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 – "
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.
CHAPTER XLVII
FELIX CHECKMATES MR. DAVID SHELDRAKE
Mr. David Sheldrake, calling at ten o'clock the next morning to see Lily, receives from the landlady a message that the young lady has passed a bad night, and cannot receive him until noon. Somewhat surprised, but compelled to acquiesce in the arrangement, he walks away from the inn, consoling himself with the thoughts that all girls are capricious, and that Lily, having seen how deep was the passion he entertained for her, and having made up her mind to accept him as her lover, was disposed to coquet with him a little. "The bewitching little jade!" he muses. "They like to hold on and off. But I'll soon bring her to the point." He has not been idle during the morning; he has been hunting after Mr. Musgrave, to give him information of Alfred's movements. But Mr. Musgrave has not made his appearance at the Myrtle Inn, and Mr. Sheldrake, although he has been about the neighbourhood making inquiries, has been unsuccessful in finding any trace of him or Alfred. Mr. Sheldrake has settled with himself that this dereliction of duty must not be overlooked. "The old man must go," he thinks: "Ivy Cottage has served its turn. It is getting rather warm there, and Old Muzzy is beginning to know too much." The reflection that Ivy Cottage is getting too warm is not entirely new; certain victims who had been fleeced by Mr. Sheldrake and his agents had been writing threatening letters to him and Con Staveley addressed to Ivy Cottage, and the secret of their connection had in some way leaked out. Now, Mr. Sheldrake does not desire a public exposure; such a thing would be annoying and expensive, perhaps dangerous. He knows well enough that many of his transactions will not bear the light, and that in some instances a boundary line within which roguery can safely trade had been overstepped. He thinks of this during the interval between ten and twelve o'clock, and resolves to go to the cottage that very evening, and destroy all the letters and papers it contains; they are the only evidence against him. At noon he presents himself again at the inn. The landlady informs him that the young lady is up, and will see him. She leads him to the parlour. "We shall be private here?" he says, before he enters. "O yes, sir," the landlady replies, and retires. He sees at a glance that Lily has passed a disturbed night, but she receives him with a singular mixture of composure and nervousness. When he tells her that he has not brought Alfred with him, she does not cry and make a scene, as he anticipated. She is very pale, and she listens, without interrupting him, to the reasons he gives for Alfred's absence.
"It looks as if I had broken faith with you, my dear Lily," he says confidently; "but the fact is, Alfred must keep out of the way until his accounts are squared. The detectives are on the look-out for him, but you and I will be able to pull him through. You see he has made a mess of it all round. He owes me money; he owes a person of the name of Con Staveley money. Of course what he owes me does not matter, but this Con Staveley is a hard nail, and insists on having his money down, or he'll prosecute. Even that wouldn't be so bad; but Alfred has done worse. He has taken money from his office-in plain terms, he has been embezzling the money of his employers-and they are determined not to let him escape. I heard it an hour ago, from the best authority-from one of the detectives, indeed, that I managed to square. So you see how the matter stands."
As yet Lily has not spoken a word, and he pauses here, expecting her to say something. She does not disappoint him.
"Will you tell me exactly, Mr. Sheldrake, how much money Alfred owes?"
"He owes me and Con Staveley about three hundred pounds. In a sort of way, I am friendly with Con Staveley. He is stopping in the town for the races, and hearing I was here, he came to see me. I thought I'd best set to work at once, and I got him to give me an account of the debt. Well, he puts confidence in me, and he not only gave me the figures, but the bills as well, with Alfred's name on them. Here they are." He takes some papers from his pocket, and shows them to her. "I told Con I would pay them."
"And you will?"
"You have but to say the word, and I'll make things straight for Alfred at his office, as well. Lily, do you remember the conversation we had when we came home from the theatre, when that young puppy" (her colour rose here) "interrupted us? I have a right to call him so, for I know what he is made of. Would he do for you what I would do, what I am ready to do this very day? I think not. Think! I am sure not." He strives to read her face, but she has turned from him, and her eyes are towards the ground. "Ah," he thinks, "she knows what is coming;" and says aloud, "The very first night I saw Alfred, I told him I would be his friend for his pretty sister's sake, and I have kept my word. He would have had to cave-in long ago if it hadn't been for me; but again and again, when he was going to the bad, you stepped in and saved him. He knew this all along. He knew that it was for your sake I helped him through his troubles. You sigh! You think he is in a worse trouble to-day than he has ever been before. Well, you are right. I warned him repeatedly; I told him twenty times to pull-up, but he wouldn't listen to me; and still I stuck to him like a man, for his pretty Lily's sake. I can save him now, and will, if you but say the word. To-morrow, this afternoon, in another hour, it may be too late. His fate hangs upon you, and you only. Say but the word, and I'll bring him to your arms again."
"What word?"
Although she is almost falling to the ground, and although she speaks in a whisper, as if the words were forced from her, he hears her.
"Say that you love me."
Bending forward it his eagerness, with his eyes fixed upon her drooping form, with his arms outstretched to receive her, he does not see that a door which communicates with an inner room is swiftly and softly opened. Emboldened by her silence, which he interprets favourably, he is approaching nearer to her exultantly, when he is put aside with a firm hand, and Old Wheels steps between him and her. His face turns white as he sees the old man, who regards him steadily.
"You were saying – " says Old Wheels gently.
Mr. Sheldrake bites his lips, and accepts the situation.
"That I love your granddaughter. I was about to ask her to be my wife."
Old Wheels, with his arms around Lily, kisses her, and strokes her hair fondly.
