The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fallen Leaves, by Wilkie Collins

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Title: The Fallen Leaves

Author: Wilkie Collins

Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7894]
Posting Date: July 26, 2009
Last Updated: September 11, 2016

Language: English

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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FALLEN LEAVES ***




Produced by James Rusk





THE FALLEN LEAVES

By Wilkie Collins


To CAROLINE

Experience of the reception of _The Fallen Leaves_ by intelligent
readers, who have followed the course of the periodical publication at
home and abroad, has satisfied me that the design of the work speaks
for itself, and that the scrupulous delicacy of treatment, in certain
portions of the story, has been as justly appreciated as I could wish.
Having nothing to explain, and (so far as my choice of subject is
concerned) nothing to excuse, I leave my book, without any prefatory
pleading for it, to make its appeal to the reading public on such merits
as it may possess.

W. C. GLOUCESTER PLACE, LONDON July 1st, 1879




THE PROLOGUE

I

The resistless influences which are one day to reign supreme over
our poor hearts, and to shape the sad short course of our lives, are
sometimes of mysteriously remote origin, and find their devious ways to
us through the hearts and the lives of strangers.

While the young man whose troubled career it is here proposed to follow
was wearing his first jacket, and bowling his first hoop, a domestic
misfortune, falling on a household of strangers, was destined
nevertheless to have its ultimate influence over his happiness, and to
shape the whole aftercourse of his life.

For this reason, some First Words must precede the Story, and must
present the brief narrative of what happened in the household of
strangers. By what devious ways the event here related affected the
chief personage of these pages, when he grew to manhood, it will be the
business of the story to trace, over land and sea, among men and women,
in bright days and dull days alike, until the end is reached, and the
pen (God willing) is put back in the desk.

II

Old Benjamin Ronald (of the Stationers’ Company) took a young wife at
the ripe age of fifty, and carried with him into the holy estate of
matrimony some of the habits of his bachelor life.

As a bachelor, he had never willingly left his shop (situated in that
exclusively commercial region of London which is called “the City”) from
one year’s end to another. As a married man, he persisted in following
the same monotonous course; with this one difference, that he now had
a woman to follow it with him. “Travelling by railway,” he explained to
his wife, “will make your head ache--it makes _my_ head ache. Travelling
by sea will make you sick--it makes _me_ sick. If you want change of
air, every sort of air is to be found in the City. If you admire the
beauties of Nature, there is Finsbury Square with the beauties of Nature
carefully selected and arranged. When we are in London, you (and I) are
all right; and when we are out of London, you (and I) are all wrong.”
 As surely as the autumn holiday season set in, so surely Old Ronald
resisted his wife’s petition for a change of scene in that form of
words. A man habitually fortified behind his own inbred obstinacy and
selfishness is for the most part an irresistible power within the limits
of his domestic circle. As a rule, patient Mrs. Ronald yielded; and her
husband stood revealed to his neighbours in the glorious character of a
married man who had his own way.

But in the autumn of 1856, the retribution which sooner or later
descends on all despotisms, great and small, overtook the iron rule of
Old Ronald, and defeated the domestic tyrant on the battle-field of his
own fireside.

The children born of the marriage, two in number, were both daughters.
The elder had mortally offended her father by marrying imprudently--in
a pecuniary sense. He had declared that she should never enter his house
again; and he had mercilessly kept his word. The younger daughter
(now eighteen years of age) proved to be also a source of parental
inquietude, in another way. She was the passive cause of the revolt
which set her father’s authority at defiance. For some little time past
she had been out of health. After many ineffectual trials of the mild
influence of persuasion, her mother’s patience at last gave way. Mrs.
Ronald insisted--yes, actually insisted--on taking Miss Emma to the
seaside.

“What’s the matter with you?” Old Ronald asked; detecting something that
perplexed him in his wife’s look and manner, on the memorable occasion
when she asserted a will of her own for the first time in her life.

A man of finer observation would have discovered the signs of no
ordinary anxiety and alarm, struggling to show themselves openly in the
poor woman’s face. Her husband only saw a change that puzzled him. “Send
for Emma,” he said, his natural cunning inspiring him with the idea of
confronting the mother and daughter, and of seeing what came of _that._
Emma appeared, plump and short, with large blue eyes, and full pouting
lips, and splendid yellow hair: otherwise, miserably pale, languid
in her movements, careless in her dress, sullen in her manner. Out of
health as her mother said, and as her father saw.

“You can see for yourself,” said Mrs. Ronald, “that the girl is pining
for fresh air. I have heard Ramsgate recommended.”

Old Ronald looked at his daughter. She represented the one tender place
in his nature. It was not a large place; but it did exist. And the proof
of it is, that he began to yield--with the worst possible grace.

“Well, we will see about it,” he said.

“There is no time to be lost,” Mrs. Ronald persisted. “I mean to take
her to Ramsgate tomorrow.”

Mr. Ronald looked at his wife as a dog looks at the maddened sheep that
turns on him. “You mean?” repeated the stationer. “Upon my soul--what
next? You mean? Where is the money to come from? Answer me that.”

Mrs. Ronald declined to be drawn into a conjugal dispute, in the
presence of her daughter. She took Emma’s arm, and led her to the door.
There she stopped, and spoke. “I have already told you that the girl is
ill,” she said to her husband. “And I now tell you again that she must
have the sea air. For God’s sake, don’t let us quarrel! I have enough to
try me without that.” She closed the door on herself and her daughter,
and left her lord and master standing face to face with the wreck of his
own outraged authority.

What further progress was made by the domestic revolt, when the bedroom
candles were lit, and the hour of retirement had arrived with the night,
is naturally involved in mystery. This alone is certain: On the next
morning, the luggage was packed, and the cab was called to the door.
Mrs. Ronald spoke her parting words to her husband in private.

“I hope I have not expressed myself too strongly about taking Emma to
the seaside,” she said, in gentle pleading tones. “I am anxious about
our girl’s health. If I have offended you--without meaning it, God
knows!--say you forgive me before I go. I have tried honestly, dear, to
be a good wife to you. And you have always trusted me, haven’t you? And
you trust me still?”

She took his lean cold hand, and pressed it fervently: her eyes rested
on him with a strange mixture of timidity and anxiety. Still in the
prime of her life, she preserved the personal attractions--the fair calm
refined face, the natural grace of look and movement--which had made
her marriage to a man old enough to be her father a cause of angry
astonishment among all her friends. In the agitation that now possessed
her, her colour rose, her eyes brightened; she looked for the moment
almost young enough to be Emma’s sister. Her husband opened his hard old
eyes in surly bewilderment. “Why need you make this fuss?” he asked. “I
don’t understand you.” Mrs. Ronald shrank at those words as if he had
struck her. She kissed him in silence, and joined her daughter in the
cab.

For the rest of that day, the persons in the stationer’s employment had
a hard time of it with their master in the shop. Something had upset Old
Ronald. He ordered the shutters to be put up earlier that evening than
usual. Instead of going to his club (at the tavern round the corner),
he took a long walk in the lonely and lifeless streets of the City by
night. There was no disguising it from himself; his wife’s behaviour at
parting had made him uneasy. He naturally swore at her for taking that
liberty, while he lay awake alone in his bed. “Damn the woman! What
does she mean?” The cry of the soul utters itself in various forms of
expression. That was the cry of Old Ronald’s soul, literally translated.

III

The next morning brought him a letter from Ramsgate.

“I write immediately to tell you of our safe arrival. We have found
comfortable lodgings (as the address at the head of this letter will
inform you) in Albion Place. I thank you, and Emma desires to thank you
also, for your kindness in providing us with ample means for taking our
little trip. It is beautiful weather today; the sea is calm, and the
pleasure-boats are out. We do not of course expect to see you here.
But if you do, by any chance, overcome your objection to moving out
of London, I have a little request to make. Please let me hear of your
visit beforehand--so that I may not omit all needful preparations. I
know you dislike being troubled with letters (except on business), so
I will not write too frequently. Be so good as to take no news for good
news, in the intervals. When you have a few minutes to spare, you will
write, I hope, and tell me how you and the shop are going on. Emma sends
you her love, in which I beg to join.” So the letter was expressed, and
so it ended.

“They needn’t be afraid of my troubling them. Calm seas and
pleasure-boats! Stuff and nonsense!” Such was the first impression which
his wife’s report of herself produced on Old Ronald’s mind. After
a while, he looked at the letter again--and frowned, and reflected.
“Please let me hear of your visit beforehand,” he repeated to himself,
as if the request had been, in some incomprehensible way, offensive to
him. He opened the drawer of his desk, and threw the letter into it.
When business was over for the day, he went to his club at the tavern,
and made himself unusually disagreeable to everybody.

A week passed. In the interval he wrote briefly to his wife. “I’m all
right, and the shop goes on as usual.” He also forwarded one or two
letters which came for Mrs. Ronald. No more news reached him from
Ramsgate. “I suppose they’re enjoying themselves,” he reflected. “The
house looks queer without them; I’ll go to the club.”

He stayed later than usual, and drank more than usual, that night. It
was nearly one in the morning when he let himself in with his latch-key,
and went upstairs to bed.

Approaching the toilette-table, he found a letter lying on it, addressed
to “Mr. Ronald--private.” It was not in his wife’s handwriting; not in
any handwriting known to him. The characters sloped the wrong way, and
the envelope bore no postmark. He eyed it over and over suspiciously. At
last he opened it, and read these lines:

“You are advised by a true friend to lose no time in looking after your
wife. There are strange doings at the seaside. If you don’t believe me,
ask Mrs. Turner, Number 1, Slains Row, Ramsgate.”

No address, no date, no signature--an anonymous letter, the first he had
ever received in the long course of his life.

His hard brain was in no way affected by the liquor that he had drunk.
He sat down on his bed, mechanically folding and refolding the letter.
The reference to “Mrs. Turner” produced no impression on him of any
sort: no person of that name, common as it was, happened to be numbered
on the list of his friends or his customers. But for one circumstance,
he would have thrown the letter aside, in contempt. His memory reverted
to his wife’s incomprehensible behaviour at parting. Addressing him
through that remembrance, the anonymous warning assumed a certain
importance to his mind. He went down to his desk, in the back office,
and took his wife’s letter out of the drawer, and read it through
slowly. “Ha!” he said, pausing as he came across the sentence which
requested him to write beforehand, in the unlikely event of his deciding
to go to Ramsgate. He thought again of the strangely persistent way in
which his wife had dwelt on his trusting her; he recalled her nervous
anxious looks, her deepening colour, her agitation at one moment, and
then her sudden silence and sudden retreat to the cab. Fed by these
irritating influences, the inbred suspicion in his nature began to take
fire slowly. She might be innocent enough in asking him to give her
notice before he joined her at the seaside--she might naturally be
anxious to omit no needful preparation for his comfort. Still, he didn’t
like it; no, he didn’t like it. An appearance as of a slow collapse
passed little by little over his rugged wrinkled face. He looked many
years older than his age, as he sat at the desk, with the flaring
candlelight close in front of him, thinking. The anonymous letter lay
before him, side by side with his wife’s letter. On a sudden, he lifted
his gray head, and clenched his fist, and struck the venomous written
warning as if it had been a living thing that could feel. “Whoever you
are,” he said, “I’ll take your advice.”

He never even made the attempt to go to bed that night. His pipe helped
him through the comfortless and dreary hours. Once or twice he thought
of his daughter. Why had her mother been so anxious about her? Why had
her mother taken her to Ramsgate? Perhaps, as a blind--ah, yes, perhaps
as a blind! More for the sake of something to do than for any other
reason, he packed a handbag with a few necessaries. As soon as the
servant was stirring, he ordered her to make him a cup of strong coffee.
After that, it was time to show himself as usual, on the opening of the
shop. To his astonishment, he found his clerk taking down the shutters,
in place of the porter.

“What does this mean?” he asked. “Where is Farnaby?”

The clerk looked at his master, and paused aghast with a shutter in his
hands.

“Good Lord! what has come to you?” he cried. “Are you ill?”

Old Ronald angrily repeated his question: “Where is Farnaby?”

“I don’t know,” was the answer.

“You don’t know? Have you been up to his bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, he isn’t in his bedroom. And, what’s more, his bed hasn’t been
slept in last night. Farnaby’s off, sir--nobody knows where.”

Old Ronald dropped heavily into the nearest chair. This second mystery,
following on the mystery of the anonymous letter, staggered him. But
his business instincts were still in good working order. He held out his
keys to the clerk. “Get the petty cash-book,” he said, “and see if the
money is all right.”

The clerk received the keys under protest. _“That’s_ not the right
reading of the riddle,” he remarked.

“Do as I tell you!”

The clerk opened the money-drawer under the counter; counted the pounds,
shillings and pence paid by chance customers up to the closing of
the shop on the previous evening; compared the result with the petty
cash-book, and answered, “Right to a halfpenny.”

Satisfied so far, old Ronald condescended to approach the speculative
side of the subject, with the assistance of his subordinate. “If what
you said just now means anything,” he resumed, “it means that you
suspect the reason why Farnaby has left my service. Let’s hear it.”

“You know that I never liked John Farnaby,” the clerk began. “An active
young fellow and a clever young fellow, I grant you. But a bad servant
for all that. False, Mr. Ronald--false to the marrow of his bones.”

Mr. Ronald’s patience began to give way. “Come to the facts,” he
growled. “Why has Farnaby gone off without a word to anybody? Do you
know that?”

“I know no more than you do,” the clerk answered coolly. “Don’t fly into
a passion. I have got some facts for you, if you will only give me time.
Turn them over in your own mind, and see what they come to. Three days
ago I was short of postage-stamps, and I went to the office. Farnaby was
there, waiting at the desk where they pay the post-office orders. There
must have been ten or a dozen people with letters, orders, and what
not, between him and me. I got behind him quietly, and looked over his
shoulder. I saw the clerk give him the money for his post-office order.
Five pounds in gold, which I reckoned as they lay on the counter, and
a bank-note besides, which he crumpled up in his hand. I can’t tell you
how much it was for; I only know it _was_ a bank-note. Just ask yourself
how a porter on twenty shillings a week (with a mother who takes in
washing, and a father who takes in drink) comes to have a correspondent
who sends him an order for five sovereigns--and a bank-note, value
unknown. Say he’s turned betting-man in secret. Very good. There’s the
post-office order, in that case, to show that he’s got a run of luck. If
he has got a run of luck, tell me this--why does he leave his place like
a thief in the night? He’s not a slave; he’s not even an apprentice.
When he thinks he can better himself, he has no earthly need to keep it
a secret that he means to leave your service. He may have met with an
accident, to be sure. But that’s not _my_ belief. I say he’s up to some
mischief And now comes the question: What are we to do?”

Mr. Ronald, listening with his head down, and without interposing a
word on his own part, made an extraordinary answer. “Leave it,” he said.
“Leave it till tomorrow.”

“Why?” the clerk answered, without ceremony.

