THE CLOUDS BRIGHTEN FOR LILY.
All unconscious of the terrible crisis that was occurring, Lily went
about the house that day as blithe as a bird. Her life seemed to be
brightening, and the shadows that had hung over it appeared to be
clearing away. She ran up and down the stairs, and in and out of the
rooms, singing her old songs. She was in the happiest of moods, and
her grandfather listened with a grateful heart to her fresh voice. He
expressed his delight to Mrs. Podmore, who came down-stairs with
Pollypod, dressed for walking. Mrs. Podmore had a basket on her arm.
"Lily is like her old self again, Mrs. Podmore," he said.
"Bless her heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Podmore. "It does one good to hear
her. It's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the fire has done
Lily the good turn of sending her here, where the air is fresher for
her. Polly likes it, too, don't you?"
"O, yes, mother," answered the child.
"So we've got to be thankful even for misfortune," said Mrs. Podmore,
with a half sigh. "It was a hard blow for Jim, though, was that fire.
It'll take us a long time to get over it."
"How much worse it would have been," said Old Wheels, "if some of us
had been hurt and burnt, instead of our clothes and sticks of
furniture!"
"Ah, yes, indeed, Mr. Wheels. It's downright wicked to grumble, after
all. But I never shall forget it, never! I shall remember Jim carrying
Polly and me down the rope, to my dying day. Jim's never been himself
since then, Mr. Wheels. I wish he was anything but what he is, and
that he could get a living in a reasonable way, where he wouldn't be
worked to death as he's being worked now. It ain't fair to flesh and
blood, and flesh and blood can't stand it. Dear, dear! here I am
grumbling again! I don't know what's come over me. We're going to
London, Polly and me, to get one or two little things. We sha'n't be
home till night. Can I do anything in town for you, Mr. Wheels?"
"No, thank you."
A silence ensued, caused by Lily commencing a verse of a favourite
song, which they paused to hear.
"She sings like a bird," said Mrs. Podmore; and added, with a meaning
smile, "but there's something else besides fresh air to account for
her lightheartedness. Here's Mr. Felix himself to bear me out in what
I say."
"And what is that, Mrs. Podmore?" asked Felix, who entered as she
spoke, and heard her last words.
"Ah, that's a little secret between me and Mr. Wheels," replied Mrs.
Podmore with another smile of much meaning, intended especially for
the old man; "but I've got Jim's dinner in the basket, and I must go
and give it to him."
"There's another thing to be thankful for, Mrs. Podmore," said Old
Wheels. "Your husband hasn't so far to go home when his work's done as
he had when we lived in Soho. You see how lucky the fire was, after
all, to bring you here to live, so near the station where your husband
works."
"Well, we know who we've got to thank for it," replied Mrs. Podmore,
with an affectionate look at Felix: "don't we, Polly?"
And with other grateful words, the mother and child left the house.
"You have come early to-day, Felix," said Old Wheels; "has any
particular business brought you?"
Felix, looking both anxious and happy, answered,
"Yes, sir, one or two very particular things. First, a stroke of good
fortune. Through the influence of my friend Charles, of whom I have
spoken to you, I am appointed London correspondent to a leading
colonial newspaper. By his advice, I sent an initial letter--in my
best style, of course; a regular trap for them," added Felix, with a
light laugh--"and the result is, that I have obtained the appointment.
It adds a hundred pounds a year to my income, and the labour really is
very light."
"That is good news indeed," said Old Wheels, rubbing his hands; "I
congratulate you heartily on it."
"I am becoming quite an important person," said Felix, with comic
seriousness, "from a worldly point of view. But there are other
matters I wish to tell you of. I have spoken to you of my father's
housekeeper----"
"Martha Day?" interposed Old Wheels. "Yes."
"She has left my father's service suddenly. I do not think I have told
you that Lizzie, Alfred's sweetheart, is related to Martha Day."
"No; this is the first time I have heard it."
"It was a matter of no great importance for you to know; but as Martha
has left my father's house, and may be more nearly connected with me,
it is right that you should be acquainted with everything that
concerns me. Martha is with Lizzie at the present moment at Mr.
