One thing leading to another, in the course of conversation they found themselves conversing upon deeper than mundane matters. They had been talking of the comparative value of creeds, and the old man said,
"Faith is everything. So long as a man believes--if his belief be associated with anything that is pure and good in itself--it matters little what it is. To me it is the worst kind of arrogance, the worst kind of intolerance, for a man to say, 'Believe as I believe, or you are lost.'"
"And those who don't believe?" suggested Felix.
"Degrade themselves. We are but part of a system, they say, and we live and wither and die like birds and beasts and plants. Our parts being played out, we perish utterly, and make room for others. Do they ever consider that man is the only form of life which seems to be capable of improvement--that only man advances, improves, discovers, acquires, and that all other things in Nature are the same now as they were in the beginning? That the sun rises as in the olden time; that the seasons are the same; that all forms of vegetable life show no change in all these centuries; that beasts make their lairs as of yore, and birds their nests,--that all these, according to the laws of nature, are sufficient for and in themselves, and that of all the wonders that fill the earth, man is the only one that thinks, aspires, thirsts to know, and conquers?"
In this strain they talked until nearly midnight. Long before their talk was over, Pollypod had been taken to bed so fast asleep, that she could not even wake to kiss Felix. She smiled as he kissed her, and Mrs. Podmore thrilled with joy as she gazed, in thankful, full-hearted admiration, on the beautiful face of her child as she lay in her arms. Unclouded happiness rested in Polly's face, and rested also in the hearts of all present, old and young.
Being thrown upon his own resources, Felix employed his time in looking about him--not in the most industrious fashion, it must be confessed, but after the manner of one who was entirely independent of the world, and who had merely to make up his mind which of the many good things by which he was surrounded would be most suitable to a young gentleman in his position. The weapons with which he was armed to fight the battle into which he had thrown himself were trustfulness, simplicity, and faith in human nature. These weapons are good enough, in all conscience, in themselves; but we are not content, nowadays, as we were of old, to fight a fair fight, man to man. Torpedoes and other infernal weapons have come into fashion; and a man, unless he be crafty, has but a small chance of victory when he throws down his glove.
One of the first things Felix did when he came into London to conquer it was to make himself comfortable. He established himself in a capital hotel not half a mile from Soho, so as to be near his friends; for it may be truly said that the only friends he had in London lived in the little house in Soho inhabited by the Podmores, and the Gribbles, and Lily and her grandfather. He found plenty of excuses for going there often: Gribble junior was an umbrella maker, and Felix's umbrella was so continually out of repair, that it became quite a source of revenue to the bustling frame mender.
"What! another rib gone!" Gribble junior would say, with a look of astonishment, not suspecting that Felix had broken it purposely, so that he might have an excuse for calling at the house in the middle of the day; "it'd be cheaper to buy a new one, sir."
But Felix protested that he would on no account part with so old a friend; and the repairs continued to be made, until not a particle of the original structure was left. There was no necessity for these small subterfuges on Felix's part, for after a time he was always welcome in that house, and his happiest hours were spent there. They all liked him; and as for Pollypod, her mother declared, in the pleasantest of voices, that she was as jealous as jealous could be, her little girl was that fond of him! All this was very agreeable, and Felix decided that his new career had commenced in the most satisfactory manner. His training had not been of such a nature as to cause him to value money, or to be careful of it; and while he had it in his purse, he spent it freely. He did not do so from recklessness, but from a largeness of nature (although he himself would have disputed it warmly and with a quaint logic), in the light of which small matters of feeling were ridiculously magnified, and the world's goods dwindled down to insignificant proportions. Therefore, while he had he spent; and it was fortunate for him that his tastes and desires were simple and easily satisfied, for he grudged himself nothing. The present being amply provided for, he had no fears and no anxiety for to-morrow. His nature was one which it was easy to impose upon, and he did not escape the snares set in the public thoroughfares for liberal hearts. The piteous eyes and faces of beggars that were raised to his appealingly were never raised in vain. When he was told that these were part of a trade, he refused to believe. Arrows tipped with doubts of human goodness glanced from off his generous nature, and left no wound behind. And yet, as will be seen, he was keen enough in some matters concerning which men who knew infinitely more of the world than he (priding themselves upon it) were blind. Speaking upon the subject to Lily's grandfather, the old man said,
"If you thought a man who begged of you was an impostor, you would not give."
"I don't know that," replied Felix. "I am selfish enough to think I should."
The old man smiled at this reference to one of Felix's pet theories.
"It does not so much concern them as me," continued Felix, with sly gleams. "I give to please myself. Is not that a selfish motive? Not to give would be to deprive myself of a gratification. I say to myself sometimes, almost unconsciously (but the sentiment which prompts it belongs to my nature, or I should not have the thought), 'Bravo, Felix! that was a good thing to do. You are not a bad fellow.'"
The old man was amused at this.
"The thought comes afterwards," he said.
"But it comes," insisted Felix, as if determined to deprive the kind promptings of his nature of grace--"it comes, and that is enough. It is an investment. I give away a penny, and receive the best of interest. Pure selfishness, upon my word, as is every other action of our lives. But apart from this, I don't believe that these men and women are not in want."
"Ah, well," said the old man, looking in admiration at the animated face of Felix; "it is better to trust than doubt. Suspicion ages the heart, and robs life of bright colour."
Satisfied that he was spending his time profitably, Felix found life very enjoyable. He did not trouble himself about the past; the world was before him, and he was observing, and studying, and preparing himself to open his oyster. His hotel was in the Strand, and he soon became well acquainted with the phases of life presented in that locality. The streets were so full of life, and there was so much to see. The shops; the theatres; the conveyances the streams of people flowing this way and that, a few smiling as they walked, some idling, some talking eagerly to themselves, unconscious of the surging life through which they make their way--each man perfectly engrossed in his own personality, each a world, the secret ways of which were known only to himself. He was soon quite familiar also with the singular variety of street-shows which can there be seen daily. With the broad-shouldered, frizzly-haired Italian with his monkeys, residents of Short's-gardens, where probably the dumb brutes are not so tenderly treated as strangers, who see them hugged to their master's breast as he walks along, might suppose them to be. With another monkey also, a poor little creature, who, being pulled this way and that by a chain attached to its master's wrist, capers on the pavement (generally at night) to the dismal moaning of an organ, upon whose grinder's face a ghastly smile for ever sits, suggesting the idea that it must have been carved upon his features in infancy. With the melancholy-looking, straight-haired young man who plays operatic selections upon the spout of a coffee-pot and through the nozzle of a bellows, and who selects the widest of the side thoroughfares for his entertainment, seldom commencing until a perfect ring of admirers and curiosity-mongers is formed, and who, while his island is being made, stands with an air of proud humility, as who should say, "I am the only and original player upon the spout and nozzle in the kingdom; all others are counterfeit." With the inconceivably-maniacal Swiss quartette, who shout and caper, and produce hideous sounds from throat and windbag. With the Mongolian impostor who sits upon a doorstep, uttering never a word, with a look upon his face as of one suddenly stricken with fatal disease. With the poor miserable woman, whose thought may soar upwards, but whose eyes never see the sun, for her body is literally bent in two, who creeps almost daily along the Strand; and with many other forms of beggary, even less attractive than these.
