London's Heart: A Novel

These words were spoken inly by Lily's grandfather, as he stood, with head uncovered, by the side of the grave into which the coffin was being lowered. He and Gribble junior had been in search of a Methodist minister, in the vague hope that something might be suggested to afford consolation to the dead woman's children; but their search had been unsuccessful, and as the day was waning and they had far to go, they had no alternative but to comply with the Reverend Mr. Creamwell's decree. As they stood about the grave, the men were silent and sad; tears were streaming down the faces of the women; and Pollypod for a few moments forgot her Doll and the ship that was bringing it home over the seas. The heir of the house of Gribble junior was awake and in his father's arms, and the enthusiastic umbrella-doctor tilted the baby over the grave, so that the child might have a good view of the coffin, in the belief probably that it would "open up his ideas, as a body might say." Notwithstanding the minister's decree, Lily's mother was not buried: in complete silence; for the twittering of birds and the soft hum of insect-life were heard, and the breeze was as peaceful, and the clouds as bright, as if a thousand human voices had been raised in her glorification. The old man picked up a handful of dust, and scattered it lightly upon the coffin, and then the earth was shovelled in and the grave was filled. Slowly they walked out of the churchyard, Pollypod in a state of restlessness about Felix, and wondering what had become of him. When she caught sight of him, standing by the waggonette he had hired, she ran eagerly to him, and plucked his coat. He inclined his head to hers.

"The Captain's sure to bring my Doll this week?" she whispered.

"Quite sure, little maid," he answered.

"Do you see the ship now?"

"Yes," he said, "and the wind is fair."

But when he raised his eyes, and saw a shadow on the old man's face, he was not so certain that the wind was fair. He had a task to perform, however, and he addressed himself to Gribble junior, and telling him that the mourning-coach was gone, delivered the driver's message, in milder terms than he had received it. The old man, listening, glanced sharply at Felix.

"I think it is as well," pursued Felix, addressing the company generally, though he looked only at Gribble junior, "that the man has gone, for he was drunk, and in no fit condition to drive you home."

"Then how are we to get back?" inquired Gribble junior in perplexity, more of himself than of Felix.

"I feel that I am in some measure responsible for the difficulty," rejoined Felix, "for I might have detained the man, though, as I have said, the wisest course was to let him go. Will you allow me to place this waggonette at your disposal? It will be pleasanter driving than in the close coach, and you will reach home more quickly." All but the old man looked up gratefully at the proposal. "The evening will be fine, and I will ensure a safe and speedy journey. Nay," he continued hurriedly, in answer to a motion of the old man's hand indicating refusal, "before you decide, grant me the favour of one minute's private conversation."

There was much in the voice and manner of Felix to recommend him, and the old man saw that he had found favour in the eyes of the rest of the company. He himself also, against his own judgment as it seemed, felt inclined to the young man. This feeling, no less than his perplexity, induced him to comply with the request, and they stepped aside, out of hearing of the others.

"Sir," then said Felix, "the offer is made out of pure disinterestedness, believe me."

He blushed slightly as he said this, for he thought of Lily, and of the share she unconsciously bore in the transaction.

"It is somewhat incomprehensible," said the old man, gazing attentively at the earnest face of Felix; "I cannot be mistaken. You are the young gentleman who was present during my interview with the minister."

"I am he, sir," replied Felix, "but – "

"And you are his son," interrupted the old man.

"There is no doubt of that. I am my father's son-in the flesh. For the share I took in that interview by my presence, I humbly ask your pardon. Do me the justice to believe that I am in earnest."

"It would be hard to believe otherwise."

"Thank you, sir."

"Yet it is difficult to reconcile." As he spoke he thought of the young man's kindness to Lily, and it seemed to be not so difficult. But if the kind offer sprang from sincere and unselfish impulse, father and son must be at variance. "Your father – " he said.

But Felix broke in abruptly with, "Nay, sir, pardon me. Do not let us speak of fathers and sons. The subject is a painful one. My father and I differ upon certain points. I am under suspicion, I know; I should be surprised were it otherwise. But come, sir, your own sense of justice will grant me this. Let me be judged, not by you alone, but by those who accompany you. If they decide against me, I will drive to London alone, with only my thoughts for company. If they decide for me, I will resign my whip, or drive you home, as you determine."