Musgrave's house. And interrupting myself here, it seems strange to me
that you and Mr. Musgrave should never have met."
"It is strange," said Old Wheels, after a little pondering; "and now
that you speak of it, it comes to my mind that, on every occasion when
we were expected, in the natural course of things to meet, sudden
business has called Mr. Musgrave away. You are not acquainted with any
reasons why he should avoid me?"
"No; I know of none."
"He is eccentric, perhaps; disinclined to make new acquaintances. Some
men are so."
"He is exceedingly fond of Lily," observed Felix.
"That makes it all the more strange," said Old Wheels, with a
thoughtful air; "and yet I should not say so. The child would win her
way to any heart. It speaks well for him I am very glad to hear it.
Exceedingly fond of Lily, you say!" He repeated these words, as if he
wished to make some obscure thing clear to his understanding.
"I think he shows more tenderness towards her than towards his adopted
daughter. It seems to me as if he feels that he cannot be considerate
enough of her. That is Lily singing, is it not?"
"Yes, the dear child! She is more cheerful than she has been for a
long time past."
Felix listened, with a pleased expression on his face, and the old man
watched his attitude and manner with a curious mingling of hope and
anxiety. Presently Felix resumed,
"I am doing nothing but flying off at tangents, and I have so much to
say. About Mr. Musgrave: he and I have had confidential business
together lately. Business, I hope, which will turn out well."
"Profitable?"
"Well, not in the common sense of the word; that is, it will not put
money in my pocket; but it will do something better perhaps. You will
hear of it, I daresay, very soon. Now, about Martha Day. Hers is a
strange story. She has lived all her womanly life with my father, as
his housekeeper, and has out of her savings brought Lizzie up, given
her a tolerable education, and supplied her with money. My father, it
appears, knew nothing of this; he supposed that Martha had no family
ties. Lately, however, he has discovered her connection with Lizzie,
and has discovered something else also. Lizzie, it appears, is not
Martha's niece, as I understood: she is her daughter. The story that
Martha tells of an early marriage and of being deserted by her
husband, who enlisted and died in India, my father refuses to believe.
He insisted that Martha should promise not to see Lizzie any more, and
Martha indignantly left his service. She has been with him for a great
many years, and she says that it suited her; that she was fit for
nothing else, and that it supplied her with means to pay for Lizzie's
early training. What memories, what fears, or what fanciful idea that
Lizzie's future would be happier if she were brought up in the belief
that Martha was her aunt, instead of her mother, neither you nor I can
guess. The web of the simplest life seems to me to be made up of
tangled skeins, and one of the highest duties of life consists in
kindly judgment of each other. Martha's life has been one of
sacrifice, and what joy and comfort she has experienced in it have
come from this girl, for whom I have a great esteem."
"I too, Felix; Lizzie is a good girl."
"It sounds strange that so simple a circumstance should induce my
father to part with a woman who must have been wonderfully useful to
him; but I think I am to blame for the severance of that connection."
"In what way?"
"My father knows of my movements, so Martha tells me; knows of my
friendship for you and your grandchildren, and knows of the tie which
binds Alfred to Lizzie. It is in some way to punish me that he has
provoked this breach; but, indeed, it is no punishment to me, for I
believe and hope that it will turn out for the good of all of us."
"Is there no hope of a reconciliation with your father, Felix?"
"None, sir," replied Felix firmly; "our natures are too wide apart. In
all probability, we shall never meet again: both he and I are too
steadfast to our beliefs, which are as the north and the south poles.
It is wonderful by what roads men arrive at totally different
estimates of things! My father will judge me harshly, perhaps, all the
days of his life; but he is my father, and it will best become me to
be silent as to his judgments and motives. I am but a young man, but
it seems to me that my life is clear before me. I do not aspire to
riches. I have one great hope, and if that is fulfilled, I shall be
content to work with others of the world's workers, satisfied with
moderate competence, proud if the track in which I work will enable me
to leave a mark for good behind me. I have flown off at a tangent
again, and must come back to Martha. Looking upon myself as the cause
of her misfortunes, I purpose to set up some sort of a home, in which
she can live in the same capacity as she has done in my father's
house."
"What does she say to your plan, Felix?"
