LOVE LINKS.
If integrity and upright conduct be commendable qualities, no man
should covet the distinction of being considered a man of the world.
And yet to be known as such is to command admiration. But then the
world--meaning ourselves--often finds it convenient not to examine too
curiously. The man of the world whose reputation rests upon a sound
foundation is sure to get the best of his neighbours. He is shrewd and
sharp and cunning, and, like the fretful porcupine, so armed at all
points as to be almost certain of wounding whatever comes in contact
with him. Frankness beams in his eye, but calculation sits in his
soul; he gets information out of you by side strokes, and profits by
it; he brings you round by the artfullest of roads to the point he is
working for; he pumps you dry so skilfully that you do not feel
thirsty in the process; and he leaves you under the impression that he
is the most amiable of companions. Fortunate it is for you if farther
experience of his amiability do not compel you, with groans, to
reverse this verdict. Attached to the popular interpretation of "man
of the world" are profound and puzzling depths. A man fails in
business, lifts up his eyes, looks mournfully around him, buys
sackcloth and ashes, sighs frequently, is soul-despondent, grows a
little shabby, meets his creditors, obtains his release, and, hey,
presto! smilingly re-enters, the circle from which he has been
temporarily banished--re-enters it calm and confident, with no sign of
defeat upon him. He is received with open arms, for it is whispered
that he has "means;" and if one says to another, "Is it not strange
that Mr. Plausible, who was in such difficulties last month, and was
supposed to be ruined, should be living now in such good style?" it is
ten to one that another answers, "He is a man of the world, sir, a
thorough man of the world;" and lifts his hat to Mr. Plausible, who
just at that moment happens to pass by. See the other side of the
picture. A man fails in business, is soul-crushed, looks mournfully
about him, shrinks from his former friends, grows old quickly, sits in
sackcloth and ashes, sinks down, down in the world, obtains his
release after bitter struggling, and never raises his head again; one
says to another, "Poor Mr. Straight! Regularly crushed, isn't he?" And
another answers, "What else could be expected? Straight never _was_ a
man of the world;" and turns his back upon the unfortunate, who, just
at that moment, happens to be coming towards them. To be a completely
successful man of the world, one must be thoroughly selfish, often
dishonest, often false, seldom conscientious, and the porcupine quills
which guard his precious interests must be well sharpened. If now and
then there is blood upon them, what matters? Blood is easily washed
off--but they say the smell remains.
Mr. David Sheldrake was such a man. With his quills always sharpened
and often drawing blood, he walked through life enjoying its good
things, believing that when they did not come to him easily he had a
right to appropriate them. The lives of some men present singular
contradictions. Dishonest persons are often charitable and
kindly-hearted. Thoroughpaced rogues are often good husbands and good
fathers. Very few men see straight. Nearly every one of us has a moral
squint. Not that the career of Mr. Sheldrake presented any such
contradiction. If he had been married, he could not have been a good
husband; if he had had children, he could not have been a good father:
he was too selfish. He was one of those who never have stings of
conscience, simply because he believed that he had a right to have and
to enjoy whatever he desired. In his own class he was a triton among
the minnows. It was not a very desirable class, nor were its manners
and customs to be commended; the first grand aim of its members was
not to do unto others as you would others should do unto you, but to
do all others, and take care others should not do you. No form of
cheating and rascality was too bad for them, if an honest penny could
be turned by it; and it is a sad thing to be compelled to say that
even the honour that can be found among thieves was very seldom to be
found among them--thus showing their tribe to be special and
distinctive. It was but a poor game, after all, for the majority of
them; as can be seen by going to any race-course, and observing the
ragged crew who, while the horses are being saddled and taking their
preliminary canters, rush this way and that, and hustle each other,
and push and elbow their way fiercely, almost madly, through the
crowds of their excited brethren. Mr. Sheldrake was above this ragged
crew; he floated while others sank. As a proof of his respectability,
what better could be desired than the fact that he had been known to
shake hands with lords, and had betted ponies and monkeys with them?