Mr. Ronald made another extraordinary answer. “Because I am obliged to
go out of town for the day. Look after the business. The ironmonger’s
man over the way will help you to put up the shutters at night. If
anybody inquires for me, say I shall be back tomorrow.” With those
parting directions, heedless of the effect that he had produced on the
clerk, he looked at his watch, and left the shop.


IV

The bell which gave five minutes’ notice of the starting of the Ramsgate
train had just rung.

While the other travellers were hastening to the platform, two persons
stood passively apart as if they had not even yet decided on taking
their places in the train. One of the two was a smart young man in a
cheap travelling suit; mainly noticeable by his florid complexion, his
restless dark eyes, and his profusely curling black hair. The other was
a middle-aged woman in frowsy garments; tall and stout, sly and sullen.
The smart young man stood behind the uncongenial-looking person with
whom he had associated himself, using her as a screen to hide him while
he watched the travellers on their way to the train. As the bell rang,
the woman suddenly faced her companion, and pointed to the railway
clock.

“Are you waiting to make up your mind till the train has gone?” she
asked.

The young man frowned impatiently. “I am waiting for a person whom I
expect to see,” he answered. “If the person travels by this train, we
shall travel by it. If not, we shall come back here, and look out for
the next train, and so on till night-time, if it’s necessary.”

The woman fixed her small scowling gray eyes on the man as he replied
in those terms. “Look here!” she broke out. “I like to see my way before
me. You’re a stranger, young Mister; and it’s as likely as not you’ve
given me a false name and address. That don’t matter. False names are
commoner than true ones, in my line of life. But mind this! I don’t
stir a step farther till I’ve got half the money in my hand, and my
return-ticket there and back.”

“Hold your tongue!” the man suddenly interposed in a whisper. “It’s all
right. I’ll get the tickets.”

He looked while he spoke at an elderly traveller, hastening by with
his head down, deep in thought, noticing nobody. The traveller was
Mr. Ronald. The young man, who had that moment recognized him, was his
runaway porter, John Farnaby.

Returning with the tickets, the porter took his repellent travelling
companion by the arm, and hurried her along the platform to the train.
“The money!” she whispered, as they took their places. Farnaby handed
it to her, ready wrapped up in a morsel of paper. She opened the paper,
satisfied herself that no trick had been played her, and leaned back in
her corner to go to sleep. The train started. Old Ronald travelled by
the second class; his porter and his porter’s companion accompanied him
secretly by the third.

V

It was still early in the afternoon when Mr. Ronald descended the narrow
street which leads from the high land of the South-Eastern railway
station to the port of Ramsgate. Asking his way of the first policeman
whom he met, he turned to the left, and reached the cliff on which the
houses in Albion Place are situated. Farnaby followed him at a discreet
distance; and the woman followed Farnaby.

Arrived in sight of the lodging-house, Mr. Ronald paused--partly to
recover his breath, partly to compose himself. He was conscious of a
change of feeling as he looked up at the windows: his errand suddenly
assumed a contemptible aspect in his own eyes. He almost felt ashamed of
himself. After twenty years of undisturbed married life, was it possible
that he had doubted his wife--and that at the instigation of a stranger
whose name even was unknown to him? “If she was to step out in the
balcony, and see me down here,” he thought, “what a fool I should look!”
 He felt half-inclined, at the moment when he lifted the knocker of the
door, to put it back again quietly, and return to London. No! it was too
late. The maid-servant was hanging up her birdcage in the area of the
house; the maid-servant had seen him.

“Does Mrs. Ronald lodge here?” he asked.

The girl lifted her eyebrows and opened her mouth--stared at him in
speechless confusion--and disappeared in the kitchen regions. This
strange reception of his inquiry irritated him unreasonably. He knocked
with the absurd violence of a man who vents his anger on the first
convenient thing that he can find. The landlady opened the door, and
looked at him in stern and silent surprise.

“Does Mrs. Ronald lodge here?” he repeated.

The landlady answered with some appearance of effort--the effort of a
person who was carefully considering her words before she permitted them
to pass her lips.

“Mrs. Ronald has taken rooms here. But she has not occupied them yet.”

“Not occupied them yet?” The words bewildered him as if they had been
spoken in an unknown tongue. He stood stupidly silent on the doorstep.
His anger was gone; an all-mastering fear throbbed heavily at his heart.
The landlady looked at him, and said to her secret self: “Just what I
suspected; there _is_ something wrong!”

“Perhaps I have not sufficiently explained myself, sir,” she resumed
with grave politeness. “Mrs. Ronald told me that she was staying at
Ramsgate with friends. She would move into my house, she said, when her
friends left--but they had not quite settled the day yet. She calls here
for letters. Indeed, she was here early this morning, to pay the second
week’s rent. I asked when she thought of moving in. She didn’t seem to
know; her friends (as I understood) had not made up their minds. I must
say I thought it a little odd. Would you like to leave any message?”

He recovered himself sufficiently to speak. “Can you tell me where her
friends live?” he said.

The landlady shook her head. “No, indeed. I offered to save Mrs. Ronald
the trouble of calling here, by sending letters or cards to her present
residence. She declined the offer--and she has never mentioned the
address. Would you like to come in and rest, sir? I will see that your
card is taken care of, if you wish to leave it.”

“Thank you, ma’am--it doesn’t matter--good morning.”

The landlady looked after him as he descended the house-steps. “It’s the
husband, Peggy,” she said to the servant, waiting inquisitively behind
her. “Poor old gentleman! And such a respectable-looking woman, too!”

Mr. Ronald walked mechanically to the end of the row of houses, and met
the wide grand view of sea and sky. There were some seats behind the
railing which fenced the edge of the cliff. He sat down, perfectly
stupefied and helpless, on the nearest bench.

At the close of life, the loss of a man’s customary nourishment extends
its debilitating influence rapidly from his body to his mind. Mr. Ronald
had tasted nothing but his cup of coffee since the previous night.
His mind began to wander strangely; he was not angry or frightened
or distressed. Instead of thinking of what had just happened, he was
thinking of his young days when he had been a cricket-player. One
special game revived in his memory, at which he had been struck on the
head by the ball. “Just the same feeling,” he reflected vacantly, with
his hat off, and his hand on his forehead. “Dazed and giddy--just the
same feeling!”

He leaned back on the bench, and fixed his eyes on the sea, and wondered
languidly what had come to him. Farnaby and the woman, still following,
waited round the corner where they could just keep him in view.

The blue lustre of the sky was without a cloud; the sunny sea leapt
under the fresh westerly breeze. From the beach, the cries of children
at play, the shouts of donkey-boys driving their poor beasts, the
distant notes of brass instruments playing a waltz, and the mellow music
of the small waves breaking on the sand, rose joyously together on the
fragrant air. On the next bench, a dirty old boatman was prosing to a
stupid old visitor. Mr. Ronald listened, with a sense of vacant content
in the mere act of listening. The boatman’s words found their way to his
ears like the other sounds that were abroad in the air. “Yes; them’s
the Goodwin Sands, where you see the lightship. And that steamer there,
towing a vessel into the harbour, that’s the Ramsgate Tug. Do you know
what I should like to see? I should like to see the Ramsgate Tug blow
up. Why? I’ll tell you why. I belong to Broadstairs; I don’t belong to
Ramsgate. Very well. I’m idling here, as you may see, without one copper
piece in my pocket to rub against another. What trade do I belong to?
I don’t belong to no trade; I belong to a boat. The boat’s rotting at
Broadstairs, for want of work. And all along of what? All along of the
Tug. The Tug has took the bread out of our mouths: me and my mates. Wait
a bit; I’ll show you how. What did a ship do, in the good old times,
when she got on them sands--Goodwin Sands? Went to pieces, if it come on
to blow; or got sucked down little by little when it was fair weather.
Now I’m coming to it. What did We do (in the good old times, mind you)
when we happened to see that ship in distress? Out with our boat; blow
high or blow low, out with our boat. And saved the lives of the crew,
did you say? Well, yes; saving the crew was part of the day’s work, to
be sure; the part we didn’t get paid for. We saved _the cargo,_ Master!
and got salvage!! Hundreds of pounds, I tell you, divided amongst us by
law!!! Ah, those times are gone. A parcel of sneaks get together, and
subscribe to build a Steam-Tug. When a ship gets on the sands now, out
goes the Tug, night and day alike, and brings her safe into harbour,
and takes the bread out of our mouths. Shameful--that’s what I call
it--shameful.”

The last words of the boatman’s lament fell lower, lower, lower on Mr.
Ronald’s ears--he lost them altogether--he lost the view of the sea--he
lost the sense of the wind blowing over him. Suddenly, he was roused as
if from a deep sleep. On one side, the man from Broadstairs was shaking
him by the collar. “I say, Master, cheer up; what’s come to you?” On the
other side, a compassionate lady was offering her smelling-bottle. “I am
afraid, sir, you have fainted.” He struggled to his feet, and vacantly
thanked the lady. The man from Broadstairs--with an eye to salvage--took
charge of the human wreck, and towed him to the nearest public-house. “A
chop and a glass of brandy-and-water,” said this good Samaritan of the
nineteenth century. “That’s what you want. I’m peckish myself, and I’ll
keep you company.”

He was perfectly passive in the hands of any one who would take charge
of him; he submitted as if he had been the boatman’s dog, and had heard
the whistle.

It could only be truly said that he had come to himself, when there had
been time enough for him to feel the reanimating influence of the food
and drink. Then he got to his feet, and looked with incredulous wonder
at the companion of his meal. The man from Broadstairs opened his greasy
lips, and was silenced by the sudden appearance of a gold coin between
Mr. Ronald’s finger and thumb. “Don’t speak to me; pay the bill, and
bring me the change outside.” When the boatman joined him, he was
reading a letter; walking to and fro, and speaking at intervals to
himself. “God help me, have I lost my senses? I don’t know what to do
next.” He referred to the letter again: “if you don’t believe me, ask
Mrs. Turner, Number 1, Slains Row, Ramsgate.” He put the letter back in
his pocket, and rallied suddenly. “Slains Row,” he said, turning to the
boatman. “Take me there directly, and keep the change for yourself.”

The boatman’s gratitude was (apparently) beyond expression in words. He
slapped his pocket cheerfully, and that was all. Leading the way inland,
he went downhill, and uphill again--then turned aside towards the
eastern extremity of the town.

Farnaby, still following, with the woman behind him, stopped when the
boatman diverged towards the east, and looked up at the name of the
street. “I’ve got my instructions,” he said; “I know where he’s going.
Step out! We’ll get there before him, by another way.”

Mr. Ronald and his guide reached a row of poor little houses, with poor
little gardens in front of them and behind them. The back windows looked
out on downs and fields lying on either side of the road to Broadstairs.
It was a lost and lonely spot. The guide stopped, and put a question
with inquisitive respect. “What number, sir?” Mr. Ronald had
sufficiently recovered himself to keep his own counsel. “That will do,”
 he said. “You can leave me.” The boatman waited a moment. Mr. Ronald
looked at him. The boatman was slow to understand that his leadership
had gone from him. “You’re sure you don’t want me any more?” he
said. “Quite sure,” Mr. Ronald answered. The man from Broadstairs
retired--with his salvage to comfort him.

Number 1 was at the farther extremity of the row of houses. When Mr.
Ronald rang the bell, the spies were already posted. The woman loitered
on the road, within view of the door. Farnaby was out of sight, round
the corner, watching the house over the low wooden palings of the back
garden.

A lazy-looking man, in his shirt sleeves, opened the door. “Mrs. Turner
at home?” he repeated. “Well, she’s at home; but she’s too busy to see
anybody. What’s your pleasure?” Mr. Ronald declined to accept excuses
or to answer questions. “I must see Mrs. Turner directly,” he said, “on
important business.” His tone and manner had their effect on the lazy
man. “What name?” he asked. Mr. Ronald declined to mention his name.
“Give my message,” he said. “I won’t detain Mrs. Turner more than a
minute.” The man hesitated--and opened the door of the front parlour. An
old woman was fast asleep on a ragged little sofa. The man gave up the
front parlour, and tried the back parlour next. It was empty. “Please to
wait here,” he said--and went away to deliver his message.

The parlour was a miserably furnished room. Through the open window, the
patch of back garden was barely visible under fluttering rows of linen
hanging out on lines to dry. A pack of dirty cards, and some plain
needlework, littered the bare little table. A cheap American clock
ticked with stern and steady activity on the mantelpiece. The smell of
onions was in the air. A torn newspaper, with stains of beer on it,
lay on the floor. There was some sinister influence in the place which
affected Mr. Ronald painfully. He felt himself trembling, and sat down
on one of the rickety chairs. The minutes followed one another wearily.
He heard a trampling of feet in the room above--then a door opened and
closed--then the rustle of a woman’s dress on the stairs. In a
moment more, the handle of the parlour door was turned. He rose, in
anticipation of Mrs. Turner’s appearance. The door opened. He found
himself face to face with his wife.

VI

John Farnaby, posted at the garden paling, suddenly lifted his head and
looked towards the open window of the back parlour. He reflected for a
moment--and then joined his female companion on the road in front of the
house.

“I want you at the back garden,” he said. “Come along!”

“How much longer am I to be kept kicking my heels in this wretched
hole?” the woman asked sulkily.

“As much longer as I please--if you want to go back to London with the
other half of the money.” He showed it to her as he spoke. She followed
him without another word.

Arrived at the paling, Farnaby pointed to the window, and to the back
garden door, which was left ajar. “Speak softly,” he whispered. “Do you
hear voices in the house?”

“I don’t hear what they’re talking about, if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t hear, either. Now mind what I tell you--I have reasons of
my own for getting a little nearer to that window. Sit down under the
paling, so that you can’t be seen from the house. If you hear a row, you
may take it for granted that I am found out. In that case, go back to
London by the next train, and meet me at the terminus at two o’clock
tomorrow afternoon. If nothing happens, wait where you are till you hear
from me or see me again.”

He laid his hand on the low paling, and vaulted over it. The linen
hanging up in the garden to dry offered him a means of concealment
(if any one happened to look out of the window) of which he skilfully
availed himself. The dust-bin was at the side of the house, situated
at a right angle to the parlour window. He was safe behind the bin,
provided no one appeared on the path which connected the patch of garden
at the back with the patch in front. Here, running the risk, he waited
and listened.

The first voice that reached his ears was the voice of Mrs. Ronald. She
was speaking with a firmness of tone that astonished him.

“Hear me to the end, Benjamin,” she said. “I have a right to ask as much
as that of my husband, and I do ask it. If I had been bent on nothing
but saving the reputation of our miserable girl, you would have a right
to blame me for keeping you ignorant of the calamity that has fallen on
us--”

There the voice of her husband interposed sternly. “Calamity! Say
disgrace, everlasting disgrace.”

Mrs. Ronald did not notice the interruption. Sadly and patiently she
went on.

