"Well then," he said, feeling like a coward, "there it is. If I have a new suit of clothes, grandfather preaches me a sermon. That's why I didn't show him the chain the other day. I don't want to say anything against him, but young men are not the same as they used to be. Now, I put it to you, Lily: if you had anybody that you liked--I mean that you cared for a bit--that--that--you were--very fond of—"
"Alfred!" cried Lily, looking at him with eager eyes.
"You know what I mean, Lily. If you were a man and had anybody that you loved--there! now it's out!--wouldn't you like to look well in her eyes?"
"O, yes, yes, Alfred! And have you some one like that? I thought so--I thought so!"
"Yes, I have, Lily, and she is the dearest, prettiest, best girl in the world, Lily. And it's because she's poor—"
"That's nothing, Alfred."
"That's nothing, of course, in her. But because she's poor I try to make a little money so as to be nice, and make her a present now and then, perhaps; and because of that, grandfather's always at me, preaching--preaching--preaching. O Lily, you should see her! She is as good as you are, and as pretty, upon my word, Lil."
"Prettier and better, I am sure, Alfred," said Lily, taking his hand and caressing it. She would have liked to throw her arms round his neck, but they were sitting in the gardens, and people's eyes were upon them; so she was compelled to restrain the impulse, and to content herself with caressing his hand and saying, "I am so glad! I am so glad and that was your secret? You have got some one that you love--my dear, my dearest! O, how happy you have made me! And you love her very, very much?"
"With all my heart and soul, Lily." He spoke the truth.
"And she loves you? But what a question! As if she could help it!"
She looked into his handsome face with genuine admiration. How bright the day was again! Earth, sky, air, grew lovelier in the light of her happiness; for in the love her brother bore to this girl she saw her own reflected.
"She loves me as well as I love her, Lily."
"I am sure of it--I am sure of it; she couldn't do otherwise. What is her name?"
"Lizzie," answered Alfred, with gratified vanity.
"Lizzie! Lizzie! I shall have a sister; I love her already, my dear. Of course," she said slyly, "you have her portrait?"
"How do you know, you puss?" he asked, with a laugh and a blush.
She echoed his laugh, and said, with an affectation of superior wisdom,
"I could shut my eyes, and find it--there!" and she touched his breast-pocket lightly.
"Here it is, Lil," he said, bashfully and proudly, taking Lizzie's portrait from his pocket. "What do you think of her? But it doesn't do her justice."
The accumulative sins that photographers are guilty of in "not doing justice" must surely bring a heavy retribution upon them one of these days. But in this instance they found a zealous champion in Lily, who gazed at the portrait with admiring eyes, and kissed it again and again.
"What a beautiful face! what lovely hair!" ("All her own, Lil," interpolated Alfred.) "I can tell that. And she has brown eyes, like mine. And your portrait is in this locket round her neck. When shall I see her really?"
"Soon; I have told her about you. But O, Lily, I am so unhappy with it all! I am the most miserable wretch in the world, I do believe!"
"Unhappy!" exclaimed Lily, bewildered by these alternations of feeling. "Miserable! I don't understand you, Alfred."
Indeed, she could not understand it. She judged from her own feelings; to love and to be loved was, to her imagination, the highest condition of happiness. Earth contained no brighter lot; and if in the Heaven and future life we believe in and look forward to--all of us, I hope--some such bliss as the bliss of pure love is to be ours, there can be no better reward for living a good life.
"You asked me to tell you my troubles," said Alfred, a little sulkily, "and I told you: money. But you seem to have forgotten it already."
"I did, for a moment, my dear," she replied remorsefully; "I forgot it in my delight at the news you have told me for and in the contemplation of your happiness."
"How can I be happy," he grumbled, "with such a trouble upon me? You do not know what it is, and how it weighs me down. How can I show my face to Lizzie when I am so pressed, and when I am in debt, and can't pay?"
"And yet," she said, out of her own goodness and unselfishness, "you have brought me here for a holiday to-day, and I have been thoughtless enough to come, and put you to expense, when I ought to have guessed you could not afford it!"
The very construction she placed upon it displayed him in a generous light which he so little deserved, that he felt inwardly ashamed of himself.
"How could you have guessed? I have kept my troubles to myself. Why should I bother you with them? And it would be hard, indeed, if I could not give you a little pleasure now and then. It isn't much I give you, Lil--not as much as I should like to. Until I saw Lizzie, I had no one to love but you, and now, when everything might be so splendid with me, here am I stumped because I am hard-up. It's too bad--that's what it is--it's too bad altogether; and just at the time that I have got the tip for the Cesarewitch, and could make a thousand pounds as safe as nails."
All this was Greek to Lily. She did not know what the "tip" or the Cesarewitch was, but she was too anxiously interested in Alfred's main trouble to go into details.
"Is it much money you want, Alfred?"
"No, not much, Lily."
"Why not ask grandfather—"
But he interrupted her with sudden vehemence.
"Lily!" he cried. "Grandfather must not know anything of this. Promise me."
"I promise," she answered readily; "but why, Alfred?"
He dared not tell her the truth; he dared not say that his grandfather suspected him, and suspected him with just cause; he himself did not know whether it was suspicion or actual knowledge that caused his grandfather to be doubtful of him. Then how could he tell her to what purpose her earnings were devoted? If she knew that, not only would she become acquainted with the shameful story of their father's crime, but she might get to learn the story of the little iron box. For he was guilty of the theft; it was he who had stolen the money, intending, of course, to replace it, and not knowing why it was hoarded up so carefully.
As he sat silent now in the light of the beautiful day, with his trouble heavy upon him, and suffering from the remorse that is not born of repentance, all the circumstances of the theft spread themselves swiftly before him. The money had been stolen in just the way his grandfather had surmised in the interview that took place between them on the night of his mother's death. He had seen his grandfather go often to the iron box, and he suspected that it contained money. One day, when his grandfather was not at home, he tried the cupboard in which the iron box was placed for safety, and found it locked. Seeing a key upon the mantelshelf, and believing it to be the key of the iron box, he ran out of the room with it, and took an impression of it, and from the impression had a false key made. Then, on the very night his grandfather had mentioned, he watched the old man out of the house, and took the iron box from the unlocked cupboard. He opened the box, and was taking the money from it when he heard a sound from the bed behind him. Turning, he saw his mother with her eyes open, as he thought, watching him. For a few moments he could not stir, he was so dismayed; but a sigh from his mother which was half a groan completely aroused him, and going to the bed he found his mother asleep. Relieved, he completed the theft. This scene was always before his eyes when he was in trouble; when his money affairs were easy, and he had sufficient for the day, he rarely thought of it. He had quite made up his mind that, supposing his mother had been awake, he would have told her all--how that he had used money belonging to his employers, not for the first time; that it was imperative he should replace it; and that it was better to take for a time these savings, hoarded up by his grandfather for a then unknown purpose, rather than allow exposure to come. "Mother would have given me right," he often thought, but he did not have the opportunity of testing whether his thought was correct. All his life he was never to know whether his mother had gone down to the grave with the consciousness that her son, as well as her husband, was a thief.
