London's Heart: A Novel

Felix in his room re-opened the letter he had written to Martha, read it carefully, and put on his considering-cap. But the more he thought the more he was perplexed. "She cannot have come here for me," he thought; "and she cannot have come here without a purpose. If I write to her from this address, it may disturb her, or cause her annoyance in some way." He tore up the letter, and wrote another, giving his address at a post-office in the locality. As he went down-stairs in the dark to post the letter, he brushed somewhat roughly against a lodger who had just entered the house, and something which the man carried in his hand dropped to the ground. It sounded like a bottle. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said Felix, groping in the dark for what had fallen; "I hope it is not broken. No; here it is." He handed a flat bottle to his fellow-lodger, who received it eagerly, and feeling with trembling fingers for the cork to assure himself that the liquor had not escaped, muttered humbly, "No offence, sir; no offence," and passed to his room.

Felix was in the humour to be irritated by trifles, and this small incident vexed him unreasonably. He was annoyed with himself for being vexed, but he could not shake himself into good-humour, and as, in his present mood, sleep was impossible, he walked along the Embankment and over Westminster Bridge towards Soho, and thence to the Royal White Rose Music-hall. It was in the full swing of prosperity, and the usual audience was present. Composed of pale-faced young men without whiskers, of fuller-fleshed and older men with much whisker, of boys sharply featured and men richly lipped, of young men naturally old, and old men artificially young; of work-girls and servant-girls, and other girls and other women. There were many hats of the kind called Alpine, with peacocks' feathers in them, of course; there were many overcoats with sham fur collars and cuffs; there was much cigar-smoking and whisky-drinking; and there was generally a large amount of low swelldom in a state of assertive rampancy. In a certain respect the audience resembled the audience which was assembled in Noah's Ark-there was a great deal of pairing. As Felix entered the music-hall, there came upon the stage a very stout and very short female vocalist, between thirty-five and fifty years of age, dressed in a gown which appeared to have been made out of faded bed-hangings. She was by no means attractive, having bad teeth and a peculiar habit of squeezing the corners of her eyelids, as if she had some nice things there which she wanted to keep all to herself. She sang a song, and there was no applause. Whereupon, the Chairman struck on his bell, and said she would oblige again. She obliged again. The audience did not seem to mind her, one way or another. She obliged a third time, and the refrain to her third song catching the sympathy of her hearers, she finally retired in triumph, and then the audience wanted to see her again, and she didn't come. Felix did not like to think of Lily in association with these things, and he walked away from the place in nowise soothed by his visit. Naturally light-hearted as he was, a strange sadness was upon him to-night, and whether it was by chance, or because his gloomier mood induced him to observe them more closely and take them to heart, the darker shadows of life forced themselves upon his attention; turn which way he would, he could not escape from them. He had just passed a throng of night-birds, dressed in gay plumage, when sounds of mirth arrested his attention, and he saw before him a child-girl, perhaps fifteen years of age, with blue ribbons in her hair, with mocking flowers in her brown hat, with a white cloud round her throat, with a green dress, and with a petticoat marvellously fashioned and coloured, staggering along drunk, swaying her body, waving her arms, and protesting with feeble imploring, even in the midst of her helpless degradation, against the gibes and laughter of a grinning mob. The men and women composing the mob laughed, and nudged each other in the ribs with a fine sense of humour, and made witty remarks, and winked and flashed their fingers at the girl, and pointed her out to chance acquaintances, and indulged in other expressions of delight at the piteous spectacle. An omnibus conductor jumped down to have a look, and jumped up again, refreshed; a man with waxed moustaches followed the girl with undisguised delight and admiration; a cab-driver stopped his horse, and laughingly pointed at the girl with his whip; a beggar stamped his curiously-clothed toes in approval as the mob scrambled past him; and a fair-haired girl smiled pleasantly to herself, and hugged her furs as she walked through the crowd. Not one stopped to pity; not one among them stepped forward to save the miserable drunken child-girl from the taunts and word-stings which were flung at her from all sides, until a policeman came, and, with a merciful harshness, seized the girl's arm, and pushed her before him to the police-station.

