CHAPTER XXVII
FELIX COMFORTS MARTHA DAY
In a very flutter of delight, Alfred hurried to the spot where Lizzie was waiting for him. He did not pause to reflect upon the strange manner in which she had been brought to the place; it was sufficient for him that she was here, that the day was bright, and that Mr. Sheldrake had promised him to see that his acceptance to Con Staveley would be made all right. "It is only for a little while," he said to himself, as he came to the gates of Bushey Park; "when the Cesarewitch is run, I shall be all right. I daresay Sheldrake will put something on for me." Attracted by the crowd assembled round the street acrobats, he paused, and saw Lizzie. He saw also a pale-looking woman on the opposite side observing her; but this did not strike him as being worthy of notice. He looked round at the men and women who were admiringly following the movements of the acrobats, and noticed, with a feeling of as much pride as pleasure, that Lizzie was the most attractive and prettiest of them all.
"Lizzie!" he whispered in her ear.
"O, Alfred!"
The girl turned at the sound of his voice with such unrestrained joy in her face, that Martha Day bit her colourless lip until a blood-stain came upon it.
"Who ever expected to see you here, Lizzie?"
"Are you disappointed?" asked Lizzie archly. "If you are, I'll go back again."
In earnest of her sincerity, she took his arm, and clung to it. Alfred laughed.
"It looks as if you wanted to go back," he said, with admiring glances at her.
"O, Alfred, isn't this a delightful surprise?"
He nodded, and heedless of the people about them, took her hand in his. But she, more immediately conscious of the proprieties, gave his hand a little squeeze, and withdrew her own. She had on a new hat and a new dress, and she wanted him to admire them.
"Do you like my new hat, Alf?"
"Upon my word, I didn't notice it, Lizzie."
"O!" was her comment, in a tone of disappointment.
"I couldn't see anything but your face, Lizzie."
"Ah!" was her comment, in a tone of gratification, with love-sparkles in her eyes.
"It's very pretty," he said.
"My face or my bonnet, Alf?"
"I should like to hug you, Lizzie," was his crooked answer.
"But you mustn't," she said, with ripples in her voice. "So many people looking! Give me twopence, Alf."
"What for?" he asked, giving her the coppers.
"For the conjurers-because I feel so happy."
A juvenile member of the company had just tied himself into a knot, and having untied himself, Lizzie beckoned to him and gave him the money, the good example being immediately followed by others of the on-lookers.
"You've brought them luck, Lizzie."
"I'm glad of it."
But the hat question was not yet settled. She directed his attention to it.
"I made it myself last night, Alf. I want to know if it becomes me."
"It's just the kind of hat that I should have bought for you," he said.
"I made this dress, too. Do you like it? Feel what nice soft stuff it is."
He squeezed her arm.
"I like what is in it best," he said.
"What's that?" she asked coquettishly.
"You."
"O, I daresay," with a saucy toss of her head. "But it's the dress I want to know about."
"It's the very prettiest dress I ever saw."
"I thought you would like it;" and then she inquired anxiously, "It isn't too short, is it?"
With a lover's jealousy, he said he thought it might be a trifle longer.
"Goose!" she exclaimed, with an air of superior wisdom. "As if you knew anything about it! If I had ugly feet, of course I should have made it a little longer. Perhaps I have got ugly feet."
"O!" he said. "You've got the prettiest feet in the world."
Accepting this statement (with feminine logic) as a decision in her favour respecting the length of the dress, she said,
"I'm glad you're pleased with it; I never made anything for myself without considering whether you will like it. Just see if my panier is right, Alf."
He said, with a critical eye that her panier was just the thing.
Martha Day noted this comedy with wistful gaze. To them it was the pleasantest of plays-to her the dreariest.
"So that, take me altogether, Alf," said Lizzie, "you think I'll do?"
"If you speak like that, Lizzie, I shall hug you. I won't be able not to." (Most ungrammatical, but very expressive.)
"If you're not quiet, Alf, I shall run away."
"And now tell me; I want to know all about it. When Mr. Sheldrake gave me your note I was regularly knocked over. I had to read it twice before I could make sure. How long have you known Mr. Sheldrake? And how did you come to know him? And how did he find out about you and me?"
Lovers are never tired of asking questions. In this respect they resembled the character of the American people, which, if I were asked to define tersely, I should define thus: ?
