"I followed her from London. Chance alone befriended me. Yesterday I went to where she lived, and I was told she had moved."
"Where did she live?"
It was no surprise to hear her mention the street and the very house in which he had his lodgings, for as he asked the question he remembered how, on the first night of his taking up his quarters there, he had seen Martha pass swiftly out of the street-door as he was about to open it. He had not been very curious about the other lodgers in the house, being wishful that they should not be curious about him; but on two or three occasions he had seen a girl go up the stairs past his landing--a young graceful girl, who might have been Lizzie--who indeed, he settled in his own mind now, was Lizzie, although he had never seen her face. He said nothing of this to Martha, except that he knew the street.
"You went to where Lizzie lived, and were told that she had moved—"
"Lizzie had already told me so in a letter she wrote to me, and she said in it that in a day or two she would tell me more. But I could not rest after I received the letter. Here it is, Felix; read it."
She took a letter from the bosom of her dress, and gave it to him. In the distance, the two girls, having drawn still further apart from Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake, were standing within the shadow of a great chestnut tree, the branches of which bent over them protectingly; their attitude bespoke the exercise of much affectionate feeling. Lizzie was speaking with animation, and Lily was listening, with a smile on her face. Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake were also engaged in conversation; their faces were towards the girls, and every now and then Alfred gave them a pleasant nod, and received smiles and bright glances in return.
"She writes a good hand," observed Felix, opening the letter.
"She has had a good education."
"That speaks well for her mother."
"She has no remembrance of her mother."
"Then she owes it all to you, Martha."
"All to me, Felix," replied Martha quietly; "but read."
Felix read:
"My dear Aunty,--It is nearly twelve o'clock at night, and I am very tired and sleepy. But before I go to bed I want to talk to you, and as you are not here for me to tease you, I must write a letter. Now I daresay you wonder what about--Ishould, if I were you!--although I know you are always glad to get a letter from me, whether there is anything in it or not. But I really have something to say to you now; something very,veryparticular, although it will puzzle you, for I can only tell you a bit of it. You shall know the rest when you come to London, which I hope will be soon, but not until I write you another letter to tell you where to come to. I am going to move, aunty dear, into a nice house, where I'm going to be very happy and comfortable; and although I said at first that I must tell you about it before I did it, I have been persuaded to wait until it was done, so that I might give you a real pleasant surprise. Now, this is to tell you just so much, and no more,--and to tell you, too, that you mustn't be the least bit uneasy about me. We shall be nicely settled in a very few days, and then I shall write to you to come and see me. I fancy I see you walking in and looking about in astonishment, you dear aunty! I wish we could always live together, and that I could show you how much I love you, and how grateful I am for all your care of me. Perhaps that time will come, eh, dear aunty?--Now I must wish you good-night, for I feel so sleepy. Good-night; God bless you.--From your happy and affectionateLizzie."
"When I received that letter yesterday," said Martha when Felix returned it to her, "I cannot describe to you the misery it brought to me. Lizzie had made a change in her life once before without my knowing, and she promised me then, seeing the unhappiness it caused me, always to consult me in any matter of importance. She has not done so; I have seen her to-day with two men who are utter strangers to me; she has never mentioned their names to me; and one is evidently more to her than an ordinary friend or acquaintance."
"Calm yourself, Martha," said Felix, in sincere compassion for her distress of mind; "you are wasting your strength."
"What can my poor Lizzie know of the heartlessness and cruelty of the world? What can she know of the falseness of fair words, and of the base thoughts that a smiling face can cover? O Felix, I have felt it! I know what it is; I have suffered from it cruelly. She was going to move into a nice house, she says in her letter. What do these words mean? I tortured myself with putting meanings to them. It was impossible for me to get to London yesterday, and I had to wait until this morning. O, what a weary night I passed, Felix--what a weary, weary night! I lay in the dark, and the tick of the old clock in the passage almost maddened me, it was so slow. I did not have a moment's sleep--you can see that in my face. I must have dressed myself at least half a dozen times. How I prayed for the morning to come! Of all the nights of agony I have passed--and I have had many, Felix; my life has been hard and cold and bitter--that was the worst, and the most unhappy!"
She paused for a moment after this lament.
"Bitter as my life has been, I have borne it patiently, uncomplainingly, as long as I was sure that Lizzie was well and happy. There was my comfort; there is now my suffering. O, Felix, what pain there is in love--what pain, what pain!"
Felix recalled her to herself by a gentle touch of his hand.
"I know, Felix, I know; I cannot help it. I have such a weary pain here."
"Rest a little," he said, "before you proceed."
But she continued.
"The morning came at last, thank God--it came at last! And then again I had to wait until the train left Stapleton. I arrived in London before ten o'clock, and went straight to the house where Lizzie lodged. I saw the landlady. She told me that Lizzie had left, and that another lodger of hers had also left at the same time. This other lodger was an old man, she said, and she did think it a little strange that they should both have given warning at the same time. Did she know where Lizzie had gone to? I asked. No, she did not know. I was turning away, when I thought of the old man. Did she know where he was gone to? No, she didn't know the number of the house, nor the street; but a few days ago the old man had let drop a word or two, which led her to suppose he was going to live near a certain place about four miles from London. I thought, if I could find this old man, he might be able to tell me where Lizzie was. I arrived in the locality; I rode there in a cab. But it seemed to me that I might as well have been in a wilderness for all the clue I could obtain as to where the old man lived. As I was searching and inquiring, with such little success that I became sick and faint, I suddenly saw a figure a long way before me. I knew it immediately--I should have known it among a thousand. It was Lizzie. But she was not alone. A gentleman was with her, and I did not wish to make my girl angry by speaking to her in the presence of a stranger. I followed them. They seemed to be very happy, and talked and laughed with light hearts; while I with my heavy load hung behind, so that they should not see me. They stopped at a railway-station, and the gentleman left Lizzie standing on the platform, and came along to the ticket-window to get tickets. My veil was down, and as I did not know him, it was not likely that he would know me, even if he saw my face; so I mustered sufficient courage to approach close to him, and heard him ask for tickets for Hampton Court. I took a ticket also for this place, and came in the same train, but not in the same carriage. I was alone in the carriage, and I had plenty of time to think what it was best for me to do. I was a long time before I made up my mind; and then I decided that it would be best for me not to discover myself to Lizzie unless I was compelled. My girl was keeping some part of her life from me, I thought, and I should know better how to act if I found out what it was. I had never seen this gentleman before, had never heard of him from Lizzie. He looked like a gentleman, but still like that kind of gentleman that it would not be wise for a girl in Lizzie's position to know too well. I thought of the temptations which surrounded a young girl like Lizzie--she is very, very pretty, dear girl!--in a great city like London. Imagine my agony. After all, girls are girls; they like pleasure and excitement; and Lizzie was living by herself. But I dared not think long upon this; it weighed upon me too much. We alighted at Hampton Court, and I followed my dear girl and the gentleman cautiously. They stopped at an inn--the inn before which the street conjurers were playing. The gentleman said a few words to Lizzie, and left her. Just then the conjurers came and began to make preparations for performing. Lizzie came out to see them--she is very fond of street sights, dear child!--and I stood apart from her in the crowd watching her. I don't know how long a time passed before the young man came up to her; but it was like a knife in my heart to see the joy in Lizzie's face when he spoke to her. I never thought it possible I could have felt pain to see my girl look bright and happy. And you may wonder, Felix, why I suffered so; you may wonder why I should not rejoice in my girl's pleasures. But think for a moment--think of the misery it caused me to learn that Lizzie had been hiding things from me. If she kept this from my knowledge, as she has done, may she not have kept other things? If you knew how wretched it makes me to hear myself speaking like this of her--if you knew Felix, you would pity me. But I wouldn't say it to any one else but you; and I know that I am mistaken, and that my girl is good and true. They talked together for a little while, and I saw her ask him for some money to give to the performers. It was like her, dear child she has the tenderest heart! Soon afterwards they walked away, and I was about to follow them when you came up. That is all."
