All Mr. David Sheldrake's calculations were conducted in such a manner as to cause Number One to eclipse all other figures, single or in combination. Number One was the only figure in which he took a real interest; the other figures could take care of themselves. He made it his special business to look after the humblest of them all, and it is but a fair tribute to his genius to state that he made Number One a brilliant success. It has been shown how cheaply he bought the reputation of being Alfred's sincerest and most generous friend, and how he received back through his agent Con Staveley all the money he lent to Alfred; and in common justice it must be shown how he made Ivy Cottage--the cottage which, out of ostensibly benevolent motives, he had taken for Mr. Musgrave and Lizzie--one of the most profitable speculations in which he had ever invested.
With his eye ever on the main chance (which may be pithily described as Number One, surrounded by a glory), Ivy Cottage became, under his instructions, the secret centre of a system known among sporting men as Discretionary Investments, one of the shallowest swindles of the day, and yet one which has been successful in emptying the purses of greedy gulls and filling the purses of needy sharks. No money was received at Ivy Cottage, as in the event of discovery the law could punish the receivers. But it being a peculiarity of the British law that, in so far as it affects racing matters, a man may pick his neighbour's pocket in Scotland, but must not do so in England, a garret was taken in Glasgow, and thither Con Staveley bent his steps to perform his part in the Discretionary Investment scheme--which consisted in receiving and pocketing the money of the gulls. Innocent readers who are not acquainted with these matters may doubt the statement that a man may rob in Scotland with impunity; but it really is the plain sober truth, and it is a proof that what is known as the British Constitution is after all but a patched and ragged garment, and that, notwithstanding its patches, it has many a rent in it which the law (having, as I have said before, a squint in its eye) cannot or will not see. A day before the Millennium it may make up its mind to catch a glimpse of these rents, through which rogues laugh and snap their fingers in the faces of their dupes.
As it was necessary that the operations should be conducted in secrecy, Ivy Cottage, very soon after its new tenancy, had in it a Blue Beard's room, to which neither Lizzie nor any of her friends had the right of entry. The only persons who ever entered it were Mr. Musgrave and Mr. Sheldrake. There the announcements of the new scheme of Discretionary Investments were prepared and launched upon the world in the names of Messrs. Montague and D'Arcy, Mr. Sheldrake knowing, from profitable experience, that high-sounding names were the best bait for gudgeons. Their first public announcement led the uninitiated to believe that the firm was an old one, and that it had been established for many years; but we know differently. However, as there is absolutely no such thing as fair dealing among betting men, this was but of a piece with the rest of the machinery. The circular (of which a copy lies before the present writer) issued and advertised by the myths, Montague and D'Arcy, commenced by declaring in large letters that a certain fortune without the slightest risk was within the reach of the humblest, and that Messrs. Montague and D'Arcy had conferred an incalculable boon upon the public at large by reducing speculation on horse-racing to a means by which immense sums of money might be realized weekly by a small stake. Fortunes, said these public benefactors, were being daily realized by investing in accordance with their Marvellously Lucrative and Ever Triumphantly Successful Method of Turf Speculation. Many gentlemen who never backed a horse for a shilling held large stakes in the system, as the safety of capital, and the immense profits that were weekly realized, and promptly paid, rendered it a perfect El Dorado to the fortunate investors. Many of the largest speculators now entirely confined their operations to Messrs. Montague and D'Arcy's Systematic Investments, and this fact alone should prove a sufficient inducement to those who hitherto have not speculated to join in realizing the golden harvest. As, however, sceptics would always be found, these public benefactors offered to forward to those who doubted the most unexceptionable references--to noblemen, officers, gentlemen, and tradesmen--as to the marvellously successful nature of their system, which by its heavy and never-failing success had fairly eclipsed and distanced all other modes of speculation. It had the advantage of combining the two great desiderata of immense and ever-increasing profits, combined with absolute and perfect security of capital.
Facts, however, spoke stronger than words; hence, in appending the following list of amounts won last season at a few of the principal meetings, the projectors were well satisfied to leave gentlemen to judge for themselves as to the correctness of the assertion, that the winnings realized week by week by the investor, in accordance with this method, were far in excess of the amounts that could by any possibility be realized by any other mode of investment:
LAST SEASON'S OPERATIONS.At Lincoln . . . £100 stake won £4840Liverpool . . . 25 " " 1230Chester . . . 10 " " 240Newmarket . . . 50 " " 1004Bath . . . . 5 " " 134Epsom . . . . 50 " " 1450Ascot . . . . 25 " " 740Windsor. . . . 25 " " 1020Goodwood . . . 20 " " 648Doncaster . . . 50 " " 2104Newmarket . . . 5 " " 325Liverpool . . . 10 " " 521Shrewsbury . . . 25 " " 1203
During the whole of the season a loss never occurred. In indubitable proof of which Messrs. Montague and D'Arcy publicly expressed their willingness to forfeit the sum of £1000 to any investing client at the above-named meetings who did not receive the amounts in full, as stated above, or in due proportion to the amount invested.
But, pleasant and profitable as were the results of last season's operations, by which men of the most moderate means had obtained affluence and wealth, the present campaign promised to throw those magnificent results in the shade. At Newmarket, for instance, the most extraordinary and almost marvellous success had attended their operations in the first three days, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. They had not had time to make out a careful statement, and could not do so till Saturday, as the meeting extended to Friday, but they roughly estimated that up to Thursday night, each investor of
£500 had realized £7850!100 " 130050 " 65025 " 32510 " 1275 " 63
To suit small speculators investments would be taken by Messrs. Montague and D'Arcy as low as five shillings, but the nobility could forward as high a stake as One Thousand pounds. At this point they stopped, for the line must be drawn somewhere. They would not take less than five shillings from each man of moderate means, nor more than One Thousand pounds from each nobleman.
In conclusion, Messrs. Montague and D'Arcy announced themselves as members of all the West-end clubs (without mentioning names), and gave as their bankers the Royal Bank of Scotland, and as their address, the garret in Glasgow rented by Con Staveley, where clients could send cheques, post-office orders, bank-notes, or postage stamps.
