Kitabı oku: «London's Heart: A Novel», sayfa 16

"Your granddaughter, sir – " suggested Felix.

"The fears that oppress me are on her account," interrupted the old man, "and I dare not at present speak to her of them; they would necessarily suggest doubts which would bring great grief to her."

"Her brother, sir, Alfred-could you not confide in him?"

The old man turned abruptly from Felix, as if by that sudden movement he could stifle the gasp of pain which involuntarily escaped him at this reference.

"Least of all in him, Felix-least of all in him! Do not ask me why; do not question me, lest I should do an injustice which it would be difficult to repair. Tell me. Have you ever noticed in Lily's manner an abstraction so perfect as to make her unconscious of surrounding things?"

"Not so perfect as you describe, sir," replied Felix, after a little reflection; "but I have noticed sometimes that she looks up suddenly, as if she had been asleep, and had just awoke. Now that you mention it, it strikes me more forcibly. This has always occurred when you and I have been engaged in conversation for some little time, and during a pause. But she is awake in an instant, and appears to be quite conscious of what we have been saying."

"These moods have come upon her only lately," said the old man, "and only when she is deeply stirred. There are depths in my darling's soul which even I cannot see. I am about to repose a confidence in you, Felix, and to tell you a secret concerning my darling of which she herself is ignorant. With the exception of one other, I believe that I am the only one that knows it, and it has given rise to fears of possible danger to her, in the event of anything occurring to me by which she would be deprived of my watchful care. She is but the child of my child, Felix, but she is so near to me, so dear, so precious, that if heart-photographs could be taken, you would see my darling in mine, lighting it up with her bright eyes and innocent face. She has grown into my heart, that I rejoice instinctively when she is happy, and am sad when she is sad. Our nature is capable of such instinctive emotions of joy and suffering, which spring sympathetically from the joy and suffering of those whom we love heartily and faithfully."

The old man paused, and Felix waited for his next words in intense anxiety.