“But I had a harder trial still to face,” she said. “I had to save her,
in spite of herself, from the wretch who has brought this infamy on us.
He has acted throughout in cold blood; it is his interest to marry her,
and from first to last he has plotted to force the marriage on us. For
God’s sake, don’t speak loud! She is in the room above us; if she hears
you it will be the death of her. Don’t suppose I am talking at random;
I have looked at his letters to her; I have got the confession of the
servant-girl. Such a confession! Emma is his victim, body and soul. I
know it! I know that she sent him money (_my_ money) from this place. I
know that the servant (at _her_ instigation) informed him by telegraph
of the birth of the child. Oh, Benjamin, don’t curse the poor helpless
infant--such a sweet little girl! don’t think of it! I don’t think of
it! Show me the letter that brought you here; I want to see the letter.
Ah, I can tell you who wrote it! _He_ wrote it. In his own interests;
always with his own interests in view. Don’t you see it for yourself? If
I succeed in keeping this shame and misery a secret from everybody--if
I take Emma away, to some place abroad, on pretence of her health--there
is an end of his hope of becoming your son-in-law; there is an end of
his being taken into the business. Yes! he, the low-lived vagabond
who puts up the shop-shutters, _he_ looks forward to being taken into
partnership, and succeeding you when you die! Isn’t his object in
writing that letter as plain to you now as the heaven above us? His one
chance is to set your temper in a flame, to provoke the scandal of a
discovery--and to force the marriage on us as the only remedy left. Am
I wrong in making any sacrifice, rather than bind our girl for life, our
own flesh and blood, to such a man as that? Surely you can feel for me,
and forgive me, now. How could I own the truth to you, before I left
London, knowing you as I do? How could I expect you to be patient, to go
into hiding, to pass under a false name--to do all the degrading things
that must be done, if we are to keep Emma out of this man’s way? No! I
know no more than you do where Farnaby is to be found. Hush! there is
the door-bell. It’s the doctor’s time for his visit. I tell you again I
don’t know--on my sacred word of honour, I don’t know where Farnaby is.
Oh, be quiet! be quiet! there’s the doctor going upstairs! don’t let the
doctor hear you!”

So far, she had succeeded in composing her husband. But the fury which
she had innocently roused in him, in her eagerness to justify herself,
now broke beyond all control. “You lie!” he cried furiously. “If you
know everything else about it, you know where Farnaby is. I’ll be the
death of him, if I swing for it on the gallows! Where is he? Where is
he?”

A shriek from the upper room silenced him before Mrs. Ronald could
speak again. His daughter had heard him; his daughter had recognized his
voice.

A cry of terror from her mother echoed the cry from above; the sound of
the opening and closing of the door followed instantly. Then there was
a momentary silence. Then Mrs. Ronald’s voice was heard from the upper
room calling to the nurse, asleep in the front parlour. The nurse’s
gruff tones were just audible, answering from the parlour door. There
was another interval of silence; broken by another voice--a stranger’s
voice--speaking at the open window, close by.

“Follow me upstairs, sir, directly,” the voice said in peremptory tones.
“As your daughter’s medical attendant, I tell you in the plainest terms
that you have seriously frightened her. In her critical condition, I
decline to answer for her life, unless you make the attempt at least to
undo the mischief you have done. Whether you mean it or not, soothe her
with kind words; say you have forgiven her. No! I have nothing to do
with your domestic troubles; I have only my patient to think of. I don’t
care what she asks of you, you must give way to her now. If she falls
into convulsions, she will die--and her death will be at your door.”

So, with feebler and feebler interruptions from Mr. Ronald, the doctor
spoke. It ended plainly in his being obeyed. The departing footsteps of
the men were the next sounds to be heard. After that, there was a pause
of silence--a long pause, broken by Mrs. Ronald, calling again from the
upper regions. “Take the child into the back parlour, nurse, and wait
till I come to you. It’s cooler there, at this time of the day.”

The wailing of an infant, and the gruff complaining of the nurse, were
the next sounds that reached Farnaby in his hiding place. The nurse was
grumbling to herself over the grievance of having been awakened from her
sleep. “After being up all night, a person wants rest. There’s no rest
for anybody in this house. My head’s as heavy as lead, and every bone in
me has got an ache in it.”

Before long, the renewed silence indicated that she had succeeded in
hushing the child to sleep. Farnaby forgot the restraints of caution for
the first time. His face flushed with excitement; he ventured nearer to
the window, in his eagerness to find out what might happen next. After
no long interval, the next sound came--a sound of heavy breathing, which
told him that the drowsy nurse was falling asleep again. The window-sill
was within reach of his hands. He waited until the heavy breathing
deepened to snoring. Then he drew himself up by the window-sill, and
looked into the room.

The nurse was fast asleep in an armchair; and the child was fast asleep
on her lap.

He dropped softly to the ground again. Taking off his shoes, and putting
them in his pockets, he ascended the two or three steps which led to the
half-open back garden door. Arrived in the passage, he could just
hear them talking upstairs. They were no doubt still absorbed in their
troubles; he had only the servant to dread. The splashing of water in
the kitchen informed him that she was safely occupied in washing. Slowly
and softly he opened the back parlour door, and stole across the room to
the nurse’s chair.

One of her hands still rested on the child. The serious risk was the
risk of waking her, if he lost his presence of mind and hurried it!

He glanced at the American clock on the mantelpiece. The result relieved
him; it was not so late as he had feared. He knelt down, to steady
himself, as nearly as possible on a level with the nurse’s knees. By a
hair’s breadth at a time, he got both hands under the child. By a hair’s
breadth at a time, he drew the child away from her; leaving her hand
resting on her lap by degrees so gradual that the lightest sleeper could
not have felt the change. That done (barring accidents), all was done.
Keeping the child resting easily on his left arm, he had his right
hand free to shut the door again. Arrived at the garden steps, a slight
change passed over the sleeping infant’s face--the delicate little
creature shivered as it felt the full flow of the open air. He softly
laid over its face a corner of the woollen shawl in which it was
wrapped. The child reposed as quietly on his arm as if it had still been
on the nurse’s lap.

In a minute more he was at the paling. The woman rose to receive him,
with the first smile that had crossed her face since they had left
London.

“So you’ve got the baby,” she said, “Well, you _are_ a deep one!”

“Take it,” he answered irritably. “We haven’t a moment to lose.”

Only stopping to put on his shoes, he led the way towards the more
central part of the town. The first person he met directed him to the
railway station. It was close by. In five minutes more the woman and the
baby were safe in the train to London.

“There’s the other half of the money,” he said, handing it to her
through the carriage window.

The woman eyed the child in her arms with a frowning expression of
doubt. “All very well as long as it lasts,” she said. “And what after
that?”

“Of course, I shall call and see you,” he answered.

She looked hard at him, and expressed the whole value she set on that
assurance in four words. “Of course you will!”

The train started for London. Farnaby watched it, as it left the
platform, with a look of unfeigned relief. “There!” he thought to
himself. “Emma’s reputation is safe enough now! When we are married, we
mustn’t have a love-child in the way of our prospects in life.”

Leaving the station, he stopped at the refreshment room, and drank a
glass of brandy-and-water. “Something to screw me up,” he thought, “for
what is to come.” What was to come (after he had got rid of the child)
had been carefully considered by him, on the journey to Ramsgate.
“Emma’s husband-that-is-to-be”--he had reasoned it out--“will naturally
be the first person Emma wants to see, when the loss of the baby has
upset the house. If Old Ronald has a grain of affection left in him, he
must let her marry me after _that!”_

Acting on this view of his position, he took the way that led back
to Slains Row, and rang the door-bell as became a visitor who had no
reasons for concealment now.

The household was doubtless already disorganized by the discovery of
the child’s disappearance. Neither master nor servant was active in
answering the bell. Farnaby submitted to be kept waiting with perfect
composure. There are occasions on which a handsome man is bound to put
his personal advantages to their best use. He took out his pocket-comb,
and touched up the arrangement of his whiskers with a skilled and gentle
hand. Approaching footsteps made themselves heard along the passage at
last. Farnaby put back his comb, and buttoned his coat briskly. “Now for
it!” he said, as the door was opened at last.




THE STORY




BOOK THE FIRST. AMELIUS AMONG THE SOCIALISTS



CHAPTER 1

Sixteen years after the date of Mr. Ronald’s disastrous discovery at
Ramsgate--that is to say, in the year 1872--the steamship _Aquila_ left
the port of New York, bound for Liverpool.

It was the month of September. The passenger-list of the _Aquila_ had
comparatively few names inscribed on it. In the autumn season, the
voyage from America to England, but for the remunerative value of
the cargo, would prove to be for the most part a profitless voyage to
shipowners. The flow of passengers, at that time of year, sets steadily
the other way. Americans are returning from Europe to their own country.
Tourists have delayed the voyage until the fierce August heat of the
United States has subsided, and the delicious Indian summer is ready
to welcome them. At bed and board the passengers by the _Aquila_ on
her homeward voyage had plenty of room, and the choicest morsels for
everybody alike on the well spread dinner-table.

The wind was favourable, the weather was lovely. Cheerfulness and
good-humour pervaded the ship from stem to stern. The courteous captain
did the honours of the cabin-table with the air of a gentleman who was
receiving friends in his own house. The handsome doctor promenaded the
deck arm-in-arm with ladies in course of rapid recovery from the first
gastric consequences of travelling by sea. The excellent chief engineer,
musical in his leisure moments to his fingers’ ends, played the fiddle
in his cabin, accompanied on the flute by that young Apollo of the
Atlantic trade, the steward’s mate. Only on the third morning of the
voyage was the harmony on board the _Aquila_ disturbed by a passing
moment of discord--due to an unexpected addition to the ranks of the
passengers, in the shape of a lost bird!

It was merely a weary little land-bird (blown out of its course, as the
learned in such matters supposed); and it perched on one of the yards to
rest and recover itself after its long flight.

The instant the creature was discovered, the insatiable Anglo-Saxon
delight in killing birds, from the majestic eagle to the contemptible
sparrow, displayed itself in its full frenzy. The crew ran about the
decks, the passengers rushed into their cabins, eager to seize the first
gun and to have the first shot. An old quarter-master of the _Aquila_
was the enviable man, who first found the means of destruction ready to
his hand. He lifted the gun to his shoulder, he had his finger on the
trigger, when he was suddenly pounced upon by one of the passengers--a
young, slim, sunburnt, active man--who snatched away the gun,
discharged it over the side of the vessel, and turned furiously on the
quarter-master. “You wretch! would you kill the poor weary bird that
trusts our hospitality, and only asks us to give it a rest? That little
harmless thing is as much one of God’s creatures as you are. I’m ashamed
of you--I’m horrified at you--you’ve got bird-murder in your face; I
hate the sight of you!”

The quarter-master--a large grave fat man, slow alike in his bodily and
his mental movements--listened to this extraordinary remonstrance with
a fixed stare of amazement, and an open mouth from which the unspat
tobacco-juice tricked in little brown streams. When the impetuous young
gentleman paused (not for want of words, merely for want of breath),
the quarter-master turned about, and addressed himself to the audience
gathered round. “Gentlemen,” he said, with a Roman brevity, “this young
fellow is mad.”

The captain’s voice checked the general outbreak of laughter. “That will
do, quarter-master. Let it be understood that nobody is to shoot the
bird--and let me suggest to _you,_ sir, that you might have expressed
your sentiments quite as effectually in less violent language.”

Addressed in those terms, the impetuous young man burst into another fit
of excitement. “You’re quite right, sir! I deserve every word you
have said to me; I feel I have disgraced myself.” He ran after the
quartermaster, and seized him by both hands. “I beg your pardon; I beg
your pardon with all my heart. You would have served me right if you
had thrown me overboard after the language I used to you. Pray excuse
my quick temper; pray forgive me. What do you say? ‘Let bygones _be_
bygones’? That’s a capital way of putting it. You’re a thorough good
fellow. If I can ever be of the smallest use to you (there’s my card and
address in London), let me know it; I entreat you let me know it.” He
returned in a violent hurry to the captain. “I’ve made it up with the
quarter-master, sir. He forgives me; he bears no malice. Allow me to
congratulate you on having such a good Christian in your ship. I wish
I was like him! Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, for the disturbance I
have made. It shan’t happen again--I promise you that.”

The male travellers in general looked at each other, and seemed to agree
with the quarter-master’s opinion of their fellow-passenger. The women,
touched by his evident sincerity, and charmed with his handsome blushing
eager face, agreed that he was quite right to save the poor bird,
and that it would be all the better for the weaker part of creation
generally if other men were more like him. While the various opinions
were still in course of expression, the sound of the luncheon bell
cleared the deck of the passengers, with two exceptions. One was the
impetuous young man. The other was a middle-aged traveller, with a
grizzled beard and a penetrating eye, who had silently observed the
proceedings, and who now took the opportunity of introducing himself to
the hero of the moment.

“Are you not going to take any luncheon?” he asked.

“No, sir. Among the people I have lived with we don’t eat at intervals
of three or four hours, all day long.”

“Will you excuse me,” pursued the other, “if I own I should like to
know _what_ people you have been living with? My name is Hethcote; I
was associated, at one time of my life, with a college devoted to the
training of young men. From what I have seen and heard this morning, I
fancy you have not been educated on any of the recognized systems that
are popular at the present day. Am I right?”

The excitable young man suddenly became the picture of resignation, and
answered in a formula of words as if he was repeating a lesson.

“I am Claude-Amelius-Goldenheart. Aged twenty-one. Son, and only child,
of the late Claude Goldenheart, of Shedfield Heath, Buckinghamshire,
England. I have been brought up by the Primitive Christian Socialists,
at Tadmor Community, State of Illinois. I have inherited an income of
five hundred a year. And I am now, with the approval of the Community,
going to London to see life.”

Mr. Hethcote received this copious flow of information, in some doubt
whether he had been made the victim of coarse raillery, or whether he
had merely heard a quaint statement of facts.

Claude-Amelius-Goldenheart saw that he had produced an unfavourable
impression, and hastened to set himself right.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “I am not making game of you, as you seem to
suppose. We are taught to be courteous to everybody, in our Community.
The truth is, there seems to be something odd about me (I’m sure I don’t
know what), which makes people whom I meet on my travels curious to know
who I am. If you’ll please to remember, it’s a long way from Illinois to
New York, and curious strangers are not scarce on the journey. When one
is obliged to keep on saying the same thing over and over again, a
form saves a deal of trouble. I have made a form for myself--which is
respectfully at the disposal of any person who does me the honour to
wish for my acquaintance. Will that do, sir? Very well, then; shake
hands, to show you’re satisfied.”

Mr. Hethcote shook hands, more than satisfied. He found it impossible to
resist the bright honest brown eyes, the simple winning cordial manner
of the young fellow with the quaint formula and the strange name. “Come,
Mr. Goldenheart,” he said, leading the way to a seat on deck, “let us
sit down comfortably, and have a talk.”

