When Old Wheels entered the house, he expected Lily to run down-stairs to meet him, and he was surprised that he did not hear her voice welcoming him. Indeed, knowing her nature, he was quite prepared to find her waiting and watching for him at the street-door, or in the passage, and he was somewhat disappointed, when he put the key in the lock and listened, to hear no sound. Notwithstanding that a deep feeling of sadness was upon him, created by Martha Day's words and Lizzie's strange absence, the happiness that lay in the assurance that Lizzie's future was safe was more than sufficient to counterbalance all depression. When Felix had the right to protect his darling from the snares by which she had been surrounded--snares which her own loving nature had strengthened--trouble would weigh lightly upon him. But he could not shake off the uneasiness caused by the scene through which he had just passed. It was so strange and inexplicable: Lizzie's disappearance--for which her mother, who had parted from her but a few hours before, could not account--Alfred's absence and, added to these, the circumstance of Mr. Musgrave not being at home, he resolved that he would not tell Lily. "Let the child enjoy her happiness," he thought, "Alfred is sure to be home some time to-night." Ascending the stairs, he entered the sitting-room, and looked around for Lily. She was not there. "The puss!" he thought, with a smile. "She thinks Alfred is with me, and she is hiding herself. Lily; Lily!" No sound broke the silence that followed, as the old man stood, with head inclined, listening for the response. But the silence seemed to speak, and his heart turned cold. He looked around again with a vacant eye, and murmured, more than cried, in a helpless tone, "Lily! Lily!" with the same result. He wandered into her bedroom, and into every room in the house, but found no trace of his darling. Then a feeling came upon him, like the feeling of death, and almost deprived him of consciousness. But after a little while, by a strong effort of will, he recovered himself somewhat. "I must think! I must think!" he murmured; and wrenching his mind from the lethargy of despair which was stealing over it, he thought over all that had occurred. Presently a comforting thought came to him: the coincidence of Lizzie being absent from her house was a sufficient reason for his darling not being at home. "I have been away longer than Lily expected," he thought as he descended the stairs towards the street. "Lily grew anxious, and coming after me met Lizzie, and perhaps Alfred as well. I must have missed them on the way." In the hope and expectation of finding both the girls and his grandson there, he retraced his steps to Lizzie's house; but the place was dark and deserted, and he obtained no response to his knocks and cries. Even Martha Day was gone. In greater distress of mind, and with a terrible fear stealing upon him, which he found it impossible to shake off, he returned to his own house, and leaving the street-door open, wandered in an uncertain manner again through every room, searching in the most unlikely places. He looked about for a note, a line from Lily, to account for her absence, but not a trace of her writing was to be seen. Not knowing what to think or do, he stood, helpless, in the middle of the room, with clasped hands, as if waiting for some sign. For the space of little more than a minute he stood thus, when a church bell began to chime the hour of ten, and as the sound fell upon his ears he heard the street-door pushed softly open, and afterwards a light step upon the stairs. A sudden rush of tears came to his eyes, and the feeling of grateful relief he experienced almost overpowered him. "Thank God! She has come back, and I have been tormenting myself with foolish fears." But there entered the room, not Lily, but Felix. He approached the old man with outstretched hand, and looked eagerly around.
"Ten o'clock exactly," he said in a cheery tone; "I said I'd be here at ten. I came by the road, too. Where's Lily?"
The old man could not find voice to answer the question, and the agitation expressed in his troubled eyes was reflected instantly in the eyes of Felix, as in a mirror. For a moment a shadow reflected upon Felix's hitherto joyful face, like a mist upon a mirror, dimming its brightness.
"Where's Lily?" he asked again, hurriedly.
"You have not met her, then?" asked the old man faintly, in reply.
The shadow instantly passed away, and Felix's face became bright again.
"Seen her! No. Has she gone to meet me? The dear girl! She thought, perhaps, I was coming by train."
He was about to leave the room with the intention of running to the railway-station, when Old Wheels, who had received the suggestion with a feeling of intense gratitude, convinced that Felix had placed the right construction upon Lily's absence, called out to him to stop for a moment.
"I will go with you, Felix," he said.
Felix waited at the street-door for him, but before the old man left the house, he went into Lily's bedroom. He had not thought before of ascertaining whether Lily's hat and mantle were in their usual place. They were not there.
"Of course she has gone to the railway-station," he said to himself, smiling. "It's so long since I was young that I see everything through sixty-year-old spectacles. Ah, young hearts, young hearts!"
His own uneasiness had caused him for the time to lose sight of Lizzie's strange absence and of Martha Day's agitation; but as Felix and he walked to the railway-station, they recurred to him, and he narrated to Felix the history of the events that had occurred within the last hour.
"Lizzie gone, and Alfred not come home!" Felix exclaimed in amazement. "And Martha had no knowledge of Lizzie's movements?"
"None; she was terribly distressed at Lizzie's disappearance."
"Tell me. Have you seen Mr. Sheldrake to-day?"
"No."
"He would scarcely be in London," mused Felix. "He would be certain to go to Epsom and see the City and Suburban run." Then to the old man, "And Alfred went to the office this morning at his usual hour, you say?"
"Surely; and was brighter than I have seen him for many a day."
Notwithstanding these apparently satisfactory answers concerning Alfred, Felix found food for grave reflection in the information but the occurrence of other events prevented him from dwelling too deeply upon what he had been told. As they approached the railway-station they saw a number of persons hurrying thither, and some coming from it, with looks of haste and alarm. Felix was about to inquire the cause of this--for there was something unusual in the commotion, and it was evident that an incident out of the common had occurred--when the very man of whom he was about to inquire seized his arm and asked if he was a doctor.
"No," replied Felix; "why do you ask?"
"There's been an accident on the line," said the man as he hastened away.
"Jim Podmore is employed at this station," said Felix to Old Wheels, quickening his steps as he spoke. "Let's get there quickly."
He was thinking of Lily, and of her alarm, if she happened to be at the station at the time of the accident. And upon the shock of this news, and of its probably evil consequences to his humble friends, came a dim presage of ill which increased his excitement. Suddenly he paused, and said to the old man,
"One moment--only a moment--for reflection."
And in scarcely more than that space of time he became composed. He had resolutely shaken off all signs of agitation, and he was now cool and collected.
