In his eagerness he takes up a betting-book, and stands waiting for the word of command.
"Put down the book, you old fool! When I want you to take your oath, I'll let you know."
"Ready at any time, sir--at any minute." Which is literally true.
"And when I want you to turn over a new leaf—"
"As many as you please, sir; I'm ready."
"You'd better do, if you don't want to go to the dogs. What would you do if I were to say, 'Muzzy, old man, I've got no farther use for you?' How would you live? Tell me that."
Mr. Sheldrake knows that he is striking terror to the old man, for he is the only friend Muzzy has in the world. Muzzy, standing in abject humility before his patron and master, has no proper idea what a valuable servant he is to that gentleman, not that the dirty work which he performs for his employer would be poorly paid if he received his wages threefold. All that he is conscious of is that he is an old man, very feeble, very shaky, fit for nothing but the work--if it can be called so--he is engaged in, and that it is in Mr. Sheldrake's power to deprive him of the only pleasure the world affords--the pleasure of getting drunk in private.
"I'll do my best, sir," he says humbly. "You may depend on the old man, sir. He's a little bit shaky sometimes, but Muzzy's to be depended on."
"All right, then; you can go now."
But still Muzzy lingers, passing the back of his hand over his mouth with a parched air. When he has mustered sufficient courage to speak, he says,
"Taraban started at twelve to one, didn't he, sir?"
"That's the price, Muzzy, and I wish I'd known what you knew, you old dog."
"I only had a dollar on, sir--it was the last I had in the world. I'll take eleven dollars if you'll settle with me now, sir. The landlady'll be down on me for my rent to-night, and I haven't a copper to buy a loaf with."
Mr. Sheldrake pays Muzzy two pounds fifteen shillings, retaining the odd crown for interest, and the old man slouches out of the room and into the streets, and when he is near a favourite public-house, gives the lie direct to his earnest words.
No one who knew him had ever seen him take a glass of liquor at a public-house bar. His enjoyment was indulged in secretly. He would linger about the public-house where he bought his liquor until a small bar marked "private" was empty; and then he would slink in, and, without a word, take a bottle and place it upon the counter, casting apprehensive looks at the door lest any one should come in and detect him. The barman, knowing his wants, would fill the bottle. If Muzzy was rich, he would produce a second bottle from another pocket, this the barman would also fill. Quickly placing the bottles in his pocket, Muzzy would lay upon the counter the exact price of the liquor (having provided himself beforehand with the necessary change), and glide swiftly away. Hugging the bottles to his breast, hiding them so that no one should see, or even, as he believed, suspect, Muzzy would make his way to his garret, and lock the door. Then he would experience thrills of pleasure at the prospect before him, and he would sit and drink and drink and mumble until every drop was gone; then he would sigh and wish for more.
Such was the bad sweetness which life contained for this ill-starred man.
"Con," said Mr. Sheldrake, "I want you to assist me in a private little matter of my own, and to ask no questions."
"Fire away, governor," was Con's rejoinder.
"A young man will call upon you in half an hour, with one of my cards, on which I have written, 'Do what you can for the bearer, a friend of mine.' He wants to borrow some money."
"And I am to lend it to him. How much?"
"Stop a bit. He wants to borrow money; he is in difficulties. Backed Christopher Sly, and lost; he's in a mess, and I want to do him a good turn. Hemusthave the money, so you can put the screw upon him."
"What interest shall I charge him?"
"Whatever you like. It will be as well to make it something handsome; he will agree to anything so long as he can get the money."
"They generally do agree to anything," observed Con, sagely; "it makes me laugh to see their long faces sometimes. What security can he give?"
"None, I expect. You'll have to take his bill."
"Is it to be a long dated bill?"
"No, short; not longer than three months. I don't expect he'll be able to pay it when its due, but that's my affair."
This was so contrary to Mr. Sheldrake's general mode of procedure, that Con gave a low whistle--a whistle of curious inquiry, which expressed, "What's his little game, I wonder?" Mr. Sheldrake did not enlighten him, but proceeded with his instructions:
"He'll tell you, of course, that he can't give you any security, and you'll tell him, of course, that it will be impossible for you to lend him money under the circumstances. But don't let him go away. Angle with him until I come. I shall stroll in upon you quite accidentally, and you can take your cue from me. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"You can speak about me as if I was a soft-hearted, good-natured fellow, always too ready to do a good turn. I've been taken in by a great many persons, and you don't feel inclined to let me be taken in again, or to follow my example. My great fault is that I think too well of people: I believe that everybody is as honest and straightforward as I am myself. I think that I am as sharp and cunning as any man, but you know better. Directly my susceptibilities are appealed to, I am as soft as a pat of butter."
Con laughed heartily, and Mr. Sheldrake continued:
"You and I are not in anyway connected in business, you know, and if you feel inclined to do anything for him, it is only upon my recommendation."
"O, of course," said Con, still laughing.
"I persuaded you to do a good turn to a fellow last year, who turned out to be a scamp. You didn't lose any money by the transaction--I took the liability upon myself, and paid you out of my own pocket, although you hadn't the slightest claim upon me. It was only the week before last that I took a poor man out of prison, and paid his debts for him, and set him upon his legs again, because he had a wife and family. But I don't like these things mentioned to my face. I'm the sort of man who goes about doing all sorts of kind actions on the quiet."
Con opened his eyes wider, and still wondered what on earth Mr. Sheldrake's little game was.
"Then, of course, you're very short of money yourself," said Mr. Sheldrake, in self-satisfied tones; for if there was one thing in the world he had confidence in more than another, it was in his own cunning and cleverness; he was always shaking hands with himself. "You've had losses lately; all your money's locked up, and you've been disappointed in people not keeping their promises; besides, it's a very risky affair, lending upon personal security, especially to a man you don't know anything of--and you're generally disinclined to accommodate him until I make my appearance."
Con gave a nod of acquiescence to each of these instructions, and Mr. Sheldrake presently took his departure, and left the spider waiting for the fly.
He had not long to wait. The fly soon made his appearance.
A very anxious-looking fly indeed. His countenance betokened nothing but care and overwhelming trouble; looking very much like a fly who had not had a wink of sleep last night--which, indeed, was the fact.
Con Staveley received the card which the fly handed to him, and waved his hand to a seat. Alfred sat down, holding his hat between his legs, and looked nervously at Con Staveley; but finding no comfort in that gentleman's face, looked into his hat with a like result. He was terribly distressed. It seemed to him that life and death hung upon the words of the judge in whose presence he was sitting.
Con Staveley read the words on the card aloud:
"'Do what you can for the bearer, a friend of mine.' Happy to see you. Any friend of Mr. Sheldrake is a friend of mine. What can I do for you?"
Although his tone infused hope into Alfred's breast, the young man did not know how to commence. Observing his hesitation, Con rattled on, without waiting for him to speak:
"Sheldrake's a fine fellow. A little too easy, a little too confiding, but a fine fellow for all that. Doesn't look sharp enough after Number One, though; and that doesn't do nowadays. You can take care of yourself, I'll be bound; you look after Number One."
With dry lips, Alfred muttered assent to the proposition.
