LONDON'S HEART.

BY B. L. FARJEON, AUTHOR OF 'GRIF,' 'JOSHUA MARVEL,' AND
BLADE-O'-GRASS.'

CHAPTER XXXV.

MR. PODMORE WISHES TO BE IN-
STRUCTED UPON THE DOCTRINE
OF RESPONSIBILITY, AND DE-
CLARES THAT HE HAS A PRE-
SENTIMENT.

EVENTFUL as this night had been to Lily, and destined as it was to live for ever in her memory, it was pregnant with yet deeper meaning for her future, and an event was to occur which was to draw closer together the links of the chain of pure and unworthy love which bound her. On this night she saw clearly what before had been but dimly presentable to her. She saw that Felix loved her; and also that Mr. Sheldrake had a passion for her. She was instinctively conscious that there was nothing in common in the sentiments of these two men. Their feelings for her were as wide apart as were their characters; and she had already estimated these correctly, although she did not realise the depth of baseness from which Mr. Sheldrake's passion sprung. She was too pure and innocent for that.

When the party left for the theatre, Old Wheels found the time pass slowly enough, although he was to some extent comforted by the knowledge that Felix had gone to 'watch over his devoted girl. For the purpose of whiling away a few minutes, he went up to Gribble junior's room, and found that worthy man and his wife working cheerfully as usual. Gribble junior's father, the victim of coöperative

VOL. XI.

stores, was sitting in a corner nursing the baby, and had as usual been descanting upon the evils of cooperation, when Old Wheels entered. Mr. and Mrs. Gribble junior were laughing heartily at something their father had just uttered.

'What do you think we're laughing at, Mr. Wheels ?' asked Gribble junior, as the old man sat down.

Old Wheels expressed a desire to be enlightened.

Father just said,' explained Gribble junior, 'that he supposed they would be trying next to bring babies into the world by coöperation.'

At which, of course, the laughter recommenced.

'Why not?' grumbled Gribble senior. You can buy pap at the stores, and you can buy coffins. Mind, John, when I'm dead, get my coffin made by an honest tradesman. If you was to buy one at a cooperative store, I shouldn't rest in my grave.'

Time enough for that, father,' replied Gribble junior, in a business-like tone, and yet with affection; 'you're good for twenty years yet, I hope and trust.'

I should be, John, if trade was allowed to go on in a proper way. But cooperation'll be the death of me long before my proper time.'

'My girl's gone to the theatre,' observed Old Wheels, to change the subject.

'It'll do her good,' said Mrs. Gribble; 'she's been looking pale

of late.'

Ꮓ Ꮓ

'I'm going to take father to the Music Hall to-night,' said Gribble junior. He's never been to one. You see, Mr. Wheels, what I complain of in father is, that he won't keep moving.'

'It's too late, John; it's too late. My joints are stiff.'

'Perhaps so, but there's no occasion to make 'em stiffer. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Go in for everything, I say-go in for work, and go in for play; and keep moving. How do you think baby's looking, Mr. Wheels?'

Old Wheels pinched the baby's cheek, and said gaily that the cooperative store couldn't turn out a baby like that.

'Do you hear that, father?' cried Mrs. Gribble junior, with a merry laugh. 'Do you hear that?'

Mr. Wheels is quite right,' replied Gribble senior, faithful to his theories; it ain't likely that anything good and wholesome can come out of coöperation.'

'How's trade, Mr. Gribble?'

