FELIX COMFORTS MARTHA DAY.
In a very flutter of delight, Alfred hurried to the spot where Lizzie
was waiting for him. He did not pause to reflect upon the strange
manner in which she had been brought to the place; it was sufficient
for him that she was here, that the day was bright, and that Mr.
Sheldrake had promised him to see that his acceptance to Con Staveley
would be made all right. "It is only for a little while," he said to
himself, as he came to the gates of Bushey Park; "when the Cesarewitch
is run, I shall be all right. I daresay Sheldrake will put something
on for me." Attracted by the crowd assembled round the street
acrobats, he paused, and saw Lizzie. He saw also a pale-looking woman
on the opposite side observing her; but this did not strike him as
being worthy of notice. He looked round at the men and women who were
admiringly following the movements of the acrobats, and noticed, with
a feeling of as much pride as pleasure, that Lizzie was the most
attractive and prettiest of them all.
"Lizzie!" he whispered in her ear.
"O, Alfred!"
The girl turned at the sound of his voice with such unrestrained
joy in her face, that Martha Day bit her colourless lip until a
blood-stain came upon it.
"Who ever expected to see you here, Lizzie?"
"Are you disappointed?" asked Lizzie archly. "If you are, I'll go back
again."
In earnest of her sincerity, she took his arm, and clung to it. Alfred
laughed.
"It looks as if you wanted to go back," he said, with admiring glances
at her.
"O, Alfred, isn't this a delightful surprise?"
He nodded, and heedless of the people about them, took her hand in
his. But she, more immediately conscious of the proprieties, gave his
hand a little squeeze, and withdrew her own. She had on a new hat and
a new dress, and she wanted him to admire them.
"Do you like my new hat, Alf?"
"Upon my word, I didn't notice it, Lizzie."
"O!" was her comment, in a tone of disappointment.
"I couldn't see anything but your face, Lizzie."
"Ah!" was her comment, in a tone of gratification, with love-sparkles
in her eyes.
"It's very pretty," he said.
"My face or my bonnet, Alf?"
"I should like to hug you, Lizzie," was his crooked answer.
"But you mustn't," she said, with ripples in her voice. "So many
people looking! Give me twopence, Alf."
"What for?" he asked, giving her the coppers.
"For the conjurers--because I feel so happy."
A juvenile member of the company had just tied himself into a knot,
and having untied himself, Lizzie beckoned to him and gave him the
money, the good example being immediately followed by others of the
on-lookers.
"You've brought them luck, Lizzie."
"I'm glad of it."
But the hat question was not yet settled. She directed his attention
to it.
"I made it myself last night, Alf. I want to know if it becomes me."
"It's just the kind of hat that I should have bought for you," he
said.
"I made this dress, too. Do you like it? Feel what nice soft stuff it
is."
He squeezed her arm.
"I like what is in it best," he said.
"What's that?" she asked coquettishly.
"You."
"O, I daresay," with a saucy toss of her head. "But it's the dress I
want to know about."
"It's the very prettiest dress I ever saw."
"I thought you would like it;" and then she inquired anxiously, "It
isn't too short, is it?"
With a lover's jealousy, he said he thought it might be a trifle
longer.
"Goose!" she exclaimed, with an air of superior wisdom. "As if you
knew anything about it! If I had ugly feet, of course I should have
made it a little longer. Perhaps I _have_ got ugly feet."
"O!" he said. "You've got the prettiest feet in the world."
Accepting this statement (with feminine logic) as a decision in her
favour respecting the length of the dress, she said,
"I'm glad you're pleased with it; I never made anything for myself
without considering whether you will like it. Just see if my panier is
right, Alf."
He said, with a critical eye that her panier was just the thing.
Martha Day noted this comedy with wistful gaze. To them it was the
pleasantest of plays--to her the dreariest.
"So that, take me altogether, Alf," said Lizzie, "you think I'll do?"
"If you speak like that, Lizzie, I _shall_ hug you. I won't be able
not to." (Most ungrammatical, but very expressive.)
"If you're not quiet, Alf, I shall run away."
"And now tell me; I want to know all about it. When Mr. Sheldrake gave
me your note I was regularly knocked over. I had to read it twice
before I could make sure. How long have you known Mr. Sheldrake? And
how did you come to know him? And how did he find out about you and
me?"
