London's Heart: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"Where has God taken her to, Lily?"

"There!" pointing upwards.

What did the matter-of-fact little maid do, there and then, but go to the window, and look into the bright sky for Lily's mother? Mrs. Podmore kept her there, and whispered to her that poor Lily was not well and must not be teased. But the child, at intervals, turned her perplexed eyes to the coffin and then to the beautiful clouds, not at all satisfied in her mind, and with all her heart "wanting to know."

At length the ride, weary to some and pleasant to some, was over, and they were in the churchyard and by the grave. There a man, taking old Wheels aside, spoke a few words to him. An expression of amazement, almost of horror, came into the old man's face.

"It is impossible!" he exclaimed, in a tone of uncontrollable agitation. "Here--beneath God's sky!--Surely you are mistaken."

The man replied that there was no mistake.

"Where is the minister?" inquired the old man. "Is that his house? I will go and see him. Come, children, come with me."

And leaving his friends by the grave, the old man, followed by his grandchildren, walked swiftly to the house of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell.

When the relatives of the dead woman entered the gloomy study, Felix, seeing a tender girl among them, offered Lily a chair. She bowed without looking into his face, and although she did not sit down, she rested her hand upon the chair, as if she needed support. If the thoughts which animated the minds of the five persons in that sombre study had been laid bare, the strangest of contrasts would have been seen. There sat the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell; behind him was his son. They were at variance with one another, and each felt himself so much in the other's way, that if it had not been for the tie of kinship that bound them, their opposing natures would have led to the plain expression of scorn and contempt on the one side, and of harsh and bitter condemnation on the other.

There stood the delicate girl, whose nerves during the last few days had been strung to the highest point of which her nature was capable. A pure and tender lily indeed, as graceful as the flower from which she derived her name, and whose white bells, as they arch among the vivid leaves of green, tremble in the lightest breath from zephyr's mouth. It was so with Lily at this time. A harsh word would have caused her to quiver with pain. The effect which the suddenness of her mother's death, and the terrifying dreams that followed, had produced upon her had not passed away. Like the lily she stood there, dependent upon surrounding things almost for very life itself; kind looks and sweet words gladdened her and helped to make her strong, as kind sunshine and sweet breezes gladden and make strong the flower. And like the flower, the light in which she stood seemed to come from inward brightness and purity.