But, in a lame sort of way, he found justification for the act. He would not accept the brand; fate and bad luck were to blame, not he. He took the money with the firm intention of replacing it, and with the conviction (by what sophistry gained, heaven only knows) that he would be able to do so; and he gave himself credit for his intention, as if it were an act performed. With part of the money he had backed horses to win a heavy stake, but his usual bad luck pursued him; in his vernacular, one horse was "pulled," another was "scratched" an hour before the race, and others went wrong in all sorts of ways. But his heaviest stroke of bad luck, and one which almost maddened him at the time of its occurrence, was the disqualifying of a horse he had backed after it had actually won the race. This took place on a suburban race-course, where probably the finest collection in the world of blacklegs, thieves, and swindlers may be seen by any one interested in the species. It may be accepted as a fact, that nearly every person who goes there, goes with the intention of "getting the best" of his neighbour, if he can possibly manage it; and Alfred was not one of the exceptions that proved the rule. His moral consciousness was as spotted as the morality of those he elbowed. There were men who backed the favourites, who backed the jockeys' mounts, who backed the stable (whichever one it might be), who backed their fancy, who backed the owners, who backed the issue of famous sires, who backed the prophets' selections, and who laid out their money in accordance with a system. Many of them had private information of such-and-such horses, and knew for a certainty that they must win--some from superior excellence of their own, some because their opponents were not going to try. Men of straw most of them; miserable crawlers through the crooked ways of life, striving to reach the heaven of their hopes by means of any species of roguery; who will look their friends in the face, and lie deliberately; who take the name of God in vain a dozen times an hour; whose hands and tongues are ready at any moment to filch and profane; and in whose minds the noblest qualities of human nature are but themes for ribald jest. I who write these words am no purist; I am no more moral than my neighbours, I daresay; and I love pleasure as well as I love work. Temptations beset us all, at times, and not one of us is strong enough always to resist. I, as well as you, have occasion to be sorry, and would, if I could, live over again some of the time that is past, and would strive to avoid slipping. I have deceived myself often, and have given myself credit for things which have resulted from no merit that I possess. But I do not deceive myself when I say that I have a hearty contempt for roguery and meanness, and that I have a horror of blasphemy and the profaning of human and divine things. And, as at no open gatherings in the wide world can so much roguery and knavery be seen as at some of these small race-meetings (and in some large ones, too), I think it a pity that they are encouraged by high authorities, whose position among the people is almost that of a teacher.
Being at this suburban race-meeting (having obtained the holiday by shamming illness), Alfred at once set to work backing horses. He had in his pocket more than twenty pounds, the surplus of the money he had taken from the iron box, and he had fully made up his mind that a great stroke of good luck was to come to him on this day, and that he would go home with a purse filled with others persons' losings. His plan of operations upon this occasion was a very simple one. He pursued the "doubling" system--a system which undoubtedly would result in gain, if it could be carried out without stopping. In the first race he selected a horse, and backed it for two pounds; the horse did not win. All the better for the next race, thought Alfred, as he walked about, and studied on his race-card the string of horses that were next to compete. In this race he made his selection, and backed his horse for four pounds. Again the horse came in among the rear division, and again Alfred lost. He began to look anxious, and nervously fingered the money in his pocket. Should he leave off, and be content with his losses? He fortified his faint heart with some brandy, and walked among the crowd to pick up information. No, he would go on; the odds were surely in his favour now. He had lost twice; hemustwin in the third venture. Up went the black board with the names of the horses for the third race. Among them was Never Despair. Acting upon an inspiration, Alfred backed Never Despair for eight pounds, and obtained the odds of five to one--that is, if Never Despair won, Alfred's gain would be forty pounds. The horsedidwin. It was an exciting race between the favourite and Never Despair; and as the sporting writers said the next morning, Never Despair caught the favourite in the last stride, and won by a short head. "By—!" muttered a man by Alfred's side, "Never Despair's won, and I'm done for!" And, with muttered oaths hanging about his white lips, the loser looked around, ready to pick a pocket. "Hurrah!" cried Alfred, taking off his hat and waving it. "Hurrah! Never Despair's won!" But stopped suddenly, for fear that a mistake might occur, or that there might be something wrong with the horse, or that the jockey might be found a pound short in his weight. His first fear was dispelled by the appearance of the number of Never Despair on the black board. Then Alfred, trembling with excitement, waited for the magic words which would proclaim that the jockey had passed his ordeal in safety, and that the race was really and truly won by the horse he had backed. The three or four minutes that intervened seemed to be three or four hours, and Alfred fretted and fumed, and dug his nails into his hands. At length came the magic cry from the saddling paddock, "All right!" "All right! All right!" screamed Alfred, and the recognised scouts took up the cry, passing it from list to list. Off scampered Alfred to get his forty pounds, and came away radiant, with eight five-pound notes and his own deposited stake of eight pounds clenched in his fist. "How much have I won?" he thought. On the first and second races he had lost six pounds. Six from forty, thirty-four. That was good thirty-four pounds were not a bad day's work. "I knew luck would turn," said Alfred exultantly. "I knew luck would turn! Let me see. Thirty-four pounds a day--how much is that a year?" And began to reckon up his thousands, and look a long way ahead. He had now in his pocket nearly sixty pounds. He gave a shilling to an old gipsy woman, who detained him a few moments by telling him that a beautiful young lady with brown eyes was thinking of him at that moment, "Of course she is," exclaimed Alfred merrily, breaking away from the fortune-teller with a laugh. "I could have told you that, mother!" He was in the highest of spirits. "What shall I buy for Lizzie?" he thought. "I'll buy her a watch. And Lil, too, I mustn't forget her. I want some new clothes myself. I'll buy that diamond ring young Shrewboy at the office wants to sell. He only asks twelve pounds for it, and it just fits my little finger. It sparkles like anything! There's that money, too, I borrowed from the box: I must put it back." If he had been wise, he would not have indulged in these extravagant anticipations; he would have been content with his winnings. But who ever knew a wise gamester? He went to the best drinking-bar on the race-course, and treated himself to a bottle of champagne; and said to himself, as he drank it, that now his luck was in, and he would be a fool not to back it. He might go home that afternoon with two or three hundred pounds in his pocket, if he had a spark of courage in him. Nothing venture, nothing have. How had the leviathans of the ring made their money? First by luck, then by pluck. Why shouldn't he be one of them? Why should he not buy his own trap, have private boxes at the music-halls, wear diamond rings and diamond pins, and an Ulster coat down to his heels? Some of them had country houses and race-horses of their own, and ate and drink of the best; as for champagne, they might swim in it. The iron was hot; now was the time to strike it. Flushed and elated, he walked into the ring. The names of the horses for the fourth race were being chalked on the black board. By a strange chance one was named Don't Touch Me. There was nothing very singular in this appellation; as a matter of fact you will find in the sporting papers of to-day a list of outlawed horses, among which you will see such names as Bird of Prey, Phryne, Roll Call, I Must Not Touch It, and others as significant. Now this horse, that Alfred was disposed to back directly he saw that, it was among the runners, carried its own recommendation with it. Don't Touch Me was a sufficiently fair warning for any horse to carry, never mind how lightly it was weighted; but Alfred