"A few months since there was a benefit at the Royal White Rose, and a variety of new entertainments were introduced for the occasion. Among them was a short performance by a man who called himself an electro-biologist, and who professed to be able to so control the mental powers of other persons, as to make them completely subservient to his will. This is common enough and feasible enough; and whether this man was a charlatan or not, it is certain that what he professes is not all delusion, and may in time lead to important discoveries. The fact that mere earnestness on the part of one person produces certain effects upon the minds of others, is a sufficient proof that this so-called new science is founded upon a tangible basis. When Lily came home from the music-hall, on the night of this benefit, I noticed that she was much agitated, and although she tried to laugh away my inquiries into the cause of her agitation, by saying that she was a foolish girl, I could see that her gaiety was assumed. After a little while she told me that she had been frightened by this man, and that while she was watching his performances from the side of the stage, she seemed to be in some degree under his influence. The man, it appears, noticed the interest she took in his performance, and, when the curtain was down, addressed her, saying she was a good subject, and that he could make her do whatever he pleased. Lily was terrified, and tried to escape from him, but could not take her eyes from his face until his attention was diverted from her; then she ran to her room. Knowing how highly sensitive and nervous Lily's nature is, I was not surprised at the effect this man produced on her, but I need scarcely tell you that the incident gave me new cause for fear, and that I watched Lily more carefully. I purposely refrained from speaking with her upon the subject again, and since that time it has never been referred to between us. But soon afterwards another circumstance occurred to cause me alarm. It was the night on which her mother died. We none of us knew on the day of her death that it was so near, and Lily went as usual to the music-hall to fulfil her duties. She came home late-at midnight. Shortly after she came home, her mother died. Alfred was away-had been away all the night; and it was not until two o'clock in the morning that we heard his step upon the stairs. Lily went out to meet him. I being angry with him for his thoughtlessness, and for another reason, which I cannot explain, remained for a little while with the dead body of his mother-thinking also that, at such a solemn time, the undisturbed communion of brother and sister would be consoling to Lily. When I went into Lily's room, I saw that Lily's grief had been deepened by her brother's coming home flushed with drink. I had a solemn duty to fulfil that night; Alfred is but a young man, with many temptations thrown in his way, and I hoped that something which I had to say to him might, under the influence of such an event as had occurred, have a good effect upon him in the future-might teach him a lesson which would make him less selfishly wrapt in his own pleasures, and more thoughtful of us-no, not of us, of Lily, whom he loves, I believe, very truly, and whom he would not consciously harm for any consideration. But the old lines are bitterly true, 'that evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart.' In justice to Alfred, I must not relate to you the nature of our conversation. I brought him into this room, where his dead mother lay. Lily begged that she might come and sit with us, but I could not permit her-the pain she would have suffered would have been greater than that she had already experienced, and I bade her good-night, and begged her to go to bed. She submitted unresistingly-her nature is singularly gentle-and Alfred and I left her. It was daylight when our interview was ended; Alfred and I went to the door, and opening it, saw Lily lying on the ground, asleep. Poor child! she had been much agitated by the events of the night, and was frightened of solitude, so she had come to the door of the room where we were sitting, finding companionship in being near us, and hearing perhaps the murmur of our voices. Thus she must have fallen asleep. I called to her, 'Lily!' To my surprise, she rose slowly, and stood before us; but she was not awake. She nestled to me, and came into the room, still asleep; and even when I led her into her own room, she followed me, still sleeping. We laid her upon her bed, and I sat by her for hours, watching her. When she awoke, she had no consciousness of what had passed, and I would not distress her by telling her. Three times since that night I have discovered her in the same condition. Her rooms open into mine, as well as into the passage, and it is usual for her to call out a good-night to me as she puts out her candle. I always wait for these last words from her before I retire to rest. My bed, you see, is behind this screen, where her poor mother lay sick for so long a time. On the first of the three occasions I have mentioned she kissed me, thoughtfully as I observed, and went into her room. I waited for a long time for her 'Good-night, grandfather,' but it did not come. I whispered her name at the door, and asked in a low voice if she were asleep. I spoke low on purpose, for if she were sleeping I did not wish to disturb her. She did not answer me; but I saw the light still burning in her room, and I opened the door gently, and saw her sitting by the table. She had not undressed herself. I went to her side, and took her hand. She rose, and I saw that she was asleep. Fearful of the consequences of suddenly arousing her, I thought it best to leave her; I led her to the bed, and left the room, taking the candle with me. I did not sleep, however; I waited and listened, and within an hour I heard her moving about the room. When she was quiet again, I went in, and found that she had undressed and gone to bed. The following morning I thought she would have spoken to me about it and about the candle being removed, but she made no reference to the circumstance. After that I was more carefully observant of her, and in less than a fortnight I discovered her in the same condition for the second time. Anxious to test whether her mind was in a wakeful state, I returned to my room, and called to her. She turned her head at the sound of my voice, and I called again. She came from her room slowly, and sat down when I bade her; seemed to listen to what I said to her, and smiled, as if following my words, but did not speak. More and more distressed at this new experience of Lily, and fearful lest some evil to her might arise from this strange habit, I consulted in confidence a doctor who lives near here, who is somewhat of a friend of mine, and whose knowledge and ability deserve a larger practice than he enjoys. He was much interested in my recital; he knows Lily, and has attended her on occasions. More than once he has spoken to me about her delicate mental organisation. 'The girl is all nerves,' he has said; 'an unkind word will cut her as surely as a knife; she is like a sensitive plant, and should be cared for tenderly.' And then he has said that as she grew older she might grow stronger. But, you see, it has not been so. I asked him whether he could account for the condition in which I found her, and at his request I related to him every particular and every detail which might be supposed to be associated with it. He said he could come to but one conclusion-that these abstractions, as he called them, came upon her when she was brooding upon some pet idea, or when her feelings were unusually stirred by surrounding circumstances. If her mind were perfectly at rest, he said, she would not be subject to these abstractions. His theory sufficiently accounted for her condition on the night of her mother's death, but did not account for what occurred afterwards. I knew of nothing that was agitating her, and so I told him; but he only smiled, and said, 'You will probably know some day; still waters run deep. Quiet as your granddaughter is, she is, from my knowledge of her, capable of much deeper and stronger feeling than most women.' And then he made me promise, the next time I found her in this condition, to run round for him. 'It should not be allowed to grow upon her,' he said, 'and I may be able to advise you better after personal observation of her.' Last night the opportunity occurred. I found Lily kneeling by her bed, dressed and asleep. I closed the door softly upon her, and went for the doctor. 'Now,' he said, as we hurried here, 'I do not think it well that she should hear a strange voice, so I will not speak while I am in the room with her. But I may wish you to say certain things to her, perhaps to ask a question or two; I will write them in pencil, so that I shall have no occasion to speak.' We found Lily in the same position-still kneeling by her bedside. I did what I had done on the previous occasion, I called her by name; but I had to place my hand upon her shoulder, and call her again, before she rose. She followed me into this room, as she had done before, and at my bidding sat down, resting her head upon her hand. The doctor wrote upon paper, 'Speak to her in a gentle voice upon indifferent subjects-about the weather, or anything that suggests itself to you.' I obeyed, and she seemed to listen to what I said. But the doctor wrote, She hears your voice, which harmonises with her condition, as would the voice of any one that she loved; it falls upon her senses like a fountain, but it is the sound only that she hears-she does not understand your words. Appeal to her through her affections, by speaking to her of some one whom she loves.' I said then, 'Lily, I am going to speak to you about Alfred.' Her face lighted up as I mentioned her brother's name, and she leant forward eagerly. 'She hears and understands,' wrote the doctor, and then desired me to say other things to her. But I must not tell you more of the details of that interview, Felix; for the dear girl's sake, I must not. The doctor told me, before he went away, that he was satisfied that his theory was correct. 'She retires to her room,' he said, and sits or kneels, as we found her to-night, in a state of wakefulness. While in this position she muses upon something dear to her, and so completely lost does she become in the contemplation, that she sinks into slumber, and continues musing upon her thought even in her sleep. This to a certain extent accounts for her being susceptible to outward sound, and especially to the sound of voices that she loves. Her musings are happy ones, and please her-so that when she hears a familiar voice, one that is inwoven with her affections, as it were, it harmonises with her mental condition; it pleases her, and she seems to listen. This is all that I can say up to this point, with my imperfect knowledge of her inner life, and with the brief observation that I have made. But I have no doubt that I am right.' It seems to me, Felix, that his theory is very near the truth, and if you knew the fears by which I am tortured, but which I dare not commit to words, you would better understand my grief. But it has relieved me to open my heart to you thus far, for I know that you will respect my confidence."

