CHAPTER XXIV
SELFISH YEARNINGS AND UNSELFISH LOVE
What but pure accident could have brought David Sheldrake and Lily together on this day? There was nothing singular in the meeting, and setting aside the presumption (as hitherto borne out by his actions) that Mr. Sheldrake was Alfred's friend, Hampton Court is open to all the world and his wife, and the chestnut-trees in Bushy Park have a wide renown. They are beautiful through all the year, in and out of blossom; their leaves have shaded many thousands of lovers, and will shade many thousands more; and the story that is as old as the hills has been whispered and acted over and over again to the noble branches that break the sunlight and the moonlight fantastically. And what was there to prevent Mr. Sheldrake having an eye for the beautiful?
It was to all appearance the most natural occurrence in the world, and Lily certainly had no suspicion that the meeting was pre-arranged. If it had been, where was the harm? Alfred saw none, and if he had – Well, if he had, it is difficult to determine how he would have acted. Men are to be found who are at once so selfish and so weak that they bring a moral blindness upon themselves. In the pursuit of their own selfish ends they are incapable of seeing in their actions a possible evil result to those whom they love. Their minds are mirrors reflecting from within, in which they see nothing but themselves and their own troubles and desires.
The holiday commenced most happily, and Lily's heart's hopes were as bright as the clouds above her. The day was an event in her life of even routine. She was as blithe as a bird. As she walked, she felt as if she would like to dance, and as she could not do that, she hummed her favourite songs, and pressed Alfred's arm to her side, and showed her grateful spirit in a hundred little affectionate ways. Every little incident afforded her pleasure, and strangers looked admiringly at her bright face. When she and Alfred arrived at Hampton Court, she was in the gayest of spirits. She chatted merrily on all sorts of subjects, and drank in the goodness and the beauty of nature with a spirit of exceeding thankfulness. She was girl and woman in one. It would have done any person good to see her roaming about the grounds and gardens, admiring this and that as a child might have done. So childlike was she in her womanliness that every now and then she would set Alfred's remarks to favourite airs, and sing them again and again in a dozen different ways.
"I am as happy as a bird," she said; "and I have you to thank for it, dear, and that makes me happier still."
In this way did her affectionate nature pay exorbitant interest for Alfred's small outlay of kindness. As she pressed his arm to her breast, and held it there, Alfred thrilled with amazement at her goodness; he looked into her sparkling eyes, which were dewy with joy.
"Do you know what, Lil?"
"What, dear?"
"I am glad you are my sister."
Her heart laughed as he said the words.
"And glad that you love me, Lil," he added.
"What would life be without love, dear Alf?"
She did not know (although she might have guessed, as she was aware that he had a heart-secret) what a tender chord her words touched. What would life be without love? Ah! think of it, all, and believe that it is the richest dower woman can bring to man, the richest gift man can give to woman! Love, faith, and charity: all the rest is dross. Out from the branches flew a bird, and after it another. Lily's eyes followed them. Up, up into the clouds, which seemed fit dwelling-place for the graceful things, until they were lost to sight. But Lily did not miss them; for in the clouds she saw her hopes reflected. She was in harmony with the peacefulness and beauty of everything around and about her. Every blade that sprang from the earth, every leaf that thrilled to the whisper of the wind, every glint of light imprismed in the brown and green lattice-work of the trees, every bright bit of colour that dwelt in cloud and flower, contributed to her happiness. Such times as these are Forget-me-nots.
So they strolled through the gardens, and into courtyards so still and quiet that they appeared scarcely to belong to the busy world. They went into the picture-gallery, because Alfred said it was the proper thing to do, but a gloom fell upon Lily when she was in the rooms. They were sad and sombre, and there was something dispiriting in the manner in which the few persons who were at the palace walked about and looked at the pictures. They walked with soft footfalls, and spoke with bated breath, and wore a solemn expression on their countenances, which seemed to say, "we are walking among the dead!" One might not inaptly have imagined, indeed, that at night, when no profane footstep disturbed the silence, the palace was a palace of ghosts and shades that rose from the floor, and started from frame and wainscot, to play their parts in the shadowy world to which they belonged. The excitement and pleasure of the day rendered Lily more than usually susceptible to outward influences. Every nerve in her was quivering with susceptibility, and the contrast between the ghostly rooms and the bright landscape without sensibly affected her. She hurried Alfred through the rooms nervously, but the eyes of a Puritan, that glared at her sternly from the wall, arrested her attention and frightened her.