But, sharp and cunning as he was, armed at all points as he was, he
had his vulnerable point. What man has not? Do you know of one? I do
not. And you have but to find it out to shake the decorous owner from
his propriety. Archimedes would have shaken the world itself, had you
given him a convenient place for his lever and standing room for
himself.
The weak spot in Mr. David Sheldrake's character was that he did not
like to be beaten. If he set his heart ever so lightly upon a thing
and found it difficult of accomplishment, he instantly grew earnest in
the pursuit of it, however trivial it might be. When he first saw Lily
in the Royal White Rose Music-hall he was attracted by her pretty
face, and he thought it could be no difficult matter to gain her
favour. He had been successful before--why not now? His free manners
and free purse had been an open sesame to sham affection before
to-day; they would not fail him with Lily. But although he paid her
pretty compliments in his softest tone, they did not produce the
impression he intended. Other girls had received such gratefully, and
had been merry with him; but Lily had no word of response for his
honeyed speech. She received his compliments in silence and with eyes
cast down. Little by little he discovered the difficulty of the task
he had almost unconsciously set himself, and the value of the prize
increased. He worked himself into a state of enthusiasm concerning
her, and tried to believe that his feeling was genuine. It was not
possible that a nature so purely selfish as his could love sincerely;
but it pleased him to set up sham sentiment in its place, and he said
to himself more than once, in tones of self-applauding satisfaction,
"I do believe, David, you love that little beauty."
Lily knew nothing of this, for Mr. Sheldrake, after the futile result
of his first tender advances, became cautious in his behaviour to her;
he saw that there was danger of starting the game, and he went
roundabout to secure it. A shrewd worldly girl, in Lily's place,
would have seen at once that here were too lovers for her to choose
from--Felix and Mr. Sheldrake--and she might, had she been very
worldly, have worked one against the other; but Lily was neither
shrewd nor worldly. To elevate her to the position of a heroine is a
difficult task, for she had no marked qualities to fit her for the
distinction. She was not strong minded, nor wilful, nor hoydenish, nor
very far-seeing, nor very clever. She required to be led; she was not
strong enough to lead. She was capable of devotion, of much love, of
personal sacrifice, and was rich in the possession of the tenderest
womanly qualities--of those qualities which make the idea of woman
cherished in the innermost heart of every man whose good fortune it is
to have been associated at some time of his life with a loving tender
nature. Many a man has been kept pure by the memory of such an
association; and although the present and future generations may have
the advantage of those that have gone before in a more early
comprehension of practical matters, and in the possession of a keener
sense of the value of worldly things, it is much to be feared that the
good and tender influence of woman is on the wane, and that the idea
of womanly gentleness and purity, which has given birth to so much
that is beautiful in the best sense of the word, is dying in the light
of something infinitely coarser and less beneficial. We admire the
sunflower, but we love the daisy.
Yes; Lily was dreaming. She had discovered her Prince in the person of
Felix. In her musings she made him the embodiment of all that was good
and noble and gentle. He was her hero, and she moulded him to her
fancy, and beautified him, and idealised him. She enshrined her
idealism in her heart of hearts, and found her greatest pleasure in
worshipping it. So do we all at some time of our lives set up images
for ourselves, and worship them, and discover too often, alas! that
the feet of our idols are made of clay. It must not be supposed that
Lily was fated to make this desolating discovery respecting Felix; he
was in every way worthy of the love of a pure-minded girl, of such a
love as Lily crowned him with, and as she was in every way capable of,
notwithstanding the vitiated atmosphere of the Royal White Rose
Music-hall. That she was enabled to retain, untarnished, the
simplicity of character which made her beautiful, was due no less to
her own innate purity than to the influence of her grandfather, who
from her infancy had watched and guarded her with jealous care. Lily
did not pause to ask herself if it was love she felt for Felix; she
was too contented with the present to analyse her feelings; happiness
took possession of her when he was with her, and it was sufficient for
her to sit and listen and silently worship. She delighted to hear the
unstinted praise which her grandfather bestowed upon Felix in his
absence, and she fed upon the words, secretly repeating them to
herself again and again, and finding new meanings for them. When she
read in book or paper of a generous-souled man, "Like Felix!" she
whispered; or of a generous deed performed, "As Felix would do!" she
whispered. Felix had no idea of the good things which were credited to
him--had no idea, indeed, that he was the idol of the girl whom he had
grown to love; for Lily kept her secret close, and only whispered it
to herself, and mused over it in those moments of solitude which she
made sacred by her thoughts. So time went on.
