London's Heart: A Novel

"Profitable?"

"Well, not in the common sense of the word; that is, it will not put money in my pocket; but it will do something better perhaps. You will hear of it, I daresay, very soon. Now, about Martha Day. Hers is a strange story. She has lived all her womanly life with my father, as his housekeeper, and has out of her savings brought Lizzie up, given her a tolerable education, and supplied her with money. My father, it appears, knew nothing of this; he supposed that Martha had no family ties. Lately, however, he has discovered her connection with Lizzie, and has discovered something else also. Lizzie, it appears, is not Martha's niece, as I understood: she is her daughter. The story that Martha tells of an early marriage and of being deserted by her husband, who enlisted and died in India, my father refuses to believe. He insisted that Martha should promise not to see Lizzie any more, and Martha indignantly left his service. She has been with him for a great many years, and she says that it suited her; that she was fit for nothing else, and that it supplied her with means to pay for Lizzie's early training. What memories, what fears, or what fanciful idea that Lizzie's future would be happier if she were brought up in the belief that Martha was her aunt, instead of her mother, neither you nor I can guess. The web of the simplest life seems to me to be made up of tangled skeins, and one of the highest duties of life consists in kindly judgment of each other. Martha's life has been one of sacrifice, and what joy and comfort she has experienced in it have come from this girl, for whom I have a great esteem."

"I too, Felix; Lizzie is a good girl."

"It sounds strange that so simple a circumstance should induce my father to part with a woman who must have been wonderfully useful to him; but I think I am to blame for the severance of that connection."

"In what way?"

"My father knows of my movements, so Martha tells me; knows of my friendship for you and your grandchildren, and knows of the tie which binds Alfred to Lizzie. It is in some way to punish me that he has provoked this breach; but, indeed, it is no punishment to me, for I believe and hope that it will turn out for the good of all of us."

"Is there no hope of a reconciliation with your father, Felix?"

"None, sir," replied Felix firmly; "our natures are too wide apart. In all probability, we shall never meet again: both he and I are too steadfast to our beliefs, which are as the north and the south poles. It is wonderful by what roads men arrive at totally different estimates of things! My father will judge me harshly, perhaps, all the days of his life; but he is my father, and it will best become me to be silent as to his judgments and motives. I am but a young man, but it seems to me that my life is clear before me. I do not aspire to riches. I have one great hope, and if that is fulfilled, I shall be content to work with others of the world's workers, satisfied with moderate competence, proud if the track in which I work will enable me to leave a mark for good behind me. I have flown off at a tangent again, and must come back to Martha. Looking upon myself as the cause of her misfortunes, I purpose to set up some sort of a home, in which she can live in the same capacity as she has done in my father's house."

"What does she say to your plan, Felix?"

"She is delighted with it; but she will say nothing decisive until after she has talked to Lizzie about it, and until after the result of my visit here to-day is ascertained. Acting upon my advice, Martha is telling Lizzie the secret which she has kept all her life, and Lizzie probably knows by this time that she has a mother. Now, sir, I come to my one great hope. I have waited until now, when not only my position is assured, but when another matter which has caused you and Lily much anxiety-I refer to Alfred's connection with Mr. Sheldrake looks less hopeless than it has done for some time past. If you guess what it is I am about to say, will you give me permission to speak more plainly?"

"Speak, my dear lad," said Old Wheels, trembling with eagerness.

"It is about Lily – "

But the old man rose suddenly, and in a tone of deep agitation said,

"One moment, Felix."

It was joy at the prospect of his darling's happiness that compelled him to rise. He stood with averted head, silent for many moments; then turned, and said, with the tears running down his face,

"Go on, Felix; go on, my dear boy."

"I love Lily, sir, and I ask your permission to tell her, and to ask her to be my wife."

Old Wheels grasped Felix's hand.

"God bless you, my dear lad!" he almost sobbed. "These are tears of joy that you see. How I have prayed for this! But I feared that some scruple of just feeling-some motive of honour and tenderness, for which I should not have esteemed you less, Felix; no, not one whit-I feared that something of this sort might have prevented you from speaking. The sad day that we met is the happiest of my life. God bless you, Felix! Go to my darling; go to her, and then come down to me together, that I may see my dearest desire accomplished."