"It's like a delightful fairy story," said Lizzy.
"Nonsense, Lizzie. Do be sensible."
"It isn't nonsense, Alf. It really and truly is like a delightful fairy story, and if you don't think so, I'll not tell you anything about it."
"I'll say it's like anything, if you'll only tell me all about it."
"Well, then, I must commence properly. Once upon a time – " Here she paused, in the most tantalising manner, and asked, "Where do I live?"
"Why, where you lived the last time I was at your place."
"How long ago is that?" with an air of not having the most remote idea as to whether it was a day, or a week, or a year.
"This day last week, you little tease."
"Was it?" as though she really had no idea. "Perhaps you're right. Well, everything's altered since then. I don't live there any longer. But, Alfred, isn't your sister here?"
"Yes," he answered, not knowing what to make of her humour.
"Oughtn't we to go to her? I hope she'll like me."
"She loves you already, for my sake, Lizzie. She told me so, and is longing to see you. But we've no occasion to hurry. We'll walk slowly, and then you can tell me your fairy story."
"Well," she said, with a smile at once bewitching and tender, "you're a dear patient boy, and now I'll be good and tell you all about it. Once upon a time – "
They turned, and walked towards the entrance of Bushey Park. So interested were they in Lizzie's fairy story, that they did not notice Felix, who brushed quite close by them. He saw them, however, and saw at the same moment what was a greater astonishment to him-Martha Day, with a face like death, watching the lovers with misery in her eyes.
"Martha!" he cried, "how strange to meet you here, and at such a time!"
She made no reply to his expression of surprise, and did not seem to think it strange that he should make his appearance at that moment. Taking, almost mechanically, the hand he held out to her, she clasped it firmly, and made a movement in the direction of the park gates. But Felix, not knowing what was her intention, held back. He had no desire to play the part of spy upon Lily's brother.
"Why do you restrain me?" asked Martha, in a low voice.
"I don't wish to restrain you, Martha," replied Felix; "but I cannot go in that direction for a minute or two. You appear to me not to quite know what you are about. What is it you want, and what is the matter with you?"
"You passed close by them?" pointing after Lizzie and Alfred.
"Yes."
"And saw them?"
"Yes."
"What do they look like?"
"Like sweethearts, I should say, Martha."
An expression of pain escaped from Martha's lips.
"Do you know them, Martha?"
"I know one."
"Which one?"
"The girl. I must not lose sight of her."
Again she made a movement in the direction of the retreating forms of the lovers, and again Felix held her back. She had clasped his hand so firmly during the time that he could not release it without being rough.
"If you follow them," he said, "you must go alone. What is this girl to you?"
"She is my life-my soul!" cried Martha passionately, wringing her hands.
Seeing that her passion was attracting the attention of the bystanders, Felix drew her away gently towards the park, in the direction which Lizzie and Alfred had taken. Felix had not had much experience of Martha; but what little he had seen of her in his father's house had so decidedly exhibited her in the character of a cold passionless woman, whom scarcely anything could move to strong emotion, that this present experience of her filled him with surprise. It was a new revelation to him. Martha had exhibited much affection for him, and he was disposed to assist her to the utmost extent of his power. There had always been something odd and strange in her behaviour to him; but he had ascribed this to her eccentric manner. He had, however, never seen any signs in her of the stormy currents of feeling which she now exhibited, and which were brought into play by the girl whom he had just passed, and he had seen for the first time. What connection could exist between that bright girl and the pale sad woman by his side, whose whole life appeared to have been one of self-restraint? He asked himself the question, but he was unable to answer it. They walked slowly along, she being contented to allow him to take the lead, because she could see Lizzie's dress fluttering in the distance. Felix took care to keep well out of sight, and when Lizzie and Alfred reached the spot where Mr. Sheldrake and Lily were sitting, paused also, and looked about for a seat for Martha.
"I will sit here, Felix," she said, seating herself where she could see the movements of the party in the distance; she had somewhat recovered herself, but was pale and trembling still.