While she was speaking, Felix called to mind that on the day he first saw Lily in his father's house in Stapleton, Martha admitted her and her grandfather and brother to his father's study. "Did she remember Alfred's face?" he asked of himself mentally.
"You saw the young man who came to Lizzie?" he asked aloud.
"Yes, Felix."
"Can you see his face now?"
"No, I am shortsighted. If it were not for my love, I should not be able to distinguish Lizzie."
"Tell me," said Felix, "do you ever remember seeing his face before?"
"Never, Felix; and yet—" she paused, and passed her hand over her eyes--"now you mention it, there seemed to be something familiar in his face as I looked at him. But no, I must be mistaken; I have no recollection of ever having seen him. Why do you ask?"
"I wondered if you had, that is all, Martha. And now" (dismissing the subject), "what is it you intend to do?"
"I don't know--I am bewildered. At one time I think of going away, and bearing my misery until she writes to me again, which she is sure to do soon; then I can speak to her. At another time I think of going up to her, and showing myself. She would be glad to see me, I think; she would not turn her back upon me."
"I am sure she would be glad to see you—"
"Bless you, Felix," cried Martha, in a grateful tone, "for that assurance!"
"But have you thought how you could account for your presence here, Martha? Would not the gentleman who brought her from London be likely to remember that he saw you at the ticket-office? Would not Lizzie be hurt if she thought you had been watching her?"
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Martha, looking up to him for support. "You are right in everything you say; you can see things in a clearer light than I can. I am confused and tired out. Itwouldhurt Lizzie's feelings; and rather than that—"
"Rather than that, if I judge you rightly, you would suffer much without murmuring."
"You judge me rightly, Felix. I would suffer much to save her from the smallest pain."
He gave her a bright look in approval, and pressed her hand.
"You are sure of one thing, Martha--sure that Lizzie will write to you soon?"
"O, yes."
"Well, she has come out to enjoy the day--I don't suppose she has too many holidays. Look at her--you can see that she is happy. It would be a pity to spoil her enjoyment. You agree with me--I see it in your eyes. So presently, if it is necessary, you will go home and leave them to themselves."
"If you advise me to do so, I will," she said humbly, and then with more animation, "although it will make me very unhappy to be sent away. For one reason, Felix. You must not think that in what I am going to say I am prejudiced or prompted by fears. I don't like that man's face."
"Which of the two do you refer to, Martha?"
"The one who brought Lizzie from London."
"Neither do I."
"You know him then--you have seen him?"
"Let me think a little, Martha."
He moved away from her, and walked slowly up and down in deep thought. Should he tell Martha his secret, or so much of it as he deemed necessary? Her instinctive aversion to David Sheldrake's face found sympathy with him. Felix was a shrewd observer, and during his brief sojourn in London had formed a pretty fair estimate of the life of the great city. His judgment was not biassed by prejudices of any kind, and it did not detract from the correctness of his conclusions that he judged by a high standard. He knew the class of men of which Mr. Sheldrake was a member; knew that they lived only for the pleasures of the day, and that such moral obligations as conscientiousness and right-doing were not to be found in their vocabulary of ethics. That Lily entertained an affection for Mr. Sheldrake, he could not believe; no, not even the bright look she gave to Mr. Sheldrake, and of which he had been an involuntary witness--not even the confidential relations which seemed to subsist between them--could make him believe that. "Although love comes--how?" thought Felix. "Who can analyse the subtle influences which compose it? who can set down rules for it?" But the strongest argument he found to strengthen his belief that Lily did not love Mr. Sheldrake was that her grandfather knew nothing of it. And, on the other hand, from what had passed between himself and Old Wheels, the hope had been born within him that the old man suspected and approved of his feelings for Lily. "He would not encourage me by the shadow of a word," thought Felix, "if he thought that Lily loved another. She may not love me, although I have sometimes thought that I might win her love; but I may have been misled by my hopes." He would know some day, perhaps; in the mean time a clear duty was before him, prompted no less by his love for her than by his sense of right, and by his promise to the old man. Felix was convinced that the old man knew nothing of the present meeting of Lily and Mr. Sheldrake, and was convinced that Lily herself did not know of it beforehand; for she had asked her grandfather to accompany them, and he had refused. Why did he refuse? Lily wished him to come, and that wish was sufficiently strong for compliance. Immediately Felix arrived at this point of his reflections, he decided that Alfred must be the cause of the old man's absence, and also that Alfred knew that Mr. Sheldrake would be at Hampton Court, and had kept the knowledge from Lily. The meeting was planned, then, beforehand--planned by Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake.
Thus logically following out his train of thought, things became clearer to him; but the chain was not complete. What was the link that connected Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake? Felix knew nothing of Alfred's racing speculations; neither did he suspect Alfred of deliberate treachery against his sister. All that was ill in the matter he set down to the credit of Mr. Sheldrake. And this was the more strange because he would admit of no compromise, and because, as a general rule, he was singularly lenient and tender in his estimate of acts and persons, finding and making excuses often which could only be conceived by one possessing a kindly nature.
Lily was in danger; of that he was satisfied. Her love for Alfred magnified the danger. He drew a deep breath, and looked steadily at the persons of whom he had been thinking; they were together now, and were making preparations for quitting the spot.
"You said just now, Martha," he said, "that you could trust me with your life."
"I meant it," she replied.
"Trust me, then," he exclaimed, in an incisive tone; his words seemed to cut the air, they were so clear and sharp. "Do exactly as I tell you. Your cause is mine. Lizzie is as dear to you as your life is; I know that. Let me relieve your mind upon one point. I am acquainted with the young man who looks like Lizzie's sweetheart--it is strange how things are linked together, is it not? The young lady you see with them is his sister--as pure and good a girl as breathes in this villanous world. No, no; why should I say villanous? There are spots even upon the sun. But the girl whose arm is round Lizzie's waist, the girl whose cheek is so close to Lizzie's now, has a soul as clear as an undefiled mountain stream."
