrive at no clear understanding of the circumstances, and he was about to retrace his steps uneasily, when a voice said,
"Have you knocked, Mr. Wheels?"
It was Martha Day who spoke.
"Yes," the old man replied; "but I have received no reply. I have been here for nearly ten minutes, but I have been unable to make any one hear."
"Perhaps Lizzie is asleep. I have been away nearly three hours, looking after my boxes. I did not intend to come back to-night, but I could not rest away from my darling. Come round the back way, Mr. Wheels. Lizzie has shown me where she leaves the key of the back door sometimes."
They went to the rear of the house, and Martha found the key.
"Yes, here it is; I suppose my girl has gone out for a walk. With Alfred perhaps."
"I can scarcely think that," the old man said, "the night is so cheerless."
"Itiscold and dreary, out of doors," assented Martha.
"I came round to see if Alfred was here. Lily is uneasy because he has not come home, and she wants him to hear the news about her and Felix."
Martha, groping about in the dark for matches, seemed to find something strange in this, for she said, in an uneasy tone,
"Alfred not come home, and Lizzie not here!"
"But perhaps she is asleep, as you said," suggested Old Wheels.
"I'll see," said Martha, feeling her way to Lizzie's room. "You won't mind stopping here in the dark a bit."
As Martha felt her way along the passage and up the stairs, she called softly, "Lizzie! Lizzie!" But no voice answered her. She went into Lizzie's bedroom, and felt the bed. Lizzie was not there. She began to be alarmed. She glided quickly down the stairs again, and going to the parlour, found the matches, and lit the lamp. Then she called to the old man.
"I cannot understand it," she said, as if communing with herself. "Can Lizzie have been frightened because of what I said to her this afternoon? O Lizzie! Lizzie! O my darling child!"
She sat on a chair, and rocked herself to and fro in her distress.
"Because of what you said to her this afternoon?" questioned Old Wheels, sharing Martha's distress. "We are all closely connected by affectionate ties, Mrs. Day. May I ask what you said to her that causes you to be alarmed now?"
"No, no!" cried Martha, covering her face with her hands. "You are his grandfather, and I dare not tell you. But a mother's eyes can see! a mother's eyes can see!"
A sudden paleness stole into the old man's face, and his lips trembled.
"Is it something connected with Alfred? Nay, answer me; I am an old man, and I love Lizzie."
"It would have been better for her," sobbed the unhappy woman, "if she had never seen him. He has brought shame upon her, and I only am to blame! I should have watched over her; I should not have left her alone! O, Lizzie, my darling! come back to me!"
"If I understand you aright," said the old man, with an aching heart, "and I am afraid that I do, a new grief is brought upon us by the unhappy boy--a grief which I never dreamed of, never suspected. I thought our troubles were coming to an end, and that this day, until now so bright and so full of hope, was the beginning of a happier life for all of us. Alas for the errors of youth! God knows I have striven to do my best, and my duty!"
He was overwhelmed with sorrow, but the thought of Lily waiting at home for him aroused him to action.
"I must get home to my darling," he said, gazing sadly at the bowed figure of the unhappy mother; "she is alone in the house. Will you come with me?"
He took her unresisting hand, and she accompanied him to the street-door, but she paused there, and said, with a despairing look around,
"No, I must go and seek Lizzie--I cannot come."
"Do you know where she is likely to be?" he asked pityingly.
"No," she replied helplessly; "I don't know which way to turn. I'll wait here; perhaps she'll return soon. It will be best for me to wait."
He did not urge her farther, but saying he would see her again before the night was over, he hurried away, leaving her alone with her grief. His own heart was pierced with keenest sorrow, and he scarcely dared trust himself to think.