FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
Lily listened to the sound of Mr. Sheldrake's departing footsteps as
he went down-stairs; heard him speak to some one in the bar, and heard
the front door open and close upon him as he walked out into the
night. Then, with a grateful "Thank God!" she called the landlady into
the room, and whispered to her, and put money into her hand. The
landlady said,
"Very well, miss; I'll watch for him."
Whoever it was she was set to watch, it was evidently no enemy to
Lily; for in less than five minutes she was talking to the person at
the back door, and telling him that the young lady was up-stairs
alone. Lily was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She drew him
into the room with eager haste, and clasping him round the neck, cried
again, "Thank God! I am safe now! You will not leave me, will you?
Stop with me--for my grandfather's sake, for Lizzie's sake!" and,
overcome by emotion, could say no more, and swooned in his arms. When
consciousness returned to her, the landlady was standing by her side,
and Mr. Musgrave was kneeling before her.
"There, there!" said the landlady soothingly; "I told you she had only
fainted. Do you feel better, my dear?"
"Much better, thank you," replied Lily, vaguely. But looking down upon
the kneeling form of Mr. Musgrave, remembrance of what had passed came
to her; and she clung to him in a passion of tears, and besought him
again and again not to desert her. At a sign from him the landlady
quitted the room, saying,
"You will find me down-stairs if you want me."
"You are crying, Mr. Musgrave," said Lily, when they were alone. "I
feel your tears on my hand."
"They are tears of joy and pain, my dear," he answered, rising from
his knees. "Tell me now how you came here. When I saw you looking out
of the window, I placed my finger on my lips, warning you to silence.
It is as I suspected, is it not? Mr. Sheldrake brought you here?"
Briefly she told him of the means employed by Mr. Sheldrake to induce
her to accompany him, and of what had passed between them on the road
and at the inn. He listened attentively, and with varying shades of
emotion; and when she ceased speaking, he told her to be comforted,
that he would protect her, and that it was not Mr. Sheldrake she or
Alfred had to fear.
"There _is_ cause for fear, my dear," he said, "but not from him. When
I return, I will tell you more----"
"You are not going?" she interrupted entreatingly, clinging to him
more closely.
"I must; you shall know my errand when I come back, and you will be
satisfied. Then I will not leave you again. I shall be absent for half
an hour, my dear; and while I am away the landlady will sit with you."
"But if Mr. Sheldrake returns----"
"You say he has gone for Alfred. Lily, trust one who would give his
life for you. I would, my dear! I would lay it down willingly at your
feet, if it were necessary for your safety or your honour!" What
inexplicable passion, inwardly borne but not expressed, was it that
caused his limbs to tremble as he held her to him for a few brief
moments? What impulse caused him to loose her from his embrace
suddenly, and to stand aloof from her as if he were not worthy of the
association?
"Mr. Sheldrake will not come back to-night. Be patient for half an
hour, my dear, and trust me thoroughly. Let me hear you say you have
confidence in my words."
His earnestness carried conviction with it; but his humble manner
pained her.
"You would not deceive me, sir," she said. "I trust you thoroughly,
and will wait patiently."
She raised her face to his, and with a grateful sob he was about to
kiss her; but the same impulse restrained him.
"No," he murmured; "not until she knows all." And left the room
without embracing her.
At the appointed time he returned. During the interval the landlady
had lit the fire, and had drawn a couch to the hearth, upon which she
persuaded Lily to rest herself.
"Ah, that's good," Mr. Musgrave said; "are you warm enough?" He
arranged the rugs about her with a tenderness which surprised her, and
then sat apart from her, with his head upon his hand.
"You have something on your mind, sir. Come and sit near me. Are you
troubled about me?"
He did not answer her immediately; but with a clumsy movement of his
hand he overturned the candlestick, putting out the light, almost
purposely as it seemed.
"We do not need to light it, child," he said; "we can talk in the
dark."
"Yes, sir, if you please," she answered, yet wondering somewhat; "but
the room is not dark. I like the soft light of the fire; it brings
rest to me. I shall be glad when day comes." She paused between each
sentence, expecting him to speak; but he sat silent, watching the
fitful shadows as they grew large and dwindled on the walls and
ceiling "What are you thinking of, sir?"
"I am looking into the past," he replied presently, in sad and solemn
tones.
"And you see----"
"A wasted life. A life that might have been useful and happy, and good
in making others happy."
"Not yours, sir," she said pityingly--"not yours. Ah, sir, you speak
as if your heart was troubled! Come closer to me, and let me comfort
you, as you have comforted me."
"Not yet, child; I dare not. If, when you have heard what I have to
say, you ask me to do that, I will fall at your feet and bless you!
This wasted life that I see in the shadows that play about the
room--may I tell you some passages in it?"
"It pains you to speak; it pains me to hear your sad voice----"
"Nay," he interrupted; "it relieves me. My heart will burst else; and
I have waited for this so long, so long! You _will_ listen in
patience?"
