London's Heart: A Novel

"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 we shall be 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.

"Do you believe 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.

CHAPTER XXXIII

LIZZIE DEEMS IT NECESSARY TO CALL CUNNING TO HER AID

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 it is in 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.