"It has occurred twice in my life," he said, rapidly and distinctly, "to be placed in a position of great peril, where a moment's haste, or a single false step, might have been attended with a fatal result. At the exact instant it was required, I have recovered the self-possession I had lost, and thereby have been enabled to escape the danger. This same feeling has come upon me within this last minute or two. Do not interrupt me, but hear me out, and act as I desire." He paused to recover his breath. "So many strange things have taken place to-night that I cannot overcome the impression that something of serious moment to persons whom we love has occurred, or may occur. If it be so--and I am convinced that my feeling springs from something more than mere nervousness--only calm reflection and steady action will help us. Lily may not be here; she may have arrived home in our absence, and will be alarmed that there is no one there to receive her Nay, she will not be able to get into the house. If she goes round to Lizzie's house, she will find no one there. Do you see what I mean? We are wasting our forces. Two men are doing the work of one. Hurry home as quickly as you can. If Lily is there, wait with her until I come; or she may return while you are waiting. If she is at the station, I will return with her as soon as possible. Under any circumstances, we are wrong in leaving the house alone. And mind," he concluded, with a detaining grasp on the old man's arm, "whether Lily is at home or not, or whether she come or not, do not stir from the house until I arrive."
The old man comprehended the wisdom of the arrangement, and saying hurriedly, "I will act exactly as you desire, Felix," walked back towards his house.
Felix then ran to the station, and with some little trouble obtained permission to the platform. There he found everything in confusion. A train had run off the line, and the rails were torn up.
"Is anybody hurt?" he asked, in a tone of authority.
"Only a child, fortunately; but she seems to be hurt rather badly. There were not many persons in the train."
"Whose fault was it?"
"The pointsman's, they say. He was half asleep when the accident occurred--the lazy scamp!"
"The pointsman!" exclaimed Felix. "That's Mr. Podmore!"
"I don't know his name, I'm sure," the man replied--it was a passenger who had answered Felix's questions--"but whatever it is, he ought to be made an example of, and I hope he will be."
A man employed at the station, who had heard the last question, said, as he passed, "Yes, it's Podmore's doing, this time."
Felix's first anxiety was for Lily, but he could not see her. He made his way into the waiting-room, and saw, in the centre of a little group, a child lying as if dead in the lap of a weeping woman. He darted forward.
"Good God!" he cried, as he leant over the sad couple. "It's little Polly!"
The weeping woman looked up into his face, and recognised him through her fast-flowing tears.
"She won't want any more dolls," she sobbed, with a gasp between each word. "My Polly! my darling! she's dead! she's dead! O Polly, my blessed, why was not I killed too!"
The piteous words cut Felix's heart and made it bleed. He laid his hand commiseratingly upon Mrs. Podmore's shoulder.
"Thank you, sir," she sobbed; "thank you. You never thought to see Polly like this, did you? O, why don't the doctor come! Will no one bring a doctor? Look after Jim, sir, for the love of God, and comfort him if you can."
Felix turned, and saw Jim Podmore, standing, with clenched hands and writhing form, apart from the group, and with so strong an agony in his face that Felix stepped swiftly to the side of the suffering man.
"Don't touch me!" cried Jim Podmore hoarsely, shrinking from the contact. "Don't lay a finger on me! I ain't safe to be touched or talked to. I've killed my child! I've killed what's dearer to me than life, and I want judgment to fall upon me!"
His looks were so wild that Felix feared for his reason; and knowing that it would do the man good to give vent to his grief, said in a gentle tone,
"You know me, Mr. Podmore? I'm your friend--Felix."
Jim Podmore softened at the sound of the friendly voice. He turned his face from Felix, and said:
"Ah, sir, she loved you, my Polly did! Your name was always on her tongue; and it was only this morning she told me of the new doll you promised her. She said you had another ship come home. She didn't know, when she cuddled me in bed afore I went to work, that I meant to kill her before the day was out. 'And when's your ship coming home, father?' she asked me; 'and when's your ship coming home, father?' Good Lord, help me! My ship's come home to-night, and my pet's laying dead afore my eyes! What right have I to stand here a living man, with that sight afore me?"
A man--a fellow-workman--was coming towards Jim with somewhat of a rough manner, when Felix gently put him aside.
"Let him be," Felix said; "let him have his talk out. It will do him good. He knows that I'm his friend, and he doesn't mind pouring out his grief to me. There's no one else hurt, I hope?"
"No, one else, sir," said the man respectfully.
"Thank God for that! Keep the people away from us; if you can."
Felix had drawn Jim out of the waiting-room; but although Jim could see neither his wife nor child, he spoke of Polly as if she were lying before him.
"Says my pet, a-laying there afore my eyes, as we was a-cuddling one another, 'Felix has got another ship come home, father, and there's a doll in it for Polly. There's a doll in it for Polly,' she says. She went all through with it, as she's done dozens o' times afore; and she says, with her eyes shut, 'Here's the ship a-sailing, a-sailing, and here's the waves a-curling, a-curling'--she knew it by heart, sir, every word of it--'and here's the captain a-bowing, a-bowing.' And then she shuts her eyes tighter, and says, for all the world as if she was in a dream, 'And here's the stars a-shining, a-shining.' Is my pet that's a-laying before my eyes in a dream now, and can she see the stars a-shining, a-shining?"
A voice only a few yards away said,
"Here's the doctor. Move away, and let the child have some air."
The words reached Felix's ears; but Jim Podmore was deaf to everything but his grief and despair.
"Whose fault was it? I heard some ask. Whose fault?Wasit mine, when I was that dead-beat with long hours and overwork that I couldn't keep my eyelids open? And I didn't know my pet was in the train. I thought mother and her was home long ago. But I know'd it'd come to this--I've feared it for months and months. If it wasn't to-night, it'd come some other time. But I shouldn't ha' minded then, for I shouldn't ha' killed my pet. Ah, Snap, if I'd only ha' known! There was him a-pulling at my trousers with his teeth, and I never understood him a bit--not a bit."
Felix looked down, and saw the faithful dog standing at some little distance, watching its master with sympathetic eyes. It seemed to Felix as if it knew that something serious had occurred. Jim Podmore was somewhat calmer now, and seated himself on a bench, and rocked himself to and fro, with his head in his hands.
"Don't move for a minute," said Felix. "I want to go into the room to hear what the doctor says. You'll promise not to move till I come back?"
Jim, by a motion of his shoulders, gave the promise, and Felix went into the waiting-room. The people made way for him, and, to Felix's inexpressible relief, he heard the doctor's voice saying cheerily,
"There, there; it's not so bad after all! No bones broke. Shook a little--that's all. Killed! not at all, thank God!" And "Thank God! thank God!" came from a dozen lips, and a ray of hope shot into Mrs. Podmore's white face.
"The little thing will live to be an old woman, please God," the doctor continued. "Now don't be a foolish mother." Mrs. Podmore had taken his hand and kissed it.--"You must be a wise and steady mother; and if you don't at once stop crying like that, I declare you'll do your little girl a deal of harm." Mrs. Podmore instantly suppressed her sobs.--"Pretty little thing! See, she is recovering already!"
Pollypod opened her eyes, and raised her arms to her mother's neck. Mrs. Podmore was about to clasp the child to her breast in the overflow of her joy; but the doctor restrained her.