O! London's Heart! Laden with the sorrow of such lifeblood as this! What purifying influences can be brought to bear to lessen the pain that beats in every sob? In this great land, filled as it is with preachers social and political-in which every hour children are born to suffer, to grow up to shame and sorrow-can no medicine be found to cool your fevered blood, and no physicians, unselfish, wise, and merciful enough, and sufficiently regardless of the pomp of power, capable of administering it? Some few healers there are, who toil not in the light, and whose earnest lives are devoted to their work. Blessings on them, and on every heart that dictates benevolent remedy, even although it can only reach a few out of the many suffering! Blessings on the head that devises it, on the hand that administers it! You who walk through life wrapped in the cruel mantle of selfishness, heedless of the wails of your helpless brothers and sisters, stand aside; you who only heed your own comfort, your own ease, your own well-doing, who have no ointment for your neighbour's wounds, stand aside; let the gloom of night encompass you and hide your faces! But you whose hearts bleed at the sight of suffering, whose nerves quiver at the sound of it, whose hands are eager to relieve it, come into heaven's light, and let it shine upon you and the aureola which crowns you, in which every kind impulse that finds life in action gleams like a blessed star!

It was past midnight when Felix made his way to his lodgings. The humble streets through which he walked as he neared his home were not quite deserted. Night-birds were there also, but of a low degree; night-birds with soiled plumage and ragged feathers; night-birds whose voices grated upon the ear, like the harsh cawing of crows. High up, from dingy garret windows, glimmered pale gleams of light. What mysteries were being wrought within those chambers? How beat the pulse of London's Heart? What links in the greatness of the mighty city were there being woven? Perchance within sat some poor seamstress stitching for bread sleepily through the night, wearing-O, dreadful paradox! – wearing her life away so that she might live. Not fables, not legends of the past, are such life struggles-they are of to-day. Perchance within was hatching some crime, the execution of which would quicken for a day the pulse of the great City's Heart. Who knew or who could tell? Crime and patient endurance, purity and vice, are but divided by a narrow strip of wall, and none can see the mysteries that lie beneath a single roof but the sleepless Eye which shines above them all!

CHAPTER XIX

MR. SHELDRAKE SUGGESTS THAT IT IS TIME FOR MUZZY TO TURN OVER A NEW LEAF

Congratulating himself upon the escape he had had of losing his precious liquor in his encounter with Felix on the stairs, Muzzy, hugging the bottle to his breast, mounted to the one room in the garret which formed his home. The room was not so dark that he could not see shadows on the walls, which as he opened the door seemed to be imbued with weird animation. His own shadow, as he stood in the centre of the room, assumed monstrous proportions, and covered one side of the wall and ceiling; there was something so threatening in it, and so dreadfully suggestive to the old man, that he hastened, with trembling fingers, to light a candle, still keeping the bottle hugged to his breast the while as tenderly as if it were human. The candle being lighted, he felt as if he had escaped some great danger, and his manner became more assured. Before laying the bottle on the mantelshelf, he looked at it wishfully, and uncorking it, was about to drink, when he closed his lips with a snap, and resisted the temptation. Taking off his hat, he produced from the interior a flower which was stuck in the lining for safety. This flower was evidently intended for a special purpose, which, had he needed any reminding, recurred to him as he looked round the room. It was very poorly furnished, containing merely a bed, two or three chairs, and a table. But everything was tidy and in its place. The bed was made, and the little piece of faded carpet in front of the fender had been newly swept and put straight. He opened a little cupboard, and saw the few pieces of crockery it contained set in their proper places. Indeed there was about the whole place an order and cleanliness one would scarcely have expected from the appearance of the owner.

"Good girl, good girl!" muttered Muzzy, as he noted these evidences of comfort; "there are few like her, I should say."

