Kitabı oku: «London's Heart: A Novel», sayfa 31

"No, no!" cried Alfred hoarsely, cowering down. But the man passed on, not heeding him; and Alfred, hiding his face as well as he could, slunk through the crowd to the rear of the race-course, bearing in his face and manner the air of a hunted animal, with death on his track.

CHAPTER XLI
ON THE WATCH

When Alfred was clear of the crowd, he paused for a moment, and looked around with a vacant stare. In that moment his eyes fell upon Mr. David Sheldrake, who accosted him gaily. Alfred's parched lips moved in response, but no sound came from them. He thought he had spoken aloud, however, and his eyes, after the first swift recognition of Mr. Sheldrake, sought the ground miserably. Mr. Sheldrake made a pretence of not observing Alfred's uneasiness, and he went on to say airily, that he had had a slice of good luck in the City and Suburban, and that he had strolled away from the betting-ring to cool his excitement.

"I was looking for you before the race," he said: "I wanted to give you the tip. I was told by the best jockey of the day that Digby Grand could not be beaten, and I backed the horse, and I wanted you to back it also. But perhaps you did."

He paused for a reply, but Alfred said no word. He was in a stupor of despair. Mr. Sheldrake continued,

"You'll be able to square up now, I suppose. I don't care so much for myself, although, of course, the money will come acceptable, but Con Staveley swears he'll be down on you to-morrow. He says he'll go to your place of business, and if you don't pay, he'll split on you to your employers. That would be serious, wouldn't it? I should advise you not to have anything more to do with Con; he's a hard nail. How much have you won? A couple of monkeys at least, I hope. You must let me into the secret of that new system of yours."

Still no reply from Alfred. Mr. Sheldrake's tone grew grave. He laid his hand upon Alfred's arm, and Alfred shivered at the touch, and feebly endeavoured to shake off the grasp.

"I must insist upon an answer, Alf. Have you won or lost?"

"Lost!" muttered Alfred hoarsely.

"How much?" demanded Mr. Sheldrake.

"Every shilling I had in the world. Let go my arm."

"Be still, or I'll set the police on you! Be still, and tell me," said Mr. Sheldrake with distinct emphasis, "How you are going to replace the money you have taken from your office?"

Alfred trembled violently, but did not raise his eyes.

"You wonder how I know, I daresay," pursued Mr. Sheldrake; "but I know more than you are aware of. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," replied Alfred, and moved away slowly, Mr. Sheldrake following him thoughtfully.

They were not the only actors in this the last act of the sad drama. An old man, whose eyes never left them, was following them watchfully and warily. A pause of several moments ensued. Then Mr. Sheldrake said, weighing every word,

"I don't like to desert an old friend, even when he has behaved shabbily to me, as you have done. It seems to me that, unless something is done for you at once, it is all up with you. You daren't go back to the office until your accounts are squared, and you daren't go home. The detectives will be on the look out for you. I daresay if Tickle and Flint could get back a portion of the money you have-we may as well speak plainly-stolen, they would be inclined to let you off. I'll see if I can serve you."

Alfred's white face was raised imploringly at this glimpse of hope.

"But I must have authority," continued Mr. Sheldrake, "I must have something to show your people, and to prove to them, if necessary, that they may trust me. Here-write as I dictate."

He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and handed it to Alfred, with a pencil.

"Put the date first-that's right; and the place-Epsom. Now write: 'I am in great trouble and danger, and cannot come home; my friend, Mr. Sheldrake, is the only man I can trust, and the only man who can save me. Put full faith and trust in him. – Alfred.'"

Alfred, dazed and helpless, wrote the words, and Mr. Sheldrake took the paper, and placed it in his pocket.

"I must get back to the ring now," he said, with a friendly nod; "you know where to find me when you want me."

With these words he turned away: the old man who had been watching him and Alfred tried to avoid him, but Mr. Sheldrake had left Alfred very suddenly, and the old man's movements were not quick enough. Mr. Sheldrake's sharp eyes lighted upon him instantly.

"Hallo, Muzzy!" he exclaimed. "What brings you here?"

"I came to see the race run," said Mr. Musgrave, standing before his employer in a submissive attitude. "It's my favourite race, and I've not missed a year. I was at the first City and Suburban in 1851, when Elthiron won; and the next year, when Butterfly won; and the next, when Ethelbert ran a dead heat with Pancake. I lost a hatful of money over Pancake, at the very moment I thought I had made a fortune."

"It's always the way, Muzzy. You're a regular walking racing calendar! Did you back the winning horse this time, old man?"