"No, not like that. Take her in your arms gently. Do you live far from here? No--that's right, that's right. I'll go home with you, and will see the little girl comfortably in bed.--You feel all right, don't you, little one?"
Pollypod answered "Yes, sir," in a weak voice; and seeing Felix, her eyes brightened, and she held out her hand to him. Mrs. Podmore whispered,
"Tell my husband, sir, and bring him to me."
Felix hastened to comply. Jim Podmore could not easily be made to understand that his precious Pollypod was comparatively unhurt; but when he did so, his grateful emotion impressed Felix deeply.
"I've lost my situation, sir; but I sha'n't mind that now. I'll try and get a living in a fairer way than this."
"And I'll help you," said Felix; "but tell me, before you join your wife, have you seen anything of Lily on the platform to-night?"
Jim Podmore considered for a moment, and passed his hands across his eyes to clear away the clouds.
"My memory's almost gone, sir, for everything but this. Yet I think I should ha' remembered seeing Lily if she'd been here. No, sir; I haven't seen her; but that ain't saying she ain't been here. The nearest thing to it is the up-train from Epsom."
"The up-train from Epsom!" echoed Felix, not seeing the connection.
"It stopped here; and one of our porters got a shilling from a passenger for taking a letter to Miss Lizzie--Master Alfred's sweetheart, sir."
Felix gave a start, but knew that it would be cruel to detain Jim any longer from his wife and child. The last thing he saw before he left the station on his way to Old Wheels was Jim Podmore lifting Polly tenderly in his arms.
Old Wheels was waiting at the street door for Felix's return in a state of intense anxiety; and when he saw Felix coming along by himself, his anxiety was redoubled. Felix knew immediately, by the expression in the old man's face, that Lily had not come home.
"No news of Lily, sir?" he asked, as he drew the old man into the house.
"None, Felix. And you?"
"She has not been seen at the railway station."
It was necessary that he should tell Old Wheels of the accident caused by Jim Podmore; and he did so in as few words as possible.
"I am glad that little Polly is not seriously hurt," said Old Wheels--"very, very glad. But I am in dreadful anxiety about Lily."
"I too, sir. She is our first and only care. You have no theory to account for her absence?"
"None, Felix."
"Her hat and cloak are gone," said Felix, following out a train of thought as he spoke. "That is a proof that she went from the house with deliberate intentions. We must not rest until we find her--that's understood."
"Yes, yes, Felix; go on."
"The first thing to ascertain is if anybody is at home at Mr. Musgrave's house. I will run round and see."
Felix returned in a very short time.
"No one is there; the house is quite deserted. There is some connection between Lily's absence and theirs. The only thing I cannot understand is that Lily did not leave a line of writing behind, in explanation. She knows what deep anxiety her absence would cause."
"Felix," said the old man, in a low tone, "can there have been some foul play?"
Felix did not reply for a few moments; he was mentally busy deciding on the best course of action.
"If there is, we will find it out, depend upon it, sir. I have a clue. I learnt at the station that a passenger from Epsom gave a porter a shilling to take a letter to Lizzie. That letter either came from Alfred or Mr. Musgrave, and upon the receipt of that letter Lizzie has disappeared."
"It could not have come from Alfred," interposed Old Wheels; "he was at his office."
"We must be sure of that. I have my suspicions that he did not go to work to-day. Now, sir, you must still be content to remain quiet, while I ride to London. I shall have no difficulty in obtaining the fastest horse from the stables near here."
"What is your object in going to London, Felix?" asked the old man, gaining confidence from Felix's firm tone.
"I am acquainted with a person employed in Alfred's office. I can obtain from him the information whether Alfred has been at his work to-day. Without that information, we might take a false step; with it (if it be as I suspect) I think I see part of my way. I shall be back sooner than you expect. I am a good rider, and I shall not spare my horse on such an errand."
Felix made good use of his time. It was barely half-past twelve o'clock as he ran upstairs to Old Wheels, flushed with the exercise. He cast a sharp glance around, and Old Wheels, shook his head, saying,
"No, Felix, she has not returned."
"I was right in my suspicions, sir. Alfred has not been at his office to-day. He asked for leave of absence on the plea that you required his assistance at home."
"Where can he have spent his time, then?"
"At Epsom. A great race called the City and Suburban was run to-day, and Alfred has been betting on that race, and has lost. Now, sir, can you bear a shock?"
Old Wheels waited in trembling suspense. "A greater one than has already fallen?" he murmured.
"As great, almost," replied Felix gravely; "but it is necessary that you should know. From what I have heard to-night, I suspect Alfred has been using money that does not belong to him."
Old Wheels covered his face with his hands, and sobbed quietly. Felix continued steadily,
"My acquaintance, who is employed in Messrs. Tickle an Flint's office, was desired this afternoon by one of his employers to tell Alfred to step into the private office immediately he arrived to-morrow morning, and my acquaintance told me that, from the tone in which the message was delivered, he believed, something serious had transpired. Can you see the connection between these things, and Lily's connection with them Alfred, having lost in the race money that did not belong to him, is afraid to show his face at the office, is afraid to come home.. A letter arrived for Lizzie from Epsom; that letter is written by him, and tells her probably of the danger he is in. Lizzie disappears without warning, without leaving word or message behind her. Why? She is afraid of compromising Alfred. Where has Lizzie gone to? The letter she received from Alfred guided her steps without doubt. Do you agree with me that we have now accounted for Alfred's and Lizzie's absence?"
"Yes, but how do you connect Lily with these movements? Remember, that when I left Lily in the house, at half-past nine o'clock, neither she nor I had any suspicion of these occurrences. We thought Lizzie was at her house; we expected Alfred's arrival home every moment. Before that time Lizzie must have received the letter from Alfred, and must have gone to join him. Where?"
"There is the difficult point, sir. If we could ascertain where Lizzie has gone, and how, it would be a most important point. The only livery-stable near is the one from which I hired the horse to go to London." And here Felix stamped his foot, and exclaimed excitedly, "Fool that I was, not to have made inquiries there! We must go there at once, you and I. You may be of use. There will be no sleep for either of us to-night."
Before they left the house, they went up-stairs to the Podmores, to see how Polly was, and to leave a message with Mrs. Podmore, in the unlikely contingency of Lily returning in their absence. Polly was asleep, and mother and father were watching by her bedside. Snap licked Felix's hand as he stooped to pat the dog's head.
"Snap knows what a friend you are to us," said Mrs. Podmore in a whisper; "but you seem in trouble. Has Lily gone to bed?"
She was soon made acquainted with their trouble, and promised obedience to Felix's instructions.
"I don't suppose either Jim or me will close our eyes this night," she said; "but one of us will be sure to be on the watch. If Lily comes back while you are away, we'll keep her here until you return."
Felix hastily wrote a few lines to Lily, and intrusting them to Mrs. Podmore, kissed Pollypod tenderly.