“Anything you like, sir--but don’t call me Mr. Goldenheart.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it sounds formal. And, besides, you’re old enough to be my
father; it’s _my_ duty to call _you_ Mister--or Sir, as we say to
our elders at Tadmor. I have left all my friends behind me at the
Community--and I feel lonely out here on this big ocean, among
strangers. Do me a kindness, sir. Call me by my Christian name; and give
me a friendly slap on the back if you find we get along smoothly in the
course of the day.”

“Which of your names shall it be?” Mr. Hethcote asked, humouring this
odd lad. “Claude?”

“No. Not Claude. The Primitive Christians said Claude was a finicking
French name. Call me Amelius, and I shall begin to feel at home again.
If you’re in a hurry, cut it down to three letters (as they did at
Tadmor), and call me Mel.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Hethcote. “Now, my friend Amelius (or Mel), I
am going to speak out plainly, as you do. The Primitive Christian
Socialists must have great confidence in their system of education, to
turn you adrift in the world without a companion to look after you.”

“You’ve hit it, sir,” Amelius answered coolly. “They have unlimited
confidence in their system of education. And I’m a proof of it.”

“You have relations in London, I suppose?” Mr. Hethcote proceeded.

For the first time the face of Amelius showed a shadow of sadness on it.

“I have relations,” he said. “But I have promised never to claim their
hospitality. ‘They are hard and worldly; and they will make you hard
and worldly, too.’ That’s what my father said to me on his deathbed.”
 He took off his hat when he mentioned his father’s death, and came to a
sudden pause--with his head bent down, like a man absorbed in thought.
In less than a minute he put on his hat again, and looked up with his
bright winning smile. “We say a little prayer for the loved ones who
are gone, when we speak of them,” he explained. “But we don’t say it out
loud, for fear of seeming to parade our religious convictions. We hate
cant in our Community.”

“I cordially agree with the Community, Amelius. But, my good fellow,
have you really no friend to welcome you when you get to London?”

Amelius answered the question mysteriously. “Wait a little!” he
said--and took a letter from the breast-pocket of his coat. Mr.
Hethcote, watching him, observed that he looked at the address with
unfeigned pride and pleasure.

“One of our brethren at the Community has given me this,” he announced.
“It’s a letter of introduction, sir, to a remarkable man--a man who is
an example to all the rest of us. He has risen, by dint of integrity and
perseverance, from the position of a poor porter in a shop to be one of
the most respected mercantile characters in the City of London.”

With this explanation, Amelius handed his letter to Mr. Hethcote. It was
addressed as follows:--

         To John Farnaby, Esquire,
         Messrs. Ronald & Farnaby,
         Stationers,
         Aldersgate Street, London.



CHAPTER 2

Mr. Hethcote looked at the address on the letter with an expression of
surprise, which did not escape the notice of Amelius. “Do you know Mr.
Farnaby?” he asked.

“I have some acquaintance with him,” was the answer, given with a
certain appearance of constraint.

Amelius went on eagerly with his questions. “What sort of man is he? Do
you think he will be prejudiced against me, because I have been brought
up in Tadmor?”

“I must be a little better acquainted, Amelius, with you and Tadmor
before I can answer your question. Suppose you tell me how you became
one of the Socialists, to begin with?”

“I was only a little boy, Mr. Hethcote, at that time.”

“Very good. Even little boys have memories. Is there any objection to
your telling me what you can remember?”

Amelius answered rather sadly, with his eyes bent on the deck. “I
remember something happening which threw a gloom over us at home in
England. I heard that my mother was concerned in it. When I grew older,
I never presumed to ask my father what it was; and he never offered to
tell me. I only know this: that he forgave her some wrong she had done
him, and let her go on living at home--and that relations and friends
all blamed him, and fell away from him, from that time. Not long
afterwards, while I was at school, my mother died. I was sent for, to
follow her funeral with my father. When we got back, and were alone
together, he took me on his knee and kissed me. ‘Which will you do,
Amelius,’ he said; ‘stay in England with your uncle and aunt? or come
with me all the way to America, and never go back to England again? Take
time to think of it.’ I wanted no time to think of it; I said, ‘Go with
you, papa.’ He frightened me by bursting out crying; it was the first
time I had ever seen him in tears. I can understand it now. He had been
cut to the heart, and had borne it like a martyr; and his boy was his
one friend left. Well, by the end of the week we were on board the ship;
and there we met a benevolent gentleman, with a long gray beard, who
bade my father welcome, and presented me with a cake. In my ignorance,
I thought he was the captain. Nothing of the sort. He was the first
Socialist I had ever seen; and it was he who had persuaded my father to
leave England.”

Mr. Hethcote’s opinions of Socialists began to show themselves (a little
sourly) in Mr. Hethcote’s smile. “And how did you get on with this
benevolent gentleman?” he asked. “After converting your father, did he
convert you--with the cake?”

Amelius smiled. “Do him justice, sir; he didn’t trust to the cake. He
waited till we were in sight of the American land--and then he preached
me a little sermon, on our arrival, entirely for my own use.”

“A sermon?” Mr. Hethcote repeated. “Very little religion in it, I
suspect.”

“Very little indeed, sir,” Amelius answered. “Only as much religion as
there is in the New Testament. I was not quite old enough to understand
him easily--so he wrote down his discourse on the fly-leaf of a
story-book I had with me, and gave it to me to read when I was tired of
the stories. Stories were scarce with me in those days; and, when I
had exhausted my little stock, rather than read nothing I read my
sermon--read it so often that I think I can remember every word of it
now. ‘My dear little boy, the Christian religion, as Christ taught it,
has long ceased to be the religion of the Christian world. A selfish and
cruel Pretence is set up in its place. Your own father is one example
of the truth of this saying of mine. He has fulfilled the first and
foremost duty of a true Christian--the duty of forgiving an injury. For
this, he stands disgraced in the estimation of all his friends: they
have renounced and abandoned him. He forgives them, and seeks peace and
good company in the New World, among Christians like himself. You will
not repent leaving home with him; you will be one of a loving family,
and, when you are old enough, you will be free to decide for yourself
what your future life shall be.’ That was all I knew about the
Socialists, when we reached Tadmor after our long journey.”

Mr. Hethcote’s prejudices made their appearance again. “A barren sort of
place,” he said, “judging by the name.”

“Barren? What can you be thinking of? A prettier place I never saw, and
never expect to see again. A clear winding river, running into a little
blue lake. A broad hill-side, all laid out in flower-gardens, and
shaded by splendid trees. On the top of the hill, the buildings of the
Community, some of brick and some of wood, so covered with creepers and
so encircled with verandahs that I can’t tell you to this day what style
of architecture they were built in. More trees behind the houses--and,
on the other side of the hill, cornfields, nothing but cornfields
rolling away and away in great yellow plains, till they reached the
golden sky and the setting sun, and were seen no more. That was our
first view of Tadmor, when the stage-coach dropped us at the town.”

Mr. Hethcote still held out. “And what about the people who live in this
earthly Paradise?” he asked. “Male and female saints--eh?”

“Oh dear no, sir! The very opposite of saints. They eat and drink like
their neighbours. They never think of wearing dirty horsehair when they
can get clean linen. And when they are tempted to misconduct themselves,
they find a better way out of it than knotting a cord and thrashing
their own backs. Saints! They all ran out together to bid us welcome
like a lot of school-children; the first thing they did was to kiss us,
and the next thing was to give us a mug of wine of their own making.
Saints! Oh, Mr. Hethcote, what will you accuse us of being next? I
declare your suspicions of the poor Socialists keep cropping up again as
fast as I cut them down. May I make a guess, sir, without offending
you? From one or two things I have noticed, I strongly suspect you’re a
British clergyman.”

Mr. Hethcote was conquered at last: he burst out laughing. “You have
discovered me,” he said, “travelling in a coloured cravat and a shooting
jacket! I confess I should like to know how.”

“It’s easily explained, sir. Visitors of all sorts are welcome at
Tadmor. We have a large experience of them in the travelling season.
They all come with their own private suspicion of us lurking about the
corners of their eyes. They see everything we have to show them, and eat
and drink at our table, and join in our amusements, and get as pleasant
and friendly with us as can be. The time comes to say goodbye--and then
we find them out. If a guest who has been laughing and enjoying himself
all day, suddenly becomes serious when he takes his leave, and shows
that little lurking devil of suspicion again about the corners of his
eyes--it’s ten chances to one that he’s a clergyman. No offence, Mr.
Hethcote! I acknowledge with pleasure that the corners of _your_ eyes
are clear again. You’re not a very clerical clergyman, sir, after all--I
don’t despair of converting you, yet!”

“Go on with your story, Amelius. You’re the queerest fellow I have met
with, for many a long day past.”

“I’m a little doubtful about going on with my story, sir. I have told
you how I got to Tadmor, and what it looks like, and what sort of people
live in the place. If I am to get on beyond that, I must jump to the
time when I was old enough to learn the Rules of the Community.”

“Well--and what then?”

“Well, Mr. Hethcote, some of the Rules might offend you.”

“Try!”

“All right, sir! don’t blame me; _I’m_ not ashamed of the Rules. And
now, if I am to speak, I must speak seriously on a serious subject; I
must begin with our religious principles. We find our Christianity in
the spirit of the New Testament--not in the letter. We have three good
reasons for objecting to pin our faith on the words alone, in that book.
First, because we are not sure that the English translation is always
to be depended on as accurate and honest. Secondly, because we know that
(since the invention of printing) there is not a copy of the book in
existence which is free from errors of the press, and that (before the
invention of printing) those errors, in manuscript copies, must as
a matter of course have been far more serious and far more numerous.
Thirdly, because there is plain internal evidence (to say nothing of
discoveries actually made in the present day) of interpolations and
corruptions, introduced into the manuscript copies as they succeeded
each other in ancient times. These drawbacks are of no importance,
however, in our estimation. We find, in the spirit of the book, the most
simple and most perfect system of religion and morality that humanity
has ever received--and with that we are content. To reverence God;
and to love our neighbour as ourselves: if we had only those two
commandments to guide us, we should have enough. The whole collection of
Doctrines (as they are called) we reject at once, without even stopping
to discuss them. We apply to them the test suggested by Christ himself:
by their fruits ye shall know them. The fruits of Doctrines, in the past
(to quote three instances only), have been the Spanish Inquisition, the
Massacre of St. Bartholomew, and the Thirty Years’ War--and the fruits,
in the present, are dissension, bigotry, and opposition to useful
reforms. Away with Doctrines! In the interests of Christianity, away
with them! We are to love our enemies; we are to forgive injuries; we
are to help the needy; we are to be pitiful and courteous, slow to judge
others, and ashamed to exalt ourselves. That teaching doesn’t lead to
tortures, massacres, and wars; to envy, hatred, and malice--and for that
reason it stands revealed to us as the teaching that we can trust. There
is our religion, sir, as we find it in the Rules of the Community.”

“Very well, Amelius. I notice, in passing, that the Community is in one
respect like the Pope--the Community is infallible. We won’t dwell on
that. You have stated your principles. As to the application of them
next? Nobody has a right to be rich among you, of course?”

“Put it the other way, Mr. Hethcote. All men have a right to be
rich--provided they don’t make other people poor, as a part of the
process. We don’t trouble ourselves much about money; that’s the truth.
We are farmers, carpenters, weavers, and printers; and what we earn (ask
our neighbours if we don’t earn it honestly) goes into the common fund.
A man who comes to us with money puts it into the fund, and so makes
things easy for the next man who comes with empty pockets. While they
are with us, they all live in the same comfort, and have their equal
share in the same profits--deducting the sum in reverse for sudden calls
and bad times. If they leave us, the man who has brought money with
him has his undisputed right to take it away again; and the man who has
brought none bids us good-bye, all the richer for his equal share in the
profits which he has personally earned. The only fuss at our place about
money that I can remember was the fuss about my five hundred a year. I
wanted to hand it over to the fund. It was my own, mind--inherited from
my mother’s property, on my coming of age. The Elders wouldn’t hear of
it: the Council wouldn’t hear of it: the general vote of the Community
wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We agreed with his father that he should decide
for himself, when he grew to manhood’--that was how they put it. ‘Let
him go back to the Old World; and let him be free to choose, by the test
of his own experience, what his future life shall be.’ How do you think
it will end, Mr. Hethcote? Shall I return to the Community? Or shall I
stop in London?”

Mr. Hethcote answered, without a moment’s hesitation. “You will stop in
London.”

“I’ll bet you two to one, Sir, he goes back to the Community.”

In those words, a third voice (speaking in a strong New England accent)
insinuated itself into the conversation from behind. Amelius and Mr.
Hethcote, looking round, discovered a long, lean, grave stranger--with
his face overshadowed by a huge felt hat. “Have you been listening to
our conversation?” Mr. Hethcote asked haughtily.

“I have been listening,” answered the grave stranger, “with considerable
interest. This young man, I find, opens a new chapter to me in the book
of humanity. Do you accept my bet, Sir? My name is Rufus Dingwell; and
my home is at Coolspring, Mass. You do _not_ bet? I express my regret,
and have the pleasure of taking a seat alongside of you. What is your
name, Sir? Hethcote? We have one of that name at Coolspring. He is much
respected. Mr. Claude A. Goldenheart, you are no stranger to me--no,
Sir. I procured your name from the steward, when the little difficulty
occurred just now about the bird. Your name considerably surprised me.”

“Why?” Amelius asked.

“Well, sir--not to say that your surname (being Goldenheart) reminds
one unexpectedly of _The Pilgrim’s Progress_--I happen to be already
acquainted with you. By reputation.”

Amelius looked puzzled. “By reputation?” he said. “What does that mean?”

“It means, sir, that you occupy a prominent position in a recent number
of our popular journal, entitled _The Coolspring Democrat._ The late
romantic incident which caused the withdrawal of Miss Mellicent from
your Community has produced a species of social commotion at Coolspring.
Among our ladies, the tone of sentiment, Sir, is universally favourable
to you. When I left, I do assure you, you were a popular character among
us. The name of Claude A. Goldenheart was, so to speak, in everybody’s
mouth.”

Amelius listened to this, with the colour suddenly deepening on his
face, and with every appearance of heartfelt annoyance and regret.
“There is no such thing as keeping a secret in America,” he said,
irritably. “Some spy must have got among us; none of _our_ people would
have exposed the poor lady to public comment. How would you like it, Mr.
Dingwell, if the newspaper published the private sorrows of your wife or
your daughter?”

Rufus Dingwell answered with the straightforward sincerity of feeling
which is one of the indisputable virtues of his nation. “I had not
thought of it in that light, sir,” he said. “You have been good enough
to credit me with a wife or a daughter. I do not possess either of those
ladies; but your argument hits me, notwithstanding--hits me hard, I
tell you.” He looked at Mr. Hethcote, who sat silently and stiffly
disapproving of all this familiarity, and applied himself in perfect
innocence and good faith to making things pleasant in that quarter. “You
are a stranger, Sir,” said Rufus; “and you will doubtless wish to peruse
the article which is the subject of conversation?” He took a newspaper
slip from his pocket-book, and offered it to the astonished Englishman.
“I shall be glad to hear your sentiments, sir, on the view propounded by
our mutual friend, Claude A. Goldenheart.”

