London's Heart: A Novel

Old Wheels laughed slightly at this.

"You wouldn't expect to wake up at the end of the time," he said, continuing to shake Jim Podmore.

"I don't know-I don't care-I'd like to go to bed-and sleep-for a year. All right, Mr. Wheels-don't shake me-any more! – I'm awake-that is, as awake-as I shall be-till to-morrow morning. I beg you-a thousand pardons-for troubling you. I suppose-you found me asleep-somewhere. Where?"

"On the stairs."

"Ah-yes. I thought-I should ha' fell down in the streets-as I walked along. I was so-dead-beat. I'm glad-you woke me up-for I wanted-to ask you something."

Old Wheels thought it best not to interrupt the current of Jim's thoughts, and therefore did not speak. Jim shook himself much as a dog does when he comes out of the water, and having, it is to be presumed, by that action, aroused his mental faculties, proceeded.

"We've had a talk-to-day-me and some mates-and I made up my mind-that I'd speak-to some one-as might know-better than us. I meant you."

"Yes-what were you speaking about?"

"Well, you see-it come in this way. I never told you-about Dick Hart-did I?"

"No-not that I remember," replied Old Wheels.

"He was a man o' our'n-Dick Hart was. As good a fellow-as ever drawed-God's breath. He was working-on our line-a many months ago. He ain't working there now-not him-ain't working anywhere-can't get it. Willing enough-Dick Hart is-and a-breaking his heart-because he can't get it. He's a doomed man-Mr. Wheels-a doomed man! – and might as well-be dead-as alive. Better-a dooced sight better-if it warn't for his wife-and kids."

Jim Podmore was evidently warming up. His theme was powerful enough to master his fatigue. Old Wheels listened attentively.

"It might have happened-to me-it might happen-to me-any night-when I'm dead-beat. What then?" he asked excitedly, to the no small surprise of Snap, to whom this episode was so strange that he stood aside, gazing gravely at his master. "What then?" Jim repeated. "Why, I should be-what Dick Hart is-a-wandering about-in rags-a-starving almost. I should be worse than him-for when I think-of the old woman up-stairs-asleep-and my little Polly-that is my star-my star, Polly is! – and think of them-with nothing to eat-like Dick Hart's old woman and kids-I shouldn't be able-to keep my hands-to myself. And I shouldn't try to-I'm damned if I should!"

Old Wheels laid his hand with a soothing motion on the excited man's shoulder.

"Be cool, Mr. Podmore," he said. "Tell me calmly what you want. You are wandering from the subject."

"No, I ain't," responded Jim Podmore doggedly. "I'm sticking to it. And it ain't likely-begging your pardon-for being so rough-that I can be calm-when I've got what I have got-in my mind."

"What's that?"

Jim Podmore looked with apprehension at Old Wheels, and then turned away his eyes uneasily.

"Never mind that-it's my trouble-and mustn't be spoken of. Let's talk of Dick Hart."

"You were about," said Old Wheels gently, "to tell me some story connected with him."

"He was as good a fellow-as ever drawed breath-and had been in the Company's service-ever so many years. There was nothing agin him. He did his work-and drawed his screw. Little enough! He got overworked-often-as a good many of us gets-a-many times too often-once too often for poor Dick-as I'm going to tell you, short. It must ha' been-eight months ago-full-when Dick Hart-worked off his legs-with long hours-and little rest-had a accident. He took a oath afterwards-that he was that dead-beat-before the accident-that he felt fit to drop down dead with fatigue. He couldn't keep-his eyes open-as I can't sometimes-and when the accident-takes place-he goes almost mad. But that doesn't alter it. The accident's done-and Dick Hart's made accountable. He's took up-and tried-and gets six months. If what he did-had ha' been his fault-he ought to have been-hung-but they didn't seem-quite to know-whether he was to blame-or whether-he wasn't-so they give him six months-to make things even, I suppose. While Dick's in prison-his wife's confined-with her second-and how they lived-while he's away from 'em-God knows! Some of us gives a little-now and then. I give twice-but what Dick's wife got-in that way was-next to nothing-as much as we-could afford. Dick Hart-comes out of prison-a little while ago-and tries to get work-and can't. He gets a odd job-now and then-by telling lies about himself-and his old woman-gets a little charing-but they've not been able-to keep the wolf-from the door. It's got right in-and they are-pretty-nigh starving-him and the old woman-and the kids."

