London's Heart: A Novel

"What will they do to him, Jim?"

"The Lord knows! The law's pretty sharp-on us-for don't you see, old woman, the public's got to be protected. Lord save us! As if it was our fault! As if it was us! – the public's got to be-protected from! It's a pretty how-do-you-do-altogether, that's what it is."

"I pity his wife as much as him," says Mrs. Podmore, with all a woman's sympathy.

"She is to be pitied. She's near her confinement, too-poor creature! – and Dick, he's out of a billet now-and hasn't got anything-put by. I tell you what it is, old woman-it's hard lines-that's what it is-hard lines!"

"But the Company'll see to her, Jim, surely!"

"Will they!" exclaims Jim bitterly. "The Company'll pay you-pretty regular-while you work-and 'll work you-pretty hard-while they pay you; – that's what the Company'll do. You'd think-knowing, as they know-that Dick Hart's got a wife as is near her confinement-and knowing, as they know-that Dick Hart's wages is just enough to keep him and her-and his little girl-and that it's next to impossible-he could lay anything by-for a rainy day-you'd think, old woman-that now Dick's in trouble-the Company'd pay him his wages-till he got out of it! Catch 'em at it! That's not the Company's game. Their game is-when an accident occurs-to make out-that they're not accountable-and responsible-and that they're the victims-not us, or the public. The Company'll see to-Dick's wife-will they, old woman! Where's my pipe?"

He has it in his hand, but is so engrossed in his theme that he does not know it, and Mrs. Podmore quietly takes it from him, and fills it. In truth there is another cause for Jim's agitation-a cause which he dare not speak of, which he scarcely dare think of, as he puffs away at his pipe. But it comes upon him, despite his reluctance to entertain it, and fills him with terrible fear. This very night he himself had a narrow escape from an accident. He was very tired, and even as he stood waiting to shift the points for an expected train, he fell into a dose. For how long he did not know-a second, a minute, or many-but he was suddenly aroused by a furious whirl of sound. It was the train approaching. In a very agony of fear, he rushed and adjusted the points. Just in time, thank God! Half a dozen seconds more, and it would have been too late. No one but he knew of the narrow escape of the passengers, yet the anguish of that one almost fatal moment will remain with him for many a year.

It is with him now, as he smokes, and it remains with him during the night, as he holds his darling Pollypod in his arms, and thinks what would become of her if one night, when he was dead-beat, he should fall asleep again on his watch, and not wake up until it was too late. Then the fancy comes upon him that the little girl who was hurt in the accident, and who lay like dead, was something like Pollypod; and he shivers at the thought, and holds his darling closer to his breast.

Pollypod is awake very early in the morning, and while her mother is lighting the fire, and preparing breakfast for Jim, who has to be at his post at half-past five, she tells her father all about the adventures of the previous day. He listens in delight, and when she comes to the part where Felix gave her the flowers, he says, "Felix is a gentleman;" but Pollypod whispers, "No, he is a wizard;" and tells of the ship and the Doll and the Captain, and speaks in such good faith, that Jim is troubled in his mind, and thinks, "That all comes along of my stupidity about my ship coming home! Polly'll break her heart if she doesn't get the Doll." Jim cannot afford to buy one; he is in the same boat as Dick Hart, and has not been able to put anything by for a rainy day. He thinks that the very happiest thing that could occur to him would be to pick up a sovereign as he goes to his work. "If some swell'd only drop one now," he thinks absurdly, "and I was to drop across it as I walk along!"

When he is dressed and has had his breakfast, and stands by the bedside kissing Pollypod before he goes, she makes him put some flowers in the button-hole of his greasy old fustian jacket.

"Now you look like Felix," she says,

As Jim walks to his work, with the bright sun shining on him, he looks anxiously along the pavements of the quiet streets in the ridiculous hope that some swell had dropped a sovereign, and that it might be his luck to come across it. But no such good fortune is his, and he wishes with all his heart that he had not put the notion of the ship in Pollypod's head.

This ship that is coming home is always a poor man's ship, and many a pretty conceit is woven out of it to gratify the poor man's child. It is always sailing over the seas, freighted with precious treasure, but it rarely reaches port. When it does, earth contains no greater happiness and delight.