The advertisements and circulars contained a great deal more than is given above, and the most infamous artifices were used to fire the imagination of clerks and apprentices; for it was really from such unfortunates as these that Mr. Sheldrake and his confederate netted the greater portion of their large gains. They pointed out how those who desired to speculate might commence in a small way, and creep up gradually, until they became wealthy; and many weak men and boys studied the figures, and borrowed or stole to make the venture--which indeed was no venture, but a certainty; for it is needless to say that no penny of the money sent to the garret in Glasgow ever found its way back. To some extent, a semblance of fair dealing was kept up, and where Messrs. Montague and D'Arcy thought they saw a chance of the dupe being farther duped, they forwarded him a tabulated statement showing how his money had been invested upon the wrong horses, and how he was in their debt a trifling sum. This statement was accompanied by a lithographed letter, detailing how all the race-meetings upon which the speculator had not invested had turned out marvellously profitable, and how the particular race-meeting upon which he had desired his money to be invested had, "for the first time during the past five consecutive seasons, turned out a failure." However, they consoled their unfortunate client with the assurance that at the race-meeting which would take place next week "winning was reduced to an absolute certainty," and that, as there was not the slightest chance of losing, they trusted that their client "would take their advice, and invest £25, £50, or £100, and realize a few thousands forthwith." Remaining his faithfully, Montague and D'Arcy. Of course, if more money were sent, it shared the fate of the first; and notwithstanding the groans and curses of those who were thus robbed in open daylight, the ball rolled on right merrily. No one knew that Messrs. Montague and D'Arcy were identical with David Sheldrake and Con Staveley. Their faces were never seen in the transactions, everything being conducted under seal, and no personal interviews on any consideration ever being allowed. And in the event of some irate clients making the name of the firm and their address notorious, it was the easiest thing in the world to change their names and take another garret, perhaps in Edinburgh this time instead of Glasgow. It is but fair to some of the sporting papers in which these lying advertisements were inserted for the trapping of apprentices and others, to state that in their "Answer to Correspondents" such answers as these appeared week after week: "An Anxious Inquirer. They are swindlers." "A. Z. You should not have trusted your money to them." "R. H. C. We do not recommend Discretionary Investments." "Fair Play. You have been swindled." And many others to the same effect. But they continued to open their columns to the advertising knaves, who, without this means of publicity, would find their schemes fall comparatively fruitless to the ground.
Said Alfred to David Sheldrake, in the course of conversation, being artfully led to the subject:
"Those discretionary investments seem to be an easy way of making money. Did you see the advertisements of Montague and D'Arcy in the papers this morning?"
"No," replied Mr. Sheldrake. "Montague and D'Arcy! I fancy I have met a Mr. Montague at some of the meetings. If it is the same man, he bets and wins largely."
"It must be the same," cried Alfred. "Look here," pulling the paper out of his pocket, "a £100 stake realized £1800 at Newmarket last week in three days."
"That seems good enough, Alf," was Mr. Sheldrake's comment. "If I had £20 or £80," said Alfred, with an anxious look at Sheldrake—
"You'd try your luck with them? Well, I see what you're driving at, Alf. I'll give you a cheque for £20, made payable to them, and you can have a dive."
"Ah, youarea friend! If I win, I shall be able to give you a good sum off what I owe you."
"All right, my boy," said Mr. Sheldrake heartily, and then wrote the cheque and gave it to Alfred, and two days afterwards received it back from Con Staveley in Glasgow.
In this and other ways he drew the mesh round Lily's brother, until he had the infatuated gambler completely at his mercy.
A remarkable change had taken place in Mr. Musgrave, dating almost from the day on which he took possession of Ivy Cottage. Those who had known him when he lived in his garret and bought gin on the sly, and who knew him now, were amazed at the transformation; for it was nothing less. The vice that appeared to have been so bred in his bone as to be ineradicable had disappeared. He drank no more. Whether he considered it was due to his altered position, whether it was from gratitude or fear, or from whatever other unknown cause, it is certain that the respectable old man known now as Mr. Musgrave, and the disreputable tippler known some months since as old Muzzy, were distinctly different types. The change really commenced within the first fortnight of his residence in Ivy Cottage. Within this time, Lily and Alfred had come by invitation to take tea with Lizzie and spend the evening with her. The young people were in good spirits, and Mr. Musgrave sat in his corner listening to their light-hearted chatting. In the course of the evening Lily sang two or three old-fashioned simple songs, and altogether the time was a happy one. Then Mr. Sheldrake dropped in, and whatever little part Mr. Musgrave had played in the proceedings was over from that moment. But when Lily and Alfred were going home, Mr. Musgrave, with hands that trembled from eagerness, held Lily's mantle for her, and pressed her hands, and said that she had made him young again, and that he had spent the happiest evening he had spent for years. He entreated her to come again, and to come often, and she said gaily she intended to, for Lizzie and she were sisters already. When they were gone--Mr. Sheldrake accompanied Lily and Alfred home--Mr. Musgrave and Lizzie sat up for a little while talking, and he told her how pleased he was she had made such a friend. That night when he went to his bedroom, he took from a place of concealment two time-honoured friends--to wit, two flat bottles, in which he had been in the habit of carrying away his gin from the public-house. With these under his arm he stole down to the garden, and hurled them over the wall as far as his strength would allow him, thus bidding good-bye to them. On that night before he retired to rest, he knelt by his bedside for the first time for many, many years, and thought, if he did not say, a prayer.
Mr. Sheldrake noticed a change in him, and commented on it.
"Why, Muzzy," he said, "you have grown quite respectable."
"I hope it does not displease you, sir," was Mr. Musgrave's reply.
"No, indeed," said Mr. Sheldrake; "it is a compliment to me, for I think I have had something to do with it."
"Yes, sir, you have."
Mr. Sheldrake clapped him on the shoulder.
"Never too late to mend, eh, old man?"
"I hope not, sir."
And yet it is to be doubted whether Mr. Sheldrake was quite pleased at this remarkable change in his servant. He liked to hold a power over a man, and if that power sprung from a man's weakness, or even vice, he was all the more gratified, so long as it did not affect him. There was no doubt, however, that Mr. Musgrave was endeavouring to become a respectable member of society, and that he had, in real sober earnest, turned over the new leaf which Mr. Sheldrake had proposed to him.
On a cold evening in March, Lily and Old Wheels were sitting in their room in the little house in Soho. There was no change in its appearance. The portraits of Lily were on the mantelshelf, and a bouquet of flowers was on the table. The old man was making castors for a little cigar cabinet which he had bought second-hand at a shop a day or two before. He had cut holes in the bottom of the cabinet, so that the castors were almost hidden from sight, and he had devised a false bottom so as not to interfere with the usefulness of the box. His work being done, he put his tools aside, and rolled the cabinet towards Lily, asking her what she thought of it, and whether Felix would not be pleased with it.
"O, then," said Lily, with a faint smile, "it is for Felix. You did not tell me that. I was wondering whom it was for."
"Are you glad or sorry, Lily, that I am going to make Felix a present?"
"Glad."