"Felix!" cried Martha in wonder; for a tremulous tenderness had stolen into his voice as he spoke these last words.
"You and I are something alike in one thing, Martha; we don't waste words when there is a purpose before us. What we say has meaning in it. What I say to you now, I know; for I have come in contact with that pure soul and simple nature, and it has done me good. It should do you good, too, to know that your girl is in such companionship."
"It does, Felix; my mind is inexpressibly relieved."
"Stay here, Martha; they are moving off. I intend to see where they are going to."
Martha resumed her seat without a word of protest, having confidence in him; and he, waiting until the party were ahead of him, followed them slowly. He was not gone more than ten minutes.
"It is as I thought," he said to Martha, when he returned; "they are at the inn now, and dinner is being prepared for them."
He sat down beside her, and she took his hand, and looked at him affectionately.
"I have been thinking, Felix, of what you said just now concerning that young lady."
"And thinking of me, I suppose, in connection with her."
"Yes, Felix."
"Well, Martha, you have the key to my secret. Let it be sacred between us, and do not let any reference to it pass your lips unless with my consent."
He asked her to recall the time when he and she last met.
"I do," she answered. "It was in the porch of your father's house, on the day you left."
"But I have seen you since then, Martha."
"Not there!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Not at Stapleton!"
"No; in London. I am about to give you a surprise, Martha; the day seems full of surprises, indeed. I am going to tell you where I live."
He told her the street, and the number of the house. In amazement, she cried,
"Why, that's where Lizzie lived! I was at the house this morning!"
"I never saw Lizzie's face; all I knew was that a young girl and an old man lived at the top of the house. I keep myself very quiet, Martha, and have not been desirous of making acquaintances. So now you know where to come and see me in London, should you wish; for of course I cannot come to Stapleton. Things go on as usual there, I suppose?"
"Yes; there is no change."
He made no farther reference to his former home, and came back to his theme.
"I shall stay here, Martha. You had best go home; I will write to you to-morrow. When you hear from Lizzie, with her new address, come to me and let me know it."
"Have you decided, then, what to do, Felix?"
"I can't see my way clearly, but things will shape themselves for me. Have you seen the play ofRichelieu?"
"I haven't been to a theatre since I was a girl," she replied.
"Well, in one part of that play the principal mover finds it necessary for his plans to put on a fox's skin. It may be that I shall take a leaf out of his book. Come, we must be moving."
There is no telling nowadays where London ends and the country commences. It is difficult to realize that quite recently in our history, within the last three hundred years indeed, the Strand was bush and garden, and that Westminster and Islington were made pleasant by green woods and fields. Then, houses were few and far between; now, they are so thickly clustered that (animated, perhaps, by the spirit of their inhabitants) they seem to be poking their elbows into each other's ribs, and to be jealous of one another. So, for rest and quiet, we must away from these busy thoroughfares.
The course of our story, however, does not carry us very far from London's centre; and although the house at which we stop is in a pretty and quiet neighbourhood, and is old-fashioned and delightfully irregular in its outlines, the shriek of the iron horse is heard within its walls a dozen times an hour. It is a small house in one of the suburbs, with garden all round it, just such a house (or at least she says it is) as Lizzie saw among the flowers when Muzzy proposed that they should live together. Lizzie is bustling about the house now, singing as she runs up and down-stairs, and old Muzzy--henceforth to be dignified by the name of Musgrave--looks up from the table, upon which are a number of letters and circulars, and listens to her blithe voice. He has discovered already that Lizzie is a capital little housewife; that she can cook and market without the slightest fuss, and without taking any particular merit to herself for those accomplishments. Lizzie, indeed, is fond of work; she is busy all day long, and it is evident that her sewing-machine is not allowed to rust.
It is the day after the excursion to Hampton Court. It was quite eleven o'clock of the previous night when Mr. Musgrave, sitting in the parlour waiting anxiously for Lizzie's return, heard voices at the garden gate in front of the house. He went to the street-door, and stood quietly with the handle in his hand. "Good-night," he heard Lizzie cry; "and don't forget--on Thursday!" A low voice replied in words that Mr. Musgrave did not hear, and then there was pleasant laughter, and "Good-night!" "Good-night!" a dozen times repeated. After that Mr. Musgrave, opening the street-door, saw Lizzie standing by the gate waving her handkerchief. When they were in the house, Lizzie declared that she was too tired to tell him the day's adventures; that she had spent a very happy day, and that she was sleepy, and wanted to go to bed and think.
"I will tell you all about it to-morrow, daddy," she said, and kissed him and wished him good-night.
Now, sitting in what may be termed the back parlour, he is waiting to hear Lizzie's account of her adventures the previous day. The window in this room looks out on the garden at the rear of the house. At the end of the garden is a cozy little summer-house, with just sufficient room for four persons to sit embowered "in mossy shade."
Lizzie, coming into the room, tells him what there is for dinner and that it will soon be ready, and asks him for the twentieth time if all this isn't delightful.
"But," she adds, "do you think it will last, daddy?"
"Why shouldn't it, Lizzie?" he asks in return.
"I don't know," she replies, with somewhat of a serious look in her face. "It seems strange when you come to think of it. I couldn't help wondering about it last night in bed."
"Wondering in what way, Lizzie?"
"Just tell me if I am wrong in something you once said to me. You said you hadn't known Mr. Sheldrake very long."
"I might have told you so, Lizzie."
"But it is true, isn't it, daddy?"
"Yes, it is true."
"Then I remember you once said that nobody in the world does anything without a motive."
"Go on."
"So I put this and that together. Mr. Sheldrake hasn't known you very long. What motive can he have in being so kind to you?"
"He is my master, Lizzie."
"That's no motive. So I think to myself, I wonder if it will last! You see, daddy, I am inquisitive, as all girls are, and I want to find out. And I mean to--for reasons."
He laughs at this, and says that she is an inquisitive girl indeed. What makes her so inquisitive about Mr. Sheldrake when she has never seen him?
"O, then you don't know!" she exclaims.
"Don't know what, Lizzie? You talk in riddles."
"Don't know that Mr. Sheldrake met me at a little distance from here yesterday, and went down with me to Hampton Court?"
"Lizzie!" he exclaims in a tone of alarm, which sets Lizzie's sharp eyes at work studying his face, while the serious look on hers deepens in intensity.
The thought which prompts his alarm is this: Is Mr. Sheldrake playing him false? He remembers, when Mr. Sheldrake proposed that he should turn over a new leaf, asking his master if he meant any harm to Lizzie. To that question Mr. Sheldrake had returned a scornful reply. But Lizzie's statement revives his suspicion. Her honour is as dear to him as a daughter's would have been. But how to warn her? Her high spirit would not permit of plain speaking; and besides, the subject is a delicate one, and the mere mention of it by him might be construed into a suspicion of Lizzie. She sees his trouble and perplexity, and divines the cause of it.
