THE POLISH JEW.
A remarkable change had taken place in Mr. Musgrave, dating almost
from the day on which he took possession of Ivy Cottage. Those who had
known him when he lived in his garret and bought gin on the sly, and
who knew him now, were amazed at the transformation; for it was
nothing less. The vice that appeared to have been so bred in his bone
as to be ineradicable had disappeared. He drank no more. Whether he
considered it was due to his altered position, whether it was from
gratitude or fear, or from whatever other unknown cause, it is certain
that the respectable old man known now as Mr. Musgrave, and the
disreputable tippler known some months since as old Muzzy, were
distinctly different types. The change really commenced within the
first fortnight of his residence in Ivy Cottage. Within this time,
Lily and Alfred had come by invitation to take tea with Lizzie and
spend the evening with her. The young people were in good spirits, and
Mr. Musgrave sat in his corner listening to their light-hearted
chatting. In the course of the evening Lily sang two or three
old-fashioned simple songs, and altogether the time was a happy one.
Then Mr. Sheldrake dropped in, and whatever little part Mr. Musgrave
had played in the proceedings was over from that moment. But when Lily
and Alfred were going home, Mr. Musgrave, with hands that trembled
from eagerness, held Lily's mantle for her, and pressed her hands, and
said that she had made him young again, and that he had spent the
happiest evening he had spent for years. He entreated her to come
again, and to come often, and she said gaily she intended to, for
Lizzie and she were sisters already. When they were gone--Mr.
Sheldrake accompanied Lily and Alfred home--Mr. Musgrave and Lizzie
sat up for a little while talking, and he told her how pleased he was
she had made such a friend. That night when he went to his bedroom,
he took from a place of concealment two time-honoured friends--to wit,
two flat bottles, in which he had been in the habit of carrying away
his gin from the public-house. With these under his arm he stole down
to the garden, and hurled them over the wall as far as his strength
would allow him, thus bidding good-bye to them. On that night before
he retired to rest, he knelt by his bedside for the first time for
many, many years, and thought, if he did not say, a prayer.
Mr. Sheldrake noticed a change in him, and commented on it.
"Why, Muzzy," he said, "you have grown quite respectable."
"I hope it does not displease you, sir," was Mr. Musgrave's reply.
"No, indeed," said Mr. Sheldrake; "it is a compliment to me, for I
think I have had something to do with it."
"Yes, sir, you have."
Mr. Sheldrake clapped him on the shoulder.
"Never too late to mend, eh, old man?"
"I hope not, sir."
And yet it is to be doubted whether Mr. Sheldrake was quite pleased at
this remarkable change in his servant. He liked to hold a power over a
man, and if that power sprung from a man's weakness, or even vice, he
was all the more gratified, so long as it did not affect him. There
was no doubt, however, that Mr. Musgrave was endeavouring to become a
respectable member of society, and that he had, in real sober earnest,
turned over the new leaf which Mr. Sheldrake had proposed to him.
On a cold evening in March, Lily and Old Wheels were sitting in their
room in the little house in Soho. There was no change in its
appearance. The portraits of Lily were on the mantelshelf, and a
bouquet of flowers was on the table. The old man was making castors
for a little cigar cabinet which he had bought second-hand at a shop a
day or two before. He had cut holes in the bottom of the cabinet, so
that the castors were almost hidden from sight, and he had devised a
false bottom so as not to interfere with the usefulness of the box.
His work being done, he put his tools aside, and rolled the cabinet
towards Lily, asking her what she thought of it, and whether Felix
would not be pleased with it.
"O, then," said Lily, with a faint smile, "it is for Felix. You did
not tell me that. I was wondering whom it was for."
"Are you glad or sorry, Lily, that I am going to make Felix a
present?"
"Glad."
"I don't know what I should do now without him," said Old Wheels, with
assumed carelessness, but really watching Lily's face with more of
keenness than his words warranted; "I am so used to his coming in here
often, and have so grown to like him, that if he were to go away I
should feel quite lost."