"Indeed I will, sir," said Felix, in a tone of deep earnestness, "for your sake and Lily's; and if ever I can be of service to you or to her, depend upon my truth and honour, and trust me to do it. If I dared to ask you one question – "

"Ask it, Felix," said the old man, as Felix hesitated.

"Do not answer it, sir, if it is a wrong one. What you said to Lily at the doctor's request, and which you must not repeat – " but here he hesitated again.

"Well," said the old man, kindly and encouragingly, and yet with a certain sadness.

"Did it refer to matters in which you suppose she took an affectionate interest?"

"Yes, Felix."

"And did she answer you, sir?"

"By signs, Felix, not by words. You must be content with this."

Felix asked no more questions, but after he bade the old man good-night, thought much of the events of the past few hours.

"How much hidden good there is in the world!" he mused. "What a sweet lesson is contained in the life of this dear girl! She has a secret. Ah, if that secret concerns me, and I can win her heart! But how dare I think of it-I, without a nest to take my bird to? Ah, if I could build a nest!"

CHAPTER XXIII
THE COMMENCEMENT OF A HAPPY DAY

A mother could not have watched her only child with more jealous devotion than that with which Old Wheels watched his darling Lily. He could not bear her out of his sight; he even begrudged the time she gave to Alfred; for Lily clung to her brother, and seemed to have discovered a new bond of affection to bind them closer to each other. Beset as he was with doubts and fears, Old Wheels found a fresh cause for disturbance in this circumstance; and he was not successful in hiding his disturbance from Alfred, who showed his consciousness of it in a certain defiant fashion, which gave his grandfather inexpressible pain. But the old man bore with this without open repining; he gave all his love to Lily, and he blamed himself for the jealous feeling he bore to Alfred. He strove against it, but he could not weaken it, and he could only watch and wait. In the mean time Lily, to his eyes, was growing thinner and paler. He spoke to Gribble junior about it.

"Don't you think Lily is not looking so well as she did?"

"Mrs. J. G. was saying the very same thing to me," replied Gribble junior, "only the night before last. 'I don't think Lily is strong,' said Mrs. J. G. to me; 'she looks pale.' And I said, 'It's that music-hall; the heat and the gas and the smoke's too much for her.'"

"You are right-you are right," said Old Wheels, the lines in his face deepening. "Such a place is not fit for a young girl-so tender as my Lily is, too. I will take her from it soon." (Thinking: "I shall be able to, for the debt will soon be paid.")