He went into the passage, and called, "Lizzie, Lizzie!" receiving no reply, however. He tapped at the door of the room next to the one he occupied, and after a moment or two turned the handle; put the door was locked. Disappointed, he returned to his own room, and wandered about it in a restless, uncertain manner, as if, being alone, he did not know what to do. Every now and then he came near to the bottle, and sometimes turned his head resolutely from it, and sometimes could not resist the temptation of gazing at it. "No," he said aloud once, as if answering some inward questioning or argument; "no; I promised Lizzie I wouldn't, and I won't. What is this?" He had laid the bottle on a piece of folded paper, containing a key. "The key of her room. Good girl, good girl!" He took his candle, and went into Lizzie's room. It was in every respect more comfortable than his own, although the furniture, with the exception of a smart little sewing-machine, was of the same humble kind. There were two or three cheap ornaments on the mantelshelf, the table could boast of a cover, and a carpet was laid down which nearly covered the floor. "She can't have gone out long," said Muzzy, who, having no one else to talk to, talked to himself, in defiance of an old-fashioned proverb not very complimentary to such self-communings. "She knew I would be home soon, and thought I should like to sit here." On the table were some needlework and a workbox, and behind the door hung a dress, which Muzzy touched with his hand, as the most civilising influence within his reach. A picture an the wall evidently possessed a fascination for him, and presently he sat gazing at it, dreamily. It was the picture of a woman's face, fair and comely, and the eyes seemed to follow his as he gazed; but the reflections raised by the contemplation were not pleasant ones, and he rose and walked about in the same restless, uncertain manner. Soon he was in his own room again, and the bottle was in his hand uncorked. "I could have kept from it if she had been here," he muttered; "but how can I when I am alone-alone?" He repeated the word two or three times with desolate distinctness. "Alone-alone-always alone until she came! What should I do if she went away? And she may-she may. That young fellow who comes to see her so often-who is he, who is he? I wish he was dead, I mustn't go into the room when he's there-Lizzie hasn't told me so, but I know I mustn't. And there they sit, laughing and talking – Laughing and talking! No, not always. He made her cry once; I heard her. I'll ask Lizzie who he is. If he wants to take her away, I'd like to kill him-secretly, secretly!" The feeble old man scowled as he said this, and mechanically took a glass from the cupboard, and poured some gin in it. But a restraining influence was upon him even then, and he did not immediately raise it to his lips. "I promised her I wouldn't," he said; "I swore I'd give it up. But how can I when I have no one to talk to? So old a friend too; so old a friend! I should have gone mad without it many a time. I'll take one drop-just one little drop. But she mustn't know-she mustn't know." Looking round warily, he, swiftly and with a secret air, drained the glass, and immediately afterwards endeavoured to assume an unconsciousness that he had broken his promise and his oath. But although presently he took a second draught in the same secret manner, it was evident that he could not quite satisfy his conscience, for he pushed the empty glass from him, retaining the bottle in his hand. "What made me buy it? I didn't intend to, and didn't intend to pass the public house; but I got there somehow, and I couldn't resist going in. It seemed to draw me to it. But it'll be my ruin, my ruin, my ruin! The governor said it would, and it will." As he sat there, battling with himself, his deeply-lined face and his thin hair straggling over his forehead, did he have no ambition, no aspiration, no hope, outside the walls of brick which formed his home? This Lizzie of whom he spoke was, according to his own showing, not an old friend. Had he any other link of love, or had other human affection quite died out of his life? It was hard to tell. It seemed that, but for this girl, to whom he was not linked by ties of blood, his life was colourless, purposeless. But every living breast contains a smouldering fire, and even to this old man, wreck as he was, a spark might come to kindle once more into a flame the fire that must have burned when he was young. Supposing him to have been bright and handsome in his youth-as he must have been, despite his worn and almost hopeless face-how, could he have seen it, would he have received a vision of the future which showed him truthfully what he was to be in years to come? A vision of some sort was upon him now, as, sitting with no purpose in his mind, he fell into a doze. From which, after the lapse of a few moments, which seemed to him hours, he awoke with a bewildered air, and looked about him, and listened wonderingly for voices which he might have heard in his dream, or as if the dead past had cast up its ghosts, and he had seen them. He saw something more tangible as he raised his eyes to the door, and recognised his governor, Mr. David Sheldrake. The bottle was still in Muzzy's hand, and he tried to put it out of sight as he rose to welcome his most unexpected visitor.

"Surprised to see me, eh, Muzzy!" exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake, in an easy tone.

"You're welcome, sir, you're welcome," said Muzzy, his looks contradicting his words. "Anything wrong, sir?"

"No, old man, don't be alarmed; there's nothing wrong."

Mr. Sheldrake was smartly dressed, and presented quite a gay appearance in his cut-away velvet coat and his cane and fashionable hat, and with his moustaches carefully curled. He did not remove his hat, but looked round upon the room and its poor furnishings superciliously, with the air of a suzerain; and looked also at Muzzy with more than usual interest.

"Will you take a seat, sir?" asked Muzzy humbly, and with inward trepidation; for any occurrence out of the usual run of things filled him with fear.

Mr. Sheldrake seated himself by the table and took up the empty glass. "Been drinking, Muzzy?"