"I don't know what I should do now without him," said Old Wheels, with assumed carelessness, but really watching Lily's face with more of keenness than his words warranted; "I am so used to his coming in here often, and have so grown to like him, that if he were to go away I should feel quite lost."
"You are more often alone now, grandfather, than you used to be," said Lily sadly and quietly.
"Yes, my darling, when you were at the music-hall I saw more of you than I do now. But it can't be helped, I suppose, Lily, can it?"
Lily put the needle in her work, and laid it on the table; then rose from the chair, and sat upon a stool at the old man's feet. He looked down upon her fondly, and raised her to his knee, where she sat with her arm round his neck, and her face close to his.
"That's my own Lily," murmured Old Wheels. "That's my own dear darling! And you have not learned to love your old grandfather less?"
"Grandfather!"
"Forgive me, Lily--old men grow foolish, and do not know what they say sometimes. I, of all the world, should not say anything to hurt my Lily's feelings; my Lily, that I love more than all the world besides! Forgive me, darling."
"You must not ask me to do that, grandfather," said Lily. "What have I to forgive? What feeling can I have for you but one of gratitude and love for all your care of me? Don't think, dear, that I have no consciousness of it. If you were to look into my heart, you would see yourself there. Kiss me, my more than father, and say that you forgivemefor my petulance, for my sadness, which I know pains you, but which I cannot help feeling."
"There, there, my pet! We kiss each other, and forgive each other. But you must not be sad. I want you to be bright, as you used to be not so very long ago, Lily. I want you to smile and to be glad, as youth should be. I want you to confide in me, if you have any trouble. Lily, my child, my daughter! I am an old man, worn out and useless, but if I had within me the life and the strength of twenty men, I would yield them gladly to make you happy."
"I know it, dear," and Lily, with her lips to his cheek, nestled to him as a child might have done; "I know it, and there is part of my sadness, part of my pain. Don't ask me too many questions, grandfather. Let us hope everything will come right, and that we shall be happy by and by. By and by!" she repeated, almost in a whisper. "When we are at rest!"
Old Wheels held her face from him to see it more clearly. "Lily!" he exclaimed, "what makes you say that?"
"I cannot tell you. Let me lie on your shoulder, dear, and believe that I love you with all the love a daughter can give to a father. If my heart aches it is not your fault. And by and by weshallbe at rest, thank God!"
"Yes, thank God, as you say, my darling!" replied Old Wheels. "To the old the thought comes naturally--and often thankfully. But to the young! no, no! It is not natural to hope for the time to come. You have a bright life before you, my dear, and you must not despond. Why, I, nearly two generations older than the little flower lying on my bosom, do not wish yet for the rest you sigh for! I want to live and see my flower bright and blooming, not drooping as it is now. Come, cheer up, little flower!" Old Wheels forced himself to speak cheerfully. "Cheer up, and gladden me with smiles. Here's an old man who wants them, and whose heart warms at the sight of them. Here am I, old winter! Come, young spring-flower, give me a glimpse of sunshine."
Lily looked into the old man's eyes, and smiled, and although there was sadness in the smile, he professed himself satisfied with the effort.
"That's right, and now let us talk about something else. Let me see. What was I saying? O, about Felix. He is getting along well. Do you know, Lily, that though he has never spoken of it, I believe he endured hardships when he first came to London? But he bore them bravely, and battled through them, never losing heart. Does this interest you, Lily?"
"Yes; go on."
"Felix is a good man, high-minded, honourable, just. He knows how to suffer in silence, as do all brave natures, my dear. Men are often changed by circumstances, my dear; but I am sure Felix would not be. But natures are so different, my dear. Some are like the sea-sand, running in and out with the waves, never constant. Others are like the rocks against which the waves beat and dash, as they do at Land's End. It would do you, my darling, good to go for change of air and scene to the west, and breathe the purer air that comes across the sea. Perhaps we will manage it by-and-by--you and I alone. I was a young man when I was there, but it is the same now as it was then; it is only we who change. Felix laughed at us the other day--laughed at you, and me, and himself, and everybody else in the world. 'Go where you will,' he said, 'you find us crawling over the face of the earth, wrapt up in ourselves, each man thinking only of himself and his desires, and making so little of the majesty of nature as to believe himself of more importance than all the marvels of the heaven and earth.' But he was not quite right, and I told him so. I told him--no, I should rather say, I reminded him--that every man did not live only for himself. That in the lives of many men and women might be found such noble examples of right-doing and self-sacrifice as were worthy to be placed side by side with the goodness and the majesty of things. 'Right,' he answered at once, 'nature does not suffer--we do.' Then he asked me to account for the suffering that often lies in right-doing. I could not do this, of course. I tried to maintain the side I took in the argument by saying that the suffering springs out of our selfishness, out of our being unable, as it were, to wrest ourselves from ourselves, and to live more in others. And then, after all, it was but for a short time. Think of the life of a man. How short it is in comparison with time! 'We are in the world,' he said, 'and should be of the world.' 'Not against our sense of right,' I answered. 'The noblest phase of human nature is to do what we believe to be right, though all the world is against us, though we suffer through it, and lose the pleasures of the world.' And what do you think this ingenious young fellow did, Lily, when I said that? Laughed at me, and asked in return whether there is not a dreadful arrogance in a man placing his back against a rock, and saying to the world, 'You are all wrong; I only am right.' Do I tire you, my child, with an old man's babble?"
"No, my dear," answered Lily; "I love to hear you talk so, although I cannot understand the exact meaning of all you say."
Indeed, this "old man's babble" was soothing to Lily; his gentle voice brought peace to her troubled heart.
"I have found out, my darling," continued Old Wheels, with a secret delight at her calmer manner, "that this foolish young man, whom I love like a son--ay, Lily, like my own son!--is fond of arguing against himself, of placing himself in a disadvantageous light, of saying things often that he does not mean. But I know him; I see his heart and the rare nobility of his nature. Our argument ended thus, 'Come,' I said, 'answer me fairly. Can you believe in a man giving judgment against himself?' 'If,' he said, 'by "yourself" you mean your hopes, your desires, your heart's yearnings--and these, being in the life of a man, comprise himself--I answer, yes. I can imagine a man loving a thing, thirsting for it, believing that his life's happiness is comprised in the possession of it, and yet standing by quietly, and letting it slip from him, with his heart aching all the while! There is a higher attribute than love,' he said. I asked him what it was, and he answered, 'Duty!'"
Lily raised her head from the old man's breast; her eyes were bright, her face was flushed.
"Doyoubelieve this, grandfather?"
