FELIX FINDS HIS OYSTER DIFFICULT TO OPEN.
The little word uttered by Lizzie in the concluding paragraph of the
previous chapter is like the dropping of the curtain for a time upon
the histories of the personages, good and bad, who are playing their
parts in this drama of every-day life. For if it in any way resembles
what it professes to be, the drama here presented should represent the
doings of the time in which it is written; in so far, of course, as
they enter into the ordinary life of the ordinary characters who are
introduced into it.
The autumn and winter have passed, and the beautiful buds herald the
yearly miracle of spring. Certain changes have taken place in the
circumstances and lives of the movers in our story, and of these
changes it is necessary here to make record.
Lily has left the music-hall, and her simple songs are no longer heard
in the Royal White Rose, as an antidote to the coarseness and
vulgarity which find prominent place on that stage. She is missed and
regretted by many of the frequenters of the Royal White Rose. Her
presence there was like a fountain of pure clear water in the midst of
an unhealthy tract of land; it made men and women forget for a time
the impurities by which they were surrounded. I am glad to be able to
say that her absence was regretted there, for it is a proof that
indecency in word and action, and immoral suggestiveness in the nature
of the songs sung in the Royal White Rose, are not vital elements in
the success of suchlike establishments. People laugh at these
atrocious songs, and at the atrocious meanings conveyed in many of the
catch-lines; they suit the trade of some who are regular frequenters
of these halls. But that better sentiments can be awakened in their
hearts is proved by the earnest and honest enthusiasm which is evoked
by the simple singing of a simple ditty, belonging to a school whose
days unfortunately are not of the present. It is but a very few weeks
ago that I strolled into one of the very lowest music-halls in the
metropolis, in which, upon the occasion of my visit, there were not
too many honest men and women, notwithstanding that the hall was quite
filled. Among other indecently suggestive songs was one, the title of
which I refrain from mentioning, but which has grown into a
catch-phrase, and may be heard to-day uttered openly by boys and girls
all over London, with laughing meaning. The title of this song is
supposed to have brought much money and reputation to the Eminent
Comic who invented it; if he were whipped for his ingenuity it would
be a fitter reward. Whoever trades in indecency deserves some such
punishment, and should receive it. After the singing of a number of
similar songs, all of which were received with expressions of delight
and approval, two young girls came upon the stage and sang, "What are
the wild waves saying?" and an old-fashioned duet, called, I think,
"The Cousins." I was amazed at the favour with which these songs were
received. The applause was honest, earnest, genuine. There was nothing
in music-hall ethics to account for the enthusiasm. The girls were not
immodestly dressed, and did not smile or wink at the audience, and yet
they were recalled again and again to sing, and their songs, which
could not raise a blush or an impure thought, were undoubtedly the
greatest success of the entertainment.
There were two reasons to account for Lily leaving the Royal White
Rose. One reason was that her grandfather was alarmed for her health:
a secret sorrow seemed to weigh upon her spirits and to depress them.
She was not as happy in the society of her grandfather as she used to
be, although, as if to counterbalance this and to remove any
uneasiness from him, she strove to be even more affectionate to him
when they were alone. The other was, that the purpose for which Old
Wheels consented to her appearing upon a stage was served. The debt of
shame was paid, and Felix, feeling very sorrowful the while, was
compelled to accept the balance of the hundred pounds which had been
saved out of Lily's earnings. The old man made no remark concerning
Felix's evident reluctance to receive the money. He merely said, "Now
we are free, Felix, and Lily can leave the music-hall. The little
income I have will be sufficient to keep us, and I shall be able to
watch more closely over my darling."
As the winter approached, Felix, going often to the little house in
Soho, more often found the old man alone. Lily had a girl companion,
the old man said, and Alfred and she made frequent visits to their new
acquaintance.
"My dear girl seems to take pleasure in her new friend," he said, "and
it is but natural, for they are nearly the same age. It is but natural
also that brother and sister should cling together as Alfred and Lily
do. I have seen the young lady, and there is much in her that I like."
"She has been here, then?" asked Felix.
"Yes; on two occasions. I have not been to her house; I have never
been asked. Even if I were, I think I should not go."
"Why, sir?"