"No, sir; I had nothing on."

"Found out the error of your ways, eh? Well, now the race is over, you can do a little business for me. You see that young fellow," pointing to Alfred, who was walking away with hanging head.

Mr. Musgrave shaded his eyes with his hand.

"My eyes are not so good as they used to be, but I fancy I know him."

"O, you know him well enough. It's Alfred, Lizzie's young man."

"Ah, yes; to be sure, to be sure. I recognise him now."

"Keep your eye on him; watch him; don't let him go out of your sight. I want to know what he's up to, and where he is going to."

"I suppose he'll go home to-night," said Mr. Musgrave.

"I am not so sure of that; and if he doesn't, you must see where he puts up, and keep near him. I may want him."

"For what?"

"What's that to you?" retorted Mr. Sheldrake. "Perhaps he owes me money, and I don't intend that he shall give me the slip. Perhaps he's lost on the race and can't pay, and I want to do him a service."

"For the sake of his pretty sister," suggested Mr. Musgrave humbly.

"You dog, you!" retorted Mr. Sheldrake, half angrily, half approvingly. "Whatever it is, it's my business, and not yours. Mind that, old man. If you don't want to be turned off at a moment's notice, do as you're told, and ask no questions. And look here, old man, you know the Myrtle Inn? Well, inquire there the first thing in the morning for a note. I may have to write to you, to give you instructions. And if the place is handy, you can put up there to-night."

Mr. Musgrave nodded submissively, and crept away in the direction that Alfred had taken.

"Mind," said Mr. Sheldrake, overtaking him, "he's not to see you, and not to know that you are watching him. You can drop me a line to-night, telling me where he puts up. Here's a sov. to pay ex's."

Although the old man took the sovereign in silence, his manner did not seem to please Mr. Sheldrake, who muttered, as he looked at the slouching figure creeping away,

"I'd give him the sack if I could; but I must get things straight first. He knows too much. I'll square up the concern, and get rid of him this year. I'll have all the books and vouchers moved from Ivy Cottage this very week."

While this scene was being enacted, Alfred pursued his sad way. His great desire was to escape from the crowd, among which probably there were persons who were acquainted with him. He must get to some place and among people where he could hide himself and would not be known. Mr. Sheldrake had rightly said that he dared not show his face at the office. To-morrow all would be discovered. It had been his unhappy fortune yesterday to receive an uncrossed cheque, payable to bearer, in settlement of a large account due to his employers. This cheque he had cashed, and had used the proceeds in backing the horses of the false prophet upon whom he had placed all his hopes. This was not the only money he had used; for some time he had pursued a system of falsifying the books of the firm, and of appropriating such payments as would be the least likely to be missed. Discovery was imminent every day, every hour. All this money had been lost in betting, and in vainly striving to recover what had gone before. Even in the midst of his despair he groaned to himself that he had done his best, that he had tried system after system, prophet after prophet, with the same result; and that ill-fortune, and not he, was to blame. There was some special reason for each fresh loss-some special reason applicable to that case alone, and which could not by any exercise of forethought have been anticipated or avoided. It brought that smallest of consolation to him which consists in the reflection that the same thing would have happened to anybody else placed in his position; but it brought sharp stings also in the reflection that he might have known, or ought to have known, that such and such a thing might have been anticipated, or suspected, or guessed, and the unfortunate result avoided. No consideration of this description, however, intruded itself in what had occurred to-day in his speculations on the City and Suburban race. Here was a prophet, whose name was known to every betting boy and man in the kingdom, who had actually named five horses as the winner of the race, and not one of these five horses came in among the first three. In the eyes of a reasonable being such a circumstance would be sufficient to stamp this prophet as the veriest impostor and incapable that ever put pen to paper; and he might feel a natural indignation that such mischievous utterances should be openly allowed to lead weak men to acts of folly and crime. Even Alfred, never given to moralising, caring only for himself, and not one jot for the public, cursed this false prophet as he staggered over the Downs, and gave vent to weak imprecations against the man whose cruel prophecies had brought him to this stage of infamy and disgrace.