The old man returned her earnest gaze, and was silent for many moments. Some deeper meaning than usual was in their gaze, and although neither of them could have explained how it had come about, both by some mysterious instinct were aware of the solemn significance which would attach to the answer of the girl's question. He placed his arms tenderly about her, but not so as to hide his face from her.
"Yes, child," he said gently, "I believe it. But"--and his voice trembled here, and his gaze grew more wistful--"not mistaken duty. If I had a friend whom I loved, whom I trusted faithfully and implicitly, whom I believed to be honest and true and single-hearted, I should--if such a crisis in the conflict of love and duty should unhappily arise in my life--take counsel from him."
Her eyes drooped before his, and the next moment her face was hidden on his breast again.
"Tell me," she whispered, so softly that he had to bend his head to hear, "do you think that such a crisis has arisen—"
"Go on, my child," he said, in a tone almost as soft as hers, for she had paused suddenly. "Speak what is in your heart."
"Do you think, grandfather, that such a crisis has arisen in the life of any one whom you love very dearly?"
"I do, dear child."
He would have continued the subject, but she begged him, with a tender caress, not to speak for a little while; to let her rest. He called her again his sweet flower, his spring flower, and obeyed her. They remained silent for a long while, and Old Wheels thought she had fallen asleep. But Alfred's light step upon the stairs undeceived him. Immediately Alfred entered the room she went eagerly to his side, and placed her arms round his neck.
"I am so glad you have come, Alfred!"
Alfred returned the kiss she gave him, and asked her why she looked so pale.
"You want excitement, Lil--that's what you want. Wait till the summer comes; I'll take you into the country, and we'll have a regular time of it. Well, now, I've come to give you a bit of change, Lil. I want you to have tea quick and dress yourself out. I've got an order for the theatre."
"O Alfred!" exclaimed Lily, "you are kind. I shall dearly like to go."
"It's a box, Lil, for the Lyceum. Mr. Sheldrake gave it to me, and he's coming with Lizzie to fetch us. We'll have to be quick; so bustle, Lil, and get tea ready. See, grandfather; she has a colour already. Excitement--that's what she wants."
Old Wheels said nothing, but cast a furtive glance at Lily, who, however, did not observe it; and soon tea was ready and over, and Lily went to her room to dress. When she came back in her pretty warm dress, the old man said,
"I am glad you have put on that dress, Lily; I was afraid you were going to dress yourself out, as Alfred said. Shall I come to the theatre and fetch you."
"O no," replied Alfred, who, having just come into the room, had heard the question; "we'll bring her home all right. There's the cab!"
He ran down stairs, and Mr. Sheldrake came in with a flower in his coat, and another in his hand, which, with a bow and a few pleasant words, he handed to Lily, who placed it in her hair, thanking him. Between Old Wheels and Mr. Sheldrake nothing but the commonest commonplaces of conversation ever passed; they did not get along very well together, and although neither could have complained of the other for want of politeness, each knew that the other was not his friend. With Lizzie and Old Wheels it was different; Lily always expressed herself so enthusiastically about her friend, that the old man, first out of love for his granddaughter, and afterwards for Lizzie's own sake, had grown to like her.
"We're going to have a pleasant evening," said Lizzie, who had dressed herself in her brightest; "I wish you were coming with us, Mr. Wheels."
"I wish so, too," said Alfred, "and it's a pity that they only allow four in the box. Isn't it so, Mr. Sheldrake?"
"The order says for four," replied Mr. Sheldrake politely; "but if Mr. Wheels wishes—"
"No, no, thank you," said Old Wheels, with a hurried motion of his hand; "Lily is quite safe in the company of her brother."
"And in mine," added Lizzie, with somewhat of earnestness in her rejoinder.
"I think she is, my dear," said Old Wheels.
When they were gone, Old Wheels paced the room thoughtfully, listening anxiously to every footfall on the stairs. Felix seldom missed an evening, and at about seven o'clock his welcome knock was at the door.
"All alone, sir?" he asked, looking round.
Old Wheels nodded: "I thought Lily would have spent the evening here with us quietly, Felix; but she has gone out with her brother. Felix, I want you to accept a little token from me. I know you smoke, and passing a shop where I saw this cabinet for sale, I thought you would like it, as a small remembrance from a friend. See--I have made castors to it, so that you can wheel it noiselessly across the table to a friend, and so be unostentatious in your hospitality."
Felix entertained very enthusiastic notions respecting presents; it pleased him mightily to receive them, and he would not part with the smallest token ever given to him for its weight in gold. "They are testimonies of character," he would say laughingly, when he showed his few trophies of friendship. He thanked the old man warmly, and said he was afraid it would lead him into extravagance, as it necessitated an immediate investment in the best cigars. Felix did not stop long. Upon Old Wheels telling him that Lily had gone to the Lyceum Theatre, and that Mr. Sheldrake was of the party, Felix started up, and said that he must be going.
"They have a box, you say?"
"Yes, Felix; Mr. Sheldrake gave it to Alfred."
"I think I shall run round to the theatre myself."
Felix uttered these words half questioningly. The old man gave him a grateful look in reply, and bade Felix good-night as if he were anxious to get rid of him.
The only place Felix could obtain in the theatre was at the back of the pit, but as he could see the box in which Lily was seated, he was satisfied. Lily and Lizzie were sitting in the front of the box, and bending over them occasionally were Mr. Sheldrake and Alfred. A great many opera-glasses were levelled admiringly at the box, at which marks of attention Mr. Sheldrake was mightily pleased, taking himself, and with justice, the credit of having brought to the theatre the two prettiest girls in it. Soon after Felix's entrance, the curtain rose upon the dramatised version of The Polish Jew.
The gloom of this play was perfect; there was no light in it. No interest was taken in the love-story comprised in the courtship of Christian and Annette; no spark of tender sympathy was touched in the breast of one of the spectators. The attention of all was centred in the figure of Mathias the burgomaster and in his terrible life. When, at the end of the first act, the curtain fell on the agony of the undiscovered murderer, every trace of colour which the animation of the theatre and the excitement of the lights and bustle had brought into Lily's face, had departed from it. Mr. Sheldrake was loud in his applause. "It was a wonderful piece! A grand conception! And how well the principal actor plays the part of the burgomaster!" Alfred was also pleased with it, but neither of the girls liked it. Towards the end of the act Lizzie wanted Lily to shift her seat to the back of the box, but Lily whispered "No, no!" and was not conscious that she spoke. She was fascinated, and could not move. The two men, of course, went out for refreshment, and sent in some for the girls, which neither of them touched. The second act commenced and progressed, and the horror of the piece increased in intensity; when the curtain again fell upon the wild delirium of the murderer, Lily shuddered as if she were suffering his agonies. Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake addressed her, but she did not answer, did not seem indeed to heed or hear them. Seeing that Lily would not move from her conspicuous position in the box, Lizzie shifted her seat to the back of her friend's and put her arm round Lily's waist, and clasped her hand; it was nearly cold, notwithstanding the heat of the crowded theatre.