"Although," added Gribble junior, scarcely heeding the old man's words, "to my thinking a music-hall's the jolliest place in the world. I could set all night and listen to the comic songs." And Gribble junior, to whom a music-hall was really a joy and a delight, hummed the chorus of a comic song as a proof of the correctness of his opinion; breaking off in the middle, however, with the remark, "Yes, Lily does look pale."

"And thin?" asked Old Wheels anxiously.

"And thin," assented Gribble junior. "But then we all of us have our pale days and our red days, and our thin days and our fat days, as a body might say. Look at me, now; I'm three stone heavier than I was four years ago. But I wasn't married then, and perhaps Mrs. J. G. has something to do with it-though she hasn't lost either, mind you! I was going to say something-what was it?" Here Gribble junior scratched his head. "O, I know. Well, when I said to Mrs. J. G., 'It's that music-hall,' she said, with a curl of the nose, though I didn't see it, for we were abed, 'You men's got no eyes,' which was news to me, and sounded queer too, for Mrs. J. G. don't generally speak to me in that way. 'You men's got no eyes,' she said; 'it's my belief that Lily is in love, and that makes her pale.' I don't often give in to Mrs. J. G., but I give in to her in this, and it's my opinion she's right. It's natural that girls, and boys too, should fall in love. Keep moving."

Thus Gribble junior rattled on for half an hour, being, as you know, fond of the sound of his own voice, while Old Wheels pondered over Mrs. Gribble junior's summing up of the cause of Lily's paleness, and wondered if she were right. "There is but one man whom I know," he thought, "Who is worthy of my pearl. I should be happy if this were so, and if he returned her love." Then he thought of Mr. Sheldrake, and of that gentleman's intimacy with Alfred, and the glimmer of light faded in that contemplation.

The following morning, as he and his grandchildren were sitting at breakfast, Alfred said,

"Lily, I've got a holiday to-day, and I'm going to take you to Hampton Court."

Lily's eyes sparkled; she looked up with a flush of delight. Old Wheels also looked at Alfred with an expression of gratification.

"Lily doesn't go out very often," continued Alfred; "it is a fine day, and the outing will do her good."

Lily, who was sitting close to Alfred, kissed his hand; the pleasure was all the greater because it was unexpected.

"It is kind of you, Alf," said Old Wheels, with a nod of approval, and with more cordiality in his manner towards his grandson than he had expressed for many a day; "Lily seldom gets an opportunity to breathe the fresh air. A run in the park will bring the roses in my darling's face again."

"Do I want them, grandfather?" asked Lily gaily.

Her face was bright with anticipation. Old Wheels looked at her fondly.

"Not now, my dear," he replied, "but you have been looking pale lately."

"You are too anxious about me, grandfather," said Lily affectionately; "I am very well. I think-I think-that you love me just a little bit too much." And she took his face between her hands, and kissed him, once, twice, thrice-making a rosebud of her mouth, as a little child might have done. He was delighted at her merry humour.

"I can't be that, darling," he said; "you are worthy of all the love that we can give you."

Alfred assented with, "That she is, grandfather."

"You are in a conspiracy to spoil me," said Lily, greatly elated. She was standing between them, holding a hand of each, and out of her affectionate nature and her gladness at their more cordial manner towards each other, she brought their hands together, and held them clasped within her own.

As the old man's fingers tightened upon those of his grandson, he thought that perhaps after all he was torturing himself unnecessarily, and, out of his hopes, he smiled and nodded affectionately at Alfred. Alfred smiled in return, but the next moment a shadow passed into his face. It did not rest there long; his lighter mood soon asserted itself.

"How soon shall we start, Alfred?" asked Lily.

"As soon as you can get dressed, Lil. It will be best to go early. Then we can have a ramble and a bit of dinner, and a row on the river, perhaps."

"That will be nice, and grandfather shall go with us."

Alfred's face became overclouded at the suggestion, and Old Wheels saw the cloud. Involuntarily his grasp of Alfred's hand relaxed.

"No, my dear," he said quickly; "I can't go with you. I have something to do at home. Run away now, and get dressed." Lily being gone, the old man continued, "I spared you the awkwardness of a refusal, Alfred; I saw that you would rather I should not accompany you."

