GOOD COUNSEL.
The cab was turning the corner of the little street in Soho in which
Lily lived, and Lily was about to ring the door-bell, when Mr.
Sheldrake laid his hand on her wrist, and said:
"Let me have a few minutes' conversation with you to-night. I beg it
as a favour."
Not daring for Alfred's sake to refuse, Lily tremblingly suggested
that they should go indoors and talk; but Mr. Sheldrake said, in a
tone that was half decided and half imploring:
"I cannot speak to you in the house."
She raised her eyes to his face for an explanation, and he answered
the look.
"Your grandfather is not my friend."
"But that is not grandfather's fault," she said loyally.
"I do not say it is; it is my misfortune, perhaps. He is not so much a
friend of Alfred's as he should be."
"How can you say that?" asked Lily, with a beating heart. "You are
wrong--very wrong; grandfather loves Alfred."
"I only judge from what Alfred has told me. So far as regards myself,
of course, I can see that your grandfather is not over cordial to me.
He has no right to be otherwise; I have been a good friend to his
grandson, and I deserve some better return."
"I know, I know, Mr. Sheldrake," said Lily earnestly. "Alfred has told
me of your kindness to him. I am very grateful to you for it, believe
me."
"Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sheldrake briskly, "you can scarcely
refuse me the small favour of a few minutes' quiet conversation with
you--although I accept it as a great favour. It is a fine night, and
after the heat of the theatre, the air will do you no harm."
She had no power to refuse, and they turned slowly from the door. Near
to the house was an arched avenue which led to one of the larger
thoroughfares. Not many persons were stirring in this quiet courtway,
and thither Mr. Sheldrake led Lily.
"If we walk up and down slowly," he said, "our talking together at
this time of night will not attract attention. Pray take my arm."
She laid her hand lightly on his sleeve, and waited anxiously for his
next words.
"I hope," he said, looking into her face with an expression of tender
solicitude, "that the effects of your faintness have quite passed
away."
"Yes, thank you. It was very stupid of me to give way so."
"You must not say that. You could not help it. And you are the last
person, I am sure, to give pain to your friends."
She raised her eyes to his.
"It pained me exceedingly to see you overcome, and I could not help
reproaching myself for being the innocent cause of your suffering."
"You were not to know that I was so weak; you did not know what kind
of a play it was we were going to see."
"Thank you, Miss Lily," he said eagerly, "thank you. You do me greater
justice than your friend Lizzie did. I think she must be ungrateful."
"No, indeed," said Lily warmly. "She is the very reverse of that. You
must not speak ill of Lizzie, Mr. Sheldrake."
"Your wish is law," he replied gallantly; "but if she is not
ungrateful, I am the most unfortunate of men, for I have by some
unaccountable means incurred the displeasure of two persons whom you
love--your grandfather and Lizzie."
He paused here, anticipating, and wishing, that Lily would have
replied to this, but she was silent.
"And the mystery is, that both have good reason to behave differently
towards me, to think better of me, for they must know that I have
stood a good friend to Alfred. You know that."
"Yes."
"We entered into a compact, if you remember--you and I--to work
together for Alfred's good. You _do_ remember it, do you not?"
"Yes."
"That was at Bushey Park. It is one of the pleasantest days in my
remembrance. Well, now, I've tried to perform my part in the contract.
I've stood Alfred's friend through thick and thin--very few men
would have stuck to him as I have done. However, I can take no credit
to myself for doing so; he has you to thank for it--only you. Why,
here am I repeating the very few words I said to you on the day we
entered into partnership!"
His treacherous hand closed upon hers with a tender pressure which
made her shiver. Not so much in the words he had spoken, but in the
manner of their utterance, he made her understand that he held
Alfred's safety--perhaps his life--in his hand, and she felt that if
she repulsed him Alfred would be made to suffer. He released her
presently, and encouraged by her submission his treacherous arms would
have stolen round her waist. But instinctively she evaded the embrace,
and stood apart from him. Had her life depended upon it, she could not
have acted otherwise. At this moment a man passed through the archway.
Mr. Sheldrake's back was towards the man, who, with a keen observance
of Lily's attitude, walked slowly onwards in the direction of Lily's
home. Mr. Sheldrake waited until the man was out of hearing before he
spoke again.