"You have much to be grateful for," he said to Mrs. Podmore.
"Ah, sir, we have indeed!" she answered. "God bless you, and send you success and happiness!"
Felix and Old Wheels shook hands with Jim Podmore, and were soon at the livery-stables. There was only one man there, and they had some difficulty in arousing him. He referred to the books, and said that no lady had engaged anything from the yard that night.
"Two saddle-horses have been taken out since seven o'clock," said the man, with his eye on the page on which the record was made; "a brougham and pair for a customer" (mentioning his name, which satisfied Felix that it could not be for Lizzie), "and a cab."
"Who hired the cab?"
"Can't say. One of our men, Thompson by name, has gone with it. Hired by a gentleman; ten pounds left as deposit."
"How long was it hired for?"
"Can't say, sir; all night, most likely. Thompson is generally selected for the long jobs. You know Thompson, sir?"
"No, I do not."
"He is a tallish man, with his nose on one side, and a hare-lip: wears an old white overcoat. Now I think of it, I saw him and the cab waiting at the door of the True Blue public-house."
"Ah!" exclaimed Felix briskly. "At what time?"
"About half-past nine, I should say. I happened to be passing just then, and now I think of it, Thompson and me had a drink."
"Thank you," said Felix, with sudden animation. "Here's something to get another drink with. Is the True Blue a late house?"
"Got a one-o'clock license, sir. Thank you, sir."
"It's ten minutes to one," said Felix, looking at his watch. "Come along, Mr. Wheels; we shall get there before the house closes."
And he ran out of the livery-yard, followed by Old Wheels. Lounging about the bar of the True Blue they found the usual class of customers, who were being urged by the landlord to leave, as the time was come to close the house. The potman was busy with shutters and bolts; behind the bar was the landlady. She knew Old Wheels, and she nodded to him. Felix was a stranger to her, but she cast a favourable eye upon him nevertheless.
"Can we have one minute's private conversation with you?" asked Felix. "And there is time, isn't there, for us to drink a glass or two of your best dry sherry?"
The landlady glanced at the clock, as a matter of form--it was five minutes to one--and said:
"Would you like to step into our little room, gentlemen; you'll find it more comfortable?--Now, turn out, my men, if you don't want to be put out!"
That it would certainly come to this with some of the customers of the True Blue was evident: one man was especially loth to go.
"Just another pint, missis," he urged, "just another pint, and then we'll toddle." In a tone of such entreaty that to one unacquainted with the usual proceedings of such topers, it might reasonably have been inferred that his very life depended upon that other pint, and that the most serious consequences to his health would ensue if it were refused. The landlady paid no attention to the entreaty, but devoted herself to Felix and Old Wheels, who had stepped into the parlour at her invitation. Seeing that she only set two glasses before them, Felix called for two more, and hoped that the landlady and her husband would join them. He completed the conquest by drinking prosperity to the True Blue, and then proceeded to business.
"We have come to consult you upon a matter of much importance, my dear madam," he said; "and we hope you will give us what assistance you can."
"Anything that is in my power, sir," replied the landlady, flattered by the courtesy of so well-looking a young man as Felix; "I am sure I shall be most happy."
"We do not wish it talked about," continued Felix; "so suppose we agree that it shall be a secret between us, taking your husband into our confidence, of course."
The landlady expressed her acquiescence, her curiosity growing.
"It will take the form of questions, I am afraid," observed Felix.
"You've only to ask, sir," said the amiable woman; "and I'll answer, if I can."
"There was a cab waiting at your door at about half-past nine o'clock to-night, was there not?"
"There have been three or four waiting, on and off."
"But there was one in particular, from the livery-stables near here, with the driver Thompson, a man with a crooked nose and a hare-lip. He came in here to drink with a mate from the yard."
"Yes, he did," was the ready reply. "There's no mistaking Thompson, once you set eyes upon him."
"Can you tell us who hired that cab?"
"I should say it was the gentleman who was about the house for an hour or more, and who was in this parlour for more than ten minutes talking with--with—" But her eyes lighted upon Old Wheels, who was listening with strained attention to every word that passed, and she hesitated.
"Talking with whom?" inquired Felix quickly. "With a gentleman?"
"No," with another hesitating look towards Old Wheels; "with a lady."
"A young lady?"
"Yes."
"Do not hesitate to answer, there's a good creature. You know who the lady is, evidently."
"Yes; but I would rather not say. If you like to mention who you think it is, I'll tell you, if you're right."
"Was it this gentleman's granddaughter?" asked Felix, hazarding the guess.
Old Wheels held his breath.
"Yes, it was," answered the landlady, reluctantly. "There! you shouldn't have forced it out of me! Look at the old gentleman!"
A deadly pallor had come over his face, and he could scarcely stand.
"You must not give way, sir," said Felix, with grave tenderness; "everything depends upon your keeping your strength. Bear in mind that this is what we have come to hear, and that we are approaching nearer and nearer to the unravelling of the plot. And remember, too, dear sir, that I have almost as great a stake in the discovery as you have yourself. There has been foul play, as you suggested; but something assures me that all will come right, and that our dear girl will be restored to us is a few hours. But not if we're not strong. Remember--we are working together for Lily's safety."
His tone was so tender that tears came into the landlady's eyes.
"I will tell you all I know," she said, addressing herself to Felix. "The young lady came in here, and asked me if she could have the use of the parlour for a few minutes, undisturbed. She wanted to speak to the gentleman who came in the cab. They were in the parlour for ten minutes, then they went away together in the cab."
"Thank you, thank you, a thousand times. See, sir, how near we are coming; Now, this gentleman--who was he?"
"I am sure I don't know, sir; I never set eyes on him before to-night."
Felix thought of Alfred, and described his personal appearance. No, it wasn't him, said the landlady. Then Felix described Mr. Sheldrake, and she answered that it was the very man.
Felix drew a long breath; he was almost at the end of the inquiry. One other question remained to be asked. Did she know what direction the cab had taken? No, she didn't know; but she would call the potman in; he was outside all the time. The potman was called in, and being refreshed with a drink and a shilling, remembered, after much circumlocution, that he heard the gentleman tell Thompson to drive towards Epsom.
"Nearer and nearer," said Felix, grasping the old man's hand. "Now, potman, is there anything else you know. Another shilling, if you can remember anything else."
The potman scratched his head.
"There's the shilling," said Felix, in a hearty tone, giving the man the coin, "whether you can remember or not."
"You're a gentleman, sir," said the potman; "Idon't remember anything else; but there's Dick Maclean, perhaps he can tell something."
The public-house was empty at this time, and the bar was cleared.
"Run out, Tom," said the landlady, excitedly, "and if you see him bring him in." The potman ran out at the back door. The landlady explained. "Dick has been drinking here all night, sir. You bring to my mind that I saw the gentleman who was here with the young lady give him some money."
