Benjamin Farjeon - London's Heart - A Novel

"Yes."

"What?"

"I can see a little girl lying in bed, looking at the roses on the wall."

"That's me," said Pollypod, in a tone of infinite content. "Who's in the room with the little girl? Not father!"

"No; not father, because father comes home so late."

"And the little girl is asleep before he comes home."

"Fast asleep, Pollypod. But there's some one else in the room-mother is there, working."

"That's right! that's right!" cried Pollypod, twining her fingers together in her excitement. "You are a wizard!"

"The little girl is lying with her eyes open, looking at the roses. She fixes her eyes upon one, and it changes. Lips come-like Lily's; eyes come, bright-like Lily's. Presently Lily's face is in the rose, smiling at the little girl. But the face fades – "

"Does it?" whispered Pollypod anxiously.

"And in its place a Doll appears – "

"Yes! yes!"

"And the little girl falls asleep and dreams of it, and holds it in her arms. And while she dreams, I see a ship coming over the seas – "

"Father's ship!" cried Pollypod in ecstacy.

"No; another ship."

"O!" sighed Pollypod, drooping.

"Here it comes sailing-sailing-sailing; and the waves are curling-curling-curling; and the captain is bowing-bowing-bowing; and the stars are shining-shining-shining into the waters, lighting them up with smiles! But what is this I see on the ship? A Doll!"

"Doll!" cried Pollypod, reviving. "For the little girl?"

"Yes, for the little girl. The little girl's Doll! Pollypod's Doll! And as sure as we sit here talking, the captain, if he's alive, will bring it home before the week's out."

In a very flutter of delight Pollypod jumped to her feet, and clasped her hands.

"You mustn't be frightened of me, Pollypod," said Felix, sharing in Pollypod's delight; "I'm a good wizard."

"I know that! I know that!" said the little maid, almost in a whisper. "But I want to know! Is She beautiful?"

"Yes, she is beautiful," replied Felix, dwelling long on each syllable.

"And has she got blue eyes?"

"The bluest in the world."

"And a pink face?"

"As pink as this rose, Pollypod."

"And red lips?"

"Red as cherries."

"And what is She dressed in?"

"Blue silk, with a large sash behind, and mauve boots, and the loveliest bonnet that ever was made."

So filled with joy that she could not speak, Pollypod sat down on the tombstone, shut her eyes, and saw Her in all Her silken glory. The little maid was in a state of beatific bliss; and she saw the ship sailing, and the waves curling, and the captain bowing, and the stars shining, and the beautiful Doll eclipsing them all.

Presently she opened her eyes, and said reflectively,

"I hope Snap will like her. You're sure he'll come?"

"The captain? As sure as can be. Mother's calling you."

Away raced Pollypod, the happiest little girl in all England, towards her mother; and Felix strolled out of the churchyard with the idea of ascertaining why the old man and Gribble junior were so long absent.

He was arrested in his purpose by an incident that claimed his attention.

Near to the entrance to the churchyard was the mourning-coach which had conveyed the party from Soho, and near to the mourning-coach was the driver, in a condition bordering closely on intoxication. Whether it is that sorrow requires inward moistening, or that there is some other equally strong cause to account for it, every churchyard has in its immediate neighbourhood a handy public-house, or two, or three-according to whether the churchyard does a flourishing business or otherwise. There is nothing strange in the circumstance; for public-houses are everywhere, and churchyards should no more be deprived of the consolation their presence affords than other places. No sooner had our driver got rid of his load of flesh and clay than he sought the handy ale-house, to bait his cattle and moisten his sorrow. The former task was quickly accomplished, but the latter occupied a much longer time-a proof that his sorrow was very keen, and needed a great deal of moistening. When Felix approached him, he had paid at least half a dozen visits to the ale-house, and his sorrow had turned into anger at the time he had been kept waiting. His face, which had grown puffy in the exercise of his profession, was inflamed, and he was muttering to himself that he would see the whole party in a very warm place before he would wait for them a minute longer. The assertion was not only irreverent, with a churchyard in view, but (as he would have to be there to see) it was injudicious as regarded his own fate after he had shuffled off his mortal coil.

Felix saw the state at once, and saw also that the driver was not in a fit condition to drive the party home. A very few words with the man convinced him of this. He was quick at expedients, and eagerly took advantage of the opportunity that presented itself.

"My guv'ner," said the driver, in a thick voice, and with occasional hiccoughs, "didn't bargain that I was to stop here till I got blue in the face."

Which (supposing that the contract had been entered into between him and his "guv'ner") was so manifestly impossible of accomplishment in sight of his inflamed countenance, that Felix could not help smiling.

"And in consequence," continued the driver, with sarcastic emphasis, "as it wasn't in the bargain, and as the job's paid for beforehand, and as I've got my family to look arter, you can tell the party inside, as you're a friend of their'n, that I'm off."

With that he gathered up the reins, and prepared to mount. His foot was in the air when Felix invited him to "Come and have a pint."

The invitation was not to be resisted, and they adjourned to the ale-house, where, over the pint, Felix learnt the name of the street and the number of the house in which Lily lived. His purpose being served, he allowed the man to depart, and, with some satisfaction, saw the mourning-coach on its way to London.

"There would have been an accident for certain," said Felix to himself, as if in apology for allowing the man to depart, "and it will be better for them to have a sober driver than a drunken one. Besides, I myself must sleep in London to-night."

Then he went to an hotel of a better kind, where he was known, and made arrangements for the hire of a waggonette and a pair of good horses, and ascertained where he could stable them for the night in London.

"Harness the horses," he said, "at once, and let them stand at the entrance of the churchyard: I shall return in the morning. I wonder," he mused, as he walked towards the churchyard again, "Whether they will refuse to accept a courtesy from my father's son."

"Though the prayers of a priest are denied to you, not less sanctified is the ground in which you lie. Tender thoughts and tender remembrance accompany you, and these are the best of prayers. It is better as it is, perhaps; better that your dust should be buried thus in silence; than that the cold words of a harsh sorrowless minister should fall upon your grave. Peace be with you!"

These words were spoken inly by Lily's grandfather, as he stood, with head uncovered, by the side of the grave into which the coffin was being lowered. He and Gribble junior had been in search of a Methodist minister, in the vague hope that something might be suggested to afford consolation to the dead woman's children; but their search had been unsuccessful, and as the day was waning and they had far to go, they had no alternative but to comply with the Reverend Mr. Creamwell's decree. As they stood about the grave, the men were silent and sad; tears were streaming down the faces of the women; and Pollypod for a few moments forgot her Doll and the ship that was bringing it home over the seas. The heir of the house of Gribble junior was awake and in his father's arms, and the enthusiastic umbrella-doctor tilted the baby over the grave, so that the child might have a good view of the coffin, in the belief probably that it would "open up his ideas, as a body might say." Notwithstanding the minister's decree, Lily's mother was not buried: in complete silence; for the twittering of birds and the soft hum of insect-life were heard, and the breeze was as peaceful, and the clouds as bright, as if a thousand human voices had been raised in her glorification. The old man picked up a handful of dust, and scattered it lightly upon the coffin, and then the earth was shovelled in and the grave was filled. Slowly they walked out of the churchyard, Pollypod in a state of restlessness about Felix, and wondering what had become of him. When she caught sight of him, standing by the waggonette he had hired, she ran eagerly to him, and plucked his coat. He inclined his head to hers.