Lovers are never tired of asking questions. In this respect they
resembled the character of the American people, which, if I were asked
to define tersely, I should define thus: ?
"It's like a delightful fairy story," said Lizzy.
"Nonsense, Lizzie. _Do_ be sensible."
"It isn't nonsense, Alf. It really and truly is like a delightful
fairy story, and if you don't think so, I'll not tell you anything
about it."
"I'll say it's like anything, if you'll only tell me all about it."
"Well, then, I must commence properly. Once upon a time----" Here she
paused, in the most tantalising manner, and asked, "Where do I live?"
"Why, where you lived the last time I was at your place."
"How long ago is that?" with an air of not having the most remote idea
as to whether it was a day, or a week, or a year.
"This day last week, you little tease."
"Was it?" as though she really had no idea. "Perhaps you're right.
Well, everything's altered since then. I don't live there any longer.
But, Alfred, isn't your sister here?"
"Yes," he answered, not knowing what to make of her humour.
"Oughtn't we to go to her? I hope she'll like me."
"She loves you already, for my sake, Lizzie. She told me so, and is
longing to see you. But we've no occasion to hurry. We'll walk slowly,
and then you can tell me your fairy story."
"Well," she said, with a smile at once bewitching and tender, "you're
a dear patient boy, and now I'll be good and tell you all about it.
Once upon a time----"
They turned, and walked towards the entrance of Bushey Park. So
interested were they in Lizzie's fairy story, that they did not notice
Felix, who brushed quite close by them. He saw them, however, and saw
at the same moment what was a greater astonishment to him--Martha Day,
with a face like death, watching the lovers with misery in her eyes.
"Martha!" he cried, "how strange to meet you here, and at such a
time!"
She made no reply to his expression of surprise, and did not seem to
think it strange that he should make his appearance at that moment.
Taking, almost mechanically, the hand he held out to her, she clasped
it firmly, and made a movement in the direction of the park gates. But
Felix, not knowing what was her intention, held back. He had no desire
to play the part of spy upon Lily's brother.
"Why do you restrain me?" asked Martha, in a low voice.
"I don't wish to restrain you, Martha," replied Felix; "but I cannot
go in that direction for a minute or two. You appear to me not to
quite know what you are about. What is it you want, and what is the
matter with you?"
"You passed close by them?" pointing after Lizzie and Alfred.
"Yes."
"And saw them?"
"Yes."
"What do they look like?"
"Like sweethearts, I should say, Martha."
An expression of pain escaped from Martha's lips.
"Do _you_ know them, Martha?"
"I know one."
"Which one?"
"The girl. I must not lose sight of her."
Again she made a movement in the direction of the retreating forms of
the lovers, and again Felix held her back. She had clasped his hand so
firmly during the time that he could not release it without being
rough.
"If you follow them," he said, "you must go alone. What is this girl
to you?"
"She is my life--my soul!" cried Martha passionately, wringing her
hands.
Seeing that her passion was attracting the attention of the
bystanders, Felix drew her away gently towards the park, in the
direction which Lizzie and Alfred had taken. Felix had not had much
experience of Martha; but what little he had seen of her in his
father's house had so decidedly exhibited her in the character of a
cold passionless woman, whom scarcely anything could move to strong
emotion, that this present experience of her filled him with surprise.
It was a new revelation to him. Martha had exhibited much affection
for him, and he was disposed to assist her to the utmost extent of his
power. There had always been something odd and strange in her
behaviour to him; but he had ascribed this to her eccentric manner. He
had, however, never seen any signs in her of the stormy currents of
feeling which she now exhibited, and which were brought into play by
the girl whom he had just passed, and he had seen for the first time.
What connection could exist between that bright girl and the pale sad
woman by his side, whose whole life appeared to have been one of
self-restraint? He asked himself the question, but he was unable to
answer it. They walked slowly along, she being contented to allow him
to take the lead, because she could see Lizzie's dress fluttering in
the distance. Felix took care to keep well out of sight, and when
Lizzie and Alfred reached the spot where Mr. Sheldrake and Lily were
sitting, paused also, and looked about for a seat for Martha.
"I will sit here, Felix," she said, seating herself where she could
see the movements of the party in the distance; she had somewhat
recovered herself, but was pale and trembling still.