"She is delighted with it; but she will say nothing decisive until
after she has talked to Lizzie about it, and until after the result of
my visit here to-day is ascertained. Acting upon my advice, Martha is
telling Lizzie the secret which she has kept all her life, and Lizzie
probably knows by this time that she has a mother. Now, sir, I come to
my one great hope. I have waited until now, when not only my position
is assured, but when another matter which has caused you and Lily much
anxiety--I refer to Alfred's connection with Mr. Sheldrake looks less
hopeless than it has done for some time past. If you guess what it is
I am about to say, will you give me permission to speak more plainly?"
"Speak, my dear lad," said Old Wheels, trembling with eagerness.
"It is about Lily----"
But the old man rose suddenly, and in a tone of deep agitation said,
"One moment, Felix."
It was joy at the prospect of his darling's happiness that compelled
him to rise. He stood with averted head, silent for many moments; then
turned, and said, with the tears running down his face,
"Go on, Felix; go on, my dear boy."
"I love Lily, sir, and I ask your permission to tell her, and to ask
her to be my wife."
Old Wheels grasped Felix's hand.
"God bless you, my dear lad!" he almost sobbed. "These are tears of
joy that you see. How I have prayed for this! But I feared that some
scruple of just feeling--some motive of honour and tenderness, for
which I should not have esteemed you less, Felix; no, not one whit--I
feared that something of this sort might have prevented you from
speaking. The sad day that we met is the happiest of my life. God
bless you, Felix! Go to my darling; go to her, and then come down to
me together, that I may see my dearest desire accomplished."
Lily, very busy setting things to rights in the house, and very happy
in her work, did not know that Felix had come, until he stood close to
her. She gave a little cry of surprise and pleasure, and then, seeing
something in his face that she had never seen before, stood for an
instant pale and trembling. But her heart was animated by the dawn of
a tender hope. His nature was too earnest to dally at such a time. He
held out his hand, and retaining hers, said,
"I have come straight from grandfather, Lily."
And paused, as earnest lovers do who are about to play their great
stake. She stood silent, her hand in his, waiting for him to speak.
"I have been telling him of some good fortune that has befallen me. I
have obtained another London correspondenceship for a colonial paper,
and I am growing rich. My income is quite three hundred pounds, and
there is a fair prospect before me. I have schemes in my head. One of
these fine days I may put the finishing lines to a book, and by good
luck I may find a publisher who will publish it; or to a play, and by
good luck I may find a manager who will produce it. Whichever it is
may be successful, and another hundred pounds may come in my purse. If
I do not do either, or if I am unsuccessful in the doing, my position
is good enough, and I shall be happy and satisfied, even if it does
not improve very much. But I want a home--a helpmate. And there is but
one woman in the world who can be to me what my heart yearns for.
Lily!" He had released her hand, and she stood before him with
drooping head; the sun was shining behind the bright clouds. "Will you
be my wife?"
Whether he took her into his arms, or whether she crept into them,
neither knew; but she was there, with her head on his breast, and with
such joy in her heart as seemed to make life too happy. A long silence
followed, a silence that was like a prayer; their feelings were too
deep for words, and when, after a long, long dream, they spoke, their
voices were tremulous.
"Are you glad, Lily?"
She nestled closer to him.
"Lily, my dear, I devote my life to your happiness."
"And I to yours, Felix." She spoke the words softly and solemnly.
"So I have two objects in life, and these will be sufficient--my wife
and my work."
He repeated the words "My wife!" tenderly. She raised her bright face
to his.
"And I have but one."
"That is----"
"Felix."
His pulses were charged with grateful music as he stooped and kissed
her.
"Love and Labour would not be a bad motto, Lily, or a bad title for my
book or play. Let us go down to grandfather."
"You perceive, sir," said Felix to Old Wheels a quarter of an hour
afterwards, "what my scheming has come to. The first time I saw Lily,
I thought to myself, There is my wife; and I schemed for the result. I
have acted my part very well, I think. Now, will you still dispute my
proposition that every action in our lives is dictated by
selfishness."
Felix and Lily were sitting hand in hand.