Felix waited for her to speak. He had lost sight of his own troubles and his own misgivings in the contemplation of Martha's grief and agitation; but as he stood leaning against a tree, with his face towards the woman he loved with all his strength, they came back upon him. The subject they involved was so near to him, so dear, so inwoven in his heart, that it was impossible for it to be absent from his mind now for any but a brief space of time. He had not yet been able to think it over and to place a construction upon what he had seen. But although clouds were gathering about him, he had already committed himself to one determination-not to allow himself to be blinded by unworthy doubts. He had extracted a promise from Lily's grandfather, had pledged himself, as it were, and the old man had put a trust in him. It was not in his nature to betray a trust, nor to give way to mean suspicions. Suspicions! Of Lily, and her truth and innocence! No, indeed. "I have watched her from infancy," the old man had said, "and I know her purity. I pray that she may be spared from life's hard trials: but they may come to her, as they come to most of us. They may come to her undeservedly, and through no fault of hers; and if they do, and if, like Imogen, she has to pass through the fire, she will, like Imogen, come out unscathed." The full sense of these words came upon Felix now, and were of themselves sufficient to hold in arrest his judgment upon what he had witnessed. But this influence was not needed, and it was a proof of the chivalry of his nature that, even as these words recurred to him, he should turn his face from the woman he loved.
There are a class of men who have no belief in generous feeling. It is an article of faith with these clever ones of the world to believe that there is something unworthily selfish or base at the bottom of every action; but this is not the only false creed extant. The quixotism which they sneer at often contains a kernel of much nobility and sweetness. Felix was to a certain extent quixotic; he was even, according to a certain mistaken interpretation of the term, a sentimentalist. But he was no rhapsodist; he indulged in dreams, but he did not allow his imagination to steal a march upon his reason and distort it. His mind was a logical one; and the course he had taken with his father proved that he could be firm and faithful to an idea. In the few brief moments of silence that elapsed he was busy piecing together many things in connection with Lily, deduced chiefly from what had been said by her grandfather regarding her. "To her, as to others," the old man had said, "life's troubles may come. To her may come one day the sweet and bitter experience of love. When it does, I pray to God that she may give her heart to one who will be worthy of her-to one who holds not lightly, as is unhappily too much the fashion now, the sacred duties of life." In the very interview in which these words were spoken, the old man had said to Felix, "You would give me faith if I needed it. It would have been my greatest pride to have had such a son." Swiftly upon this came the old man's advice to Felix to follow Lily and Alfred to Hampton Court. These things and the unexpressed meanings they conveyed-(here intruded the question asked by Felix, whether the brother and sister had gone to Hampton Court by themselves, and the old man's answer, Yes) – were so opposed to what might not unreasonably have been inferred from the attitude of Lily and Mr. Sheldrake to each other, that Felix, with characteristic quixotism, refused to accept the interpretation that most other men would have put upon the discovery. His thoughts having arrived at this climax, he was prevented from going farther by Martha speaking to him. She had watched with earnest eyes the meeting between Lizzie and Lily, and seemed to derive consolation from the way the girls took to each other. She was calmer now, and directed Felix's attention to the two girls, with their arms round each other's waists, drawing a little apart from the men.
"I see," said Felix, also appearing to derive satisfaction from the companionship of the girls; "but I am in the dark as yet. If you can trust me – "
"Trust you, Felix! I would trust you with my life!"
"You might, and with anything else as dear to you. Who is that young lady?"
"My niece." With a steady look at Felix, and with the slightest bit of colour in her face.
"Your niece! I had an idea that you had no relations. I never heard you speak of any."
"No, Felix." (She was fast recovering her composure.) "But that does not prevent my having a niece."
"I can tell by your manner that you love her very dearly, Martha."
"If she were my daughter, Felix, I could not love her more." The composure of her face and manner was wonderful to witness, after her late exhibition of passion and anxiety. "I love the girl you see before you with as intense a love as if I had suckled her at my breast, and as if all other ties upon me (if I ever had any), all other demands upon my love, had passed out of my life. Rather than see her come to harm" – (she stretched out her hands, which now were slightly trembling, and strove hard to preserve her quiet calm demeanour; but she could not quite succeed, as the tremor in her voice testified.) "Rather than see her come to harm, I would choose to have these fingers torn from my hands, joint by joint; I would submit to any suffering, to any indignity; I would live my unhappy life over a hundred times, and be a hundred times more unhappy than I have been. I don't know what could be dictated to me that I would not do for her sake."