They had not to wait a very long time for Dick Maclean. He was the man who had begged for more beer, and the potman found him outside entreating through the keyhole for "just another pint." He was fairly drunk, but upon the landlady promising him that other pint, and telling him that the gentleman wanted him to earn half-a-crown simply by answering a question or two, he pulled himself together, and endeavoured to earn it. The skilful manner in which Felix put these questions caused the landlady to ask admiringly if he was a lawyer. Felix stopped his questioning to answer, "No;" and the landlady said, To be sure! How could he be? He wasn't dried-up enough. When the cross-examination was over, they had learnt all. Of Mr. Sheldrake giving Dick Maclean a letter to take to Lily, and of the instruction that he was to give it to the young lady in secret, and to tell her, if he found any difficulty in delivering it, that it was a matter of life or death to some one whom she loved; of the young lady accompanying him to the True Blue to see Mr. Sheldrake; of their going into the public-house together; of their coming out together; of the young lady giving him a letter to deliver to Mr. Wheels, and giving him a sixpence to deliver it; of her getting into the cab, and of his going into the True Blue for just another pint before he went with the letter; of Mr. Sheldrake coming after him, and telling him that the young lady had altered her mind, and didn't want the letter delivered; of his getting a shilling forthat; and that was all.
It was enough. It was as clear as day to Felix. The potman and Dick being sent out of the room, Felix said that what they wanted now was a light trap and a smart horse. Now thoroughly enthusiastic in the cause, the landlady said they had in their stables the lightest trap and the smartest trotting mare out of London.
"You're a kind creature," said Felix, shaking hands with her. "Will you trust us with it?"
That she would, and with a dozen of them, if she had them. The landlord assented.
"Now what shall I leave with you as security?" asked Felix. "Here are four five-pound notes, here is my watch and chain—"
The landlady rejected them enthusiastically. She only wanted two things as security--his name and his word. He gave them, and thanked her heartily again and again. While the smartest trotting mare out of London was being harnessed, Old Wheels looked at Felix, wistfully, earnestly, humbly. Felix understood him. He put his arm round the old man's shoulder, and said, in a tone of infinite tenderness,
"Dear sir, I never loved Lily as I love her now. I never trusted her as I trust her now. Dear girl! Pure heart! When I lose my faith in her, may I lose my hope of a better life than this!"
His face lighted up as he uttered these words. The old man pressed him in his arms, and sobbed upon his shoulder. The landlady turned aside to have a quiet cry in the corner.
"You're a good young fellow," she said, in the midst of her indulgence, "and I'm glad you came to me."
Before five minutes had passed, they were in the lightest trap and behind the smartest trotting mare out of London, ready to start.
"Here!" cried the landlady. And running to the wheels, she handed up a great parcel of sandwiches and a bottle of brandy. "It's the right stuff," she said, between laughing and crying. "Our own particular!"
The next minute they were on the road to Epsom.
Mr. David Sheldrake was a cool calculating rogue, and was by no means of a sufficiently romantic or daring turn to plan and to carry out an abduction. If Lily had decided not to accompany him, he would, with an ill grace, have abided by her decision. The qualities of his mind were pretty evenly balanced, and he had no intention of placing himself in danger. What Lily did she did deliberately, and with her own free-will, and every move in the little game that he had played was testimony in his favour. Lily had come to him, had made it appear, by asking the landlady of the True Blue for the use of her parlour, that it was she who desired to confer privately with him, had smiled when she left the public house, and had voluntarily entered the cab which was conveying them along the Epsom road. He could prove that he had been a friend to her brother, and, according to the logic of figures, a heavy loser by him; he could prove that he had been on intimate terms with Lily, and that she had accepted favours from him. So far all was well. But, going a point farther, Mr. Sheldrake, carefully considering the position as the cab drove along, was puzzled. He had not definitely settled upon the next step. He had, in a vague manner, decided that to bring the brother and sister together--to make Lily clearly understand the desperate position in which Alfred was placed--and then to say to her, "And I am the only man that can save your brother"--would be a fine thing for him. Setting aside the dramatic effect of the situation (Mr. Sheldrake, having an eye for dramatic effect, had thought of that), it would undoubtedly place him in a good light. But then, on what terms would he consent to save her brother? It was at this point he paused, and said to himself that he must consider seriously what was the best thing he could do; and while he was considering he heard Lily's voice calling to him. He bade the driver stop, and he alighted and went to the cab-door.
"Have we much farther to go, Mr. Sheldrake?" she asked, in a weak imploring tone.
"No, not a great way."
"I thought we should have been in London before now; but the road is strange to me; I do not recognise it."
"It is the road to Epsom," he explained. "I told you, if you remember, that your brother could not come home."
"Yes; but I thought you meant he could not come from London; he went straight to his office from us this morning."
"No, he did not, Lily; he went to the Epsom races."
She uttered a sharp cry of pain.
"O, why could he not have confided in me? Why did he deceive us?"
"I supposed you knew," said Mr. Sheldrake gently; "I had no reason for supposing otherwise."
"I don't blame you, Mr. Sheldrake—"
"Thank you, Lily," he said. Kind words from her were really pleasant to him.
"But I am frightened of being on this road alone."
"Not alone; I am here to protect you."
Her tears fell fast.
"If I had known--if I had known!" she murmured, in great distress of mind. She had been thinking of Felix and her grandfather, and of their unhappiness at her absence. But there was some small comfort for her in the thought that she had written to them, and had explained as far as she dared.
"If you had known!" repeated Mr. Sheldrake gravely. "Do you mean that if you had known, you would not have come? Surely you cannot mean that, Lily! When I parted from your brother this afternoon, he was flying to hide himself from the danger which threatens him, and from which only we can save him. And of course I thought you knew where he was. If there has been deceit, it has not been on my part. And even at this stage, I cannot submit to be placed in a false light, or to be misjudged. I have endeavoured to make you acquainted with the unhappy position of affairs; in the state of mind in which I left your brother, I would not answer for it that he would not commit any rash act. But if you cannot trust me, you have but to say the word, and we will go back, and I will leave you within a dozen yards of your grandfather's door."
"No, no!" she cried. She was, indeed, almost helpless in this man's hands. "We will go on; I must see him and save him, if I can."
"You trust me, then," he said eagerly.