"O, sir," was the reply, spoken with exceeding ill grace, "if you wish – "

"I don't wish, my boy. Why should I do anything to spoil Lily's enjoyment? and it would spoil her enjoyment if she noticed that you considered me an encumbrance."

"Of course it's me," exclaimed Alfred pettishly; "I thought I had had enough lecturing. I won't stand it much longer, and so I tell you."

"Don't quarrel, Alfred; Lily will be back presently, and we must do everything in our power to avoid giving her pain. I am glad that you are going to take her out. Can you afford it?"

"Afford it! I should think I could!" And Alfred rattled the money in his pocket.

Old Wheels sighed.

"Your wages at the office are still the same, Alfred-fifteen shillings a week?"

"Yes-the old skinflints! I don't believe I should be better off if I stopped there all my life."

"You seem to be well off, notwithstanding," observed the old man, with a grave look.

"You're going to preach again, I suppose!" exclaimed Alfred in a fretful tone. "A young fellow can't have a shilling in his pocket without being preached at. I tell you what it is, grandfather – "

But Alfred was prevented from telling his grandfather what it was by the entrance of Lily, who came in, dressed in her best, and looking as pretty and modest as any girl in England; and in a few moments brother and sister were in the streets, arm in arm.

The old man watched them from the window until they were out of sight. "I am glad my darling has gone to enjoy herself," he thought, but he could not keep back an uneasy feeling because she was away from him. He accounted for it by saying that old age was selfish; but that reflection brought no consolation to him. He went to the street door and stood there, and felt more than ordinarily pleased as he saw Felix turn the corner of the street.

"I have come on purpose to tell you something," said Felix, as they shook hands; "you know that I am looking out for something to do."

"Yes, Felix."

"The matter is difficult enough. I can't go to work as a shoemaker, or a carpenter, or a bricklayer, because I am Jack-of-no-trade, and don't know anything. I am neither this nor that, nor anything else. But last night there was a great fire not very far from here – "

"I read of it in the papers this morning."

"It occurred, as you know then, after midnight. I was there at the commencement of it, and saw it-saw the children and the mother standing in their night-dresses at the third-floor window-saw the flames surrounding them and creeping to them like fiery serpents-saw that fireman, God bless him! scale the ladder and rescue the poor things, nearly losing his life in the effort, spoke to him, shook hands with him, hurriedly got some particulars from him and the poor woman, and then – "

"Yes, and then," said Old Wheels, sharing Felix's excitement.

"Then went to the newspaper office with an account of the fire, which they inserted. What you read this morning was mine, and I feel quite proud of it. It is the first bit of real work I have ever done."

"It is beautifully done!" exclaimed Old Wheels. "Bravo, Felix!"

"That's what I said to myself, 'Bravo, Felix!' Why should not this lead to other things? And I am so elated that I came to ask you if you would come with me into the country for a few hours, somewhere close enough to this city of wonders to enable us to get back in the evening. It is a lovely day, and perhaps Lily will accompany you."

"Lily is not at home," said the old man thoughtfully, noticing the colour in Felix's face; "she has gone out with Alfred on just such a trip as you so kindly propose. She wanted me to come, but I have business at home and could not, so I cannot accompany you. If you are not fixed upon any place, why not go yourself to Hampton Court, where they have gone? You may meet them; I am sure Lily will be pleased to see you."

"I should like it above all things in the world," said Felix eagerly; "have they gone by themselves?"

"Yes."

Felix looked earnestly at the old man.

"Thank you, sir, a thousand times. I will go."

Old Wheels smiled to himself as he turned into the house, and sat down contentedly to his work-a cart which he was making for Pollypod. "I feel easier now," he said, as he worked.

But although Felix went down at once to Hampton Court, and strolled into the palace and the picture-gallery and over the gardens, and stood above the maze to see who were in it, he saw no signs of Lily or Alfred. This occupied him a couple of hours, and then he resolved to go into Bushy Park. "I ought to have gone there at first," he thought. He strolled into the beautiful grounds, and down the grand avenue with its lines of noble chestnut-trees. In the distance he saw a lady on a seat, and a gentleman standing by her. His sight, quickened by love, recognised Lily's form; but the man was not Alfred. He approached slowly, until he was near enough to distinguish more clearly, and a keen pang shot through him as he saw Lily sitting on the garden-seat, and Mr. David Sheldrake bending over her. Alfred was not in sight.