The passion of her words and the forced calm of her voice presented a strange contrast. Felix listened in wonder.
"Does she know you are here, Martha?"
"No."
"How did you come upon her, then?"
"I followed her from London. Chance alone befriended me. Yesterday I went to where she lived, and I was told she had moved."
"Where did she live?"
It was no surprise to hear her mention the street and the very house in which he had his lodgings, for as he asked the question he remembered how, on the first night of his taking up his quarters there, he had seen Martha pass swiftly out of the street-door as he was about to open it. He had not been very curious about the other lodgers in the house, being wishful that they should not be curious about him; but on two or three occasions he had seen a girl go up the stairs past his landing-a young graceful girl, who might have been Lizzie-who indeed, he settled in his own mind now, was Lizzie, although he had never seen her face. He said nothing of this to Martha, except that he knew the street.
"You went to where Lizzie lived, and were told that she had moved – "
"Lizzie had already told me so in a letter she wrote to me, and she said in it that in a day or two she would tell me more. But I could not rest after I received the letter. Here it is, Felix; read it."
She took a letter from the bosom of her dress, and gave it to him. In the distance, the two girls, having drawn still further apart from Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake, were standing within the shadow of a great chestnut tree, the branches of which bent over them protectingly; their attitude bespoke the exercise of much affectionate feeling. Lizzie was speaking with animation, and Lily was listening, with a smile on her face. Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake were also engaged in conversation; their faces were towards the girls, and every now and then Alfred gave them a pleasant nod, and received smiles and bright glances in return.
"She writes a good hand," observed Felix, opening the letter.
"She has had a good education."
"That speaks well for her mother."
"She has no remembrance of her mother."
"Then she owes it all to you, Martha."
"All to me, Felix," replied Martha quietly; "but read."
Felix read:
"My dear Aunty, – It is nearly twelve o'clock at night, and I am very tired and sleepy. But before I go to bed I want to talk to you, and as you are not here for me to tease you, I must write a letter. Now I daresay you wonder what about-I should, if I were you! – although I know you are always glad to get a letter from me, whether there is anything in it or not. But I really have something to say to you now; something very, very particular, although it will puzzle you, for I can only tell you a bit of it. You shall know the rest when you come to London, which I hope will be soon, but not until I write you another letter to tell you where to come to. I am going to move, aunty dear, into a nice house, where I'm going to be very happy and comfortable; and although I said at first that I must tell you about it before I did it, I have been persuaded to wait until it was done, so that I might give you a real pleasant surprise. Now, this is to tell you just so much, and no more, – and to tell you, too, that you mustn't be the least bit uneasy about me. We shall be nicely settled in a very few days, and then I shall write to you to come and see me. I fancy I see you walking in and looking about in astonishment, you dear aunty! I wish we could always live together, and that I could show you how much I love you, and how grateful I am for all your care of me. Perhaps that time will come, eh, dear aunty? – Now I must wish you good-night, for I feel so sleepy. Good-night; God bless you. – From your happy and affectionate Lizzie."
"When I received that letter yesterday," said Martha when Felix returned it to her, "I cannot describe to you the misery it brought to me. Lizzie had made a change in her life once before without my knowing, and she promised me then, seeing the unhappiness it caused me, always to consult me in any matter of importance. She has not done so; I have seen her to-day with two men who are utter strangers to me; she has never mentioned their names to me; and one is evidently more to her than an ordinary friend or acquaintance."
"Calm yourself, Martha," said Felix, in sincere compassion for her distress of mind; "you are wasting your strength."
"What can my poor Lizzie know of the heartlessness and cruelty of the world? What can she know of the falseness of fair words, and of the base thoughts that a smiling face can cover? O Felix, I have felt it! I know what it is; I have suffered from it cruelly. She was going to move into a nice house, she says in her letter. What do these words mean? I tortured myself with putting meanings to them. It was impossible for me to get to London yesterday, and I had to wait until this morning. O, what a weary night I passed, Felix-what a weary, weary night! I lay in the dark, and the tick of the old clock in the passage almost maddened me, it was so slow. I did not have a moment's sleep-you can see that in my face. I must have dressed myself at least half a dozen times. How I prayed for the morning to come! Of all the nights of agony I have passed-and I have had many, Felix; my life has been hard and cold and bitter-that was the worst, and the most unhappy!"