Before Mr. Hethcote could reply, Amelius interposed in his own headlong
way. “Give it to me! I want to read it first!”

He snatched at the newspaper slip. Rufus checked him with grave
composure. “I am of a cool temperament myself, sir; but that don’t
prevent me from admiring heat in others. Short of boiling point--mind
that!” With this hint, the wise New Englander permitted Amelius to take
possession of the printed slip.

Mr. Hethcote, finding an opportunity of saying a word at last, asserted
himself a little haughtily. “I beg you will both of you understand that
I decline to read anything which relates to another person’s private
affairs.”

Neither the one nor the other of his companions paid the slightest heed
to this announcement. Amelius was reading the newspaper extract, and
placid Rufus was watching him. In another moment, he crumpled up the
slip, and threw it indignantly on the deck. “It’s as full of lies as it
can hold!” he burst out.

“It’s all over the United States, by this time,” Rufus remarked. “And I
don’t doubt we shall find the English papers have copied it, when we
get to Liverpool. If you will take my advice, sir, you will cultivate a
sagacious insensibility to the comments of the press.”

“Do you think I care for myself?” Amelius asked indignantly. “It’s the
poor woman I am thinking of. What can I do to clear her character?”

“Well, sir,” suggested Rufus, “in your place, I should have a
notification circulated through the ship, announcing a lecture on the
subject (weather permitting) in the course of the afternoon. That’s the
way we should do it at Coolspring.”

Amelius listened without conviction. “It’s certainly useless to make a
secret of the matter now,” he said; “but I don’t see my way to making
it more public still.” He paused, and looked at Mr. Hethcote. “It so
happens, sir,” he resumed, “that this unfortunate affair is an example
of some of the Rules of our Community, which I had not had time to
speak of, when Mr. Dingwell here joined us. It will be a relief to me
to contradict these abominable falsehoods to somebody; and I should like
(if you don’t mind) to hear what you think of my conduct, from your own
point of view. It might prepare me,” he added, smiling rather uneasily,
“for what I may find in the English newspapers.”

With these words of introduction he told his sad story--jocosely
described in the newspaper heading as “Miss Mellicent and Goldenheart
among the Socialists at Tadmor.”


CHAPTER 3

“Nearly six months since,” said Amelius, “we had notice by letter of the
arrival of an unmarried English lady, who wished to become a member of
our Community. You will understand my motive in keeping her family name
a secret: even the newspaper has grace enough only to mention her by
her Christian name. I don’t want to cheat you out of your interest; so
I will own at once that Miss Mellicent was not beautiful, and not young.
When she came to us, she was thirty-eight years old, and time and trial
had set their marks on her face plainly enough for anybody to see.
Notwithstanding this, we all thought her an interesting woman. It might
have been the sweetness of her voice; or perhaps it was something in her
expression that took our fancy. There! I can’t explain it; I can only
say there were young women and pretty women at Tadmor who failed to win
us as Miss Mellicent did. Contradictory enough, isn’t it?”

Mr. Hethcote said he understood the contradiction. Rufus put an
appropriate question: “Do you possess a photograph of this lady, sir?”

“No,” said Amelius; “I wish I did. Well, we received her, on her
arrival, in the Common Room--called so because we all assemble there
every evening, when the work of the day is done. Sometimes we have
the reading of a poem or a novel; sometimes debates on the social and
political questions of the time in England and America; sometimes music,
or dancing, or cards, or billiards, to amuse us. When a new member
arrives, we have the ceremonies of introduction. I was close by the
Elder Brother (that’s the name we give to the chief of the Community)
when two of the women led Miss Mellicent in. He’s a hearty old fellow,
who lived the first part of his life on his own clearing in one of the
Western forests. To this day, he can’t talk long, without showing, in
one way or another, that his old familiarity with the trees still keeps
its place in his memory. He looked hard at Miss Mellicent, under his
shaggy old white eyebrows; and I heard him whisper to himself, ‘Ah, dear
me! Another of The Fallen Leaves!’ I knew what he meant. The people who
have drawn blanks in the lottery of life--the people who have toiled
hard after happiness, and have gathered nothing but disappointment and
sorrow; the friendless and the lonely, the wounded and the lost--these
are the people whom our good Elder Brother calls The Fallen Leaves.
I like the saying myself; it’s a tender way of speaking of our poor
fellow-creatures who are down in the world.”

He paused for a moment, looking out thoughtfully over the vast void of
sea and sky. A passing shadow of sadness clouded his bright young face.
The two elder men looked at him in silence, feeling (in widely different
ways) the same compassionate interest. What was the life that lay before
him? And--God help him!--what would he do with it?

“Where did I leave off?” he asked, rousing himself suddenly.

“You left Miss Mellicent, sir, in the Common Room--the venerable citizen
with the white eyebrows being suitably engaged in moralizing on her.” In
those terms the ever-ready Rufus set the story going again.

“Quite right,” Amelius resumed. “There she was, poor thing, a little
thin timid creature, in a white dress, with a black scarf over her
shoulders, trembling and wondering in a room full of strangers. The
Elder Brother took her by the hand, and kissed her on the forehead, and
bade her heartily welcome in the name of the Community. Then the women
followed his example, and the men all shook hands with her. And then our
chief put the three questions, which he is bound to address to all new
arrivals when they join us: ‘Do you come here of your own free will? Do
you bring with you a written recommendation from one of our brethren,
which satisfies us that we do no wrong to ourselves or to others in
receiving you? Do you understand that you are not bound to us by
vows, and that you are free to leave us again if the life here is not
agreeable to you?’ Matters being settled so far, the reading of the
Rules, and the Penalties imposed for breaking them, came next. Some
of the Rules you know already; others of smaller importance I needn’t
trouble you with. As for the Penalties, if you incur the lighter ones,
you are subject to public rebuke, or to isolation for a time from the
social life of the Community. If you incur the heavier ones, you are
either sent out into the world again for a given period, to return
or not as you please; or you are struck off the list of members, and
expelled for good and all. Suppose these preliminaries agreed to by Miss
Mellicent with silent submission, and let us go on to the close of the
ceremony--the reading of the Rules which settle the questions of Love
and Marriage.”

“Aha!” said Mr. Hethcote, “we are coming to the difficulties of the
Community at last!”

“Are we also coming to Miss Mellicent, sir?” Rufus inquired. “As a
citizen of a free country in which I can love in one State, marry
in another, and be divorced in a third, I am not interested in your
Rules--I am interested in your Lady.”

“The two are inseparable in this case,” Amelius answered gravely. “If I
am to speak of Miss Mellicent, I must speak of the Rules; you will soon
see why. Our Community becomes a despotism, gentlemen, in dealing with
love and marriage. For example, it positively prohibits any member
afflicted with hereditary disease from marrying at all; and it reserves
to itself, in the case of every proposed marriage among us, the right of
permitting or forbidding it, in council. We can’t even fall in love with
each other, without being bound, under penalties, to report it to the
Elder Brother; who, in his turn, communicates it to the monthly council;
who, in their turn, decide whether the courtship may go on or not.
That’s not the worst of it, even yet! In some cases--where we haven’t
the slightest intention of falling in love with each other--the
governing body takes the initiative. ‘You two will do well to marry; we
see it, if you don’t. Just think of it, will you?’ You may laugh; some
of our happiest marriages have been made in that way. Our governors in
council act on an established principle: here it is in a nutshell. The
results of experience in the matter of marriage, all over the world,
show that a really wise choice of a husband or a wife is an exception
to the rule; and that husbands and wives in general would be happier
together if their marriages were managed for them by competent advisers
on either side. Laws laid down on such lines as these, and others
equally strict, which I have not mentioned yet, were not put in force,
Mr. Hethcote, as you suppose, without serious difficulties--difficulties
which threatened the very existence of the Community. But that was
before my time. When I grew up, I found the husbands and wives about me
content to acknowledge that the Rules fulfilled the purpose with which
they had been made--the greatest happiness of the greatest number. It
all looks very absurd, I dare say, from your point of view. But these
queer regulations of ours answer the Christian test--by their fruits ye
shall know them. Our married people don’t live on separate sides of the
house; our children are all healthy; wife-beating is unknown among us;
and the practice in our divorce court wouldn’t keep the most moderate
lawyer on bread and cheese. Can you say as much for the success of
the marriage laws in Europe? I leave you, gentlemen, to form your own
opinions.”

Mr. Hethcote declined to express an opinion. Rufus declined to resign
his interest in the lady. “And what did Miss Mellicent say to it?” he
inquired.

“She said something that startled us all,” Amelius replied. “When
the Elder Brother began to read the first words relating to love and
marriage in the Book of Rules, she turned deadly pale; and rose up in
her place with a sudden burst of courage or desperation--I don’t know
which. ‘Must you read that to me?’ she asked. ‘I have nothing to do with
love or marriage.’ The Elder Brother laid aside his Book of Rules. ‘If
you are afflicted with an hereditary malady,’ he said, ‘the doctor from
the town will examine you, and report to us.’ She answered, ‘I have no
hereditary malady.’ The Elder Brother took up his book again. ‘In due
course of time, my dear, the Council will decide for you whether you are
to love and marry or not.’ And he read the Rules. She sat down again,
and hid her face in her hands, and never moved or spoke until he had
done. The regular questions followed. Had she anything to say, in the
way of objection? Nothing! In that case, would she sign the Rules? Yes!
When the time came for supper, she excused herself, just like a child.
‘I feel very tired; may I go to bed?’ The unmarried women in the same
dormitory with her anticipated some romantic confession when she grew
used to her new friends. They proved to be wrong. ‘My life has been one
long disappointment,’ was all she said. ‘You will do me a kindness if
you will take me as I am, and not ask me to talk about myself.’ There
was nothing sulky or ungracious in the expression of her wish to keep
her own secret. A kinder and sweeter woman--never thinking of herself,
always considerate of others--never lived. An accidental discovery made
me her chief friend, among the men: it turned out that her childhood had
been passed, where my childhood had been passed, at Shedfield Heath,
in Buckinghamshire. She was never weary of consulting my boyish
recollections, and comparing them with her own. ‘I love the place,’ she
used to say; ‘the only happy time of my life was the time passed there.’
On my sacred word of honour, this was the sort of talk that passed
between us, for week after week. What other talk could pass between a
man whose one and twentieth birthday was then near at hand, and a
woman who was close on forty? What could I do, when the poor, broken,
disappointed creature met me on the hill or by the river, and said, ‘You
are going out for a walk; may I come with you?’ I never attempted to
intrude myself into her confidence; I never even asked her why she had
joined the Community. You see what is coming, don’t you? _I_ never saw
it. I didn’t know what it meant, when some of the younger women, meeting
us together, looked at me (not at her), and smiled maliciously. My
stupid eyes were opened at last by the woman who slept in the next bed
to her in the dormitory--a woman old enough to be my mother, who took
care of me when I was a child at Tadmor. She stopped me one morning,
on my way to fish in the river. ‘Amelius,’ she said, ‘don’t go to
the fishing-house; Mellicent is waiting for you.’ I stared at her in
astonishment. She held up her finger at me: ‘Take care, you foolish boy!
You are drifting into a false position as fast as you can. Have you no
suspicion of what is going on?’ I looked all round me, in search of what
was going on. Nothing out of the common was to be seen anywhere. ‘What
can you possibly mean?’ I asked. ‘You will only laugh at me, if I tell
you,’ she said. I promised not to laugh. She too looked all round her,
as if she was afraid of somebody being near enough to hear us; and then
she let out the secret. ‘Amelius, ask for a holiday--and leave us for a
while. Mellicent is in love with you.’”




CHAPTER 4

Amelius looked at his companions, in some doubt whether they would
preserve their gravity at this critical point in his story. They both
showed him that his apprehensions were well founded. He was a little
hurt, and he instantly revealed it. “I own to my shame that I burst out
laughing myself,” he said. “But you two gentlemen are older and wiser
than I am. I didn’t expect to find you just as ready to laugh at poor
Miss Mellicent as I was.”

Mr. Hethcote declined to be reminded of his duties as a middle-aged
gentleman in this backhanded manner. “Gently, Amelius! You can’t expect
to persuade us that a laughable thing is not a thing to be laughed at.
A woman close on forty who falls in love with a young fellow of
twenty-one--”

“Is a laughable circumstance,” Rufus interposed. “Whereas a man of forty
who fancies a young woman of twenty-one is all in the order of Nature.
The men have settled it so. But why the women are to give up so much
sooner than the men is a question, sir, on which I have long wished to
hear the sentiments of the women themselves.”

Mr. Hethcote dismissed the sentiments of the women with a wave of his
hand. “Let us hear the rest of it, Amelius. Of course you went on to the
fishing-house? And of course you found Miss Mellicent there?”

“She came to the door to meet me, much as usual,” Amelius resumed, “and
suddenly checked herself in the act of shaking hands with me. I can only
suppose she saw something in my face that startled her. How it happened,
I can’t say; but I felt my good spirits forsake me the moment I found
myself in her presence. I doubt if she had ever seen me so serious
before. ‘Have I offended you?’ she asked. Of course, I denied it; but
I failed to satisfy her. She began to tremble. ‘Has somebody said
something against me? Are you weary of my company?’ Those were the next
questions. It was useless to say No. Some perverse distrust of me, or
some despair of herself, overpowered her on a sudden. She sank down
on the floor of the fishing-house, and began to cry--not a good hearty
burst of tears; a silent, miserable, resigned sort of crying, as if she
had lost all claim to be pitied, and all right to feel wounded or hurt.
I was so distressed, that I thought of nothing but consoling her. I
meant well, and I acted like a fool. A sensible man would have lifted
her up, I suppose, and left her to herself. I lifted her up, and put my
arm round her waist. She looked at me as I did it. For just a moment,
I declare she became twenty years younger! She blushed as I have never
seen a woman blush before or since--the colour flowed all over her neck
as well as her face. Before I could say a word, she caught hold of my
hand, and (of all the confusing things in the world!) kissed it. ‘No!’
she cried, ‘don’t despise me! don’t laugh at me! Wait, and hear what
my life has been, and then you will understand why a little kindness
overpowers me.’ She looked round the corner of the fishing-house
suspiciously. ‘I don’t want anybody else to hear us,’ she said, ‘all the
pride isn’t beaten out of me yet. Come to the lake, and row me about in
the boat.’ I took her out in the boat. Nobody could hear us certainly;
but she forgot, and I forgot, that anybody might see us, and that
appearances on the lake might lead to false conclusions on shore.”

Mr. Hethcote and Rufus exchanged significant looks. They had not
forgotten the Rules of the Community, when two of its members showed a
preference for each other’s society.