Happy as she was in her dream, her wakeful life contained disturbing
elements. It distressed her to see a slow but steady estrangement
growing between her brother and her grandfather; it did not find
expression in open speech, but it was no less sure, notwithstanding.
In thinking of the matter, as she often did, Lily could not resolve
from which side the coldness first sprang. But it was certain that
Alfred steadily avoided his grandfather, and was uneasy in the old
man's society. Many times, when Lily and Alfred were conversing
together, and when Alfred perhaps was building castles in the air with
enthusiastic speech, the entrance of his grandfather drove him into
silence, or into monosyllabic answers to the old man's inquiries. He
resented the quietly-watchful manner with which the old man regarded
him on those occasions, and sometimes would leave the room suddenly
and fretfully. Up to this time the old man had avoided speaking to
Lily upon the subject. He knew how Lily loved her brother, and that
the growing estrangement would be made more painful to her by an
explanation of his fears. But although Old Wheels seemed to be not
satisfied with the progress Alfred was making, everything, to all
outward appearance, was prospering with the young man. Despite a worn
expression of anxiety which often stole into his features unaware, and
which he threw off resolutely immediately he became conscious of it,
his general manner was more cheerful and confident. He was more
extravagant in his habits, and dressed better. Lily was delighted at
this, but her grandfather did not share her delight. He found cause
for disturbing thought in these signs of prosperity. Alfred coming
home in a new suit of clothes caused him to remark,
"Another new suit of clothes, Alfred!"
"Yes, grandfather," was Alfred's reply, in a half-defiant,
half-careless tone. "Can't do without clothes, you know."
"You had a new suit a very little while ago, Alfred."
"Well, sir! I didn't come to you for the money to pay for them."
The old man was always gentle in his manner, but Alfred took offence
even at this. It would have better pleased the young man if his
grandfather had openly quarrelled with him.
"I hope you are not getting into debt, my boy."
"Never fear, sir; I've paid for this suit, and the last one too."
And Alfred avoided farther conversation by leaving the old man
abruptly. But to Lily he was more affectionate than ever, and spoke
glowingly of the future and of the great things he was about to
accomplish.
"More than half the people in the world are fools," he said
arrogantly; "they walk about with their eyes shut."
It was useless for Lily to ask him for the application of such trite
observations; he evaded her with light laughs, and, being much given
to slang, declared that he would "show some of them the road. You'll
see, Lily, one of these days; you'll see."
She liked to hear him speak like this, for his manner at these times
was always bright and confident. She attempted on occasions to draw
him into conversation about the growing estrangement between him and
his grandfather; but he steadily refused to speak upon the subject,
farther than to say that "grandfather is not treating me well; he
suspects me of I don't know what, and it isn't likely that I'm going
to stand it."
"Of what can he suspect you, Alfred?" asked Lily.
"That's where it is. That's what I ask myself, for he never tells me.
The fact of it is, Lily, grandfather is an old man, and I'm a young
one. You can't put an old head on young shoulders, you know. I'm fond
of pleasure and of seeing a little bit of life. All young fellows are.
He'll confess himself wrong about me one of these days, and then it
will be all right. Until then I sha'n't bother myself about it, and
don't you. Perhaps I've a secret, and he wants to know it."
"Have you a secret, Alfred? I thought you told me everything."