"I hope I have not frightened you by telling you that very few men
would have stood by Alfred as I have done, Miss Lily?" How strong the
armour of modesty is, was never better shown than in the fact that the
man of the world had not yet found courage to address her simply by
her Christian name. "But it is a fact, I assure you. I daresay Alfred
has confided in you, and has told you some of his troubles?"
"I don't know the exact nature of them; I only know that he is very
much harassed."
"Perhaps it is better," said Mr. Sheldrake significantly, "that your
knowledge should go no farther. I am afraid that he has been very
injudicious--it is a mild phrase, but I would not distress you by
using a harsher term. Let us say that he has been injudicious,
indiscreet. Well, what then? So long as you and I remain true to our
compact, he is safe."
"Mr. Sheldrake," said Lily, in an agony of alarm, "is Alfred in
danger?"
"Not while we stand by him. Do not needlessly distress yourself. We'll
see him through it, you and I. Many a young fellow has been wrecked
through want of a friend--but Alfred has two. Shall I tell you what
makes me so earnest in his cause?"
"No," she replied hurriedly, and looking round as if for help; "not
to-night. It is late, and grandfather will be anxious about me. Some
other time."
"What if some other time should be too late?" he questioned
pitilessly. "You ask me whether he is in danger, and almost in the
same breath you show unkindness to the only friend who has it in his
power to pull him through his difficulties. I make no boast of being
his friend--it is the simple truth. And what should there be to
displease you in the knowledge that I am your brother's friend because
of the feeling I entertain for you? A girl should be thankful--I will
not speak of gratitude--to be in this way the guardian and protector
of her brother."
"I am grateful, Mr. Sheldrake, indeed, indeed I am!"
"You have a strange way of showing it, Miss Lily. Pardon me, if I seem
to speak harshly, but I am deeply wounded by your conduct, and by the
conduct of others who should show a better regard for Alfred's
position. Your grandfather is cold to me--Alfred's sweetheart
misjudges me; but I could forgive these, if you were kind. It is due
to my self-respect--which I cannot forfeit, even to win your good
opinion--to ask you again whether I may tell you what makes me so
earnest in your brother's cause?"
Thus miserably constrained, Lily whispered, "Yes," in a faint tone,
knowing what was coming, and dreading it. Mr. Sheldrake dropped his
voice to the requisite pitch of tenderness, and prepared to make his
avowal.
"I saw you first by accident, Miss Lily. I was passing the Royal White
Rose Music-hall one evening--it was in June of last year, a night I
shall never forget--and having a spare half hour I dropped in. Almost
as I entered, you came upon the stage, and from that moment it seemed
to me that my fate was fixed. Such an impression did your sweet face
make upon me that I drove to the hall on the following evening, and
being acquainted with Storks the manager, we spoke together about you.
You remember on that night I threw you a bouquet--I bought it
especially for the pretty girl who had made such an impression upon
me--and after the performance I came to the back of the stage, and had
the pleasure of being introduced to you. I saw that you were too good
for such a place--that you were in every way different from the usual
run of music-hall performers--and you must take the blame on yourself
for having attracted me in such a manner. It is not many girls who
have done so--nay, no other has ever produced a similar impression
upon me. From that moment I began to love you."
He did not appear to be aware that the very words he employed in
declaring his love showed of what base material it was composed. His
speech flowed smoothly, and he mentally congratulated himself upon his
skill in delivering it. There was no tremor in his voice, for the
situation was not new to him. He had delivered himself of artificial
love-phrases to a score of girls in his time, and he had become
practised in the art; but he was compelled to acknowledge to himself
that never had he found conquest so difficult as this--which gave it
without doubt a keener zest, and made him as artificially earnest as
it was in his false nature to be.
Lily listened tremblingly. It was the first avowal of love that had
ever been spoken to her, and it met with no response in her heart. But
thought of Alfred's peril compelled her attention. Encouraged by her
silence, Mr. Sheldrake proceeded.
"I saw you home that night, and after lingering about the street long
after you entered the house--see what an impression you made upon
me!--it was my good fortune to make the acquaintance of your brother.
He has told you of the circumstance probably?"
He paused for her reply, and she gave it.
"Yes." Faintly whispered, as if it were wrung from her.
"He was in some difficulty, and I was enabled to get him out of it. I
was attracted to him by his voice and by his resemblance to you. An
acquaintanceship sprang up between us, and it has been in my power to
assist him on many occasions. I have done so, as you know, for your
sake, and because I love you. There is no need for me to say more.