"You are more often alone now, grandfather, than you used to be," said
Lily sadly and quietly.
"Yes, my darling, when you were at the music-hall I saw more of you
than I do now. But it can't be helped, I suppose, Lily, can it?"
Lily put the needle in her work, and laid it on the table; then rose
from the chair, and sat upon a stool at the old man's feet. He looked
down upon her fondly, and raised her to his knee, where she sat with
her arm round his neck, and her face close to his.
"That's my own Lily," murmured Old Wheels. "That's my own dear
darling! And you have not learned to love your old grandfather less?"
"Grandfather!"
"Forgive me, Lily--old men grow foolish, and do not know what they say
sometimes. I, of all the world, should not say anything to hurt my
Lily's feelings; my Lily, that I love more than all the world besides!
Forgive me, darling."
"You must not ask me to do that, grandfather," said Lily. "What have I
to forgive? What feeling can I have for you but one of gratitude and
love for all your care of me? Don't think, dear, that I have no
consciousness of it. If you were to look into my heart, you would see
yourself there. Kiss me, my more than father, and say that you forgive
_me_ for my petulance, for my sadness, which I know pains you, but
which I cannot help feeling."
"There, there, my pet! We kiss each other, and forgive each other. But
you must not be sad. I want you to be bright, as you used to be not so
very long ago, Lily. I want you to smile and to be glad, as youth
should be. I want you to confide in me, if you have any trouble. Lily,
my child, my daughter! I am an old man, worn out and useless, but if I
had within me the life and the strength of twenty men, I would yield
them gladly to make you happy."
"I know it, dear," and Lily, with her lips to his cheek, nestled to
him as a child might have done; "I know it, and there is part of my
sadness, part of my pain. Don't ask me too many questions,
grandfather. Let us hope everything will come right, and that we shall
be happy by and by. By and by!" she repeated, almost in a whisper.
"When we are at rest!"
Old Wheels held her face from him to see it more clearly. "Lily!" he
exclaimed, "what makes you say that?"
"I cannot tell you. Let me lie on your shoulder, dear, and believe
that I love you with all the love a daughter can give to a father. If
my heart aches it is not your fault. And by and by we _shall_ be at
rest, thank God!"
"Yes, thank God, as you say, my darling!" replied Old Wheels. "To the
old the thought comes naturally--and often thankfully. But to the
young! no, no! It is not natural to hope for the time to come. You
have a bright life before you, my dear, and you must not despond. Why,
I, nearly two generations older than the little flower lying on my
bosom, do not wish yet for the rest you sigh for! I want to live and
see my flower bright and blooming, not drooping as it is now. Come,
cheer up, little flower!" Old Wheels forced himself to speak
cheerfully. "Cheer up, and gladden me with smiles. Here's an old man
who wants them, and whose heart warms at the sight of them. Here am I,
old winter! Come, young spring-flower, give me a glimpse of sunshine."
Lily looked into the old man's eyes, and smiled, and although there
was sadness in the smile, he professed himself satisfied with the
effort.
"That's right, and now let us talk about something else. Let me see.
What was I saying? O, about Felix. He is getting along well. Do you
know, Lily, that though he has never spoken of it, I believe he
endured hardships when he first came to London? But he bore them
bravely, and battled through them, never losing heart. Does this
interest you, Lily?"
"Yes; go on."
"Felix is a good man, high-minded, honourable, just. He knows how to
suffer in silence, as do all brave natures, my dear. Men are often
changed by circumstances, my dear; but I am sure Felix would not be.
But natures are so different, my dear. Some are like the sea-sand,
running in and out with the waves, never constant. Others are like the
rocks against which the waves beat and dash, as they do at Land's End.