"I only said 'perhaps,' Lily. I'll tell you by-and-by, when the proper
time comes."
"Then you really have one. Come"--coaxingly, and with her arm round
his neck--"tell me, Alf, or shall I guess it?"
He looked at her hesitatingly, as if half tempted to tell her, but he
resisted the inclination.
"Not now, Lily, not now.--Everybody's got a secret, and perhaps--mind,
I only say perhaps--I've got mine. Girls have their secrets as well as
men. All except you, Lily. You haven't got one, I know; you wouldn't
keep a secret from me, I'll be bound."
Lily blushed, and felt like a traitor, but she did not answer. She
almost guessed his secret, and was glad of it, for it was a new bond
of union between them. But as hers was sacred, so she felt his to be;
she kissed him tenderly, and, looking into his eyes, with all her
heart in hers, read something there it thrilled her to see. Then
Alfred showed her a new chain he had bought, and while she was
admiring it, Old Wheels entered the room.
"Show it to grandfather, Alf," she said.
But Alfred buttoned his coat, and said that grandfather didn't take
an interest in such things. He fretted, however, because the old man
glanced at him somewhat sadly and significantly, and very soon found
an excuse to leave.
"Alfred goes out a great deal now, Lily," said Old Wheels. "Do you
know where he goes to?"
"No," replied Lily, "but I suspect--I suspect!" with an arch glance at
her grandfather.
"What do you suspect, my dear?"
"You must guess for yourself, dear grandfather, for I know
nothing--nothing yet. But supposing--just supposing, grandfather--that
a young man has a portrait in his pocket which he looks at very often,
and won't let anybody else see for the world--that is a sign, isn't
it?"
She asked this with a sly look into her grandfather's face; he was
silent for a while, and said presently,
"Alfred has such a portrait, Lily?"
"Perhaps," she said, in unconscious imitation of her brother; "mind, I
only say perhaps."
A footfall on the stairs; a brighter flush on Lily's cheek; knock at
the door, and Felix entered. Happy moments followed. There was no lack
of conversation when these three were together. But Lily had her
duties to perform, and within an hour they were walking towards the
Royal White Rose, and Felix bade Lily good-night at the stage-door.
"She sings early to-night," said Old Wheels, as they lingered near the
entrance to the hall, and watched the strangely-suggestive throng that
found their business or pleasure there. The words of a poet came to
Felix, and he murmured the lines,
"In the street the tide of being, how it surges, how it rolls!
God what base ignoble faces God! what bodies wanting souls!"
But Old Wheels interrupted him with,
"Not so, Felix; that is a poet's rhapsody, and not applicable here.
Look around you; you will see but few base ignoble faces. Some of them
might be taken as models for innocence, simplicity, guilelessness. See
here, and here."
He indicated this girl and that, whose pretty features and the
expression on them served to illustrate his meaning.
"No," he continued, "not bodies wanting souls. They are misguided,
ill-taught, misdirected, the unhappy ones of a system which seems to
create them and make them multiply. The light attracts them; they see
only the glitter, and do not feel the flame until they fly to it
gaily; when, bewildered and dazzled, they are burnt and die, or live
maimed lives for the rest of their days."
"I did not quote those lines," said Felix, "with any distinct idea of
their applicability to this scene. What follows will please you
better:--
'Mid this stream of human being, banked by houses tall and grim,
Pale I stand this shining morrow, with a pant for woodlands dim;
To hear the soft and whispering rain, feel the dewy cool of
leaves;
Watch the lightning dart like swallows round the brooding
thunder-eaves;
To lose the sense of whirling streets 'mong breezy crests of
hills,
Skies of larks, and hazy landscapes, with fine threads of silver
rills;
Stand with forehead bathed in sunset on a mountain's summer crown,
And look up and watch the shadow of the great night coming down;
One great life in my myriad veins, in leaves, in flowers, in
cloudy cars,
Blowing, underfoot, in clover; beating, overhead, in stars!'"