What Felix saw in the streets were not his only studies; he read the newspapers carefully, and not seldom was he amazed at the inequality of things. He found it difficult to understand how, in one shape, a certain thing was held up for public censure and condemnation, while in another shape precisely the same thing (in a worse form perhaps) was quietly tolerated, and even admired. As thus: He read in the papers from time to time accounts of proceedings taken against the publishers and venders of a weekly illustrated sheet, against which it was charged that it contained objectionable pictures. When he saw the illustrations he at once acquiesced in the justice of the proceedings, and decided in his own mind that they pandered to the worst taste, and were calculated to do much harm. But looking in many of the shop windows in the locality of the Strand, he saw pictures infinitely worse in the effect they would be likely to produce than those which were published in the objectionable paper. The portraits and full-length pictures of nearly naked women, taken in every attitude that the lascivious imagination could suggest, and paraded conspicuously in these windows for public admiration, were worse, in their insidious badness, than anything that Holywell Street ever produced. There was no disguise of what are called "female charms" in the pictures; they were displayed to their fullest extent to feed the sensual taste, and neither art nor any useful purpose was served by these degrading exhibitions. On the contrary; they tended to mislead, in their incongruous mixture of worth and shamelessness. For here was an actor deservedly popular; here was a courtesan, deservedly notorious; here was a statesman and a poet, whose names add lustre to the history of the times in which they live; between them a shameless woman, bold and lewd, and almost naked; aboveher, a princess, worthily loved, with her baby on her back, clasping the mother round her neck--a picture which the poorest wife in England feels the happier for looking at, so much of homely love and wifely virtue and sisterly kinship does it suggest; while below was paraded the painted face of a wanton, whose name is shame. In one window of a semi-religious kind, in which the frequenters of the May meetings at Exeter Hall might be supposed to gaze without fear of contamination, the very worst of these lewd pictures were displayed in the company of Bibles, and Prayer Books, and Church Services; an association which, by any sophistry, could not have been proved to be a good one.
In the study of these and other matters Felix found the time pass rapidly away. Something else passed rapidly away also--his money. Calling for his hotel-bill one day, he found that, after paying it, he would have scarcely twenty pounds left. This set him thinking. If he continued to live in the hotel, he might not be able to pay his next bill, and the dishonour attaching to such a contingency caused him to resolve to adopt a more modest mode of living. The gravity of the position made him serious, but not for long. His idle days were gone--well, he was glad of it; he was tired of idleness, and longed to be up and doing. "If I were a rich man," he thought, "and could not get work without paying for it, I'd pay for it willingly, rather than be idle." Yes, it was time for him to set to work. He would first take lodgings in some cheap neighbourhood, and there he would look things straight in the face. It is amazing what comfort is found in metaphor, until the time for action arrives. In making this resolution Felix worked himself into such a state of excitement that he really believed he had already commenced life in earnest. At first he thought of Soho, but very slight reflection induced him to forego the temptation of living in the neighbourhood of Lily. "Whatever struggles I have," he thought, "I will keep to myself." Chance directing his steps to Vauxhall, he saw there numbers of bills in the windows announcing rooms to let. Seeing a decent-looking woman with a baby in her arms standing at the door of a house in which there was a first-floor to let, he spoke to her, and asked for particulars. The rent for sitting-room and bedroom was very moderate, he found. Upon inquiry he learned that there were other lodgers in the house, that indeed it was filled with lodgers. The landlady and her husband lived in the basement; a married couple occupied the parlours; and four or five persons, perfectly independent of each other, lived on the second and third floors. "You'll find us very quiet, sir," the landlady said, looking with an eye of favour upon Felix, and wondering why so smart a young gentleman as he should desire to live in that poor neighbourhood, "and you'll have no call to complain of the attendance." Felix, perfectly satisfied, pinched the baby's cheek, paid the first week's rent in advance, and received his latch-key. It was characteristic of him that when he left the hotel he was as liberal to the attendants as if he had been a gentleman of independent property.
When he was settled in his new lodgings, he bethought himself of his promise to Martha Day, his father's housekeeper, to let her know his address in London. He had written to her from his hotel, and had heard from her there. As he wrote now, he thought, "If Martha knew how poor this neighbourhood is, she would guess the reason of my moving; but she cannot know much of London, and will not be able to learn anything from the address." He wrote his letter, and went out in the afternoon with the intention of posting it. But wandering about in idle humour he forgot it, and at about nine o'clock in the evening he found himself at his street-door with the letter still in his pocket. He was about to put his latch-key into the lock when he remembered the letter, and he was turning away, thinking how stupid he was to be so forgetful, when the door opened from within, and the very woman in his thoughts passed swiftly into the street. Martha Day! To see her in London, away from his father's house, with whose gloom her own joyless gloomy manner was so thoroughly in unison that they might have been deemed inseparable, would have been surprise enough in itself; but to see her there, in that house, so suddenly and strangely, was so great a surprise that for a moment he thought he had seen an apparition. When the first shock of the surprise was over, he looked after the woman, and saw her turn the corner of the street. Then he knew that he was not mistaken--it was Martha Day he had seen. He hurried after her, intending to speak to her; but when he turned the corner, he could not see her, and although he ran hither and thither, he could find no trace of her. Strangely perplexed, he walked slowly back to the house. Perhaps she had come there to see him--but how could she know he lived in that house, having been in it only a few hours? He questioned the landlady, but she could not enlighten him. She had seen no particular woman pass in or out of the house. There were so many lodgers, you see, sir, that all sorts of strange people come in and out. Had any inquiry been made for him? he asked. No; how could there be, was the reply, when the landlady didn't know his name? That was true enough; he had not given his name when he paid the week's rent in advance. Then he described Martha Day--her face with no trace of colour in it, her eyes nearly always cast down, her hands nearly always hidden, her black dress and bonnet--and asked if the landlady knew her. No, the landlady never remembered to have seen her; and when Felix went up-stairs to his room, the landlady thought it was singular that he should be so anxious about the woman--and not a young woman either, according to his description, she added mentally.
Felix in his room re-opened the letter he had written to Martha, read it carefully, and put on his considering-cap. But the more he thought the more he was perplexed. "She cannot have come here for me," he thought; "and she cannot have come here without a purpose. If I write to her from this address, it may disturb her, or cause her annoyance in some way." He tore up the letter, and wrote another, giving his address at a post-office in the locality. As he went down-stairs in the dark to post the letter, he brushed somewhat roughly against a lodger who had just entered the house, and something which the man carried in his hand dropped to the ground. It sounded like a bottle. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said Felix, groping in the dark for what had fallen; "I hope it is not broken. No; here it is." He handed a flat bottle to his fellow-lodger, who received it eagerly, and feeling with trembling fingers for the cork to assure himself that the liquor had not escaped, muttered humbly, "No offence, sir; no offence," and passed to his room.
