LIZZIE IN HER NEW HOME.
There is no telling nowadays where London ends and the country
commences. It is difficult to realize that quite recently in our
history, within the last three hundred years indeed, the Strand was
bush and garden, and that Westminster and Islington were made pleasant
by green woods and fields. Then, houses were few and far between; now,
they are so thickly clustered that (animated, perhaps, by the spirit
of their inhabitants) they seem to be poking their elbows into each
other's ribs, and to be jealous of one another. So, for rest and
quiet, we must away from these busy thoroughfares.
The course of our story, however, does not carry us very far from
London's centre; and although the house at which we stop is in a
pretty and quiet neighbourhood, and is old-fashioned and delightfully
irregular in its outlines, the shriek of the iron horse is heard
within its walls a dozen times an hour. It is a small house in one of
the suburbs, with garden all round it, just such a house (or at least
she says it is) as Lizzie saw among the flowers when Muzzy proposed
that they should live together. Lizzie is bustling about the house
now, singing as she runs up and down-stairs, and old Muzzy--henceforth
to be dignified by the name of Musgrave--looks up from the table, upon
which are a number of letters and circulars, and listens to her blithe
voice. He has discovered already that Lizzie is a capital little
housewife; that she can cook and market without the slightest fuss,
and without taking any particular merit to herself for those
accomplishments. Lizzie, indeed, is fond of work; she is busy all day
long, and it is evident that her sewing-machine is not allowed to
rust.
It is the day after the excursion to Hampton Court. It was quite
eleven o'clock of the previous night when Mr. Musgrave, sitting in the
parlour waiting anxiously for Lizzie's return, heard voices at the
garden gate in front of the house. He went to the street-door, and
stood quietly with the handle in his hand. "Good-night," he heard
Lizzie cry; "and don't forget--on Thursday!" A low voice replied in
words that Mr. Musgrave did not hear, and then there was pleasant
laughter, and "Good-night!" "Good-night!" a dozen times repeated.
After that Mr. Musgrave, opening the street-door, saw Lizzie standing
by the gate waving her handkerchief. When they were in the house,
Lizzie declared that she was too tired to tell him the day's
adventures; that she had spent a very happy day, and that she was
sleepy, and wanted to go to bed and think.
"I will tell you all about it to-morrow, daddy," she said, and kissed
him and wished him good-night.
Now, sitting in what may be termed the back parlour, he is waiting to
hear Lizzie's account of her adventures the previous day. The window
in this room looks out on the garden at the rear of the house. At the
end of the garden is a cozy little summer-house, with just sufficient
room for four persons to sit embowered "in mossy shade."
Lizzie, coming into the room, tells him what there is for dinner and
that it will soon be ready, and asks him for the twentieth time if all
this isn't delightful.
"But," she adds, "do you think it will last, daddy?"
"Why shouldn't it, Lizzie?" he asks in return.
"I don't know," she replies, with somewhat of a serious look in her
face. "It seems strange when you come to think of it. I couldn't help
wondering about it last night in bed."
"Wondering in what way, Lizzie?"
"Just tell me if I am wrong in something you once said to me. You said
you hadn't known Mr. Sheldrake very long."
"I might have told you so, Lizzie."
"But it is true, isn't it, daddy?"
"Yes, it is true."
"Then I remember you once said that nobody in the world does anything
without a motive."
"Go on."
"So I put this and that together. Mr. Sheldrake hasn't known you very
long. What motive can he have in being so kind to you?"
"He is my master, Lizzie."
"That's no motive. So I think to myself, I wonder if it will last! You
see, daddy, I am inquisitive, as all girls are, and I want to find
out. And I mean to--for reasons."
He laughs at this, and says that she is an inquisitive girl indeed.
What makes her so inquisitive about Mr. Sheldrake when she has never
seen him?
"O, then you don't know!" she exclaims.
"Don't know what, Lizzie? You talk in riddles."
"Don't know that Mr. Sheldrake met me at a little distance from here
yesterday, and went down with me to Hampton Court?"
"Lizzie!" he exclaims in a tone of alarm, which sets Lizzie's sharp
eyes at work studying his face, while the serious look on hers deepens
in intensity.
The thought which prompts his alarm is this: Is Mr. Sheldrake playing
him false? He remembers, when Mr. Sheldrake proposed that he should
turn over a new leaf, asking his master if he meant any harm to
Lizzie. To that question Mr. Sheldrake had returned a scornful reply.
But Lizzie's statement revives his suspicion. Her honour is as dear to
him as a daughter's would have been. But how to warn her? Her high
spirit would not permit of plain speaking; and besides, the subject is
a delicate one, and the mere mention of it by him might be construed
into a suspicion of Lizzie. She sees his trouble and perplexity, and
divines the cause of it.
"Don't be frightened, daddy," she says; "Mr. Sheldrake did not make
love to me. _I_ am not his motive. A girl can soon tell, you know."
"Tell me all about your meeting with him, Lizzie--how it came about."
