London's Heart: A Novel

CHAPTER XLV

HOW MR. SHELDRAKE PLAYS HIS GAME

Mr. David Sheldrake was a cool calculating rogue, and was by no means of a sufficiently romantic or daring turn to plan and to carry out an abduction. If Lily had decided not to accompany him, he would, with an ill grace, have abided by her decision. The qualities of his mind were pretty evenly balanced, and he had no intention of placing himself in danger. What Lily did she did deliberately, and with her own free-will, and every move in the little game that he had played was testimony in his favour. Lily had come to him, had made it appear, by asking the landlady of the True Blue for the use of her parlour, that it was she who desired to confer privately with him, had smiled when she left the public house, and had voluntarily entered the cab which was conveying them along the Epsom road. He could prove that he had been a friend to her brother, and, according to the logic of figures, a heavy loser by him; he could prove that he had been on intimate terms with Lily, and that she had accepted favours from him. So far all was well. But, going a point farther, Mr. Sheldrake, carefully considering the position as the cab drove along, was puzzled. He had not definitely settled upon the next step. He had, in a vague manner, decided that to bring the brother and sister together-to make Lily clearly understand the desperate position in which Alfred was placed-and then to say to her, "And I am the only man that can save your brother" – would be a fine thing for him. Setting aside the dramatic effect of the situation (Mr. Sheldrake, having an eye for dramatic effect, had thought of that), it would undoubtedly place him in a good light. But then, on what terms would he consent to save her brother? It was at this point he paused, and said to himself that he must consider seriously what was the best thing he could do; and while he was considering he heard Lily's voice calling to him. He bade the driver stop, and he alighted and went to the cab-door.

"Have we much farther to go, Mr. Sheldrake?" she asked, in a weak imploring tone.

"No, not a great way."

"I thought we should have been in London before now; but the road is strange to me; I do not recognise it."

"It is the road to Epsom," he explained. "I told you, if you remember, that your brother could not come home."

"Yes; but I thought you meant he could not come from London; he went straight to his office from us this morning."

"No, he did not, Lily; he went to the Epsom races."

She uttered a sharp cry of pain.

"O, why could he not have confided in me? Why did he deceive us?"

"I supposed you knew," said Mr. Sheldrake gently; "I had no reason for supposing otherwise."

"I don't blame you, Mr. Sheldrake – "

"Thank you, Lily," he said. Kind words from her were really pleasant to him.

"But I am frightened of being on this road alone."

"Not alone; I am here to protect you."

Her tears fell fast.

"If I had known-if I had known!" she murmured, in great distress of mind. She had been thinking of Felix and her grandfather, and of their unhappiness at her absence. But there was some small comfort for her in the thought that she had written to them, and had explained as far as she dared.

"If you had known!" repeated Mr. Sheldrake gravely. "Do you mean that if you had known, you would not have come? Surely you cannot mean that, Lily! When I parted from your brother this afternoon, he was flying to hide himself from the danger which threatens him, and from which only we can save him. And of course I thought you knew where he was. If there has been deceit, it has not been on my part. And even at this stage, I cannot submit to be placed in a false light, or to be misjudged. I have endeavoured to make you acquainted with the unhappy position of affairs; in the state of mind in which I left your brother, I would not answer for it that he would not commit any rash act. But if you cannot trust me, you have but to say the word, and we will go back, and I will leave you within a dozen yards of your grandfather's door."

"No, no!" she cried. She was, indeed, almost helpless in this man's hands. "We will go on; I must see him and save him, if I can."

"You trust me, then," he said eagerly.

She was constrained to reply "Yes;" but when he took her hand, which was resting on the sash, and kissed it, she shivered as though she had been drawn into an act of disloyalty to Felix. Mr. Sheldrake had made up his mind by the time he had resumed his seat on the box: he would marry Lily-there was nothing else for it. "I'll sow my wild oats and settle down," he thought, as he lit a cigar; "a man must marry at some time or other, and it's almost time for me to be thinking of it. I couldn't do better; she's innocent and pretty, and-everything that's good; and she's not a girl that will impose on a man, like some of those who know too much." Then he fell a-thinking of the wives of his friends, and how superior Lily was in every way to any of them. "She'll do me credit," he thought. He was dimly conscious that Lily entertained a tender feeling for Felix; but that this would fade utterly away in the light of his own magnanimous offer he did not entertain a doubt. He mused upon the future in quite a different mood from that he was accustomed to; for the purifying influence of Lily's nature made itself felt even in his heart, deadened as it had been all his life to the higher virtues. And now they were nearing the end of their journey. In the distance could be seen the fires of the gipsy camps; the cold wind came sweeping over the downs. The best thing he could do, he thought, would be to stop at an inn; he knew of a quiet one, out of the town, where it was likely they would not be noticed; and he would leave Lily alone for a few minutes, and, on the pretence of going out to seek for Alfred, he would go to the Myrtle-the inn at which he had desired Mr. Musgrave to put up-and see if the old man was there. Then he would come back to Lily, and tell her they would not be able to see Alfred until the morning. There would be a little scene, perhaps, but he would be able to smooth matters over.