"Do you want to back a horse for the Cambridgeshire or the Cesarewitch? Now's the time; the early bird catches the worm. I'll give you sixty-six to one against any horse you can name. Spot the winner and put a few tenners on. There's an old fellow I know spotted Taraban yesterday for the Northumberland Plate. What do you think he did, the old fool? Backed it for a crown. No pluck. He might have won a heap of money, and now the chance has gone. About this time last year a fellow came in--just as you have done now--asked about a horse for the Cambridgeshire--wanted to know the odds. A hundred to one I offered. 'I'll take it to fifty sovs.,' he said. I gave it to him, five thousand to fifty. Hanged if the horse didn't win, with a stone in hand, and I was nicked. He had pluck, that fellow, and took my cheque for five thou. with a grin on his face. He's one of the leviathans now--had a fifty thousand book on the Derby. Is thatyourlittle game? Have you come to take the odds? Well, I'll give them to you, to any amount."
"No," Alfred managed to say, "that isn't the business I've come upon."
"Well, what is it, then?" inquired free-and-easy Con. "Fire away. Do anything I can for a friend of Sheldrake's."
"He told me to make a clean breast of it," said Alfred, playing nervously with his hat; and Con Staveley thought, "What a soft young fool he is!" "The fact is, I've been out of luck lately. I backed the wrong horse yesterday."
"Christopher Sly?"
"Yes; it looked like a moral certainty for him."
"Itwasa sell," observed Con gravely. "Every one of the prophets went for him. I was bit myself--heavily, too; so you're not alone in the boat."
Alfred derived no consolation from this statement. The reverse, indeed. For the fact that the man he was about to ask to assist him had lost heavily on the same race, rendered his chance of obtaining money a less hopeful one than it had seemed. But he spurred on desperately.
"There wasn't one of the prophets or tipsters that went in for Taraban. They all gave Christopher Sly. And if you can't believe them, whom are you to believe? All the morning papers gave Christopher Sly as the absolute winner--all the sporting papers too. Nothing else had a chance. I sent five shillings to Horace St. John—"
"Who is he?" asked Con innocently.
"A gentleman. He advertises in the sporting papers. I sent him five shillings for the tip, and got it--Christopher Sly. He sent me a voucher with the tip--£20 to £2 against Christopher Sly. The horse was then at only three to one, and he gave me ten to one. I sent him the £2, and was afraid he would return it to me, because he had given me too long odds. But he didn't; it was all right, I thought. I should have won a little hatful of money if Christopher Sly had come in first--but you know how it was."
Alfred spoke fretfully, and without the slightest control over his tongue. He felt that he was damaging the probable success of his errand by whining about his misfortunes, but he could not help himself. It was a necessity especially belonging to his nature to endeavour to justify himself in his own eyes by attempting to prove what an exceptionally unfortunate person he was. This is one of the idiosyncrasies of weak and selfish natures, which seek to find comfort in the fiction that all the world is in a conspiracy against them, and that their misfortunes are caused, not by their own weakness and selfishness, but by a predetermined effort on the part of everybody and everything to persecute and crush them.
"Well, I told all this to my friend Mr. Sheldrake," continued Alfred, looking moodily at the floor, for Con Staveley's silence boded no good result, "and told him I was in a hole, and wanted to borrow some money. He would have lent it to me in a minute if he had had it--he told me so--but he is short himself."
"And always will be short," retorted Con grumblingly, "if he doesn't give up being so soft-hearted. What with lending here and lending there, taking this man out of prison and paying his debts, and setting that man on his legs, he'll find himself in a mess one of these fine days. The joke of it is, that he thinks himself the smartest man in London."
"He says to me," continued Alfred with a fainting heart, "'Go to my friend Mr. Staveley, and take my card; he'll do what you want upon my recommendation.' So I've come. Youdolend money, don't you?"
"Yes, I lend money to responsible people," replied Con; "I've got a good deal of money put into my hand for investment, and to lend out at fair interest—"
"I'll pay any interest," said Alfred eagerly.
"But then of course my hands are tied so far as regards money that doesn't belong to me. How much do you want?"
"Fifty pounds I can manage with."
"What security can you give?"
"Security!" stammered Alfred.
"Yes, this is a matter of business. You don't expect any man to lend you money without security, do you? Have you got prospects--expectations? I've lent money to a good many swells upon their own and their friends' names, but then they have expectations, and are sure to come into property; so that the money is certain to be paid one day."
"I haven't any expectations that I know of," said Alfred gloomily: "but I'll be sure to pay you. Do you think I'd borrow money without being sure that I can pay it back?"
"I don't know," responded Con dryly; "some people do. What do you want the money for? To pay betting debts? They're not recoverable in law; and even if they were, isn't it as well for you to owe money to one man as to another?"
"But they're debts of honour," said Alfred, with a not uncommon but very miserable assumption of high-mindedness; "no gentleman can afford not to pay his debts of honour."
"It seems you can't afford to pay them," observed Con mercilessly, somewhat relishing the sport, "or you wouldn't come to me."
If he had not been in a very miserable plight indeed, Alfred would have replied hotly. But he was frightened and completely cowed. In truth, if Con Staveley failed him, he did not know which way to turn. And he dared not confess the truth; he dared not confess that, taking advantage of his position in the office of his employers, he had committed the common indiscretion of "borrowing" money for a few days. If he did not replace it at once—well, he was terrified to think what might occur. The minutes were very precious to him. Discovery hung above him on a hair; any moment it might fall and overwhelm him. These reflections kept him silent, and he suffered a very agony of terror and remorse in the slight pause that followed Con Staveley's taunt.
"The only way in which you can get the money is by giving a bill for it--to be paid in three months, say. Have you got a responsible friend--somebody who is worth something--who will endorse the bill for you!"
"No," faltered Alfred, "I don't know anybody, except Mr. Sheldrake."
"I don't want his name--he's good enough for any amount--but he would most likely have to pay the bill when it's due (excuse my saying so), and it wouldn't be friendly on my part to take it from him. The same thing occurred last year. I accommodated a friend of his with three hundred pounds; I did it only because Sheldrake persuaded me. Well, the fellow didn't pay, and Sheldrake insisted on cashing up, though I hadn't the slightest claim upon him. There's not one man in ten thousand would have done it; but it was like Sheldrake all over. I took the money, of course; it was business, you know, but it wasn't friendly. I don't want the same thing to occur again. Sheldrake thinks too well of people. He has a right to do as he pleases with his money, but hang me if I like to be a party to his throwing it away. Then, what do I know of you? It isn't reasonable of Sheldrake to expect me to do this; upon my soul it isn't! Are you in business? Is your father worth anything? Would he cash up if you put the screw on?"
"I have no father," said Alfred, his heart growing fainter and fainter, "and I'm not in business. I'm a clerk."
"O, you're in a situation, I suppose."
"Yes, I'm a clerk at Tickle and Flint's."
"Salary?"
"Fifteen shillings a week."
At mention of which amount Con shifted some books from one part of the table to another with very decided action, as if that settled the matter.
"I can put some of it by," exclaimed Alfred imploringly. "I can put it all by, if you'll let me have fifty pounds for three months!"
"Fifteen shillings a week wouldn't pay the interest, my boy," was Con's rejoinder. "Wouldn't cover risk."
"Then Alfred suddenly thought of Lily. If he mentioned her, it might improve his standing in Con Staveley's estimation.
"My sister earns money," he said in a shamefaced manner.
"Indeed," very carelessly from Con. "What does she do?"