Lizzie whispered to Alfred not to speak to Lily, but to wait until the ghastly piece was over, and she whispered also that she wished he had taken them to see something lighter and more lively. Alfred, feeling remorseful at first, said he did not know what kind of a piece it was, and then turned petulant, and called Lizzie ungrateful. On another occasion, this would have led to a lovers' quarrel, but Lizzie's attention was otherwise occupied just now. During the progress of the horrors contained in the last act, the hand which Lizzie clasped grew icy cold, and Lizzie herself was compelled to turn her face from the ghastly picture upon which the curtain finally fell.
"Come, Lily," said Lizzie, in a cheerful voice, delighted that the horrible curiosity was at an end.
But Lily's feelings were overwrought, and for answer she sank fainting to the ground.
"Get away from her!" cried Lizzie to Mr. Sheldrake, who was stooping to raise her.
Mr. Sheldrake, amazed at the fierceness in the girl's voice, bit his lip and obeyed her. If he had put his thoughts into words, he would have said, "You little tiger-cat, I will pay you for this!" Lily drew Lizzie to the back of the box, out of sight of the audience, whose attention had been aroused by the bustle. "That pretty girl has fainted," said some; "did you see how white she turned before the piece was over?"
The rising of the people in the pit prevented Felix from seeing what had occurred; but he had noticed Lily's pallor and the horrible fascination which the drama had for her. He had resolved upon his line of action, and now he hurried out of the theatre, and engaged a cab.
"I want you," he said to the cabman, "to follow a party that I shall point out to you, who will either walk or ride, and to follow them in such a manner as not to be observed. If you succeed in this, double fare."
The cabman knew a gentleman, that is, a man whose money was sure, when he saw him, and he raised his whip to his hat, and said, "All right, sir, I'm awake;" and drew his cab to a convenient spot.
The first thing Lily saw when she recovered consciousness was Lizzie's face bending down to hers. In that instant Lizzie began to act: as all women do upon every possible occasion. If those who enlist in the ranks of the drama would but act on the stage as they act off it, there would be no talk of the decadence of dramatic art. Every trace of anxiety vanished from Lizzie's face as Lily's eyes looked into hers, and she smiled so brightly and nodded so encouragingly as to infuse strength into the heart of her friend.
"Where am I, Lizzie?"
"With friends, my dear. The theatre was so hot that I almost fainted myself."
"Did I faint, then? How foolish of me!" A look of joy filled her eyes as they lighted on her brother. "O Alfred!"
He knelt by her side, and she took his hand and retained it. By this time the theatre was fast being emptied.
"I remember now what it was that overcame me. The horrible sight of that man dying!"
She shuddered, and Lizzie said briskly,
"Never mind; we're not going to think of that any more. It was only a piece of acting, after all. We'll go to see something more lively next time."
And Lizzie nodded emphatically at Alfred, who answered,
"Yes, we will. I didn't know what sort of a piece this was, or I shouldn't have brought you to see it."
"But Mr. Sheldrake knew," remarked Lizzie, with a sharp glance in the direction of that gentleman.
"I assure you I did not," was Mr. Sheldrake's reply. "You do me great injustice, and not for the first time to-night. I have too high a regard for Miss Lily to cause her pain. She knows that, I am sure; and so does Alfred."
"I know it well," interposed Alfred eagerly; "and Lily knows it too. How can you be so unjust, Liz?"
Lily turned to her friend. "I am so sorry for all this. I am the only one to blame for being so weak and foolish."
This brought Mr. Sheldrake out in full force; he was almost tender in his expressions of sympathy for Lily, and he even relented so far towards Lizzie as to hold up a warning finger as a caution not to be unjust to her friends for the future.
"And now," he said, when Lily was ready to depart, "I propose we go and have a little supper."
"No, thank you," said Lizzie, in a decided tone, not at all softened by the evidence of Mr. Sheldrake's magnanimity.
Mr. Sheldrake bit his lip.
"You speak for all," he said.
"I think so. Lily will not go without me, and of course Alfred must see me home."
"Why won't you accept Mr. Sheldrake's invitation, Liz?" asked Alfred uneasily.
"Daddy is waiting up for me, and we have a long way to go. And besides, Lily is unwell."
For one instant, Mr. Sheldrake hesitated; but only for an instant.
"Well, it's of no use trying to persuade you. A wilful woman will have her way. How do you propose we shall go home?" he asked of Lizzie in a tone of sarcastic politeness. "Your way is different from ours."
Lizzie decided this without hesitation. They would all go in one cab, and drop Lily at the door of her grandfather's house in Soho, and then Alfred should see Lizzie home. Mr. Sheldrake made no demur to her suggestion, and the party drove from the theatre. But he stopped the cab at the corner of the little street in Soho, and said that the driver need not turn, as he could see Lily the few yards she had to go. He jumped out of the cab, and said to Alfred,
"By-the-bye, Alf, I want to say a word or two to you. The girls will excuse us for a moment."
Alfred and he walked half-a-dozen steps from the cab, and then he turned upon Alfred, and asked what was the meaning of Lizzie's behaviour.
"I don't know," replied Alfred; "I never saw her in such a humour before. I hope you don't think I am to blame for what has occurred."
"I haven't stopped to think. When a man's made mad as I've been to-night, he doesn't think of much else but the cause. Look here, Alfred, I don't want to pry into your secrets, my boy, and I don't want to spoil your love-making. You know best whether I've been a friend to you or not—"
"You have been," interrupted Alfred eagerly; "a true friend!"
"Well, then, I'm not going to be made to look small by any sweetheart of yours. I've nothing to say against Lizzie; but she mustn't come any of her tricks with me. Take my advice. Tell her to be more civil to me for the future. If she isn't--" here he paused, and gave Alfred a significant look--"well, if she isn't, I might turn rusty. And that might be awkward for you, Alf."
There was no mistaking his meaning, and Alfred's heart sickened at the threat conveyed in the words. It suited Mr. Sheldrake not to notice Alfred's discomposure, and they returned to the cab in silence.
"I'll walk with you, Lily," said Lizzie, as Mr. Sheldrake held out his hand to assist Lily from the cab; "it's only a few steps, and the cab can wait."
But Mr. Sheldrake put a restraining hand upon her arm.