The faithful dog, Snap, does not accompany his master on this morning. Pollypod had said to her father, "Leave Snap at home, father. I want to tell him something."

So Snap is left behind, unconscious of the precious secret that is about to be intrusted to him. Pollypod waits until mother is out of the room, and then, kneeling upon her bed in her night-dress, she sets Snap before her, and bids him listen. Snap, sitting gravely on his haunches, but with some difficulty, for the bed is all tumbled about, looks Pollypod straight in the face, with a serious demeanour worthy of the occasion. He receives the intelligence that Pollypod imparts to him with no other expressions of feeling than are contained in short barks, and blinks, and rollings backward when he loses his balance; but Pollypod finds this perfectly satisfactory, and tells him that he is to be sure to be fond of the Doll, and not to growl at her or be jealous of her. "For I'll love you all the same, Snap." Whereat Snap licks her face, and by that act vows fealty to the Doll.

The week that passes after her mother's funeral is by no means an unhappy one for Lily. A familiar voice and a familiar presence are gone, and she grieves naturally. But she derives much comfort from the restfulness and peacefulness of everything about her. The lodgers in the house make as little noise as possible, and Jim Podmore, as he goes down-stairs to his work in the early morning, treads as softly as his heavy boots will allow him, so that he shall not disturb her. She derives comfort also from Alfred's happier mood. The night after the funeral he comes home with a bright look in his face, and greets her with a kiss. With his arm round her waist, he draws her into her bedroom, and tells her that she mustn't mind if he has not been so affectionate to her lately as he ought to have been.

"I have had some troubles," he says, "and have been very unhappy, Lily. But now things look brighter. I'm going to love you more than ever. I'm going to do something grand by-and-by. You'll see! I'm not going to let you work much longer."

"O, but I don't mind it, Alf," she replies, with her arm round his neck.

"Ah, but it isn't right. I'm going to work for you. I know a way! You let me alone for knowing a thing or two. We'll have a better place than, this soon, and we'll go about a bit."

She listens to him with pleasure, in her innocence and trustfulness, and kisses him softly. Alfred is proud of her-proud of her beauty, proud of her gentleness and modesty-proud because she loves him and thinks all the world of him.

"I have made," he continues, "the best friend that any man ever had-the noblest-hearted fellow I had ever seen or heard of."

"O, I am glad of that, Alfred-I am glad of that! Who is it? He must be my friend too. Do I know him?"

Her thoughts turn to Felix as she asks the question, and an innocent joy warms her young heart.

"Do you know him!" he repeats gaily. "Do you know him, Puss! Why, of course you do! You don't need me to tell you who it is. You can guess-you do guess. There's only one-although he's only a new friend after all, now I come to think of it. But he's a man every inch of him. He gave a hundred and twenty pounds to a poor widow-woman who was left penniless! The week before last he paid a poor man's debts-the poor fellow had got into trouble somehow-and set him up in business again, and made him comfortable-all because he had a wife and children. What do you think of that, Lily?"

"A noble nature, indeed!" says Lily softly, sharing Alfred's enthusiasm, and wondering whether she shall ever see Felix again.

"And he thinks himself so wise" (Alfred says this with a light laugh) "that he's always being taken in."

"That's a pity, Alfred."

"O, but he don't mind; he can afford it, and likes it. If you knew what a friend he is to me! And I shouldn't wonder if it was for Somebody's sake – why, how you are trembling, Lily!"

"You speak so warmly of this good friend, Alfred, that I am filled with joy-for your sake, my dear, that you have found such a friend. And yet I wonder, and cannot understand it."

She almost whispers these last words. She has been carried away by Alfred's enthusiasm. Certainly, Felix's kindness and gentle bearing had made a great impression upon her, and her thoughts dwelt much upon him. But it was only yesterday that she first saw him. It is all so strange. Only yesterday! But it seems longer; it seems to her as if she has known him for a long, long time.

"So now you can guess who it is, Lily, can't you?"

"I think I can, dear, and I am very, very glad! Glad to find he is as good and noble as I believed him to be when I first saw him."

"And it isn't so long ago that we first knew him!"

"No, indeed, Alf dear-but yesterday!"

"It might be yesterday. Why, it was only last Saturday night-just five days ago-that he saw you home from the Royal White Rose."