"I am too happy, Felix," replied Old Wheels, "to dispute anything with
you; you must have everything your own way. I have no doubt that Lily
has made up her mind--as I have made up mine--that you are as
heartless and selfish as it is possible for man to be."
But a little while after that Lily and Felix were speaking together
more seriously. In the suddenness of her happiness, Lily had lost
sight for a time of Alfred's troubles. Now they recurred to her, and
brought with them the image of Mr. Sheldrake and the memory of his
threats. Felix saw the change that came over her, and guessed the
cause.
"You are thinking of Alfred," he said. "To-night, when he comes home,
we will take him into our confidence, and coax him to confide freely
in us. I know your love for him, Lily, and you know, my dear, that
nothing that is in my power shall be left undone to release him from
his anxieties."
Then, without being asked, Lily told Felix all that had passed between
her and Mr. Sheldrake; she told him first of Mr. Sheldrake's
confession of love for her, and how it terrified her; and then, going
back, she told him of their meeting in Bushey Park, and of her seeing
Lizzie for the first time on that day; of the story of Mr. Sheldrake's
goodness that Alfred had related to her (Felix smiled gravely at
this); of the persistent manner in which Mr. Sheldrake had impressed
upon her that it was for her sake, and for her sake only, he was her
brother's friend; of Mr. Sheldrake forcing a partnership upon her on
that day, suggesting that they should enter into a compact to work
together for Alfred's good; and of his saying that when Alfred was
safely through his troubles, he would have no one but Lily to thank
for his release.
"But since that day," continued Lily, "Alfred has been getting into
deeper and deeper trouble, until a time came--only a little while ago,
Felix--when I was afraid to think of what might occur to him--and to
me," she added in a dreamy tone. A moment after she had uttered the
words a shudder came over her. Felix took her in his arms, and she
clung to him for protection.
"I feel happy and safe with you, Felix."
"I understand your feelings towards Alfred, my dear," said Felix
encouragingly; "but I must have my treasure grow strong, and I must
strive to wean her from her dreamy fancies. I shall watch my sensitive
flower very jealously, and she must trust to my judgment wholly. You
have doubts! Why, I have had them! and for a long time have been
afraid to speak. So you see, little weakling, that I, strong as I am,
have shared some of your anxieties with you. I saw you on the day you
went to Hampton Court with Alfred."
"You, Felix!"
"Yes, my dear; I was there, watching over you even then, although I
had not the right to do so that I have now."
"And you would not come to me and speak to me, Felix!"
"Dearest! I saw that you were happy, and I felt that I might have been
the cause of disturbance, of which Mr. Sheldrake probably would have
been glad to avail himself. So I kept myself in the background."
"And suffered," she said, wistfully and tenderly; "for you loved me
then, Felix; I know it."
"Yes, darling. I loved you then. But love often shows itself in
self-sacrifice."
She paused for a little while before she spoke again. "You said once,
Felix, that there is a higher attribute than love--duty!"
"How do you know I said that, Lily?"
"Grandfather told me. Do you believe that duty is a higher quality
than love? That supposing these two stand before us, duty on one side,
love on the other, duty should be followed and love put aside?"
"Can you not take your answer, Lily, from what I hinted to you on the
night you came from the theatre? Duty _should_ be followed first; much
that is bitter in life it makes sweet. But when love and duty clash,
we should examine ourselves strictly, sternly perhaps, out of justice
for others----"
"As you did, Felix," she interrupted in loving tones, "when you
restrained yourself from telling me your feelings until to-day. Ah, I
know! Love has made me wise. Now we will not talk of this any more
now; we shall have plenty of time by and by. How I have thought over
every word you said to me that night, Felix!"
"Every word, Lily!"
"Yes, every word; you made me very happy!"
"Darling! But you could not repeat to me what I said."
"One part I could."
"I am listening!"
"You said, it is the dearest privilege of affection to share the
troubles of those we love. If I were married (you said), 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!'" She paused
awhile, and said, "This privilege is mine now, and love and duty can
go together."
In this way she poured out her full heart to him. His duties called
him away in the afternoon, and he left her, saying he would run down
in the night, at about ten o'clock, for an hour.
"We will wait supper for you, Felix," said Old Wheels.
Felix went his way to town, the happiest of the happy.