She was constrained to reply "Yes;" but when he took her hand, which was resting on the sash, and kissed it, she shivered as though she had been drawn into an act of disloyalty to Felix. Mr. Sheldrake had made up his mind by the time he had resumed his seat on the box: he would marry Lily--there was nothing else for it. "I'll sow my wild oats and settle down," he thought, as he lit a cigar; "a man must marry at some time or other, and it's almost time for me to be thinking of it. I couldn't do better; she's innocent and pretty, and--everything that's good; and she's not a girl that will impose on a man, like some of those who know too much." Then he fell a-thinking of the wives of his friends, and how superior Lily was in every way to any of them. "She'll do me credit," he thought. He was dimly conscious that Lily entertained a tender feeling for Felix; but that this would fade utterly away in the light of his own magnanimous offer he did not entertain a doubt. He mused upon the future in quite a different mood from that he was accustomed to; for the purifying influence of Lily's nature made itself felt even in his heart, deadened as it had been all his life to the higher virtues. And now they were nearing the end of their journey. In the distance could be seen the fires of the gipsy camps; the cold wind came sweeping over the downs. The best thing he could do, he thought, would be to stop at an inn; he knew of a quiet one, out of the town, where it was likely they would not be noticed; and he would leave Lily alone for a few minutes, and, on the pretence of going out to seek for Alfred, he would go to the Myrtle--the inn at which he had desired Mr. Musgrave to put up--and see if the old man was there. Then he would come back to Lily, and tell her they would not be able to see Alfred until the morning. There would be a little scene, perhaps, but he would be able to smooth matters over.
By the time he had matured this plan, the cab drove up to the door of the inn. It was not yet midnight, and Mr. Sheldrake had no difficulty in obtaining admission. As they entered, and walked upstairs into a private room which Mr. Sheldrake ordered, Lily looked about, expecting to see Alfred. Mr. Sheldrake, attentively observing her, knew the meaning of those searching glances, and, against his reason, was mortified by the reflection thatheoccupied no place in her thoughts.
"You had best take off your things, Lily," he said awkwardly, and, seeming not to notice the look of sudden distrust and surprise which came into her face at his words, proceeded, "It is chilly, but we will soon have a fire, and be comfortable."
Either his words, or the tone of familiarity in which they were spoken, came like a cold wind upon Lily's fevered senses. Felix seemed to stand before her, and to warn her against this man. But although, in the light of these new impressions, a veil seemed to be falling from before her sight, and although love for Felix, and the responsibilities it conveyed to her heart, gave her strength, the shock was too great and unexpected for her to find words to answer Mr. Sheldrake immediately.
"I will order some supper, Lily. Is there anything particular that you would like?"
She steadied herself, resting her hand upon the table.
"Where is Alfred?" she asked, in a voice that was firm, despite its tremulousness. "Where is Alfred?"
Mr. Sheldrake was discomposed by her unusual manner.
"Alfred is not here, Lily."
"Not here!" she echoed. "For what reason, then, have we stopped here?"
Mr. Sheldrake felt the difficulty of the situation, and, with an embarrassment which he strove in vain not to express, proceeded to explain. But disconcerted by the steady gaze with which she regarded him, he stumbled over his words, and for once in his life his assurance failed him. Had he been at his ease, and had he spoken with his usual plausibility, he might still have been successful in deceiving her; but he had betrayed himself, and it came upon her like a flash of light that he had set a trap for her. She waited until he had finished speaking, and then said, with an utter disregard of his explanation,
"You asked me to come with you to see my brother. Bring him to me."
"That is what I intend, Lily," he said, biting his lips; "I will go and search for him. But you want rest and refreshment first."
She stopped his farther speech.
"I want neither. I am here to see my brother. Bring him to me."
Amazed and confounded by the resolution of her manner, he hesitated. He could not leave her in the strange mood that had come upon her; he must strive to leave more favourable impression behind him. But the words he wished to utter for the purpose of quieting and assuring her would not come to his lips. As he hesitated, Lily stepped quickly to the window, and throwing it open, looked out.
"What are you looking for?" he asked, stepping towards her.
A sudden cry, almost hysterical, escaped from her, and she turned swiftly and confronted him.
"I am looking for the cab," she said, her cheeks flushing, showing such distrust of him by the action of her hands that he shrugged his shoulders, and sat down at a little distance from her. He had quietly ordered the driver to take the cab to the Myrtle Inn, and put up there; but he knew that, even if the cab were still at the door, she could not see it, for the window of the room looked out upon the back of the inn. As Lily leaned out of the window, Mr. Sheldrake fancied he heard a voice without, but he set it down to the account of some toper going from the inn; in another moment, however, he did hear Lily's voice, but could not distinguish what she said. He started up with a jealous exclamation, and as he did so, Lily closed the window, and sank into a chair in a fit of hysterical weeping.
"Why can you not trust me?" he asked, bending over her tenderly. "You are over-wrought and over-excited. To whom were you speaking?"
She calmed herself by a great effort:
"The man said he could not see anything of the cab," she answered; "nor could I. It is gone."
"The driver has put up his horse, I suppose. It is a long drive, remember, and the horse must be tired."
A knock came at the door, and the landlady entered.
"Do you stop here to-night, sir?" she inquired.
"Yes," he said.
"No," said Lily firmly. "This gentleman does not stop here to-night."
A threatening look came into his eyes.
"Wait outside a minute," he said to the landlady. The landlady obeyed, and Mr. Sheldrake closed the door. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded of Lily, in a husky voice, almost throwing off his disguise.
"Can you ask me? You have brought me here to see my brother on a matter of life or death. I cannot rest until I see him. Have you no pity for my anxiety? Do you know where Alfred is?"
"Yes," he was compelled to reply. "I will go and bring him to you. Will that satisfy you?"
"You know it will. But promise me one thing."
"You can't ask me anything, Lily, that I will not promise," he said, hailing this small token of confidence with gladness.
"Give me your sacred word of honour that you will not return here to-night unless my brother is with you."
He felt that he had no alternative; but the fear that she wished to escape from him was upon him. In the light of this fear she became more than ever precious in his eyes. Urged to the desperate declaration, he said,
"Lily, listen to me. You know that I love you--that I love you honourably."
"If you do," she interrupted bravely, but with her hand on her heart, "you cannot hesitate to give me the promise I ask."
"But you! What will you do?"
"I shall stop here in the hope of seeing my brother."
"I can depend on that? Youwillstop here to-night?"
"I will--by all that I hold dear!"
"And if I am unsuccessful in finding Alfred to-night, you will see me in the morning?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, I promise you," he said gaily: "I will show you that you can trust me thoroughly. Good-night, Lily."
He held her hand tenderly in his for a moment, and deemed it prudent to say no more.
"Little witch!" he murmured, as he walked away from the inn. "I was afraid she was going to turn upon me. But I have her safely now, I think!"
Lily listened to the sound of Mr. Sheldrake's departing footsteps as he went down-stairs; heard him speak to some one in the bar, and heard the front door open and close upon him as he walked out into the night. Then, with a grateful "Thank God!" she called the landlady into the room, and whispered to her, and put money into her hand. The landlady said,
"Very well, miss; I'll watch for him."