What would they think at home? Would they guess the truth? What would Lizzie do? He thought mostly of her. If he could get to some new country with her, where they could commence a new life, what happiness it would be! If he could undo the past! In the midst of all these repinings and vain repentances, the terrible thought intruded itself that there was no escape for him. He had but five shillings in his pocket; every article of jewellery he possessed had been mortgaged to raise money to swell the fatal stake he had played this day. The detectives would soon be after him. Could he disguise himself in any way, so as to escape detection? His nerves were strung up to such a high pitch that the slightest unexpected sound was sufficient to terrify him, and the roar from the distant race-course which proclaimed that another race had been decided was converted by his fears into the shouts of pursuers on his track. He quickened his steps instinctively, preparing for flight, but the next his reason returned, and he ascribed the shouts to their correct cause. With a faint smile on his lips, he turned his head in the direction of the cries, and as he turned he suddenly saw Mr. Musgrave. The sight of the old man gave Alfred a shock, and the first thought which flashed through his mind was that the old man had been set to watch him. That this presumption was the correct one was due, not to Alfred's perspicacity, but to his fears. In his condition, every face that was familiar was a face to be suspected. Alfred cast furtive glances at the old man, who, having seen Alfred's recognition of him, looked about listlessly in every direction but that in which Alfred was. He seemed to have come to the spot entirely by accident, and Alfred was partly thrown off his guard by the old man's manner. "But I will make sure," thought Alfred, and he set traps, into which the old man unconsciously fell. Alfred slunk behind a hedge, which was not thick enough to hide him completely from sight, and remaining there for fully a quarter of an hour, watched and waited, and when he emerged into the open plain, the old man was still there, looking about him with ill-concealed listlessness. "He is watching me!" thought Alfred, trembling in every limb. "Who set him on? How can I escape?" He had no thought of addressing the old man to ascertain his purpose. No cordiality had grown between them during their acquaintanceship; Alfred knew that in some way Mr. Musgrave was connected in business with Mr. Sheldrake, and this circumstance was sufficient to convert the old man into a spy, if not into an enemy. Faint, despairing, and weary, Alfred stumbled on across the Downs, and stopped at a quiet inn. The old man was still on his track. Alfred called for brandy, and tried to eat, but the food almost choked him, and he put it aside, sick at heart, and drank more brandy. "Can you give me a sheet of paper and an envelope?" he asked of the girl who served him. She gave him what he required, and pen and ink as well, and he sat down in the parlour, looking at the blank paper, and trying to think. A voice at the bar roused him. It was Mr. Musgrave's voice asking for refreshments. For a moment Alfred thought of going boldly to the old man, and appealing to him, for Lizzie's sake; but he dismissed the thought immediately. "It will be betraying myself," he muttered; "but I must let Lizzie know. How can I get a letter to her?" He went to the rear of the inn, and asked an ostler if he knew any one who was going to London that afternoon. Yes, the ostler said, a man from the yard was going to London by the next train, which would start in a quarter of an hour. The ostler pointed out the man to Alfred. Returning to the parlour, Alfred wrote:

"I have been miserably unfortunate to-day, and I dare not come home. I am at Epsom, and I don't know where to turn for safety. At this very moment I am being watched by an enemy; you know him well, but I will not pain you by naming him. I have done you injury enough already, and I can never, never atone for it. All hope has left me, and I wish my miserable life were ended. I can only ask you to think kindly of me and to forgive me. If I did not love you, I should not be as unhappy as I am. I am afraid to think of the future. – I send this by a stranger. I want you to get it to-night, and the post would not arrive in time. No one must know that you have heard from me. God knows what will happen to me. I have brought shame and disgrace upon all. – A."

Alfred enclosed and addressed the letter, and seeing the man going to the railway station, ran after him, and bargained with him to deliver the letter for four shillings, which was all the money he possessed.

"Don't deceive me," said Alfred imploringly.

"Do you take me for a thief?" was the surly answer. "The young woman shall have the letter all right. You look as if you've been backing the wrong horse, young fellow."

Alfred did not reply, and when the man was out of sight, walked to a quiet spot, and threw himself on the ground, waiting for night to hide himself and his despair from the sight of man.

CHAPTER XLII
THE CLOUDS BRIGHTEN FOR LILY

All unconscious of the terrible crisis that was occurring, Lily went about the house that day as blithe as a bird. Her life seemed to be brightening, and the shadows that had hung over it appeared to be clearing away. She ran up and down the stairs, and in and out of the rooms, singing her old songs. She was in the happiest of moods, and her grandfather listened with a grateful heart to her fresh voice. He expressed his delight to Mrs. Podmore, who came down-stairs with Pollypod, dressed for walking. Mrs. Podmore had a basket on her arm.

"Lily is like her old self again, Mrs. Podmore," he said.

"Bless her heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Podmore. "It does one good to hear her. It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the fire has done Lily the good turn of sending her here, where the air is fresher for her. Polly likes it, too, don't you?"