By the time he had matured this plan, the cab drove up to the door of the inn. It was not yet midnight, and Mr. Sheldrake had no difficulty in obtaining admission. As they entered, and walked upstairs into a private room which Mr. Sheldrake ordered, Lily looked about, expecting to see Alfred. Mr. Sheldrake, attentively observing her, knew the meaning of those searching glances, and, against his reason, was mortified by the reflection that he occupied no place in her thoughts.

"You had best take off your things, Lily," he said awkwardly, and, seeming not to notice the look of sudden distrust and surprise which came into her face at his words, proceeded, "It is chilly, but we will soon have a fire, and be comfortable."

Either his words, or the tone of familiarity in which they were spoken, came like a cold wind upon Lily's fevered senses. Felix seemed to stand before her, and to warn her against this man. But although, in the light of these new impressions, a veil seemed to be falling from before her sight, and although love for Felix, and the responsibilities it conveyed to her heart, gave her strength, the shock was too great and unexpected for her to find words to answer Mr. Sheldrake immediately.

"I will order some supper, Lily. Is there anything particular that you would like?"

She steadied herself, resting her hand upon the table.

"Where is Alfred?" she asked, in a voice that was firm, despite its tremulousness. "Where is Alfred?"

Mr. Sheldrake was discomposed by her unusual manner.

"Alfred is not here, Lily."

"Not here!" she echoed. "For what reason, then, have we stopped here?"

Mr. Sheldrake felt the difficulty of the situation, and, with an embarrassment which he strove in vain not to express, proceeded to explain. But disconcerted by the steady gaze with which she regarded him, he stumbled over his words, and for once in his life his assurance failed him. Had he been at his ease, and had he spoken with his usual plausibility, he might still have been successful in deceiving her; but he had betrayed himself, and it came upon her like a flash of light that he had set a trap for her. She waited until he had finished speaking, and then said, with an utter disregard of his explanation,

"You asked me to come with you to see my brother. Bring him to me."

"That is what I intend, Lily," he said, biting his lips; "I will go and search for him. But you want rest and refreshment first."

She stopped his farther speech.

"I want neither. I am here to see my brother. Bring him to me."

Amazed and confounded by the resolution of her manner, he hesitated. He could not leave her in the strange mood that had come upon her; he must strive to leave more favourable impression behind him. But the words he wished to utter for the purpose of quieting and assuring her would not come to his lips. As he hesitated, Lily stepped quickly to the window, and throwing it open, looked out.

"What are you looking for?" he asked, stepping towards her.

A sudden cry, almost hysterical, escaped from her, and she turned swiftly and confronted him.

"I am looking for the cab," she said, her cheeks flushing, showing such distrust of him by the action of her hands that he shrugged his shoulders, and sat down at a little distance from her. He had quietly ordered the driver to take the cab to the Myrtle Inn, and put up there; but he knew that, even if the cab were still at the door, she could not see it, for the window of the room looked out upon the back of the inn. As Lily leaned out of the window, Mr. Sheldrake fancied he heard a voice without, but he set it down to the account of some toper going from the inn; in another moment, however, he did hear Lily's voice, but could not distinguish what she said. He started up with a jealous exclamation, and as he did so, Lily closed the window, and sank into a chair in a fit of hysterical weeping.

"Why can you not trust me?" he asked, bending over her tenderly. "You are over-wrought and over-excited. To whom were you speaking?"

She calmed herself by a great effort:

"The man said he could not see anything of the cab," she answered; "nor could I. It is gone."

"The driver has put up his horse, I suppose. It is a long drive, remember, and the horse must be tired."

A knock came at the door, and the landlady entered.

"Do you stop here to-night, sir?" she inquired.

"Yes," he said.

"No," said Lily firmly. "This gentleman does not stop here to-night."

A threatening look came into his eyes.

"Wait outside a minute," he said to the landlady. The landlady obeyed, and Mr. Sheldrake closed the door. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded of Lily, in a husky voice, almost throwing off his disguise.

"Can you ask me? You have brought me here to see my brother on a matter of life or death. I cannot rest until I see him. Have you no pity for my anxiety? Do you know where Alfred is?"

"Yes," he was compelled to reply. "I will go and bring him to you. Will that satisfy you?"

"You know it will. But promise me one thing."

"You can't ask me anything, Lily, that I will not promise," he said, hailing this small token of confidence with gladness.

"Give me your sacred word of honour that you will not return here to-night unless my brother is with you."

He felt that he had no alternative; but the fear that she wished to escape from him was upon him. In the light of this fear she became more than ever precious in his eyes. Urged to the desperate declaration, he said,

"Lily, listen to me. You know that I love you-that I love you honourably."

"If you do," she interrupted bravely, but with her hand on her heart, "you cannot hesitate to give me the promise I ask."

"But you! What will you do?"

"I shall stop here in the hope of seeing my brother."

"I can depend on that? You will stop here to-night?"

"I will-by all that I hold dear!"

"And if I am unsuccessful in finding Alfred to-night, you will see me in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, I promise you," he said gaily: "I will show you that you can trust me thoroughly. Good-night, Lily."

He held her hand tenderly in his for a moment, and deemed it prudent to say no more.

"Little witch!" he murmured, as he walked away from the inn. "I was afraid she was going to turn upon me. But I have her safely now, I think!"

CHAPTER XLVI

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 – "