The little hand that was caressing his neck slowly withdraws itself, and the flush of colour, that the excitement of the conversation had brought to the cheeks, dies rapidly away. Her hands now lie idly in her lap, her face is colourless, her eyes are drooping to the ground. "You are speaking of" – she manages to say.

"Mr. Sheldrake, Puss! The noblest-hearted man in the world. You guessed at once-I saw it. Ah, Lily, that's a wise little head of yours!"

He takes the wise little head between his hands, and kisses her lips. She kisses him thoughtfully, and gazes at him with a steady sad light in her eyes.

"And he is such a good friend to you, Alf?"

"Haven't I told you! – and all, perhaps, for Somebody's – "

With a rapid motion, she places her fingers on his lips.

"And is really noble-hearted! And has done all these kind things!"

"All, and more, Lily. It is quite by accident I heard of these; for he is a queer character, and nothing displeases him so much as for people to speak to him about his kindness, or that they know it. He tries to show himself in quite a different light."

Lily is silent and very thoughtful for a little time after this, but she soon recovers, and her manner becomes brighter because Alfred's is so. A great weight seems to have been lifted from his mind, and he is more considerate of her than is usual with him. But she, in the unselfishness of her affection, does not notice this; it is because he is more cheerful that she is happier.

The next evening is Friday, and Pollypod and her mother have tea with Lily and her grandfather. Pollypod, of course, is engrossed by one subject. She has the fullest faith in Felix, but as the end of the week is very near, she is very curious about the Captain. She wants to know so much-what a Captain is like; how the Captain will find the house; whether the Captain will know her, and know that the Doll is for her. Every knock and ring at the street-door makes her heart beat loud and fast, and during the last two days she has tired out her little legs by running up and down-stairs to see if the Captain is at the door. Mrs. Podmore is not so sanguine. She tries to prepare Pollypod for disappointment, but nothing can shake the child's faith. He was the nicest-spoken gentleman (said Mrs. Podmore to Lily, in confidence) that she has ever set eyes on. But Lord love you! he only told Pollypod the story out of the goodness of his heart. He was as good as gold, that he was; the way he carried Pollypod upstairs was a sight to see; but all he wanted to do was to amuse the child, bless him! What did he know of dolls, a gentleman like him? But Mrs. Podmore does not win Lily over to her view of the question, for Pollypod has also made a confidante of Lily, and she in her heart of hearts believes that Felix will make the child a present of a doll.

"Not such a handsome one as you say, Polly." says Lily to her; "but a nice one, I daresay."

"You'll see-you'll see," is all that Pollypod says in reply. "I wish it was to-morrow! I wish it was to-morrow!"

But although she wishes it were to-morrow, she looks out for the Captain to-night, and listens to every footfall on the stairs. But the night passes, and to-morrow comes, and still no Captain. As twilight comes on, Pollypod's excitement is so great that Mrs. Podmore declares she is afraid the child will work herself into a fever. So Lily proposes that Pollypod shall come and sit with her and her grandfather, and Mrs. Podmore consents, all the more willingly because she wants to clean up for Sunday. Pollypod is glad to go down to the first-floor, for she will be nearer to the street door. They sit at the window, the three of them, Polly in Lily's lap, with all her heart in her ear. Knocks come, and rings, but not one of them heralds the Captain or the Doll. Lily believes in the Doll, but not in the Captain; Pollypod believes in both.

"If he doesn't come, Polly," says old Wheels, "I'll make you a doll, on wheels."

"He's sure to come! he's sure to come!" exclaims Pollypod.

But twilight deepens, and the hope grows fainter. Pollypod's face is on Lily's neck, and Lily feels the tears welling from the child's eyes. Lily begins to feel sorry, also; sorry for more reasons than one. Mrs. Podmore is busy upstairs, scrubbing the room; Sunday is a day of rare, enjoyment to her and her small family. Old Wheels is on the point of suggesting that they shall light the lamp, when a knock comes at the street-door-a strange knock. Not a single knock for the first-floor, not two deliberate knocks for the second-floor, nor three for the third; but a rat-tat-tat, with a flourish which might be intended for some person in this humble house who has distinguished friends in the upper circles of society. Some one-never mind whom-opens the door and a step that none of them recognises is on the stairs. Pollypod jumps from Lily's lap, but Lily retains her hand. The man lingers on the first landing. It is dark, and he is evidently a stranger.

