London's Heart: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"You are tired, daddy," she said, taking the locket from his hand; "it is time to go to bed."

He bade her good-night, almost mechanically, and when he was alone, sank into his chair, with an oppression of vague thought upon him. Long before he retired to rest, Lizzie was asleep, dreaming of her Lover.

[CHAPTER XXII.]

LOVE LINKS.

If integrity and upright conduct be commendable qualities, no man should covet the distinction of being considered a man of the world. And yet to be known as such is to command admiration. But then the world--meaning ourselves--often finds it convenient not to examine too curiously. The man of the world whose reputation rests upon a sound foundation is sure to get the best of his neighbours. He is shrewd and sharp and cunning, and, like the fretful porcupine, so armed at all points as to be almost certain of wounding whatever comes in contact with him. Frankness beams in his eye, but calculation sits in his soul; he gets information out of you by side strokes, and profits by it; he brings you round by the artfullest of roads to the point he is working for; he pumps you dry so skilfully that you do not feel thirsty in the process; and he leaves you under the impression that he is the most amiable of companions. Fortunate it is for you if farther experience of his amiability do not compel you, with groans, to reverse this verdict. Attached to the popular interpretation of "man of the world" are profound and puzzling depths. A man fails in business, lifts up his eyes, looks mournfully around him, buys sackcloth and ashes, sighs frequently, is soul-despondent, grows a little shabby, meets his creditors, obtains his release, and, hey, presto! smilingly re-enters, the circle from which he has been temporarily banished--re-enters it calm and confident, with no sign of defeat upon him. He is received with open arms, for it is whispered that he has "means;" and if one says to another, "Is it not strange that Mr. Plausible, who was in such difficulties last month, and was supposed to be ruined, should be living now in such good style?" it is ten to one that another answers, "He is a man of the world, sir, a thorough man of the world;" and lifts his hat to Mr. Plausible, who just at that moment happens to pass by. See the other side of the picture. A man fails in business, is soul-crushed, looks mournfully about him, shrinks from his former friends, grows old quickly, sits in sackcloth and ashes, sinks down, down in the world, obtains his release after bitter struggling, and never raises his head again; one says to another, "Poor Mr. Straight! Regularly crushed, isn't he?" And another answers, "What else could be expected? Straight never was a man of the world;" and turns his back upon the unfortunate, who, just at that moment, happens to be coming towards them. To be a completely successful man of the world, one must be thoroughly selfish, often dishonest, often false, seldom conscientious, and the porcupine quills which guard his precious interests must be well sharpened. If now and then there is blood upon them, what matters? Blood is easily washed off--but they say the smell remains.

Mr. David Sheldrake was such a man. With his quills always sharpened and often drawing blood, he walked through life enjoying its good things, believing that when they did not come to him easily he had a right to appropriate them. The lives of some men present singular contradictions. Dishonest persons are often charitable and kindly-hearted. Thoroughpaced rogues are often good husbands and good fathers. Very few men see straight. Nearly every one of us has a moral squint. Not that the career of Mr. Sheldrake presented any such contradiction. If he had been married, he could not have been a good husband; if he had had children, he could not have been a good father: he was too selfish. He was one of those who never have stings of conscience, simply because he believed that he had a right to have and to enjoy whatever he desired. In his own class he was a triton among the minnows. It was not a very desirable class, nor were its manners and customs to be commended; the first grand aim of its members was not to do unto others as you would others should do unto you, but to do all others, and take care others should not do you. No form of cheating and rascality was too bad for them, if an honest penny could be turned by it; and it is a sad thing to be compelled to say that even the honour that can be found among thieves was very seldom to be found among them--thus showing their tribe to be special and distinctive. It was but a poor game, after all, for the majority of them; as can be seen by going to any race-course, and observing the ragged crew who, while the horses are being saddled and taking their preliminary canters, rush this way and that, and hustle each other, and push and elbow their way fiercely, almost madly, through the crowds of their excited brethren. Mr. Sheldrake was above this ragged crew; he floated while others sank. As a proof of his respectability, what better could be desired than the fact that he had been known to shake hands with lords, and had betted ponies and monkeys with them?