"No, sir, no," replied Muzzy, striving to look Mr. Sheldrake in the face as he told the untruth, but failing most signally. "I've given it up, sir, I've given it up."

Mr. Sheldrake smiled and nodded, as much as to say, "I know you are lying, but it's of no consequence;" and said aloud, with another disparaging look round the apartment, "Not a very handsome lodging, old man."

"As good as I can afford, sir," said Muzzy.

"You sly old dog," said Mr. Sheldrake merrily; "it's my opinion you have a pot of money put by somewhere."

"No, sir, indeed, sir, no; if I had, I should live in a better place than this."

"A flower, eh?" taking up the flower which Muzzy had bought for Lizzie. "You amorous old dog! What lady fair is this for?"

"For a friend who lives in the next room."

"I thought you told me you had no friends," said Mr. Sheldrake, with a swift but searching glance at Muzzy's drooping form.

"More I have, sir; only this one, a good girl who tidies up my place, and cooks a bit for me now and then. I told you the truth, sir. I have not known her long."

"Can she hear us talk, this charmer of yours?"

"She's not at home, sir."

"But if she came in quietly-women are sly ones, some of them; like cats-could she hear us?"

"No, sir, not when the door is shut."

Mr. Sheldrake rose and closed the door.

"Now, Muzzy, let's to business."

"Yes, sir."

"I haven't come here for nothing to-night, old man. You're getting too old for the work at the office – "

"Don't say that, sir," implored Muzzy; "don't say that!"

"Don't put yourself in a flurry old man. We want younger heads than yours now; they're looking sharper after us than they used to do, and in the case of a blow-up they'd frighten all sorts of things out of you. The fact is, we're going to break up the office here, and start a new one in Scotland. But I've something better in view for you, if I thought I could depend upon you."

"Don't think, sir; be sure. I'll do anything you tell me. You'll find the old man faithful to the last. I didn't think you'd throw me off, sir; you're not that sort."

"I suppose you would be faithful, as it would be for your interest to be so. You'd go to the dogs fast enough if I threw you off. And if I thought you were not to be trusted – "

Mr. Sheldrake did not finish his speech, but he had said enough to strike terror to Muzzy, who sat before him shaking and trembling with fear.

"I asked you," continued Mr. Sheldrake, after a sufficient pause, "a little while ago if it was possible you could keep sober were it worth your while."

"I remember, sir."

"And you told me, as you told me just now, that you had given up drink."

Muzzy's only answer was a frightened, nervous look.

"Look here, old man," exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake sternly, "once and for all-no more of your lies to me. You've been drinking to-night. I saw you hide the bottle as I came into the room."

"There's no concealing anything from you, sir," said Muzzy, in an imploring tone. "I felt lonely, and I did buy a little-not much, upon my soul, sir! – and I tried to keep from it, but wasn't quite able. If Lizzie had been here – "

"Lizzie?"

"The girl in the next room, sir. If she had been at home I shouldn't have tasted a drop. But what can an old man do, in such a place as this, with not a soul to speak to? It is a terrible lonely life, sir, and grows worse and worse as one grows older. If I wasn't afraid, I'd kill myself, but I'm frightened of death-I'm frightened of death."

Muzzy shook and shuddered and raised his feeble hand; had he been alone, with this fear upon him, he would undoubtedly have emptied his bottle of gin in a very short time. Mr. Sheldrake, with an air of thoughtfulness, lit a cigar, and slowly paced the room for a few moments. Pausing before the trembling old man, he said,

"This girl Lizzie, how old is she?"

"About eighteen I should say, sir; but I don't exactly know."

"Where are her parents?"

"She has none, sir."

"Does she live alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"How does she get her living?"

"By the sewing-machine, sir; and sometimes goes out to work."

The sound of laughing voices on the stairs stopped this cross-examination. A look of astonishment flashed into the eyes of Mr. Sheldrake.

"Who's that?" he asked abruptly.

"It must be Lizzie," answered Muzzy; "no one else but her and me lives on this floor."

"Come and listen-quick! Come and listen!"

In his impatience he almost dragged Muzzy to the door. The persons outside were laughing and talking on the landing.

"Yes, it is Lizzie," said the old man.

"And the other?" questioned Mr. Sheldrake, with strange eagerness. "The other, who is he?"

An expression of displeasure, almost of envy, passed across Muzzy's face. "It's a young man who comes to see her sometimes."