"O, yes, mother," answered the child.

"So we've got to be thankful even for misfortune," said Mrs. Podmore, with a half sigh. "It was a hard blow for Jim, though, was that fire. It'll take us a long time to get over it."

"How much worse it would have been," said Old Wheels, "if some of us had been hurt and burnt, instead of our clothes and sticks of furniture!"

"Ah, yes, indeed, Mr. Wheels. It's downright wicked to grumble, after all. But I never shall forget it, never! I shall remember Jim carrying Polly and me down the rope, to my dying day. Jim's never been himself since then, Mr. Wheels. I wish he was anything but what he is, and that he could get a living in a reasonable way, where he wouldn't be worked to death as he's being worked now. It ain't fair to flesh and blood, and flesh and blood can't stand it. Dear, dear! here I am grumbling again! I don't know what's come over me. We're going to London, Polly and me, to get one or two little things. We sha'n't be home till night. Can I do anything in town for you, Mr. Wheels?"

"No, thank you."

A silence ensued, caused by Lily commencing a verse of a favourite song, which they paused to hear.

"She sings like a bird," said Mrs. Podmore; and added, with a meaning smile, "but there's something else besides fresh air to account for her lightheartedness. Here's Mr. Felix himself to bear me out in what I say."

"And what is that, Mrs. Podmore?" asked Felix, who entered as she spoke, and heard her last words.

"Ah, that's a little secret between me and Mr. Wheels," replied Mrs. Podmore with another smile of much meaning, intended especially for the old man; "but I've got Jim's dinner in the basket, and I must go and give it to him."

"There's another thing to be thankful for, Mrs. Podmore," said Old Wheels. "Your husband hasn't so far to go home when his work's done as he had when we lived in Soho. You see how lucky the fire was, after all, to bring you here to live, so near the station where your husband works."

"Well, we know who we've got to thank for it," replied Mrs. Podmore, with an affectionate look at Felix: "don't we, Polly?"

And with other grateful words, the mother and child left the house.

"You have come early to-day, Felix," said Old Wheels; "has any particular business brought you?"

Felix, looking both anxious and happy, answered,

"Yes, sir, one or two very particular things. First, a stroke of good fortune. Through the influence of my friend Charles, of whom I have spoken to you, I am appointed London correspondent to a leading colonial newspaper. By his advice, I sent an initial letter-in my best style, of course; a regular trap for them," added Felix, with a light laugh-"and the result is, that I have obtained the appointment. It adds a hundred pounds a year to my income, and the labour really is very light."

"That is good news indeed," said Old Wheels, rubbing his hands; "I congratulate you heartily on it."

"I am becoming quite an important person," said Felix, with comic seriousness, "from a worldly point of view. But there are other matters I wish to tell you of. I have spoken to you of my father's housekeeper – "

"Martha Day?" interposed Old Wheels. "Yes."

"She has left my father's service suddenly. I do not think I have told you that Lizzie, Alfred's sweetheart, is related to Martha Day."

"No; this is the first time I have heard it."

"It was a matter of no great importance for you to know; but as Martha has left my father's house, and may be more nearly connected with me, it is right that you should be acquainted with everything that concerns me. Martha is with Lizzie at the present moment at Mr. Musgrave's house. And interrupting myself here, it seems strange to me that you and Mr. Musgrave should never have met."

"It is strange," said Old Wheels, after a little pondering; "and now that you speak of it, it comes to my mind that, on every occasion when we were expected, in the natural course of things to meet, sudden business has called Mr. Musgrave away. You are not acquainted with any reasons why he should avoid me?"

"No; I know of none."

"He is eccentric, perhaps; disinclined to make new acquaintances. Some men are so."

"He is exceedingly fond of Lily," observed Felix.

"That makes it all the more strange," said Old Wheels, with a thoughtful air; "and yet I should not say so. The child would win her way to any heart. It speaks well for him I am very glad to hear it. Exceedingly fond of Lily, you say!" He repeated these words, as if he wished to make some obscure thing clear to his understanding.

"I think he shows more tenderness towards her than towards his adopted daughter. It seems to me as if he feels that he cannot be considerate enough of her. That is Lily singing, is it not?"

"Yes, the dear child! She is more cheerful than she has been for a long time past."

Felix listened, with a pleased expression on his face, and the old man watched his attitude and manner with a curious mingling of hope and anxiety. Presently Felix resumed,

"I am doing nothing but flying off at tangents, and I have so much to say. About Mr. Musgrave: he and I have had confidential business together lately. Business, I hope, which will turn out well."

"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."