"Because Alfred does not wish it, and there is antagonism between my
grandson and me. It has sprung up gradually, and acquires strength
daily. When I first discovered it, I strove to remove it; I strove to
win Alfred's confidence, but I was unsuccessful, perhaps because I did
not make sufficient excuse for youth and inexperience. And he has so
strong an influence over Lily that I am afraid to do anything with
reference to her of which he does not approve; for he would be sure to
use it as an argument against me in his confidence with my darling.
God knows I do not want anything to occur to weaken her love for me!
Poor girl! she must be distressed enough as it is. She is between two
fires, as it were--her brother on one side, and, unhappily, her
grandfather on the other. It is I who must forbear. Do you know,
Felix, that I have for some time seen this conflict of feeling
approaching; and a little while ago I did hope----"
"You hoped what, sir?" asked Felix, for Old Wheels had paused, as
though he were approaching forbidden ground.
"That I should have had such an ally in a friend whom I esteem," said
Old Wheels, looking earnestly at Felix, "as would have rendered me
easy in my mind respecting my darling's future."
"This friend, sir," observed Felix, turning his head from the old
man--"had you reason to suppose that he had any influence over Lily,
and that his counsel would have had weight with her?"
"I believe he had influence with my dear girl; I believe he has. I
believe that she would have heeded, and would heed now, any words of
counsel he might speak to her."
"But suppose," continued Felix, still standing so that his companion
could not see his face, "that this friend held precisely your own
view of the case. Suppose he feared that any counsel he might be bold
enough to offer would hurt Lily's tenderest feelings--inasmuch as it
would almost of a certainty clash with her deep affection for her
brother. Suppose that, seeing this, knowing this, and believing that
he had some slight influence over her, he refrained from saying what
was and is in his mind, because of the painful conflict of feeling
which it would stir in your dear granddaughter's breast----"
He turned and held out his hand, which Old Wheels took and warmly
pressed.
"What, then, remains for this friend to do," continued Felix, with
animation, as they stood hand in hand, face to face, "out of regard
for this dear girl's tender sensitive nature, out of regard for her
helplessness? To put aside, as well as it is in his power to do, his
own feelings; to be content to do as you do--to wait and hope. To do
more--not only to wait and hope, but to watch over her for her good,
without trusting himself before her in such a way as to cause her
pain. The friend of whom you speak is doing this."
"Felix, my dear lad, how can I repay you?"
"With your friendship--but I have that, I know. Something else is on
my lips, but I must not say it; something else is in my heart--you
have guessed before this time what it is--but I must not give it
expression. If the time should ever come--and I pray that it may--when
I feel that I can speak freely, it may be in your power to repay me a
thousandfold. In any case, believe that I am repaid over and over
again. Now let us talk of something else."
They spoke of Felix's prospects. He had found by this time that the
world he had come into London to conquer was not so easy to open as
the time-honoured oyster. He had smiled often to himself since his
boast to Martha, and had said, "What arrogance!" But he was mistaken.
It was not arrogance. When he said to Martha Day that the world was
before him for him to open, and, asking where his oyster-knife was,
had tapped his forehead and said it was there, he had spoken, not out
of arrogance, but out of the over-confidence of youth. He had not long
been in London before he discovered his mistake. He became humbled in
the contemplation of the greatness of his oyster and the littleness of
himself, and he set modestly, humbly to work upon the very lowest rung
of the ladder, not daring to hope to rise very high. There came to him
this feeling, of which he never lost sight: "I shall be content," he
said to himself, "if I can become one of the common workers in the
world, and if I can find some channel in which, by the exercise of
all my energy, of all the talent which I may possess, I am able to
earn my living." He did not desire much; it was no boast when he said
to himself that he would be content with very little; his wants were
small, and he had within him the capacity to enjoy. He took his
enjoyments modestly; went now and again to the pit of the theatre, and
(out of his gratefulness for small blessings) obtained more than his
money's worth. When he could not afford the pit he went to the
gallery, and would not have been ashamed to be seen there by any of
his former friends. At one time his funds were very low, so low,
indeed, that he could not afford a dinner; so, apples being in, he
lived upon bread-and-apples and cold water, and made merry over his
fare. He told no one, and he was not in the least to be pitied; he was
learning life's lessons, and was bearing reverses bravely, without
repining and without self-exaltation. He tried the usual resources of
helplessness; he could draw and paint indifferently well, and one day
(just before his bread-and-apple fare commenced) he almost ruined
himself by laying-in a stock of cardboard and crayons. In a few days
he had two sketches ready, of which he thought so highly that he said,
as he surveyed them, "Upon my word, I don't think I'll part with
them." But he laughed at his vanity the next moment, and out he went
to sell them, and came back with them under his arm. No one would buy
them. He tried again the next day, and the next, and the best result
that he could obtain was that a shopkeeper offered to put them in his
window, and to divide the proceeds with him, supposing they were sold.