But, sharp and cunning as he was, armed at all points as he was, he had his vulnerable point. What man has not? Do you know of one? I do not. And you have but to find it out to shake the decorous owner from his propriety. Archimedes would have shaken the world itself, had you given him a convenient place for his lever and standing room for himself.

The weak spot in Mr. David Sheldrake's character was that he did not like to be beaten. If he set his heart ever so lightly upon a thing and found it difficult of accomplishment, he instantly grew earnest in the pursuit of it, however trivial it might be. When he first saw Lily in the Royal White Rose Music-hall he was attracted by her pretty face, and he thought it could be no difficult matter to gain her favour. He had been successful before--why not now? His free manners and free purse had been an open sesame to sham affection before to-day; they would not fail him with Lily. But although he paid her pretty compliments in his softest tone, they did not produce the impression he intended. Other girls had received such gratefully, and had been merry with him; but Lily had no word of response for his honeyed speech. She received his compliments in silence and with eyes cast down. Little by little he discovered the difficulty of the task he had almost unconsciously set himself, and the value of the prize increased. He worked himself into a state of enthusiasm concerning her, and tried to believe that his feeling was genuine. It was not possible that a nature so purely selfish as his could love sincerely; but it pleased him to set up sham sentiment in its place, and he said to himself more than once, in tones of self-applauding satisfaction, "I do believe, David, you love that little beauty."

Lily knew nothing of this, for Mr. Sheldrake, after the futile result of his first tender advances, became cautious in his behaviour to her; he saw that there was danger of starting the game, and he went roundabout to secure it. A shrewd worldly girl, in Lily's place, would have seen at once that here were too lovers for her to choose from--Felix and Mr. Sheldrake--and she might, had she been very worldly, have worked one against the other; but Lily was neither shrewd nor worldly. To elevate her to the position of a heroine is a difficult task, for she had no marked qualities to fit her for the distinction. She was not strong minded, nor wilful, nor hoydenish, nor very far-seeing, nor very clever. She required to be led; she was not strong enough to lead. She was capable of devotion, of much love, of personal sacrifice, and was rich in the possession of the tenderest womanly qualities--of those qualities which make the idea of woman cherished in the innermost heart of every man whose good fortune it is to have been associated at some time of his life with a loving tender nature. Many a man has been kept pure by the memory of such an association; and although the present and future generations may have the advantage of those that have gone before in a more early comprehension of practical matters, and in the possession of a keener sense of the value of worldly things, it is much to be feared that the good and tender influence of woman is on the wane, and that the idea of womanly gentleness and purity, which has given birth to so much that is beautiful in the best sense of the word, is dying in the light of something infinitely coarser and less beneficial. We admire the sunflower, but we love the daisy.

Yes; Lily was dreaming. She had discovered her Prince in the person of Felix. In her musings she made him the embodiment of all that was good and noble and gentle. He was her hero, and she moulded him to her fancy, and beautified him, and idealised him. She enshrined her idealism in her heart of hearts, and found her greatest pleasure in worshipping it. So do we all at some time of our lives set up images for ourselves, and worship them, and discover too often, alas! that the feet of our idols are made of clay. It must not be supposed that Lily was fated to make this desolating discovery respecting Felix; he was in every way worthy of the love of a pure-minded girl, of such a love as Lily crowned him with, and as she was in every way capable of, notwithstanding the vitiated atmosphere of the Royal White Rose Music-hall. That she was enabled to retain, untarnished, the simplicity of character which made her beautiful, was due no less to her own innate purity than to the influence of her grandfather, who from her infancy had watched and guarded her with jealous care. Lily did not pause to ask herself if it was love she felt for Felix; she was too contented with the present to analyse her feelings; happiness took possession of her when he was with her, and it was sufficient for her to sit and listen and silently worship. She delighted to hear the unstinted praise which her grandfather bestowed upon Felix in his absence, and she fed upon the words, secretly repeating them to herself again and again, and finding new meanings for them. When she read in book or paper of a generous-souled man, "Like Felix!" she whispered; or of a generous deed performed, "As Felix would do!" she whispered. Felix had no idea of the good things which were credited to him--had no idea, indeed, that he was the idol of the girl whom he had grown to love; for Lily kept her secret close, and only whispered it to herself, and mused over it in those moments of solitude which she made sacred by her thoughts. So time went on.