London's Heart: A Novel

"Yes," he was compelled to reply. "I will go and bring him to you. Will that satisfy you?"

"You know it will. But promise me one thing."

"You can't ask me anything, Lily, that I will not promise," he said, hailing this small token of confidence with gladness.

"Give me your sacred word of honour that you will not return here to-night unless my brother is with you."

He felt that he had no alternative; but the fear that she wished to escape from him was upon him. In the light of this fear she became more than ever precious in his eyes. Urged to the desperate declaration, he said,

"Lily, listen to me. You know that I love you-that I love you honourably."

"If you do," she interrupted bravely, but with her hand on her heart, "you cannot hesitate to give me the promise I ask."

"But you! What will you do?"

"I shall stop here in the hope of seeing my brother."

"I can depend on that? You will stop here to-night?"

"I will-by all that I hold dear!"

"And if I am unsuccessful in finding Alfred to-night, you will see me in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, I promise you," he said gaily: "I will show you that you can trust me thoroughly. Good-night, Lily."

He held her hand tenderly in his for a moment, and deemed it prudent to say no more.

"Little witch!" he murmured, as he walked away from the inn. "I was afraid she was going to turn upon me. But I have her safely now, I think!"

CHAPTER XLVI

FATHER AND DAUGHTER

Lily listened to the sound of Mr. Sheldrake's departing footsteps as he went down-stairs; heard him speak to some one in the bar, and heard the front door open and close upon him as he walked out into the night. Then, with a grateful "Thank God!" she called the landlady into the room, and whispered to her, and put money into her hand. The landlady said,

"Very well, miss; I'll watch for him."

Whoever it was she was set to watch, it was evidently no enemy to Lily; for in less than five minutes she was talking to the person at the back door, and telling him that the young lady was up-stairs alone. Lily was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She drew him into the room with eager haste, and clasping him round the neck, cried again, "Thank God! I am safe now! You will not leave me, will you? Stop with me-for my grandfather's sake, for Lizzie's sake!" and, overcome by emotion, could say no more, and swooned in his arms. When consciousness returned to her, the landlady was standing by her side, and Mr. Musgrave was kneeling before her.

"There, there!" said the landlady soothingly; "I told you she had only fainted. Do you feel better, my dear?"

"Much better, thank you," replied Lily, vaguely. But looking down upon the kneeling form of Mr. Musgrave, remembrance of what had passed came to her; and she clung to him in a passion of tears, and besought him again and again not to desert her. At a sign from him the landlady quitted the room, saying,

"You will find me down-stairs if you want me."

"You are crying, Mr. Musgrave," said Lily, when they were alone. "I feel your tears on my hand."

"They are tears of joy and pain, my dear," he answered, rising from his knees. "Tell me now how you came here. When I saw you looking out of the window, I placed my finger on my lips, warning you to silence. It is as I suspected, is it not? Mr. Sheldrake brought you here?"

Briefly she told him of the means employed by Mr. Sheldrake to induce her to accompany him, and of what had passed between them on the road and at the inn. He listened attentively, and with varying shades of emotion; and when she ceased speaking, he told her to be comforted, that he would protect her, and that it was not Mr. Sheldrake she or Alfred had to fear.

"There is cause for fear, my dear," he said, "but not from him. When I return, I will tell you more – "

"You are not going?" she interrupted entreatingly, clinging to him more closely.

"I must; you shall know my errand when I come back, and you will be satisfied. Then I will not leave you again. I shall be absent for half an hour, my dear; and while I am away the landlady will sit with you."

"But if Mr. Sheldrake returns – "

"You say he has gone for Alfred. Lily, trust one who would give his life for you. I would, my dear! I would lay it down willingly at your feet, if it were necessary for your safety or your honour!" What inexplicable passion, inwardly borne but not expressed, was it that caused his limbs to tremble as he held her to him for a few brief moments? What impulse caused him to loose her from his embrace suddenly, and to stand aloof from her as if he were not worthy of the association?

"Mr. Sheldrake will not come back to-night. Be patient for half an hour, my dear, and trust me thoroughly. Let me hear you say you have confidence in my words."

His earnestness carried conviction with it; but his humble manner pained her.

"You would not deceive me, sir," she said. "I trust you thoroughly, and will wait patiently."

She raised her face to his, and with a grateful sob he was about to kiss her; but the same impulse restrained him.

"No," he murmured; "not until she knows all." And left the room without embracing her.

At the appointed time he returned. During the interval the landlady had lit the fire, and had drawn a couch to the hearth, upon which she persuaded Lily to rest herself.

"Ah, that's good," Mr. Musgrave said; "are you warm enough?" He arranged the rugs about her with a tenderness which surprised her, and then sat apart from her, with his head upon his hand.

"You have something on your mind, sir. Come and sit near me. Are you troubled about me?"

He did not answer her immediately; but with a clumsy movement of his hand he overturned the candlestick, putting out the light, almost purposely as it seemed.

"We do not need to light it, child," he said; "we can talk in the dark."

"Yes, sir, if you please," she answered, yet wondering somewhat; "but the room is not dark. I like the soft light of the fire; it brings rest to me. I shall be glad when day comes." She paused between each sentence, expecting him to speak; but he sat silent, watching the fitful shadows as they grew large and dwindled on the walls and ceiling "What are you thinking of, sir?"

"I am looking into the past," he replied presently, in sad and solemn tones.

"And you see – "

"A wasted life. A life that might have been useful and happy, and good in making others happy."

"Not yours, sir," she said pityingly-"not yours. Ah, sir, you speak as if your heart was troubled! Come closer to me, and let me comfort you, as you have comforted me."

"Not yet, child; I dare not. If, when you have heard what I have to say, you ask me to do that, I will fall at your feet and bless you! This wasted life that I see in the shadows that play about the room-may I tell you some passages in it?"

"It pains you to speak; it pains me to hear your sad voice – "

"Nay," he interrupted; "it relieves me. My heart will burst else; and I have waited for this so long, so long! You will listen in patience?"