"Yes, sir."
"So gradual are the changes that we do not notice them during the
time--we scarcely know how they come about; until, after the lapse of
many years, we look back and wonder at the contrast between them and
now. This wasted life that I speak of, how does it look now in the
eyes of the man who has misused it? He sees his youth as one, standing
at the foot of a great hill where the shadows lie thick, might look up
to the mount upon which the sun shines. That was before he was
married, and when he was a young man. Reckless, uncontrolled,
thirsting for the possession of things out of his reach, he did not
stop to think or reason. He could not then have spoken of himself and
of his desires as he speaks now, for he was arrogant, insolent,
selfish, and inconsiderate to his heart's core. Bitter has been the
fruit of these passions; but had he died a hundred deaths he could not
have expiated the wrong he inflicted. And yet he did not awake to the
consciousness of this until a few months since--until all the wrong
was accomplished, and until he had sunk to a shameful depth--until a
terrible retribution had ripened, to fall upon him for his deeds. No
one was to blame but he. Life presented fair opportunities to him. He
had youth, he had strength, he had a wife who loved him; but the curse
that lies heavy upon thousands, that wrecks the happiness of life,
poisons its sweetness, turns smiles into tears, joy into despair--the
curse of drink was upon him. It brought a blight upon his wife's fond
hopes, and broke her heart. He sees now in the shadows the picture of
that time. He sees himself covered with shame, flying from justice,
saved from just punishment by one whom he has only lately learned to
revere; he sees that man, the father of his wife, looking with aching
heart at the prospect that lies before his child; he sees his wife,
pale, dumb, heart-crushed, mourning the death of love and hope; he
sees his two children, a boy and a girl, the girl almost a babe----"
He paused here, fighting with his grief. A long silence followed. Lily
had raised herself upon the couch, and had followed his words with
agonised interest. She could say nothing to comfort him; her emotion
was too powerful for speech. In trembling suspense she waited for his
next words. She felt that she was in some way connected with the story
he was telling, but the light that shone upon her mind burned dimly as
yet.
"So he left those who should have been dear to him, and never looked
again upon the face of his wife. The time that followed--the long,
long years during which he strove to forget the past--seem to him like
a dream. With the curse of drink still upon him, he grew old before
his time. He had taken another name, and nothing of his former life
was known. Mention of it never passed his lips. How he lived, matters
not now. It shames him to think of it. But after many years had
passed, he awoke one day to a better consciousness of things. There
came to lodge in the house in which he lived a bright and good girl,
who obtained her living by dressmaking. When he first saw her, and
heard her pretty voice singing in the room next to his, it seemed as
if a vision of the past had fallen upon him. This girl and he became
friends, and he grew to love her, and loves her now. Often, as he
looked upon her, he thought that his daughter, if she was living--his
daughter whom he had not seen since she was a babe--would be something
like this bright girl. One night the man's employer came to him and
made a strange offer. On the condition that he could persuade this
girl to live with him as his daughter or his niece, a small house near
London was to be taken, of which he was to be the tenant and
ostensible master. While they were talking over this proposition, the
girl came home; she had been to the theatre with her sweetheart; he
accompanied her home, and the voices were heard in the adjoining room.
The employer heard the young man's voice, and recognised it, and it
seemed as if the recognition made him more desirous that the plan
should be put into operation quickly. The old man that very night
acquainted the girl with the proposition that had been made to him,
and she consented to live with him. She told him the story of her
life, and they sat up talking until late. Before she went to bed he
asked her the name of her sweetheart. She told him. It was the name of
his own son!"
He covered his face with his hands, unable to proceed. Lily rose from
the sofa, and approached him tremblingly. She knelt at his feet, and
said, in a voice that rose no higher than a whisper,
"Tell me his name, sir."
The name came through his sobs.
"Alfred."
"And his sweetheart's name is Lizzie, is it not?"
"Yes."
"And the story you have related to me is your own?"
"It is my own, miserable man that I am!"
The silence that followed was very brief, but to him it was like a
long and terrible oblivion. Then upon the darkness in which his soul
was wrapped broke a silver line of light, so inexpressively sweet, so
exquisitely painful, that his heart almost ceased to beat.
"Father!"
Her arms were round his neck, but he fell on the ground at her feet,
and cried humbly for forgiveness.
"Father, you have something more to tell me!"
"Yes, my dear child. You must be made acquainted with what has passed,
so that you may be prepared. You will hear what I have to tell
bravely, will you not, my child?"
"It is about Alfred!" she cried, in great agitation.
"It is; I know where he is. I have seen him. I went to him when I left
you awhile ago."
She started to her feet, and looked about tremblingly for her mantle.
"I must go to him at once. Come! Why do we stop here?"
"Dear child," he said, taking her hand in his, and striving to calm
her, "you must be guided by me. For his sake, we must keep away from
him."