fancied it as it took its preliminary canter. "It will walk in," he heard some one say, "and it belongs to So-and-so," mentioning the name of one of the "knowing ones" of the turf. How these persons earn the distinctive title of the "knowing ones" there is no necessity here to inquire; it can scarcely be by the exercise of the cardinal virtues, which pagans declared to be justice, prudence, temperance, and fortitude, although the second-named, prudence, bears a wide and various meaning, and they might lay claim to it in the interests of self. However it was, there stood Don't Touch Me on the black board, and there before his eyes cantered Don't Touch Me on the turf, with a celebrated jockey on its back. "I'll back it for every shilling in my pocket," thought Alfred, "and make a good haul." But he would make sure that he was right. How? By one of those foolish superstitions which gamblers believe in. He wrote the names of the eleven runners on eleven pieces of paper, folded them separately, and shook them together in his pocket. "Now," he said, "if I draw Don't Touch Me, that will settle it." He put in his hand, and drew one of the folded pieces of paper. Opening it he read Don't Touch Me, and that settled it. "It's the favourite," he said, almost aloud, in his excitement, as he consulted the lists, and saw that Don't Touch Me was quoted at three to one; "it's the favourite, and it's sure to win!" Down went his money. Not all with one man. One man might not be able to pay him so large a sum when the race was over. So he invested twenty pounds with one, ten with another, five with another, until he had put all he had upon Don't Touch Me. He stood altogether to win about a hundred and seventy pounds. He selected "safe men" to bet with. In some lists, kept by men who looked remarkably like costermongers with a polish on, the odds against Don't Touch Me were quoted at four, five, and even six to one; but Alfred knew that these worthies were welchers, and not all their seductive offers, not all their flattering "Now then, captain, what d'ye want to back?--any odds on outsiders!--give it a name, captain--what'll you put a fiver on?" could tempt him. He knew the ropes better than that; he knew that these capitalists, whose stock-in-trade consisted of a bit of chalk, a stool, a printed placard, and a lead pencil, were swindlers, who were allowed to rob with the policeman looking on. Truly, if Justice is blind, the law that is supposed to lead to it has a cast in its eye. Having made his great venture, Alfred went to look at the horse that carried it. It was a noble-looking animal, in splendid condition, fit to run for a man's life. Just behind it, making its way leisurely to the starting-post, was a horse named the Cunning One. Alfred laughed as he noted the difference between the two horses. He was in the enclosure where the swells were, having, after his winnings on Never Despair, paid for that privilege; and as he laughed now, he heard, "I'll take a thousand to thirty." "I'll give it to you," was the answer of a bookmaker; "a thousand to thirty against the Cunning One!" Turning, Alfred saw the man who had taken the bet, a tall, thin, languid swell, who drawled his words out as if speaking were a labour. A thick moustache covered his lips, or something might have been seen in the expression on them that would have given the lie to his apparently unconcerned and drawling manner. "There's thirty pounds clean thrown away," thought Alfred, with a look of contempt at the languid swell; "a nice fly chap he is to back such a horse as the Cunning One. It's only fit for a scavenger's cart." Away went the horses to the starting-post; there was a difficulty in getting a fair start, each jockey trying to "jockey" the others. Full twenty minutes elapsed, the while a very Babel of sound, created by the hoarse strong voices of the betting men, kept the fever of excitement to boiling-point. Again and again the cry "They're off!" was raised, and again and again came the mild addendum, "No; another false start." During this time Alfred heard nothing, saw nothing but the horses; he had staked his all upon Don't Touch Me, and it was upon that horse of all of them that he fixed his attention. The jockey's colours were pink; those of the jockey of the Cunning One were saffron. Alfred noticed that both these horses were kept comparatively cool and quiet by their riders while the false starts were being made. This was all in Alfred's favour, and he remarked it with satisfaction, and said, "It's all right, it's all right! Don't Touch Me is sure of the race." But his face was pale with suffering, notwithstanding. How he wished it was all over! "I won't put another shilling on," he said. "When the race is over, I'll go straight home." At length the horses were coming together, and a straight line of variegated colour was seen. "It will be a start this time," said some one, and the next moment the flag dropped again, and, "They're off! They're off!" burst from a thousand throats. Before the horses had gone a hundred yards Alfred saw the pink jacket of Don't Touch Me and the saffron jacket of the Cunning One in the rear. "All the better," he thought; for it was a two-mile race, and it was good policy to save the wind of the horses that were intended to win until the final struggle. On they came, rushing like the wind past the grand stand, and although no great distance separated them, saffron and pink were the absolute last. The race was being run at a great pace. Alfred was ablaze with excitement. The horses were lost for a few moments behind a great clump of bush on the other side of the course, and when they reappeared the aspect of affairs was changed. The horse that had made the running had dropped behind, and one or two others also were at the tails of Don't Touch Me and the Cunning One. A mile and a quarter of the race was run, and these two horses were held in with wrists of steel, while the riders sat as if they grew out of their saddles. Now they are coming into the straight run home. "A monkey to a pony on pink and saffron!" shouts a bookmaker; "a monkey to a pony, first past the post!" He is right in his judgment. The final struggle is not yet come, but slight efforts on the part of the jockeys enable Don't Touch Me and the Cunning One to thread through their horses and come to the front. Alfred clenches his teeth, and his fingers work into his palms, and his lips twitch convulsively. Nearer and nearer they come, increasing in every stride the distance between themselves and their competitors. Within five hundred yards from the winning post, they are neck and neck. "Pink wins! Saffron wins! Saffron's beat! Pink's done!" These words are yelled out frantically, and Alfred suffers a martyrdom. Suddenly the jockey of Don't Touch Me touches his horse slightly with his spur, and the noble creature bounds to the front, gaining a full half-length on the Cunning One. But the Cunning One's jockey raises his whip, and recovers his lost ground. Then ensues a grand struggle, every foot of ground being contested. They might be struggling for dear life, or for something dearer. Alfred follows them with his wild eyes. They pass like a flash of lightning, so close together that he does not know whether he has won or lost. His agony is increased by the conflicting cries, "The Cunning One wins! Don't Touch Me wins!" Which is right? A calm voice says, "I'll bet fifty to one that pink came in first;" and the speaker receives a swift grateful look from Alfred. What an age it seems before the black board is hoisted that proclaims the winner! Here it is at last. Hurrah! hurrah! The numbers proclaim Don't Touch Me first; the Cunning One second. Alfred gives a great sigh of relief; his heart was almost bursting; he wipes his forehead, and looks round with a triumphant air. The horse he backed has won the race, and he wins a hundred and seventy pounds. He sees the man from whom he has to receive the largest stake, and he walks towards him in an apparently unconcerned manner. The man is studying his book with a serious air; he has a bulbous face, and every knob on it is aflame, so that it looks like a mountain dotted with signal fires. Many of the people are eagerly canvassing the race; some are radiant, some are despairing. Here is one man tearing betting-tickets with his teeth, and flinging the pieces away savagely. Here is another, shouting exultantly to an acquaintance, "Nipped him this time, Jo! I put a tenner on!" Here is another, scowling at every face that meets his gaze. Here is one who staggers like a drunken man, but who nevertheless has not tasted liquor this day. Alfred has no eye for any of these; despair, joy, exultation, remorse, surge around him, and he does not heed them. He thinks of himself only, and burns with impatience to hear the magic cry "All right!" so that he may claim his winnings. Five minutes pass, and no signal comes from the saddling paddock that it is all right. What can be the meaning of the