"She sings at the Royal White Rose Music-hall. Her name's Lily. Perhaps you've heard her?"
Thought Con, of Sheldrake, "That is your little game, eh?" "O, yes, I've heard her. So she's your sister. A pretty girl--I'd like to know her. But about this fifty pounds you want--I really don't think I can do it for you. Very sorry--very sorry, indeed, because you're a friend of Sheldrake's; but to speak candidly" (which he did, with a display of white teeth) "it isn't good enough. Best to be candid, you know."
Alfred's weak hand was played out. The game was lost. He sat, looking despairingly at the floor. What should he do? Run away? Try to hide himself? That would draw attention to him, and bring exposure at once. Besides, where would he be safe from the detectives? He almost groaned aloud as he thought. The words of his grandfather came to him "Once more I pray God to keep you from crime! Once more I say that the remorse of a too late repentance is the bitterest of experiences!" He was suffering this bitterest of experiences now, and felt the truth of his grandfather's words. And yet he took credit to himself for the good resolution he had come to, of being a better man if Christopher Sly had won the Northumberland Plate. Whose fault was it that the horse had not won, and that this monstrous undeserved misfortune had come upon him? Not his. He had done his best: but he had been deceived, swindled, robbed; those false prophets had ruined him, and all the world was in a conspiracy against him. In this way he threw the blame off his own shoulders, and felt no shadow of self-reproach because he had been weak enough to allow himself to be duped by tricksters. In the midst of his self-tormenting the door opened, and he heard, in a pleasant voice,
"Good-day, Staveley. How are things? Ah, Alf, you here! I thought it likely I might catch you."
Alfred looked up, and Mr. Sheldrake smiled familiarly upon him. "Like Paul Pry, I hope I don't intrude," said Mr. Sheldrake. "Perhaps I'm interrupting business."
"O, no," replied Con; "our business is over."
"Well,that'sall right!" and Mr. Sheldrake clapped Alfred on the shoulder gaily.
Alfred winced. He was labouring under a sense of injury, not so much at the present moment on account of Con Staveley's refusal to accommodate him, as on account of Sheldrake's recommending him to a man who had failed him in this desperate crisis. But he could not afford to quarrel with any man now; all his courage and insolence were gone. He said, almost humbly,
"Mr. Staveley won't lend me the money."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake. "Not on my recommendation. Come, come, Staveley, this isn't friendly, you know."
"I think it is," replied Con; "there isn't a money-lender in London would let him have what he wants. Why, he can't even give security! Can't even give a good name at the back of a bill!"
"Isn't my name good enough?"
"For any amount; but we're friends, and I'm not to see you let in with my eyes open—"
"That's my affair," said Mr. Sheldrake warmly.
"It happens to be mine as well. I don't want to take money of my friends. Remember the three hundred you had to pay me last year, and the hundred and twenty for that poor woman—"
"Shut up!" interrupted Mr. Sheldrake. "Let my affairs alone. You've no business to mention those things. You know I don't like it. How much did you ask Mr. Staveley for, Alfred?"
"Fifty pounds; that's all. For three months only."
"A paltry fifty pounds!" exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake scornfully. "Why, you might win it on a horse fifty times over in five minutes! There's the Goodwood Cup and the Stakes going to be run for presently—"
"I've got the tip for the Cup," cried Alfred eagerly; "I can get thirty to one about it to-day. I'll pay Mr. Staveley directly the race is over, and any interest he likes to charge, and I'll give him the tip, too, if he likes." (Whereat something very like a grin appeared on Con's face.) "The horse only carries five stone seven. He can't lose!"
"There, Staveley, do you hear that?" asked Mr. Sheldrake in a reproachful tone. "Isn't that good enough for you?"
Con Staveley shrugged his shoulders, indicating that it was not good enough for him.
"Curse me if I don't feel inclined to turn nasty!" then exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake. "If I had the money to spare, I'd lend it to him on the spot. But I shall be short for the next month."
"Can't your friend wait till then?"
With quivering lips, Alfred said, No; "hemusthave the money at once."
"And you'll let him have it," said Mr. Sheldrake.
"I don't feel at all inclined to," replied Con.
Here Mr. Sheldrake took up his hat in pretended indignation, and declared if this was friendship, curse him, he didn't want any more of it! and otherwise expressed himself to the same effect in terms so exceedingly warm, that Con Staveley began to lose patience.
"Look here, Sheldrake," he retorted; "be reasonable. I'm doing this for your protection, and you're infernally ungrateful. Your friend wants the money to pay racing debts with; well, I told him before you came in, that racing debts are not recoverable by law, so that whoever he owes the money tomustwait until he can pay. Let your friend pay his debts after the Goodwood Cup is run for; he'll be all right then. As for friendship, you're a little too hard on me. You know fifty pounds is no object to me, and if after what I've said you insist upon becoming responsible for the sum, I'll let him have it. I can't say fairer than that. But mind; I warned you."
Mr. Sheldrake seemed impressed by what Con Staveley had said. He considered a little, and asked if Con could let him have five minutes' private conversation with Alfred.
"You can have this room," said Con, rising. "I've got some writing to do in the next. Call me when you have done."
When they were alone, Mr. Sheldrake said,
"After all, Alf, there's something in what Staveley says. Racing debts are not recoverable. I can understand his feelings very well; he doesn't know you, or anything about you. He is only anxious to protect me. Ihavebeen let in a good many times by one and another, and I've paid him money which he has been obliged to take in the way of business, and which he has lent, on my recommendation, to people I've wanted to do a good turn for."
"Iwon't let you in," said Alfred.
"I don't think you will, Alf. If I were in funds, you shouldn't have had to come to Staveley for the money. But I can't shut my eyes to what he has said. You must deal a little openly with me; you know I'm your friend. You've lost this money on Christopher Sly?"
"Yes."
"Why not let the people you've lost it to wait?"
"Because I've paid them already. I had to stake the money in advance."
"You dealt with commission agents, then?"
"Yes."
Mr. Sheldrake hesitated before he asked the next question.
"It wasn't your own money that you staked?"
Alfred did not reply.
"I don't want to press you unfairly, Alf," said Mr. Sheldrake, after a few moments' study of Alfred's downcast face, "and I don't want you to say anything you would rather not say. Young fellows often get into scrapes. I suppose you're in one now?"
"Yes, I'm regularly cornered," replied Alfred. "I wouldn't care so much for my own sake--but there's Lily. She's fond of me, and it would break her heart to see me in a mess."
"Lily's heart sha'n't be broken, and you shall get out of your mess, Alf. I'll stand your friend, as I said I would, and Con Staveley shall let you have the money before you go."
Alfred looked up, and grasped Mr. Sheldrake's hand. The revulsion of feeling almost blinded him.
"Mind," continued Mr. Sheldrake, "I do this for Lily's sake, so you may thank your stars you've got such a sister."
"She is the dearest girl in the world," cried Alfred, his good spirits returning.
"So she is, and I should like her to think well of me."
"She'll do that, depend upon it. I'll let her know what a friend you've been to me. Youarea trump! I'll pay Mr. Staveley after the Goodwood Meeting."