The face was sunless; even about the lips and eyes there was no trace of gentleness or sweetness. The cruelly hard lines in the face of this man spoke of severity, austerity, absolutism, and declared, "Life is bitter; it is a battle of brute forces, and he who wins by strength of character, by dogmatism, by harshness, achieves a moral victory, and proves himself worthy. There is but one course-bend all the forces of your will, all the power of your strength, to crush those whose ways are not your ways, whose belief is not your belief. There is not room for all; some have no business here. To be human is not to be humane." Lily's heart grew faint as she gazed at this stern face, and it was only by a strong effort that she wrested her attention from it. She was glad when she was out in the sunshine and among the flowers again, and her lightheartedness soon returned. Alfred's mood was more subdued. Lily did not notice when they started from home that his gaiety was forced, and that he seemed to be playing a part; but it was so. His cheerfulness was only assumed. Notwithstanding the outward evidences of prosperity he displayed, he was in trouble again. In immediate trouble, that is. For, like a very numerous class, so long as his circumstances were easy for to-day, he was easy in his mind. He rarely looked beyond; sufficient for the day was the good thereof. But to-morrow comes inevitably, and it came to Alfred, and brought trouble to his door.
Nearly all his racing speculations had gone against him. The race for the Goodwood Cup, the winner of which he was so confident of having "spotted," as the phrase is, had proved disastrous to him. The acceptance for seventy-five pounds which he had given to Con Staveley would soon be due, and he had not the means to meet it. He had borrowed the money of Mr. Sheldrake, and he had given that gentleman he did not know what documents as security, security of the frailest, as his friend took care to tell him.
"It is a mere matter of form," Mr. Sheldrake had said; "for as you have no property, and are worth nothing, these bills and I O Us are worth almost as much as waste paper. But I trust to your honour, Alf; I know you'll not let me in. But although I am partial to you, my boy, and like you, and all that, I should be bound to declare, if you pushed me to it, that it is for Lily's sake only I assist you. You don't mind my saying this, do you? It is because I like her, and want her to think well of me-not without deserving it, Alf; I think I deserve it-that I'm disposed to stick to you. You'll have a slice of luck one day, my boy. That tip of yours for the Cup was a bad one; but better luck next time, that's my motto. How much did you lose? O, that wasn't a great deal" (making light of what was a serious sum to Alfred); "you'll soon pull that up. Of course you'll be able to meet that little bill of Staveley's? If I didn't think it was all right, I wouldn't tell you what he said yesterday. He swore that if the bill wasn't paid (what put it in his head that it wouldn't be, puzzles me) he wouldn't hold me accountable, but would come down upon you, and press the money out of you. He's as hard as nails upon some points, is Con Staveley, and he's sore because I've been let in by so many of my friends. He can't make out what makes me cotton to you so; but then he hasn't seen Lily, has he, Alf? or he might alter his tone."
Of course Alfred said he would be able to meet Con Staveley's bill, hoping that meanwhile the slice of luck (which, unfortunately for the hopeful ones, is nearly always figurative) would be cut off Fortune's pudding for him. But it wasn't; and pay-day was drawing near; and he had been borrowing more money of Mr. Sheldrake, some of which he had lost in racing as usual, and some of which he had spent upon himself, and in other ways. So that altogether he was in a bad way, and supposing that Mr. Sheldrake failed him, he did not know where to turn for assistance to float him through his money scrapes. Of one thing he was certain-it depended upon Lily whether Mr. Sheldrake continued to be his friend. He extracted comfort from this thought; for as the word of promise is often kept to the ear to break it to the hope, so he cajoled himself into believing that Lily entertained a warm feeling for Mr. Sheldrake; he believed it because it was vitally necessary to him that it should be so. Still he would make sure. He had a favour to ask of Mr. Sheldrake this very day, and Lily would be able to assist him in obtaining it. Perhaps she would be able to put in a word for him with that gentleman. He absolutely saw nothing wrong in the thought. It was, however, with an uneasy feeling that he commenced the conversation, and he was rather ashamed of himself for going roundabout instead of coming straight to the point.