Jim Podmore's drowsiness coming upon him powerfully here, he had as much as he could do to keep himself awake. He indulged himself with a few drowsy nods, and then proceeded as though there had been no interval of silence.

"Well, we had a talk about him-to-day, me and my mates. We made up-a little money-about six shillings-and sent it to his old woman. But we can't go on-doing this-and one of the men said-that if it comes to the officers' ears-or the directors'-that we'd been making up money-for a man as has been discharged-and's been in prison-and's cost the Company a lot o' money in damages-(for they had to pay two men-who was able-to afford a lawyer; there was others-as was poor-who couldn't afford a lawyer, consequently-they got nothing) – that if it come-to the directors' ears-we should likely-get into trouble ourselves."

Having come to the end of Dick Hart's story, Jim Podmore dozed off again, and would have fallen into deep sleep but for Old Wheels nudging him briskly.

"Well?" asked the old man.

"Ah, yes," said Jim; "I was almost forgetting. What I want to know is-is Dick Hart responsible-for what he's done? Is it right-that a respectable man-a hardworking man-a honest man-should be compelled-to work until he's lost-all control over himself-till he's ready to drop-as I've told you before-and as I've been ready to myself-and that then-when a accident happens-which wouldn't have happened-if he'd been fresh-or if a fresh man had been-in his place is it right, I want to know," and Jim Podmore raised his arm slowly and lowered it, and raised it again and lowered it again, as if it were a piston, "that that man-should be put-in prison-should be disgraced-should lose his honest name-shouldn't be able to get work-for his old woman-and the young uns-and that they should be almost starving-as Dick Hart's people's doing now?"

Fortunately for Old Wheels, who would have found these questions very difficult to answer, Jim Podmore was too tired and too sleepy to wait for a reply.

"If I don't go upstairs-immediate," he said, rising slowly to his feet, "you'll have-to carry me. So I'll wish you-good-night, Mr. Wheels, and thank you."

He paused at the door for the purpose of asking one other question.

"Did you ever feel-that something was going to happen-without exactly knowing what it was?"

"Yes," replied Old Wheels good-humouredly, "but it never did happen."

"Ah," pondered the puzzled man, "but this will, though."

"What will?"

"Didn't I tell you-I didn't know what? But it'll happen-as sure as my name's-Jim Podmore. It's buzzing about my head now, – and I can't make it out."

"Nervousness," suggested Old Wheels, "brought on by overwork."

"Mayhap, but there it is. What would you call it, now? Give it a name."

"It is a presentiment, I should say."

"That's it. I've got-a presentiment. Thank you. Good-night, Mr. Wheels. I've got-a presentiment-and it'll come true-as sure as my name's-Jim."

With that Jim Podmore staggered upstairs, with faithful Snap at his heels, and within an hour Old Wheels heard the street-door bell ring, and hurried downstairs.

CHAPTER XXXVI

HOW FELIX GAINED A CLUB

Felix intended to leave Lily after he had seen her safely within doors, but the old man begged him to come in. A look from Lily decided him, and the three faithful souls ascended the stairs to the old man's room. Old Wheels entering first, gave Lily an opportunity to say hurriedly to Felix,

"Don't tell grandfather of my fainting, Felix. It might distress him."

He promised her.

"Nor about Mr. Sheldrake."

"Very well, Lily."

She spoke in a whisper; she was so thrilling with exquisite sensitiveness that any harsher sound would have been a disturbance to her happy state.

"I will think of what you have said to-night, Felix; you are right, I know-you must be right." (The unspoken words came to her: "My heart tells me so.") "Thank you for it, Felix, with all my heart."

Their hands met in a tender clasp. They entered the room the next moment, and Old Wheels looked towards them with a pleased expression in his face, brought there by the circumstance of Lily and Felix lingering for a few moments in the passage. It betokened a confidence between them.