delay? Another minute, and another and another pass—and then comes a cry from the paddock, "Don't pay! An objection!" The scouts take up the cry, and it is all over the field in an instant. "Don't pay!" "Don't pay!" rings from one end to another; the bookmakers shut their books, and look impenetrable; the excited backers of Don't Touch Me present their tickets for payment to the keepers of the list outside the ring, and all the satisfaction they get is "Don't you hear? There's an objection." The curses, the oaths, are dreadful to hear. Alfred is dazed for a moment. It is not possible that the cup can be dashed from his lips! He also staggers like a drunken man, and a sickening feeling comes upon him. "What's the objection?" he asks of a bookmaker, in a tone that sounds strange in his own ears. His lips are white, his limbs are trembling, his heart sinks within him. "Don't Touch Me won the such-and-such Cup a month ago," is the answer; "incurred a penalty of five pounds, and did not carry it. The stewards are settling the dispute now. We shall know in a few minutes, but Don't Touch Me is sure to be disqualified, and the Cunning One will get the race." The feeling that is upon Alfred is like the fear that comes to some men whose lives have been ill spent, and who have not many minutes to live. He walks about, and hears vaguely the indignant comments of the backers of Don't Touch Me, and the hopeful anticipations of the backers of the Cunning One. What is one man's meat is another man's poison. A partisan of Don't Touch Me is especially noisy. "Strike me blind," he cries, "if it isn't a plant! The owner didn't back the horse for a shilling. He stands in with the owner of the Cunning One; and if the Cunning One gets the race, as he's sure to, they'll divide four thousand between them." How the objection is settled is not known until after the next race is run, and then a notice is stuck up that Don't Touch Me is disqualified, and that the race is awarded to the Cunning one. Thus Don't Touch Me justifies the warning that lies in his name, and thus Alfred's castle once more crumbles into dust, and he is robbed of his money. "What a fool I was," he groans, "not to have been content with my winnings on Never Despair! What an idiot to back a horse with such a name!" He sees the warning now, and, almost blind with despair, stumbles against people, and is pushed aside roughly. But he himself is not to blame, not he. Fate is against him; ill-luck follows him. Who could have foreseen such a calamity as this? If it had not been for this piece of deliberate villany--for so he settled in his mind that it was--he would have been able to make reparation for his fault, and to be kind to those he loved. "I did it all for them," he groans. The pieces of paper with the names of the horses written upon them are still in his pocket. He puts in his hand, and draws--the Cunning One! "If I hadn't been so hasty!" he thinks. "I oughtn't to have settled it the first draw. If I had only tried a second time! I could have got a thousand pounds to thirty, as that swell did. I should have had two thousand pounds in my pocket this minute! And I could have done so much good with the money--for Lil, and Lizzie, and all of us! Fool that I was! Fool that I was!" And so staggers away, and in these miserable repinings passes the day and the night that follow.
Alfred remained silent for so long a time, that Lily had to repeat her question; and again, in a timid tone, she asked him why their grandfather must not be told of his troubles and joys. Alfred asked her, in reply, whether she did not have confidence in him, whether she mistrusted him, whether she thought he had not good reason for what he said? To all these questions she answered, O, yes, yes; she had full confidence in him; she trusted him thoroughly; she knew that he must have the best of reasons for his desire that their grandfather should not be made acquainted with his secrets.
"There isn't another person in the world," said Alfred, "that I would confide in but you; but I could not keep anything secret for long from the dearest sister that man ever had, and whom I love--well, you know how I love you, Lily."
She answered sweetly, "Yes, she knew; had he not given proof of it this day? She would be worthy of his confidence; he need be sure of that." Alfred received these heartfelt protestations graciously.
"I feel better for having spoken to you, and now I shall smoke a cigar. What do you think Lizzie did the other night, Lil? I asked her in fun to light my cigar for me, and she actually did, and took a puff. She didn't like it, though; but she'll do anything for me. There's one thing I've been thinking of, Lil. When you and Lizzie are friends--as you're sure to be directly you see each other--it will be nice for you; for now I think of it, you never had a girl friend, did you?"
"There's Mrs. Gribble," answered Lily, "and Mrs. Podmore, and little Polly—"
"O yes, they're all very well in their way, but they're married women, and little Polly's only a child. What I mean is, a girl of your own age--one that you can say all sorts of things to that you can't say to any one else."
"No, I have never had a girl friend; itwouldbe nice."
"Lizzie's just the girl for you. How I should like to be hidden somewhere, and hear you talking about ME! Mind you always search under the table when you're talking secrets, Lil, for I shall look out for an opportunity to hear what you two girls have to say about me."
They made merry over this, and extracted from it all kinds of gay possibilities to suit their humour.
"You said a little while ago, Alf, that you could make a thousand pounds as safe as--as safe as—"
"As safe as nails, Lil. And so I could, and more perhaps, over the Cesarewitch."
"The Cesarewitch!" she repeated, curious to know the meaning of so strange a word.
"It is a big race that will be run soon--a race worth thousands of pounds--and I know the horse that's going to win."
"That's very clever of you, Alfred."
Alfred nodded, taking full credit to himself.
"But how can you make a thousand pounds by that, Alf? A thousand pounds! I never heard of so much money."
"Little simpleton I'll show you as much one day, and more thousands at the back of it. How can I make it? Why, I'll tell you. Here I am with 'the tip.' The tip," he continued, noticing her puzzled look, "is the secret that some of us get hold of as to which horse is going to win a race."
"O," was Lily's simple reply.
"That's what the tip is," said Alfred, with a confident air; he was in his glory, airing himself on racing matters. "And I've got it for the Cesarewitch."
"Do they know, then, beforehand what horse is going to win a race?"
"Sometimes pretty nearly, you know. Some horses that run haven't a chance; some are not intended to win—"
"Is that right, Alf?"
"Of course it is. If a man has a horse and can't back it, perhaps he backs another; then of course he doesn't want his own horse to win, for if it does, he loses his money."
Lily shook her head.
"I can't understand it; it doesn't seem right to me; but of course you know best."
"Of course I do, Lil. Women are not expected to understand these things. As to its being not quite right, that's neither here nor there. What you've got to do is to find out the secret, get into the swim, and make money. And that's what I've got the chance of doing. But I haven't explained it all. Here am I with the tip; I know the horse that's going to win. Well, what do I do, naturally? I bet on that horse. I put as much money on that horse as ever I can scrape together, and when the race is over, there I am with my pockets full. I can get fifty to one on my tip. Think of that, Lil. Fifty to one against the horse that's sure to win! If I had twenty pounds to-day, I could get a thousand to twenty, and win it. Only think what I could do with a thousand. I've got my eye on two lovely gold watches and chains for Lizzie and you, and I know where there's a stunning diamond ring to be almost given away."
"But tell me, Alf! Isn't that gambling? and isn't gambling wrong? I've heard grandfather say it is."
"Grandfather!" exclaimed Alfred, contemptuously. "What does grandfather know of such things? When he was a young man, things were different. A young fellow didn't have the chance he's got now of making a fortune in a day, if he's wide awake. That's why I don't want grandfather to know anything of this, nor anything that I've been speaking of. And of course you'll not tell him, Lil, for you've promised."
"You may depend upon me, dear Alf. It is for your good."
But she said these last words in a doubting tone.
"That it is, and for yours, and for Lizzie's, and for grandfather's, too. As to its being gambling and wrong--now, look here, Lil. You know what grandfather thinks of the newspapers. You know that he's always speaking in praise of them, and saying what capital things they are, and what a blessing it is that a poor man can get all the news of the world for a penny. You know that, Lil."