"I am so glad you are enjoying yourself, Lily."
He could find nothing better to say than this.
"I can't help it, Alfred; it would be ungrateful not to on such a day. And I enjoy it all the more because you have brought me and because you are with me. What beautiful places there are to come to, if one has the time and the money!"
"Yes, and the money," repeated Alfred, with a groan. "Isn't it a shame, Lily, that a fellow can't get as much as he wants?"
"That depends, Alf," answered Lily, with a touch of philosophy which sounded all the prettier from her lips, because she was the last person in the world who would be supposed to be given to philosophising, "upon how much a fellow wants."
"Not much; not a great deal. There are hundreds of people who have more than they know what to do with."
"I think," said Lily, in a musing tone, "one can do with a very little and be very happy."
"You say so because you're a girl; if you were a man you would think different."
"Perhaps," she said, with a readier mental acquiescence than the word expressed.
"A man wants so many things," continued Alfred, with only one interpretation of "man" in his mind, and that was himself, "that a girl has no idea of. He has to move in the world, and do as others do, if he doesn't want to look mean and shabby; it's hard lines on a fellow when it comes to that. Now a girl's different; so long as she's comfortable at home she's all right. There is no occasion for her to knock about."
"Alfred," said Lily, looking into his face suddenly, "you speak as if you were in trouble."
"And if I were, and if you could help me, Lily, would you?"
"Would I?" She took his hand and kissed it, as she had done once before this morning. A wise man, or, rather, one who had learnt wisdom (for the two definitions are not synonymous), who was strolling in the gardens, saw the action, and thought, "How fond that girl is of that young fellow!" naturally setting them down as sweethearts; and in his superior wisdom smiled somewhat sneeringly at the hollowness of love's young dream. "Would I! What would I not do for those I love!" It was her heart that spoke. "Tell me your trouble, Alfred."
"Money," he replied curtly; "that's my trouble."
"Can I help you, dear? I earn some."
"And give it all to grandfather," he said bitterly; for he thought of what better use he could make of Lily's earnings than his grandfather, and how many fine chances of backing the right horses he was throwing away for want of means.
"Yes," she said, in a surprised tone at his bitterness; "surely that's right, Alf?"
"O, I suppose it is," he answered, in a rough, ungracious manner; "whatever grandfather is mixed up with, and whatever he does, must be right, of course."
"What is the matter with you and grandfather?" she asked in deep anxiety; the brightness was beginning to die out of the day. "I can't tell you how grieved I have been to see the way you behave to each other. You do not love each other as you used to do. I was in hopes this morning that it was all right between you again."
"How can I tell you what it is that makes him treat me as he does. Lily, when I don't know myself? Directly you went out of the room this morning, he began to nag me, and I couldn't stand it. He's always at me with his eyes or his tongue."
Lily was exquisitely distressed. Alfred spoke as if his grandfather were his enemy, and they were both necessary to her. She loved them both-not equally; her love for Alfred was the stronger. If it were placed distinctly before her that she would be compelled to choose between them, she would have chosen Alfred. This contingency did not present itself to her now, but she was sufficiently grieved at the consciousness of the breach between the two persons upon whom until lately she had bestowed all her love. Could she heal it? could she do anything? she asked timidly.
"Whose fault is it, Alfred-yours or grandfather's?"
"Is it mine?" he demanded impetuously, in return. "Now I ask you, Lily, do you think it is mine?"
"No, no," she replied, with generous and loving readiness; "I am sure it is not."
And thus committed herself, almost instinctively, out of her love for him.
"Well then," he said, feeling like a coward, "there it is. If I have a new suit of clothes, grandfather preaches me a sermon. That's why I didn't show him the chain the other day. I don't want to say anything against him, but young men are not the same as they used to be. Now, I put it to you, Lily: if you had anybody that you liked-I mean that you cared for a bit-that-that-you were-very fond of – "
"Alfred!" cried Lily, looking at him with eager eyes.