It was one o'clock before Felix took his departure. The conversation between him and Old Wheels had turned principally upon the mental disturbance of Mr. Podmore, and upon his presentiment. This made a great impression upon Felix, and, although he was almost ashamed to confess it to himself, took fast hold of his mind. He was predisposed for some such influence, from the thought of the crisis that seemed to be imminent in the life of the woman he loved. That it must come, and soon, he was convinced, and he thought to himself it would be almost a wise act to hasten it, if possible. He had quietly made it his business to acquaint himself with the nature of Mr. Sheldrake's transactions; and, notwithstanding that that gentleman was close and crafty, Felix had learned much concerning him. The knowledge sprang naturally, as it were, out of Felix's profession. He was correspondent for two country newspapers, and had managed to insert the thin end of his wedge into the wall of London journalism. He was working his way, steadily and unobtrusively, and he was sanguine and confident of the future. Very many people suppose that cunning is one of the principal specialties of wisdom, but it is not always so. A rare strength, which shows itself almost invariably with great and good results, lies in the man who is wise and not cunning-who is wise from honesty of purpose. Felix was this. He was sincere in all he did-honest in all he did. It is a pleasure to be able to indicate, even by such mere outlines as these, a character which too many persons do not believe in.

Beginning to earn his living by his pen, and being enabled to act in a certain measure independently, and to take his own view of things, it was natural that he should exercise his small power in the cause of right. It was not his ambition to be the Don Quixote of literature, but he could no more resist the inclination to strike hard blows at public shams and injustice than, being naturally truthful, he could resist the inclination to tell the truth. Of course he could effect but little good, The great shield behind which imposture and knavery found shelter, and which protected dishonesty and hypocrisy, suffered but little from his attacks; but here and there he made a dent, and that was a great satisfaction to him. He was a faithful soldier, and fought with courage.

He knew that in some way Lily's brother was in Mr. Sheldrake's power, and accident revealed to him the nature of the bond between them. In his crusade against knavery, he became acquainted with the unmitigated roguery that was practised under the protection of the institution which, with a grim and ghastly humour, has been denominated the great national sport. His friend Charley, who introduced him to the columns of the Penny Whistle, was the first who opened his eyes to the knavery. It seems to be a recognised necessity that all young men who have the means and the leisure should go through the formula known as "seeing life" – a process which to some is a sad tragedy, and which to nearly all is a bitter experience. Very few come out of that fire unscathed. Charley had gone through this formula-fortunately for him, in a superficial way. Charley's parents were good people enough, and had tacitly agreed that their son must "see life" before he settled; everybody's sons saw life before settling, and Charley must not be an exception. So the young fellow went into the world, and in the natural course of things became mixed up in matters, the mere mention of which would have brought a blush to his mother's cheek. But Charley was doing the proper thing: there was no doubt of that. However, the young fellow's inclinations were not inherently vicious, and he escaped the pitfalls in which so many weak and unfortunate ones are ingulfed. He and Felix had met some few times since Felix's installation as London correspondent to the Penny Whistle, and they had opened their hearts to each other. Thus it came out that Charley told Felix of his introduction to the racing world, and of his adventures therein.

"You see, Felix," he said, "I had outrun my allowance, and I thought I might be able to set things straight, and pay my few small debts, without coming on my father's purse. So, led away by the flaming accounts in the newspapers, I went into betting; was introduced by a friend to club where I could bet, and for three months went regularly to races. It didn't turn out well, and after dropping nearly two hundred pounds, I went to my father, and made a clean breast of it. He paid my debts, and made me promise to give up the infatuation, as he called it. I promised willingly enough, for I had made up my mind before, and I am sure I shall never be drawn into the net again. The fact is, Felix, it didn't suit me: the men I met on the race-courses were such cads and blackguards that I soon became disgusted with myself for mixing with them. I tell you what it is, old fellow. I think being with you a great deal has done me good, and I have learnt from you to hate things that are mean. You've been to races, of course?"

"I've been to Goodwood, and Ascot, and to the Derby. The Derby is a wonderful sight. I should like to go with you to one or two of the small meetings."

They went in company, and Felix, having a deeper purpose in his mind than idle amusement, saw much to astonish him. As they were making their way through a crowd of sharks and gulls, Charley pulled his sleeve, and said,

"There! There's a man who had over a hundred pounds of my money."

Turning, Felix saw Mr. David Sheldrake, evidently very much at home. Felix, not wishing to be seen by Mr. Sheldrake, walked away, and watched him from a distance.