By this speech Felix proved himself to be a master of generous cunning. He knew that he had a true friend in little Pollypod, who necessarily carried her mother's vote, and he hoped also that Lily and her brother were on his side. But he did not know that when he said, "Do not let us speak of fathers and sons; the subject is a painful one," he had unconsciously uttered words which served him in good turn with the old man also. Thought of Alfred's father, who had brought shame on all of them, came to the old man's mind as he heard the words. He walked to where the others were standing, and found Pollypod in a state of feverish delight at the prospect of being driven home in such a beautiful carriage. Mrs. Podmore, of course, was equally pleased, because of the treat in store for her child, and because she fell in love immediately with any one who was kind to Polly. Gribble junior spoke in enthusiastic terms of the handsome offer; and Alfred, quivering with eager anxiety to know whether Christopher Sly had won the Northumberland Plate, fretted at every moment's delay that kept him from the London streets, where the evening's newspapers would tell him the news. Lily was silent, but the old Man saw in her eyes that she wished him to accept the offer. This at once decided him, and he waived all personal feeling in the matter. He returned to Felix, and said,

"They all decide for you. I am the only one against you."

The young man's face flushed with delight.

"You will not be always against me, sir. Shall I resign my whip?"

"I doubt if any one is competent to take it. And after all, it would be but a churlish way of accepting your courtesy. No; the obligation shall be complete, if it is not trespassing too much upon your time."

"I am alone in the world, sir. My time is my own."

He turned his face towards his father's house, and gazed at it for a few moments, not with regret, but with a grave consciousness that this was a serious epoch in his life. Martha the housekeeper was sitting at one of the upper windows, evidently watching him. He waved his hand to her, and walked slowly to the waggonette, where Gribble junior was busy arranging the party.

"Will you let me sit next to you?" asked Pollypod of Felix.

"I am going to drive, little one," replied Felix, "and you might fall off."

"I'll take her in my lap," said Gribble junior, and by this offer secured the place of distinction on the box.

So it was arranged, and in a few moments they were all seated, and on their way to London. As Gribble junior declared afterwards, it was the pleasantest ride that he had ever had in his life, notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion. He and Pollypod and Felix chatted together in the pleasantest manner, but in a subdued tone, so as not to intrude upon the grief of the mourners in the waggonette. Pollypod told all about the ship that was bringing home her Doll; and Gribble junior, understanding in a literal manner the kindness of Felix, entered readily into Pollypod's enthusiasm, and looked upon that young gentleman as a model of generosity. Gribble junior himself was not disposed to be silent. He was fond of expatiating upon his establishment and business, and he seized the opportunity of airing himself and his views after his own harmless fashion.

"Why hospital?" he repeated, in reply to a query from Felix. "Well, in the first place, it's curious, and curiosity is a good advertisement. It brings business. You see, what you've got to do nowadays if you want to get along is to strike out. That's what I'm always telling father. Strike out, I say; but he hasn't got it in him. All he does is to shake his head and put his hands in his pockets. As if a man can get along that way! When that youngster's knickerbockered," with a backward notion of his head toward his baby, lying in his wife's lap, "I've made up my mind that his clothes sha'n't have any handy pockets in them where he can hide his hands. It breeds idleness. I've seen lots of fellows who think when they've got their hands in their pockets that they're following an occupation. I believe it is a real business with a good many. That's a good advertisement, isn't it?" he asked, opening his blue-silk umbrella, with its yellow announcement painted on it, and gazing on it in pride.

Felix nodded, amused, and remarked that it must puzzle a good many persons.

"I dare say but then they've got no brains," said Gribble junior. "If they'd only consider a little, they'd soon find out the sense of it; but more than half the people in the world are fools. An umbrella has ribs and bones and a frame and skin, like a human being; and they break their bones and get bent and out of order, like human beings. I call myself the surgeon; I set the limbs and ribs, and put the frame in order. My wife is great in skin complaints. She patches up and mends the alpaca and silk."