Felix agreed readily enough, put a low price upon them, and went round
every day to look at them in the window. He did not dare to enter the
shop. "The shopkeeper might ask me for storage expenses," he said with
a laugh. Then came the bread-and-apple time; and one day, longing for
a change of food, he thought he would treat himself to better fare; so
he painted a chop on cardboard, and with comical earnestness set out
his meal--a pennyworth of apples, half a quartern loaf, a jug of
water, and his painted chop. As he ate his bread he rubbed out the
chop, until he had eaten every bit of it, and nothing but smudges
remained. He laughed heartily over his meal, I can tell you, and so
enjoyed the whimsical fancy, that it did him more good than a dozen
chops would have done. He was comically concerned at the thought that
he had eaten bone and all. "I wonder it didn't stick in my throat and
choke me," he said; "must be more careful next time." The occasions
were not few on which he made light of his reverses thus: he seasoned
his bread-and-apples with many such painted dishes, and amused himself
sometimes by saying that his chop or steak was underdone or burnt up.
He lived rarely during these days: had pine-apples when they were out
of season, pears of a guinea apiece, grapes from the hot-house, and
every luxury he could think of. Then, going to the shop-window in
which his sketches had been exhibited, he saw that they were gone. It
gave him a shock. He had put what he considered to be a ridiculously
low price upon them--ten shillings apiece. "Perhaps he sold them for
more," thought Felix, and entered the shop with a jaunty air. The
shopkeeper gave him good-day.
"It was best to get rid of 'em," he said; "they were blocking up the
window, so I took an offer for them."
"How much?" asked Felix.
"Sketches are a drug," said the shopkeeper, fencing.
"I ought to have taken them to a chemist, then," observed Felix.
The shopkeeper stared; he had no sense of humour.
"I took seven-and-six for the pair," said the shopkeeper, and then
defended himself, without being accused, by adding, "and a good price
too, I consider it."
Felix looked at the shopkeeper with twinkling eyes.
"Thank you, good sir," he said; "I owe you one."
"Don't mention it," replied the shopkeeper, thinking he had got hold
of a queer customer; "here's your share--three-and-ninepence."
Felix received it, and looked at the shopkeeper with an odd smile on
his lips. And when he was in his room, paid the man the one he owed
him by drawing caricatures of him, and suddenly developed a talent
which, but for this small circumstance, might have been hidden under a
bushel. With a fine sense of humour (which he was not afraid of
displaying under the shopkeeper's very nose, seeing that the man did
not possess the discriminative affection), Felix, the following day,
took to the shop a caricature of the shopkeeper himself, in crayons,
with which his patron was so tickled, not seeing the joke, that he
bought it out of hand, and Felix was the richer by a crown. The joke,
however, told against Felix in a certain way, for the shopkeeper would
have readily given more for it; but then Felix was conscientious, and
did not set too high a price upon the man. He dashed off a couple of
other caricatures, and sold them likewise. The scene of one was laid
at a narrow luncheon-counter which he had visited. There were three
barmaids serving, but only the backs of their heads could be seen.
There is no need to say that this back view was imposing. The
comicality of the sketch was in the faces of the eaters, with which
the narrow counter was lined. They were depicted eating their
luncheons after the fashions of their various temperaments. Some were
solemn, some were farcical; the face of one was buried in a pint-pot:
all were grotesque. The scene of the other was a street on a rainy
day. A languid swell, six feet high, was languidly holding an umbrella
over his head, and a street Arab, two feet and a half high, was
running by his side, crying, "Shall I 'old yer umberellar up, sir?" If
Felix had been fertile in subjects, he might have done well in this
line; but it was not every day that he could get a new idea, and he
was above copying old ones. Then came the incident of the fire, and
the acceptance of his account of it by the newspaper. He was fortunate
in picking up other incidents, and made capital out of them. He grew
hopeful, and began to make acquaintances. No money had ever been so
sweet to him as the little money he was earning.