Whoever it was she was set to watch, it was evidently no enemy to Lily; for in less than five minutes she was talking to the person at the back door, and telling him that the young lady was up-stairs alone. Lily was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She drew him into the room with eager haste, and clasping him round the neck, cried again, "Thank God! I am safe now! You will not leave me, will you? Stop with me--for my grandfather's sake, for Lizzie's sake!" and, overcome by emotion, could say no more, and swooned in his arms. When consciousness returned to her, the landlady was standing by her side, and Mr. Musgrave was kneeling before her.
"There, there!" said the landlady soothingly; "I told you she had only fainted. Do you feel better, my dear?"
"Much better, thank you," replied Lily, vaguely. But looking down upon the kneeling form of Mr. Musgrave, remembrance of what had passed came to her; and she clung to him in a passion of tears, and besought him again and again not to desert her. At a sign from him the landlady quitted the room, saying,
"You will find me down-stairs if you want me."
"You are crying, Mr. Musgrave," said Lily, when they were alone. "I feel your tears on my hand."
"They are tears of joy and pain, my dear," he answered, rising from his knees. "Tell me now how you came here. When I saw you looking out of the window, I placed my finger on my lips, warning you to silence. It is as I suspected, is it not? Mr. Sheldrake brought you here?"
Briefly she told him of the means employed by Mr. Sheldrake to induce her to accompany him, and of what had passed between them on the road and at the inn. He listened attentively, and with varying shades of emotion; and when she ceased speaking, he told her to be comforted, that he would protect her, and that it was not Mr. Sheldrake she or Alfred had to fear.
"Thereiscause for fear, my dear," he said, "but not from him. When I return, I will tell you more—"
"You are not going?" she interrupted entreatingly, clinging to him more closely.
"I must; you shall know my errand when I come back, and you will be satisfied. Then I will not leave you again. I shall be absent for half an hour, my dear; and while I am away the landlady will sit with you."
"But if Mr. Sheldrake returns—"
"You say he has gone for Alfred. Lily, trust one who would give his life for you. I would, my dear! I would lay it down willingly at your feet, if it were necessary for your safety or your honour!" What inexplicable passion, inwardly borne but not expressed, was it that caused his limbs to tremble as he held her to him for a few brief moments? What impulse caused him to loose her from his embrace suddenly, and to stand aloof from her as if he were not worthy of the association?
"Mr. Sheldrake will not come back to-night. Be patient for half an hour, my dear, and trust me thoroughly. Let me hear you say you have confidence in my words."
His earnestness carried conviction with it; but his humble manner pained her.
"You would not deceive me, sir," she said. "I trust you thoroughly, and will wait patiently."
She raised her face to his, and with a grateful sob he was about to kiss her; but the same impulse restrained him.
"No," he murmured; "not until she knows all." And left the room without embracing her.
At the appointed time he returned. During the interval the landlady had lit the fire, and had drawn a couch to the hearth, upon which she persuaded Lily to rest herself.
"Ah, that's good," Mr. Musgrave said; "are you warm enough?" He arranged the rugs about her with a tenderness which surprised her, and then sat apart from her, with his head upon his hand.
"You have something on your mind, sir. Come and sit near me. Are you troubled about me?"
He did not answer her immediately; but with a clumsy movement of his hand he overturned the candlestick, putting out the light, almost purposely as it seemed.
"We do not need to light it, child," he said; "we can talk in the dark."
"Yes, sir, if you please," she answered, yet wondering somewhat; "but the room is not dark. I like the soft light of the fire; it brings rest to me. I shall be glad when day comes." She paused between each sentence, expecting him to speak; but he sat silent, watching the fitful shadows as they grew large and dwindled on the walls and ceiling "What are you thinking of, sir?"
"I am looking into the past," he replied presently, in sad and solemn tones.
"And you see—"
"A wasted life. A life that might have been useful and happy, and good in making others happy."
"Not yours, sir," she said pityingly--"not yours. Ah, sir, you speak as if your heart was troubled! Come closer to me, and let me comfort you, as you have comforted me."
"Not yet, child; I dare not. If, when you have heard what I have to say, you ask me to do that, I will fall at your feet and bless you! This wasted life that I see in the shadows that play about the room--may I tell you some passages in it?"
"It pains you to speak; it pains me to hear your sad voice—"
"Nay," he interrupted; "it relieves me. My heart will burst else; and I have waited for this so long, so long! Youwilllisten in patience?"
"Yes, sir."
"So gradual are the changes that we do not notice them during the time--we scarcely know how they come about; until, after the lapse of many years, we look back and wonder at the contrast between them and now. This wasted life that I speak of, how does it look now in the eyes of the man who has misused it? He sees his youth as one, standing at the foot of a great hill where the shadows lie thick, might look up to the mount upon which the sun shines. That was before he was married, and when he was a young man. Reckless, uncontrolled, thirsting for the possession of things out of his reach, he did not stop to think or reason. He could not then have spoken of himself and of his desires as he speaks now, for he was arrogant, insolent, selfish, and inconsiderate to his heart's core. Bitter has been the fruit of these passions; but had he died a hundred deaths he could not have expiated the wrong he inflicted. And yet he did not awake to the consciousness of this until a few months since--until all the wrong was accomplished, and until he had sunk to a shameful depth--until a terrible retribution had ripened, to fall upon him for his deeds. No one was to blame but he. Life presented fair opportunities to him. He had youth, he had strength, he had a wife who loved him; but the curse that lies heavy upon thousands, that wrecks the happiness of life, poisons its sweetness, turns smiles into tears, joy into despair--the curse of drink was upon him. It brought a blight upon his wife's fond hopes, and broke her heart. He sees now in the shadows the picture of that time. He sees himself covered with shame, flying from justice, saved from just punishment by one whom he has only lately learned to revere; he sees that man, the father of his wife, looking with aching heart at the prospect that lies before his child; he sees his wife, pale, dumb, heart-crushed, mourning the death of love and hope; he sees his two children, a boy and a girl, the girl almost a babe—"
He paused here, fighting with his grief. A long silence followed. Lily had raised herself upon the couch, and had followed his words with agonised interest. She could say nothing to comfort him; her emotion was too powerful for speech. In trembling suspense she waited for his next words. She felt that she was in some way connected with the story he was telling, but the light that shone upon her mind burned dimly as yet.