"Don't be frightened, daddy," she says; "Mr. Sheldrake did not make love to me.Iam not his motive. A girl can soon tell, you know."
"Tell me all about your meeting with him, Lizzie--how it came about."
"He wrote me a note, telling me he wanted to give Some One--Alfred, you know--a pleasant surprise, and proposing that I should meet him and go down to Hampton Court with him. We were to keep the matter to ourselves, and I wasn't even to tell you. Well, I hesitated a little at first, thinking it wasn't quite right; but then I thought of the noble character you gave him, and I was curious to see him. And you mustn't think, daddy, that I can't take care of myself. So I told you what was the truth when I said I was going to Hampton Court to meet Some One, but I didn't tell you how it was to come about. You mustn't think ill, or have any suspicions, of Mr. Sheldrake because of what I say, for everything turned out exactly as he proposed. We went down to Hampton Court, and he left me and went for Alfred: and altogether it was one of the very happiest days I have ever spent."
"I am glad of that, Lizzie. But this doesn't bring us any nearer to Mr. Sheldrake's motive."
"Alfred's sister was there. Such a dear girl, daddy! If she wasn't Alfred's sister, I should be jealous of her, because I am sure that everybody must prefer her to me. You will fall in love with her directly you see her. Lily and I are going to be great friends; she is coming to spend the day here on Thursday. Mr. Sheldrake was very attentive to her." This with a shrewd look at Mr. Musgrave's face. But it seems as if he has not heard the last words.
"What name did you say?" he asks.
"Lily. Pretty names are they not, daddy, for brother and sister? Lily and Alfred."
"What is she like?" He does not ask the question immediately. He pauses for a little while before he speaks.
"She is about my height, but a little slighter, with such beautiful brown eyes! I can't describe her face, there is such a dreamy look upon it sometimes. You must wait until Thursday and see for yourself. But I tell you what she is; she is good."
"Does Mr. Sheldrake know she is coming?"
"Yes; he proposed it, I think."
Then he asks her to let him see Alfred's portrait which she has in her locket, and he gazes at it long and earnestly. The subject drops, and is not renewed again that day.
Ivy Cottage is the name of the house, and it has been taken furnished, at a low rent, in consequence of its having been tenantless for some time. It is understood in the neighbourhood that an old gentleman and his daughter have come to live there, and Lizzie's bright face has already attracted attention and admiration. That Mr. Sheldrake, through his friend Con Staveley, intends to make Ivy Cottage a profitable speculation is evident. Operations have been already commenced in the sporting papers, and intending speculators are implored, before investing in the two great races which are soon to take place, the Cambridgeshire and the Cesarewitch, to send twelve stamps to a certain gentleman who, according to the advertisement, might be reasonably supposed to live in a letter-box at a post-office not a mile distant from Ivy Cottage. Mr. Musgrave, going to that post-office twice a day, never comes away empty-handed. The letter-box is his Tom Tiddler's ground, where he picks up gold and silver as represented by postage-stamps. And it is not the only Tom Tiddler's ground which has been discovered by the persevering explorers. A mile from Ivy Cottage, in another direction, is another post-office, whereto sportsmen are invited to send more postage stamps to the cousin of the most successful jockey of the day, and receive in return the "straight tip" for the above mentioned races, "the greatest moral ever known." The cousin of the most successful jockey of the day is, of course, in all the stable secrets, knows the intentions of the owners of all the most celebrated horses, and offers to forfeit one thousand pounds if the horse he sends fails to win; and as his honour is unimpeachable (he says to himself), there can be no doubt that the money would be forthcoming in case of a failure. And all for a paltry eighteen penny stamps! A third Tom Tiddler's ground lies in another direction, and a fourth in another; so that Con Staveley may be said to levy contributions north, south, east, and west: it is certain that the winds that blew from every quarter blew postage stamps into Ivy Cottage.
But a more ambitious scheme than any of these is afoot--a scheme which deals in pounds instead of shillings, in post-office orders and cheques instead of penny postage stamps. This scheme comes under the head of "Discretionary Investments," which, notwithstanding that they are as distinct frauds as can be found in the criminal record, are allowed to take root and to flourish without check or hindrance. The large sums of money that are paid for long advertisements in the front pages of certain sporting newspapers by the rogues who undertake these "discretionary investments," testify to the profitable nature of their undertaking. It is amazing that such swindling systems should be allowed to flourish in the very eye of the law, which virtually protects the swindler, and laughs at the dupe.
Lizzie is in a great state of excitement until Thursday morning arrives.
"I don't exactly know what I feel like," she says on that morning; "having a house to look after is so strange and new. This is just such a house as I should like if I was settled. You know what I mean," she adds, with a sharp nod of her head at "daddy," who has looked up at the word.
"Married," he says.
"Yes; I can't imagine anything better. Home is very beautiful."
"Is Some One--Alfred--in a good position, Lizzie?"
"I don't think so; he's in a lawyer's office. But he will be very rich one day."
"Rich relations? Rich parents?"
"He has no parents. He and Lily are orphans. Father and mother both dead. And I've never heard him speak of rich relations. No; not rich that way. But he's sure to have plenty of money some day. He is very clever. Lily says so too; she is very fond of him, and would do anything for him. She told me so. Come up-stairs, daddy; I want to show you something."
He goes up-stairs with her, and she takes him into her bedroom. Everything in it is clean and fresh; there are flowers on the table, and, the window being open, a grateful perfume steals in from the garden.
"Now, look here," she says, and she opens the door of a room which leads into hers. But that is smaller, it is the very counterpart of hers.
"Now, you see what I have been so busy about, daddy. I shall call this Lily's room; although, when she comes to stop with us for a few days now and then, I shall give her my room, because it is larger."
"Is she coming to stop with us, Lizzie?"
"I hope so; some time or other. Mr. Sheldrake said what a pleasant thing it would be for me, and Alfred said so too. You don't mind, daddy?"
"Anything pleases me that is for your pleasure and happiness, my dear."
"Mind!" she exclaims, kissing him, "you must like Lily very, very much; and you must like Alfred too."
"I will try to, my dear."
"She will be here in a couple of hours, and Alfred is coming in the afternoon."
"It is unfortunate that I am not able to stop at home to see her, Lizzie; but I will try to get back in time."
"Why, daddy!" cries Lizzie, in a tone of disappointment, "you are not going away!"
"I must, my dear. Read this letter. I only received it this morning."
It is a letter from Con Staveley, desiring him to be at the office in London by a certain time, to talk over the new scheme of discretionary investments.
"How provoking!" exclaims Lizzie. "But it can't be helped, I suppose. You don't think it strange, do you?"
"I see nothing strange in it, my dear; it is a matter of business."