'Well, it's no use grumbling, but it ain't as good as it should be. I had an idea yesterday, though. It was raining, you know, and I had no jobs on hand. The hospital ain't as full as it ought to be. I went out in the rain yesterday with three new umbrellas under my arm, and one over my head. What for, now? you'll ask. To sell 'em? no; people never buy umbrellas in rainy weather of their own accord; they always wait for a fine day. No; I had an idea, and I carried it out in this way. I saw a respectable man, with an umbrella over his head that wanted mending. I followed him home, and just as he knocked at his door, I went up to him, and said I was an umbrella-maker, and would like the job of mending his umbrella. "But I've only got this one," he said, "and I want to go out again." "I'm prepared for that, sir," I said; " here's my card, and

here's a new umbrella as good as yours. I'll leave this with you to use till I bring back your own, properly mended." He was tickled at the idea, and was more tickled when I told him that, trade being slack, I had come out on purpose to look out for umbrellas that wanted mending. "You're an industrious fellow," he said, with a laugh. "Yes, sir," I answered, "if work won't come to you, you must go to work. Keep moving, that's my motto. If you can't get work, make it." Well, he gave me his secondhand umbrella, and took my new one. In this way, in less than three hours, I got rid of my four new umbrellas, and got four jobs. I took them back this afternoon, and-would you believe it, Mr. Wheels?—not only did I get paid well for the jobs, but two of the gentlemen bought two of my new umbrellas, and said I deserved to be encouraged. And I think I am,' added Gribble junior, complacently. I made a good job of that idea, and I daresay it'll bring me in some money. You see, an umbrella is such an awkward thing to get mended, when it's out of order. Not one person out of twenty knows where to take it to. Well, go to them. I hope it'll rain to-morrow.'

When Old Wheels was in his room again, it was natural that his thoughts should dwell much on the conversation that had taken place between himself and Lily. It brought the past before him, and he was painfully startled by the resemblance which the present crisis in the life of his darling bore to that other event in the life of her mother which had wrecked the hap-" piness of that unhappy woman. He opened the cupboard, and saw the little iron box. Very sad were the thoughts it suggested as he brought it to the table and opened it. There was a little money in it, sufficient for

a few weeks' expenses of their humble home; two or three mementos of Lily, such as a piece of ribbon and a flower she had worn in her hair; and some old letters and papers, worn and faded. He took them from the box, and sadly read one and another. Among them were letters from Lily's father to her mother during their days of courtship; and certain terms of expression in them brought to him the remembrance of sentiments almost similarly expressed by Alfred. The same vague declarations of being able to make large sums of money by unexplained means; the same selfishness, the same boastfulness, were there embodied. But not the same remorse which Alfred had already experienced; that was to come afterwards, and the despair which ever accompanies it. We were happy, then, my daughter and I,' the old man murmured; 'happy before he came. My daughter's life might not have ended as it did, in misery; might not have been passed, as it was, in miserable repinings. He brought a blight upon us.' And then came the thought, 'Like father, like son.' He paced the room with disturbed steps. Alfred's father,' he thought, 'wrecked the happiness of the woman who loved him, who trusted implicitly in him-wrecked the happiness of my daughter, who once was as bright as my darling Lily. And how she changed under the consequence of his vice and his folly! How she drooped, and drooped, until life became torture! As she trusted him and believed in him, and sacrificed herself for him, so Lily trusts and believes and is ready to sacrifice herself for Alfred. Shall I allow her to do this, blindly? The end would not be the same, for Lily could not live through it. How can I save my darling? Would it not be better to inflict a sharp pain

upon her now than to see her walk blindly, confidingly, lovingly, to a desolate future?' At this point of his musings, he heard the streetdoor open and shut, and heard a stumbling step in the passage below. Looking over the papers in the iron box, he came upon two which he opened and read. They were the last two documents connected with the career of Lily's father. One was a full quittance for a sum of money which the unhappy man had embezzled; the wording of the other was as follows:

'In consideration of my fatherin-law paying the money due to Mr. James Creamwell, which I have wrongfully used, I solemnly promise not to trouble my wife with my presence as long as I live, and not to make myself known to my children in the future, should we meet by any chance. For the wrong that I have done, I humbly ask their forgiveness.

'RICHARD MANNING.'

