London's Heart: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

The autumn and winter have passed, and the beautiful buds herald the yearly miracle of spring. Certain changes have taken place in the circumstances and lives of the movers in our story, and of these changes it is necessary here to make record.

Lily has left the music-hall, and her simple songs are no longer heard in the Royal White Rose, as an antidote to the coarseness and vulgarity which find prominent place on that stage. She is missed and regretted by many of the frequenters of the Royal White Rose. Her presence there was like a fountain of pure clear water in the midst of an unhealthy tract of land; it made men and women forget for a time the impurities by which they were surrounded. I am glad to be able to say that her absence was regretted there, for it is a proof that indecency in word and action, and immoral suggestiveness in the nature of the songs sung in the Royal White Rose, are not vital elements in the success of suchlike establishments. People laugh at these atrocious songs, and at the atrocious meanings conveyed in many of the catch-lines; they suit the trade of some who are regular frequenters of these halls. But that better sentiments can be awakened in their hearts is proved by the earnest and honest enthusiasm which is evoked by the simple singing of a simple ditty, belonging to a school whose days unfortunately are not of the present. It is but a very few weeks ago that I strolled into one of the very lowest music-halls in the metropolis, in which, upon the occasion of my visit, there were not too many honest men and women, notwithstanding that the hall was quite filled. Among other indecently suggestive songs was one, the title of which I refrain from mentioning, but which has grown into a catch-phrase, and may be heard to-day uttered openly by boys and girls all over London, with laughing meaning. The title of this song is supposed to have brought much money and reputation to the Eminent Comic who invented it; if he were whipped for his ingenuity it would be a fitter reward. Whoever trades in indecency deserves some such punishment, and should receive it. After the singing of a number of similar songs, all of which were received with expressions of delight and approval, two young girls came upon the stage and sang, "What are the wild waves saying?" and an old-fashioned duet, called, I think, "The Cousins." I was amazed at the favour with which these songs were received. The applause was honest, earnest, genuine. There was nothing in music-hall ethics to account for the enthusiasm. The girls were not immodestly dressed, and did not smile or wink at the audience, and yet they were recalled again and again to sing, and their songs, which could not raise a blush or an impure thought, were undoubtedly the greatest success of the entertainment.

There were two reasons to account for Lily leaving the Royal White Rose. One reason was that her grandfather was alarmed for her health: a secret sorrow seemed to weigh upon her spirits and to depress them. She was not as happy in the society of her grandfather as she used to be, although, as if to counterbalance this and to remove any uneasiness from him, she strove to be even more affectionate to him when they were alone. The other was, that the purpose for which Old Wheels consented to her appearing upon a stage was served. The debt of shame was paid, and Felix, feeling very sorrowful the while, was compelled to accept the balance of the hundred pounds which had been saved out of Lily's earnings. The old man made no remark concerning Felix's evident reluctance to receive the money. He merely said, "Now we are free, Felix, and Lily can leave the music-hall. The little income I have will be sufficient to keep us, and I shall be able to watch more closely over my darling."

As the winter approached, Felix, going often to the little house in Soho, more often found the old man alone. Lily had a girl companion, the old man said, and Alfred and she made frequent visits to their new acquaintance.

"My dear girl seems to take pleasure in her new friend," he said, "and it is but natural, for they are nearly the same age. It is but natural also that brother and sister should cling together as Alfred and Lily do. I have seen the young lady, and there is much in her that I like."

"She has been here, then?" asked Felix.

"Yes; on two occasions. I have not been to her house; I have never been asked. Even if I were, I think I should not go."

"Why, sir?"

"Because Alfred does not wish it, and there is antagonism between my grandson and me. It has sprung up gradually, and acquires strength daily. When I first discovered it, I strove to remove it; I strove to win Alfred's confidence, but I was unsuccessful, perhaps because I did not make sufficient excuse for youth and inexperience. And he has so strong an influence over Lily that I am afraid to do anything with reference to her of which he does not approve; for he would be sure to use it as an argument against me in his confidence with my darling. God knows I do not want anything to occur to weaken her love for me! Poor girl! she must be distressed enough as it is. She is between two fires, as it were--her brother on one side, and, unhappily, her grandfather on the other. It is I who must forbear. Do you know, Felix, that I have for some time seen this conflict of feeling approaching; and a little while ago I did hope—"

"You hoped what, sir?" asked Felix, for Old Wheels had paused, as though he were approaching forbidden ground.