Lily, very busy setting things to rights in the house, and very happy in her work, did not know that Felix had come, until he stood close to her. She gave a little cry of surprise and pleasure, and then, seeing something in his face that she had never seen before, stood for an instant pale and trembling. But her heart was animated by the dawn of a tender hope. His nature was too earnest to dally at such a time. He held out his hand, and retaining hers, said,

"I have come straight from grandfather, Lily."

And paused, as earnest lovers do who are about to play their great stake. She stood silent, her hand in his, waiting for him to speak.

"I have been telling him of some good fortune that has befallen me. I have obtained another London correspondenceship for a colonial paper, and I am growing rich. My income is quite three hundred pounds, and there is a fair prospect before me. I have schemes in my head. One of these fine days I may put the finishing lines to a book, and by good luck I may find a publisher who will publish it; or to a play, and by good luck I may find a manager who will produce it. Whichever it is may be successful, and another hundred pounds may come in my purse. If I do not do either, or if I am unsuccessful in the doing, my position is good enough, and I shall be happy and satisfied, even if it does not improve very much. But I want a home-a helpmate. And there is but one woman in the world who can be to me what my heart yearns for. Lily!" He had released her hand, and she stood before him with drooping head; the sun was shining behind the bright clouds. "Will you be my wife?"

Whether he took her into his arms, or whether she crept into them, neither knew; but she was there, with her head on his breast, and with such joy in her heart as seemed to make life too happy. A long silence followed, a silence that was like a prayer; their feelings were too deep for words, and when, after a long, long dream, they spoke, their voices were tremulous.

"Are you glad, Lily?"

She nestled closer to him.

"Lily, my dear, I devote my life to your happiness."

"And I to yours, Felix." She spoke the words softly and solemnly.

"So I have two objects in life, and these will be sufficient-my wife and my work."

He repeated the words "My wife!" tenderly. She raised her bright face to his.

"And I have but one."

"That is – "

"Felix."

His pulses were charged with grateful music as he stooped and kissed her.

"Love and Labour would not be a bad motto, Lily, or a bad title for my book or play. Let us go down to grandfather."

"You perceive, sir," said Felix to Old Wheels a quarter of an hour afterwards, "what my scheming has come to. The first time I saw Lily, I thought to myself, There is my wife; and I schemed for the result. I have acted my part very well, I think. Now, will you still dispute my proposition that every action in our lives is dictated by selfishness."

Felix and Lily were sitting hand in hand.

"I am too happy, Felix," replied Old Wheels, "to dispute anything with you; you must have everything your own way. I have no doubt that Lily has made up her mind-as I have made up mine-that you are as heartless and selfish as it is possible for man to be."

But a little while after that Lily and Felix were speaking together more seriously. In the suddenness of her happiness, Lily had lost sight for a time of Alfred's troubles. Now they recurred to her, and brought with them the image of Mr. Sheldrake and the memory of his threats. Felix saw the change that came over her, and guessed the cause.

"You are thinking of Alfred," he said. "To-night, when he comes home, we will take him into our confidence, and coax him to confide freely in us. I know your love for him, Lily, and you know, my dear, that nothing that is in my power shall be left undone to release him from his anxieties."

Then, without being asked, Lily told Felix all that had passed between her and Mr. Sheldrake; she told him first of Mr. Sheldrake's confession of love for her, and how it terrified her; and then, going back, she told him of their meeting in Bushey Park, and of her seeing Lizzie for the first time on that day; of the story of Mr. Sheldrake's goodness that Alfred had related to her (Felix smiled gravely at this); of the persistent manner in which Mr. Sheldrake had impressed upon her that it was for her sake, and for her sake only, he was her brother's friend; of Mr. Sheldrake forcing a partnership upon her on that day, suggesting that they should enter into a compact to work together for Alfred's good; and of his saying that when Alfred was safely through his troubles, he would have no one but Lily to thank for his release.