"I can see Miss Lily safely to her door," he said politely. "You have a long way to go, and Mr. Musgrave is waiting up for you, you said. It's very late, and you'd best be moving. Eh, Alfred?"
"Yes, yes," returned Alfred hurriedly; "we must rattle on. Good-night, Mr. Sheldrake. I'll see you to-morrow some time."
The cab drove away, and for a few moments neither Lizzie nor Alfred spoke. Their thoughts were not in unison. But Lizzie, the more gentle nature of the two, presently crept close to Alfred and placed her hand in his. He threw it from him angrily. She resented this at first, and shrank from him; but a better feeling came upon her soon, and she asked:
"What have I done, Alfred, that you behave in this manner to me?"
"Done!" he repeated, with bitter emphasis. "Been the ruin of me, I shouldn't wonder!"
"Alfred!"
"O, yes," he said sullenly. "It's all very well for you to cry Alfred in that tone; but it won't mend matters. I thought you loved me—"
"Have I not proved it, Alfred?" she interrupted, in a tone of sadness.
"But I have found out my mistake," he continued, not heeding her words; "it's always the way. Mr. Sheldrake is right in what he says about women; no man ought to trust them."
"Do you think you ought not to trust me?
"Do you think there is anything in the world that I would not do for your sake? O Alfred, you speak blindly!"
"I am the best judge of that," he returned quickly; "you don't know all. If there is nothing in the world that you would not do for my sake, why should you act in such a manner to-night as to set Mr. Sheldrake dead against me?"
Lizzie did not reply for a few moments; her face was turned towards her lover, as if striving to read his thoughts. She could not see his features distinctly in the gloom of the cab, but his voice was a sufficient index to the trouble that possessed him.
"You speak as if you were afraid of Mr. Sheldrake, Alfred?"
"I should have reason to be if he turned rusty. He gave me a warning to-night."
"Because I displeased him?"
"Yes, because of you. It makes me sick to think of it, to speak of it. I wish I was dead! I am the most miserable wretch in the world! If it were not for you and Lily, I think I should make away with myself."
"Don't speak like that, Alf," said Lizzie, placing her arm tenderly around him; "it breaks my heart to see you so unhappy. I know you love me and Lily. And you ought to be sure that we are better friends to you than Mr. Sheldrake can be, and that we would do more for you if it was in our power."
"That's it. If it was in your power. But it isn't, and itisin Mr. Sheldrake's; and he has behaved like a true friend to me."
"Sometimes I ask myself, Alfred, what can be his motive?"
"I know that you are prejudiced against him; and that's the reason you suspect him, and can't be civil to him. You think he wouldn't do me a kindness without a motive?"
"I am sure he wouldn't," said Lizzie firmly; "and I am sure of another thing--that you, in your heart, do not like him. I wish you had never seen him."
"I wish I hadn't," groaned Alfred.
"And yet you have told me he was your best friend, Alfred."
"Don't badger me, Liz, for God's sake I am almost torn to pieces as it is. You ought to comfort me, and try and make things better for me."
"Ah, if I could! If I knew how to, how gladly would I! Why not confide entirely in me, Alf? Who can have a better right to your confidence that the girl that loves you with all her heart and soul?--as I do, Alf, my dear! Come now, tell me all. Who knows? Something good may come of it. What's your trouble?"
"Money."
"Yes, I know that; and that you owe Mr. Sheldrake more than you can pay. Tell me how it all came about, dear."
So by many little endearing ways she coaxed him to tell her the whole of his miserable story. How, excited by the glowing accounts in the papers of the easy manner in which fortunes could be made on the turf, he had commenced to bet, a few shillings at the time at first; how he attended races, and how one unfortunate day he won a few pounds, and came home flushed with the idea that he had found the philosopher's stone; how little by little he had been led on, with the inevitable result of losing more than he could afford; how on one important race, when the prophets and tipsters in every one of the papers declared--in such glowing and confident terms that it was impossible to resist the temptation of making a bold plunge for fortune--that a certain horse could not possibly lose, he had used money which did not belong to him; and how the horse came in last instead of first.
"I had to make up that money, of course," he continued; "I had to get it somehow; and I did get it--never mind in what manner. You can imagine what I suffered, Liz! I thought I had fortune in my hands; and I had, but I was tricked out of it--for the whole affair was a swindle. The horse was never intended to win; and they swore it couldn't lose."
He derived comfort from the confession he was making; he took no blame to himself; and he did not, when he reached this point, tell her the story of the theft from the iron box. Then he went on to narrate how he had made Mr. Sheldrake's acquaintance, and how that gentleman had lent him money from time to time, and how misfortune continued to pursue him. He would have had his pockets filled with money over and over again if it had not been that things invariably went wrong with him just at the critical moment.
"It was from no want of judgment on my part, Liz. I had got to learn as much as any of the prophets and tipsters, and yet I could never manage to turn up trumps. I saw other fellows, who didn't know in their whole bodies as much as I knew in my little finger, make hundreds and hundreds of pounds. It only wants sticking to, Liz. I'll make all our fortunes yet; you see if I don't! There's the City and Suburban coming on; and I know something that'll open their eyes. And when I pay Mr. Sheldrake the money I owe him, I'll cut with him, if it's only to please you."
By the time he had reached the end of his recital he had recovered some of his good spirits. Lizzie listened in silence, and interrupted him only once, to ask whether he ever made any bets with Mr. Sheldrake.
"O, no," was the reply; "Sheldrake will never bet with me, Liz. Why, sometimes he tries to persuade me not to back a horse that I'm sweet on, and even tries to persuade me not to bet on races at all. 'It's a bad game, Alf,' he has said to me more than once, 'it's a bad game, unless you've got a strong bank at your back, and unless you can hold out for a long time.' Well, then, I ask him how it was he had managed to make his money; and he can't help telling me the truth. He was dead broke, Liz, in a worse fix than I'm in now--ay, a thousand times worse--he has told me so lots of times; but he stuck to it until on one race he had taken a bet of a thousand pounds to ten, and his horse won. There he was, all right in a minute. He was a made man directly the horse passed the winning-post. He told me how he threw his hat in the air, and how he almost danced for joy. Then the money began to roll in. That's how it is, Liz. You've only got to stick to it long enough, and keep your heart up."
"Do you bet with any of Mr. Sheldrake's friends, Alf?"
"With one--Con Staveley."
Lizzie repeated, under her breath, "Con Staveley!" as if desiring to fix the name in her memory.