Felix was in the humour to be irritated by trifles, and this small incident vexed him unreasonably. He was annoyed with himself for being vexed, but he could not shake himself into good-humour, and as, in his present mood, sleep was impossible, he walked along the Embankment and over Westminster Bridge towards Soho, and thence to the Royal White Rose Music-hall. It was in the full swing of prosperity, and the usual audience was present. Composed of pale-faced young men without whiskers, of fuller-fleshed and older men with much whisker, of boys sharply featured and men richly lipped, of young men naturally old, and old men artificially young; of work-girls and servant-girls, and other girls and other women. There were many hats of the kind called Alpine, with peacocks' feathers in them, of course; there were many overcoats with sham fur collars and cuffs; there was much cigar-smoking and whisky-drinking; and there was generally a large amount of low swelldom in a state of assertive rampancy. In a certain respect the audience resembled the audience which was assembled in Noah's Ark--there was a great deal of pairing. As Felix entered the music-hall, there came upon the stage a very stout and very short female vocalist, between thirty-five and fifty years of age, dressed in a gown which appeared to have been made out of faded bed-hangings. She was by no means attractive, having bad teeth and a peculiar habit of squeezing the corners of her eyelids, as if she had some nice things there which she wanted to keep all to herself. She sang a song, and there was no applause. Whereupon, the Chairman struck on his bell, and said she would oblige again. She obliged again. The audience did not seem to mind her, one way or another. She obliged a third time, and the refrain to her third song catching the sympathy of her hearers, she finally retired in triumph, and then the audience wanted to see her again, and she didn't come. Felix did not like to think of Lily in association with these things, and he walked away from the place in nowise soothed by his visit. Naturally light-hearted as he was, a strange sadness was upon him to-night, and whether it was by chance, or because his gloomier mood induced him to observe them more closely and take them to heart, the darker shadows of life forced themselves upon his attention; turn which way he would, he could not escape from them. He had just passed a throng of night-birds, dressed in gay plumage, when sounds of mirth arrested his attention, and he saw before him a child-girl, perhaps fifteen years of age, with blue ribbons in her hair, with mocking flowers in her brown hat, with a white cloud round her throat, with a green dress, and with a petticoat marvellously fashioned and coloured, staggering along drunk, swaying her body, waving her arms, and protesting with feeble imploring, even in the midst of her helpless degradation, against the gibes and laughter of a grinning mob. The men and women composing the mob laughed, and nudged each other in the ribs with a fine sense of humour, and made witty remarks, and winked and flashed their fingers at the girl, and pointed her out to chance acquaintances, and indulged in other expressions of delight at the piteous spectacle. An omnibus conductor jumped down to have a look, and jumped up again, refreshed; a man with waxed moustaches followed the girl with undisguised delight and admiration; a cab-driver stopped his horse, and laughingly pointed at the girl with his whip; a beggar stamped his curiously-clothed toes in approval as the mob scrambled past him; and a fair-haired girl smiled pleasantly to herself, and hugged her furs as she walked through the crowd. Not one stopped to pity; not one among them stepped forward to save the miserable drunken child-girl from the taunts and word-stings which were flung at her from all sides, until a policeman came, and, with a merciful harshness, seized the girl's arm, and pushed her before him to the police-station.
O! London's Heart! Laden with the sorrow of such lifeblood as this! What purifying influences can be brought to bear to lessen the pain that beats in every sob? In this great land, filled as it is with preachers social and political--in which every hour children are born to suffer, to grow up to shame and sorrow--can no medicine be found to cool your fevered blood, and no physicians, unselfish, wise, and merciful enough, and sufficiently regardless of the pomp of power, capable of administering it? Some few healers there are, who toil not in the light, and whose earnest lives are devoted to their work. Blessings on them, and on every heart that dictates benevolent remedy, even although it can only reach a few out of the many suffering! Blessings on the head that devises it, on the hand that administers it! You who walk through life wrapped in the cruel mantle of selfishness, heedless of the wails of your helpless brothers and sisters, stand aside; you who only heed your own comfort, your own ease, your own well-doing, who have no ointment for your neighbour's wounds, stand aside; let the gloom of night encompass you and hide your faces! But you whose hearts bleed at the sight of suffering, whose nerves quiver at the sound of it, whose hands are eager to relieve it, come into heaven's light, and let it shine upon you and the aureola which crowns you, in which every kind impulse that finds life in action gleams like a blessed star!
It was past midnight when Felix made his way to his lodgings. The humble streets through which he walked as he neared his home were not quite deserted. Night-birds were there also, but of a low degree; night-birds with soiled plumage and ragged feathers; night-birds whose voices grated upon the ear, like the harsh cawing of crows. High up, from dingy garret windows, glimmered pale gleams of light. What mysteries were being wrought within those chambers? How beat the pulse of London's Heart? What links in the greatness of the mighty city were there being woven? Perchance within sat some poor seamstress stitching for bread sleepily through the night, wearing--O, dreadful paradox!--wearing her life away so that she might live. Not fables, not legends of the past, are such life struggles--they are of to-day. Perchance within was hatching some crime, the execution of which would quicken for a day the pulse of the great City's Heart. Who knew or who could tell? Crime and patient endurance, purity and vice, are but divided by a narrow strip of wall, and none can see the mysteries that lie beneath a single roof but the sleepless Eye which shines above them all!
Congratulating himself upon the escape he had had of losing his precious liquor in his encounter with Felix on the stairs, Muzzy, hugging the bottle to his breast, mounted to the one room in the garret which formed his home. The room was not so dark that he could not see shadows on the walls, which as he opened the door seemed to be imbued with weird animation. His own shadow, as he stood in the centre of the room, assumed monstrous proportions, and covered one side of the wall and ceiling; there was something so threatening in it, and so dreadfully suggestive to the old man, that he hastened, with trembling fingers, to light a candle, still keeping the bottle hugged to his breast the while as tenderly as if it were human. The candle being lighted, he felt as if he had escaped some great danger, and his manner became more assured. Before laying the bottle on the mantelshelf, he looked at it wishfully, and uncorking it, was about to drink, when he closed his lips with a snap, and resisted the temptation. Taking off his hat, he produced from the interior a flower which was stuck in the lining for safety. This flower was evidently intended for a special purpose, which, had he needed any reminding, recurred to him as he looked round the room. It was very poorly furnished, containing merely a bed, two or three chairs, and a table. But everything was tidy and in its place. The bed was made, and the little piece of faded carpet in front of the fender had been newly swept and put straight. He opened a little cupboard, and saw the few pieces of crockery it contained set in their proper places. Indeed there was about the whole place an order and cleanliness one would scarcely have expected from the appearance of the owner.
"Good girl, good girl!" muttered Muzzy, as he noted these evidences of comfort; "there are few like her, I should say."