"But since that day," continued Lily, "Alfred has been getting into deeper and deeper trouble, until a time came-only a little while ago, Felix-when I was afraid to think of what might occur to him-and to me," she added in a dreamy tone. A moment after she had uttered the words a shudder came over her. Felix took her in his arms, and she clung to him for protection.

"I feel happy and safe with you, Felix."

"I understand your feelings towards Alfred, my dear," said Felix encouragingly; "but I must have my treasure grow strong, and I must strive to wean her from her dreamy fancies. I shall watch my sensitive flower very jealously, and she must trust to my judgment wholly. You have doubts! Why, I have had them! and for a long time have been afraid to speak. So you see, little weakling, that I, strong as I am, have shared some of your anxieties with you. I saw you on the day you went to Hampton Court with Alfred."

"You, Felix!"

"Yes, my dear; I was there, watching over you even then, although I had not the right to do so that I have now."

"And you would not come to me and speak to me, Felix!"

"Dearest! I saw that you were happy, and I felt that I might have been the cause of disturbance, of which Mr. Sheldrake probably would have been glad to avail himself. So I kept myself in the background."

"And suffered," she said, wistfully and tenderly; "for you loved me then, Felix; I know it."

"Yes, darling. I loved you then. But love often shows itself in self-sacrifice."

She paused for a little while before she spoke again. "You said once, Felix, that there is a higher attribute than love-duty!"

"How do you know I said that, Lily?"

"Grandfather told me. Do you believe that duty is a higher quality than love? That supposing these two stand before us, duty on one side, love on the other, duty should be followed and love put aside?"

"Can you not take your answer, Lily, from what I hinted to you on the night you came from the theatre? Duty should be followed first; much that is bitter in life it makes sweet. But when love and duty clash, we should examine ourselves strictly, sternly perhaps, out of justice for others – "

"As you did, Felix," she interrupted in loving tones, "when you restrained yourself from telling me your feelings until to-day. Ah, I know! Love has made me wise. Now we will not talk of this any more now; we shall have plenty of time by and by. How I have thought over every word you said to me that night, Felix!"

"Every word, Lily!"

"Yes, every word; you made me very happy!"

"Darling! But you could not repeat to me what I said."

"One part I could."

"I am listening!"

"You said, it is the dearest privilege of affection to share the troubles of those we love. If I were married (you said), the first consoling thought that would arise to my mind, should misfortune overtake me, would be, 'Thank God, I have one at home who will sympathise with me, and by her sympathy console me!'" She paused awhile, and said, "This privilege is mine now, and love and duty can go together."

In this way she poured out her full heart to him. His duties called him away in the afternoon, and he left her, saying he would run down in the night, at about ten o'clock, for an hour.

"We will wait supper for you, Felix," said Old Wheels.

Felix went his way to town, the happiest of the happy.

CHAPTER XLIII

MR. SHELDRAKE MAKES A BOLD MOVE

Tea was over, and Lily and her grandfather were sitting by the fire. The night without was chilly, although it was now the middle of spring, and a raw cold wind was blowing. But the room was warm and cozy, and the occupants were thoroughly happy. Lizzie and Martha Day had been to see them in the afternoon, and had spent an hour or two with them. When Lizzie came in, she said simply, "Lily, this is my mother;" and both received a warm welcome from Old Wheels and his darling child. Martha's pale face had a flush of happiness in it, and the sombre effect of her black dress had been lightened by Lizzie, who had insisted on her mother's wearing one or two pieces of bright ribbon. Yet, notwithstanding the joy which the disclosure of their nearer and dearer relationship must have brought to both Lizzie and Martha Day, uneasy shades of expression rested occasionally on their features. The cause of this uneasiness in Lizzie seemed to be entirely within herself, and to be in no way connected with any person present in the room; but with Martha it was different. It was evident that her uneasiness was caused in a direct way by something that she saw in her daughter; and every now and then her eyes would rest on Lizzie's face with a look of wistful pain. They were not long in the society of their friends before the news of the engagement between Felix and Lily was told them; and Lizzie, forgetting for a few moments the great anxiety which pressed upon her, danced about the room in delight.