There is one reward I have looked forward to for befriending your
brother, and whom I shall continue to befriend if I can hope to find
some place in your affection----"
He placed his arm around her, and so overpowered was she by her inward
conflict of feeling, that she had no power to resist. But at this
critical moment a quick step was heard coming into the archway. Lily
turned with a gasp of relief, and seeing who it was that was
approaching them, involuntarily cried in a joyful tone,
"Felix!"
And made a movement towards him.
Felix raised his hat, and said:
"Your grandfather is anxious about you, Miss Lily."
"Have you seen him to-night?" asked Lily.
"Yes; I have been to see _The Bells_, and he told me that you had gone
to the same theatre. He expected you would have been home before this
time."
"Miss Lily was in perfectly safe keeping, sir," said Mr. Sheldrake,
biting his lip with vexation at the interruption, and with jealousy at
Lily's more cordial manner towards Felix.
"I make no question of it," replied Felix politely. "Her grandfather
must be satisfied of that, but I think he expected Alfred would bring
his sister home."
"I will come at once," said Lily. "Alfred has gone to see Lizzie
home."
Felix offered his arm, and Lily was about to accept it, when Mr.
Sheldrake interposed.
"I would like you to assure this person, Miss Lily, that there was no
cause for alarm."
In a very lofty manner indeed did Mr. Sheldrake make this request.
"Indeed, no assurance is necessary," said Felix, with the intention of
sparing Lily.
But Mr. Sheldrake would not be denied.
"I asked the lady, sir."
"There was no cause for alarm, Felix."
"One word before you go," said Mr. Sheldrake.
Obedient to her look, Felix fell back a pace or two.
"I will not intrude farther upon you to-night, for I see that you are
fatigued and anxious. Of course you will keep what has passed between
us an entire secret. For Alfred's sake. Out of consideration for you,
I have not told you how serious his position is; I do not wish to
alarm you unnecessarily. But you and I, working together, will be able
to set him straight."
He pressed her hand tenderly as he wished her good-night; and as she
took Felix's arm, he shaped with his lips the warning words, "For
Alfred's sake," and turned away without a word to Felix. Before Lily
and her protector arrived at the house, Lily said:
"I have not done anything wrong in stopping to speak to Mr.
Sheldrake."
"I know that, Lily; but don't say anything more about it."
"I must. I cannot bear that you should think ill of me; and it has so
strange an appearance that any one less generous than you would
require an explanation, and that I cannot give."
"If I say I am satisfied, and that I hold you in too perfect esteem to
think ill of you in any way--that I know you have troubles which you
are compelled to keep to your own breast, because they affect others
more than yourself--will that content you?"
She answered yes, and he gave her the assurance in other words.
"I have a confession to make before we go in, Lily."
"You, Felix!"
"Yes; I have told an untruth, but one which, I think, may be pardoned.
I have not been to your house since eight o'clock. I saw your
grandfather then, and he told me you had gone to see _The Bells_, and
appeared anxious about you. I was anxious, also, for I did not care
that you should see such a piece."
Lily shuddered. "It was dreadful, Felix! Did you know that I fainted?"
"No; I noticed that you were very pale."
"You were watching me, Felix?"
"Yes, Lily; I was at the back of the pit, and could just see your
box."
Lily experienced an exquisite delight at this confession. He had come
to the theatre expressly to watch over her. Involuntarily she held out
her hand to him, and allowed it to remain in his grasp.
"I knew when you came out of the theatre, Lily," he continued, "and
when I came towards you just now, and you asked me if I had been at
home with your grandfather, I saw no other way of avoiding an
unpleasant explanation with Mr. Sheldrake than to say what was not
exactly true. If you can say sincerely that you forgive me for the
subterfuge, you will relieve my mind and make me feel less culpable."
"No forgiveness can be necessary, Felix, when the only feeling I have
is one of gratitude that you came when you did."
"Thank you; I am more than sufficiently rewarded. Now I am going to
say something to you, which may need forgiveness; but I depend upon
your generous nature not to misjudge me. My words are prompted by
sincerity and pure esteem, Lily. Shall I go on?"
"Yes," she answered, looking him earnestly in the face. There was so
much truthfulness in her gaze that he could have taken her to his arms
there and then, believing that she would have found comfort in that
shelter, knowing that it would be to him the greatest happiness earth
could afford. But he mastered the impulse with manly resolve, and with
a tender and chivalrous regard for her weakness. There was no fear, no
doubt, in her face; she knew she could trust him; all the bright
dreams of her youth were embodied in him, and would ever be, though
the dear realisation of them might never, never come. He was her
knight, in the truest sense of the word.