It would do you, my darling, good to go for change of air and scene to
the west, and breathe the purer air that comes across the sea. Perhaps
we will manage it by-and-by--you and I alone. I was a young man when I
was there, but it is the same now as it was then; it is only we who
change. Felix laughed at us the other day--laughed at you, and me, and
himself, and everybody else in the world. 'Go where you will,' he
said, 'you find us crawling over the face of the earth, wrapt up in
ourselves, each man thinking only of himself and his desires, and
making so little of the majesty of nature as to believe himself of
more importance than all the marvels of the heaven and earth.' But he
was not quite right, and I told him so. I told him--no, I should
rather say, I reminded him--that every man did not live only for
himself. That in the lives of many men and women might be found such
noble examples of right-doing and self-sacrifice as were worthy to be
placed side by side with the goodness and the majesty of things.
'Right,' he answered at once, 'nature does not suffer--we do.' Then he
asked me to account for the suffering that often lies in right-doing.
I could not do this, of course. I tried to maintain the side I took in
the argument by saying that the suffering springs out of our
selfishness, out of our being unable, as it were, to wrest ourselves
from ourselves, and to live more in others. And then, after all, it
was but for a short time. Think of the life of a man. How short it is
in comparison with time! 'We are in the world,' he said, 'and should
be of the world.' 'Not against our sense of right,' I answered. 'The
noblest phase of human nature is to do what we believe to be right,
though all the world is against us, though we suffer through it, and
lose the pleasures of the world.' And what do you think this ingenious
young fellow did, Lily, when I said that? Laughed at me, and asked in
return whether there is not a dreadful arrogance in a man placing his
back against a rock, and saying to the world, 'You are all wrong; I
only am right.' Do I tire you, my child, with an old man's babble?"
"No, my dear," answered Lily; "I love to hear you talk so, although I
cannot understand the exact meaning of all you say."
Indeed, this "old man's babble" was soothing to Lily; his gentle voice
brought peace to her troubled heart.
"I have found out, my darling," continued Old Wheels, with a secret
delight at her calmer manner, "that this foolish young man, whom I
love like a son--ay, Lily, like my own son!--is fond of arguing
against himself, of placing himself in a disadvantageous light, of
saying things often that he does not mean. But I know him; I see his
heart and the rare nobility of his nature. Our argument ended thus,
'Come,' I said, 'answer me fairly. Can you believe in a man giving
judgment against himself?' 'If,' he said, 'by "yourself" you mean your
hopes, your desires, your heart's yearnings--and these, being in the
life of a man, comprise himself--I answer, yes. I can imagine a man
loving a thing, thirsting for it, believing that his life's happiness
is comprised in the possession of it, and yet standing by quietly,
and letting it slip from him, with his heart aching all the while!
There is a higher attribute than love,' he said. I asked him what it
was, and he answered, 'Duty!'"
Lily raised her head from the old man's breast; her eyes were bright,
her face was flushed.
"Do _you_ believe this, grandfather?"
The old man returned her earnest gaze, and was silent for many
moments. Some deeper meaning than usual was in their gaze, and
although neither of them could have explained how it had come about,
both by some mysterious instinct were aware of the solemn significance
which would attach to the answer of the girl's question. He placed his
arms tenderly about her, but not so as to hide his face from her.
"Yes, child," he said gently, "I believe it. But"--and his voice
trembled here, and his gaze grew more wistful--"not mistaken duty. If
I had a friend whom I loved, whom I trusted faithfully and implicitly,
whom I believed to be honest and true and single-hearted, I should--if
such a crisis in the conflict of love and duty should unhappily arise
in my life--take counsel from him."
Her eyes drooped before his, and the next moment her face was hidden
on his breast again.
"Tell me," she whispered, so softly that he had to bend his head to
hear, "do you think that such a crisis has arisen----"
"Go on, my child," he said, in a tone almost as soft as hers, for she
had paused suddenly. "Speak what is in your heart."
"Do you think, grandfather, that such a crisis has arisen in the life
of any one whom you love very dearly?"
"I do, dear child."
He would have continued the subject, but she begged him, with a tender
caress, not to speak for a little while; to let her rest. He called
her again his sweet flower, his spring flower, and obeyed her. They
remained silent for a long while, and Old Wheels thought she had
fallen asleep. But Alfred's light step upon the stairs undeceived him.