"Yes, dear."
"Why, it was only last week that grandfather said that the cheap newspapers were the poor man's best friend and best educator, because they taught him things and showed him truthfully what was going on round about him, and that they were doing more in their quiet way for the improvement of the people than anything he ever remembered in his time."
"Yes, dear, I heard him say so."
"To be sure you did. Well, then, you look in the newspapers, and see what they say of racing. Why, they give columns upon columns about it! They employ regular prophets and tipsters, and pay 'em handsomely--regular fly men, who think they know every move on the board; and they tell you what horses to back, and what horses are going to win. Theyareeducators and improvers, I can tell you, Lil! And they tell a fellow lots of things worth knowing--though I don't follow them always; not I! I know as much as they do sometimes, and a little more, perhaps. But I read them; I read every word the prophets write. Why, I spend sixpence a day often in papers; if it wasn't for what the prophets write in them, I don't suppose I'd spend a penny."
If Alfred had said that the columns devoted in the newspapers to the vaticinations of the prophets were his Bible, he would have been as near to the truth as he ever was in his life. The lessons they taught were bearing bitter fruit. Not for him alone; for thousands of others.
"There's the Cambridgeshire and the Cesarewitch," continued Alfred, "going to be run for soon. All the best horses in England are engaged. There won't be less than three columns about each race in some of the newspapers, and people get to know which horses have the best chances, and which horses are sure to run straight. Though, to be sure, you never can depend upon that. You must keep your eyes open. But come now, Lily, ain't you satisfied that there's nothing wrong in a young fellow doing a little betting now and then?"
"I don't see how there can be any wrong in it after what you've told me, Alf."
"And after what grandfather said," he added.
"Yes, and after what grandfather said, my dear."
"So then," he summed up, "that's where it is."
Which was Alfred's almost invariable way of disposing of a question.
"And here I have a chance," he presently resumed, "of getting out of all my money troubles, and of making everything straight for you and Lizzie, and all of us."
"But," insisted Lily, "I am very happy, Alf."
"Well, I'm going to make you happier, Lil. But you can't be quite happy, Lil, when I am in trouble."
"O, no, my dear," she said quickly: "I forgot. Forgive me for my selfishness. But you'll be out of it soon."
"It depends a good deal upon you, Lil."
"How upon me, dear?"
"Well, I don't quite know if it depends upon you, but it may, and of course I'm anxious! for to tell you the truth, I owe some money which Imustpay very soon, or it will be all up with me."
"O, Alfred!"
"It's true, Lil, every word I'm telling you. My contemptible screw at the office melts away without my knowing how it goes. Besides, what's fifteen shillings a week? Fifteen shillings! When I have the opportunity of making thousands of pounds! Grandfather says, 'Think of the future;' but I say, 'Think of the present.' Grandfather preaches to me about the career that such an office as Tickle and Flint's opens out to me, if I am steady and study hard. As if he knew anything about it! A nice career indeed! Why Tickle and Flint, the pair of 'em, are like two musty old Brazil nuts. Old Flint looks as if he hasn't got a drop of blood in his body; I don't believe, if you pricked him, that you'd get a drop out of him. Well, he came to that, I suppose, because he was steady and worked hard, and never saw a bit of life, and never enjoyed himself; never wasted a minute, I daresay; a precious steady young card he must have been when he was my age, poking his nose over his law books, which give me a splitting headache only to look at 'em. You should see what he's grown into, Lil, by being steady and studying hard. He can't see an inch before his nose; his clothes are as musty as himself. Now, I put it to you, Lil," he said, with an effort at merriment, "would you like to see me like that? Would you like to see me, as he is, bent double, old, snuffy, musty, with a voice like a penny tin-whistle that's got a crack in it? Would you like to see me like an old Brazil nut? You know the kind I mean: they're very brown and very wrinkly; when you crack 'em, you find that they're filled with dust which almost chokes you."
"No, no," replied Lily amused with the description and with the vivacity with which Alfred gave it; "that I shouldn't indeed, Alf."
"Well then," said Alfred, pleased with his brilliant effort, and concluding as usual, "that's where it is."
"You haven't told me all yet," said Lily quietly, after a pause.
"I've got nothing new to tell you, Lil dear," he said, biting his nails nervously; "you know that, with the exception of you and Lizzie, I have only one friend in the world."
"Mr. Sheldrake, you mean."
"Who else? I should have been floored long ago if it hadn't been for him. If he was to throw me over I should have to run from the country, or hide myself, or do something worse perhaps."
She caught his hand in deep alarm, and begged him not to speak in that dreadful manner. "You make me so unhappy, Alfred," she said, with difficulty checking her tears.
"I don't want to, I'm sure," he replied gloomily; "I want to make you happy. I've got no one else to sympathise with me but you. I can't tell Lizzie all these things. It would make me look small, and no man likes to look so in the eyes of the girl he's fond of. Supposing you were me, Lil, how would you feel?"
Terribly perplexed at these alternations of feeling, Lily said whatever she could to comfort him.
"Tell me what I can do, Alfred?" she implored. "A good deal depends upon me, you say. If it does, dear, although I cannot see the meaning of your words, you may be sure that you will get comfortably through all your difficulties. We have been everything to each other all our lives. Do you think there is anything you would ask me to do for you that I would refuse?"
"No," replied Alfred triumphantly, "I am sure there is not. It is ungrateful of me to doubt you even for a moment. Everything will come right--you'll see! Why Lily--look yonder! Is not that Mr. Sheldrake coming along? Yes, it is, by Jove! Almost the best friend I have in the world. How strange, now, that he should appear just as we have been talking of him!"
With perfect trustfulness, Lily said, "Yes, it was strange;" and if her eyes sought the ground, and a troubled feeling took possession of her breast, it was not because she doubted the brother whom she loved with all her heart. Doubt him! No. She was too guileless, too unsuspicious, too simple in her nature, to doubt where she gave her love. But she could not banish the feeling of uneasiness that stole upon her when Mr. Sheldrake came in view, and she could not help hoping he might turn away before he noticed them. But her hope was not to be fulfilled. Mr. Sheldrake, walking in the centre of a broad patch of sunlight, strolled leisurely towards them; apparently he was in an idle mood, for he stopped every two minutes, and gazed about him with a bright look and with the air of one who was gratefully enjoying the beauty of the scene. It was singular that he never once looked before him, and he must therefore have been unconscious of the presence of Lily and Alfred. His grateful mood took a benevolent turn presently, for observing an old woman humbly dressed walking in the shadow of the trees, he called to her, and gave her a small piece of silver. Truly we are a nation of beggars. Strictly speaking this old woman was not a beggar, but she accepted the money with a thankful curtsey. Then Mr. Sheldrake paused before a couple of birds which were hopping about on the ground, contemplating them as though he derived pleasure in all such pretty things, and when they left the ground, he followed their flight with a pleasant smile. In this manner, giving full play to his benevolent instincts, only because he was conscious that he was not being observed, Mr. Sheldrake approached Lily and Alfred. He was quite close to them before he looked up and recognised them.