"Is he a betting-man?" asked Felix.

"O, yes; and as sharp as a needle."

"Does he attend these meetings regularly?"

"You seem to be interested in him, Felix."

"Yes, I know him."

"And don't like him, evidently," observed Charley, judging from his friend's tone.

"That is true; I don't like him. But you haven't answered my question."

"I have met him on nearly every race-course I have been to; he is always to be seen in the 'ring,' I should say."

Felix did not pursue the subject, but later in the day said,

"Have you any documents, Charley, connected with your betting experiences, or have you destroyed them?"

"I have them all. By-the-bye, they might be useful to you; there are some strange things among them-well, perhaps not strange in themselves, but strange that such things should be allowed. It would be a good subject for you to take up."

"Any letters from that man?"

"O, yes; suppose I send you the packet?"

"I should like to see them."

They were received in due course by Felix, and they so interested him that he began from that time to subscribe to the sporting papers, and to make a regular study of the usually unprofitable theme. Any person who did not know Felix's character might reasonably have supposed that he had been bitten by the mania, and that he was beginning to entertain the idea that he might make a fortune by betting with sharps. They would have had ample grounds for so supposing, if they had known that Felix actually sent small sums in stamps to the prophets and tipsters and the layers of odds who advertised in the sporting papers, for the purpose of obtaining the information necessary for the rapid and certain realisation of "fabulous sums" – a phrase which many of the advertisers used in the traps they set, unconscious of the ironical truth it contained. But what Felix was doing was a means to another end, and he lost his money cheerfully. He began to frequent race-courses also, and on one occasion, early in his experience, he saw Lily's brother, as he expected to see him, running hither and thither in a state of blind excitement. With a set determination, Felix watched the young man during the whole of the day, saw the fatal infatuation which urged him onwards, and saw him pass through the various stages of hope, suspense, and agony. Felix saw more with the eyes of his mind; he saw ruin waiting at Alfred's heels. Felix had met with an old legend which stated how every human being was attended by two angels, one bad, one good, and how they strove for mastery over the soul they attended. As the recollection of this legend came to him, Felix looked up and saw Alfred's bad angel, Mr. David Sheldrake, talking to Alfred, and Alfred eagerly listening. It saddened Felix to see this, although he fully expected it, and was prepared for it. "Alfred's good angel," he thought, "is love. But love has no sword to strike this false friend dead." But Felix went home that evening with a clue in his hand.

On this night, as Felix walked away from Lily's house, he thought of these things, and was too disturbed to go home. He walked about the quiet streets, and at the end of an hour found himself on the Thames Embankment. As he stood there, musing, gazing into the solemn river, he became conscious of a sudden tremor in the air. He looked around with a feeling of vague alarm upon him, but he saw nothing, heard nothing. "Pshaw!" he muttered. "Mr. Podmore's presentiment is frightening me with shadows. I'll stroll past Lily's house, and then go home to bed."

CHAPTER XXXVII

JIM PODMORE HAS A DREAM, AND WAKES UP IN TIME

Jim Podmore, staggering into the one room which formed his Englishman's castle, found his wife and Pollypod fast asleep in bed. Before he went out to his work in the morning, he had told his wife not to sit up for him that night. "You've had precious hard work of it, old woman," he had said, "this last week; so go to bed early and have a long night's rest. I'll find my way up-stairs all right." The precious hard work which Jim Podmore referred to was one of those tasks which poor people-especially women-take upon themselves when occasion requires, with a readiness and cheerfulness which it is beautiful to see. A neighbour's child had been ill, and required constant watching. The mother, worn out with her labour of love, had fallen ill herself. And Mrs. Podmore flew to her aid, and attended to her household duties, and nursed her and the child through their sickness. The cheerfulness with which Mrs. Podmore undertook this task and performed it, as if it were a duty incumbent upon her, cannot be described. The best reward she could receive was hers: the mother and child recovered their health, and were strong enough to attend to themselves. Late in the previous night the doctor had released Mrs. Podmore, and told her-with smiles and good words and with a hand-shake which gratified the simple woman mightily-that now she had best go home and take care of herself; "for we can get about ourselves now," he said, "and sha'n't want you any more." This accounted for Jim Podmore having to find his way up-stairs by himself, for Mrs. Podmore seldom went to bed before he returned home. He knew, on this night, that his wife was asleep, and in the midst of his drowsiness he took off his boots in the passage, so that he should not disturb her.