"How many men have such vague dreams," said Old Wheels, "dreams that
they can scarcely understand and can but feebly express! We live in a
world of shadows. Come home with me; I have something to give you."
They walked in silence to Soho, and when they were in the little
house, the old man said, "I have avoided speaking to you upon a
certain subject for more than one reason, but I was aware that the
time must come when silence could no longer be maintained. Our
acquaintance was commenced in a strange manner, and you have been to
me almost a new experience. I have taken such pleasure in your
society----"
"It gives me inexpressible pleasure," interrupted Felix, "to hear you
say so."
"--That I have, with somewhat of a cowardly feeling, often restrained
myself from speaking to you on the subject which was referred to by
your father on the day I buried my daughter."
"Pray, sir----"
"Nay," interposed Old Wheels gently and firmly, "this conversation
cannot be avoided, and we must speak plainly. Consider the position in
which we stand to one another, and ask yourself whether, if you were
in my place, you would not feel it due to yourself to act as I am
doing. If you remember, you came into your father's room while we were
speaking of a matter in which you were pecuniarily interested.
Doubtless you were well acquainted with all the particulars of the
affair."
"No, sir," exclaimed Felix, eagerly, "I knew comparatively nothing.
But a few minutes before your arrival upon your sad mission, my father
and I were speaking upon business matters--for the first and only
time. I had been away from home nearly all my life, and all the
expense of my education and living were borne by an uncle from whom I
supposed I had expectations. He died suddenly, and I returned home,
possessing certain ideas and certain habits not pleasing to my father.
The day on which you came to the rectory was appointed by my father
for our business interview, and then I learned that my uncle had not
left any property, and that I was not to come into the magnificent
fortune my father had anticipated for me. This did not affect me, and
all that I knew of the matter you have referred to was that my uncle
had left behind him, among his papers, a document which contained, as
my father said, the recital of a singular story, and which, in my
father's opinion, might be worth money to me. That is all that passed
between us until your arrival."
"Until my arrival," said Old Wheels, taking up the thread of the
narrative, "when you heard from my lips that it was Lily's father who
had brought this shame upon us. But doubtless, after my departure, you
learned all the particulars from the document left by your uncle."
"No, sir, I know nothing more."
Old Wheels looked gratefully at Felix.
"It belongs to your character," he said, "to have practised such
restraint; I might have expected as much. If you have the paper about
you----"
"I have not got it, sir."
"You have it at home, then. I should like to see it, for I did
not know of its existence before that day, and it might contain
mis-statements which, for the children's sakes, should not be allowed
to remain uncontradicted or unexplained. If I might ask you to let me
read it----"
"It is impossible, sir; I cannot show it to you. Nay, do not
misunderstand me," added Felix quickly, as he saw an expression of
disappointment in the old man's face; "no one has any claim upon you,
neither I nor any one connected with me. It is wiped off."
"Shame can never be obliterated," said Old Wheels, in a tone of
mingled pride and sternness. "Have you the paper?"
"No, sir."
"Who has?"
"No one. It is burnt, and there is no record of the circumstance you
have referred to."
"Burnt!" exclaimed Old Wheels, with a dim glimmering of the truth.
"Who burnt it?"
"My uncle left a request that all his papers and documents should be
burnt, unreservedly. My father, acting for me before I returned home,
complied with the request, and burnt everything with the exception of
this single document. It is with shame I repeat that he retained this
because he thought it was worth money to me."
"So it was."
"My uncle's wish was sacred to me, and when you left my father's room,
I burnt this paper, as all the others had been; it was my simple
duty."
"Burnt it without reading it?"
"Yes, sir. What else would you have me do with it? Put yourself in my
place, sir," he said, turning the old man's words against himself,
"and say whether you would not have felt it due to yourself to act as
I did."
Old Wheels held out his hand, and Felix grasped it cordially. These
two men understood one another.
"You would give me faith if I needed it," said the elder; "you make me
young again. It would have been my greatest pride to have had such a
son."