She paused for a moment after this lament.
"Bitter as my life has been, I have borne it patiently, uncomplainingly, as long as I was sure that Lizzie was well and happy. There was my comfort; there is now my suffering. O, Felix, what pain there is in love-what pain, what pain!"
Felix recalled her to herself by a gentle touch of his hand.
"I know, Felix, I know; I cannot help it. I have such a weary pain here."
"Rest a little," he said, "before you proceed."
But she continued.
"The morning came at last, thank God-it came at last! And then again I had to wait until the train left Stapleton. I arrived in London before ten o'clock, and went straight to the house where Lizzie lodged. I saw the landlady. She told me that Lizzie had left, and that another lodger of hers had also left at the same time. This other lodger was an old man, she said, and she did think it a little strange that they should both have given warning at the same time. Did she know where Lizzie had gone to? I asked. No, she did not know. I was turning away, when I thought of the old man. Did she know where he was gone to? No, she didn't know the number of the house, nor the street; but a few days ago the old man had let drop a word or two, which led her to suppose he was going to live near a certain place about four miles from London. I thought, if I could find this old man, he might be able to tell me where Lizzie was. I arrived in the locality; I rode there in a cab. But it seemed to me that I might as well have been in a wilderness for all the clue I could obtain as to where the old man lived. As I was searching and inquiring, with such little success that I became sick and faint, I suddenly saw a figure a long way before me. I knew it immediately-I should have known it among a thousand. It was Lizzie. But she was not alone. A gentleman was with her, and I did not wish to make my girl angry by speaking to her in the presence of a stranger. I followed them. They seemed to be very happy, and talked and laughed with light hearts; while I with my heavy load hung behind, so that they should not see me. They stopped at a railway-station, and the gentleman left Lizzie standing on the platform, and came along to the ticket-window to get tickets. My veil was down, and as I did not know him, it was not likely that he would know me, even if he saw my face; so I mustered sufficient courage to approach close to him, and heard him ask for tickets for Hampton Court. I took a ticket also for this place, and came in the same train, but not in the same carriage. I was alone in the carriage, and I had plenty of time to think what it was best for me to do. I was a long time before I made up my mind; and then I decided that it would be best for me not to discover myself to Lizzie unless I was compelled. My girl was keeping some part of her life from me, I thought, and I should know better how to act if I found out what it was. I had never seen this gentleman before, had never heard of him from Lizzie. He looked like a gentleman, but still like that kind of gentleman that it would not be wise for a girl in Lizzie's position to know too well. I thought of the temptations which surrounded a young girl like Lizzie-she is very, very pretty, dear girl! – in a great city like London. Imagine my agony. After all, girls are girls; they like pleasure and excitement; and Lizzie was living by herself. But I dared not think long upon this; it weighed upon me too much. We alighted at Hampton Court, and I followed my dear girl and the gentleman cautiously. They stopped at an inn-the inn before which the street conjurers were playing. The gentleman said a few words to Lizzie, and left her. Just then the conjurers came and began to make preparations for performing. Lizzie came out to see them-she is very fond of street sights, dear child! – and I stood apart from her in the crowd watching her. I don't know how long a time passed before the young man came up to her; but it was like a knife in my heart to see the joy in Lizzie's face when he spoke to her. I never thought it possible I could have felt pain to see my girl look bright and happy. And you may wonder, Felix, why I suffered so; you may wonder why I should not rejoice in my girl's pleasures. But think for a moment-think of the misery it caused me to learn that Lizzie had been hiding things from me. If she kept this from my knowledge, as she has done, may she not have kept other things? If you knew how wretched it makes me to hear myself speaking like this of her-if you knew Felix, you would pity me. But I wouldn't say it to any one else but you; and I know that I am mistaken, and that my girl is good and true. They talked together for a little while, and I saw her ask him for some money to give to the performers. It was like her, dear child she has the tenderest heart! Soon afterwards they walked away, and I was about to follow them when you came up. That is all."
While she was speaking, Felix called to mind that on the day he first saw Lily in his father's house in Stapleton, Martha admitted her and her grandfather and brother to his father's study. "Did she remember Alfred's face?" he asked of himself mentally.
"You saw the young man who came to Lizzie?" he asked aloud.
"Yes, Felix."
"Can you see his face now?"