"What--Alfred! Miss Lily!" he exclaimed. "This is indeed a surprise! and a pleasure," he added, as he raised his hat and bowed to Lily, and shook hands with her and Alfred; then asked of Alfred gaily, "What bringsyouinto the woods? You ought to be reckoning up six-and-eightpence! This is not a fit place for lawyers, is it, Miss Lily? They're not in keeping with birds, and trees, and blue clouds. They ought to be locked up in offices filled with cobwebs. But I never thought Alfred was cut out for a lawyer--did you?"
He addressed Lily, and she, having in her mind Alfred's description of his employer, Mr. Flint, replied, "No, indeed!" and looked at her brother affectionately. Alfred, however, was not quite at his ease; he appeared to be a little disturbed by Mr. Sheldrake's expressions of surprise at seeing them.
"If anything could have given me an additional pleasure," continued Mr. Sheldrake, with a warning look at Alfred, "the height of pleasure, I may say, it is the surprise of coming upon: you both so unexpectedly--in such a totally unexpected manner. I am an idle dog, Miss Lily, and I often take it in my head to run into the country for a day's quiet ramble. There is so much to enjoy in the country; it is so much better than the smoke and whirl of London. Don't you think so?"
Lily could not help agreeing with him, and she said as much.
"Here we are agreeing upon almost everything," he said, with another of his pleasant smiles; "agreeing that Alfred is not cut out for a lawyer; agreeing that the country is so much better than London. That we have something in unison is, believe me, an honour I appreciate."
His manner was perfectly respectful, and Lily's first feeling of discomfort at his appearance was wearing away. Everything was in his favour. He was Alfred's friend, and must be really attached to her brother, as was proved by his acts; he had given money to a poor woman, and the manner in which he regarded the birds was unmistakable evidence that he possessed a kindly nature. Then the stories which Alfred had told her of Mr. Sheldrake's benevolence recurred to her, and she was disposed to be angry with herself for being uncharitably disposed towards him. Certainly she had done him an injustice; certainly she owed him reparation. And so she spoke to him in such tones as thrilled him to hear. She told him of Alfred's kindness, of how she had enjoyed herself; how much she loved the country, and how she would like to live in it always.
"But then we have everything we wish for," she said sweetly.
"You ought to have," said Mr. Sheldrake gallantly, "your wishes are so simple. It is only a question of money."
"But what a teasing question that is!" she remarked, thinking of Alfred's troubles.
Mr. Sheldrake replied warmly that it was a burning shame (Lily was accustomed to hear such phrases from Alfred's lips, and therefore they did not sound strange to her coming from Mr. Sheldrake); if he had his way, he would take from those who had too much to give to those who had too little; things were unequal, that's what they were. Why should people be condemned to wish, when their wishes were reasonable and good, as Lily's wishes were? If there was one thing that would delight him more than another, it would be to be allowed the privilege of helping her to what she most desired. But that, of course, could not be; the conventionalities of society stepped in and said, "You must not." Was that not so? Lily said, "Yes, it was so," without at all understanding what he meant by his rodomontade.
"O, by-the-way, Alfred," said Mr. Sheldrake, after a few minutes' conversation of this description, "I have a note for you."
Alfred started like a guilty thing, for in his excited state every little unexpected event brought alarm with it. He crushed the note in his hand without looking at it, without daring to look at it. What could it contain? Was it from Con Staveley, reminding him of the acceptance so nearly due, and which he had not the means of paying? Or was it from Mr. Sheldrake himself, reminding him of his obligation to that gentleman? He was in such distress and trouble that he could not conceive it could contain any good news.
"Why don't you read it?" asked Mr. Sheldrake, with a smile. "We'll excuse you."
Alfred stepped behind a tree, so that he might hide his agitation. His heart beat wildly as he looked at the writing on the envelope--beat wildly, not with distress, but with surprise and pleasure. Opening the note hastily, he read, "Dear Alfred,--I am waiting for you. Mr. Sheldrake will tell you where I am.--Your ownLizzie." And then of course came a postscript: "What a kind good friend Mr. Sheldrake is!" Alfred read the note twice, and with a beaming face came towards Mr. Sheldrake.
"Well!" said that kind good friend. "Alfred seems pleased at something, doesn't he, Miss Lily? Good news in the note, Alf?"
His voice was full of hearty good-nature, and Lily was more remorseful than ever for the injustice she had done him in not thinking thoroughly well of him.
"What does this mean?" asked Alfred, drawing Mr. Sheldrake aside.
"How do I know?" was the reply. "I haven't read the note."
"But you know who it's from?"
"O yes; I saw her write it."
"Where is she?"
"Very near us, my boy--within a few hundred yards of this very spot."
"Here!" exclaimed Alfred. "How did she come here?"
"I brought her," replied Mr. Sheldrake with a pleasant chuckle.
"You!"
"You sly dog! Did you think I didn't know your secret? I scented it long ago, but I didn't let on. And as two's company and three's none, I thought you would like to have Lizzie to spend the afternoon with you. There'll be four of us now--two and two--just as it should be. You are a sly one, Alf. Well, never mind; you've got one of the prettiest little girls I ever set eyes on. I made the arrangement with her yesterday, and made her promise not to tell you, and not to spoil the pleasant surprise. Then I thought what a capital opportunity it would be for you to make her and your sister acquainted with one another. What do you think of me now? Am I a good friend?"
"A good friend!" exclaimed Alfred. "The best of friends!" and became almost outrageously effusive in his expressions of gratitude.
"And look here," said Mr. Sheldrake, "about that little acceptance of Con Staveley's, if you want time—"
"I do! I do!" interrupted Alfred eagerly. "I'm rather hard pressed just now, but I shall be all right presently. I've got the tip for the Cesarewitch, and I shall make a pot of money. Can you manage it for me with Con Staveley? I didn't like to ask you, but to tell you the truth, I didn't know which way to turn."
"Very well; I'll manage it for you, for Lily's sake. Don't worry yourself about it."
And then he told Alfred that Lizzie, looking as fresh as a peach--"You mustn't be jealous of me, Alf," he said--was waiting for him outside an inn opposite the entrance to Bushey Park. "Run off to her," he said; "Lily and I will wait for you here. You needn't hurry; I'll take care of Lily. We'll have a bit of dinner together, the four of us, and a row on the river, perhaps."
With radiant face Alfred hastened to Lily.
"I sha'n't be gone long, Lil," he said, kissing her. "Wait here with Mr. Sheldrake. I've got such a surprise for you. I don't believe any man ever had a more out-and-out friend than Mr. Sheldrake is to me. I want you to be very, very happy--as I am, my dear sis, my dear little Lil!"
He kissed her again, and left her with springing step. Lily was in a flutter of joy at his bright manner, and could not but feel grateful to Mr. Sheldrake for bringing such happiness to her brother. But, being left alone with him for the first time during their acquaintance, she did not feel quite at her ease, and it was while she was listening--with eyes cast modestly to the ground--to Mr. Sheldrake's soft tones, that Felix caught sight of her. She did not see him; all her attention was fixed upon Mr. Sheldrake's words.
"Yes, my dear Miss Lily," he was saying, "I am glad of the opportunity of doing Alfred a good turn; if he had no other claim upon me, he is your brother. I should like to see the man who would want a stronger argument than that. I dare say you know that he is a little bit harassed in money matters; but we'll pull him through, and when he's all right, I hope he'll know whom he has to thank for it."
"You," said Lily.