Immediately Alfred entered the room she went eagerly to his side, and
placed her arms round his neck.
"I am so glad you have come, Alfred!"
Alfred returned the kiss she gave him, and asked her why she looked so
pale.
"You want excitement, Lil--that's what you want. Wait till the summer
comes; I'll take you into the country, and we'll have a regular time
of it. Well, now, I've come to give you a bit of change, Lil. I want
you to have tea quick and dress yourself out. I've got an order for
the theatre."
"O Alfred!" exclaimed Lily, "you are kind. I shall dearly like to go."
"It's a box, Lil, for the Lyceum. Mr. Sheldrake gave it to me, and
he's coming with Lizzie to fetch us. We'll have to be quick; so
bustle, Lil, and get tea ready. See, grandfather; she has a colour
already. Excitement--that's what she wants."
Old Wheels said nothing, but cast a furtive glance at Lily, who,
however, did not observe it; and soon tea was ready and over, and Lily
went to her room to dress. When she came back in her pretty warm
dress, the old man said,
"I am glad you have put on that dress, Lily; I was afraid you were
going to dress yourself out, as Alfred said. Shall I come to the
theatre and fetch you."
"O no," replied Alfred, who, having just come into the room, had heard
the question; "we'll bring her home all right. There's the cab!"
He ran down stairs, and Mr. Sheldrake came in with a flower in his
coat, and another in his hand, which, with a bow and a few pleasant
words, he handed to Lily, who placed it in her hair, thanking him.
Between Old Wheels and Mr. Sheldrake nothing but the commonest
commonplaces of conversation ever passed; they did not get along very
well together, and although neither could have complained of the other
for want of politeness, each knew that the other was not his friend.
With Lizzie and Old Wheels it was different; Lily always expressed
herself so enthusiastically about her friend, that the old man, first
out of love for his granddaughter, and afterwards for Lizzie's own
sake, had grown to like her.
"We're going to have a pleasant evening," said Lizzie, who had dressed
herself in her brightest; "I wish you were coming with us, Mr.
Wheels."
"I wish so, too," said Alfred, "and it's a pity that they only allow
four in the box. Isn't it so, Mr. Sheldrake?"
"The order says for four," replied Mr. Sheldrake politely; "but if Mr.
Wheels wishes----"
"No, no, thank you," said Old Wheels, with a hurried motion of his
hand; "Lily is quite safe in the company of her brother."
"And in mine," added Lizzie, with somewhat of earnestness in her
rejoinder.
"I think she is, my dear," said Old Wheels.
When they were gone, Old Wheels paced the room thoughtfully, listening
anxiously to every footfall on the stairs. Felix seldom missed an
evening, and at about seven o'clock his welcome knock was at the door.
"All alone, sir?" he asked, looking round.
Old Wheels nodded: "I thought Lily would have spent the evening here
with us quietly, Felix; but she has gone out with her brother. Felix,
I want you to accept a little token from me. I know you smoke, and
passing a shop where I saw this cabinet for sale, I thought you would
like it, as a small remembrance from a friend. See--I have made
castors to it, so that you can wheel it noiselessly across the table
to a friend, and so be unostentatious in your hospitality."
Felix entertained very enthusiastic notions respecting presents; it
pleased him mightily to receive them, and he would not part with the
smallest token ever given to him for its weight in gold. "They are
testimonies of character," he would say laughingly, when he showed his
few trophies of friendship. He thanked the old man warmly, and said he
was afraid it would lead him into extravagance, as it necessitated an
immediate investment in the best cigars. Felix did not stop long. Upon
Old Wheels telling him that Lily had gone to the Lyceum Theatre, and
that Mr. Sheldrake was of the party, Felix started up, and said that
he must be going.
"They have a box, you say?"
"Yes, Felix; Mr. Sheldrake gave it to Alfred."
"I think I shall run round to the theatre myself."