Lizzie gives him a queer look, and says again she supposes it can't be helped.
"Be home as soon as you can, daddy," she calls after him, as he goes out of the house.
Whatever reflections Lizzie indulges in after his departure are lost for the time in the pleasure she feels in Lily's arrival. Lily is not alone; Pollypod accompanies her.
"Grandfather did not like me to come by myself," she says to Lizzie, "so I thought I would bring little Polly with me, Polly and I are great friends."
Pollypod nods solemnly, and, after her usual fashion with new acquaintances, gazes in silence at Lizzie for a few seconds, and then, having made up her mind, raises her face to be kissed, and says, with the air of an oracle,
"I like you!"
This simple statement being received in good faith by Lizzie, they become friends instantly, and Pollypod being made free of the house wanders about it and the garden in a state of great delight, coming to the girls every now and then, "wanting to know" something or other. As for Lizzie and Lily they desire nothing better than to be left by themselves; girls, when they get together have so many important items of information to impart to each other, and so many confidences to exchange. The first thing to be done is, of course, to show Lily all over the house; and then there is a long chat in the bedroom.
"I am so sorry daddy is not at home," says Lizzie, "but he was obliged to go to London on particular business."
The mention of daddy necessitates an explanation, for Lily has understood from Alfred that Lizzie is an orphan.
So Lizzie tells the simple story of her life to her new friend, and Lily listens, and sympathises, and admires. When Lizzie comes to the part which introduces Mr. Sheldrake's name into the narrative, Lily listens more attentively, and yet with something of a forced and embarrassed air, which does not escape Lizzie's observation.
"Must not Mr. Sheldrake be a kind-hearted gentleman?" asks Lizzie, keeping close watch on Lily's face. "He does it out of pure kindness, daddy says. You don't often hear of such things."
"I have heard much good of him," replies Lily; "he is a great friend of Alfred's. Alfred is never tired of speaking of him."
"Wasn't it kind of him," pursues Lizzie, "to take me down to Hampton Court, to meet Alfred and you? He wouldn't let Alfred know beforehand, he said, because he wanted to give him a pleasant surprise."
"Did Mr. Sheldrake know, then, that we were at Hampton Court?"
"Yes, dear; he wouldn't have taken me down else."
"How did he find out?" muses Lily, a little disquieted. "Alfred may have mentioned it to him the day before, and yet he seemed surprised to see us there."
"Riddle-me-riddle-me-ree," interrupts Lizzie gaily, to dispel the cloud; adding, with a wise air, "you don't know men so well as I do, my love."
She draws Lily into the garden, and touches a key-note to which she knows Lily's nature will respond, to the exclusion of distressful thought. She talks of Alfred and of her love for him; they sit in the summer-house until Pollypod comes to them, and diverts them from their theme.
"Lily," says Pollypod, "don't you wish Felix was here?" The colour mounts to Lily's face, and to hide it Lily bends to Pollypod, and caresses her.
"And who is Felix, Polly?" asks Lizzie.
"Felix is a gentleman; mother says there neverwasany body as good as him. He bought me my doll. I wish I had it with me. And we all love him so--don't we, Lily? I love him, and mother loves him, and Lily loves him, and Snap loves him."
"O!" says Lizzie; and that is all she says. But there is a great deal of meaning in the little word, if any value can be attached to the significant tone in which she utters it.
The little word uttered by Lizzie in the concluding paragraph of the previous chapter is like the dropping of the curtain for a time upon the histories of the personages, good and bad, who are playing their parts in this drama of every-day life. For if it in any way resembles what it professes to be, the drama here presented should represent the doings of the time in which it is written; in so far, of course, as they enter into the ordinary life of the ordinary characters who are introduced into it.
The autumn and winter have passed, and the beautiful buds herald the yearly miracle of spring. Certain changes have taken place in the circumstances and lives of the movers in our story, and of these changes it is necessary here to make record.
Lily has left the music-hall, and her simple songs are no longer heard in the Royal White Rose, as an antidote to the coarseness and vulgarity which find prominent place on that stage. She is missed and regretted by many of the frequenters of the Royal White Rose. Her presence there was like a fountain of pure clear water in the midst of an unhealthy tract of land; it made men and women forget for a time the impurities by which they were surrounded. I am glad to be able to say that her absence was regretted there, for it is a proof that indecency in word and action, and immoral suggestiveness in the nature of the songs sung in the Royal White Rose, are not vital elements in the success of suchlike establishments. People laugh at these atrocious songs, and at the atrocious meanings conveyed in many of the catch-lines; they suit the trade of some who are regular frequenters of these halls. But that better sentiments can be awakened in their hearts is proved by the earnest and honest enthusiasm which is evoked by the simple singing of a simple ditty, belonging to a school whose days unfortunately are not of the present. It is but a very few weeks ago that I strolled into one of the very lowest music-halls in the metropolis, in which, upon the occasion of my visit, there were not too many honest men and women, notwithstanding that the hall was quite filled. Among other indecently suggestive songs was one, the title of which I refrain from mentioning, but which has grown into a catch-phrase, and may be heard to-day uttered openly by boys and girls all over London, with laughing meaning. The title of this song is supposed to have brought much money and reputation to the Eminent Comic who invented it; if he were whipped for his ingenuity it would be a fitter reward. Whoever trades in indecency deserves some such punishment, and should receive it. After the singing of a number of similar songs, all of which were received with expressions of delight and approval, two young girls came upon the stage and sang, "What are the wild waves saying?" and an old-fashioned duet, called, I think, "The Cousins." I was amazed at the favour with which these songs were received. The applause was honest, earnest, genuine. There was nothing in music-hall ethics to account for the enthusiasm. The girls were not immodestly dressed, and did not smile or wink at the audience, and yet they were recalled again and again to sing, and their songs, which could not raise a blush or an impure thought, were undoubtedly the greatest success of the entertainment.
There were two reasons to account for Lily leaving the Royal White Rose. One reason was that her grandfather was alarmed for her health: a secret sorrow seemed to weigh upon her spirits and to depress them. She was not as happy in the society of her grandfather as she used to be, although, as if to counterbalance this and to remove any uneasiness from him, she strove to be even more affectionate to him when they were alone. The other was, that the purpose for which Old Wheels consented to her appearing upon a stage was served. The debt of shame was paid, and Felix, feeling very sorrowful the while, was compelled to accept the balance of the hundred pounds which had been saved out of Lily's earnings. The old man made no remark concerning Felix's evident reluctance to receive the money. He merely said, "Now we are free, Felix, and Lily can leave the music-hall. The little income I have will be sufficient to keep us, and I shall be able to watch more closely over my darling."
As the winter approached, Felix, going often to the little house in Soho, more often found the old man alone. Lily had a girl companion, the old man said, and Alfred and she made frequent visits to their new acquaintance.