About this time came a rare stroke of good fortune. Mention has been
made of a friend with whom he had travelled abroad, and who came home
with him. Felix was in the gallery of a theatre one night, when he saw
this friend in the stalls. Their eyes met, and they recognised each
other. Felix made no sign, the chasm between stalls and gallery was so
deep and wide. But when the piece was over Felix hurried to the door
of the theatre, wondering if his friend would try to find him out. By
good chance they met in the crowd; his friend _had_ been hunting for
him.
"Felix, old fellow!"
"Charley, old boy!"
"I thought I wasn't mistaken, Felix; but I _was_ surprised to see you
up there."
Felix smiled. "Funds low, old boy. Been long in London?"
"A month; can't tear myself away. Isn't it glorious? Come and have
some supper."
Nothing loth, for they really had been friends, Felix took Charley's
arm, and they made a capital supper, laughing and joking and quizzing
as they had done in the olden times.
"But I say, old fellow," said Charley, "tell us about it. What's up?"
"I was," cried Felix merrily--he was in the gayest of humours, for the
circumstance of Charley looking for him after the play to shake hands
with him had gladdened his heart--"high up, eh? And only sixpence! You
and I have been in queerer places, haven't we, old boy?"
And they fell-to again fishing up pleasant memories from the past.
They were supping together in Charley's room at the very hotel which
Felix had patronised when he first came to London.
"The waiter seems to know you, Felix," said Charley.
"I was a lodger here once, and played the part of Grand Bashaw with
twopence-ha'penny in my pocket. When my twopence-ha'penny was spent, I
fled."
"An honourable retreat, I'll swear," remarked Charley. Felix twirled
his cigar, and puffed out royally.
"And now, old fellow, I must know all about you."
Felix told his friend all; of his quarrel with his father, softening
that part of the story, and taking much blame to himself; of his
quitting his home for ever and ever, never more to return, with his
twopence-ha'penny in his purse; of his coming to London to conquer the
world; of his failure; of his funds running out; and of his taking to
the arts for a living. Only casually did he mention Lily, but his
heart was so full of tenderness for her, that the few words he uttered
respecting her were rightly interpreted by his friend.
"Felix, you are in love."
Felix puffed away in silence, and looked into the fire.
"Come, old fellow," continued Charley, "we used to have no secrets; we
shared and shared, you remember."
"Well, Charley," replied Felix, "I have kept no secret from you. You
know this one, at all events, and you know it from me. But don't let
us talk about it; the odds are that it will come to nothing."
"One word only--rich?"
"Poor as I am."
"And a lady?"
"A tender-hearted, pure-souled girl. 'Right about face!'" Which, in
the old days, was a favourite cry with them when a subject was to be
dismissed from their conversation.
"I borrowed some money of you once, Felix."
"You did, Charley, old boy--and paid it."
"Are you sure?"
Felix laughed, rather boisterously.
"That won't do, old boy," he said; "no beating about the bush between
us two. The grog's confoundedly strong." (It must have been, for it
made his eyes water.)
"Look here, Charley, I want money--badly; but I must earn it. Now, if
you could help me to anything in the newspaper way----"
Charley broke in here with "I can by Jove! You can do newspaper
correspondence?"
Felix nodded excitedly.
"Well," continued Charley enthusiastically, "down our way we've a
newspaper, of course. What's an Englishman without a newspaper? Why,
they start them in the bush! Now, between you and me--it mustn't go
farther, mind--my dad is part proprietor, under the rose. What a
glorious thing it would be if we could get a London correspondent, who
moves in the best society"--Charley winked, and Felix responded--"who
is hand-and-glove with all the political nobs and the literary swells;
who is behind the scenes everywhere; who knows all the news, and can
serve it up piping hot and spicy! Now, then, what do you say? The
_Penny Whistle_ is only a weekly, and we could only spare two columns
to our London Special."
"If you are really serious," said Felix slowly, his colour rising, for
he saw a great chance in the proposal, "and the _Penny Whistle_ can
afford a special London correspondent, I could send a capital two
columns every week, and I would take care to be on the look-out for
anything special. Could it afford a pound a week, Charley?"
"A pound a week, old fellow!" cried Charley. "It's too little."
"It is enough," said Felix firmly; "I could not accept more under the
circumstances. If the proprietors write to me to that effect, I shall
only be too happy to accept."
In a fortnight from that time Felix was engaged as London
correspondent at the sum fixed by himself. He ran to Old Wheels, and
told the good news. He was really beginning to open his oyster.