Felix waited for her to speak. He had lost sight of his own troubles
and his own misgivings in the contemplation of Martha's grief and
agitation; but as he stood leaning against a tree, with his face
towards the woman he loved with all his strength, they came back upon
him. The subject they involved was so near to him, so dear, so inwoven
in his heart, that it was impossible for it to be absent from his mind
now for any but a brief space of time. He had not yet been able to
think it over and to place a construction upon what he had seen. But
although clouds were gathering about him, he had already committed
himself to one determination--not to allow himself to be blinded by
unworthy doubts. He had extracted a promise from Lily's grandfather,
had pledged himself, as it were, and the old man had put a trust in
him. It was not in his nature to betray a trust, nor to give way to
mean suspicions. Suspicions! Of Lily, and her truth and innocence! No,
indeed. "I have watched her from infancy," the old man had said, "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." The full sense of these words came
upon Felix now, and were of themselves sufficient to hold in arrest
his judgment upon what he had witnessed. But this influence was not
needed, and it was a proof of the chivalry of his nature that, even as
these words recurred to him, he should turn his face from the woman he
loved.
There are a class of men who have no belief in generous feeling. It is
an article of faith with these clever ones of the world to believe
that there is something unworthily selfish or base at the bottom of
every action; but this is not the only false creed extant. The
quixotism which they sneer at often contains a kernel of much nobility
and sweetness. Felix was to a certain extent quixotic; he was even,
according to a certain mistaken interpretation of the term, a
sentimentalist. But he was no rhapsodist; he indulged in dreams, but
he did not allow his imagination to steal a march upon his reason and
distort it. His mind was a logical one; and the course he had taken
with his father proved that he could be firm and faithful to an idea.
In the few brief moments of silence that elapsed he was busy piecing
together many things in connection with Lily, deduced chiefly from
what had been said by her grandfather regarding her. "To her, as to
others," the old man had said, "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 one 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." In the very interview in
which these words were spoken, the old man had said to Felix, "You
would give me faith if I needed it. It would have been my greatest
pride to have had such a son." Swiftly upon this came the old man's
advice to Felix to follow Lily and Alfred to Hampton Court. These
things and the unexpressed meanings they conveyed--(here intruded the
question asked by Felix, whether the brother and sister had gone to
Hampton Court by themselves, and the old man's answer, Yes)--were so
opposed to what might not unreasonably have been inferred from the
attitude of Lily and Mr. Sheldrake to each other, that Felix, with
characteristic quixotism, refused to accept the interpretation that
most other men would have put upon the discovery. His thoughts having
arrived at this climax, he was prevented from going farther by Martha
speaking to him. She had watched with earnest eyes the meeting between
Lizzie and Lily, and seemed to derive consolation from the way the
girls took to each other. She was calmer now, and directed Felix's
attention to the two girls, with their arms round each other's waists,
drawing a little apart from the men.
"I see," said Felix, also appearing to derive satisfaction from the
companionship of the girls; "but I am in the dark as yet. If you can
trust me----"
"Trust you, Felix! I would trust you with my life!"
"You might, and with anything else as dear to you. Who is that young
lady?"
"My niece." With a steady look at Felix, and with the slightest bit of
colour in her face.
"Your niece! I had an idea that you had no relations. I never heard
you speak of any."
"No, Felix." (She was fast recovering her composure.) "But that does
not prevent my having a niece."
"I can tell by your manner that you love her very dearly, Martha."
"If she were my daughter, Felix, I could not love her more." The
composure of her face and manner was wonderful to witness, after her
late exhibition of passion and anxiety. "I love the girl you see
before you with as intense a love as if I had suckled her at my
breast, and as if all other ties upon me (if I ever had any), all
other demands upon my love, had passed out of my life. Rather than see
her come to harm"----(she stretched out her hands, which now were
slightly trembling, and strove hard to preserve her quiet calm
demeanour; but she could not quite succeed, as the tremor in her voice
testified.) "Rather than see her come to harm, I would choose to have
these fingers torn from my hands, joint by joint; I would submit to
any suffering, to any indignity; I would live my unhappy life over a
hundred times, and be a hundred times more unhappy than I have been. I
don't know what could be dictated to me that I would not do for her
sake."
The passion of her words and the forced calm of her voice presented a
strange contrast. Felix listened in wonder.
"Does she know you are here, Martha?"