'He has kept his word,' mused Old Wheels; 'from that time I have never seen him, never heard of him. I have wondered often if he is alive. No one but I have ever read this paper, unless Alfred, when he took the money from this boxBut no; he could have had no thought for anything but his unhappy purpose.'

Old Wheels was interrupted in his musings by the whining of a dog at the door. That's Snap's voice,' he said, and going to the door, he saw the faithful dog waiting for him. Snap, directly he saw the old man, looked into his face appealingly, and walked towards the stairs. Old Wheels, taking the candle, followed the dog downstairs, and found Jim Podmore asleep at the bottom. Snap, having fulfilled his mission, waited tiently for the old man to act.

pa

Come, Mr. Podmore,' said Old

Wheels, gently shaking the sleeping man; you mustn't sleep here. Come upstairs, and get to bed.'

The tired man murmured 'All right,' and settled himself comfortably to continue his nap. But Old Wheels shook him more roughly, and he rose to his feet wearily, and leaning against the wall, seemed disposed to fall asleep again in that position.

'Come, pull yourself together,' urged Old Wheels, taking Jim Podmore's arm; 'you'll be more comfortable in your own room than here.'

Thus advised, and being well shaken, Jim 'pulled himself together,' and with many incoherent apologies, accompanied Old Wheels upstairs. When he arrived at the first landing, he appeared to think he had gone far enough, and quite naturally he stumbled into the old man's room, and fell into a chair.

'Come, come,' persisted Old Wheels, 'I am not going to allow you to fall asleep again. Bed's the proper place for you.'

'I should like,' murmured Jim, 'to go to bed--and sleep-for a month.'

Old Wheels laughed slightly at this.

'You wouldn't expect to wake up at the end of the time,' he said, continuing to shake Jim Podmore.

'I don't know-I don't careI'd like to go to bed—and sleepfor a year. All right, Mr. Wheels -don't shake me-any more!— I'm awake--that is, as awake—as I shall be-till to morrow morning. I beg you a thousand pardons for troubling you. I suppose you found me asleep-somewhere. Where?'

'On the stairs.'

'Ah-yes. I thought I should ha' fell down-in the streets-as I walked along. I was so-dead

beat.

I'm glad you woke me up

for I wanted-to ask you something.'

Old Wheels thought it best not to interrupt the current of Jim's thoughts, and therefore did not speak. Jim shook himself much as a dog does when he comes out of the water, and having, it is to be presumed, by that action, aroused his mental faculties, proceeded.

'We've had a talk-to-day-me and some mates-and I made up my mind that I'd speak to some one-as might know-better than us. I meant you.'

'Yes. What were you speaking about?'

'Well, you see-it come in this way. I never told you - about Dick Hart-did I?'

'No-not that I remember,' replied Old Wheels.

'He was a mate of our'n-Dick

Hart was. As good a fellow-as ever drawed-God's breath. He was working on our line-a many months ago. He ain't working

there now-not him—ain't working anywhere-can't get it. Willing enough-Dick Hart is-and abreaking his heart—because he can't get it. He's a doomed man

-Mr. Wheels-a doomed man!-and might as well-be dead-as alive. Better-a dooced sight better-if it warn't for his wife-and kids.'

Jim Podmore was evidently warming up. His theme was powerful enough to master his fatigue. Old Wheels listened attentively.

'It might have happened-to me-it might happen to me-any night-when I'm dead-beat. What then?' he asked excitedly, to the no small surprise of Snap, to whom this episode was so strange that he stood aside, gazing gravely at his master. 'What then?' Jim repeated. 'Why, I should be-what Dick Hart is-a-wandering about-in rags-a-starving almost. I should be worse than him-for when I

think of the old woman upstairs -asleep-and my little Pollythat is my star-my star, Polly is ! —and think of them-with nothing to eat-like Dick Hart's old woman and kids-I shouldn't be able -to keep my hands-to myself. And I shouldn't try to--I'm cursed if I should!