"Con gives me long odds--longer than I should be able to get from any other of the commission agents or from any of the clubs. One of these days I shall give him a nip, as sure as fate. He has told me so, often, laughingly. 'You'll nip me one of these fine days, Alf,' he said; and 'I shall have to hand you over a big cheque. Well, you may as well have it as anybody else.' And I mean to have it, Liz. If I don't make it out of the City and Suburban, I'll make it out of the Derby. Would you like to go to the Derby, Liz?
"And so," concluded Alfred, when he came to the end of his story, which he had told and coloured in such a way as to make it appear that it was only by an extraordinary combination of ill-chances that he was not "rolling in money" at the present time, "you see where my chance lies. I shall be sure to come up all right, if I go on. And Imustgo on, Liz; that's a fact. It's my only chance. And as Mr. Sheldrake can shut me up at any minute, I must be careful not to offend him. I want you to be civil to him, for my sake, if you won't for his own."
"I'll try to, Alf."
"That's a dear! I can't understand why you are so bitter against him. At one time you were always praising him; and you've some reason to be thankful to him. I'm sure he's been, very kind to you and Mr. Musgrave."
"It looks so," said Lizzie thoughtfully, "outwardly."
She said no more; for she was keen enough to see that many conflicting influences were at work. That Alfred was blind to Mr. Sheldrake's character was plain; and, indeed, the feeling she entertained against him was really nothing more than a matter of prejudice. But her instincts were dead against him; and she thoroughly distrusted him. There is often in woman's character a sort of unreasoning reason, to the whisperings of which she tenaciously clings, even though outward evidence almost surely prove it to be based upon false grounds. And in the majority of instances, the instinct which prompts this refusal of direct evidence is correct. Mr. Sheldrake had become Lizzie's Doctor Fell; and she judged him accordingly.
The conversation she had had with Alfred this night set her thinking more seriously. She yearned to set matters right; but turn which way she did, one obstacle started up constantly before her--Mr. Sheldrake. He seemed to hold them all in his power by the relations which existed between him and Alfred. As she thought of the terrible blow he could inflict upon them all, she began to hate him. Alfred was powerless; Lily was powerless; Mr. Musgrave was powerless. Lizzie had a large share of woman's wit and cunning, and much confidence in herself. In her musings now, Mr. Sheldrake presented himself to her in the light of a foe to her dearest hopes, as one who was weaving treacherous webs around her friends; and she found herself watching him, and looking about her for some means to break the threads, and so defeat him. "If I had some one to help me," she thought, "some man to depend upon who is not in Mr. Sheldrake's power. Felix!" She started; for the name had come so suddenly upon her, and with such vivid force, as to make her almost fancy that she had really heard it spoken. Felix! The man of all others whom she would have chosen; the man of all others upon whom she could best depend. The thought of him gave her such hope and comfort, that she kissed Alfred tenderly. He returned her caress, and called her a dear good girl, and told her how he loved her.
Mr. Musgrave, who was waiting up for Lizzie, heard the sound of the cab wheels, and ran to the gate.
"Will you come inside, Alfred?" he asked.
"No, thank you, I will bid Lizzie good-night here."
"I'll be in presently, daddy," said Lizzie, with a kiss, which sent the old man into the house with a light heart.
As the lovers stood together in the quiet night, some better influences, born of the peace which surrounded him and of the consciousness of the love which Lizzie bore towards him, entered Alfred's heart, and he experienced a genuine feeling of regret for the folly of the past. It had floated him on to rocks so perilous that his liberty was endangered and his honour was lost. How much better had it been for him and all of them had he avoided the fatal snares! "Let me but once get free," he thought, "and I will take care not to be caught again." In this way do all weak natures repent the consequences of their folly. What was bad in Alfred's nature sprang out of his weakness; his very selfishness only asserted itself when he was in trouble--but then, indeed, it asserted itself with such strength as to sweep aside every other consideration, and as to make it impossible for him to recognise the danger he might inflict on those he loved in his efforts to free himself from the net he had woven for himself.
The lovers did not part for nearly an hour. The little that Lizzie said to Alfred soothed and comforted him, and when he bade her the last good-night, and gave her the last kiss, he was in a quieter and better mood than he was when they quitted the theatre.
"Will Lily be asleep when you get home, Alf?" asked Lizzie.
"I should think so, Liz."
"And I should think not so, Alf," said Lizzie, half gaily, half sadly. "See. When you are at home, knock at her door, and if she is awake, give her this kiss from me."
She watched Alfred till he was out of sight, then went indoors, where Mr. Musgrave was patiently waiting for her.
"Did you enjoy yourself, Lizzie?"
"Yes--no," replied Lizzie, taking off her hat and mantle. "It isn't a very lively piece, and Lily was ill. Why, how pale you've turned, daddy! She was better before we left her. It was the piece made her ill, I think."
"Tell me more about it, Lizzie; she was well when she went to the theatre?"
"O yes, and we thought we were going to enjoy ourselves very much. And so we should have done if the play had been a lively one. But it was horrible. I wouldn't go to see it again for ever so much. Well, and the theatre was very hot and the last scene was so dreadful that Lily fainted. She soon recovered, and we all went to Soho in one cab."
"That was right, Lizzie."
"Yes," said Lizzie, with assumed carelessness, but watching the old man keenly, "it was my doing, that was. Mr. Sheldrake wanted to walk home with Lily, and wanted me and Alfred to start off at once in a cab from the theatre--but I wouldn't have it so. I insisted that we should all go together, and that we should drop Lily at her door. Mr. Sheldrake wasn't very pleased. To tell you the truth, daddy, I think I rather set him against me to-night. Do you mind?"
Such a concentrated look of watchfulness did she flash into his face that it would have startled him to see. But as he did not see, he could only answer her spoken words.
"No, my dear, I don't mind; but it will be as well not to quarrel with him, if you can help it."
"He would be a dangerous enemy, wouldn't he, daddy?"
"Yes, my dear; very dangerous."
"So if we know heisour enemy we shall have to behave cunningly towards him; we shall have to be on our guard. To be civil to him to his face, and ready to tear him to pieces directly we get a chance."
There was so much excitement in her words and manner that Mr. Musgrave looked at her in uneasy amazement. She walked about the room restlessly, with a bright flame in her cheeks. Presently she grew calmer, and sat down by the table, on which supper was laid. There was trouble in her face, and it brought trouble into his.
"Take some supper, Lizzie; we will talk afterwards."
"No, we will talk now. I can't eat any supper. Mr. Sheldrake wanted us to go with him to some supper-rooms, but I wouldn't hear of it. Was I right?"
"Quite right."
"So that I've been twice right to-night, and this enemy of ours with the curled moustaches has been twice wrong.