"No."
"How did you come upon her, then?"
"I followed her from London. Chance alone befriended me. Yesterday I
went to where she lived, and I was told she had moved."
"Where did she live?"
It was no surprise to hear her mention the street and the very house
in which he had his lodgings, for as he asked the question he
remembered how, on the first night of his taking up his quarters
there, he had seen Martha pass swiftly out of the street-door as he
was about to open it. He had not been very curious about the other
lodgers in the house, being wishful that they should not be curious
about him; but on two or three occasions he had seen a girl go up the
stairs past his landing--a young graceful girl, who might have been
Lizzie--who indeed, he settled in his own mind now, was Lizzie,
although he had never seen her face. He said nothing of this to
Martha, except that he knew the street.
"You went to where Lizzie lived, and were told that she had moved----"
"Lizzie had already told me so in a letter she wrote to me, and she
said in it that in a day or two she would tell me more. But I could
not rest after I received the letter. Here it is, Felix; read it."
She took a letter from the bosom of her dress, and gave it to him. In
the distance, the two girls, having drawn still further apart from
Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake, were standing within the shadow of a great
chestnut tree, the branches of which bent over them protectingly;
their attitude bespoke the exercise of much affectionate feeling.
Lizzie was speaking with animation, and Lily was listening, with a
smile on her face. Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake were also engaged in
conversation; their faces were towards the girls, and every now and
then Alfred gave them a pleasant nod, and received smiles and bright
glances in return.
"She writes a good hand," observed Felix, opening the letter.
"She has had a good education."
"That speaks well for her mother."
"She has no remembrance of her mother."
"Then she owes it all to you, Martha."
"All to me, Felix," replied Martha quietly; "but read."
Felix read:
"My dear Aunty,--It is nearly twelve o'clock at night, and I am very
tired and sleepy. But before I go to bed I want to talk to you, and as
you are not here for me to tease you, I must write a letter. Now I
daresay you wonder what about--_I_ should, if I were you!--although I
know you are always glad to get a letter from me, whether there is
anything in it or not. But I really have something to say to you now;
something very, _very_ particular, although it will puzzle you, for I
can only tell you a bit of it. You shall know the rest when you come
to London, which I hope will be soon, but not until I write you
another letter to tell you where to come to. I am going to move, aunty
dear, into a nice house, where I'm going to be very happy and
comfortable; and although I said at first that I must tell you about
it before I did it, I have been persuaded to wait until it was done,
so that I might give you a real pleasant surprise. Now, this is to
tell you just so much, and no more,--and to tell you, too, that you
mustn't be the least bit uneasy about me. We shall be nicely settled
in a very few days, and then I shall write to you to come and see me.
I fancy I see you walking in and looking about in astonishment, you
dear aunty! I wish we could always live together, and that I could
show you how much I love you, and how grateful I am for all your care
of me. Perhaps that time will come, eh, dear aunty?--Now I must wish
you good-night, for I feel so sleepy. Good-night; God bless you.--From
your happy and affectionate LIZZIE."
"When I received that letter yesterday," said Martha when Felix
returned it to her, "I cannot describe to you the misery it brought to
me. Lizzie had made a change in her life once before without my
knowing, and she promised me then, seeing the unhappiness it caused
me, always to consult me in any matter of importance. She has not done
so; I have seen her to-day with two men who are utter strangers to me;
she has never mentioned their names to me; and one is evidently more
to her than an ordinary friend or acquaintance."
"Calm yourself, Martha," said Felix, in sincere compassion for her
distress of mind; "you are wasting your strength."
"What can my poor Lizzie know of the heartlessness and cruelty of the
world? What can she know of the falseness of fair words, and of the
base thoughts that a smiling face can cover? O Felix, I have felt it!
I know what it is; I have suffered from it cruelly. She was going to
move into a nice house, she says in her letter. What do these words
mean? I tortured myself with putting meanings to them. It was
impossible for me to get to London yesterday, and I had to wait until
this morning. O, what a weary night I passed, Felix--what a weary,
weary night! I lay in the dark, and the tick of the old clock in the
passage almost maddened me, it was so slow. I did not have a moment's
sleep--you can see that in my face. I must have dressed myself at
least half a dozen times. How I prayed for the morning to come! Of all
the nights of agony I have passed--and I have had many, Felix; my life
has been hard and cold and bitter--that was the worst, and the most
unhappy!"