"Her lover?" Muzzy did not reply, and Mr. Sheldrake demanded again impatiently, "Her lover?"

"I suppose so," answered Muzzy reluctantly; "it looks like it."

"Do you know him-what is he like?"

"I haven't seen him, but I know his voice; I hear it often enough."

Mr. Sheldrake laughed-a triumphant, self-satisfied laugh, as if he had made a gratifying discovery. By this time the persons outside had entered Lizzie's room; the listeners heard the door close.

"Muzzy, old man," cried Mr. Sheldrake heartily; but he checked himself suddenly, and opening the door, stepped quietly into the passage, and listened to the voices in Lizzie's room. Returning with a beaming face, he repeated, "Muzzy, old man! the time has come for you to turn over a new leaf."

"I am quite ready, sir," acquiesced Muzzy, without the slightest consciousness of his patron's meaning.

CHAPTER XX

AN UNEXPECTED PROPOSITION

But although the tone of Muzzy's acquiescence in the turning over of a new leaf was almost abject, his manner denoted inward disturbance. His restless eyes became more restless in the endeavour to look steadily into Mr. Sheldrake's face, and his lips twitched nervously as he passed the back of his hand across them with the air of one who is thirsty. The sudden interest which Mr. Sheldrake exhibited in Lizzie and her lover was evidently distressing to him, and he waited anxiously for an explanation. Mr. Sheldrake did not notice these symptoms; he was too much engrossed in his own musing, the satisfactory nature of which was evidenced by the bright look he turned upon Muzzy.

"This girl, this Lizzie," he said, following the current of his thoughts, "who has no parents – she has none?"

"None, sir."

"Must find it dull work living up in a garret by herself."

"Lizzie is happy enough," said Muzzy; "I have never heard her complain; she is a good girl, sir."

"Doubtless; but nevertheless would jump at the opportunity of living in a pretty detached house in the suburbs, say in St. John's-wood or Kensington, or better still near to the river-a pretty house, cosily furnished, with a garden round it. How would that suit you, old man?"

Muzzy stared in amazement at his employer, who continued gaily,

"Respectably dressed, living a quiet respectable life, as a widower, say with an only child, a daughter – "

"Sir!" exclaimed Muzzy, rising in his agitation.

"Steady, old man! A daughter ready-made, Lizzie the charmer-what can be better? If you object to father and daughter say uncle and niece; it will serve the purpose equally well. Fifty neat stories can be made up to suit the case, if there is need of explanation. Of course it will not be kept secret that the man who enables you to do this is Mr. David Sheldrake-that he is your best friend-and that in your declining days (excuse me for referring to the unpleasant fact) you owe it to him that you are enabled to live in ease and comfort."

"I don't understand, sir."

"It isn't so very difficult, either. I want a place where I can come for an hour's quiet now and again, and where my friends would be welcome. You have served me well up to this point – "

"I have tried to do so, sir," murmured Muzzy.

"And in serving me well, have served yourself at the same time. Continue to do so, but ask no questions, and don't look a gift horse in the mouth." (This was somewhat sternly spoken; for notwithstanding Muzzy's humble acquiescence in his employer's plans, there was something in his manner that did not please Mr. Sheldrake.) "I may have a purpose to serve in what I propose, and I may not. That is my business. The prospect I open out to you is not an unpleasant one. It is better than the workhouse." (Muzzy shivered.) "I will put you in such a house as I have described, where you may enjoy the comforts of a home, instead of living the pig's life you are living now. But only on the understanding, mind you, that Lizzie lives with you." (The same increased restlessness in Muzzy's eyes, the same nervous twitching of his lips, the same action of his hand across his parched mouth, were observable in Muzzy's manner, at this fresh reference to Lizzie.) "Tell her that a stroke of good fortune has fallen to you suddenly, and that you owe it to me to give or to withhold. Ask her to share your home as your daughter or your niece. You want nothing from her. If she wishes to continue her needlework, let her do so; it will be a pleasanter place to do it than here, and it will keep her in pocket-money. As for you, I promise that you shall not be quite idle; for I intend to pay you your salary, besides keeping the house, and you must do something to earn it. I daresay we shall start a new firm, at the new address, one, say, that undertakes discretionary investments-a good game, old man" (this with a laugh) – "and so shall manage to pay expenses. Then if you like to do a little private betting on your own account, you can do so. You may make a hit with that system of yours which you say you have discovered."