Felix uttered these words half questioningly. The old man gave him a
grateful look in reply, and bade Felix good-night as if he were
anxious to get rid of him.
The only place Felix could obtain in the theatre was at the back of
the pit, but as he could see the box in which Lily was seated, he was
satisfied. Lily and Lizzie were sitting in the front of the box, and
bending over them occasionally were Mr. Sheldrake and Alfred. A great
many opera-glasses were levelled admiringly at the box, at which marks
of attention Mr. Sheldrake was mightily pleased, taking himself, and
with justice, the credit of having brought to the theatre the two
prettiest girls in it. Soon after Felix's entrance, the curtain rose
upon the dramatised version of The Polish Jew.
The gloom of this play was perfect; there was no light in it. No
interest was taken in the love-story comprised in the courtship of
Christian and Annette; no spark of tender sympathy was touched in the
breast of one of the spectators. The attention of all was centred in
the figure of Mathias the burgomaster and in his terrible life. When,
at the end of the first act, the curtain fell on the agony of the
undiscovered murderer, every trace of colour which the animation of
the theatre and the excitement of the lights and bustle had brought
into Lily's face, had departed from it. Mr. Sheldrake was loud in
his applause. "It was a wonderful piece! A grand conception! And how
well the principal actor plays the part of the burgomaster!" Alfred
was also pleased with it, but neither of the girls liked it. Towards
the end of the act Lizzie wanted Lily to shift her seat to the back of
the box, but Lily whispered "No, no!" and was not conscious that she
spoke. She was fascinated, and could not move. The two men, of course,
went out for refreshment, and sent in some for the girls, which
neither of them touched. The second act commenced and progressed, and
the horror of the piece increased in intensity; when the curtain again
fell upon the wild delirium of the murderer, Lily shuddered as if she
were suffering his agonies. Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake addressed her,
but she did not answer, did not seem indeed to heed or hear them.
Seeing that Lily would not move from her conspicuous position in the
box, Lizzie shifted her seat to the back of her friend's and put her
arm round Lily's waist, and clasped her hand; it was nearly cold,
notwithstanding the heat of the crowded theatre.
Lizzie whispered to Alfred not to speak to Lily, but to wait until the
ghastly piece was over, and she whispered also that she wished he had
taken them to see something lighter and more lively. Alfred, feeling
remorseful at first, said he did not know what kind of a piece it was,
and then turned petulant, and called Lizzie ungrateful. On another
occasion, this would have led to a lovers' quarrel, but Lizzie's
attention was otherwise occupied just now. During the progress of the
horrors contained in the last act, the hand which Lizzie clasped grew
icy cold, and Lizzie herself was compelled to turn her face from the
ghastly picture upon which the curtain finally fell.
"Come, Lily," said Lizzie, in a cheerful voice, delighted that the
horrible curiosity was at an end.
But Lily's feelings were overwrought, and for answer she sank fainting
to the ground.
"Get away from her!" cried Lizzie to Mr. Sheldrake, who was stooping
to raise her.
Mr. Sheldrake, amazed at the fierceness in the girl's voice, bit his
lip and obeyed her. If he had put his thoughts into words, he would
have said, "You little tiger-cat, I will pay you for this!" Lily drew
Lizzie to the back of the box, out of sight of the audience, whose
attention had been aroused by the bustle. "That pretty girl has
fainted," said some; "did you see how white she turned before the
piece was over?"
The rising of the people in the pit prevented Felix from seeing what
had occurred; but he had noticed Lily's pallor and the horrible
fascination which the drama had for her. He had resolved upon his line
of action, and now he hurried out of the theatre, and engaged a cab.
"I want you," he said to the cabman, "to follow a party that I shall
point out to you, who will either walk or ride, and to follow them in
such a manner as not to be observed. If you succeed in this, double
fare."
The cabman knew a gentleman, that is, a man whose money was sure, when
he saw him, and he raised his whip to his hat, and said, "All right,
sir, I'm awake;" and drew his cab to a convenient spot.