"No, my dear Miss Lily," Mr. Sheldrake, with the slightest shade of tenderness in his tone; "it is you he will have to thank. Or stay," he added gaily, "suppose we say that he has to thank the pair of us. Suppose we say that we are working together--you and I--for Alfred's good. Shall we say so?"
"If you wish," said Lily faintly.
"That's a bargain," exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake heartily. "We enter into a compact to work together for Alfred's good. I'm sure he deserves it, for he's a good fellow, and such a partner as I've got can't ask anything that I would refuse. Let us shake hands on it."
Lily held out her hand, and Mr. Sheldrake pressed it tenderly.
"And now, my dear Miss Lily, where do you think Alfred has gone to now?"
"I don't know. He seemed very excited, all of a sudden, and very happy."
"He ought to be. Do you know he has a sweetheart, the happy fellow? Has he told you about Lizzie?"
"Yes, he told me only this morning."
"He will be here directly with her. She is waiting outside the park gates for him. Are you not pleased?"
She gave him for answer a bright, happy look.
It was then that Felix turned away. He did not know, of course, what had passed between Lily and Mr. Sheldrake. But he had seen that, when they shook hands, Lily had held out hers first; and he saw, as he turned his head, the bright look which flashed into Lily's eyes as Mr. Sheldrake told her that Lizzie was near.
Something else of interest to him was taking place almost simultaneously, at a short distance from where he stood. Outside the park gates a company of street acrobats had halted, and having beaten the drum and spread their little bit of carpet, were going through their performances before an admiring audience. Among their audience was Lizzie, who took great delight in street exhibitions. She was dressed in her best clothes, and looked, as Mr. Sheldrake had said, as fresh as a peach. Her whole attention was not given to the performers, for she looked about her every now and then, expectant of some one. But she did not see that she was being watched. From the opposite side of the crowd an elderly woman, with a pale troubled face, dressed in black, was observing Lizzie's every movement, and following the girl's every motion with anxious eyes. This woman was Martha Day, housekeeper to the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell.
In a very flutter of delight, Alfred hurried to the spot where Lizzie was waiting for him. He did not pause to reflect upon the strange manner in which she had been brought to the place; it was sufficient for him that she was here, that the day was bright, and that Mr. Sheldrake had promised him to see that his acceptance to Con Staveley would be made all right. "It is only for a little while," he said to himself, as he came to the gates of Bushey Park; "when the Cesarewitch is run, I shall be all right. I daresay Sheldrake will put something on for me." Attracted by the crowd assembled round the street acrobats, he paused, and saw Lizzie. He saw also a pale-looking woman on the opposite side observing her; but this did not strike him as being worthy of notice. He looked round at the men and women who were admiringly following the movements of the acrobats, and noticed, with a feeling of as much pride as pleasure, that Lizzie was the most attractive and prettiest of them all.
"Lizzie!" he whispered in her ear.
"O, Alfred!"
The girl turned at the sound of his voice with such unrestrained joy in her face, that Martha Day bit her colourless lip until a blood-stain came upon it.
"Who ever expected to see you here, Lizzie?"
"Are you disappointed?" asked Lizzie archly. "If you are, I'll go back again."
In earnest of her sincerity, she took his arm, and clung to it. Alfred laughed.
"It looks as if you wanted to go back," he said, with admiring glances at her.
"O, Alfred, isn't this a delightful surprise?"
He nodded, and heedless of the people about them, took her hand in his. But she, more immediately conscious of the proprieties, gave his hand a little squeeze, and withdrew her own. She had on a new hat and a new dress, and she wanted him to admire them.
"Do you like my new hat, Alf?"
"Upon my word, I didn't notice it, Lizzie."
"O!" was her comment, in a tone of disappointment.
"I couldn't see anything but your face, Lizzie."
"Ah!" was her comment, in a tone of gratification, with love-sparkles in her eyes.
"It's very pretty," he said.
"My face or my bonnet, Alf?"
"I should like to hug you, Lizzie," was his crooked answer.
"But you mustn't," she said, with ripples in her voice. "So many people looking! Give me twopence, Alf."
"What for?" he asked, giving her the coppers.
"For the conjurers--because I feel so happy."
A juvenile member of the company had just tied himself into a knot, and having untied himself, Lizzie beckoned to him and gave him the money, the good example being immediately followed by others of the on-lookers.
"You've brought them luck, Lizzie."
"I'm glad of it."
But the hat question was not yet settled. She directed his attention to it.
"I made it myself last night, Alf. I want to know if it becomes me."
"It's just the kind of hat that I should have bought for you," he said.
"I made this dress, too. Do you like it? Feel what nice soft stuff it is."
He squeezed her arm.
"I like what is in it best," he said.
"What's that?" she asked coquettishly.
"You."
"O, I daresay," with a saucy toss of her head. "But it's the dress I want to know about."
"It's the very prettiest dress I ever saw."
"I thought you would like it;" and then she inquired anxiously, "It isn't too short, is it?"
With a lover's jealousy, he said he thought it might be a trifle longer.
"Goose!" she exclaimed, with an air of superior wisdom. "As if you knew anything about it! If I had ugly feet, of course I should have made it a little longer. Perhaps Ihavegot ugly feet."
"O!" he said. "You've got the prettiest feet in the world."
Accepting this statement (with feminine logic) as a decision in her favour respecting the length of the dress, she said,
"I'm glad you're pleased with it; I never made anything for myself without considering whether you will like it. Just see if my panier is right, Alf."
He said, with a critical eye that her panier was just the thing.
Martha Day noted this comedy with wistful gaze. To them it was the pleasantest of plays--to her the dreariest.
"So that, take me altogether, Alf," said Lizzie, "you think I'll do?"
"If you speak like that, Lizzie, Ishallhug you. I won't be able not to." (Most ungrammatical, but very expressive.)
"If you're not quiet, Alf, I shall run away."
"And now tell me; I want to know all about it. When Mr. Sheldrake gave me your note I was regularly knocked over. I had to read it twice before I could make sure. How long have you known Mr. Sheldrake? And how did you come to know him? And how did he find out about you and me?"
Lovers are never tired of asking questions. In this respect they resembled the character of the American people, which, if I were asked to define tersely, I should define thus: ?
"It's like a delightful fairy story," said Lizzy.
"Nonsense, Lizzie.Dobe sensible."
"It isn't nonsense, Alf. It really and truly is like a delightful fairy story, and if you don't think so, I'll not tell you anything about it."
"I'll say it's like anything, if you'll only tell me all about it."
"Well, then, I must commence properly. Once upon a time—" Here she paused, in the most tantalising manner, and asked, "Where do I live?"
"Why, where you lived the last time I was at your place."
"How long ago is that?" with an air of not having the most remote idea as to whether it was a day, or a week, or a year.
"This day last week, you little tease."
"Was it?" as though she really had no idea. "Perhaps you're right. Well, everything's altered since then. I don't live there any longer. But, Alfred, isn't your sister here?"
"Yes," he answered, not knowing what to make of her humour.
"Oughtn't we to go to her? I hope she'll like me."
"She loves you already, for my sake, Lizzie. She told me so, and is longing to see you. But we've no occasion to hurry. We'll walk slowly, and then you can tell me your fairy story."
