London's Heart: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

The old man turned abruptly from Felix, as if by that sudden movement he could stifle the gasp of pain which involuntarily escaped him at this reference.

"Least of all in him, Felix--least of all in him! Do not ask me why; do not question me, lest I should do an injustice which it would be difficult to repair. Tell me. Have you ever noticed in Lily's manner an abstraction so perfect as to make her unconscious of surrounding things?"

"Not so perfect as you describe, sir," replied Felix, after a little reflection; "but I have noticed sometimes that she looks up suddenly, as if she had been asleep, and had just awoke. Now that you mention it, it strikes me more forcibly. This has always occurred when you and I have been engaged in conversation for some little time, and during a pause. But she is awake in an instant, and appears to be quite conscious of what we have been saying."

"These moods have come upon her only lately," said the old man, "and only when she is deeply stirred. There are depths in my darling's soul which even I cannot see. I am about to repose a confidence in you, Felix, and to tell you a secret concerning my darling of which she herself is ignorant. With the exception of one other, I believe that I am the only one that knows it, and it has given rise to fears of possible danger to her, in the event of anything occurring to me by which she would be deprived of my watchful care. She is but the child of my child, Felix, but she is so near to me, so dear, so precious, that if heart-photographs could be taken, you would see my darling in mine, lighting it up with her bright eyes and innocent face. She has grown into my heart, that I rejoice instinctively when she is happy, and am sad when she is sad. Our nature is capable of such instinctive emotions of joy and suffering, which spring sympathetically from the joy and suffering of those whom we love heartily and faithfully."

The old man paused, and Felix waited for his next words in intense anxiety.