Amelius proceeded. “Well, there we were on the lake. I paddled with the
oars, and she opened her whole heart to me. Her troubles had begun, in
a very common way, with her mother’s death and her father’s second
marriage. She had a brother and a sister--the sister married a German
merchant, settled in New York; the brother comfortably established as
a sheep-farmer in Australia. So, you see, she was alone at home, at the
mercy of the step-mother. I don’t understand these cases myself, but
people who do, tell me that there are generally faults on both sides. To
make matters worse, they were a poor family; the one rich relative being
a sister of the first wife, who disapproved of the widower marrying
again, and never entered the house afterwards. Well, the step-mother had
a sharp tongue, and Mellicent was the first person to feel the sting of
it. She was reproached with being an encumbrance on her father, when
she ought to be doing something for herself. There was no need to repeat
those harsh words. The next day she answered an advertisement. Before
the week was over, she was earning her bread as a daily governess.”

Here Rufus stopped the narrative, having an interesting question to put.
“Might I inquire, sir, what her salary was?”

“Thirty pounds a year,” Amelius replied. “She was out teaching from nine
o’clock to two--and then went home again.”

“There seems to be nothing to complain of in that, as salaries go,” Mr.
Hethcote remarked.

“She made no complaint,” Amelius rejoined. “She was satisfied with her
salary; but she wasn’t satisfied with her life. The meek little woman
grew downright angry when she spoke of it. ‘I had no reason to complain
of my employers,’ she said. ‘I was civilly treated and punctually
paid; but I never made friends of them. I tried to make friends of the
children; and sometimes I thought I had succeeded--but, oh dear, when
they were idle, and I was obliged to keep them to their lessons, I soon
found how little hold I had on the love that I wanted them to give me.
We see children in books who are perfect little angels; never envious
or greedy or sulky or deceitful; always the same sweet, pious, tender,
grateful, innocent creatures--and it has been my misfortune never to
meet with them, go where I might! It is a hard world, Amelius, the
world that I have lived in. I don’t think there are such miserable lives
anywhere as the lives led by the poor middle classes in England.
From year’s end to year’s end, the one dreadful struggle to keep up
appearances, and the heart-breaking monotony of an existence without
change. We lived in the back street of a cheap suburb. I declare to
you we had but one amusement in the whole long weary year--the annual
concert the clergyman got up, in aid of his schools. The rest of the
year it was all teaching for the first half of the day, and needlework
for the young family for the other half. My father had religious
scruples; he prohibited theatres, he prohibited dancing and light
reading; he even prohibited looking in at the shop-windows, because we
had no money to spare and they tempted us to buy. He went to business in
the morning, and came back at night, and fell asleep after dinner,
and woke up and read prayers--and next day to business and back, and
sleeping and waking and reading prayers--and no break in it, week after
week, month after month, except on Sunday, which was always the same
Sunday; the same church, the same service, the same dinner, the same
book of sermons in the evening. Even when we had a fortnight once a year
at the seaside, we always went to the same place and lodged in the same
cheap house. The few friends we had led just the same lives, and were
beaten down flat by just the same monotony. All the women seemed to
submit to it contentedly except my miserable self. I wanted so little!
Only a change now and then; only a little sympathy when I was weary
and sick at heart; only somebody whom I could love and serve, and be
rewarded with a smile and a kind word in return. Mothers shook their
heads, and daughters laughed at me. Have we time to be sentimental?
Haven’t we enough to do, darning and mending, and turning our dresses,
and making the joint last as long as possible, and keeping the children
clean, and doing the washing at home--and tea and sugar rising, and my
husband grumbling every week when I have to ask him for the house-money.
Oh, no more of it! no more of it! People meant for better things all
ground down to the same sordid and selfish level--is that a pleasant
sight to contemplate? I shudder when I think of the last twenty years of
my life!’ That’s what she complained of, Mr. Hethcote, in the solitary
middle of the lake, with nobody but me to hear her.”

“In my country, sir,” Rufus remarked, “the Lecture Bureau would have
provided for her amusement, on economical terms. And I reckon, if a
married life would fix her, she might have tried it among Us by way of a
change.”

“That’s the saddest part of the story,” said Amelius. “There came a
time, only two years ago, when her prospects changed for the better. Her
rich aunt (her mother’s sister) died; and--what do you think?--left her
a legacy of six thousand pounds. There was a gleam of sunshine in her
life! The poor teacher was an heiress in a small way, with her fortune
at her own disposal. They had something like a festival at home, for the
first time; presents to everybody, and kissings and congratulations,
and new dresses at last. And, more than that, another wonderful event
happened before long. A gentleman made his appearance in the family
circle, with an interesting object in view--a gentleman, who had called
at the house in which she happened to be employed as teacher at the
time, and had seen her occupied with her pupils. He had kept it
to himself to be sure, but he had secretly admired her from that
moment--and now it had come out! She had never had a lover before; mind
that. And he was a remarkably handsome man: dressed beautifully, and
sang and played, and was so humble and devoted with it all. Do you think
it wonderful that she said Yes, when he proposed to marry her? I don’t
think it wonderful at all. For the first few weeks of the courtship,
the sunshine was brighter than ever. Then the clouds began to rise.
Anonymous letters came, describing the handsome gentleman (seen under
his fair surface) as nothing less than a scoundrel. She tore up the
letters indignantly--she was too delicate even to show them to him.
Signed letters came next, addressed to her father by an uncle and
an aunt, both containing one and the same warning: ‘If your daughter
insists on having him, tell her to take care of her money.’ A few days
later, a visitor arrived--a brother, who spoke out more plainly still.
As an honourable man, he could not hear of what was going on, without
making the painful confession that his brother was forbidden to enter
his house. That said, he washed his hands of all further responsibility.
You two know the world, you will guess how it ended. Quarrels in the
household; the poor middle-aged woman, living in her fool’s paradise,
blindly true to her lover; convinced that he was foully wronged; frantic
when he declared that he would not connect himself with a family which
suspected him. Ah, I have no patience when I think of it, and I almost
wish I had never begun to tell the story! Do you know what he did? She
was free of course, at her age, to decide for herself; there was no
controlling her. The wedding day was fixed. Her father had declared he
would not sanction it; and her step-mother kept him to his word.
She went alone to the church, to meet her promised husband. He never
appeared; he deserted her, mercilessly deserted her--after she had
sacrificed her own relations to him--on her wedding-day. She was taken
home insensible, and had a brain fever. The doctors declined to answer
for her life. Her father thought it time to look to her banker’s
pass-book. Out of her six thousand pounds she had privately given no
less than four thousand to the scoundrel who had deceived and forsaken
her! Not a month afterwards he married a young girl--with a fortune of
course. We read of such things in newspapers and books. But to have them
brought home to one, after living one’s own life among honest people--I
tell you it stupefied me!”

He said no more. Below them in the cabin, voices were laughing and
talking, to a cheerful accompaniment of clattering knives and forks.
Around them spread the exultant glory of sea and sky. All that they
heard, all that they saw, was cruelty out of harmony with the miserable
story which had just reached its end. With one accord the three men rose
and paced the deck, feeling physically the same need of some movement to
lighten their spirits. With one accord they waited a little, before the
narrative was resumed.



CHAPTER 5

Mr. Hethcote was the first to speak again.

“I can understand the poor creature’s motive in joining your Community,”
 he said. “To a person of any sensibility her position, among such
relatives as you describe, must have been simply unendurable after what
had happened. How did she hear of Tadmor and the Socialists?”

“She had read one of our books,” Amelius answered; “and she had her
married sister at New York to go to. There were moments, after her
recovery (she confessed it to me frankly), when the thought of suicide
was in her mind. Her religious scruples saved her. She was kindly
received by her sister and her sister’s husband. They proposed to keep
her with them to teach their children. No! the new life offered to her
was too like the old life--she was broken in body and mind; she had
no courage to face it. We have a resident agent in New York; and he
arranged for her journey to Tadmor. There is a gleam of brightness, at
any rate, in this part of her story. She blessed the day, poor soul,
when she joined us. Never before had she found herself among such
kind-hearted, unselfish, simple people. Never before--” he abruptly
checked himself, and looked a little confused.

Obliging Rufus finished the sentence for him. “Never before had she
known a young man with such natural gifts of fascination as C.A.G. Don’t
you be too modest, sir; it doesn’t pay, I assure you, in the nineteenth
century.”

Amelius was not as ready with his laugh as usual. “I wish I could drop
it at the point we have reached now,” he said. “But she has left Tadmor;
and, in justice to her (after the scandals in the newspaper), I must
tell you how she left it, and why. The mischief began when I was helping
her out of the boat. Two of our young women met us on the bank of the
lake, and asked me how I got on with my fishing. They didn’t mean any
harm--they were only in their customary good spirits. Still, there was
no mistaking their looks and tones when they put the question. Miss
Mellicent, in her confusion, made matters worse. She coloured up, and
snatched her hand out of mine, and ran back to the house by herself.
The girls, enjoying their own foolish joke, congratulated me on my
prospects. I must have been out of sorts in some way--upset, perhaps,
by what I had heard in the boat. Anyhow, I lost my temper, and _I_ made
matters worse, next. I said some angry words, and left them. The same
evening I found a letter in my room. ‘For your sake, I must not be seen
alone with you again. It is hard to lose the comfort of your sympathy,
but I must submit. Think of me as kindly as I think of you. It has
done me good to open my heart to you.’ Only those lines, signed by
Mellicent’s initials. I was rash enough to keep the letter, instead of
destroying it. All might have ended well, nevertheless, if she had only
held to her resolution. But, unluckily, my twenty-first birthday was
close at hand; and there was talk of keeping it as a festival in the
Community. I was up with sunrise when the day came; having some farming
work to look after, and wanting to get it over in good time. My shortest
way back to breakfast was through a wood. In the wood I met her.”

“Alone?” Mr. Hethcote asked.

Rufus expressed his opinion of the wisdom of putting this question with
his customary plainness of language. “When there’s a rash thing to be
done by a man and a woman together, sir, philosophers have remarked that
it’s always the woman who leads the way. Of course she was alone.”

“She had a little present for me on my birthday,” Amelius explained--“a
purse of her own making. And she was afraid of the ridicule of the young
women, if she gave it to me openly. ‘You have my heart’s dearest wishes
for your happiness; think of me sometimes, Amelius, when you open your
purse.’ If you had been in my place, could you have told her to go away,
when she said that, and put her gift into your hand? Not if she had been
looking at you at the moment--I’ll swear you couldn’t have done it!”

The lean yellow face of Rufus Dingwell relaxed for the first time into
a broad grin. “There are further particulars, sir, stated in the
newspaper,” he said slily.

“Damn the newspaper!” Amelius answered.

Rufus bowed, serenely courteous, with the air of a man who accepted a
British oath as an unwilling compliment paid by the old country to the
American press. “The newspaper report states, sir, that she kissed you.”

“It’s a lie!” Amelius shouted.

“Perhaps it’s an error of the press,” Rufus persisted. “Perhaps, _you_
kissed _her?”_

“Never mind what I did,” said Amelius savagely.

Mr. Hethcote felt it necessary to interfere. He addressed Rufus in his
most magnificent manner. “In England, Mr. Dingwell, a gentleman is not
in the habit of disclosing these--er--these--er, er--”

“These kissings in a wood?” suggested Rufus. “In my country, sir, we
do not regard kissing, in or out of a wood, in the light of a shameful
proceeding. Quite the contrary, I do assure you.”

Amelius recovered his temper. The discussion was becoming too ridiculous
to be endured by the unfortunate person who was the object of it.

“Don’t let us make mountains out of molehills,” he said. “I did kiss
her--there! A woman pressing the prettiest little purse you ever saw
into your hand, and wishing you many happy returns of the day with the
tears in her eyes; I should like to know what else was to be done but
to kiss her. Ah, yes, smooth out your newspaper report, and have another
look at it! She _did_ rest her head on my shoulder, poor soul, and she
_did_ say, ‘Oh, Amelius, I thought my heart was turned to stone; feel
how you have made it beat!’ When I remembered what she had told me in
the boat, I declare to God I almost burst out crying myself--it was so
innocent and so pitiful.”

Rufus held out his hand with true American cordiality. “I do assure
you, sir, I meant no harm,” he said. “The right grit is in you, and no
mistake--and there goes the newspaper!” He rolled up the slip, and flung
it overboard.

Mr. Hethcote nodded his entire approval of this proceeding. Amelius went
on with his story.

“I’m near the end now,” he said. “If I had known it would have taken so
long to tell--never mind! We got out of the wood at last, Mr. Rufus;
and left it without a suspicion that we had been watched. I was prudent
enough (when it was too late, you will say) to suggest to her that we
had better be careful for the future. Instead of taking it seriously,
she laughed. ‘Have you altered your mind, since you wrote to me?’ I
asked. ‘To be sure I have,’ she said. ‘When I wrote to you I forgot the
difference between your age and mine. Nothing that _we_ do will be taken
seriously. I am afraid of their laughing at me, Amelius; but I am afraid
of nothing else.’ I did my best to undeceive her. I told her plainly
that people unequally matched in years--women older than men, as well as
men older than women--were not uncommonly married among us. The council
only looked to their being well suited in other ways, and declined to
trouble itself about the question of age. I don’t think I produced much
effect; she seemed, for once in her life, poor thing, to be too happy to
look beyond the passing moment. Besides, there was the birthday festival
to keep her mind from dwelling on doubts and fears that were not
agreeable to her. And the next day there was another event to occupy
our attention--the arrival of the lawyer’s letter from London, with the
announcement of my inheritance on coming of age. It was settled, as you
know, that I was to go out into the world, and to judge for myself; but
the date of my departure was not fixed. Two days later, the storm that
had been gathering for weeks past burst on us--we were cited to appear
before the council to answer for an infraction of the Rules. Everything
that I have confessed to you, and some things besides that I have kept
to myself, lay formally inscribed on a sheet of paper placed on the
council table--and pinned to the sheet of paper was Mellicent’s letter
to me, found in my room. I took the whole blame on myself, and insisted
on being confronted with the unknown person who had informed against
us. The council met this by a question:--‘Is the information, in any
particular, false?’ Neither of us could deny that it was, in every
particular, true. Hearing this, the council decided that there was no
need, on our own showing, to confront us with the informer. From that
day to this, I have never known who the spy was. Neither Mellicent nor
I had an enemy in the Community. The girls who had seen us on the lake,
and some other members who had met us together, only gave their evidence
on compulsion--and even then they prevaricated, they were so fond of us
and so sorry for us. After waiting a day, the governing body pronounced
their judgment. Their duty was prescribed to them by the Rules. We were
sentenced to six months’ absence from the Community; to return or not
as we pleased. A hard sentence, gentlemen--whatever _we_ may think of
it--to homeless and friendless people, to the Fallen Leaves that had
drifted to Tadmor. In my case it had been already arranged that I was
to leave. After what had happened, my departure was made compulsory in
four-and-twenty hours; and I was forbidden to return, until the date
of my sentence had expired. In Mellicent’s case they were still more
strict. They would not trust her to travel by herself. A female member
of the Community was appointed to accompany her to the house of her
married sister at New York: she was ordered to be ready for the journey
by sunrise the next morning. We both understood, of course, that the
object of this was to prevent our travelling together. They might have
saved themselves the trouble of putting obstacles in our way.”