She paused for a moment after this lament.
"Bitter as my life has been, I have borne it patiently,
uncomplainingly, as long as I was sure that Lizzie was well and happy.
There was my comfort; there is now my suffering. O, Felix, what pain
there is in love--what pain, what pain!"
Felix recalled her to herself by a gentle touch of his hand.
"I know, Felix, I know; I cannot help it. I have such a weary pain
here."
"Rest a little," he said, "before you proceed."
But she continued.
"The morning came at last, thank God--it came at last! And then again
I had to wait until the train left Stapleton. I arrived in London
before ten o'clock, and went straight to the house where Lizzie
lodged. I saw the landlady. She told me that Lizzie had left, and that
another lodger of hers had also left at the same time. This other
lodger was an old man, she said, and she did think it a little strange
that they should both have given warning at the same time. Did she
know where Lizzie had gone to? I asked. No, she did not know. I was
turning away, when I thought of the old man. Did she know where he was
gone to? No, she didn't know the number of the house, nor the street;
but a few days ago the old man had let drop a word or two, which led
her to suppose he was going to live near a certain place about four
miles from London. I thought, if I could find this old man, he might
be able to tell me where Lizzie was. I arrived in the locality; I rode
there in a cab. But it seemed to me that I might as well have been in
a wilderness for all the clue I could obtain as to where the old man
lived. As I was searching and inquiring, with such little success that
I became sick and faint, I suddenly saw a figure a long way before me.
I knew it immediately--I should have known it among a thousand. It was
Lizzie. But she was not alone. A gentleman was with her, and I did not
wish to make my girl angry by speaking to her in the presence of a
stranger. I followed them. They seemed to be very happy, and talked
and laughed with light hearts; while I with my heavy load hung behind,
so that they should not see me. They stopped at a railway-station, and
the gentleman left Lizzie standing on the platform, and came along to
the ticket-window to get tickets. My veil was down, and as I did not
know him, it was not likely that he would know me, even if he saw my
face; so I mustered sufficient courage to approach close to him, and
heard him ask for tickets for Hampton Court. I took a ticket also for
this place, and came in the same train, but not in the same carriage.
I was alone in the carriage, and I had plenty of time to think what it
was best for me to do. I was a long time before I made up my mind; and
then I decided that it would be best for me not to discover myself to
Lizzie unless I was compelled. My girl was keeping some part of her
life from me, I thought, and I should know better how to act if I
found out what it was. I had never seen this gentleman before, had
never heard of him from Lizzie. He looked like a gentleman, but
still like that kind of gentleman that it would not be wise for a girl
in Lizzie's position to know too well. I thought of the temptations
which surrounded a young girl like Lizzie--she is very, very pretty,
dear girl!--in a great city like London. Imagine my agony. After all,
girls are girls; they like pleasure and excitement; and Lizzie was
living by herself. But I dared not think long upon this; it weighed
upon me too much. We alighted at Hampton Court, and I followed my dear
girl and the gentleman cautiously. They stopped at an inn--the inn
before which the street conjurers were playing. The gentleman said a
few words to Lizzie, and left her. Just then the conjurers came and
began to make preparations for performing. Lizzie came out to see
them--she is very fond of street sights, dear child!--and I stood
apart from her in the crowd watching her. I don't know how long a time
passed before the young man came up to her; but it was like a knife in
my heart to see the joy in Lizzie's face when he spoke to her. I never
thought it possible I could have felt pain to see my girl look bright
and happy. And you may wonder, Felix, why I suffered so; you may
wonder why I should not rejoice in my girl's pleasures. But think for
a moment--think of the misery it caused me to learn that Lizzie had
been hiding things from me. If she kept this from my knowledge, as she
has done, may she not have kept other things? If you knew how wretched
it makes me to hear myself speaking like this of her--if you knew
Felix, you would pity me. But I wouldn't say it to any one else but
you; and I know that I am mistaken, and that my girl is good and true.
They talked together for a little while, and I saw her ask him for
some money to give to the performers. It was like her, dear child she
has the tenderest heart! Soon afterwards they walked away, and I was
about to follow them when you came up. That is all."