"Does Mrs. Podmore live here?" he asks of Nobody, in a loud voice.

"Yes," answers Old Wheels, going to the door. "On the third-floor, but she's busy cleaning. What do you want of her?"

"I have brought something for her little girl."

"O, O!" cries Pollypod, and in her excitement Lily rises, and accompanies the child to the door. "Are you a Captain?"

"Yes."

"What ship?" inquires Old Wheels, merrily for the child's sake, and nautically in honour of the visitor.

"The Fancy" replies the man in the dark.

"Come in," says Old Wheels; "the little girl you want is here."

And the Captain of the Fancy enters the room.

CHAPTER XVII

A HAPPY NIGHT

The Captain of the Fancy, coming out of the streets where there was little light, into a small room where there was less, could see nothing of the occupants but shadowy outlines, and had to take it for granted that he had brought himself to anchor in a friendly port. He appeared to have no doubt upon the point; but then it belonged to his profession to be as confident in danger as in safety, and to be able to steer amidst rocks with a bold heart. So, like a true seaman, he kept his own counsel. If he had any evidence to guide him to a satisfactory assurance other than his sense of sight might have afforded him, he did not show the acknowledgment of it. But there being no sun, he could not take an observation; the darkness in the room was like a fog at sea. He may have had other evidence; voices that were familiar to him may have been one. As on the ocean, when night usurps the place of day, and not an hour of the twenty-four brings a glimpse of sunlight, peculiar murmurings of the solemn waters whisper to the skilful ear warning of danger or assurance of safety. But what familiar voices could he have heard in this humble room of crowded Soho, seeing that he was Captain of the Fancy, and just come ashore? And yet he seemed to consider himself quite at home, although he and those in whose presence he found himself could not distinguish each other's faces.

He had a gruff and kindly voice had the Captain of the Fancy, and he wore rough blue trousers, and a rough pea-jacket, and a rough cap. But notwithstanding that everything about him outwardly was as rough as rough could be, it is not unreasonable to assume that he had a kind heart and a gentle spirit. Otherwise, he would scarcely have been here on his present errand, where there was no freight charges to receive-nothing but the overflowing gratitude of a poor little child, who had never had a doll, and who lived contentedly upon the thought of one, for a long, long time past. Insubstantial payment this, but evidently sufficient in the Captain's eyes, as his conduct proved. He could not have been more in his element on the ocean than he showed himself in this dark room, in which he had set foot for the first time on this summer evening.

It was a peaceful evening, and everything in the narrow street was in harmony with it. The window of the room in which he stood was open, and there were flowers on the sill. There were flowers also on other window-sills in the street, in pots and boxes; and he saw on the opposite side, in a room which was lighted up, a woman covering a bird-cage, in which doubtless a pet canary sang during the day. Harmonious influences these: a weird contrast which was to be found in a labyrinth of curiously-shaped thoroughfares a few hundred yards away, in a very tangle of dwarf streets and alleys, where the glare of light dazzled the eye and bewildered the senses. A strange scene indeed, but so frequent and common in the great City as to possess no novelty to the accustomed gaze; affording no food for reflection to any but those whose hearts are in their eyes. Poor people were there in shoals, bargaining and eking out their poor means to the best advantage: trucks and barrows, filled with the commonest and meanest necessaries of life, so choked the spaces as to render straight walking an impossibility. Hoarse voiced men were bawling out inducements to intending purchasers, who stood debating and reckoning up before making the bold plunge. Some of the barrows were presided over by pale-faced women, as nervous anxious-looking as many of the timid ones who bargained for their wares. Here, a foreigner, having made his purchase, hurried away with hanging head, as if what was hidden beneath his coat was something to be ashamed of, or was so precious that it needed swift lodgment in his garret before he could consider it safe. Here lingered a hungry man, looking and longing, or a cunning beggar who, by the counterfeit misery on his face, drew pence and halfpence from others needier than himself. But what was given was given ungrudgingly and with earnest sympathy. Here stood an old man and a little girl with a basket on her arm. The old man was sliding some coppers and two or three small pieces of silver in the palm of his hand, calculating what it would buy for the Sunday dinner, and the girl was looking up into his face with a pleasant light in her eyes; a light which it was not hard to see often warmed the old man's heart. He was a long time before he decided; and when he had made up his mind, the foolish fellow jeopardised Monday's necessities by purchasing a picture-book and a bunch of flowers for his little granddaughter, Commerce, as represented in the market, did not show to advantage. It was a shabby and second-hand institution; from the damaged fruit and vegetables (which wore a frayed appearance) to the old clothes, patched and mended, and the second-hand boots and shoes (should it not be second-foot), with an excruciating polish on them, like paint on the cheeks of age, to hide the ravages of time. Art was not neglected; for here was a second-hand bookstall, and here an inverted open umbrella, the interior of which was lined with prints and engravings torn from old books, marked up at "a penny apiece, and take your choice." The roar of voices from this busy mart came to the Captain's ears, subdued and, sounding like the soft lapping of the sea, added to the peacefulness of the quiet street.