"Next to Alfred," she said, "I love Felix. There is only one other thing wanting now to complete our happiness."

She was pressed to tell what that "other thing" was; but she refused in as light a manner as she could command. That "other thing" was that Alfred might be lucky that day, and that he might get out of Mr. Sheldrake's toils. It was hard for her to show a bright face when, as it seemed to her, Alfred's fate and hers was being decided. Strangely enough, she also dwelt superstitiously in her thoughts upon the three times seven kisses Alfred had given her when he parted from her in the morning. "They will be sure to bring him luck," she had said to herself a dozen times during the day. She thought of them hopefully now, and murmured, "To-night all our troubles will be over." A happy future indeed was spread before them if fortune smiled upon Alfred. How she longed for night to come, and Alfred with the glad tidings!

"We'll all live together," she said aloud.

And Lily nodded and laughed. It was like a bright dream, where everything that was good in nature was around and about her. The woods were beautiful with various greens; sweet breezes was stirring the leaves, and stealing their secrets from them; there was not a dark cloud in the sky. The two girls crept into a corner, and with their arms around each other's necks, whispered confidence to each other. One thing-her most precious secret-Lizzie was burning to tell her friend; but she restrained herself. She had solemnly promised not to speak of it until Alfred gave her permission. In the evening, when she and her mother were at home again, she said she was tired, and she went to her room to lie down for half an hour. Thither, after a time, Martha crept, and sat by her daughter's side. Lizzie was murmuring in her sleep, and although her tones and every word she murmured were charged with love and tenderness, the sorrowful tears ran down Martha's face as she heard.

"Is this a judgment upon me for my neglect and deceit?" she asked of herself, between her sobs. "I should have looked after her better! I should have looked after her better!" But when Lizzie awoke, Martha was careful that her daughter should not see any traces of agitation. "I will wait until Alfred comes home," she thought, "and then I will tax him and discover the truth." Everything seemed to depend upon Alfred's return.

And now it was night, and Old Wheels and Lily were together in their room. Old Wheels was reading aloud, and Lily was working. There was no one else in the house. Mrs. Podmore and little Polly had gone to London for some bits of clothing which friends had gathered together for them; they were expected to return by train at about ten o'clock. Every now and then, Old Wheels paused in his reading, and made a remark. Lily understood very little of the story the old man was reading; she was thinking. Scarcely anything but Felix was in her mind.

"Mrs. Podmore will be delighted to hear the news," said Old Wheels in one of the intervals; "although she has been hinting at it mysteriously from the very first day we saw Felix-when he drove us home in the waggonette. That's eight o'clock striking. Alfred ought to be home before now."

"It's nine o'clock sometimes before he comes home," said Lily; "but I wish he was here. I want to tell him."

Old Wheels read, and Lily worked, for another half an hour, and at the end of that time the old man laid his book aside.

"I shall have to read all this over again," he said, with pretended petulance; "I am sure you have not been attending to me."

"I haven't," she replied, with a happy light in her eyes; "I have been thinking all the while of Felix."

"So I've been reading nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix; and you've heard nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix. Well, well, my darling; I am more than satisfied. Now, then," he said merrily, "come to the window, and look out. It is blowing quite cold, dear child. Let me keep you warm in my arms. Ah, Lily, Lily, now I can die happy when my time comes. But what am I thinking of? To speak of such a subject at such a time! Talk of dying, indeed! I intend to live, and to see my darling's happiness. Ah, God is good!" Then, after a pause, he said, slyly, "But really this is serious-if it's to be nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix! Look along the road-what do you see?"

"Felix," she replied, entering into his humour, and to dispel his sadness; "he's a long way off though, for he'll not be here for an hour and a half. But I see him coming."

"Of course you do. Now look up at the ceiling-what do you see?"

"Felix."

"And into the lamp. What do you see?"

"Felix."

"And into the fire. What do you see?"

"Felix."

"Ah, child!" he said, touching her eyelids gently; "Felix is not on the road, nor in the room; he is here."

"No," she replied in the tenderest of tones, taking his hand, and placing it on her heart; "he is here."