"But he is alone, and unhappy. What will he think if he knows that I
am here? O, let us go to him, dear father! We should not be absent
from him in his trouble."
"Lily, my child, you would not bring greater trouble upon him?"
"No, no!"
"You might, if you do not act as I tell you. A watch might be set upon
your steps, and his safety depends upon his hiding-place being kept
secret. For he _is_ in hiding, my dear. Sit down, child, and be
satisfied that for the present you are serving him best by remaining
here. And do not be uneasy, my darling, that he is not being taken
care of. He is not alone. Lizzie is with him."
"Lizzie with him!"
What strange wonders was this night bringing forth!
"He wrote to her, and although he did not tell her where she could
find him, she lost not a moment, but came here at once, the dear brave
girl! Alfred was at the races to-day, as you already know, and lost
not only his own money, but money that did not belong to him. What
this false man who brought you here to-night told you about him is
true. Alfred is in great peril, and the despair that seized him when
he realized the full sense of his danger made him desperate, and drove
him almost mad. I came to Epsom to-day especially to keep an eye upon
him, for I feared that something bad would occur. Last week Lizzie
overheard a conversation between him and Mr. Sheldrake--it took place
in our cottage, and she listened at the door. She had not the courage
until last night to tell me what she had heard, and I dreaded the
consequences, and saw them in a clearer light than she. I have gone
through such an experience myself, and have tasted the bitter fruit. I
determined to come to Epsom, knowing, alas! that it was too late to
undo the evil he was bringing upon himself, but hoping against hope
that by a lucky chance (the gambler's forlorn hope, my dear!) things
would turn out well. They did not; and when the race was over, I saw
Alfred steal away from the course, ruined and almost lost--I saw it in
his face--and I followed him to prevent worse occurring. His false
friend saw me, and for a purpose of his own set me to watch my own
son, little dreaming of the stake I held in his unhappy fortunes. But
Alfred discovered that I was watching him, and he escaped me. I was
frightened to think to what his agony and remorse might drive him, and
I wandered everywhere in search of him. For six hours, my dear, I
hunted for him in vain. I was distracted. It was a dark cold night,
and I was worn-out and wearied. At nearly eleven o'clock I was on the
plains, near to some gipsy tents, about half a mile from here. I
thought of Lizzie's misery at Alfred's absence, and I thought of you
also, dear child. I did not know what it was best for me to do. Shall
I return home? I asked of myself. And as I stood, uncertain and
helpless, I heard a voice that was familiar to me. It was Lizzie's
voice, my dear. She had been searching also, and with a woman's wit
knew that it was useless to inquire at the inns or wander about the
town in search of him. She guessed rightly where it was most likely he
would try to find refuge. She went to every tent and every camping
party on the plains, and made her way where I could not, and received
answers and civil words where they were denied to me. At the gipsy
tents, near which I had halted, she was told that a man with the
horrors on him--don't tremble, child!--had come and wanted to camp
with them; but they had turned him away, and would have naught to do
with him. Lizzie described Alfred to them. Yes, they answered, it was
some such sort of a man. She searched for him near those tents, and
found him lying under a hedge in a state of delirium. Dear child, be
calm! let us pray that he will get well, and that this great trouble
may be tided over. It is not Mr. Sheldrake that he has to fear. But I
haven't finished my story yet. Lizzie found him, and prevailed upon
the gipsy women to give them shelter. She bribed them with money; she
would have given them her blood if they had bargained for it, for his
sake. Ah, my child! I begin to see the beauty of a woman's love, and
how unworthy we are! One of the gipsy women made some cooling drink
for him, and it was while these two were talking outside the tent that
I heard Lizzie's voice. You may imagine our sad pleasure at thus
discovering each other. I remained with them some little time, and
came to this inn for food and drink for them, and as I approached the
place I saw your face at the window. You know now the errand which
took me from you for half an hour. It is arranged that Alfred shall
remain with these people, if necessary; they will conceal him if they
are paid for it, and one of the women has taken a great liking for
Lizzie. The dear girl would win her way anywhere. I told Lizzie you
were here. She sends her dearest love to you, and says that she will
contrive to see you to-morrow. She told me to tell you also, that when
Felix and your grandfather--God bless him for the care and love he has
bestowed on my child!--And all of us absent, Felix will be sure, after
the first shock of surprise, to guess where we all are, and that he
will follow you to Epsom early in the morning, perhaps to-night.
Felix, she says, knows more about Alfred than you are aware of. So,
dear child, all that we can do is to wait until the morning, and to
hope for the best. And now, before you lie down to rest, tell me if it
is as I suspect and hope with you and Felix."
She hid her face on his shoulder, and told him all.
"God bless you both!" he said solemnly.
He insisted on her lying down, and he sat by her side and watched her.
When, presently, she pretended to fall asleep, he knelt by the couch,
and, with his face resting on her soft warm hand, prayed with humble
heart.