London's Heart: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"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.