"He wrote me a note, telling me he wanted to give Some One--Alfred,
you know--a pleasant surprise, and proposing that I should meet him
and go down to Hampton Court with him. We were to keep the matter to
ourselves, and I wasn't even to tell you. Well, I hesitated a little
at first, thinking it wasn't quite right; but then I thought of the
noble character you gave him, and I was curious to see him. And you
mustn't think, daddy, that I can't take care of myself. So I told you
what was the truth when I said I was going to Hampton Court to meet
Some One, but I didn't tell you how it was to come about. You mustn't
think ill, or have any suspicions, of Mr. Sheldrake because of what I
say, for everything turned out exactly as he proposed. We went down to
Hampton Court, and he left me and went for Alfred: and altogether it
was one of the very happiest days I have ever spent."
"I am glad of that, Lizzie. But this doesn't bring us any nearer to
Mr. Sheldrake's motive."
"Alfred's sister was there. Such a dear girl, daddy! If she wasn't
Alfred's sister, I should be jealous of her, because I am sure that
everybody must prefer her to me. You will fall in love with her
directly you see her. Lily and I are going to be great friends; she is
coming to spend the day here on Thursday. Mr. Sheldrake was very
attentive to her." This with a shrewd look at Mr. Musgrave's face.
But it seems as if he has not heard the last words.
"What name did you say?" he asks.
"Lily. Pretty names are they not, daddy, for brother and sister? Lily
and Alfred."
"What is she like?" He does not ask the question immediately. He
pauses for a little while before he speaks.
"She is about my height, but a little slighter, with such beautiful
brown eyes! I can't describe her face, there is such a dreamy look
upon it sometimes. You must wait until Thursday and see for yourself.
But I tell you what she is; she is good."
"Does Mr. Sheldrake know she is coming?"
"Yes; he proposed it, I think."
Then he asks her to let him see Alfred's portrait which she has in her
locket, and he gazes at it long and earnestly. The subject drops, and
is not renewed again that day.
Ivy Cottage is the name of the house, and it has been taken furnished,
at a low rent, in consequence of its having been tenantless for some
time. It is understood in the neighbourhood that an old gentleman and
his daughter have come to live there, and Lizzie's bright face has
already attracted attention and admiration. That Mr. Sheldrake,
through his friend Con Staveley, intends to make Ivy Cottage a
profitable speculation is evident. Operations have been already
commenced in the sporting papers, and intending speculators are
implored, before investing in the two great races which are soon to
take place, the Cambridgeshire and the Cesarewitch, to send twelve
stamps to a certain gentleman who, according to the advertisement,
might be reasonably supposed to live in a letter-box at a post-office
not a mile distant from Ivy Cottage. Mr. Musgrave, going to that
post-office twice a day, never comes away empty-handed. The letter-box
is his Tom Tiddler's ground, where he picks up gold and silver as
represented by postage-stamps. And it is not the only Tom Tiddler's
ground which has been discovered by the persevering explorers. A mile
from Ivy Cottage, in another direction, is another post-office,
whereto sportsmen are invited to send more postage stamps to the
cousin of the most successful jockey of the day, and receive in return
the "straight tip" for the above mentioned races, "the greatest moral
ever known." The cousin of the most successful jockey of the day is,
of course, in all the stable secrets, knows the intentions of the
owners of all the most celebrated horses, and offers to forfeit one
thousand pounds if the horse he sends fails to win; and as his honour
is unimpeachable (he says to himself), there can be no doubt that the
money would be forthcoming in case of a failure. And all for a paltry
eighteen penny stamps! A third Tom Tiddler's ground lies in another
direction, and a fourth in another; so that Con Staveley may be said
to levy contributions north, south, east, and west: it is certain that
the winds that blew from every quarter blew postage stamps into Ivy
Cottage.
But a more ambitious scheme than any of these is afoot--a scheme which
deals in pounds instead of shillings, in post-office orders and
cheques instead of penny postage stamps. This scheme comes under the
head of "Discretionary Investments," which, notwithstanding that they
are as distinct frauds as can be found in the criminal record, are
allowed to take root and to flourish without check or hindrance. The
large sums of money that are paid for long advertisements in the front
pages of certain sporting newspapers by the rogues who undertake these
"discretionary investments," testify to the profitable nature of their
undertaking. It is amazing that such swindling systems should be
allowed to flourish in the very eye of the law, which virtually
protects the swindler, and laughs at the dupe.
Lizzie is in a great state of excitement until Thursday morning
arrives.
"I don't exactly know what I feel like," she says on that morning;
"having a house to look after is so strange and new. This is just such
a house as I should like if I was settled. You know what I mean," she
adds, with a sharp nod of her head at "daddy," who has looked up at
the word.
"Married," he says.
"Yes; I can't imagine anything better. Home is very beautiful."
"Is Some One--Alfred--in a good position, Lizzie?"
"I don't think so; he's in a lawyer's office. But he will be very rich
one day."
"Rich relations? Rich parents?"
"He has no parents. He and Lily are orphans. Father and mother both
dead. And I've never heard him speak of rich relations. No; not rich
that way. But he's sure to have plenty of money some day. He is very
clever. Lily says so too; she is very fond of him, and would do
anything for him. She told me so. Come up-stairs, daddy; I want to
show you something."
