CHAPTER XXIX.

FELIX FINDS HIS OYSTER DIFFICULT

TO OPEN.

THE little word uttered by Lizzie in the concluding paragraph of the previous chapter is like the dropping of the curtain for a time upon the histories of the personages, good and bad, who are playing their parts in this drama of every-day life. For if it in any way resembles what it professes to be, the drama here presented should represent the doings of the time in which it is written; in so far, of course, as they enter into the ordinary life of the ordinary characters who are introduced into it. Records of the more fashionable and (from a 'society' point of view) higher phases of human life and character the writer leaves to other pens.

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 voice and 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

VOL. XI.

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 such-like establishments. People laugh at these atrocious songs, and at the atrocious meanings conveyed in many of their 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. mong other indecently suggestive songs was one, the title of which I refrain from mentioning, but which may be heard to-day and night uttered by boys and girls-chiefly by the latter-not only in courts and alleys, and under dark arches, but, when the reign of the nightbirds commences, in the noblest thoroughfare in London, which, with the lesser veins that feed it, I have, in the commencement of this story, properly christened The Mart

HH

A

of Shame. 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 enthusiasm 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. This was to me a clear proof that it is not necessary for success in music-halls to aim at the utter degradation of taste and sentiment, as seems to be their present intention.

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 found a companion, he 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, for, strange as it may sound, 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 I did not make sufficient excuse for youth and inexperience, and the result is that Alfred's mind is now set against me. And he has so strong an influence over Lilyit is but natural, Felix, as I have said that I am afraid to do any thing 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 confidences 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. All I can do is to wait and hope.'

'Does Lily ever speak of this, sir ?'

'Never; but she has it in her mind, as I have it in mine. 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."

'That I should have had such an ally in a friend whom I esteem,' said Old Wheels, looking earnestly at Felix, 'as would have rendered me easy in my mind respecting my darling's future.'

'This friend, sir,' observed Felix, turning his head from the old man,- " had you reason to suppose that he had any influence over Lily, and that his counsel would have had weight with her?'

'I believe he had influence with my dear girl; I believe he has. I believe that she would have heeded, and would heed now, any words of counsel he might speak to her.'

'But suppose,' continued Felix, still standing so that his companion could not see his face, 'that this friend held precisely your own view of the case. Suppose he feared that any counsel he might be bold enough to offer would hurt Lily's tenderest feelings-inasmuch as it would almost of a certainty clash with her deep affection for

her brother. Suppose that, seeing this, knowing this, and believing that he had some slight influence over her, he refrained from saying what was and is in his mind, because of the painful conflict of feeling which it would stir in your dear granddaughter's breast

He turned and held out his hand, which Old Wheels took and warmly pressed.

'What, then, remains for this friend to do,' continued Felix, with animation, as they stood thus hand in hand, face to face, 'out of regard for this dear girl's tender sensitive nature, out of regard for her helplessness? To put aside, as well as it is in his power to do, his own feelings; to be content to do as you do-to wait and hope. To do more-not only to wait and hope, but to watch over her for her good, without thrusting himself before her in such a way as to cause her pain. The friend of whom you speak is doing this.'

'Felix!'

'Dear sir, trust your friend. In so far as in him lies, he is doing, and will do, your part towards your dear girl when she is out of your sight. He knows the house where your dear girl's lady-friend lives; an acquaintanceship between them has been brought about in the strangest manner; and he believes that the young lady-who is good, mind you, although inexperienced in the world's ways-has a sincere respect for him. Is this some comfort to you?'

'It is. Felix, my dear lad, how can I repay you?'

With your friendship-but I have that, I know. Something else is on my lips, but I must not say it; something else is in my heart you have guessed before this time what it is-but I must not give it expression. If the time should ever come- and I pray that it may when I feel that I

can speak freely, it may be in your power to repay me a thousandfold. If, unhappily, it shall never come, believe that I am repaid over and over again. Now let us talk of something else.'

They spoke of Felix's prospects of getting along in the world. He had found by this time that the world he had come into London to conquer was not so easy to open as the time-honoured oyster. He had smiled often to himself since his boast to Martha, and had said, "What arrogance!' But he was mistaken.

It was not arrogance. When he said to Martha Day that the world was before him for him to open, and, asking where his oyster-knife was, had tapped his forehead and said it was there, he had spoken, not out of arrogance, but out of the over-confidence of youth. He had not been long in London before he discovered his mistake. He became humble in the contemplation of the greatness of his oyster and the littleness of himself, and he set modestly, humbly to work upon the very lowest rung of the ladder, not daring to hope to rise very high. There came to him this feeling, of which he never lost sight: I shall be content,' he said to himself, if I can become one of the common workers in the world, and if I can find some channel in which by the exercise of all my energy, of all the little talent which I may possess, I am able to earn my living.' He did not desire much; it was no boast when he said to himself that he would be content with very little; his wants were small, and he had within him the capacity to enjoy. He took his enjoyments modestly; went now and again to the pit of the theatre, and (out of his gratefulness for small blessings) got more than his money's worth. When he could not afford the pit he went to the gallery, and would

not have been ashamed to be seen there by any of his former friends. At one time his funds were very low, so low, indeed, that he could not afford a dinner; so, apples being in, he lived upon bread-andapples and cold water, and made merry over his fare. He told no one, and he was not in the least to be pitied; he was learning life's lessons, and was bearing reverses bravely, without repining and without self-exaltation. He tried the usual resources of helplessness; he could draw and paint indifferently well, and one day (just before his bread-and-apple fare commenced) he almost ruined himself by laying-in a stock of cardboard and crayons. In a few days he had two sketches ready, of which he thought so highly that he said, as he surveyed them, 'Upon my word, I don't think I'll part with them.' But he laughed at his vanity the next moment, and out he went to sell them, and came back with them under his arm. No one would buy them. He tried again the next day, and the next, and the best result he could obtain was that a shopkeeper offered to put them in his window, and to divide the proceeds with him, supposing they were sold. Felix agreed readily enough, put a low price upon them, and went round every day to look at them in the window. He did not dare to enter the shop. The shopkeeper might ask me for stor age expenses,' he said with a laugh. Then came the bread-and-apple time; and one day, longing for a change of food, he thought he would treat himself to a piece of meat; so he painted a chop on cardboard, and with comical earnestness set out his meal-a pennyworth of apples, half a quartern loaf, a jug of water, and his painted chop. As he ate his bread he rubbed out the chop, until he had eaten every bit of it, and no