That astute person being called in, and Mr. Sheldrake's decision being communicated to him, the next quarter of an hour was spent in the drawing-up and signing of documents. Alfred signed everything unhesitatingly, without reading the papers; he was too overjoyed to attend to such small formalities. He signed a bill at three months for seventy-five pounds, and would have signed it for a hundred and seventy-five, without murmuring at the interest charged. The two hundred per cent. per annum seemed to him fair enough, and when Con Staveley gave him the cheque, and the business was concluded, he gaily asked his friends to come and have a "bottle of fiz," an invitation which they willingly and gladly accepted. Over the bottle of "fiz" they indulged in a great deal of merry conversation, and Alfred forgot his despair and remorse, and once more indulged in visions of shadowy fortunes, and boasted of the grand things he was going to do.
"I'll show them a trick or two," he said confidently.
Poor fool! Not by such credulous selfish natures as his can tricksters be tricked and dupers duped. They laugh in his face, and in the face of stronger than he. Have they not reason? They are stronger than the law, which is powerless to touch them. Yet it is a strange reflection that a cunning rogue is allowed to swindle, and a starving woman is not allowed to beg. But such is the law.
If you were asked to come into Fairyland, you would expect to see wonders, and you would consider it the height of presumption to be conducted to a small room, nearly at the top of a house, in which a child lies sleeping and a woman sits working. The roses on the wall are sham ones; but there are two real roses in the centre of a bunch of buttercups and daisies, which stands in a jug with a broken handle near to the bed on which the child lies sleeping. It is eleven o'clock at night, and the woman is working by the light of one candle. If ever woman was happy, this woman is as she plies her needle and looks at her child, and hums a few bars of a song softly to herself. The roses on the child's face rival the real and artificial ones in the room. It is a beautiful face to gaze at, and the brown eyelashes, and the curly brown hair, and the lips deliciously parted, make a delightful picture, which, were I a painter, I should love to paint. As it is, I stoop in fancy and kiss the pure fresh lips of this innocent happy child. What work is the woman doing? If this be Fairyland, is she busy with the wings of grasshoppers making a cover for Queen Mab's chariot, or collars of the moonshine's watery beams for the teams of little atomies that gallop "athwart men's noses as they lie asleep?" No; she is busy on some things very different indeed from these. And she is doing good work--woman's work: darning stockings.
And this is Fairyland! you say. And darning stockings is good work and woman's work! you say. Can I detect a scornful ring in your protest? But what are we to do, I humbly submit, if women will not darn the stockings? Of course I mean poor women. Rich women, thanks to those metaphorical silver spoons which are in their mouths when they are born, do not need to darn. But poor women cannot afford to buy new stockings every week; and they have to sit down to turn old lamps into new ones, which they almost always do with infinite content, and with a cheerful readiness which is not worthy of a better cause, for the cause is a good one enough as it is. I declare it always gives me a pleasurable sensation to see a good housewife--the true household fairy--sit down of an evening at her fireside, and make preparations to attack the contents of a basket where woolen stockings and cotton stockings shake hands--no, I mean feet--together, and lie down side by side in amicable confusion. What a homily might be preached upon the contents of some of these baskets, which tell of many mouths to fill, and of many little legs and feet to keep warm! What diversity is there to be seen! and how suggestive is the contemplation of the thick woollen stocking of the father and the dainty tiny Sunday sock of the three-year-old darling! Yet have I not seen somewhere in print articles and letters which give me the impression that women are at length awaking from a hideous dream of centuries of slavery, and that they consider it derogatory to their intelligence to darn stockings? But if women will not darn stockings, who will? Or is darning as an institution to be abolished?
Say that in this woman and the work she is singing over there are no graceful suggestions which, in their worth and purity and tenderness, deserves to be ranked with imaginings and mental creations of exceeding beauty--say, as some hard critics, aver, that she and her occupation are the prosiest of prosy themes, and that the sentiment which animates her and makes her contented and happy belongs of necessity to the dullest of dull clay; tear from her and her surroundings every vestige of ideality: divest her of everything but what is coarse and common, and make the room in which she sits a place to moan over the hard realities of life--still in this very room Fairyland dwells. The little head that lies so peacefully upon the pillow teems with wonders; imagination is bringing to the child fantastic creations and scenes of exquisite loveliness and grace. Though the strangest of contrasts are presented to her, there is harmony in everything. The light, the fresh air, the brighter clouds than those she sees in the narrow streets, play their parts in her dreams in a thousand happy shapes and forms. She walks with Felix in a field, gathering flowers more beautiful than she has ever yet seen; there are silver leaves and golden leaves, and all the colours of the rainbow hide themselves in flower-bells, and then peep out to gladden her. There are lilies, and roses, and wallflowers, and daisies, with the fresh dew glistening on their leaves and stems. She and Felix wander and wander until they are tired, and sit down to rest amidst the flowers, which grow and arch until they are buried in them, and the light of day is shut out. Then they sink and sink through the flowers, which dissolve and melt away, as it seems, and she and Felix are walking among the stars. It is night, and the stars are all around them. Suddenly, in the clouds which float in solemn splendour beneath them, a valley of light appears, and she looks through wondrous depths into a shining sea, with the only ship her world contains sailing on it. When she and Felix are walking at the bottom of the sea--as they do presently--the stars are still with them, and the Captain and the Doll play their parts in her beautiful dreams. Happiest of the happy is Pollypod.
Up the stairs stumbles a tired-out man, with a dog close at his heels. Mrs. Podmore jumps from her chair at the sound of his steps, and almost in the twinkling of an eye the table is made ready for supper.
"Well, old woman," says Jim, with a great sigh of relief at being home at last.
He speaks in gasps as usual, as if, after his day's hard labour, he finds talking an effort. Mrs. Podmore takes a blue-cotton handkerchief containing an empty basin from him--Jim's favourite dinner is a meat-pudding, in the making of which his wife would not yield the palm to the Queen's cook. Snap, the faithful dog, greets Mrs. Podmore with sniffs at the hem of her gown, and when this duty is performed, leaps upon the bed and licks Pollypod's face.
"Did you enjoy yourself--old woman?" asks Jim Podmore.
"That we did. We've had such a beautiful day, Jim!"
Jim nods, and his hand wanders to Pollypod's neck, and caresses it.
"What a colour--she's got--mother!"
"Bless her little heart!" is the reply. "It's done her a power o' good."
He sees the flowers, and takes them in his hand.
"They're for you, Jim," said Mrs. Podmore; "Polly's present for father. She tried to keep awake to give them to you; but she could not keep her little eyes open."
He turns the flowers about tenderly, and a troubled look that was in his eyes when he came home vanishes as he lays his great dirty face and bushy head on the pillow. But when he sits down to his supper, with the flowers before him to give an additional zest to his food, the troubled look returns. Mrs. Podmore says quietly,
"You're bothering your head about something, Jim;" and draws her chair a little nearer to him.
He does not answer her immediately, but makes a pretence of eating, and presently lays his knife and fork on his plate, and pushes them away.
"Did you hear--the newspaper boys--a-calling out anything?" he asks.
"No, Jim."
"Nothing about--a accident?"
"No, Jim. Has there been one?"
"There's been--another smash-up--on our line. A lot o' people--hurt--badly. I saw some of 'em. It made me sick."
He takes the fork, and plays with it nervously. A look of apprehension flashes into Mrs. Podmore's eyes as she notices his agitation, and she asks, with white lips,
"It wasn't your doing, Jim, was it? Don't say it was your doing!"