He went into the passage, and called, "Lizzie, Lizzie!" receiving no reply, however. He tapped at the door of the room next to the one he occupied, and after a moment or two turned the handle; put the door was locked. Disappointed, he returned to his own room, and wandered about it in a restless, uncertain manner, as if, being alone, he did not know what to do. Every now and then he came near to the bottle, and sometimes turned his head resolutely from it, and sometimes could not resist the temptation of gazing at it. "No," he said aloud once, as if answering some inward questioning or argument; "no; I promised Lizzie I wouldn't, and I won't. What is this?" He had laid the bottle on a piece of folded paper, containing a key. "The key of her room. Good girl, good girl!" He took his candle, and went into Lizzie's room. It was in every respect more comfortable than his own, although the furniture, with the exception of a smart little sewing-machine, was of the same humble kind. There were two or three cheap ornaments on the mantelshelf, the table could boast of a cover, and a carpet was laid down which nearly covered the floor. "She can't have gone out long," said Muzzy, who, having no one else to talk to, talked to himself, in defiance of an old-fashioned proverb not very complimentary to such self-communings. "She knew I would be home soon, and thought I should like to sit here." On the table were some needlework and a workbox, and behind the door hung a dress, which Muzzy touched with his hand, as the most civilising influence within his reach. A picture an the wall evidently possessed a fascination for him, and presently he sat gazing at it, dreamily. It was the picture of a woman's face, fair and comely, and the eyes seemed to follow his as he gazed; but the reflections raised by the contemplation were not pleasant ones, and he rose and walked about in the same restless, uncertain manner. Soon he was in his own room again, and the bottle was in his hand uncorked. "I could have kept from it if she had been here," he muttered; "but how can I when I am alone--alone?" He repeated the word two or three times with desolate distinctness. "Alone--alone--always alone until she came! What should I do if she went away? And she may--she may. That young fellow who comes to see her so often--who is he, who is he? I wish he was dead, I mustn't go into the room when he's there--Lizzie hasn't told me so, but I know I mustn't. And there they sit, laughing and talking—Laughing and talking! No, not always. He made her cry once; I heard her. I'll ask Lizzie who he is. If he wants to take her away, I'd like to kill him--secretly, secretly!" The feeble old man scowled as he said this, and mechanically took a glass from the cupboard, and poured some gin in it. But a restraining influence was upon him even then, and he did not immediately raise it to his lips. "I promised her I wouldn't," he said; "I swore I'd give it up. But how can I when I have no one to talk to? So old a friend too; so old a friend! I should have gone mad without it many a time. I'll take one drop--just one little drop. But she mustn't know--she mustn't know." Looking round warily, he, swiftly and with a secret air, drained the glass, and immediately afterwards endeavoured to assume an unconsciousness that he had broken his promise and his oath. But although presently he took a second draught in the same secret manner, it was evident that he could not quite satisfy his conscience, for he pushed the empty glass from him, retaining the bottle in his hand. "What made me buy it? I didn't intend to, and didn't intend to pass the public house; but I got there somehow, and I couldn't resist going in. It seemed to draw me to it. But it'll be my ruin, my ruin, my ruin! The governor said it would, and it will." As he sat there, battling with himself, his deeply-lined face and his thin hair straggling over his forehead, did he have no ambition, no aspiration, no hope, outside the walls of brick which formed his home? This Lizzie of whom he spoke was, according to his own showing, not an old friend. Had he any other link of love, or had other human affection quite died out of his life? It was hard to tell. It seemed that, but for this girl, to whom he was not linked by ties of blood, his life was colourless, purposeless. But every living breast contains a smouldering fire, and even to this old man, wreck as he was, a spark might come to kindle once more into a flame the fire that must have burned when he was young. Supposing him to have been bright and handsome in his youth--as he must have been, despite his worn and almost hopeless face--how, could he have seen it, would he have received a vision of the future which showed him truthfully what he was to be in years to come? A vision of some sort was upon him now, as, sitting with no purpose in his mind, he fell into a doze. From which, after the lapse of a few moments, which seemed to him hours, he awoke with a bewildered air, and looked about him, and listened wonderingly for voices which he might have heard in his dream, or as if the dead past had cast up its ghosts, and he had seen them. He saw something more tangible as he raised his eyes to the door, and recognised his governor, Mr. David Sheldrake. The bottle was still in Muzzy's hand, and he tried to put it out of sight as he rose to welcome his most unexpected visitor.
"Surprised to see me, eh, Muzzy!" exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake, in an easy tone.
"You're welcome, sir, you're welcome," said Muzzy, his looks contradicting his words. "Anything wrong, sir?"
"No, old man, don't be alarmed; there's nothing wrong."
Mr. Sheldrake was smartly dressed, and presented quite a gay appearance in his cut-away velvet coat and his cane and fashionable hat, and with his moustaches carefully curled. He did not remove his hat, but looked round upon the room and its poor furnishings superciliously, with the air of a suzerain; and looked also at Muzzy with more than usual interest.
"Will you take a seat, sir?" asked Muzzy humbly, and with inward trepidation; for any occurrence out of the usual run of things filled him with fear.
Mr. Sheldrake seated himself by the table and took up the empty glass. "Been drinking, Muzzy?"
"No, sir, no," replied Muzzy, striving to look Mr. Sheldrake in the face as he told the untruth, but failing most signally. "I've given it up, sir, I've given it up."
Mr. Sheldrake smiled and nodded, as much as to say, "I know you are lying, but it's of no consequence;" and said aloud, with another disparaging look round the apartment, "Not a very handsome lodging, old man."
"As good as I can afford, sir," said Muzzy.
"You sly old dog," said Mr. Sheldrake merrily; "it's my opinion you have a pot of money put by somewhere."
"No, sir, indeed, sir, no; if I had, I should live in a better place than this."
"A flower, eh?" taking up the flower which Muzzy had bought for Lizzie. "You amorous old dog! What lady fair is this for?"
"For a friend who lives in the next room."
"I thought you told me you had no friends," said Mr. Sheldrake, with a swift but searching glance at Muzzy's drooping form.
"More I have, sir; only this one, a good girl who tidies up my place, and cooks a bit for me now and then. I told you the truth, sir. I have not known her long."
"Can she hear us talk, this charmer of yours?"
"She's not at home, sir."
"But if she came in quietly--women are sly ones, some of them; like cats--could she hear us?"
"No, sir, not when the door is shut."
Mr. Sheldrake rose and closed the door.
"Now, Muzzy, let's to business."
"Yes, sir."
"I haven't come here for nothing to-night, old man. You're getting too old for the work at the office—"
"Don't say that, sir," implored Muzzy; "don't say that!"
"Don't put yourself in a flurry old man. We want younger heads than yours now; they're looking sharper after us than they used to do, and in the case of a blow-up they'd frighten all sorts of things out of you. The fact is, we're going to break up the office here, and start a new one in Scotland. But I've something better in view for you, if I thought I could depend upon you."
"Don't think, sir; be sure. I'll do anything you tell me. You'll find the old man faithful to the last. I didn't think you'd throw me off, sir; you're not that sort."
"I suppose you would be faithful, as it would be for your interest to be so. You'd go to the dogs fast enough if I threw you off. And if I thought you were not to be trusted—"
Mr. Sheldrake did not finish his speech, but he had said enough to strike terror to Muzzy, who sat before him shaking and trembling with fear.
"I asked you," continued Mr. Sheldrake, after a sufficient pause, "a little while ago if it was possible you could keep sober were it worth your while."
"I remember, sir."
"And you told me, as you told me just now, that you had given up drink."
Muzzy's only answer was a frightened, nervous look.
"Look here, old man," exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake sternly, "once and for all--no more of your lies to me. You've been drinking to-night. I saw you hide the bottle as I came into the room."
"There's no concealing anything from you, sir," said Muzzy, in an imploring tone. "I felt lonely, and Ididbuy a little--not much, upon my soul, sir!--and I tried to keep from it, but wasn't quite able. If Lizzie had been here—"
"Lizzie?"
"The girl in the next room, sir. If she had been at home I shouldn't have tasted a drop. But what can an old man do, in such a place as this, with not a soul to speak to? It is a terrible lonely life, sir, and grows worse and worse as one grows older. If I wasn't afraid, I'd kill myself, but I'm frightened of death--I'm frightened of death."