"My dear girl seems to take pleasure in her new friend," he said, "and it is but natural, for they are nearly the same age. It is but natural also that brother and sister should cling together as Alfred and Lily do. I have seen the young lady, and there is much in her that I like."
"She has been here, then?" asked Felix.
"Yes; on two occasions. I have not been to her house; I have never been asked. Even if I were, I think I should not go."
"Why, sir?"
"Because Alfred does not wish it, and there is antagonism between my grandson and me. It has sprung up gradually, and acquires strength daily. When I first discovered it, I strove to remove it; I strove to win Alfred's confidence, but I was unsuccessful, perhaps because I did not make sufficient excuse for youth and inexperience. And he has so strong an influence over Lily that I am afraid to do anything with reference to her of which he does not approve; for he would be sure to use it as an argument against me in his confidence with my darling. God knows I do not want anything to occur to weaken her love for me! Poor girl! she must be distressed enough as it is. She is between two fires, as it were--her brother on one side, and, unhappily, her grandfather on the other. It is I who must forbear. Do you know, Felix, that I have for some time seen this conflict of feeling approaching; and a little while ago I did hope—"
"You hoped what, sir?" asked Felix, for Old Wheels had paused, as though he were approaching forbidden ground.
"That I should have had such an ally in a friend whom I esteem," said Old Wheels, looking earnestly at Felix, "as would have rendered me easy in my mind respecting my darling's future."
"This friend, sir," observed Felix, turning his head from the old man--"had you reason to suppose that he had any influence over Lily, and that his counsel would have had weight with her?"
"I believe he had influence with my dear girl; I believe he has. I believe that she would have heeded, and would heed now, any words of counsel he might speak to her."
"But suppose," continued Felix, still standing so that his companion could not see his face, "that this friend held precisely your own view of the case. Suppose he feared that any counsel he might be bold enough to offer would hurt Lily's tenderest feelings--inasmuch as it would almost of a certainty clash with her deep affection for her brother. Suppose that, seeing this, knowing this, and believing that he had some slight influence over her, he refrained from saying what was and is in his mind, because of the painful conflict of feeling which it would stir in your dear granddaughter's breast—"
He turned and held out his hand, which Old Wheels took and warmly pressed.
"What, then, remains for this friend to do," continued Felix, with animation, as they stood hand in hand, face to face, "out of regard for this dear girl's tender sensitive nature, out of regard for her helplessness? To put aside, as well as it is in his power to do, his own feelings; to be content to do as you do--to wait and hope. To do more--not only to wait and hope, but to watch over her for her good, without trusting himself before her in such a way as to cause her pain. The friend of whom you speak is doing this."
"Felix, my dear lad, how can I repay you?"
"With your friendship--but I have that, I know. Something else is on my lips, but I must not say it; something else is in my heart--you have guessed before this time what it is--but I must not give it expression. If the time should ever come--and I pray that it may--when I feel that I can speak freely, it may be in your power to repay me a thousandfold. In any case, believe that I am repaid over and over again. Now let us talk of something else."
They spoke of Felix's prospects. He had found by this time that the world he had come into London to conquer was not so easy to open as the time-honoured oyster. He had smiled often to himself since his boast to Martha, and had said, "What arrogance!" But he was mistaken. It was not arrogance. When he said to Martha Day that the world was before him for him to open, and, asking where his oyster-knife was, had tapped his forehead and said it was there, he had spoken, not out of arrogance, but out of the over-confidence of youth. He had not long been in London before he discovered his mistake. He became humbled in the contemplation of the greatness of his oyster and the littleness of himself, and he set modestly, humbly to work upon the very lowest rung of the ladder, not daring to hope to rise very high. There came to him this feeling, of which he never lost sight: "I shall be content," he said to himself, "if I can become one of the common workers in the world, and if I can find some channel in which, by the exercise of all my energy, of all the talent which I may possess, I am able to earn my living." He did not desire much; it was no boast when he said to himself that he would be content with very little; his wants were small, and he had within him the capacity to enjoy. He took his enjoyments modestly; went now and again to the pit of the theatre, and (out of his gratefulness for small blessings) obtained more than his money's worth. When he could not afford the pit he went to the gallery, and would not have been ashamed to be seen there by any of his former friends. At one time his funds were very low, so low, indeed, that he could not afford a dinner; so, apples being in, he lived upon bread-and-apples and cold water, and made merry over his fare. He told no one, and he was not in the least to be pitied; he was learning life's lessons, and was bearing reverses bravely, without repining and without self-exaltation. He tried the usual resources of helplessness; he could draw and paint indifferently well, and one day (just before his bread-and-apple fare commenced) he almost ruined himself by laying-in a stock of cardboard and crayons. In a few days he had two sketches ready, of which he thought so highly that he said, as he surveyed them, "Upon my word, I don't think I'll part with them." But he laughed at his vanity the next moment, and out he went to sell them, and came back with them under his arm. No one would buy them. He tried again the next day, and the next, and the best result that he could obtain was that a shopkeeper offered to put them in his window, and to divide the proceeds with him, supposing they were sold. Felix agreed readily enough, put a low price upon them, and went round every day to look at them in the window. He did not dare to enter the shop. "The shopkeeper might ask me for storage expenses," he said with a laugh. Then came the bread-and-apple time; and one day, longing for a change of food, he thought he would treat himself to better fare; so he painted a chop on cardboard, and with comical earnestness set out his meal--a pennyworth of apples, half a quartern loaf, a jug of water, and his painted chop. As he ate his bread he rubbed out the chop, until he had eaten every bit of it, and nothing but smudges remained. He laughed heartily over his meal, I can tell you, and so enjoyed the whimsical fancy, that it did him more good than a dozen chops would have done. He was comically concerned at the thought that he had eaten bone and all. "I wonder it didn't stick in my throat and choke me," he said; "must be more careful next time." The occasions were not few on which he made light of his reverses thus: he seasoned his bread-and-apples with many such painted dishes, and amused himself sometimes by saying that his chop or steak was underdone or burnt up. He lived rarely during these days: had pine-apples when they were out of season, pears of a guinea apiece, grapes from the hot-house, and every luxury he could think of. Then, going to the shop-window in which his sketches had been exhibited, he saw that they were gone. It gave him a shock. He had put what he considered to be a ridiculously low price upon them--ten shillings apiece. "Perhaps he sold them for more," thought Felix, and entered the shop with a jaunty air. The shopkeeper gave him good-day.
"It was best to get rid of 'em," he said; "they were blocking up the window, so I took an offer for them."
"How much?" asked Felix.
"Sketches are a drug," said the shopkeeper, fencing.
"I ought to have taken them to a chemist, then," observed Felix.
The shopkeeper stared; he had no sense of humour.
"I took seven-and-six for the pair," said the shopkeeper, and then defended himself, without being accused, by adding, "and a good price too, I consider it."
Felix looked at the shopkeeper with twinkling eyes.
"Thank you, good sir," he said; "I owe you one."