"You seem to be very much set against Mr. Sheldrake, my dear."
"Seemto be! I am. I mean every word I say, and a good deal more. Tell me--doyoulike him?"
"He is my employer, Lizzie, and could turn us out of this house any day he chose."
"And could do many other hard things--and would, and will, if he's thwarted; so we must be cunning, and must enter into a league against him. Shake hands upon it." And she held out her hand earnestly to him. "Shake hands upon it!" she repeated, almost vehemently.
"Child, child!" he said sorrowfully. "I take your hand, and kiss it because I love you, and because I feel that your words convey a deeper meaning than they express. But I am an old man, and I have seen trouble, and have felt its bitter experiences. I would not willingly encourage you in what may bring bad consequences to both of us."
"Not if we are wary, daddy--not if we are cunning. You don't know what prompts me to speak so! Ah, daddy! Do you remember my telling you, when you first opened out the prospect of this pretty little cottage to me, that I was wilful, and might tease you a good deal, and that for that reason you had better consider very seriously whether it would do for you and me to live together as you proposed? I don't know whether to be thankful or sorry that I consented. I was very happy then--very, very happy."
"You did it for my sake, Lizzie," he said humbly.
"Not altogether; I did it a good deal for my own. I thought how nice it would be for Alfred."
She covered her face with her hands to hide her tears.
"You took pity on my lonely life, Lizzie, and I bless you for it, my child! You have brought much happiness to me, and things have occurred to me since then--such wonderful things."
She looked up, with the tears in her eyes.
"What wonderful things, daddy?"
"That is my secret, my dear," he said sadly. "You do not know the history of my past life. The time may come--and soon--when you will learn it. I have become a better man, I hope, since we came to live here. Sit by me, my child, and tell me your trouble."
She seated herself on a stool at his feet, and took his hand and caressed it.
"And you have a secret, too," she murmured, "and a new one. We all of us have secrets, I think, that we are keeping from one another."
"All of us! Have you a secret that you keep from me?"
"Yes, daddy; and one that I must not tell anybody, not even you. I have promised. You must not ask me any questions about it, for I cannot answer them."
"Very well, my dear. But tell me the reason of your feeling against Mr. Sheldrake."
"Suppose you knew that he could destroy the happiness of the one you loved best in the world--suppose you knew that he was ready to use that power if you crossed him in any of his bad ways."
"That is all supposing, Lizzie."
"It is reality to me. Mr. Sheldrake has Alfred in his power, and can ruin him any minute he pleases. Alfred told me so to-night. O, daddy, daddy! I am unhappy and miserable, and I don't know which way to turn if you will not help me."
"I will help you, child, in any way that I can. Does Alfred owe Mr. Sheldrake money?"
"Yes, more than he can pay."
"How has that come about?"
"You must not tell anybody. Alfred would be angry. Alfred has lost the money in betting on horses."
Mr. Musgrave started. The business that was conducted in Ivy Cottage was conducted in so secret a manner that Lizzie did not know its nature. She had been curious about it, and once or twice had asked the old man; but he had laughingly evaded her, and it was she who had dubbed the room in which he and Mr. Sheldrake were often closeted together for so long a time the Bluebeard's room.
"Does he bet with Mr. Sheldrake, Lizzie?"
"No--with a man named Con Staveley."
The guilty look that stole into Mr. Musgrave's face bore no meaning to Lizzie's sense. Some part of the scheme was now revealed to him. Mr. Sheldrake lent Alfred money, which he received back through Con Staveley; and he himself perhaps had been an unconscious instrument in Mr. Sheldrake's hands, and had assisted in Alfred's entanglement. But what could be Mr. Sheldrake's motive? There was nothing to be gained from Alfred, who had no money and no expectations. Knowing Mr. Sheldrake thoroughly, Mr. Musgrave knew well that there must be some deep motive at the bottom of all this. The old man had parts of the chain in his hand, but the important link was wanting. Could Lizzie supply it?
"Have Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake been friends for a very long time, Lizzie?"
"No, daddy; not twelve months, I think."
"How did they become acquainted?"
"I don't quite know, but I suspect it was through Lily."
"Through Lily!" echoed the old man, almost in a whisper.
"I think that Mr. Sheldrake lends Alfred money because of her. I think--no, I don't think; I am sure--that Mr. Sheldrake wants Lily to be fond of him."
Lizzie was frightened at the white face which met her gaze. A terrible fear smote the old man dumb for a time. The missing link was found! This Mr. Sheldrake--this man without principle, without honour, without heart--had designs upon the tender girl who had brought light into the old man's life. Lizzie had indeed found a friend in her design--how eager and willing a friend she little knew--but one whose motive for aiding her was so strong as to overleap every other consideration in life.
"You are ill, daddy!" she cried.
He rose and paced the room, and Lizzie's anxious eyes watched him. What were his thoughts during the silence that followed he did not reveal. But a new strength seemed to have entered into him, and he paused before his adopted child with a determination in his face which robbed him of many years.
"Answer my questions, Lizzie," he said, "without asking for reasons. First let me tell you that when you brought Lily here as your friend, I was glad. I have grown to love her, as well as I love you, child. Has she any affection for Mr. Sheldrake?"
"No!" Very decided and emphatic was Lizzie's reply.
"Thank God for it! He is unworthy of her. You speak as if you knew."
"How do girls learn each other's secrets, daddy? Lily has never told me, although I have tried to coax her a hundred times. She loves another man. I know this as well as I know that I love Alfred with all my heart and soul."
"A good man, Lizzie?"
"One of the best of men, daddy."
"Do not answer carelessly, child. I have a stake in this, perhaps as deep and as strong as yours."
"I do not answer carelessly, daddy. Your manner gives me such hope! I am so glad I have spoken to-night. The man she loves and who loves her, I am sure, is one to be honoured--a man worthy of any girl, worthy even of Lily."
"You asked me to give you my hand a little while ago, my dear. I give it to you now in the way that you wished."
There was something solemn in the manner in which he held out his hand to her; and something altogether so new and earnest in him, that it stirred her to deeper feeling, as his hand closed over hers.
"Now for Alfred," he said; "do you know if he bets in his own name?"
"He has never told me."
"You have some letters of his?"
"Yes, daddy."
"It is time for you to go to bed, my dear. I want to see Alfred's writing. I will come up with you, and you will give me one or two of his letters. Trust me, child, I have a good reason for what I am doing. So now, kiss me, and let us go upstairs."
He kissed her at her bedroom door again, when she gave him the letters.
"We'll try and be a match for this enemy of ours, Lizzie."
"O daddy," she answered, with a bright look, "you have made my heart light!"