"No, it wasn't my doing," he answers; but he evidently takes it to heart almost as much as if he had been to blame.
"It's bad enough, Jim," said Mrs. Podmore, relieved of her fear; "but it would ha' been worse if you was to blame. It ain't your fault?"
"It ain't my fault--no; but it might ha' been--it might ha' been. It warn't his fault, either."
"Whose, then, Jim?"
"Whose?" he exclaims. "When a lot o' directors--works a feller--till he's--dead beat--till blue lights--and green lights--and red lights--dances afore his eyes--and he don't know what is real--and what is fancy--is he to be made--accountable? Dick Hart--him as had the accident--wouldn't lift his finger--agin man or child--and now he's killed--two or three--and 'll be made--accountable. I never saw--such a face--as his'n--to-night--when the people that was hurt--was brought in. It was as white--as a bit o' chalk. He was hurt as much as them. There was a child among 'em--a little girl"--(his voice breaks here, and his eyes wander to Pollypod)--"they didn't know what--was the matter with her. She breathed--and that was all. Dick Hart--(he's got a little girl hisself, mother--and he wouldn't lift his finger--agin any man)--Dick Hart--he trembles--and cries--when he sees the little thing--a-laying so still--and he whispers to a mate--as how he wishes--some one--'d come and strike him dead--where he stands. As he says this--the little thing's mother--runs in wild-like--and cries, 'Where's the man--as killed my child?' And Dick Hart runs away--on the platform--and jumps on to the rails--scared and mad--and if he hadn't been stopped--would ha' made away--with hisself--somehow. But they stopped him--in time--and brought him back. Another minute--and he'd ha' been cut to pieces--by a train--that was coming in. They had to keep--tight hold on him; for when he was in the room agin--and saw the little girl's--mother--on her knees by the child--he fell a-trembling--and looked more like a animal--than a man."
"What will they do to him, Jim?"
"The Lord knows! The law's pretty sharp--on us--for don't you see, old woman, the public's got to be protected. Lord save us! As if it was our fault! As if it was us!--the public's got to be--protected from! It's a pretty how-do-you-do--altogether, that's what it is."
"I pity his wife as much as him," says Mrs. Podmore, with all a woman's sympathy.
"Sheisto be pitied. She's near her confinement, too--poor creature!--and Dick, he's out of a billet now--and hasn't got anything--put by. I tell you what it is, old woman--it's hard lines--that's what it is--hard lines!"
"But the Company'll see to her, Jim, surely!"
"Will they!" exclaims Jim bitterly. "The Company'll pay you--pretty regular--while you work--and 'll work you--pretty hard--while they pay you;--that's what the Company'll do. You'd think--knowing, as they know--that Dick Hart's got a wife as is near her confinement--and knowing, as they know--that Dick Hart's wages is just enough to keep him and her--and his little girl--and that it's next to impossible--he could lay anything by--for a rainy day--you'd think, old woman--that now Dick's in trouble--the Company'd pay him his wages--till he got out of it! Catch 'em at it! That's not the Company's game. Their game is--when an accident occurs--to make out--that they're not accountable--and responsible--and that they're the victims--not us, or the public. The Company'll see to--Dick's wife--will they, old woman! Where's my pipe?"
He has it in his hand, but is so engrossed in his theme that he does not know it, and Mrs. Podmore quietly takes it from him, and fills it. In truth there is another cause for Jim's agitation--a cause which he dare not speak of, which he scarcely dare think of, as he puffs away at his pipe. But it comes upon him, despite his reluctance to entertain it, and fills him with terrible fear. This very night he himself had a narrow escape from an accident. He was very tired, and even as he stood waiting to shift the points for an expected train, he fell into a dose. For how long he did not know--a second, a minute, or many--but he was suddenly aroused by a furious whirl of sound. It was the train approaching. In a very agony of fear, he rushed and adjusted the points. Just in time, thank God! Half a dozen seconds more, and it would have been too late. No one but he knew of the narrow escape of the passengers, yet the anguish of that one almost fatal moment will remain with him for many a year.
It is with him now, as he smokes, and it remains with him during the night, as he holds his darling Pollypod in his arms, and thinks what would become of her if one night, when he was dead-beat, he should fall asleep again on his watch, and not wake up until it was too late. Then the fancy comes upon him that the little girl who was hurt in the accident, and who lay like dead, was something like Pollypod; and he shivers at the thought, and holds his darling closer to his breast.
Pollypod is awake very early in the morning, and while her mother is lighting the fire, and preparing breakfast for Jim, who has to be at his post at half-past five, she tells her father all about the adventures of the previous day. He listens in delight, and when she comes to the part where Felix gave her the flowers, he says, "Felix is a gentleman;" but Pollypod whispers, "No, he is a wizard;" and tells of the ship and the Doll and the Captain, and speaks in such good faith, that Jim is troubled in his mind, and thinks, "That all comes along of my stupidity about my ship coming home! Polly'll break her heart if she doesn't get the Doll." Jim cannot afford to buy one; he is in the same boat as Dick Hart, and has not been able to put anything by for a rainy day. He thinks that the very happiest thing that could occur to him would be to pick up a sovereign as he goes to his work. "If some swell'd only drop one now," he thinks absurdly, "and I was to drop across it as I walk along!"
When he is dressed and has had his breakfast, and stands by the bedside kissing Pollypod before he goes, she makes him put some flowers in the button-hole of his greasy old fustian jacket.
"Now you look like Felix," she says,
As Jim walks to his work, with the bright sun shining on him, he looks anxiously along the pavements of the quiet streets in the ridiculous hope that some swell had dropped a sovereign, and that it might be his luck to come across it. But no such good fortune is his, and he wishes with all his heart that he had not put the notion of the ship in Pollypod's head.
This ship that is coming home is always a poor man's ship, and many a pretty conceit is woven out of it to gratify the poor man's child. It is always sailing over the seas, freighted with precious treasure, but it rarely reaches port. When it does, earth contains no greater happiness and delight.
The faithful dog, Snap, does not accompany his master on this morning. Pollypod had said to her father, "Leave Snap at home, father. I want to tell him something."
So Snap is left behind, unconscious of the precious secret that is about to be intrusted to him. Pollypod waits until mother is out of the room, and then, kneeling upon her bed in her night-dress, she sets Snap before her, and bids him listen. Snap, sitting gravely on his haunches, but with some difficulty, for the bed is all tumbled about, looks Pollypod straight in the face, with a serious demeanour worthy of the occasion. He receives the intelligence that Pollypod imparts to him with no other expressions of feeling than are contained in short barks, and blinks, and rollings backward when he loses his balance; but Pollypod finds this perfectly satisfactory, and tells him that he is to be sure to be fond of the Doll, and not to growl at her or be jealous of her. "For I'll love you all the same, Snap." Whereat Snap licks her face, and by that act vows fealty to the Doll.
The week that passes after her mother's funeral is by no means an unhappy one for Lily. A familiar voice and a familiar presence are gone, and she grieves naturally. But she derives much comfort from the restfulness and peacefulness of everything about her. The lodgers in the house make as little noise as possible, and Jim Podmore, as he goes down-stairs to his work in the early morning, treads as softly as his heavy boots will allow him, so that he shall not disturb her. She derives comfort also from Alfred's happier mood. The night after the funeral he comes home with a bright look in his face, and greets her with a kiss. With his arm round her waist, he draws her into her bedroom, and tells her that she mustn't mind if he has not been so affectionate to her lately as he ought to have been.