How it was that Lily's grandfather asked "What ship?" when the stranger announced himself as a Captain, he could not have explained. But it may be rightly surmised that it was prompted by his sympathy with Pollypod, and by his gladness that she was not to be disappointed. When Lily heard the Captain's voice-which most surely have been unfamiliar to her, it was so gruff-she relinquished Pollypod's hand, and softly went to her seat. There are some moments which are very precious to us; now and again in our lives visions of pure happiness come, and, indistinct and undefinable as they are, we forget all else for the time; and with awe and gladness resign ourselves to influences which fill the present with peace and joy. Such times are the stars in our life's record, and the memory of them never dies.

Pollypod, standing by the Captain's side, exclaimed with tearful joy,

"I'm the little girl."

"And I'm the Captain."

"I knew you would come!" (Her voice was so full and rich, that it was a pleasure to hear it.) "Felix said you would, and he saw you such a long way off. You have brought her!"

"Yes, here she is in my arms, little one. Dressed."

"In what?"

"Mauve silk, I think she told me."

"O!"

A volume of words could not have expressed more.

"Hold hard!" cried the Captain, as he heard the scraping of a match against a box, and guessed that it was intended to light up. "Let us talk in the dark a bit."

He knew that there were two persons, an old man and a little girl, present besides himself, and the momentary flash of the match, as it was drawn across the sand-paper, did not reveal to him a third, for Lily was sitting in the darkest shadow of the room, and he was not looking that way. The old man readily assented to the proposition to talk in the dark a bit, and the shadows of the peaceful summer night lay about the room undisturbed. But the Captain appearing to consider that his proposition was too abruptly made, and scarcely justifiable, he being a stranger and almost an intruder, added immediately,

"That is, if you have no objection, and if you will pardon me for suggesting it."

"No apology is necessary," replied the old man, "from one accredited as you are, and coming on such an errand."

"It's a Captain's fancy," said the stranger.

"And it's yours by right, as Captain of the Fancy," observed the old man, in a gentle and courteous tone.

"You are kind enough to say so. Of all the hours of the twenty-four, I love that the most during which the day steals away to the other side of the world. There's no time at sea so pleasant as night, when it is fine and balmy, as this summer's night is, and when you can look over the bulwarks into the water, and see it wake into living light as the ship sails on. Then, when the moon rises, the heavens, as well as the water, are filled with glory; though, for the matter of that, they are always filled with natural beauty, whether it is dark or light."

He spoke like a sailor, heartily though gruffly, and it almost seemed as if the salt of the sea had got into his voice, and had given it a flavour. So the old man thought evidently, and thought the flavour was of the pleasantest (but there could be no mistaking that), for he encouraged the Captain to proceed by asking,

"How's the moon to-night, Skipper?"

Thus showing that he had read of the sea, or at some time of his life had travelled on it.

"'Tis a few days old, and soon we shall see it, pure and clear and bright-like truth, like modesty, like virtue, like the heart of an innocent maid, like anything that is good."

Almost a poet as well as a Captain. But what else could be expected from one who commanded the good ship Fancy? The old man rubbed his hands in satisfaction, and being drawn still closer to the newcomer by the sympathy that dwells in kindly natures, farther encouraged him by remarking,