"Don't mention it," replied the shopkeeper, thinking he had got hold of a queer customer; "here's your share--three-and-ninepence."
Felix received it, and looked at the shopkeeper with an odd smile on his lips. And when he was in his room, paid the man the one he owed him by drawing caricatures of him, and suddenly developed a talent which, but for this small circumstance, might have been hidden under a bushel. With a fine sense of humour (which he was not afraid of displaying under the shopkeeper's very nose, seeing that the man did not possess the discriminative affection), Felix, the following day, took to the shop a caricature of the shopkeeper himself, in crayons, with which his patron was so tickled, not seeing the joke, that he bought it out of hand, and Felix was the richer by a crown. The joke, however, told against Felix in a certain way, for the shopkeeper would have readily given more for it; but then Felix was conscientious, and did not set too high a price upon the man. He dashed off a couple of other caricatures, and sold them likewise. The scene of one was laid at a narrow luncheon-counter which he had visited. There were three barmaids serving, but only the backs of their heads could be seen. There is no need to say that this back view was imposing. The comicality of the sketch was in the faces of the eaters, with which the narrow counter was lined. They were depicted eating their luncheons after the fashions of their various temperaments. Some were solemn, some were farcical; the face of one was buried in a pint-pot: all were grotesque. The scene of the other was a street on a rainy day. A languid swell, six feet high, was languidly holding an umbrella over his head, and a street Arab, two feet and a half high, was running by his side, crying, "Shall I 'old yer umberellar up, sir?" If Felix had been fertile in subjects, he might have done well in this line; but it was not every day that he could get a new idea, and he was above copying old ones. Then came the incident of the fire, and the acceptance of his account of it by the newspaper. He was fortunate in picking up other incidents, and made capital out of them. He grew hopeful, and began to make acquaintances. No money had ever been so sweet to him as the little money he was earning.
About this time came a rare stroke of good fortune. Mention has been made of a friend with whom he had travelled abroad, and who came home with him. Felix was in the gallery of a theatre one night, when he saw this friend in the stalls. Their eyes met, and they recognised each other. Felix made no sign, the chasm between stalls and gallery was so deep and wide. But when the piece was over Felix hurried to the door of the theatre, wondering if his friend would try to find him out. By good chance they met in the crowd; his friendhadbeen hunting for him.
"Felix, old fellow!"
"Charley, old boy!"
"I thought I wasn't mistaken, Felix; but Iwassurprised to see you up there."
Felix smiled. "Funds low, old boy. Been long in London?"
"A month; can't tear myself away. Isn't it glorious? Come and have some supper."
Nothing loth, for they really had been friends, Felix took Charley's arm, and they made a capital supper, laughing and joking and quizzing as they had done in the olden times.
"But I say, old fellow," said Charley, "tell us about it. What's up?"
"I was," cried Felix merrily--he was in the gayest of humours, for the circumstance of Charley looking for him after the play to shake hands with him had gladdened his heart--"high up, eh? And only sixpence! You and I have been in queerer places, haven't we, old boy?"
And they fell-to again fishing up pleasant memories from the past. They were supping together in Charley's room at the very hotel which Felix had patronised when he first came to London.
"The waiter seems to know you, Felix," said Charley.
"I was a lodger here once, and played the part of Grand Bashaw with twopence-ha'penny in my pocket. When my twopence-ha'penny was spent, I fled."
"An honourable retreat, I'll swear," remarked Charley. Felix twirled his cigar, and puffed out royally.
"And now, old fellow, I must know all about you."
Felix told his friend all; of his quarrel with his father, softening that part of the story, and taking much blame to himself; of his quitting his home for ever and ever, never more to return, with his twopence-ha'penny in his purse; of his coming to London to conquer the world; of his failure; of his funds running out; and of his taking to the arts for a living. Only casually did he mention Lily, but his heart was so full of tenderness for her, that the few words he uttered respecting her were rightly interpreted by his friend.
"Felix, you are in love."
Felix puffed away in silence, and looked into the fire.
"Come, old fellow," continued Charley, "we used to have no secrets; we shared and shared, you remember."
"Well, Charley," replied Felix, "I have kept no secret from you. You know this one, at all events, and you know it from me. But don't let us talk about it; the odds are that it will come to nothing."
"One word only--rich?"
"Poor as I am."
"And a lady?"
"A tender-hearted, pure-souled girl. 'Right about face!'" Which, in the old days, was a favourite cry with them when a subject was to be dismissed from their conversation.
"I borrowed some money of you once, Felix."
"You did, Charley, old boy--and paid it."
"Are you sure?"
Felix laughed, rather boisterously.
"That won't do, old boy," he said; "no beating about the bush between us two. The grog's confoundedly strong." (It must have been, for it made his eyes water.)
"Look here, Charley, I want money--badly; but I must earn it. Now, if you could help me to anything in the newspaper way—"
Charley broke in here with "I can by Jove! You can do newspaper correspondence?"
Felix nodded excitedly.
"Well," continued Charley enthusiastically, "down our way we've a newspaper, of course. What's an Englishman without a newspaper? Why, they start them in the bush! Now, between you and me--it mustn't go farther, mind--my dad is part proprietor, under the rose. What a glorious thing it would be if we could get a London correspondent, who moves in the best society"--Charley winked, and Felix responded--"who is hand-and-glove with all the political nobs and the literary swells; who is behind the scenes everywhere; who knows all the news, and can serve it up piping hot and spicy! Now, then, what do you say? ThePenny Whistleis only a weekly, and we could only spare two columns to our London Special."
"If you are really serious," said Felix slowly, his colour rising, for he saw a great chance in the proposal, "and thePenny Whistlecan afford a special London correspondent, I could send a capital two columns every week, and I would take care to be on the look-out for anything special. Could it afford a pound a week, Charley?"
"A pound a week, old fellow!" cried Charley. "It's too little."
"It is enough," said Felix firmly; "I could not accept more under the circumstances. If the proprietors write to me to that effect, I shall only be too happy to accept."
In a fortnight from that time Felix was engaged as London correspondent at the sum fixed by himself. He ran to Old Wheels, and told the good news. He was really beginning to open his oyster.