In this manner he chatted on, and Felix for the most part listened in amused silence. Before they were a great way on their road home, they overtook the mourning coach which had conveyed them from Soho. The driver was in a state of perfect happiness, and his countenance was more inflamed than ever; but he evidently resented the circumstance of their driving home in such a smart carriage, for as Felix drove briskly past him, he whipped his horses and tried to overtake the party. But his cattle knew their business, and had been too well brought up to do more than amble; all the whipping in the world would not have made them gallop.

Felix had placed refreshments in the waggonette, of which they all partook, even Lily and the old man. The sincerity and honesty of their driver were so apparent, that they could not regard him with any but grateful feelings. It was past sunset when they entered the London streets.

"This is my world," Felix thought exultantly.

The brilliant lights and the thousands of people hurrying hither and thither quickened his pulses. It seemed to him as if he were born into a new life. Unfettered, free to do as he pleased, and blessed with that great blessing, a grateful nature, he gathered from everything about him hope for the future. He saw no shadows; did not dream of them. He turned to look at Lily. Her head was resting upon the old man's breast; she was asleep, and there was peace in her face. The old man smiled gratefully and thoughtfully upon Felix, and the smile made him glad. How could shadows come? Everything was fair for him. He felt a soft touch upon the hand which was not occupied with the reins; it was Pollypod's hand stealing into his. Another good omen. The little maid was very sleepy, but she was filled with joy; this had been the most eventful day in her young life. In a very little while they were winding through the labyrinth of the narrow streets of Soho.

"I am so sorry," said Pollypod.

"Why, little one?"

"We are just home. This is our street. And I should like to keep riding all night."

"Stupid little Pollypod! Why, you are so sleepy and tired now that you can't keep your eyes open."

"That would make it nice. I should like to sleep and wake up, and keep on riding and riding!"

Felix smiled; he, like the child, regretted that they had come to the end of their journey. The rattle of the smart waggonette brought all the neighbours to the doors and windows again, and Felix was scrutinised and discussed in a manner that ought to have made his ears tingle, if he had any respect for old-fashioned proverbs.

"I can but repeat my thanks," said the old man to Felix, as they stood by the street door. "You have laid us under a deep obligation."

"I hope not," replied Felix; "indeed I believe not. I have a theory of my own that every human act is dictated by a feeling of selfishness. What I have done, I have done to please myself."

The old man shook his head.

"You believe better of human nature than your theory would lead one to suppose. Of that I am certain. – Will you step upstairs?"

"No, I thank you," said Felix, after a moment's hesitation, during which he decided that the presence of a stranger was not desirable after the day's fatigue; "but if you will allow me, I will call in a day or two to pay my respects."

The old man expressed acquiescence, and looked round for Alfred; but the young man was gone. He had slipped away to obtain an evening paper, in which he would learn whether Christopher Sly had won or lost the Northumberland Plate. Instead of Alfred, the old man saw Mr. David Sheldrake, who, happening to pass through the street, paused when he saw the group at Mr. Gribble's door. Mr. Sheldrake raised his hat.

"I heard of your loss," he said to Lily, in a tone of confidential respect, "and I beg you to accept my sincere sympathy. The White Rose is quite disconsolate at your absence. I hope it will not be long before we hear your charming voice again. This is your grandfather. Allow me to present myself: Mr. David Sheldrake. I know your grandson, sir, Master Alfred; a fine young fellow, sir. We all grieve, for your granddaughter's sake, at the loss you have sustained."

The old man bowed, but did not reply, and Mr. Sheldrake, raising his hat again, passed on. Although he had not seemed to notice Felix, he had really, in a quiet manner, observed Felix closely, and had taken note of the handsome waggonette.

"Who is this interloper?" he thought, as he walked away; "but Master Alfred will tell me. Where is he, I wonder?" He pondered for a few seconds, and his countenance brightened as he thought, "Ah, they have just come from the funeral; the woman was to be buried in the country, I heard. And Master Alfred has disappeared to look after Christopher Sly. You're a sharp one, David; never at a loss."

With which self-paid compliment he turned the corner, smiling.

"Then we will wish you good-night," said the old man to Felix.

"Good-night," said Felix, shaking hands with the old man. Lily held out her hand, and gave him a grateful look, which, supposing any payment were required, paid him a hundred times over for the little service he had rendered them. When Lily and her grandfather had passed indoors, Felix would have departed, but his left hand was in Pollypod's, and she held it tight.