"You are but a child, Lily," he said, "inexperienced in the world's
hard ways, and bringing only to your aid, in any difficulty you may be
labouring under, a simple heart, unused to the artifice and cunning
which surround us. I have learnt something of the world in my
struggle; and although I have not learned to condemn it--for there is
much that is beautiful in it, Lily--I have learned that it is often
necessary to arm yourself with weapons that you despise, if you would
save yourself from hurt. In battling with the world, a man must not
wear his heart upon his sleeve--there are too many vultures about--he
must not oppose a bare breast to foes whose breasts are mailed. I am
expressing myself in this way, so as to make you understand that
I--who, I would have you believe, despise meanness and unworthiness as
heartily as it is in the power of man to do--feel the necessity of
using weapons in life's battle which I would fain throw aside. There
is nothing more noble than simplicity of heart--I worship it wherever
I see it--but it is a weak weapon, as the world goes, and in most
cases, where it is relied on solely, it becomes woefully bruised. Say
that you are in any trouble, that any cloud hangs over your life, that
you are threatened by storms which you see approaching to you nearer
and nearer--how can _you_ meet them, Lily? What weapons have you at
your command to save yourself from the peril? Simplicity, innocence,
self-sacrifice! Relying only on these and on yourself, the storm
breaks, and then----"
He paused, and Lily did not speak. How precious his words were to her!
How skilfully and delicately he had contrived to tell her that her
happiness was dear to him! His voice was like music to her heart.
"Then, Lily," he resumed, "think what occurs. It may be that I am
wrong in my fears. How happy it would make me to know that it is so!
But if I am right, think what may occur. You may bring misery not only
to yourself but to others. You are moved by this thought, I see. Has
it never occurred to you before? You have at home two whom you
love--your brother and your grandfather. There is no need for me to
say how dearly your grandfather loves you, and what anguish you may
bring upon him if you allow suffering to come on yourself unprepared.
In both your brother and your grandfather you should confide, and
from your grandfather's larger experience of the world, and from his
whole-hearted love for his dear child, good counsel would surely come,
if counsel be needed. I should say, if I were asked, that were I in
your place and needed counsel, I should deem it a matter of duty, as
it is equally a matter of affection, to seek for it in one whose riper
years qualify him for giving it, and whose life of love for his child
is a sufficient warrant for his sincerity. I should say more than
this, Lily, if you would allow me, and if you are not displeased with
me----"
"Go on, Felix. I honour you for what you are saying."
"I should say, were I in your place and in such a position as I have
hinted at, that I should fail in my duty and my love if I neglected
to take him into my confidence, and that, in that case, doubts might
well arise in his mind----"
"Of my love for him, Felix?" interrupted Lily, with all the
earnestness of her nature. "No, no; do not say that!"
"I might have been harsh enough to use these very words, if I did not
know that good old man's heart. Cling to him and to his love, dear
Lily; do not throw him aside in your trouble. It is the dearest
privilege of affection to share the troubles of those we love. If I
were married"--his voice trembled slightly here--"the first consoling
thought that would arise to my mind should misfortune overtake me
would be, 'Thank God, I have one at home who will sympathise with me
and, by her sympathy, console me!'"
Had Felix been the most cunning of men, and had he carefully studied
every word he wished to say, he could not have made a more successful
appeal. Such strength is there in sincerity and honesty of purpose! If
anything had been wanting to make him inexpressibly dear to the girl
he loved so loyally, to make her cherish him (as she did) in her heart
of hearts, he had supplied it. But he had no thought of that; he had
spoken out of perfect singleness of motive.
"So, now," he said, in a lighter tone, "my lecture being over, and
knowing, as I know, that you are not hurt or offended with me for
speaking as I have done, we will go in to your grandfather. I look
upon myself as a very conspirator--pretending to be anxious that you
should be at home, and keeping you in the night air for my own selfish
purpose!"
He raised his hand to the bell, and Lily caught it and kissed
it. She felt no shame in the action, no more than a little child might
have done; but the soft touch of her lips thrilled through Felix, and
so powerful a happiness filled his heart, as he thought of what might
be in the future for him and for her, that a mist floated before his
eyes, The next moment he raised her hand to his lips, and returned the
homage with the respect and devotion of a true and faithful knight.