Felix's heart beat fast at the words, and an eager light came into his
eyes, for he thought of Lily; but he restrained his speech. The time
had not yet come; he was very nearly penniless, and had no home for
the girl who had won his heart; he had no right to speak.
"And notwithstanding this," said the old man, almost gaily, "a plain
duty remains." He went to the cupboard, and took out the iron box in
which he deposited his savings. "Here is the first instalment of the
balance due," he said, handing a small packet of money to Felix, whose
face grew scarlet as, with reluctant hand, he took the packet, for he
divined truly that no other course was open to him; "soon it will all
be repaid, and then a great weight will be lifted from us. I know your
thought, Felix; but the money is yours by right, and such a debt as
this is must not remain unpaid. Come, come--don't look downcast, or
you will cause me to feel sorry that we have grown to be friends."
Felix felt the force of the old man's words, but could no help saying,
"If I could afford it, I would give much if this had not been."
"And what would I give, think you, could it be so? But the past is
irrevocable. Were it not for this debt of shame hanging upon us, do
you think I would have allowed Lily to occupy her present position?"
"She does not know----" interrupted Felix.
"She knows nothing of all this. She may one day; it may be my duty to
tell her; and then, if any one reproaches her, she has her answer."
"Need she know, ever?" asked Felix eagerly, thinking of the pain the
knowledge would cause her.
"I say she may, if only as a warning; for I think I see trouble
coming. I pray that I may be mistaken, but I think I see it."
"I do not understand your meaning," said Felix earnestly; "but if I
might venture to ask one thing, and you would grant it, it would be a
great happiness to me."
"Let me hear what it is, Felix," replied Old Wheels gently.
"That if at any time I can be of use to you--if at any time you want a
friend upon whom you can depend, and who would sacrifice much to serve
you and your granddaughter----"
"That then I will call upon you? I promise."
"Thank you, sir."
"You must have wondered, seeing, as you have seen, how pure and simple
my dear girl is--you must have wondered that I should have brought her
into contact with such associations as those by which she is
surrounded at the Royal White Rose. But it was what I conceived to be
a sacred duty; and if I had had a shadow of a doubt that she was other
than she is, I would have given my life rather than have done it, as
you know."
"Truly, sir, as I know," assented Felix.
"I have watched her from infancy, and I know her purity. I pray that
she may be spared from life's hard trials; but they may come to her,
as they come to most of us. They may come to her undeservedly, and
through no fault of hers; and if they do, and if, like Imogen, she has
to pass through the fire, she will, like Imogen, come out unscathed."
Some hidden fear, some doubt which he was loth to express more
plainly, prompted the old man's words. With an effort, he returned to
his first theme.
"What else could I do? There was no other way of paying the debt. I
have a small pittance of my own, from which not a shilling can be
spared; our necessities demand it all. And when I think, as I do
often, that this dear child, tender as she is, has been and is working
to wipe out, as far as is humanly possible, the disgrace entailed upon
us by her father's crime, I love her the more dearly for it."
He went to the mantelshelf, where the portraits of Lily hung, and
gazed at them long and lovingly.
"To her as to others," he said softly, "life's troubles may come. To
her may come, one day, the sweet and bitter experience of love. When
it does, I pray to God that she may give her heart to a man who will
be worthy of her--to one who holds not lightly, as is unhappily too
much the fashion now, the sacred duties of life." The prescience of a
coming trouble weighed heavily upon the old man, and his voice grew
mournful under its influence. "In a few years I shall have lived my
span, Felix; I may be called any day. Should the call come soon, and
suddenly, who will protect my darling when I am gone?"
Felix drew nearer to the old man in sympathy, but dared not trust
himself to speak.
"I speak to you," continued the old man, "out of my full heart, Felix,
for I have faith in you, and believe that I can trust you. It relieves
me to confide in you; strange as it may sound to you, you are the only
person I know to whom I would say what I am saying now--you are the
only person in whom I can repose this confidence, lame and incomplete
as you will find it to be."
"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!"