Muzzy shook and shuddered and raised his feeble hand; had he been alone, with this fear upon him, he would undoubtedly have emptied his bottle of gin in a very short time. Mr. Sheldrake, with an air of thoughtfulness, lit a cigar, and slowly paced the room for a few moments. Pausing before the trembling old man, he said,
"This girl Lizzie, how old is she?"
"About eighteen I should say, sir; but I don't exactly know."
"Where are her parents?"
"She has none, sir."
"Does she live alone?"
"Yes, sir."
"How does she get her living?"
"By the sewing-machine, sir; and sometimes goes out to work."
The sound of laughing voices on the stairs stopped this cross-examination. A look of astonishment flashed into the eyes of Mr. Sheldrake.
"Who's that?" he asked abruptly.
"It must be Lizzie," answered Muzzy; "no one else but her and me lives on this floor."
"Come and listen--quick! Come and listen!"
In his impatience he almost dragged Muzzy to the door. The persons outside were laughing and talking on the landing.
"Yes, it is Lizzie," said the old man.
"And the other?" questioned Mr. Sheldrake, with strange eagerness. "The other, who is he?"
An expression of displeasure, almost of envy, passed across Muzzy's face. "It's a young man who comes to see her sometimes."
"Her lover?" Muzzy did not reply, and Mr. Sheldrake demanded again impatiently, "Her lover?"
"I suppose so," answered Muzzy reluctantly; "it looks like it."
"Do you know him--what is he like?"
"I haven't seen him, but I know his voice; I hear it often enough."
Mr. Sheldrake laughed--a triumphant, self-satisfied laugh, as if he had made a gratifying discovery. By this time the persons outside had entered Lizzie's room; the listeners heard the door close.
"Muzzy, old man," cried Mr. Sheldrake heartily; but he checked himself suddenly, and opening the door, stepped quietly into the passage, and listened to the voices in Lizzie's room. Returning with a beaming face, he repeated, "Muzzy, old man! the time has come for you to turn over a new leaf."
"I am quite ready, sir," acquiesced Muzzy, without the slightest consciousness of his patron's meaning.
But although the tone of Muzzy's acquiescence in the turning over of a new leaf was almost abject, his manner denoted inward disturbance. His restless eyes became more restless in the endeavour to look steadily into Mr. Sheldrake's face, and his lips twitched nervously as he passed the back of his hand across them with the air of one who is thirsty. The sudden interest which Mr. Sheldrake exhibited in Lizzie and her lover was evidently distressing to him, and he waited anxiously for an explanation. Mr. Sheldrake did not notice these symptoms; he was too much engrossed in his own musing, the satisfactory nature of which was evidenced by the bright look he turned upon Muzzy.
"This girl, this Lizzie," he said, following the current of his thoughts, "who has no parents—she has none?"
"None, sir."
"Must find it dull work living up in a garret by herself."
"Lizzie is happy enough," said Muzzy; "I have never heard her complain; she is a good girl, sir."
"Doubtless; but nevertheless would jump at the opportunity of living in a pretty detached house in the suburbs, say in St. John's-wood or Kensington, or better still near to the river--a pretty house, cosily furnished, with a garden round it. How would that suit you, old man?"
Muzzy stared in amazement at his employer, who continued gaily,
"Respectably dressed, living a quiet respectable life, as a widower, say with an only child, a daughter—"
"Sir!" exclaimed Muzzy, rising in his agitation.
"Steady, old man! A daughter ready-made, Lizzie the charmer--what can be better? If you object to father and daughter say uncle and niece; it will serve the purpose equally well. Fifty neat stories can be made up to suit the case, if there is need of explanation. Of course it will not be kept secret that the man who enables you to do this is Mr. David Sheldrake--that he is your best friend--and that in your declining days (excuse me for referring to the unpleasant fact) you owe it to him that you are enabled to live in ease and comfort."
"I don't understand, sir."
"It isn't so very difficult, either. I want a place where I can come for an hour's quiet now and again, and where my friends would be welcome. You have served me well up to this point—"
"I have tried to do so, sir," murmured Muzzy.
"And in serving me well, have served yourself at the same time. Continue to do so, but ask no questions, and don't look a gift horse in the mouth." (This was somewhat sternly spoken; for notwithstanding Muzzy's humble acquiescence in his employer's plans, there was something in his manner that did not please Mr. Sheldrake.) "I may have a purpose to serve in what I propose, and I may not. That is my business. The prospect I open out to you is not an unpleasant one. It is better than the workhouse." (Muzzy shivered.) "I will put you in such a house as I have described, where you may enjoy the comforts of a home, instead of living the pig's life you are living now. But only on the understanding, mind you, that Lizzie lives with you." (The same increased restlessness in Muzzy's eyes, the same nervous twitching of his lips, the same action of his hand across his parched mouth, were observable in Muzzy's manner, at this fresh reference to Lizzie.) "Tell her that a stroke of good fortune has fallen to you suddenly, and that you owe it to me to give or to withhold. Ask her to share your home as your daughter or your niece. You want nothing from her. If she wishes to continue her needlework, let her do so; it will be a pleasanter place to do it than here, and it will keep her in pocket-money. As for you, I promise that you shall not be quite idle; for I intend to pay you your salary, besides keeping the house, and you must do something to earn it. I daresay we shall start a new firm, at the new address, one, say, that undertakes discretionary investments--a good game, old man" (this with a laugh)--"and so shall manage to pay expenses. Then if you like to do a little private betting on your own account, you can do so. You may make a hit with that system of yours which you say you have discovered."
"I could make a fortune, sir," cried Muzzy eagerly, "a fortune, if I had a little money to speculate with."
"So that's settled," said Mr. Sheldrake easily, "and you can speak to Lizzy to-night."
But Muzzy's diversion from the cause of his uneasiness was only momentary.
"I thank you, sir," he said, hesitating over his words, "for all this. Whatever position you place me in, I shall endeavour to serve you faithfully."
"It will be your interest to do so," was the masterful rejoinder, "or something unpleasant might happen."
"But I want to ask you—"
"I told you not to ask questions, old man," interrupted Mr. Sheldrake, with a frown.
"I must ask you this one," said Muzzy, with a courage which surprised even himself.
"If you must, you must. What is it?"
"Lizzie's a good girl, sir."
"Who said she wasn't?"
"She has been almost a daughter to me, sir. I have lived a lonely life for many, many years, until she took the room next to me, and then after a little while everything seemed changed. If you were to ask me who in the whole world I would sooner serve than any other, I would mention her--excepting you, sir, of course."
"What are you driving at, old man?"
"Rather than any harm should come to her through me, I would never see her again. I would go away. And you don't know, sir, what it is to live alone; to feel that you are growing older and older, and to be tormented with bad dreams and bad fancies; and not to have one person in the world to give you a smile or a cheerful word."
"Drives you to drink, eh?"
"What else can a lonely man do, sir?"
"That's just the reason I'm offering you this chance with Lizzie, and just the reason why you should jump at it. But you haven't asked me your question yet."
Muzzy could not for a few moments muster sufficient courage to put it; but at last he said in an imploring tone,
"You don't mean any harm to Lizzie, sir?"
Mr. Sheldrake laughed loud and laughed long; he seemed to be relieved from an embarrassment by Muzzy's question.
"Why, man," he said boisterously, "I've never set eyes on this charmer of yours, so how can I mean any harm to her? Nay, more; I should not have the slightest objection to this lover of hers who's chatting with her now visiting her at the house—"
"I don't want him there," cried Muzzy jealously.