He goes up-stairs with her, and she takes him into her bedroom.
Everything in it is clean and fresh; there are flowers on the table,
and, the window being open, a grateful perfume steals in from the
garden.
"Now, look here," she says, and she opens the door of a room which
leads into hers. But that is smaller, it is the very counterpart of
hers.
"Now, you see what I have been so busy about, daddy. I shall call this
Lily's room; although, when she comes to stop with us for a few days
now and then, I shall give her my room, because it is larger."
"Is she coming to stop with us, Lizzie?"
"I hope so; some time or other. Mr. Sheldrake said what a pleasant
thing it would be for me, and Alfred said so too. You don't mind,
daddy?"
"Anything pleases me that is for your pleasure and happiness, my
dear."
"Mind!" she exclaims, kissing him, "you must like Lily very, very
much; and you must like Alfred too."
"I will try to, my dear."
"She will be here in a couple of hours, and Alfred is coming in the
afternoon."
"It is unfortunate that I am not able to stop at home to see her,
Lizzie; but I will try to get back in time."
"Why, daddy!" cries Lizzie, in a tone of disappointment, "you are not
going away!"
"I must, my dear. Read this letter. I only received it this morning."
It is a letter from Con Staveley, desiring him to be at the office in
London by a certain time, to talk over the new scheme of discretionary
investments.
"How provoking!" exclaims Lizzie. "But it can't be helped, I suppose.
You don't think it strange, do you?"
"I see nothing strange in it, my dear; it is a matter of business."
Lizzie gives him a queer look, and says again she supposes it can't be
helped.
"Be home as soon as you can, daddy," she calls after him, as he goes
out of the house.
Whatever reflections Lizzie indulges in after his departure are lost
for the time in the pleasure she feels in Lily's arrival. Lily is not
alone; Pollypod accompanies her.
"Grandfather did not like me to come by myself," she says to Lizzie,
"so I thought I would bring little Polly with me, Polly and I are
great friends."
Pollypod nods solemnly, and, after her usual fashion with new
acquaintances, gazes in silence at Lizzie for a few seconds, and then,
having made up her mind, raises her face to be kissed, and says, with
the air of an oracle,
"I like you!"
This simple statement being received in good faith by Lizzie, they
become friends instantly, and Pollypod being made free of the house
wanders about it and the garden in a state of great delight, coming to
the girls every now and then, "wanting to know" something or other. As
for Lizzie and Lily they desire nothing better than to be left by
themselves; girls, when they get together have so many important items
of information to impart to each other, and so many confidences to
exchange. The first thing to be done is, of course, to show Lily all
over the house; and then there is a long chat in the bedroom.
"I am so sorry daddy is not at home," says Lizzie, "but he was obliged
to go to London on particular business."
The mention of daddy necessitates an explanation, for Lily has
understood from Alfred that Lizzie is an orphan.
So Lizzie tells the simple story of her life to her new friend, and
Lily listens, and sympathises, and admires. When Lizzie comes to the
part which introduces Mr. Sheldrake's name into the narrative, Lily
listens more attentively, and yet with something of a forced and
embarrassed air, which does not escape Lizzie's observation.
"Must not Mr. Sheldrake be a kind-hearted gentleman?" asks Lizzie,
keeping close watch on Lily's face. "He does it out of pure kindness,
daddy says. You don't often hear of such things."
"I have heard much good of him," replies Lily; "he is a great friend
of Alfred's. Alfred is never tired of speaking of him."
"Wasn't it kind of him," pursues Lizzie, "to take me down to Hampton
Court, to meet Alfred and you? He wouldn't let Alfred know beforehand,
he said, because he wanted to give him a pleasant surprise."
"Did Mr. Sheldrake know, then, that we were at Hampton Court?"
"Yes, dear; he wouldn't have taken me down else."
"How did he find out?" muses Lily, a little disquieted. "Alfred may
have mentioned it to him the day before, and yet he seemed surprised
to see us there."
"Riddle-me-riddle-me-ree," interrupts Lizzie gaily, to dispel the
cloud; adding, with a wise air, "you don't know men so well as I do,
my love."
She draws Lily into the garden, and touches a key-note to which she
knows Lily's nature will respond, to the exclusion of distressful
thought. She talks of Alfred and of her love for him; they sit in the
summer-house until Pollypod comes to them, and diverts them from their
theme.
"Lily," says Pollypod, "don't you wish Felix was here?" The colour
mounts to Lily's face, and to hide it Lily bends to Pollypod, and
caresses her.
"And who is Felix, Polly?" asks Lizzie.
"Felix is a gentleman; mother says there never _was_ any body as good
as him. He bought me my doll. I wish I had it with me. And we all love
him so--don't we, Lily? I love him, and mother loves him, and Lily
loves him, and Snap loves him."
"O!" says Lizzie; and that is all she says. But there is a great deal
of meaning in the little word, if any value can be attached to the
significant tone in which she utters it.