"A few months since there was a benefit at the Royal White Rose, and a variety of new entertainments were introduced for the occasion. Among them was a short performance by a man who called himself an electro-biologist, and who professed to be able to so control the mental powers of other persons, as to make them completely subservient to his will. This is common enough and feasible enough; and whether this man was a charlatan or not, it is certain that what he professes is not all delusion, and may in time lead to important discoveries. The fact that mere earnestness on the part of one person produces certain effects upon the minds of others, is a sufficient proof that this so-called new science is founded upon a tangible basis. When Lily came home from the music-hall, on the night of this benefit, I noticed that she was much agitated, and although she tried to laugh away my inquiries into the cause of her agitation, by saying that she was a foolish girl, I could see that her gaiety was assumed. After a little while she told me that she had been frightened by this man, and that while she was watching his performances from the side of the stage, she seemed to be in some degree under his influence. The man, it appears, noticed the interest she took in his performance, and, when the curtain was down, addressed her, saying she was a good subject, and that he could make her do whatever he pleased. Lily was terrified, and tried to escape from him, but could not take her eyes from his face until his attention was diverted from her; then she ran to her room. Knowing how highly sensitive and nervous Lily's nature is, I was not surprised at the effect this man produced on her, but I need scarcely tell you that the incident gave me new cause for fear, and that I watched Lily more carefully. I purposely refrained from speaking with her upon the subject again, and since that time it has never been referred to between us. But soon afterwards another circumstance occurred to cause me alarm. It was the night on which her mother died. We none of us knew on the day of her death that it was so near, and Lily went as usual to the music-hall to fulfil her duties. She came home late--at midnight. Shortly after she came home, her mother died. Alfred was away--had been away all the night; and it was not until two o'clock in the morning that we heard his step upon the stairs. Lily went out to meet him. I being angry with him for his thoughtlessness, and for another reason, which I cannot explain, remained for a little while with the dead body of his mother--thinking also that, at such a solemn time, the undisturbed communion of brother and sister would be consoling to Lily. When I went into Lily's room, I saw that Lily's grief had been deepened by her brother's coming home flushed with drink. I had a solemn duty to fulfil that night; Alfred is but a young man, with many temptations thrown in his way, and I hoped that something which I had to say to him might, under the influence of such an event as had occurred, have a good effect upon him in the future--might teach him a lesson which would make him less selfishly wrapt in his own pleasures, and more thoughtful of us--no, not of us, of Lily, whom he loves, I believe, very truly, and whom he would not consciously harm for any consideration. But the old lines are bitterly true, 'that evil is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart.' In justice to Alfred, I must not relate to you the nature of our conversation. I brought him into this room, where his dead mother lay. Lily begged that she might come and sit with us, but I could not permit her--the pain she would have suffered would have been greater than that she had already experienced, and I bade her good-night, and begged her to go to bed. She submitted unresistingly--her nature is singularly gentle--and Alfred and I left her. It was daylight when our interview was ended; Alfred and I went to the door, and opening it, saw Lily lying on the ground, asleep. Poor child! she had been much agitated by the events of the night, and was frightened of solitude, so she had come to the door of the room where we were sitting, finding companionship in being near us, and hearing perhaps the murmur of our voices. Thus she must have fallen asleep. I called to her, 'Lily!' To my surprise, she rose slowly, and stood before us; but she was not awake. She nestled to me, and came into the room, still asleep; and even when I led her into her own room, she followed me, still sleeping. We laid her upon her bed, and I sat by her for hours, watching her. When she awoke, she had no consciousness of what had passed, and I would not distress her by telling her. Three times since that night I have discovered her in the same condition. Her rooms open into mine, as well as into the passage, and it is usual for her to call out a good-night to me as she puts out her candle. I always wait for these last words from her before I retire to rest. My bed, you see, is behind this screen, where her poor mother lay sick for so long a time. On the first of the three occasions I have mentioned she kissed me, thoughtfully as I observed, and went into her room. I waited for a long time for her 'Good-night, grandfather,' but it did not come. I whispered her name at the door, and asked in a low voice if she were asleep. I spoke low on purpose, for if she were sleeping I did not wish to disturb her. She did not answer me; but I saw the light still burning in her room, and I opened the door gently, and saw her sitting by the table. She had not undressed herself. I went to her side, and took her hand. She rose, and I saw that she was asleep. Fearful of the consequences of suddenly arousing her, I thought it best to leave her; I led her to the bed, and left the room, taking the candle with me. I did not sleep, however; I waited and listened, and within an hour I heard her moving about the room. When she was quiet again, I went in, and found that she had undressed and gone to bed. The following morning I thought she would have spoken to me about it and about the candle being removed, but she made no reference to the circumstance. After that I was more carefully observant of her, and in less than a fortnight I discovered her in the same condition for the second time. Anxious to test whether her mind was in a wakeful state, I returned to my room, and called to her. She turned her head at the sound of my voice, and I called again. She came from her room slowly, and sat down when I bade her; seemed to listen to what I said to her, and smiled, as if following my words, but did not speak. More and more distressed at this new experience of Lily, and fearful lest some evil to her might arise from this strange habit, I consulted in confidence a doctor who lives near here, who is somewhat of a friend of mine, and whose knowledge and ability deserve a larger practice than he enjoys. He was much interested in my recital; he knows Lily, and has attended her on occasions. More than once he has spoken to me about her delicate mental organisation. 'The girl is all nerves,' he has said; 'an unkind word will cut her as surely as a knife; she is like a sensitive plant, and should be cared for tenderly.' And then he has said that as she grew older she might grow stronger. But, you see, it has not been so. I asked him whether he could account for the condition in which I found her, and at his request I related to him every particular and every detail which might be supposed to be associated with it. He said he could come to but one conclusion--that these abstractions, as he called them, came upon her when she was brooding upon some pet idea, or when her feelings were unusually stirred by surrounding circumstances. If her mind were perfectly at rest, he said, she would not be subject to these abstractions. His theory sufficiently accounted for her condition on the night of her mother's death, but did not account for what occurred afterwards. I knew of nothing that was agitating her, and so I told him; but he only smiled, and said, 'You will probably know some day; still waters run deep. Quiet as your granddaughter is, she is, from my knowledge of her, capable of much deeper and stronger feeling than most women.' And then he made me promise, the next time I found her in this condition, to run round for him. 'It should not be allowed to grow upon her,' he said, 'and I may be able to advise you better after personal observation of her.' Last night the opportunity occurred. I found Lily kneeling by her bed, dressed and asleep. I closed the door softly upon her, and went for the doctor. 'Now,' he said, as we hurried here, 'I do not think it well that she should hear a strange voice, so I will not speak while I am in the room with her. But I may wish you to say certain things to her, perhaps to ask a question or two; I will write them in pencil, so that I shall have no occasion to speak.' We found Lily in the same position--still kneeling by her bedside. I did what I had done on the previous occasion, I called her by name; but I had to place my hand upon her shoulder, and call her again, before she rose. She followed me into this room, as she had done before, and at my bidding sat down, resting her head upon her hand. The doctor wrote upon paper, 'Speak to her in a gentle voice upon indifferent subjects--about the weather, or anything that suggests itself to you.' I obeyed, and she seemed to listen to what I said. But the doctor wrote, She hears your voice, which harmonises with her condition, as would the voice of any one that she loved; it falls upon her senses like a fountain, but it is the sound only that she hears--she does not understand your words. Appeal to her through her affections, by speaking to her of some one whom she loves.' I said then, 'Lily, I am going to speak to you about Alfred.' Her face lighted up as I mentioned her brother's name, and she leant forward eagerly. 'She hears and understands,' wrote the doctor, and then desired me to say other things to her. But I must not tell you more of the details of that interview, Felix; for the dear girl's sake, I must not. The doctor told me, before he went away, that he was satisfied that his theory was correct. 'She retires to her room,' he said, and sits or kneels, as we found her to-night, in a state of wakefulness. While in this position she muses upon something dear to her, and so completely lost does she become in the contemplation, that she sinks into slumber, and continues musing upon her thought even in her sleep. This to a certain extent accounts for her being susceptible to outward sound, and especially to the sound of voices that she loves. Her musings are happy ones, and please her--so that when she hears a familiar voice, one that is inwoven with her affections, as it were, it harmonises with her mental condition; it pleases her, and she seems to listen. This is all that I can say up to this point, with my imperfect knowledge of her inner life, and with the brief observation that I have made. But I have no doubt that I am right.' It seems to me, Felix, that his theory is very near the truth, and if you knew the fears by which I am tortured, but which I dare not commit to words, you would better understand my grief. But it has relieved me to open my heart to you thus far, for I know that you will respect my confidence."

"Indeed I will, sir," said Felix, in a tone of deep earnestness, "for your sake and Lily's; and if ever I can be of service to you or to her, depend upon my truth and honour, and trust me to do it. If I dared to ask you one question—"

"Ask it, Felix," said the old man, as Felix hesitated.

"Do not answer it, sir, if it is a wrong one. What you said to Lily at the doctor's request, and which you must not repeat—" but here he hesitated again.

"Well," said the old man, kindly and encouragingly, and yet with a certain sadness.