"So he left those who should have been dear to him, and never looked again upon the face of his wife. The time that followed--the long, long years during which he strove to forget the past--seem to him like a dream. With the curse of drink still upon him, he grew old before his time. He had taken another name, and nothing of his former life was known. Mention of it never passed his lips. How he lived, matters not now. It shames him to think of it. But after many years had passed, he awoke one day to a better consciousness of things. There came to lodge in the house in which he lived a bright and good girl, who obtained her living by dressmaking. When he first saw her, and heard her pretty voice singing in the room next to his, it seemed as if a vision of the past had fallen upon him. This girl and he became friends, and he grew to love her, and loves her now. Often, as he looked upon her, he thought that his daughter, if she was living--his daughter whom he had not seen since she was a babe--would be something like this bright girl. One night the man's employer came to him and made a strange offer. On the condition that he could persuade this girl to live with him as his daughter or his niece, a small house near London was to be taken, of which he was to be the tenant and ostensible master. While they were talking over this proposition, the girl came home; she had been to the theatre with her sweetheart; he accompanied her home, and the voices were heard in the adjoining room. The employer heard the young man's voice, and recognised it, and it seemed as if the recognition made him more desirous that the plan should be put into operation quickly. The old man that very night acquainted the girl with the proposition that had been made to him, and she consented to live with him. She told him the story of her life, and they sat up talking until late. Before she went to bed he asked her the name of her sweetheart. She told him. It was the name of his own son!"
He covered his face with his hands, unable to proceed. Lily rose from the sofa, and approached him tremblingly. She knelt at his feet, and said, in a voice that rose no higher than a whisper,
"Tell me his name, sir."
The name came through his sobs.
"Alfred."
"And his sweetheart's name is Lizzie, is it not?"
"Yes."
"And the story you have related to me is your own?"
"It is my own, miserable man that I am!"
The silence that followed was very brief, but to him it was like a long and terrible oblivion. Then upon the darkness in which his soul was wrapped broke a silver line of light, so inexpressively sweet, so exquisitely painful, that his heart almost ceased to beat.
"Father!"
Her arms were round his neck, but he fell on the ground at her feet, and cried humbly for forgiveness.
"Father, you have something more to tell me!"
"Yes, my dear child. You must be made acquainted with what has passed, so that you may be prepared. You will hear what I have to tell bravely, will you not, my child?"
"It is about Alfred!" she cried, in great agitation.
"It is; I know where he is. I have seen him. I went to him when I left you awhile ago."
She started to her feet, and looked about tremblingly for her mantle.
"I must go to him at once. Come! Why do we stop here?"
"Dear child," he said, taking her hand in his, and striving to calm her, "you must be guided by me. For his sake, we must keep away from him."
"But he is alone, and unhappy. What will he think if he knows that I am here? O, let us go to him, dear father! We should not be absent from him in his trouble."
"Lily, my child, you would not bring greater trouble upon him?"
"No, no!"
"You might, if you do not act as I tell you. A watch might be set upon your steps, and his safety depends upon his hiding-place being kept secret. For heisin hiding, my dear. Sit down, child, and be satisfied that for the present you are serving him best by remaining here. And do not be uneasy, my darling, that he is not being taken care of. He is not alone. Lizzie is with him."
"Lizzie with him!"
What strange wonders was this night bringing forth!
"He wrote to her, and although he did not tell her where she could find him, she lost not a moment, but came here at once, the dear brave girl! Alfred was at the races to-day, as you already know, and lost not only his own money, but money that did not belong to him. What this false man who brought you here to-night told you about him is true. Alfred is in great peril, and the despair that seized him when he realized the full sense of his danger made him desperate, and drove him almost mad. I came to Epsom to-day especially to keep an eye upon him, for I feared that something bad would occur. Last week Lizzie overheard a conversation between him and Mr. Sheldrake--it took place in our cottage, and she listened at the door. She had not the courage until last night to tell me what she had heard, and I dreaded the consequences, and saw them in a clearer light than she. I have gone through such an experience myself, and have tasted the bitter fruit. I determined to come to Epsom, knowing, alas! that it was too late to undo the evil he was bringing upon himself, but hoping against hope that by a lucky chance (the gambler's forlorn hope, my dear!) things would turn out well. They did not; and when the race was over, I saw Alfred steal away from the course, ruined and almost lost--I saw it in his face--and I followed him to prevent worse occurring. His false friend saw me, and for a purpose of his own set me to watch my own son, little dreaming of the stake I held in his unhappy fortunes. But Alfred discovered that I was watching him, and he escaped me. I was frightened to think to what his agony and remorse might drive him, and I wandered everywhere in search of him. For six hours, my dear, I hunted for him in vain. I was distracted. It was a dark cold night, and I was worn-out and wearied. At nearly eleven o'clock I was on the plains, near to some gipsy tents, about half a mile from here. I thought of Lizzie's misery at Alfred's absence, and I thought of you also, dear child. I did not know what it was best for me to do. Shall I return home? I asked of myself. And as I stood, uncertain and helpless, I heard a voice that was familiar to me. It was Lizzie's voice, my dear. She had been searching also, and with a woman's wit knew that it was useless to inquire at the inns or wander about the town in search of him. She guessed rightly where it was most likely he would try to find refuge. She went to every tent and every camping party on the plains, and made her way where I could not, and received answers and civil words where they were denied to me. At the gipsy tents, near which I had halted, she was told that a man with the horrors on him--don't tremble, child!--had come and wanted to camp with them; but they had turned him away, and would have naught to do with him. Lizzie described Alfred to them. Yes, they answered, it was some such sort of a man. She searched for him near those tents, and found him lying under a hedge in a state of delirium. Dear child, be calm! let us pray that he will get well, and that this great trouble may be tided over. It is not Mr. Sheldrake that he has to fear. But I haven't finished my story yet. Lizzie found him, and prevailed upon the gipsy women to give them shelter. She bribed them with money; she would have given them her blood if they had bargained for it, for his sake. Ah, my child! I begin to see the beauty of a woman's love, and how unworthy we are! One of the gipsy women made some cooling drink for him, and it was while these two were talking outside the tent that I heard Lizzie's voice. You may imagine our sad pleasure at thus discovering each other. I remained with them some little time, and came to this inn for food and drink for them, and as I approached the place I saw your face at the window. You know now the errand which took me from you for half an hour. It is arranged that Alfred shall remain with these people, if necessary; they will conceal him if they are paid for it, and one of the women has taken a great liking for Lizzie. The dear girl would win her way anywhere. I told Lizzie you were here. She sends her dearest love to you, and says that she will contrive to see you to-morrow. She told me to tell you also, that when Felix and your grandfather--God bless him for the care and love he has bestowed on my child!--And all of us absent, Felix will be sure, after the first shock of surprise, to guess where we all are, and that he will follow you to Epsom early in the morning, perhaps to-night. Felix, she says, knows more about Alfred than you are aware of. So, dear child, all that we can do is to wait until the morning, and to hope for the best. And now, before you lie down to rest, tell me if it is as I suspect and hope with you and Felix."
She hid her face on his shoulder, and told him all.
"God bless you both!" he said solemnly.
He insisted on her lying down, and he sat by her side and watched her. When, presently, she pretended to fall asleep, he knelt by the couch, and, with his face resting on her soft warm hand, prayed with humble heart.