“So far as You were concerned, I suppose?” said Mr. Hethcote.

“So far as She was concerned also,” Amelius answered.

“How did she take it, sir?” Rufus inquired.

“With a composure that astonished us all,” said Amelius. “We had
anticipated tears and entreaties for mercy. She stood up perfectly calm,
far calmer than I was, with her head turned towards me, and her eyes
resting quietly on my face. If you can imagine a woman whose whole being
was absorbed in looking into the future; seeing what no mortal creature
about her saw; sustained by hopes that no mortal creature about her
could share--you may see her as I did, when she heard her sentence
pronounced. The members of the Community, accustomed to take leave of an
erring brother or sister with loving and merciful words, were all more
or less distressed as they bade her farewell. Most of the women were in
tears as they kissed her. They said the same kind words to her over and
over again. ‘We are heartily sorry for you, dear; we shall all be glad
to welcome you back.’ They sang our customary hymn at parting--and broke
down before they got to the end. It was _she_ who consoled _them!_ Not
once, through all that melancholy ceremony, did she lose her strange
composure, her rapt mysterious look. I was the last to say farewell; and
I own I couldn’t trust myself to speak. She held my hand in hers. For
a moment, her face lighted up softly with a radiant smile--then the
strange preoccupied expression flowed over her again, like shadow over a
light. Her eyes, still looking into mine, seemed to look beyond me. She
spoke low, in sad steady tones. ‘Be comforted, Amelius; the end is not
yet.’ She put her hands on my head, and drew it down to her. ‘You will
come back to me,’ she whispered--and kissed me on the forehead, before
them all. When I looked up again, she was gone. I have neither seen her
nor heard from her since. It’s all told, gentlemen--and some of it has
distressed me in the telling. Let me go away for a minute by myself, and
look at the sea.”





BOOK THE SECOND. AMELIUS IN LONDON



CHAPTER 1

Oh, Rufus Dingwell, it is such a rainy day! And the London street which
I look out on from my hotel window presents such a dirty and such a
miserable view! Do you know, I hardly feel like the same Amelius who
promised to write to you when you left the steamer at Queenstown. My
spirits are sinking; I begin to feel old. Am I in the right state of
mind to tell you what are my first impressions of London? Perhaps I may
alter my opinion. At present (this is between ourselves), I don’t like
London or London people--excepting two ladies, who, in very different
ways, have interested and charmed me.

Who are the ladies? I must tell you what I heard about them from Mr.
Hethcote, before I present them to you on my own responsibility.

After you left us, I found the last day of the voyage to Liverpool dull
enough. Mr. Hethcote did not seem to feel it in the same way: on the
contrary, he grew more familiar and confidential in his talk with me. He
has some of the English stiffness, you see, and your American pace was
a little too fast for him. On our last night on board, we had some more
conversation about the Farnabys. You were not interested enough in the
subject to attend to what he said about them while you were with us; but
if you are to be introduced to the ladies, you must be interested now.
Let me first inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Farnaby have no children; and
let me add that they have adopted the daughter and orphan child of Mrs.
Farnaby’s sister. This sister, it seems, died many years ago, surviving
her husband for a few months only. To complete the story of the past,
death has also taken old Mr. Ronald, the founder of the stationer’s
business, and his wife, Mrs. Farnaby’s mother. Dry facts these--I don’t
deny it; but there is something more interesting to follow. I have next
to tell you how Mr. Hethcote first became acquainted with Mrs. Farnaby.
Now, Rufus, we are coming to something romantic at last!

It is some time since Mr. Hethcote ceased to perform his clerical
duties, owing to a malady in the throat, which made it painful for him
to take his place in the reading-desk or the pulpit. His last curacy
attached him to a church at the West-end of London; and here, one Sunday
evening, after he had preached the sermon, a lady in trouble came to him
in the vestry for spiritual advice and consolation. She was a regular
attendant at the church, and something which he had said in that
evening’s sermon had deeply affected her. Mr. Hethcote spoke with her
afterwards on many occasions at home. He felt a sincere interest in her,
but he disliked her husband; and, when he gave up his curacy, he ceased
to pay visits to the house. As to what Mrs. Farnaby’s troubles were, I
can tell you nothing. Mr. Hethcote spoke very gravely and sadly when he
told me that the subject of his conversations with her must be kept a
secret. “I doubt whether you and Mr. Farnaby will get on well together,”
 he said to me; “but I shall be astonished if you are not favourably
impressed by his wife and her niece.”

This was all I knew when I presented my letter of introduction to Mr.
Farnaby at his place of business.

It was a grand stone building, with great plate-glass windows--all
renewed and improved, they told me, since old Mr. Ronald’s time. My
letter and my card went into an office at the back, and I followed them
after a while. A lean, hard, middle-aged man, buttoned up tight in a
black frock-coat, received me, holding my written introduction open in
his hand. He had a ruddy complexion not commonly seen in Londoners, so
far as my experience goes. His iron-gray hair and whiskers (especially
the whiskers) were in wonderfully fine order--as carefully oiled and
combed as if he had just come out of a barber’s shop. I had been in the
morning to the Zoological Gardens; his eyes, when he lifted them from
the letter to me, reminded me of the eyes of the eagles--glassy and
cruel. I have a fault that I can’t cure myself of. I like people, or
dislike them, at first sight, without knowing, in either case, whether
they deserve it or not. In the one moment when our eyes met, I felt the
devil in me. In plain English, I hated Mr. Farnaby!

“Good morning, sir,” he began, in a loud, harsh, rasping voice. “The
letter you bring me takes me by surprise.”

“I thought the writer was an old friend of yours,” I said.

“An old friend of mine,” Mr. Farnaby answered, “whose errors I deplore.
When he joined your Community, I looked upon him as a lost man. I am
surprised at his writing to me.”

It is quite likely I was wrong, knowing nothing of the usages of society
in England. I thought this reception of me downright rude. I had laid my
hat on a chair; I took it up in my hand again, and delivered a parting
shot at the brute with the oily whiskers.

“If I had known what you now tell me,” I said, “I should not have
troubled you by presenting that letter. Good morning.”

This didn’t in the least offend him. A curious smile broke out on his
face; it widened his eyes, and it twitched up his mouth at one corner.
He held out his hand to stop me. I waited, in case he felt bound to make
an apology. He did nothing of the sort--he only made a remark.

“You are young and hasty,” he said. “I may lament my friend’s
extravagances, without failing on that account in what is due to an
old friendship. You are probably not aware that we have no sympathy in
England with Socialists.”

I hit him back again. “In that case, sir, a little Socialism in England
would do you no harm. We consider it a part of our duty as Christians
to feel sympathy with all men who are honest in their convictions--no
matter how mistaken (in our opinion) the convictions may be.” I rather
thought I had him there; and I took up my hat again, to get off with the
honours of victory while I had the chance.

I am sincerely ashamed of myself, Rufus, in telling you all this.
I ought to have given him back “the soft answer that turneth away
wrath”--my conduct was a disgrace to my Community. What evil influence
was at work in me? Was it the air of London? or was it a possession of
the devil?

He stopped me for the second time--not in the least disconcerted by what
I had said to him. His inbred conviction of his own superiority to a
young adventurer like me was really something magnificent to witness. He
did me justice--the Philistine-Pharisee did me justice! Will you believe
it? He made his remarks next on my good points, as if I had been a young
bull at a prize cattle show.

“Excuse me for noticing it,” he said. “Your manners are perfectly
gentlemanlike, and you speak English without any accent. And yet you
have been brought up in America. What does it mean?”

I grew worse and worse--I got downright sulky now.

“I suppose it means,” I answered, “that some of us, in America,
cultivate ourselves as well as our land. We have our books and music,
though you seem to think we only have our axes and spades. Englishmen
don’t claim a monopoly of good manners at Tadmor. We see no difference
between an American gentleman and an English gentleman. And as for
speaking English with an accent, the Americans accuse _us_ of doing
that.”

He smiled again. “How very absurd!” he said, with a superb compassion
for the benighted Americans. By this time, I suspect he began to feel
that he had had enough of me. He got rid of me with an invitation.

“I shall be glad to receive you at my private residence, and introduce
you to my wife and her niece--our adopted daughter. There is the
address. We have a few friends to dinner on Saturday next, at seven.
Will you give us the pleasure of your company?”

We are all aware that there is a distinction between civility and
cordiality; but I myself never knew how wide that distinction might be,
until Mr. Farnaby invited me to dinner. If I had not been curious (after
what Mr. Hethcote had told me) to see Mrs. Farnaby and her niece,
I should certainly have slipped out of the engagement. As it was, I
promised to dine with Oily-Whiskers.

He put his hand into mine at parting. It felt as moistly cold as a dead
fish. After getting out again into the street, I turned into the first
tavern I passed, and ordered a drink. Shall I tell you what else I did?
I went into the lavatory, and washed Mr. Farnaby off my hand. (N.B.--If
I had behaved in this way at Tadmor, I should have been punished with
the lighter penalty--taking my meals by myself, and being forbidden to
enter the Common Room for eight and forty hours.) I feel I am getting
wickeder and wickeder in London--I have half a mind to join you in
Ireland. What does Tom Moore say of his countrymen--he ought to know, I
suppose? “For though they love women and golden store: Sir Knight, they
love honour and virtue more!” They must have been all Socialists in Tom
Moore’s time. Just the place for me.


I have been obliged to wait a little. A dense fog has descended on us
by way of variety. With a stinking coal fire, with the gas lit and the
curtains drawn at half-past eleven in the forenoon, I feel that I am in
my own country again at last. Patience, my friend--patience! I am coming
to the ladies.

Entering Mr. Farnaby’s private residence on the appointed day, I became
acquainted with one more of the innumerable insincerities of modern
English life. When a man asks you to dine with him at seven o’clock, in
other countries, he means what he says. In England, he means half-past
seven, and sometimes a quarter to eight. At seven o’clock I was the only
person in Mr. Farnaby’s drawing-room. At ten minutes past seven, Mr.
Farnaby made his appearance. I had a good mind to take his place in the
middle of the hearth-rug, and say, “Farnaby, I am glad to see you.” But
I looked at his whiskers; and _they_ said to me, as plainly as words
could speak, “Better not!”

In five minutes more, Mrs. Farnaby joined us.

I wish I was a practised author--or, no, I would rather, for the moment,
be a competent portrait-painter, and send you Mrs. Farnaby’s likeness
enclosed. How I am to describe her in words, I really don’t know. My
dear fellow, she almost frightened me. I never before saw such a woman;
I never expect to see such a woman again. There was nothing in her
figure, or in her way of moving, that produced this impression on
me--she is little and fat, and walks with a firm, heavy step, like the
step of a man. Her face is what I want to make you see as plainly as I
saw it myself: it was her face that startled me.

So far as I can pretend to judge, she must have been pretty, in a
healthy way, when she was young. I declare I hardly know whether she is
not pretty now. She certainly has no marks or wrinkles; her hair either
has no gray in it, or is too light to show the gray. She has preserved
her fair complexion; perhaps with art to assist it--I can’t say. As for
her lips--I am not speaking disrespectfully, I am only describing them
truly, when I say that they invite kisses in spite of her. In two words,
though she has been married (as I know from what one of the guests told
me after dinner) for sixteen years, she would be still an irresistible
little woman, but for the one startling drawback of her eyes. Don’t
mistake me. In themselves, they are large, well-opened blue eyes, and
may at one time have been the chief attraction in her face. But now
there is an expression of suffering in them--long, unsolaced suffering,
as I believe--so despairing and so dreadful, that she really made my
heart ache when I looked at her. I will swear to it, that woman lives in
some secret hell of her own making, and longs for the release of death;
and is so inveterately full of bodily life and strength, that she may
carry her burden with her to the utmost verge of life. I am digging
the pen into the paper, I feel this so strongly, and I am so wretchedly
incompetent to express my feeling. Can you imagine a diseased mind,
imprisoned in a healthy body? I don’t care what doctors or books may
say--it is that, and nothing else. Nothing else will solve the mystery
of the smooth face, the fleshy figure, the firm step, the muscular grip
of her hand when she gives it to you--and the soul in torment that looks
at you all the while out of her eyes. It is useless to tell me that such
a contradiction as this cannot exist. I have seen the woman; and she
does exist.

Oh yes! I can fancy you grinning over my letter--I can hear you saying
to yourself, “Where did he pick up his experience, I wonder?” I have no
experience--I only have something that serves me instead of it, and
I don’t know what. The Elder Brother, at Tadmor, used to say it was
sympathy. But _he_ is a sentimentalist.

Well, Mr. Farnaby presented me to his wife--and then walked away as if
he was sick of us both, and looked out of the window.

For some reason or other, Mrs. Farnaby seemed to be surprised, for the
moment, by my personal appearance. Her husband had, very likely, not
told her how young I was. She got over her momentary astonishment, and,
signing to me to sit by her on the sofa, said the necessary words of
welcome--evidently thinking something else all the time. The strange
miserable eyes looked over my shoulder, instead of looking at me.

“Mr. Farnaby tells me you have been living in America.”

The tone in which she spoke was curiously quiet and monotonous. I
have heard such tones, in the Far West, from lonely settlers without a
neighbouring soul to speak to. Has Mrs. Farnaby no neighbouring soul to
speak to, except at dinner parties?

“You are an Englishman, are you not?” she went on.

I said Yes, and cast about in my mind for something to say to her. She
saved me the trouble by making me the victim of a complete series of
questions. This, as I afterwards discovered, was _her_ way of finding
conversation for strangers. Have you ever met with absent-minded people
to whom it is a relief to ask questions mechanically, without feeling
the slightest interest in the answers?

She began. “Where did you live in America?”

“At Tadmor, in the State of Illinois.”

“What sort of place is Tadmor?”

I described the place as well as I could, under the circumstances.

“What made you go to Tadmor?”

It was impossible to reply to this, without speaking of the Community.
Feeling that the subject was not in the least likely to interest her,
I spoke as briefly as I could. To my astonishment, I evidently began to
interest her from that moment. The series of questions went on--but now
she not only listened, she was eager for the answers.

“Are there any women among you?”

“Nearly as many women as men.”

Another change! Over the weary misery of her eyes there flashed a bright
look of interest which completely transformed them. Her articulation
even quickened when she put her next question.

“Are any of the women friendless creatures, who came to you from
England?”

“Yes, some of them.”

I thought of Mellicent as I spoke. Was this new interest that I had so
innocently aroused, an interest in Mellicent? Her next question only
added to my perplexity. Her next question proved that my guess had
completely failed to hit the mark.

“Are there any _young_ women among them?”

Mr. Farnaby, standing with his back to us thus far, suddenly turned and
looked at her, when she inquired if there were “young” women among us.