She was on her knees before the fire, looking into it, and remained so for many minutes, the old man standing quietly by her side, with his hand on her shoulder, looking down upon her. "A happier fate awaits her, thank God!" he thought, "than fell to her mother's lot."

He sat down in his chair at the thought, and mused on the time gone by, and thought of Lily's father too, and wondered as to his fate.

"Strange," he mused, "that one so unstable as he should have been so faithful to his written promise. Strange that I have never heard of him since that dreadful time! If he is living now, would it not be a good thing that he should witness his daughter's happiness? But if the old vice is in him still! – No, it would be impossible to find him, and it is better as it is. This is a happy turning-tide for all of us."

Nine o'clock struck. Lily started up.

"I wish Alfred was home," she said impatiently. "I do so want him to know!"

"Perhaps he's at Lizzie's," said the old man. "Shall I run round and see?"

"Yes, yes," cried Lily, "and tell him to come at once. Let Lizzie come too, and Mr. Musgrave. Mr. Musgrave is very fond of me, grandfather, and I like him very much. But want Alfred most."

She was tying a muffler round the old man's throat, when she suddenly exclaimed, "It's a shame to let you go; I'll run round, grandfather."

"No, child. You will catch cold. And think," he added gaily; "Felix may come in any moment. I shall not be gone long."

She listened to his footsteps and to the slamming of the street-door, and then knelt before the fire again. What a day has this been-never to be forgotten! the white day of her life! In an hour her hero would be with her. She rehearsed the scene that had taken place between them again and again. "I want a home-a helpmate. And there is but one woman in the world who can be to me what my heart yearns for. Lily-will you be my wife?" His wife! Why, if all the world were before her to choose from-if she could fix her own lot, her own destiny-that is what she would choose to be. Ah, how happy she would try to make him! A thought of Alfred crept in. Felix would be a good friend to him-a true friend. How much happier Alfred had been these last few days! his troubles seemed to be over. His smiling face, as she had seen it this very morning, when he ran back and kissed her, appeared in the fire among her other fancies that she conjured up there. Alfred and Lizzie married-herself and Felix in their little home – . She saw every room in it, and saw them all smiling at one another in the fire before which she was kneeling. But why was not Alfred here now? Swiftly she thought, "He cannot be with Lizzie; for the first thing Lizzie would tell him about would be about Felix and me, and Alfred would have run home to me at once." She started to her feet, and ran nervously to the window; and as she looked out into the dark roadway, a knock came at the street-door. "That is Alfred!" she cried, and ran down-stairs; but when she was in the dark passage, she remembered that the knock was not Alfred's. Alfred always knocked at the door with a flourish; this that she had heard was a single knock. It could not be her grandfather, either; for he had a latch-key. Perhaps it was Mrs. Podmore. The knock came again, and she mustered up sufficient courage to go to the street-door, and ask who was there. A strange voice answered her. "Did Mr. Wheels live there?" it asked. "Yes," she answered.

"Is his granddaughter at home?"

"Yes."

"I want to see her."

"What for?"

These questions were asked by Lily through the closed door: she was alone in the house, and was frightened to draw the lock.

"What for?" she inquired again, faintly.

"I can't say, unless I see her."

"She is speaking to you now; I am she."

"Is anybody with you?"

Almost overcome with fear, Lily answered, "No; what do you want me for?"

"To give you a letter."

Lily hesitated still: the voice was that of a stranger, the locality was somewhat of a lonely one, and her grandfather had warned her not to open the door at night to any person she did not know, if there was no man in the house.

"Wait," she said, "until my grandfather returns. He will be here presently, and then I will take the letter."

"Then I can't give it to you, miss," the voice said. "My instructions are to give it into your hand, and into your hand only, when there is no one near."

"Why? What is the letter about?" she asked, in an agony of terror, and murmuring inly, "O, why doesn't grandfather return?"

"I don't know what's in the letter. But the gentleman who gave it to me told me to say, if anything like this occurred, that it was a matter of life or death to some one that you loved."

Life or death to some one whom she loved! She hesitated no longer, but tore open the door, panting. A man, who looked like a common labouring man, stood in the dusk.