"My darling!" he murmurs. She hides her face on his breast. He directs his clear bright eyes to Mr. Sheldrake, whose own eyes shift and waver, and shrink, as falsehood shrinks in the light of truth. "I will answer for her, Mr. Sheldrake. She declines."
"What!" exclaims Mr. Sheldrake, a white fury gathering about his lips.
"It is true, nevertheless," says the old man.
"She shall answer with her own lips," cries Mr. Sheldrake, with a menacing gesture.
"She will never again open her lips to you. I speak for her."
"Old dotard! But she shall answer!"
The arm he raises to put the old man aside is seized by a stronger hand than his, and he is thrust back violently.
"O!" he sneers, as he recognises Felix. "Are there any more of you?"
"One other," replies Felix, with a smile. "You shall see him presently."
For a moment Mr. Sheldrake measures himself with Felix; the conclusion he arrives at in this hasty glance is not assuring. Felix stands before him as firm as a rock, and with a kindling light in his eyes, which warns him to be careful of himself. He heeds the warning, and says in as calm a voice as he can command,
"This is a plot, then!"
"If you please to call it so," is the answer. "Plot against plot, we will say. Yours has failed."
"We shall see."
"We shall."
Felix is supremely calm; Mr. Sheldrake's passion breaks against him as the sea breaks against a rook and recoils upon itself.
"And you came here, I suppose, to play the hero, and to trick that young lady with fine speeches. But if she knows what is good for her, she'll be wise in time."
"I hope she will. Lily!"
She does not answer in words, but creeps into his arms. Then Mr. Sheldrake shows his full meanness. "Take her!" he says, with a toss of the hand, as discarding a worthless thing. "She came with me from the old man's house last night. How many hours ago? Ah, thirteen! Take her. I have done with her!"
Felix laughs cheerily, and holds Lily closer to his breast.
"It was a lucky chance," he says, not addressing Mr. Sheldrake, "that caused us to put up at the Myrtle Inn; for going into the stable to look after my horse, I saw another horse which had been put up but a very short time before we arrived. I have driven that horse more than once, and I know the livery-stables to which it belonged. It was by another lucky chance that I inquired of the ostler at the Myrtle whether a man of the name of Thompson, a man with a crooked nose and a hare-lip, had driven that horse down. But it was by the luckiest chance of all that we found Thompson in bed at that very inn, and that we induced him, without much trouble, to tell all about the pleasant drive he had had, and where he had set his passengers down."
"You have been very lucky," sneers Mr. Sheldrake, "but all your luck will not avail you to save Master Alfred from the hulks. It is my mission now to assist him to that desirable retreat for fools and thieves. I have you there, my lucky hero."
"I think not. You have not heard all our luck yet. A friend of mine, a detective-O yes, I have detective friends, as well as you! – has in his possession certain letters and documents concerning transactions in which the names of Sheldrake, Staveley, and half a dozen aliases assumed by each to serve his turn, suspiciously occur. I think the law is not inclined to treat with leniency the miserable tricksters whose knavery leads many poor creatures to ruin. Some public attention has been drawn to the class to which Mr. Sheldrake and Mr. Staveley belong, as you may have observed. The law hitherto has been comparatively powerless, because of the want of sufficiently direct evidence; the rascals are a cunning set. But I and my detective friend have in our possession documents by which we shall be able to prove distinct fraud; and as those who administer the law wait but for the opportunity to convict, you may depend that the punishment will not be light. Nay, we have not only documents; we have witnesses. Knowing what kind of man we had to deal with, knowing what kind of knavery we had to expose, we set traps, not yesterday, nor last week, but months ago, and the evidence we can bring forward will be sufficient. Temptation has proved too strong for you in one or two instances, and you have overstepped the mark, as we shall prove to you to your cost."
Inwardly disturbed as he is-for he does not know what proofs may be in Felix's hands, and whether Felix is speaking truth or gasconading-Mr. Sheldrake snaps his fingers scornfully.
"That for your evidence and witnesses!" he says. "You can do your best and your worst!"
But he begins to lose courage when Felix plays his next move.
"You asked me when I came in whether there were any more of us. I told you there was one more, and that you should see him presently."
Felix goes to the door which leads to the inner room, and opens it, and Mr. Musgrave comes forward. Then, for the first time, the consideration whether it will not be advisable to make terms, occurs to Mr. Sheldrake.
"You drunken old thief!" he exclaims, with an oath. "Are you in this plot?"
"And has been for some time," answers Felix, in a pleasant voice. "We will excuse any hard words you may use. We are in confidence, and what passes between us is, as the lawyers say, without prejudice. But you have not seen all the cards in our hands yet. I speak, you see, in a language you can understand. Shall I show you another trump-card that we hold?"
"Go on."
"I heard you say before I entered that you had seen Mr. Con Staveley this morning. That is not true. But it is true that my detective friend has seen him, and we have made terms (this is without prejudice, mind) with him. If we are compelled to make this case public, he appears against you. We hold him harmless, and he is satisfied to get out of a serious scrape without a scratch. In no one instance was he your partner in any of the transactions you have had with the young gentleman whom you tried to lead to ruin. We have this down in black and white. Do you think we have trumps enough to win the game?"
"I don't know. What stakes are we playing for?"
"Those bills and acceptances you hold with Alfred's name to them, and a full quittance from you to him for all money directly or indirectly advanced to him by you and Con Staveley. We know almost to a sovereign what they amount to. You have a list in your pocket. I also have a list from Con Staveley."