In the mean time, some of the humble personages in our drama, being fixed in certain grooves, remain there uneventfully, the only changes that occur to them being marked by the hand of time. Mr. Podmore continues in his situation on the railway, works as hard and as long hours as ever, comes home as tired as ever, but more often now with a "daze" upon him, as he expresses it. This "daze"--he has no idea how he got hold of the word--gives him terrible frights at times, and causes him to be oblivious of what passes around him. It never comes upon him but when he is dead-beat, when what is known as a fair day's work is turned into a foul day's work by the abominable system which coins large dividends out of its servants' health, and which taxes their strength so unfairly as to bring old age upon men long before it is naturally due. Jim Podmore is fearful to speak of this "daze" to any one, for if it were known to the officers of the company, short shrift would be his portion. Such a sympathetic affection as humanity holds no place in the schemes and calculations of railway directors. Given so much bone and blood and muscle: how much strain can they bear? This ascertained, apply the strain to its utmost, until blood, bone, and muscle can no longer bear it, and fail, naturally, to perform their task. Then throw aside, and obtain fresh. Jim Podmore would not thus have expressed it, but the conclusion at which he had arrived is the same as the conclusion here set down. The only person who knows of his fast-growing infirmity is his wife. He confides to her the various stages of this "daze;" how he goes to work of a morning pretty fresh, and how, when his fair day's work is being turned into a foul day's work by the directors' strain, he begins to tire. "I seem to--fall asleep--gradually," he says, "although I hear--everything about me. All the wear and tear--of the day--all the noise--all the slamming and shouting--all the whistling and puffing--seem to get into the middle--of my head--and buzz there--as if they were bees. And so I go off--with this buzzing. Then I jump up--in a fright--just in time, old woman!--to shift the points--but I'm all of a tremble--and feel fit to die. Then I fall off--into a daze again--and the buzzing goes on--in my head. Then Snap--good old dog!"--(Snap licks the hand that pats its head) "pulls at my trousers--sometimes--and wakes me. Suppose I shouldn't--rouse myself in time--some time or other--and something was to occur! What then, old woman? I wake up--in the middle of a night--often--thinking of it--with the perspiration--a-running down me." Mrs. Podmore does her best to comfort him, but she cannot suggest a cure for Jim's "daze." "You see, old woman," he says, "it wouldn't do--for me--to fall ill even--and be laid up--for a week or two. That might do me good--but it wouldn't do. Where's the money--to come from? We couldn't lay our hands--on a spare half a crown--to save our lives." Which was a fact. Capital, in the majority of instances, pays labour just such a sum for its blood, bone, and muscle as is barely sufficient to live upon; every farthing flies away for urgent necessities, without which labour would starve, with which it barely manages to preserve its health. The result is that labour grows inevitably into a state of pauperism; hence workhouses--which are not known in the world's new lands. May they never be known! They are plague-spots, poisonous to the healthful blood of cities.
However, until a change for the worse comes, this small family of three, Mr. and Mrs. Podmore and their little Pollypod, live in their one room, and are more often happy there than otherwise. Felix frequently pays them visits, and learns from Jim and Mrs. Podmore many particulars concerning the railway system of overworking its servants, which he works up with good effect in his newspaper letters and other ways. Felix likes to get hold of a good public grievance, and has already learnt how to make capital of it. But, indeed, he could not write earnestly on any matter in which his sympathies were not in some way engaged. Pollypod enjoys herself greatly; she and Lizzie are firm friends, and the consequence is that she often accompanies Lily to Lizzie's house in the "country," and spends the day there. Old Wheels likes Lily to take the child with her; and, apart from her fondness for Pollypod, Lily is glad to please her grandfather in this way.
The Gribbles, senior and junior, go on as usual. Gribble junior maintains his ground, and is even prospering a little in his umbrella hospital, which is generally pretty full of patients. He "keeps moving" with his tongue, and is continually rattling away complacently on this subject and that. He likes Felix, who indeed is a favourite with them all, but he has contracted an inveterate dislike to Mr. Sheldrake, and never loses an opportunity of saying an ill word concerning that gentleman. Gribble senior keeps his chandler's shop open, but the trade continues to fall off woefully, and the old shopkeeper is more rampant than ever on the subject of co-operative stores, which he declares will be the ruin of the country.
Alfred grows more and more infatuated with racing; he meets with reverse after reverse, adopts system after system, discovers continually new methods of winning infallibly, is buoyed up and elated one day with the prospect of winning a great sum, and groans with despair the next day when the result is made known. Of course he does not always lose; he wins small sums occasionally, but they are like raindrops in the sea. Week after week passes, month after month flies by, and he is sinking lower and lower. David Sheldrake stands his friend still; still supplies him with money, and takes his signature for the amount, and what with letters and documents and information of how matters stand with Alfred at the office of his employers, Messrs. Tickle and Flint, holds such a dangerous power over the infatuated young man as can crush him at any moment. Here a defence must be set up for David Sheldrake, otherwise he might be taken for a fool for parting with his money so freely to a young fellow for whom he cared no more than for the snuff of a candle. David Sheldrake knew every trick of the game he was playing. Madly infatuated as he was with Lily, he was too completely a man of the world to throw away the sums of money he advanced to Alfred from time to time. But the fact of it was, he got it all back; what he gave with one hand he received with the other. He made an express stipulation with Alfred that Con Staveley should be the medium of all the young fellow's racing speculations; so that no sooner did David Sheldrake lend, than Con Staveley swallowed. Therefore, although in the aggregate, Alfred owed David Sheldrake a large sum of money, the astute David was really very little out of pocket. He was aware that, in other ways, Alfred was more extravagant than his earnings at Messrs. Tickle and Flint's warranted; but where he got the money from to supply these extravagances was no business of David Sheldrake's. Alfred did not get it fromhim. But in Alfred's moments of remorse, when he was pouring into David Sheldrake's ears accounts of his misfortunes, of how he was trapped by this tipster or deceived by that prophet, or swindled in some other way, many a chance expression of terror escaped from him, of which David Sheldrake made good use in his reflections--putting this and that together until he had arrived at the truth, and knew for a certainty that Alfred was robbing his employers. The power which this knowledge gave him over Lily was so complete that he would not have parted with it upon easy terms. He never failed of impressing upon Alfred that what he did for him he did for Lily's sake, and for Lily's sake only.
"If it were not for her, my boy," he said, "I think I should close on you; for after all, business is business."
Alfred listened, white and trembling.
"For God's sake," he said to Lily one day, when David Sheldrake had retired offended at her coldness; the man of the world had been more than usually pressing in his attentions, and Lily had shrunk from them--"for God's sake, Lily, don't offend him! You don't know how good he is; you don't know what a friend he is to me. If it was not for him, I should—"
Lily's eyes, fixed in alarm upon his face, stopped him, and he broke off with,
"I am the most miserable wretch in the world! There never was anybody half so miserable or half so unfortunate as I am! There's only one girl in the world who loves me--and that's Lizzie. My own sister, that I would lay down my life for, turns against me."
Lily's grief may be imagined. Turn against him! Against the dearest brother that sister ever had! How could she prove the sincerity of her love for him, she asked.
"By being kind to Mr. Sheldrake," Alfred answered sullenly; his fears blinded him to the unselfishness of her affection, blinded him to results.
Thus it came about that, on the next occasion Lily and Mr. Sheldrake met, Lily acted a part, and Mr. Sheldrake's wound was healed. Lily received her reward; Alfred kissed her and embraced her, and called her the dearest sister! She found consolation in his brighter manner; and although she shed many tears she was careful that Alfred should not witness her pain.