"You know what I mean, Lily. If you were a man and had anybody that you loved-there! now it's out! – wouldn't you like to look well in her eyes?"
"O, yes, yes, Alfred! And have you some one like that? I thought so-I thought so!"
"Yes, I have, Lily, and she is the dearest, prettiest, best girl in the world, Lily. And it's because she's poor – "
"That's nothing, Alfred."
"That's nothing, of course, in her. But because she's poor I try to make a little money so as to be nice, and make her a present now and then, perhaps; and because of that, grandfather's always at me, preaching-preaching-preaching. O Lily, you should see her! She is as good as you are, and as pretty, upon my word, Lil."
"Prettier and better, I am sure, Alfred," said Lily, taking his hand and caressing it. She would have liked to throw her arms round his neck, but they were sitting in the gardens, and people's eyes were upon them; so she was compelled to restrain the impulse, and to content herself with caressing his hand and saying, "I am so glad! I am so glad and that was your secret? You have got some one that you love-my dear, my dearest! O, how happy you have made me! And you love her very, very much?"
"With all my heart and soul, Lily." He spoke the truth.
"And she loves you? But what a question! As if she could help it!"
She looked into his handsome face with genuine admiration. How bright the day was again! Earth, sky, air, grew lovelier in the light of her happiness; for in the love her brother bore to this girl she saw her own reflected.
"She loves me as well as I love her, Lily."
"I am sure of it-I am sure of it; she couldn't do otherwise. What is her name?"
"Lizzie," answered Alfred, with gratified vanity.
"Lizzie! Lizzie! I shall have a sister; I love her already, my dear. Of course," she said slyly, "you have her portrait?"
"How do you know, you puss?" he asked, with a laugh and a blush.
She echoed his laugh, and said, with an affectation of superior wisdom,
"I could shut my eyes, and find it-there!" and she touched his breast-pocket lightly.
"Here it is, Lil," he said, bashfully and proudly, taking Lizzie's portrait from his pocket. "What do you think of her? But it doesn't do her justice."
The accumulative sins that photographers are guilty of in "not doing justice" must surely bring a heavy retribution upon them one of these days. But in this instance they found a zealous champion in Lily, who gazed at the portrait with admiring eyes, and kissed it again and again.
"What a beautiful face! what lovely hair!" ("All her own, Lil," interpolated Alfred.) "I can tell that. And she has brown eyes, like mine. And your portrait is in this locket round her neck. When shall I see her really?"
"Soon; I have told her about you. But O, Lily, I am so unhappy with it all! I am the most miserable wretch in the world, I do believe!"
"Unhappy!" exclaimed Lily, bewildered by these alternations of feeling. "Miserable! I don't understand you, Alfred."
Indeed, she could not understand it. She judged from her own feelings; to love and to be loved was, to her imagination, the highest condition of happiness. Earth contained no brighter lot; and if in the Heaven and future life we believe in and look forward to-all of us, I hope-some such bliss as the bliss of pure love is to be ours, there can be no better reward for living a good life.
"You asked me to tell you my troubles," said Alfred, a little sulkily, "and I told you: money. But you seem to have forgotten it already."
"I did, for a moment, my dear," she replied remorsefully; "I forgot it in my delight at the news you have told me for and in the contemplation of your happiness."
"How can I be happy," he grumbled, "with such a trouble upon me? You do not know what it is, and how it weighs me down. How can I show my face to Lizzie when I am so pressed, and when I am in debt, and can't pay?"
"And yet," she said, out of her own goodness and unselfishness, "you have brought me here for a holiday to-day, and I have been thoughtless enough to come, and put you to expense, when I ought to have guessed you could not afford it!"
The very construction she placed upon it displayed him in a generous light which he so little deserved, that he felt inwardly ashamed of himself.
"How could you have guessed? I have kept my troubles to myself. Why should I bother you with them? And it would be hard, indeed, if I could not give you a little pleasure now and then. It isn't much I give you, Lil-not as much as I should like to. Until I saw Lizzie, I had no one to love but you, and now, when everything might be so splendid with me,