"He'll come, depend upon it, old man. Why, Muzzy, if you were not too old to play the lover, I should say you were jealous. Let the youngsters alone; let them enjoy themselves. You were young yourself once, and I've no doubt played the gay Lothario often enough. Let me see--Muzzy means Musgrave, doesn't it?"
"That's my name, sir."
"Well, Mr. Musgrave, I'll wish you good-night. You can report progress to me at the office to-morrow. Show me a light."
Muzzy waited on his patron with the candle until Mr. Sheldrake was out of the house; then listened for a moment in the passage to ascertain if Lizzie's companion was still with her, and hearing the sound of conversation, returned to his room, leaving the door ajar. The prospect opened to him by Mr. Sheldrake was very pleasant. A house in the suburbs, with a garden, and with Lizzie for a companion--it was paradise. "I should like to live by the riverside," he thought; then looked at his shabby clothes, and at his worn face in a cracked looking-glass, and wondered whether Mr. Sheldrake was really in earnest. "I never saw him so serious as he was to-night," he muttered. "He has some new money-making scheme in his head, and he wants the old man's assistance. Yes, that is it. I thought at first that he meant harm to Lizzie; and rather than that, rather than that—" he thought out the alternative, still looking in the glass. "As father and daughter," he said. "Father and daughter!" What memories of the past did those words conjure up? If any, not pleasant ones. For he sighed and grew more thoughtful, and, letting the glass slide upon the table, covered his eyes with his hand, and looked through the darkness into the time gone by. Into life's seasons. Spring, when the buds were coming. Yes. Summer, when the buds had blossomed. No. The leaves withered as they grew. Autumn. Cold, despairing, cheerless. Winter. It was winter now, and no sweet winds came from the time gone by to temper the bleak present. His musings were disturbed by the opening of Lizzie's door. "Good night," he heard the man say. "Good night," Lizzie replied, in a pleasant voice. Silence then, for a few moments; and then Lizzie's voice asking in the passage,
"Daddy, are you awake?"
"Yes, Lizzie; come in."
Smiling youth and wasted age stood gazing at each other for a moment. The girl's cheeks were flushed; bright happiness danced in her eyes. She came like a sunbeam into the room; joyous light and life irradiated from her.
She was a picture of neatness and prettiness; she was dressed in a pretty-coloured stuff dress, and a piece of blue ribbon round her neck, to which a locket was attached, gave the slightest suspicion of coquettishness to her appearance. She held a candlestick in her hand, but the candle in it was not lighted. Although she stood still for a brief space, gazing at the old man, her thoughts were not upon him There was a listening look in her face, and as she raised her hand she murmured, "I wonder! I wonder!" and said aloud in soft tones,
"May I look out of your window, daddy?"
Muzzy's window looked upon the street. Lizzie, not waiting for permission, went to the window, and looked out, and stood there in silence so long, that Muzzy shuffled to her side. He saw nothing, however, for the form which Lizzie had been watching was out of sight. If she had spoken her thoughts, the words would have been: "The dear fellow! It does my heart good to see him linger about the house. I used to see that with Mary, and Mary used to watch through the blind." (Here, to be faithful to her musings, would have come a laugh that was almost a whisper--like a ripple on a lake--like a gurgling stream dancing down a hill.) "He turned back three times to look at the house. Now, if he had known that I was here, he wouldn't have gone away for a long time. How handsome he is!"
A deeper flush was in her cheek, and her eyes sparkled still more brightly, as with a happy sigh she turned from the window to Muzzy, who was standing by her side.
"You got my key, daddy?" she said.
"Yes, my dear, thank you."
"Did you come home early?"
"At about ten o'clock, my dear."
"Did you see any one? Did anybody ask for me?"
"Nobody asked of me, Liz. You expected somebody, then?"
"O, no; but I wish I had been at home."
She dismissed the subject with a light shake of the head, and said, smiling,
"You've had company, daddy."
"Yes, my dear," he replied, with a wistful look at her pretty face--a strangely jealous look, too, which seemed to imply that he would have been better pleased if she were a little less bright.
"Nice company?" she asked.
"A gentleman--one who has been kind to me."
She nodded with conscious grace, and stood before the old man with an assertion of prettiness upon her which heightened the contrast between her graceful person and his unattractive form. Not that the contrast was in her mind; she did not think of it, but it would have been forced upon an observer.
"We heard you talking," she said.
"You have had company also, Lizzie."
"O, yes." With a blush and a smile.
"We heardyoutalking, my dear."
"I suppose we made a great noise; Some One talks very loud sometimes."
"You did not make a noise, my dear, but we heard you. Lizzie," he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "your candle was out when you came in."
"It went out in the passage, daddy."
"Or some one blew it out, Lizzie."
"Yes; perhaps--Some One--did." With the pleasantest little laugh in the world.
"Preferring to talk in the dark," he suggested, in a singular tone of discontent.
"Yes; perhaps--Some One--does."
Again the pleasant little laugh. That, which was like music, and her joyous happy manner, and her clear voice and pretty ways, made a home of the otherwise lonely room.
"We have been to the theatre to-night," she said; "Some One and me. I should like to be an actress. I think I should have made a good one."
She let her hair fall loose as she spoke, and put on an arch look to provoke a favourable verdict. Muzzy's hitherto dull mood brightened under her influence.
"What theatre did you go to, my dear?"
"To the Olympic. We saw Daisy Farm. Isn't it a pretty name? Now, one would fancy that everybody was happy at Daisy Farm, because of the name; but it wasn't so. They were all in trouble until the end of the play, and then something very unexpected happened, and everything came right. Is it so in real life?"
"I don't think so."
"But it's nice in a play. I wonder how ever they can cram such a lot of things in a couple of hours; and it all seems so natural! There was one part that Some One did not like; it was where a young man who had been doing wrong--stealing money from his master--robbed his own father (as we all thought he was), so that he could put the money back. Some One got regularly excited over it; but it turned out that the man he robbed wasn't his father, sothatwas all right. When that was shown and the young man got off, Some One clapped so, that everybody looked at him. He lost his sweetheart, though."
"Who?"
"The young man in the play. As we were walking home, I said to Some One, 'Supposing that was you, would you have liked to lose your sweetheart in that way?' He turned quite white at the idea, and he looked at me so strangely, and said, 'But you wouldn't throw me off as that heartless girl did in the play, would you, Lizzie?' I said, 'No; that I wouldn't.' 'Not even if I was as bad as that young fellow?' asked Some One, to try me. And then I said—But you can guess what I said, daddy. I don't think I'm a changeable girl, like some."
"Come and sit down, Lizzie," said Muzzy; "I want to talk to you."
The girl obeyed, and as Muzzy did not immediately speak, she fell a-musing. Sweet thoughts were hers evidently, for presently the laugh that was like music came from her, evoked by something pleasant that she had seen or heard in her fancies. The sound aroused her, and looking up she saw Muzzy holding out the flower he had brought home for her.
"For you, Liz."
"O, thank you, dad."
She held it up by the side of her hair to admire it, and asked how it looked there. Out of his full-hearted admiration of her pretty ways he had but one answer, of course. Then she placed it in the bosom of her dress, which was slightly open at the throat, and as the leaves touched her fair akin, she looked down and smiled both on the flower and herself.