"No, I am shortsighted. If it were not for my love, I should not be able to distinguish Lizzie."
"Tell me," said Felix, "do you ever remember seeing his face before?"
"Never, Felix; and yet – " she paused, and passed her hand over her eyes-"now you mention it, there seemed to be something familiar in his face as I looked at him. But no, I must be mistaken; I have no recollection of ever having seen him. Why do you ask?"
"I wondered if you had, that is all, Martha. And now" (dismissing the subject), "what is it you intend to do?"
"I don't know-I am bewildered. At one time I think of going away, and bearing my misery until she writes to me again, which she is sure to do soon; then I can speak to her. At another time I think of going up to her, and showing myself. She would be glad to see me, I think; she would not turn her back upon me."
"I am sure she would be glad to see you – "
"Bless you, Felix," cried Martha, in a grateful tone, "for that assurance!"
"But have you thought how you could account for your presence here, Martha? Would not the gentleman who brought her from London be likely to remember that he saw you at the ticket-office? Would not Lizzie be hurt if she thought you had been watching her?"
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Martha, looking up to him for support. "You are right in everything you say; you can see things in a clearer light than I can. I am confused and tired out. It would hurt Lizzie's feelings; and rather than that – "
"Rather than that, if I judge you rightly, you would suffer much without murmuring."
"You judge me rightly, Felix. I would suffer much to save her from the smallest pain."
He gave her a bright look in approval, and pressed her hand.
"You are sure of one thing, Martha-sure that Lizzie will write to you soon?"
"O, yes."
"Well, she has come out to enjoy the day-I don't suppose she has too many holidays. Look at her-you can see that she is happy. It would be a pity to spoil her enjoyment. You agree with me-I see it in your eyes. So presently, if it is necessary, you will go home and leave them to themselves."
"If you advise me to do so, I will," she said humbly, and then with more animation, "although it will make me very unhappy to be sent away. For one reason, Felix. You must not think that in what I am going to say I am prejudiced or prompted by fears. I don't like that man's face."
"Which of the two do you refer to, Martha?"
"The one who brought Lizzie from London."
"Neither do I."
"You know him then-you have seen him?"
"Let me think a little, Martha."
He moved away from her, and walked slowly up and down in deep thought. Should he tell Martha his secret, or so much of it as he deemed necessary? Her instinctive aversion to David Sheldrake's face found sympathy with him. Felix was a shrewd observer, and during his brief sojourn in London had formed a pretty fair estimate of the life of the great city. His judgment was not biassed by prejudices of any kind, and it did not detract from the correctness of his conclusions that he judged by a high standard. He knew the class of men of which Mr. Sheldrake was a member; knew that they lived only for the pleasures of the day, and that such moral obligations as conscientiousness and right-doing were not to be found in their vocabulary of ethics. That Lily entertained an affection for Mr. Sheldrake, he could not believe; no, not even the bright look she gave to Mr. Sheldrake, and of which he had been an involuntary witness-not even the confidential relations which seemed to subsist between them-could make him believe that. "Although love comes-how?" thought Felix. "Who can analyse the subtle influences which compose it? who can set down rules for it?" But the strongest argument he found to strengthen his belief that Lily did not love Mr. Sheldrake was that her grandfather knew nothing of it. And, on the other hand, from what had passed between himself and Old Wheels, the hope had been born within him that the old man suspected and approved of his feelings for Lily. "He would not encourage me by the shadow of a word," thought Felix, "if he thought that Lily loved another. She may not love me, although I have sometimes thought that I might win her love; but I may have been misled by my hopes." He would know some day, perhaps; in the mean time a clear duty was before him, prompted no less by his love for her than by his sense of right, and by his promise to the old man. Felix was convinced that the old man knew nothing of the present meeting of Lily and Mr. Sheldrake, and was convinced that Lily herself did not know of it beforehand; for she had asked her grandfather to accompany them, and he had refused. Why did he refuse? Lily wished him to come, and that wish was sufficiently strong for compliance. Immediately Felix arrived at this point of his reflections, he decided that Alfred must be the cause of the old man's absence, and also that Alfred knew that Mr. Sheldrake would be at Hampton Court, and had kept the knowledge from Lily. The meeting was planned, then, beforehand-planned by Alfred and Mr. Sheldrake.