While she was speaking, Felix called to mind that on the day he first
saw Lily in his father's house in Stapleton, Martha admitted her and
her grandfather and brother to his father's study. "Did she remember
Alfred's face?" he asked of himself mentally.
"You saw the young man who came to Lizzie?" he asked aloud.
"Yes, Felix."
"Can you see his face now?"
"No, I am shortsighted. If it were not for my love, I should not be
able to distinguish Lizzie."
"Tell me," said Felix, "do you ever remember seeing his face before?"
"Never, Felix; and yet----" she paused, and passed her hand over her
eyes--"now you mention it, there seemed to be something familiar in
his face as I looked at him. But no, I must be mistaken; I have no
recollection of ever having seen him. Why do you ask?"
"I wondered if you had, that is all, Martha. And now" (dismissing the
subject), "what is it you intend to do?"
"I don't know--I am bewildered. At one time I think of going away, and
bearing my misery until she writes to me again, which she is sure to
do soon; then I can speak to her. At another time I think of going up
to her, and showing myself. She would be glad to see me, I think; she
would not turn her back upon me."
"I am sure she would be glad to see you----"
"Bless you, Felix," cried Martha, in a grateful tone, "for that
assurance!"
"But have you thought how you could account for your presence here,
Martha? Would not the gentleman who brought her from London be likely
to remember that he saw you at the ticket-office? Would not Lizzie be
hurt if she thought you had been watching her?"
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Martha, looking up to him for support. "You are
right in everything you say; you can see things in a clearer light
than I can. I am confused and tired out. It _would_ hurt Lizzie's
feelings; and rather than that----"
"Rather than that, if I judge you rightly, you would suffer much
without murmuring."
"You judge me rightly, Felix. I would suffer much to save her from the
smallest pain."
He gave her a bright look in approval, and pressed her hand.
"You are sure of one thing, Martha--sure that Lizzie will write to you
soon?"
"O, yes."
"Well, she has come out to enjoy the day--I don't suppose she has too
many holidays. Look at her--you can see that she is happy. It would be
a pity to spoil her enjoyment. You agree with me--I see it in your
eyes. So presently, if it is necessary, you will go home and leave
them to themselves."
"If you advise me to do so, I will," she said humbly, and then with
more animation, "although it will make me very unhappy to be sent
away. For one reason, Felix. You must not think that in what I am
going to say I am prejudiced or prompted by fears. I don't like that
man's face."
"Which of the two do you refer to, Martha?"
"The one who brought Lizzie from London."
"Neither do I."
"You know him then--you have seen him?"
"Let me think a little, Martha."
He moved away from her, and walked slowly up and down in deep thought.
Should he tell Martha his secret, or so much of it as he deemed
necessary?
Her instinctive aversion to David Sheldrake's face found sympathy with
him. Felix was a shrewd observer, and during his brief sojourn in
London had formed a pretty fair estimate of the life of the great
city. His judgment was not biassed by prejudices of any kind, and it
did not detract from the correctness of his conclusions that he judged
by a high standard. He knew the class of men of which Mr. Sheldrake
was a member; knew that they lived only for the pleasures of the day,
and that such moral obligations as conscientiousness and right-doing
were not to be found in their vocabulary of ethics. That Lily
entertained an affection for Mr. Sheldrake, he could not believe; no,
not even the bright look she gave to Mr. Sheldrake, and of which he
had been an involuntary witness--not even the confidential relations
which seemed to subsist between them--could make him believe that.
"Although love comes--how?" thought Felix. "Who can analyse the subtle
influences which compose it? who can set down rules for it?" But the
strongest argument he found to strengthen his belief that Lily did not
love Mr. Sheldrake was that her grandfather knew nothing of it. And,
on the other hand, from what had passed between himself and Old
Wheels, the hope had been born within him that the old man suspected
and approved of his feelings for Lily. "He would not encourage me by
the shadow of a word," thought Felix, "if he thought that Lily loved
another. She may not love me, although I have sometimes thought that I
might win her love; but I may have been misled by my hopes." He would
know some day, perhaps; in the mean time a clear duty was before him,
prompted no less by his love for her than by his sense of right, and
by his promise to the old man. Felix was convinced that the old man
knew nothing of the present meeting of Lily and Mr. Sheldrake, and was
convinced that Lily herself did not know of it beforehand; for she had
asked her grandfather to accompany them, and he had refused. Why did
he refuse? Lily wished him to come, and that wish was sufficiently
strong for compliance. Immediately Felix arrived at this point of his
reflections, he decided that Alfred must be the cause of the old man's
absence, and also that Alfred knew that Mr. Sheldrake would be at
Hampton Court, and had kept the knowledge from Lily. The meeting was
planned, then, beforehand--planned by Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake.