"Some One would be jealous," she said, "if he saw it there; especially after what he brought me to-night. Wait a minute; I'll show you."
She ran out of the room, and returned with a large bunch of flowers, fresh and fragrant like herself.
"Are they not beautiful? Am I not a lucky girl? Just think! Two presents of flowers in one night!"
"Mine is a poor one, Lizzie."
"It is very pretty, and I shall put it in water all by itself."
She selected a flower from the bunch, and placed it in her bosom by the side of the other; then bent down until her lips touched it.
"You are fond of flowers, my dear."
"I love everything that is bright. I like to bury my face in them, like this, and shut my eyes, and think. Such beautiful thoughts come!"
Suiting the action to the word, she buried her face in the flowers, and saw pictures of the future as she wished it to be. It was filled with sweet promise, as it nearly always is to youth. And if fulfilment never comes, the dreams bring happiness for the time.
"Try!" she said, raising her face and holding out the flowers to him.
To please her, he closed his eyes among the leaves. But the visions that came to his inner sense of sight were different from those she had seen. For her the future. For him the past. The clouds through which he looked were dark and sombre; and as glimpses of long-forgotten times flashed through them, he sighed as one might have sighed who, wandering for a generation through a strange country filled with discordant and feverish circumstance, finds himself suddenly in a place where all is hushed, and where the soft breeze brings to him the restful sound of sweet familiar bells. But darker clouds soon rolled over these memories, blotting them out.
"Lizzie," he said "suppose you had the chance of living away from the dusty streets in a pretty little house, surrounded by the flowers you love so well!"
"How delightful!" she exclaimed, with her face among the flowers again.
"Open your eyes, Lizzie, while I speak."
"Wait a minute, daddy. Don't speak for sixty seconds. I'm looking at the house."
Muzzy remained silent until she spoke again.
"I see it," she said, "peeping out among the flowers. It is built of old red brick, the windows are very small, and vines are creeping all over the walls."
Thus did her fancy reproduce for her the picture of a country house, which doubtless she had seen at one time or another. Even when she opened her eyes, she saw the vision hanging, as it were in the clouds of a bright memory.
"How would you like to live in such a house, Liz?"
"How would I like to live in a rainbow?" was her merry rejoinder.
"But what I say I mean, my dear."
"And what I say I don't--that is, sometimes. Do you really, really mean it though, dad?"
"Yes, my dear. The gentleman who was with me to-night--a good friend--has opened out such a prospect to me."
"O, I am so glad; for this isn't very nice for you!" she said, glancing round the room.
"Nor for you, my dear," he replied, looking wistfully at her. "Don't you wish for something better?"
"I wish for a great many things--holidays, new dresses, and new hats--and I should like a good deal of money. If fifty pounds were to tumble down the chimney now, shouldn't we be surprised? Ah, but what's the use of wishing, daddy!"
"You may have some of these things, Liz, if you like." His serious manner made her more serious and attentive. "Such a house as you saw just now you may have, perhaps. It depends upon you whether I accept the offer that has been made to me to-night."
"Upon me!" she exclaimed.
"Do you remember what I was when you first came here?"
"Why, the same as you are now," she replied, with a laughing evasion of what he was referring to.
"No, my dear," he said humbly, taking her hand in his; "I was a lonely miserable man. There was no light in my life. I used to come home night after night, and drink."
She placed her fingers on his lips, to stop the farther confession; but he gently removed them.
"I had nothing else to do. Bad fancies used to come, and I drank to drive them away; and the more I drank, the worse they became. I don't know what might have been the end of me. This room used to be full of terrible shadows creeping over the walls. I saw them in the dark, stealing upon me. One night, when these fancies were upon me, driving me almost mad--how long ago was it, Lizzie?--I heard a little voice singing in the next room. I didn't know any one had moved in until I heard your voice, and I crept into the passage and listened to you, my dear, and blessed you--ay, I did Lizzie! and I fell asleep with your singing in my ears."
"And I came out," she said, humouring him, "and saw you."
"And saw me, and pitied me," he continued. "I wonder you were not afraid. You came into my room, and saw the bottle on the table; there was liquor in it, and you asked me if you might take it away, and I said Yes. Then you tidied up the room, and made the bed, and I sat wondering at your goodness, and wondering why the shadows didn't come while you were with me. That was the commencement of it, Lizzie; and so we became friends, and my life was not so desolate as it used to. You brightened it for me, by dear."
"No, it wasn't me, daddy; it was yourself--it was leaving off that—that—"
"Drink," he added, as he hesitated. "It was driving me mad!"
"And you have left it off, daddy, and that's the reason why you are better and happier."
"Yes, Lizzie," he said, with a guilty look at her, for the flat bottle, half filled with gin, was in his pocket as he spoke. "I have kept my promise."
"So it's not me, after all," she exclaimed merrily, "that you have to thank."
"It is you, Lizzie. If it were not for you, I should go back to my old ways again; it is only you who keep me from them. I know now what it is to have some one to care for me; if I had known it before--O, if I had known it before! If when we were young, we could see what was before us!"
"Have you never had any one care for you, daddy?" she asked pityingly.
"Don't ask me, child. I mustn't look back--I daren't look back. But it seems to me, Lizzie, that I never knew how dreadful a lonely life was until you came and showed me the misery of it. I cannot leave you now, Lizzie; I should become I am frightened to think what."
His voice, his hands, his whole body trembled as he pleaded for companionship, for protection from his torturing fancies. She was his shelter, and he clung to her. His manhood had been like a ship tossed amidst storms, overhung by dark clouds, battered and bruised by sunken reefs. Suddenly a rift of light appeared, and the old worn ship floated into peaceful waters, and lay there with an almost painful sense of rest upon it--painful because of the fear that the light might vanish as suddenly as it had appeared, and the storm break again.
"What is it you want me to do, daddy?"
"To come and live with me, my dear, if I am fortunate enough to get this house, where there will be rest; to share my home, as my daughter."
"As your daughter!" (Very, very softly spoken, musingly, wonderingly. The turning over of a new leaf, indeed, for her who had never known a father's love.) "Doesheknow of this--your friend?"
"It was he who suggested it when I spoke of you. He proposed it for my sake."
"It is kind of him; he must have a noble nature. But I don't know, daddy, I don't know!"
"Don't know what, my dear?"
"Whether you would be pleased with me--whether you would be as fond of me as you are now. Ah, you smile, but you might be mistaken in me. I like to have my own way, and I am ill-tempered when I don't. Then, you know, Some One must come and see me."
"If you say so, my dear," he humbly assented, "I can't object."
"I think he would like it," she mused; "he is fond of nice things and nice places."
"Tell me, Lizzie--I have never asked, but I may, because I am an old man--is Some One your sweetheart?"
"Couldn't you guess that, daddy?"
"Yes, my dear, but I wanted to be certain. Do you love him?"
Shyly, tenderly, archly she looked at the old man, and answered him with her eyes. They fell into silence for a little while after that, the mind of each being occupied.
"You don't remember your father, Lizzy?"
"No."
"Your mother?"
"No, I never saw her."
"Have you any other friends besides Some One?"
"Yes, there's Mary, and my best friend, my aunt. She has been very kind to me, and must come and see me too. Indeed, I must ask her permission, for she has been like a mother to me. Mother! ah, to have a good kind mother to love, and who loves you--what happiness! I have dreamt of it often--have wished that such a happiness was mine. But it never was, daddy--never, never was, and never, never can be!"