Entering the room in his stockinged feet, he stepped softly to the bedside, and rested his hand lightly and tenderly on Pollypod's neck. The bed being against the wall, and Pollypod sleeping inside, he could not kiss her without disturbing his wife. The child slept peacefully, and Jim Podmore gazed lovingly at the pretty picture, and leaned forward to feel the sweet breath, pure as an angel's whisper, that came from her parted lips. His supper was laid for him on the table, and he sat down to it, Snap standing at his feet in patient eagerness waiting for such scraps and morsels as he thought fit to give. Jim did not forget his dog; Snap fared well, and when supper was finished the dog stretched himself on the ground, and with half-closed eyes watched his master's face. Snap blinked and blinked, but although occasionally his eyes were so nearly closed that only the thinnest line of light could be seen, the dog never relaxed his watchful gaze. Jim sat in his chair, pipe in mouth, and smoked and dozed, and thought of Dick Hart and his wife and children, and of his own wife and Pollypod, till they all became mixed up together in the strangest way, and in the phantasmagoria of his fancy changed places and merged one into the other in utter defiance of all probability. Thus, as he leaned forward to catch the sweet breath that came from Pollypod's lips, the child's face became blurred and indistinct, and in her place Dick Hart appeared, crouching upon the rail way platform in an agony of despair. The platform itself appeared, with its throng of anxious faces, with its sound of hurried feet and cries of pain, with a light in the air that belonged to neither night nor day, sensitive with a tremor which was felt, but could not be seen or described, and which spoke of hopes for ever crushed out, and of lives of fair promise blighted by the act that lay in one fatal moment's neglect or helplessness. "If I don't go to bed," murmured Jim with a start, whereat all these things vanished into nothingness, "I shall fall asleep." And still he sat, and murmured, "Poor Dick!"

It was really but the work of a moment. Jim Podmore being on duty, suddenly felt a shock-then heard a crash, followed by screams and shouts, and what seemed to be the muffled sound of a myriad of voices. He knew that an accident had occurred, and he ran forward, and saw carriages overturned on the line, and huge splinters of wood lying about. "Who did it?" he cried. "Dick Hart!" a voice replied; and then he heard Dick's voice crying, "O, my God!" The busy hands were at work clearing the wreck, and the few passengers-happily there were but few-were assisted out. Most of them had escaped with a bruise or a scratch, but one man, they said, looked in a bad state, and at his own entreaty they allowed him to lie still upon the platform until doctors, who had been promptly sent for, had arrived; and one little child was taken into a room, and lay like dead. Jim Podmore was in the room, and he saw Dick Hart brought in between two men. Dick, when his eyes lighted on the piteous sight of the little girl lying like that, trembled as if ague had seized him, and began to sob and cry. "I did it! I did it!" he gasped. "Why don't some one strike me down dead?" As he uttered these words, and as he stood there, with a face whiter than the face of the child who lay before him, a woman rushed in and cried in a wild tone, "Where's the man that killed my child?" Upon this, with a cry wilder than that to which the poor woman had given vent, Dick Hart wrested himself free from the men, whose hands (in their grief at what had occurred) were only lightly laid upon him, and rushed out of the room like a madman. The men followed him, but he was too quick for them, and before they could lay hands on him again, he had jumped from the platform on to the line, dashing aside the persons who tried to stop him. His mad idea was to run forward on the line until he saw a train coming, and then to throw himself before it and be crushed to pieces. But he was saved from the execution of this piteous design; the men reached him and seized him, and carried him back by main force. When he was in the room again, his passion being spent, he fell upon his knees, and looked round with a scared white face, waiting for what was to come. "Poor Dick!" murmured Jim Podmore. And then the men whispered to each other how Dick Hart had been worked off his legs lately; how the accident was nothing more than was to be expected; and how Dick's wife was near her confinement with her second. "Poor Dick!" murmured Jim Podmore again, for the thought of Dick Hart's one little girl at home, and the other child that was soon expected, brought Pollypod to his mind.