Thus logically following out his train of thought, things became
clearer to him; but the chain was not complete. What was the link that
connected Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake? Felix knew nothing of Alfred's
racing speculations; neither did he suspect Alfred of deliberate
treachery against his sister. All that was ill in the matter he set
down to the credit of Mr. Sheldrake. And this was the more strange
because he would admit of no compromise, and because, as a general
rule, he was singularly lenient and tender in his estimate of acts and
persons, finding and making excuses often which could only be
conceived by one possessing a kindly nature.
Lily was in danger; of that he was satisfied. Her love for Alfred
magnified the danger. He drew a deep breath, and looked steadily at
the persons of whom he had been thinking; they were together now, and
were making preparations for quitting the spot.
"You said just now, Martha," he said, "that you could trust me with
your life."
"I meant it," she replied.
"Trust me, then," he exclaimed, in an incisive tone; his words seemed
to cut the air, they were so clear and sharp. "Do exactly as I tell
you. Your cause is mine. Lizzie is as dear to you as your life is; I
know that. Let me relieve your mind upon one point. I am acquainted
with the young man who looks like Lizzie's sweetheart--it is strange
how things are linked together, is it not? The young lady you see with
them is his sister--as pure and good a girl as breathes in this
villanous world. No, no; why should I say villanous? There are spots
even upon the sun. But the girl whose arm is round Lizzie's waist, the
girl whose cheek is so close to Lizzie's now, has a soul as clear as
an undefiled mountain stream."
"Felix!" cried Martha in wonder; for a tremulous tenderness had stolen
into his voice as he spoke these last words.
"You and I are something alike in one thing, Martha; we don't waste
words when there is a purpose before us. What we say has meaning in
it. What I say to you now, I know; for I have come in contact with
that pure soul and simple nature, and it has done me good. It should
do you good, too, to know that your girl is in such companionship."
"It does, Felix; my mind is inexpressibly relieved."
"Stay here, Martha; they are moving off. I intend to see where they
are going to."
Martha resumed her seat without a word of protest, having confidence
in him; and he, waiting until the party were ahead of him, followed
them slowly. He was not gone more than ten minutes.
"It is as I thought," he said to Martha, when he returned; "they are
at the inn now, and dinner is being prepared for them."
He sat down beside her, and she took his hand, and looked at him
affectionately.
"I have been thinking, Felix, of what you said just now concerning
that young lady."
"And thinking of me, I suppose, in connection with her."
"Yes, Felix."
"Well, Martha, you have the key to my secret. Let it be sacred between
us, and do not let any reference to it pass your lips unless with my
consent."
He asked her to recall the time when he and she last met.
"I do," she answered. "It was in the porch of your father's house, on
the day you left."
"But I have seen you since then, Martha."
"Not there!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Not at Stapleton!"
"No; in London. I am about to give you a surprise, Martha; the day
seems full of surprises, indeed. I am going to tell you where I live."
He told her the street, and the number of the house. In amazement, she
cried,
"Why, that's where Lizzie lived! I was at the house this morning!"
"I never saw Lizzie's face; all I knew was that a young girl and an
old man lived at the top of the house. I keep myself very quiet,
Martha, and have not been desirous of making acquaintances. So now you
know where to come and see me in London, should you wish; for of
course I cannot come to Stapleton. Things go on as usual there, I
suppose?"
"Yes; there is no change."
He made no farther reference to his former home, and came back to his
theme.
"I shall stay here, Martha. You had best go home; I will write to you
to-morrow. When you hear from Lizzie, with her new address, come to me
and let me know it."
"Have you decided, then, what to do, Felix?"
"I can't see my way clearly, but things will shape themselves for me.
Have you seen the play of _Richelieu?_"
"I haven't been to a theatre since I was a girl," she replied.
"Well, in one part of that play the principal mover finds it
necessary for his plans to put on a fox's skin. It may be that I shall
take a leaf out of his book. Come, we must be moving."