"Good-night, Pollypod. I must go now."

"No; you mustn't go yet," said the forward little maid; "I want you to carry me upstairs."

"Don't tease the gentleman, Polly!" exclaimed Mrs. Podmore; "you mustn't be tiresome."

"She isn't tiresome," said Felix good-naturedly, taking Pollypod in his arms; "I'll carry her up-stairs if you'll allow me."

Certainly if ever man had the knack of winning a mother's heart, Felix had it; and if he could have read Mrs. Podmore's thoughts as he stepped into the passage with her child in his arms, he would have found himself there enshrined as the very pink and perfection and pattern of goodness.

"Go up slow," whispered Pollypod to him, as she lay with her head on his shoulder; the cunning little maid was in a delicious trance, and was wishful not to wake up too soon; "isn't it nice and dark? Can you see the Ship?"

"Yes."

"And the Captain?"

"Yes."

"And the Doll is there?"

"I can see it, Pollypod."

"And the stars are shining?"

"Beautifully, Pollypod."

"Yes," she murmured, "it is night, and the stars are shining."

The roses on the wall of Mrs. Podmore's room were red enough to assert themselves even in the dim light, and Felix thought that Pollypod's idealisation of them was one of the prettiest of pretty fancies.

"I'm sure we're all very much obliged to you, sir," said Mrs. Podmore to him as he placed the child on the bed.

"You could not be more welcome to anything," replied Felix. "Good night, little maid."

He stooped to kiss her, and she encircled his neck with her arms.

"There's a kiss for the Ship," she whispered, "and a kiss for the Captain, and two for You! I shall tell Snap about you when father comes home."

Gribble junior was waiting on the landing of the second floor to wish him good night.

"Did you see that gent that stopped and spoke to Miss Lily?" asked Gribble junior.

"Yes."

"What do you think of him?"

Felix smilingly replied that it was impossible for him to form an opinion.

"I don't think much of him myself," said Gribble junior dryly; "he ain't one of my sort."

"Tell me," said Felix, "if it is not rude to ask, what did he mean by saying that the White Rose was quite disconsolate at Miss Lily's absence? What is the White Rose?"

"Don't you know the Royal White Rose Music-hall?" interrogated Gribble junior, wondering at the young man's ignorance. "That's where Miss Lily sings. You should see her and hear her! She looks like an angel, and sings like one. She's not like any of the others. You see, a girl must do something, and between you and me, I don't think the old gentleman would be able to get along if it wasn't for the money that Miss Lily earns. Master Alfred, he doesn't do much."

About an hour afterwards, Felix found himself in the Royal White Rose Music-hall, wondering that so pure and simple a girl as Lily should be associated with some of the things he heard and witnessed there. "But," he thought, "to the pure all things are pure. And there are stranger contrasts in life than this."

He had engaged a bed at an hotel where a night porter was kept, so that he could get to his room at any time. He stopped out until late, thinking over the events of the day, and musing upon the future. He strolled over Westminster Bridge, and lingered in admiration; thinking, and thinking truly, that he had never seen a more wonderful and beautiful sight than the dark solemn water and the waving lines of lights presented. And as he lingered and admired and mused, his thoughts wandered to the little crowded house in Soho —

Where Lily was sleeping peacefully;

Where Pollypod, pressed to her father's breast, and with her face towards the roses, was dreaming of her Doll and of the Ship that was sailing over the shining seas;

Where, in the solitude of his room, a young man, with wild, haggard, despairing face, was reading for the twentieth time the account of the race for the Northumberland Plate, which had been won by an old horse called Taraban; and muttering, with white and trembling lips, imprecations on the false prophets by whose advice he had backed Christopher Sly with money that did not belong to him.