"I have had some troubles," he says, "and have been very unhappy, Lily. But now things look brighter. I'm going to love you more than ever. I'm going to do something grand by-and-by. You'll see! I'm not going to let you work much longer."
"O, but I don't mind it, Alf," she replies, with her arm round his neck.
"Ah, but it isn't right. I'm going to work for you. I know a way! You let me alone for knowing a thing or two. We'll have a better place than, this soon, and we'll go about a bit."
She listens to him with pleasure, in her innocence and trustfulness, and kisses him softly. Alfred is proud of her--proud of her beauty, proud of her gentleness and modesty--proud because she loves him and thinks all the world of him.
"I have made," he continues, "the best friend that any man ever had--the noblest-hearted fellow I had ever seen or heard of."
"O, I am glad of that, Alfred--I am glad of that! Who is it? He must be my friend too. Do I know him?"
Her thoughts turn to Felix as she asks the question, and an innocent joy warms her young heart.
"Do you know him!" he repeats gaily. "Do you know him, Puss! Why, of course you do! You don't need me to tell you who it is. You can guess--you do guess. There's only one--although he's only a new friend after all, now I come to think of it. But he's a man every inch of him. He gave a hundred and twenty pounds to a poor widow-woman who was left penniless! The week before last he paid a poor man's debts--the poor fellow had got into trouble somehow--and set him up in business again, and made him comfortable--all because he had a wife and children. What do you think of that, Lily?"
"A noble nature, indeed!" says Lily softly, sharing Alfred's enthusiasm, and wondering whether she shall ever see Felix again.
"And he thinks himself so wise" (Alfred says this with a light laugh) "that he's always being taken in."
"That's a pity, Alfred."
"O, but he don't mind; he can afford it, and likes it. If you knew what a friend he is to me! And I shouldn't wonder if it was for Somebody's sake—why, how you are trembling, Lily!"
"You speak so warmly of this good friend, Alfred, that I am filled with joy--for your sake, my dear, that you have found such a friend. And yet I wonder, and cannot understand it."
She almost whispers these last words. She has been carried away by Alfred's enthusiasm. Certainly, Felix's kindness and gentle bearing had made a great impression upon her, and her thoughts dwelt much upon him. But it was only yesterday that she first saw him. It is all so strange. Only yesterday! But it seems longer; it seems to her as if she has known him for a long, long time.
"So now you can guess who it is, Lily, can't you?"
"I think I can, dear, and I am very, very glad! Glad to find he is as good and noble as I believed him to be when I first saw him."
"And it isn't so long ago that we first knew him!"
"No, indeed, Alf dear--but yesterday!"
"It might be yesterday. Why, it was only last Saturday night--just five days ago--that he saw you home from the Royal White Rose."
The little hand that was caressing his neck slowly withdraws itself, and the flush of colour, that the excitement of the conversation had brought to the cheeks, dies rapidly away. Her hands now lie idly in her lap, her face is colourless, her eyes are drooping to the ground. "You are speaking of"--she manages to say.
"Mr. Sheldrake, Puss! The noblest-hearted man in the world. You guessed at once--I saw it. Ah, Lily, that's a wise little head of yours!"
He takes the wise little head between his hands, and kisses her lips. She kisses him thoughtfully, and gazes at him with a steady sad light in her eyes.
"And he is such a good friend to you, Alf?"
"Haven't I told you!--and all, perhaps, for Somebody's—"
With a rapid motion, she places her fingers on his lips.
"And is really noble-hearted! And has done all these kind things!"
"All, and more, Lily. It is quite by accident I heard of these; for he is a queer character, and nothing displeases him so much as for people to speak to him about his kindness, or that they know it. He tries to show himself in quite a different light."
Lily is silent and very thoughtful for a little time after this, but she soon recovers, and her manner becomes brighter because Alfred's is so. A great weight seems to have been lifted from his mind, and he is more considerate of her than is usual with him. But she, in the unselfishness of her affection, does not notice this; it is because he is more cheerful that she is happier.
The next evening is Friday, and Pollypod and her mother have tea with Lily and her grandfather. Pollypod, of course, is engrossed by one subject. She has the fullest faith in Felix, but as the end of the week is very near, she is very curious about the Captain. She wants to know so much--what a Captain is like; how the Captain will find the house; whether the Captain will know her, and know that the Doll is for her. Every knock and ring at the street-door makes her heart beat loud and fast, and during the last two days she has tired out her little legs by running up and down-stairs to see if the Captain is at the door. Mrs. Podmore is not so sanguine. She tries to prepare Pollypod for disappointment, but nothing can shake the child's faith. He was the nicest-spoken gentleman (said Mrs. Podmore to Lily, in confidence) that she has ever set eyes on. But Lord love you! he only told Pollypod the story out of the goodness of his heart. He was as good as gold, that he was; the way he carried Pollypod upstairs was a sight to see; but all he wanted to do was to amuse the child, bless him! What did he know of dolls, a gentleman like him? But Mrs. Podmore does not win Lily over to her view of the question, for Pollypod has also made a confidante of Lily, and she in her heart of hearts believes that Felix will make the child a present of a doll.
"Not such a handsome one as you say, Polly." says Lily to her; "but a nice one, I daresay."
"You'll see--you'll see," is all that Pollypod says in reply. "I wish it was to-morrow! I wish it was to-morrow!"
But although she wishes it were to-morrow, she looks out for the Captain to-night, and listens to every footfall on the stairs. But the night passes, and to-morrow comes, and still no Captain. As twilight comes on, Pollypod's excitement is so great that Mrs. Podmore declares she is afraid the child will work herself into a fever. So Lily proposes that Pollypod shall come and sit with her and her grandfather, and Mrs. Podmore consents, all the more willingly because she wants to clean up for Sunday. Pollypod is glad to go down to the first-floor, for she will be nearer to the street door. They sit at the window, the three of them, Polly in Lily's lap, with all her heart in her ear. Knocks come, and rings, but not one of them heralds the Captain or the Doll. Lily believes in the Doll, but not in the Captain; Pollypod believes in both.
"If he doesn't come, Polly," says old Wheels, "I'll make you a doll, on wheels."
"He's sure to come! he's sure to come!" exclaims Pollypod.
But twilight deepens, and the hope grows fainter. Pollypod's face is on Lily's neck, and Lily feels the tears welling from the child's eyes. Lily begins to feel sorry, also; sorry for more reasons than one. Mrs. Podmore is busy upstairs, scrubbing the room; Sunday is a day of rare, enjoyment to her and her small family. Old Wheels is on the point of suggesting that they shall light the lamp, when a knock comes at the street-door--a strange knock. Not a single knock for the first-floor, not two deliberate knocks for the second-floor, nor three for the third; but a rat-tat-tat, with a flourish which might be intended for some person in this humble house who has distinguished friends in the upper circles of society. Some one--never mind whom--opens the door and a step that none of them recognises is on the stairs. Pollypod jumps from Lily's lap, but Lily retains her hand. The man lingers on the first landing. It is dark, and he is evidently a stranger.