"Lizzie," he said timidly, "tell me something of your life before I knew you."
In their new relations towards each other she had seated herself at his feet. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes were towards the flowers in her breast. Graceful as the leaves of the flowers was this young girl; not more delicate was their colour than the colour in her face. The tender contact of this fresh young life was a new revelation to him, and he held his breath for fear he should awake and find that he was dreaming.
"Of my life!" she mused, speaking more to herself than to him. "What can I remember? How young was I as I see myself, in my first remembrance, playing with two other children in a field near the house in which I lived? Two years, or a little more. The house belonged to Mrs. Dimmock, and I did not know then that she was not my mother; but as I grew I learned--I don't know how; it wasn't told me, but the knowledge came--that the little girls I played with were not my sisters, although they were her children. Mrs. Dimmock was not a very kind woman, at least not to me. She would pet and fondle her own children, and I used to cry in secret because of it, and because she did not love me as she did them. My aunt came to see me often, and often brought me toys and sweets. If she had been my mother she could not have been kinder to me, but then of course I should have lived with her. She saw that I fretted because it wasn't the same with me as it was with the other children, and she tried in every way to make up for it; but she couldn't. What I wanted was a mother that I could love with all my heart, and who could love me with all hers--as Mrs. Dimmock loved her children, although she was harsh and unkind to me. My aunt did not know that she did not treat me well; I didn't tell her. When I grew up, I went to a day-school, and learnt other things besides reading and writing; I think it was in that way, trying to make me superior to other girls, that my aunt endeavoured to lessen any sorrow I may have felt. I can play the piano, daddy--you wouldn't have thought that, would you! Mrs. Dimmock was jealous, I could see, because I was learning more than her girls; and the girls, too, didn't like it. I think it was partly maliciousness on my part that made me proud to know more than they did; if they had been kind to me, I shouldn't have cared to triumph over them in that way. Well, everything went on so until I was fourteen years of age, when one day something occurred. I hadn't been expected home so soon; the street-door was open, and as I went into the passage I heard my aunt and Mrs. Dimmock speaking together, and from my aunt's voice I guessed that she was crying. 'I can't help your misfortunes,' Mrs. Dimmock said; 'I've got children of my own, and I must look after them first. I'm keeping the girl now for less than her food costs; she eats more than my two girls put together.' I knew that she meant me by 'the girl,' and I turned hot and cold, for I felt like a charity girl. Mrs. Dimmock spoke very spitefully, and I knew that she did so because I gave myself superior airs over her daughters. I daresay it was wrong of me to do so, but I couldn't help it, they were such mean things! One of them let a girl in school be beaten for something that she did, and I knew it. But we used to quarrel about all sorts of things, and of course Mrs. Dimmock always took their parts, so that you may guess, daddy, I was not very happy. I heard sufficient of the conversation between my aunt and Mrs. Dimmock to make me tingle all over. It served me right, for listeners neverdohear any good of themselves; but it was as well I did hear, notwithstanding, as you will see presently. My aunt was in arrears for my board and lodging, and she was compelled to hear patiently--for my sake, I felt it!--all the hard things that Mrs. Dimmock said to her. 'I shall be able to pay you by and by,' my aunt said, O, so humbly! 'I can't afford to wait till by and by, ma'am,' Mrs. Dimmock answered, 'and I can't live on promises--they're like pie-crusts, made to be broken. It is a shame that such a big girl as her should be eating charity bread.' Just think, daddy, how I felt when I heard that! 'If she can't pay for her bread-and-butter, let her work for it, if she ain't too fine and proud. If she wants to live on charity, she must go somewhere else and get it; I can't afford to give it to her.' I think, daddy, that if I had been on fire, I. couldn't have run out of the house faster than I did. I had an idea at first of running clean away, but the thought of how kind my aunt had been to me prevented me. Instead of that, I watched for her, and saw her come out of the house and look anxiously about for me. She was always very pale, but her face was whiter than I had ever seen it before. She brightened up when she saw me, and I drew her a long way from the house before I would let her talk. When she began, how I pitied her! She couldn't get along at all, and would have gone away without telling me anything, if I hadn't said that I was in the passage and heard her and Mrs. Dimmock speaking together about me. She looked so frightened when I told her, that I was frightened myself; she was dreadfully anxious to know all that I had heard, and seemed to be relieved that I hadn't heard any more. I supposed that Mrs. Dimmock had been saying worse things of me than I had already heard, and I wasn't sorry that I went out of the house when I did. 'And so you are poor, aunty,' I said to her, 'and I have made you so!' 'No, my dear, no, Lizzie, no, my darling!' she said eagerly. 'You haven't made me so; I had enough, more than enough, and to spare, and I was putting by money for you, my dearest, and saving up for you. But like a foolish woman I put it into a bank, and they have robbed me and a thousand other poor creatures. The bankers were thieves, my darling, thieves! and there's no law to touch them, and I can't get my poor little bit of money out of their pockets! I thought I should have gone mad when I went yesterday, and found the place shut up; and it was no consolation to me to find others that had been robbed hanging about the great stone walls--for I thought: of you, darling, and I was too wretched to feel for others.' I tried to console her. 'Never mind, aunt,' I said; 'you have been very, very kind to me, and I shall never be able to pay you.' 'Yes, you can, my dearest,' she said, crying over me as I kissed her; 'you are paying me now, over and over again.' Then I said I wouldn't be a burden to her any longer, and that Mrs. Dimmock was right when she said that I ought to work for my living. My aunt cried more and more at this, and begged me not to think of it; but my mind was made up. What was to become of me by and by, I thought, unless I learnt to depend upon myself; and when Mrs. Dimmock the next day said that I ought to go into service, I determined to try and be something better than a servant. Well, I was very lucky, daddy. I set my wits to work, and I heard that a woman who kept a little milliner's shop wanted an apprentice. I went to her, and she was so pleased with me that she agreed to take me into the house, and keep me, and teach me the business. I was to be with her for four years, and I wasn't to have any wages during the whole time. I served my time faithfully, and my aunt gave me more than enough money to keep me in clothes. It pleased her to see me look nice, and I liked it myself, daddy; I like nice clothes and things! At the end of the four years, a friend in the same business, Mary--you've heard me speak of her often, daddy--proposed that we should live together; said that we could take one room, which would be enough for us, and that we could get enough work to keep us. There was something so delightful in the idea of being my own mistress, that I jumped for joy at the proposal, and without consulting my aunt I consented. We took a room very near here, daddy, and paid six shillings a week for it. All this was done very quickly, and then I wrote to my aunt to come and see me. She came, but took it so much to heart that I should make so serious a change in my life without consulting her, that I promised never to do anything of the sort again without asking her advice. We were very comfortable together that night, I remember, and she gave us our first order for two black dresses. So Mary and me jogged along. Although our living did not cost us much, we had to be very careful, as we could not earn a great deal of money. Sometimes trade was slack, and we were without work; but my aunt took care that I should always have a little money in my purse. She came to see me more often than she used to do when I was at Mrs. Dimmock's. I knew why. She was uneasy at the idea of two girls living together; thought we couldn't take care of ourselves. That's why, daddy, I think she would be glad to consent to my living in the pretty little house you spoke of. It is almost too good to be true, though. Is it really true?"