"Well," she said, with a smile at once bewitching and tender, "you're a dear patient boy, and now I'll be good and tell you all about it. Once upon a time—"
They turned, and walked towards the entrance of Bushey Park. So interested were they in Lizzie's fairy story, that they did not notice Felix, who brushed quite close by them. He saw them, however, and saw at the same moment what was a greater astonishment to him--Martha Day, with a face like death, watching the lovers with misery in her eyes.
"Martha!" he cried, "how strange to meet you here, and at such a time!"
She made no reply to his expression of surprise, and did not seem to think it strange that he should make his appearance at that moment. Taking, almost mechanically, the hand he held out to her, she clasped it firmly, and made a movement in the direction of the park gates. But Felix, not knowing what was her intention, held back. He had no desire to play the part of spy upon Lily's brother.
"Why do you restrain me?" asked Martha, in a low voice.
"I don't wish to restrain you, Martha," replied Felix; "but I cannot go in that direction for a minute or two. You appear to me not to quite know what you are about. What is it you want, and what is the matter with you?"
"You passed close by them?" pointing after Lizzie and Alfred.
"Yes."
"And saw them?"
"Yes."
"What do they look like?"
"Like sweethearts, I should say, Martha."
An expression of pain escaped from Martha's lips.
"Doyouknow them, Martha?"
"I know one."
"Which one?"
"The girl. I must not lose sight of her."
Again she made a movement in the direction of the retreating forms of the lovers, and again Felix held her back. She had clasped his hand so firmly during the time that he could not release it without being rough.
"If you follow them," he said, "you must go alone. What is this girl to you?"
"She is my life--my soul!" cried Martha passionately, wringing her hands.
Seeing that her passion was attracting the attention of the bystanders, Felix drew her away gently towards the park, in the direction which Lizzie and Alfred had taken. Felix had not had much experience of Martha; but what little he had seen of her in his father's house had so decidedly exhibited her in the character of a cold passionless woman, whom scarcely anything could move to strong emotion, that this present experience of her filled him with surprise. It was a new revelation to him. Martha had exhibited much affection for him, and he was disposed to assist her to the utmost extent of his power. There had always been something odd and strange in her behaviour to him; but he had ascribed this to her eccentric manner. He had, however, never seen any signs in her of the stormy currents of feeling which she now exhibited, and which were brought into play by the girl whom he had just passed, and he had seen for the first time. What connection could exist between that bright girl and the pale sad woman by his side, whose whole life appeared to have been one of self-restraint? He asked himself the question, but he was unable to answer it. They walked slowly along, she being contented to allow him to take the lead, because she could see Lizzie's dress fluttering in the distance. Felix took care to keep well out of sight, and when Lizzie and Alfred reached the spot where Mr. Sheldrake and Lily were sitting, paused also, and looked about for a seat for Martha.
"I will sit here, Felix," she said, seating herself where she could see the movements of the party in the distance; she had somewhat recovered herself, but was pale and trembling still.
Felix waited for her to speak. He had lost sight of his own troubles and his own misgivings in the contemplation of Martha's grief and agitation; but as he stood leaning against a tree, with his face towards the woman he loved with all his strength, they came back upon him. The subject they involved was so near to him, so dear, so inwoven in his heart, that it was impossible for it to be absent from his mind now for any but a brief space of time. He had not yet been able to think it over and to place a construction upon what he had seen. But although clouds were gathering about him, he had already committed himself to one determination--not to allow himself to be blinded by unworthy doubts. He had extracted a promise from Lily's grandfather, had pledged himself, as it were, and the old man had put a trust in him. It was not in his nature to betray a trust, nor to give way to mean suspicions. Suspicions! Of Lily, and her truth and innocence! No, indeed. "I have watched her from infancy," the old man had said, "and I know her purity. I pray that she may be spared from life's hard trials: but they may come to her, as they come to most of us. They may come to her undeservedly, and through no fault of hers; and if they do, and if, like Imogen, she has to pass through the fire, she will, like Imogen, come out unscathed." The full sense of these words came upon Felix now, and were of themselves sufficient to hold in arrest his judgment upon what he had witnessed. But this influence was not needed, and it was a proof of the chivalry of his nature that, even as these words recurred to him, he should turn his face from the woman he loved.
There are a class of men who have no belief in generous feeling. It is an article of faith with these clever ones of the world to believe that there is something unworthily selfish or base at the bottom of every action; but this is not the only false creed extant. The quixotism which they sneer at often contains a kernel of much nobility and sweetness. Felix was to a certain extent quixotic; he was even, according to a certain mistaken interpretation of the term, a sentimentalist. But he was no rhapsodist; he indulged in dreams, but he did not allow his imagination to steal a march upon his reason and distort it. His mind was a logical one; and the course he had taken with his father proved that he could be firm and faithful to an idea. In the few brief moments of silence that elapsed he was busy piecing together many things in connection with Lily, deduced chiefly from what had been said by her grandfather regarding her. "To her, as to others," the old man had said, "life's troubles may come. To her may come one day the sweet and bitter experience of love. When it does, I pray to God that she may give her heart to one who will be worthy of her--to one who holds not lightly, as is unhappily too much the fashion now, the sacred duties of life." In the very interview in which these words were spoken, the old man had said to Felix, "You would give me faith if I needed it. It would have been my greatest pride to have had such a son." Swiftly upon this came the old man's advice to Felix to follow Lily and Alfred to Hampton Court. These things and the unexpressed meanings they conveyed--(here intruded the question asked by Felix, whether the brother and sister had gone to Hampton Court by themselves, and the old man's answer, Yes)--were so opposed to what might not unreasonably have been inferred from the attitude of Lily and Mr. Sheldrake to each other, that Felix, with characteristic quixotism, refused to accept the interpretation that most other men would have put upon the discovery. His thoughts having arrived at this climax, he was prevented from going farther by Martha speaking to him. She had watched with earnest eyes the meeting between Lizzie and Lily, and seemed to derive consolation from the way the girls took to each other. She was calmer now, and directed Felix's attention to the two girls, with their arms round each other's waists, drawing a little apart from the men.
"I see," said Felix, also appearing to derive satisfaction from the companionship of the girls; "but I am in the dark as yet. If you can trust me—"
"Trust you, Felix! I would trust you with my life!"
"You might, and with anything else as dear to you. Who is that young lady?"
"My niece." With a steady look at Felix, and with the slightest bit of colour in her face.
"Your niece! I had an idea that you had no relations. I never heard you speak of any."
"No, Felix." (She was fast recovering her composure.) "But that does not prevent my having a niece."
"I can tell by your manner that you love her very dearly, Martha."
"If she were my daughter, Felix, I could not love her more." The composure of her face and manner was wonderful to witness, after her late exhibition of passion and anxiety. "I love the girl you see before you with as intense a love as if I had suckled her at my breast, and as if all other ties upon me (if I ever had any), all other demands upon my love, had passed out of my life. Rather than see her come to harm"— (she stretched out her hands, which now were slightly trembling, and strove hard to preserve her quiet calm demeanour; but she could not quite succeed, as the tremor in her voice testified.) "Rather than see her come to harm, I would choose to have these fingers torn from my hands, joint by joint; I would submit to any suffering, to any indignity; I would live my unhappy life over a hundred times, and be a hundred times more unhappy than I have been. I don't know what could be dictated to me that I would not do for her sake."
The passion of her words and the forced calm of her voice presented a strange contrast. Felix listened in wonder.
"Does she know you are here, Martha?"
"No."
"How did you come upon her, then?"