"Does Mrs. Podmore live here?" he asks of Nobody, in a loud voice.
"Yes," answers Old Wheels, going to the door. "On the third-floor, but she's busy cleaning. What do you want of her?"
"I have brought something for her little girl."
"O, O!" cries Pollypod, and in her excitement Lily rises, and accompanies the child to the door. "Are you a Captain?"
"Yes."
"What ship?" inquires Old Wheels, merrily for the child's sake, and nautically in honour of the visitor.
"The Fancy" replies the man in the dark.
"Come in," says Old Wheels; "the little girl you want is here."
And the Captain of the Fancy enters the room.
The Captain of the Fancy, coming out of the streets where there was little light, into a small room where there was less, could see nothing of the occupants but shadowy outlines, and had to take it for granted that he had brought himself to anchor in a friendly port. He appeared to have no doubt upon the point; but then it belonged to his profession to be as confident in danger as in safety, and to be able to steer amidst rocks with a bold heart. So, like a true seaman, he kept his own counsel. If he had any evidence to guide him to a satisfactory assurance other than his sense of sight might have afforded him, he did not show the acknowledgment of it. But there being no sun, he could not take an observation; the darkness in the room was like a fog at sea. He may have had other evidence; voices that were familiar to him may have been one. As on the ocean, when night usurps the place of day, and not an hour of the twenty-four brings a glimpse of sunlight, peculiar murmurings of the solemn waters whisper to the skilful ear warning of danger or assurance of safety. But what familiar voices could he have heard in this humble room of crowded Soho, seeing that he was Captain of the Fancy, and just come ashore? And yet he seemed to consider himself quite at home, although he and those in whose presence he found himself could not distinguish each other's faces.
He had a gruff and kindly voice had the Captain of the Fancy, and he wore rough blue trousers, and a rough pea-jacket, and a rough cap. But notwithstanding that everything about him outwardly was as rough as rough could be, it is not unreasonable to assume that he had a kind heart and a gentle spirit. Otherwise, he would scarcely have been here on his present errand, where there was no freight charges to receive--nothing but the overflowing gratitude of a poor little child, who had never had a doll, and who lived contentedly upon the thought of one, for a long, long time past. Insubstantial payment this, but evidently sufficient in the Captain's eyes, as his conduct proved. He could not have been more in his element on the ocean than he showed himself in this dark room, in which he had set foot for the first time on this summer evening.
It was a peaceful evening, and everything in the narrow street was in harmony with it. The window of the room in which he stood was open, and there were flowers on the sill. There were flowers also on other window-sills in the street, in pots and boxes; and he saw on the opposite side, in a room which was lighted up, a woman covering a bird-cage, in which doubtless a pet canary sang during the day. Harmonious influences these: a weird contrast which was to be found in a labyrinth of curiously-shaped thoroughfares a few hundred yards away, in a very tangle of dwarf streets and alleys, where the glare of light dazzled the eye and bewildered the senses. A strange scene indeed, but so frequent and common in the great City as to possess no novelty to the accustomed gaze; affording no food for reflection to any but those whose hearts are in their eyes. Poor people were there in shoals, bargaining and eking out their poor means to the best advantage: trucks and barrows, filled with the commonest and meanest necessaries of life, so choked the spaces as to render straight walking an impossibility. Hoarse voiced men were bawling out inducements to intending purchasers, who stood debating and reckoning up before making the bold plunge. Some of the barrows were presided over by pale-faced women, as nervous anxious-looking as many of the timid ones who bargained for their wares. Here, a foreigner, having made his purchase, hurried away with hanging head, as if what was hidden beneath his coat was something to be ashamed of, or was so precious that it needed swift lodgment in his garret before he could consider it safe. Here lingered a hungry man, looking and longing, or a cunning beggar who, by the counterfeit misery on his face, drew pence and halfpence from others needier than himself. But what was given was given ungrudgingly and with earnest sympathy. Here stood an old man and a little girl with a basket on her arm. The old man was sliding some coppers and two or three small pieces of silver in the palm of his hand, calculating what it would buy for the Sunday dinner, and the girl was looking up into his face with a pleasant light in her eyes; a light which it was not hard to see often warmed the old man's heart. He was a long time before he decided; and when he had made up his mind, the foolish fellow jeopardised Monday's necessities by purchasing a picture-book and a bunch of flowers for his little granddaughter, Commerce, as represented in the market, did not show to advantage. It was a shabby and second-hand institution; from the damaged fruit and vegetables (which wore a frayed appearance) to the old clothes, patched and mended, and the second-hand boots and shoes (should it not be second-foot), with an excruciating polish on them, like paint on the cheeks of age, to hide the ravages of time. Art was not neglected; for here was a second-hand bookstall, and here an inverted open umbrella, the interior of which was lined with prints and engravings torn from old books, marked up at "a penny apiece, and take your choice." The roar of voices from this busy mart came to the Captain's ears, subdued and, sounding like the soft lapping of the sea, added to the peacefulness of the quiet street.
How it was that Lily's grandfather asked "What ship?" when the stranger announced himself as a Captain, he could not have explained. But it may be rightly surmised that it was prompted by his sympathy with Pollypod, and by his gladness that she was not to be disappointed. When Lily heard the Captain's voice--which most surely have been unfamiliar to her, it was so gruff--she relinquished Pollypod's hand, and softly went to her seat. There are some moments which are very precious to us; now and again in our lives visions of pure happiness come, and, indistinct and undefinable as they are, we forget all else for the time; and with awe and gladness resign ourselves to influences which fill the present with peace and joy. Such times are the stars in our life's record, and the memory of them never dies.
Pollypod, standing by the Captain's side, exclaimed with tearful joy,
"I'm the little girl."
"And I'm the Captain."
"I knew you would come!" (Her voice was so full and rich, that it was a pleasure to hear it.) "Felix said you would, and he saw you such a long way off. Youhavebrought her!"
"Yes, here she is in my arms, little one. Dressed."
"In what?"
"Mauve silk, I think she told me."
"O!"
A volume of words could not have expressed more.
"Hold hard!" cried the Captain, as he heard the scraping of a match against a box, and guessed that it was intended to light up. "Let us talk in the dark a bit."
He knew that there were two persons, an old man and a little girl, present besides himself, and the momentary flash of the match, as it was drawn across the sand-paper, did not reveal to him a third, for Lily was sitting in the darkest shadow of the room, and he was not looking that way. The old man readily assented to the proposition to talk in the dark a bit, and the shadows of the peaceful summer night lay about the room undisturbed. But the Captain appearing to consider that his proposition was too abruptly made, and scarcely justifiable, he being a stranger and almost an intruder, added immediately,
"That is, if you have no objection, and if you will pardon me for suggesting it."
"No apology is necessary," replied the old man, "from one accredited as you are, and coming on such an errand."
"It's a Captain's fancy," said the stranger.
"And it's yours by right, as Captain of the Fancy," observed the old man, in a gentle and courteous tone.
"You are kind enough to say so. Of all the hours of the twenty-four, I love that the most during which the day steals away to the other side of the world. There's no time at sea so pleasant as night, when it is fine and balmy, as this summer's night is, and when you can look over the bulwarks into the water, and see it wake into living light as the ship sails on. Then, when the moon rises, the heavens, as well as the water, are filled with glory; though, for the matter of that, they are always filled with natural beauty, whether it is dark or light."