CHAPTER XIV

TRAPS FOR GULLS-HOW SPIDERS CATCH THE FLIES

At the corner of a desponding thoroughfare in the neighbourhood of Vauxhall is a chemist's shop, where every cure for every ailment is dispensed. The thoroughfare is one of a numerous family of streets so exactly alike in their melancholy aspect, that you can scarcely tell one from another; they are all very sad-looking, and they are all composed of rows of private houses, two stories high, exactly of a height, and of a dismal flatness, which look dejectedly at one another across the road. The name of Dr. Cadbury is over the door of the chemist's shop, and a neat inscription on a brass plate informs the public that the doctor may be consulted (gratis) at from 11 till 1 o'clock in the morning, and from 6 till 8 in the evening. It is a queer-looking shop and wonderfully comprehensive, notwithstanding that it is much cramped. The consultation-room is a small apartment at the back of the shop, and, viewed from the outside, has quite a pretentious appearance. The word "Surgery" over the door is suggestive of dreadful instruments of bright steel, which shine with a savage desire to cut into you; but there is really nothing to be alarmed at in the apartment, the most noticeable article in it being a turn-up bedstead; for at night it is converted into a sleeping apartment for the doctor's assistant. This assistant, who has a passion for too much bitter beer, and who tells the customers under the pledge of secrecy that he is a partner in the concern, is a moon-faced, bald-headed man, who has walked the hospitals, as the women whisper to one another. He is mysteriously spoken of as being very highly connected, and he continually talks of going down somewhere for a week's shooting; but he never goes. His present lowly position is popularly supposed to be due to his having been a little wild, and it is rumoured that he is in hiding, which immensely enhances his reputation. The queer little shop has quite a bustling appearance during the hours of consultation; but very different pictures are presented in the morning and evening. In the morning it is the males, who, chiefly in their dinner-hour, throng to the doctor for his advice; but the evening is sacred to the wives. As the consultation hour draws nigh, all the poor women in the neighbourhood who are in an interesting condition gather together until the little shop is crowded with them. They wait to consult the "dear doctor" – he is such a dear man! they say to one another; and while they wait they relate their experiences, and exchange pleasantries with the moon-faced assistant. The doctor's fee for confinements is only a guinea, attendance and medicine included, and this guinea he sometimes takes in instalments, and sometimes does not take at all-which is not his fault, but his misfortune. It is quite a relaxation to the poor women to assemble together on these occasions; and when they come away from their consultation, they have none but words of praise for Dr. Cadbury, who is such a pleasant man, and has told them such funny stories, that they declare they would send for him-ah, that they would! – in the dead of night, if they lived ever so far away. For which marks of favour Dr. Cadbury could not be, and certainly was not, sufficiently grateful.

The doctor occupies only the ground-floor. Who occupies the upper portion of the house? Let us step up and see. The first-floor will be sufficient for our purpose.

It is the day after the running for the Northumberland Plate, and a man about thirty-five years of age has just laid down a paper where he has read, not for the first time, how that the morning opened unfavourably at Newcastle, the rain pouring steadily down, and how the sporting fraternity grew despondent in consequence; how deserted the Newcastle streets were, when upon every previous Plate-day they had been crowded with betting men; how the weather took a better turn about noon, and hope revived in the ardent breasts of the men who laid the odds and the dupes who took them; how the special trains from Northumberland and Durham began to arrive with eager excursionists, and matters began to look brighter; how all considerations of the weather, and every other consideration whatsoever, paled to insignificance before the news that a noble sportsman had insisted that Christopher Sly, the sensational animal of the day, who had been backed for pounds, shillings, and pence, should carry a ten pound penalty for winning another race a short time since; how the question was discussed and what excitement it caused, those who had backed the horse trembling in their shoes lest they should be "done" out of their soon-to-be winnings at the last moment; how the stewards were unable to decide the point before the race, and how the horse declined in the betting from 6 to 4 to 2 to 1, still being first favourite however; how eight runners came to the starting-post, Christopher Sly being one and looking as fresh as paint; how, after two or three false starts, the horses were fairly slipped; how, soon afterwards, Christopher Sly threw his jockey clean over his head, and then tumbled down and rolled over the lad, who was carried off the field in an insensible state; and how, after some other slight mishaps, an old horse, Taraban by name, came in the winner, to the discomfiture of more persons than one, and to the utter confusion, and if they have any shame in them (which may be reasonably doubted), of every prophet and tipster in the United Kingdom. All this and more the occupant of the room reads with exceeding relish, slapping his thigh and rubbing his knees in delight, as if it is the finest joke he had ever heard of.