He spoke like a sailor, heartily though gruffly, and it almost seemed as if the salt of the sea had got into his voice, and had given it a flavour. So the old man thought evidently, and thought the flavour was of the pleasantest (but there could be no mistaking that), for he encouraged the Captain to proceed by asking,
"How's the moon to-night, Skipper?"
Thus showing that he had read of the sea, or at some time of his life had travelled on it.
"'Tis a few days old, and soon we shall see it, pure and clear and bright--like truth, like modesty, like virtue, like the heart of an innocent maid, like anything that is good."
Almost a poet as well as a Captain. But what else could be expected from one who commanded the good ship Fancy? The old man rubbed his hands in satisfaction, and being drawn still closer to the newcomer by the sympathy that dwells in kindly natures, farther encouraged him by remarking,
"You know all about the moon, Skipper?"
"Not all, but something--sufficient for my purpose; and about the stars also. I ought to, for they're the sailor's friends."
"Yes," responded the old man; "they are nearer to sailors than to us. They are more than visible signs at sea; they are testimony. On land, we glance at them carelessly, regardless of their beauty and of the lessons they teach. I never travelled much myself, but a generation ago I knew one—"
Here, however, the old man paused, as if he were being drawn on by the attractiveness of the theme to speak at greater length than he deemed proper, or as if this were not the right time to relate personal experiences. But the Captain of the Fancy said, in a tone of the deepest interest,
"Proceed, sir, I pray. You knew one—"
--"Who passed an adventurous life, and who, being wrecked, floated on a spar on the wild seas for three days and three nights, being happily picked up then by a passing vessel. What you said just now about the stars brought him to my mind. He was alone, and but for the stars, which were like companions to him, he would have relinquished his hold of the spar, and bade good-bye to life. 'Hope on,' the stars said to him; 'Do not despair. You are not forsaken.' The sight of them gave him courage to persevere and to suffer; and they taught him the lesson that, however lonely, however forsaken, however utterly wretched a man may be in the world, the future contains for him a revelation in which there is much goodness and sweetness. Which is surely true. For this beautiful world, with all its wonders, was not made in vain; and we, the highest form of intelligence it contains, have not played out the parts allotted to us when the curtain drops upon our lives. The poet says truly that the grave is not the goal of life, and only the utterly selfish man can believe that it is the be-all and the end-all. This friend of mine was almost a sceptic before he had the good fortune to be wrecked; but the stars taught him differently. They instilled a kind of faith into him. If a dark night had come, when he could not have seen his consolers, he might have despaired. But he was saved, happily. You say right. The stars are the sailor's friends."
Pollypod found this dialogue so entrancing, that, eager as she was to ask questions, she did not interrupt it. Taking advantage now of the pause that followed, she asked of the Captain,
"How did you find us out?"
"Very easily, my lass; my friend Felix directed me."
"Where is Felix?"
"You will see him soon. Did you think I was not coming?"
"I knew you would come. I told Snap so, and everybody. Are you Felix's brother?"
"No, my lass. What makes you think so?"
"You speak like Felix, and yet your voice is different. Where have you been to with your ship?"
"The Fancy sails all over the world, and under it, and in the middle of it, for that matter."
"I want to know! How can a ship do all that?"
"My ship can, and does, little one."
"Are you a wizard, then, as well as Felix?" asked the pertinacious little maid, who was in her glory, asking questions, and nursing the doll, which was enveloped in silver tissue paper.
"Being Captain of the Fancy, I may say, Yes. Else how could I see into the heart of a little girl when I was so many miles away, and how could I know that she was waiting and hoping and hoping that father's ship would come home?"
Then, to please the child, the Captain told of some wondrous voyages he had made in the Fancy; spoke of mermaids and coral reefs, and wonderful lands across the seas, where it was always summer. According to his reckoning, life contained no sorrow; and "O, how I should like to be there! O, how I should like to see!" murmured Pollypod, as the bright pictures were presented to her young mind. Even the old man, who had tasted the bitterest of experiences, listened approval to the utterings of the Captain of the Fancy, divining, perchance, the motive which prompted them. Lily said not a word; but when the Captain came to the end of one of the prettiest flights of the Fancy, Pollypod exclaimed, with enthusiasm,
"O Lily! isn't it beautiful!"
Whereupon, singular to say, the Captain's eloquence suddenly deserted him. Somewhat of an awkward silence followed; broken by the old man asking, in an amused voice, whether Pollypod did not want to see her doll. The child answering, "Yes, yes!" eagerly, the old man lit the lamp. They all looked with curiosity at the Captain, who, however, had found something exceedingly interesting in the street, and as he was looking out of window, they could see only his back. When he turned to them, as he could not help doing presently, he had a very red face; yet there was a sly gleam of humour in his eyes as he advanced to the old man and said,
"It was only for Pollypod's amusement, and for my own selfish pleasure, that I sailed under false colours, sir. I did not expect to find myself here."
Unwinding a large handkerchief which was round his neck, and which partially hid his face, he presented himself to them in his proper colours. When Pollypod discovered that Felix and the Captain were one, her delight may be imagined. She ran out of the room, and called her mother excitedly, and then ran back and jumped into Felix's arms, forgetting even her doll for the moment. Mrs. Podmore coming down-stairs, and being informed of the part that Felix had played, said aside to Lily, in a tone of complete admiration, "Well, I never! But it's just like him.Inever saw such a gentleman in all my born days!"
The old man shook hands with Felix, and bade him heartily welcome, and Lily also in her gentle manner, and in two or three minutes they were as much at home together as if they had known each other all their lives. Then came the important ceremony of unwrapping the doll, and revealing its glories. Its reputation as the most beautiful doll that ever was seen was firmly established in a moment. Pollypod gazed at it in mute ecstacy, and worshipped the giver with all her heart and soul. The great longing of her life was satisfied, and she was supremely happy. She was allowed by her mother to sit up later than usual in honour of Felix; but the excitement of the day proved too much for her, and after a little while she fell asleep with the doll in her arms.
The others sat by the window, and the old man and Felix, finding in each other much that was congenial, talked unreservedly of many matters. It seemed to be tacitly understood that the painful incidents which had occurred on the day of the funeral should not be spoken of, and no reference was therefore made to them. Lily took but little part in the conversation; she sat and listened with a soul in harmony with everything about her. It was very seldom that her grandfather had the opportunity of enjoying a quiet hour with a nature which so nearly resembled his own. Both he and Felix evidently loved to look at common things from almost an ideal point of view, and the most ordinary matters, as they conversed upon them, were occasionally invested with bright bits of colour which matter-of-fact and prosaic minds would have utterly failed to see. Only once was Lily's mother referred to; the reference arose from a remark made by Felix concerning the singular peculiarity in the room that nearly everything was on castors. The old man explained that it originated from his daughter's sickness.
"Every little noise fretted her," he said, "and as I had learnt turning in my young days, I amused myself by making small wheels to whatever I laid hands on, so that it could be moved about without noise. It was not quite an idle whim, therefore; it has occupied my time, which otherwise would have hung heavily, and I have really grown to believe that it could be made to serve many useful purposes. The man who first conceived the idea of a wheel was a great benefactor. Civilization," he added, with a pleasant laugh, "would be at a standstill without its wheel."