“Oh yes,” I said. “Mere girls.”

She pressed so near to me that her knees touched mine. “How old?” she
asked eagerly.

Mr. Farnaby left the window, walked close up to the sofa, and
deliberately interrupted us.

“Nasty muggy weather, isn’t it?” he said. “I suppose the climate of
America--”

Mrs. Farnaby deliberately interrupted her husband. “How old?” she
repeated, in a louder tone.

I was bound, of course, to answer the lady of the house. “Some girls
from eighteen to twenty. And some younger.”

“How much younger?”

“Oh, from sixteen to seventeen.”

She grew more and more excited; she positively laid her hand on my arm
in her eagerness to secure my attention all to herself. “American girls
or English?” she resumed, her fat, firm fingers closing on me with a
tremulous grasp.

“Shall you be in town in November?” said Mr. Farnaby, purposely
interrupting us again. “If you would like to see the Lord Mayor’s
Show--”

Mrs. Farnaby impatiently shook me by the arm. “American girls or
English?” she reiterated, more obstinately than ever.

Mr. Farnaby gave her one look. If he could have put her on the blazing
fire and have burnt her up in an instant by an effort of will, I believe
he would have made the effort. He saw that I was observing him, and
turned quickly from his wife to me. His ruddy face was pale with
suppressed rage. My early arrival had given Mrs. Farnaby an opportunity
of speaking to me, which he had not anticipated in inviting me to
dinner. “Come and see my pictures,” he said.

His wife still held me fast. Whether he liked it or not, I had again
no choice but to answer her. “Some American girls, and some English,” I
said.

Her eyes opened wider and wider in unutterable expectation. She suddenly
advanced her face so close to mine, that I felt her hot breath on my
cheeks as the next words burst their way through her lips.

“Born in England?”

“No. Born at Tadmor.”

She dropped my arm. The light died out of her eyes in an instant. In
some inconceivable way, I had utterly destroyed some secret expectation
that she had fixed on me. She actually left me on the sofa, and took a
chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. Mr. Farnaby, turning paler
and paler, stepped up to her as she changed her place. I rose to look at
the pictures on the wall nearest to me. You remarked the extraordinary
keenness of my sense of hearing, while we were fellow passengers on the
steamship. When he stooped over her, and whispered in her ear, I heard
him--though nearly the whole breadth of the room was between us. “You
hell-cat!”--that was what Mr. Farnaby said to his wife.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour after seven. In quick
succession, the guests at the dinner now entered the room.

I was so staggered by the extraordinary scene of married life which
I had just witnessed, that the guests produced only a very faint
impression upon me. My mind was absorbed in trying to find the true
meaning of what I had seen and heard. Was Mrs. Farnaby a little mad?
I dismissed that idea as soon as it occurred to me; nothing that I had
observed in her justified it. The truer conclusion appeared to be,
that she was deeply interested in some absent (and possibly lost) young
creature; whose age, judging by actions and tones which had sufficiently
revealed that part of the secret to me, could not be more than sixteen
or seventeen years. How long had she cherished the hope of seeing the
girl, or hearing of her? It must have been, anyhow, a hope very deeply
rooted, for she had been perfectly incapable of controlling herself
when I had accidentally roused it. As for her husband, there could be
no doubt that the subject was not merely distasteful to him, but so
absolutely infuriating that he could not even keep his temper, in the
presence of a third person invited to his house. Had he injured the girl
in any way? Was he responsible for her disappearance? Did his wife know
it, or only suspect it? Who _was_ the girl? What was the secret of Mrs.
Farnaby’s extraordinary interest in her--Mrs. Farnaby, whose marriage
was childless; whose interest one would have thought should be naturally
concentrated on her adopted daughter, her sister’s orphan child? In
conjectures such as these, I completely lost myself. Let me hear
what your ingenuity can make of the puzzle; and let me return to Mr.
Farnaby’s dinner, waiting on Mr. Farnaby’s table.

The servant threw open the drawing-room door, and the most honoured
guest present led Mrs. Farnaby to the dining-room. I roused myself
to some observation of what was going on about me. No ladies had been
invited; and the men were all of a certain age. I looked in vain for the
charming niece. Was she not well enough to appear at the dinner-party? I
ventured on putting the question to Mr. Farnaby.

“You will find her at the tea-table, when we return to the drawing-room.
Girls are out of place at dinner-parties.” So he answered me--not very
graciously.

As I stepped out on the landing, I looked up; I don’t know why, unless
I was the unconscious object of magnetic attraction. Anyhow, I had
my reward. A bright young face peeped over the balusters of the upper
staircase, and modestly withdrew itself again in a violent hurry.
Everybody but Mr. Farnaby and myself had disappeared in the dining-room.
Was she having a peep at the young Socialist?


Another interruption to my letter, caused by another change in the
weather. The fog has vanished; the waiter is turning off the gas, and
letting in the drab-coloured daylight. I ask him if it is still raining.
He smiles, and rubs his hands, and says, “It looks like clearing up
soon, sir.” This man’s head is gray; he has been all his life a waiter
in London--and he can still see the cheerful side of things. What native
strength of mind cast away on a vocation that is unworthy of it!

Well--and now about the Farnaby dinner. I feel a tightness in the lower
part of my waistcoat, Rufus, when I think of the dinner; there was
such a quantity of it, and Mr. Farnaby was so tyrannically resolute in
forcing his luxuries down the throats of his guests. His eye was on me,
if I let my plate go away before it was empty--his eye said “I have paid
for this magnificent dinner, and I mean to see you eat it.” Our printed
list of the dishes, as they succeeded each other, also informed us of
the varieties of wine which it was imperatively necessary to drink with
each dish. I got into difficulties early in the proceedings. The taste
of sherry, for instance, is absolutely nauseous to me; and Rhine wine
turns into vinegar ten minutes after it has passed my lips. I asked for
the wine that I could drink, out of its turn. You should have seen Mr.
Farnaby’s face, when I violated the rules of his dinner-table! It was
the one amusing incident of the feast--the one thing that alleviated the
dreary and mysterious spectacle of Mrs. Farnaby. There she sat, with her
mind hundreds of miles away from everything that was going on about
her, entangling the two guests, on her right hand and on her left, in a
network of vacant questions, just as she had entangled me. I discovered
that one of these gentlemen was a barrister and the other a ship-owner,
by the answers which Mrs. Farnaby absently extracted from them on the
subject of their respective vocations in life. And while she questioned
incessantly, she ate incessantly. Her vigorous body insisted on being
fed. She would have emptied her wineglass (I suspect) as readily as
she plied her knife and fork--but I discovered that a certain system
of restraint was established in the matter of wine. At intervals, Mr.
Farnaby just looked at the butler--and the butler and his bottle, on
those occasions, deliberately passed her by. Not the slightest visible
change was produced in her by the eating and drinking; she was equal to
any demands that any dinner could make on her. There was no flush in her
face, no change in her spirits, when she rose, in obedience to English
custom, and retired to the drawing-room.

Left together over their wine, the men began to talk politics.

I listened at the outset, expecting to get some information. Our
readings in modern history at Tadmor had informed us of the dominant
political position of the middle classes in England, since the time of
the first Reform Bill. Mr. Farnaby’s guests represented the respectable
mediocrity of social position, the professional and commercial average
of the nation. They all talked glibly enough--I and an old gentleman who
sat next to me being the only listeners. I had spent the morning lazily
in the smoking-room of the hotel, reading the day’s newspapers. And
what did I hear now, when the politicians set in for their discussion? I
heard the leading articles of the day’s newspapers translated into bald
chat, and coolly addressed by one man to another, as if they were his
own individual views on public affairs! This absurd imposture positively
went the round of the table, received and respected by everybody with a
stolid solemnity of make-believe which it was downright shameful to
see. Not a man present said, “I saw that today in the _Times_ or the
_Telegraph.”_ Not a man present had an opinion of his own; or, if he
had an opinion, ventured to express it; or, if he knew nothing of the
subject, was honest enough to say so. One enormous Sham, and everybody
in a conspiracy to take it for the real thing: that is an accurate
description of the state of political feeling among the representative
men at Mr. Farnaby’s dinner. I am not judging rashly by one example
only; I have been taken to clubs and public festivals, only to hear over
and over again what I heard in Mr. Farnaby’s dining-room. Does it need
any great foresight to see that such a state of things as this cannot
last much longer, in a country which has not done with reforming itself
yet? The time is coming, in England, when the people who _have_ opinions
of their own will be heard, and when Parliament will be forced to open
the door to them.

This is a nice outbreak of republican freedom! What does my
long-suffering friend think of it--waiting all the time to be presented
to Mr. Farnaby’s niece? Everything in its place, Rufus. The niece
followed the politics, at the time; and she shall follow them now.

You shall hear first what my next neighbour said of her--a quaint old
fellow, a retired doctor, if I remember correctly. He seemed to be as
weary of the second-hand newspaper talk as I was; he quite sparkled
and cheered up when I introduced the subject of Miss Regina. Have I
mentioned her name yet? If not, here it is for you in full:--Miss Regina
Mildmay.

“I call her the brown girl,” said the old gentleman. “Brown hair, brown
eyes, and a brown skin. No, not a brunette; not dark enough for that--a
warm, delicate brown; wait till you see it! Takes after her father, I
should tell you. He was a fine-looking man in his time; foreign blood
in his veins, by his mother’s side. Miss Regina gets her queer name by
being christened after his mother. Never mind her name; she’s a charming
person. Let’s drink her health.”

We drank her health. Remembering that he had called her “the brown
girl,” I said I supposed she was still quite young.

“Better than young,” the doctor answered; “in the prime of life. I call
her a girl, by habit. Wait till you see her!”

“Has she a good figure, sir?”

“Ha! you’re like the Turks, are you? A nice-looking woman doesn’t
content you--you must have her well-made too. We can accommodate you,
sir; we are slim and tall, with a swing of our hips, and we walk like
a goddess. Wait and see how her head is put on her shoulders--I say
no more. Proud? Not she! A simple, unaffected, kind-hearted creature.
Always the same; I never saw her out of temper in my life; I never
heard her speak ill of anybody. The man who gets her will be a man to be
envied, I can tell you!”

“Is she engaged to be married?”

“No. She has had plenty of offers; but she doesn’t seem to care for
anything of that sort--so far. Devotes herself to Mrs. Farnaby, and
keeps up her school-friendships. A splendid creature, with the vital
thermometer at temperate heart--a calm, meditative, equable person. Pass
me the olives. Only think! the man who discovered olives is unknown;
no statue of him erected in any part of the civilized earth. I know few
more remarkable instances of human ingratitude.”

I risked a bold question--but not on the subject of olives. “Isn’t Miss
Regina’s life rather a dull one in this house?”

The doctor cautiously lowered his voice. “It would be dull enough to
some women. Regina’s early life has been a hard one. Her mother was Mr.
Ronald’s eldest daughter. The old brute never forgave her for marrying
against his wishes. Mrs. Ronald did all she could, secretly, to help the
young wife in disgrace. But old Ronald had sole command of the money,
and kept it to himself. From Regina’s earliest childhood there was
always distress at home. Her father harassed by creditors, trying one
scheme after another, and failing in all; her mother and herself, half
starved--with their very bedclothes sometimes at the pawnbrokers. I
attended them in their illnesses, and though they hid their wretchedness
from everybody else (proud as Lucifer, both of them!), they couldn’t
hide it from me. Fancy the change to this house! I don’t say that living
here in clover is enough for such a person as Regina; I only say it
has its influence. She is one of those young women, sir, who delight in
sacrificing themselves to others--she is devoted, for instance, to Mrs.
Farnaby. I only hope Mrs. Farnaby is worthy of it! Not that it
matters to Regina. What she does, she does out of her own sweetness of
disposition. She brightens this household, I can tell you! Farnaby did
a wise thing, in his own domestic interests, when he adopted her as his
daughter. She thinks she can never be grateful enough to him--the good
creature!--though she has repaid him a hundredfold. He’ll find that out,
one of these days, when a husband takes her away. Don’t suppose that
I want to disparage our host--he’s an old friend of mine; but he’s a
little too apt to take the good things that fall to his lot as if they
were nothing but a just recognition of his own merits. I have told him
that to his face, often enough to have a right to say it of him when he
doesn’t hear me. Do you smoke? I wish they would drop their politics,
and take to tobacco. I say Farnaby! I want a cigar.”

This broad hint produced an adjournment to the smoking-room, the doctor
leading the way. I began to wonder how much longer my introduction to
Miss Regina was to be delayed. It was not to come until I had seen a new
side of my host’s character, and had found myself promoted to a place of
my own in Mr. Farnaby’s estimation.

As we rose from table one of the guests spoke to me of a visit that he
had recently paid to the part of Buckinghamshire which I come from. “I
was shown a remarkably picturesque old house on the heath,” he said.
“They told me it had been inhabited for centuries by the family of the
Goldenhearts. Are you in any way related to them?” I answered that I
was very nearly related, having been born in the house--and there, as
I suppose, the matter ended. Being the youngest man of the party, I
waited, of course, until the rest of the gentlemen had passed out to the
smoking-room. Mr. Farnaby and I were left together. To my astonishment,
he put his arm cordially into mine, and led me out of the dining-room
with the genial familiarity of an old friend!

“I’ll give you such a cigar,” he said, “as you can’t buy for money in
all London. You have enjoyed yourself, I hope? Now we know what wine
you like, you won’t have to ask the butler for it next time. Drop in any
day, and take pot-luck with us.” He came to a standstill in the hall;
his brassy rasping voice assumed a new tone--a sort of parody of
respect. “Have you been to your family place,” he asked, “since your
return to England?”

He had evidently heard the few words exchanged between his friend
and myself. It seemed odd that he should take any interest in a place
belonging to people who were strangers to him. However, his question was
easily answered. I had only to inform him that my father had sold the
house when he left England.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that!” he said. “Those old family places
ought to be kept up. The greatness of England, sir, strikes its roots in
the old families of England. They may be rich, or they may be poor--that
don’t matter. An old family _is_ an old family; it’s sad to see their
hearths and homes sold to wealthy manufacturers who don’t know who their
own grandfathers were. Would you allow me to ask what is the family
motto of the Goldenhearts?”

Shall I own the truth? The bottles circulated freely at Mr. Farnaby’s
table--I began to wonder whether he was quite sober. I said I was sorry
to disappoint him, but I really did not know what my family motto was.

He was unaffectedly shocked. “I think I saw a ring on your finger,” he
said, as soon as he recovered himself. He lifted my left hand in his own
cold-fishy paw. The one ring I wear is of plain gold; it belonged to my
father and it has his initials inscribed on the signet.

“Good gracious, you haven’t got your coat-of-arms on your seal!” cried
Mr. Farnaby. “My dear sir, I am old enough to be your father, and I must
take the freedom of remonstrating with you. Your coat-of-arms and your
motto are no doubt at the Heralds’ Office--why don’t you apply for them?
Shall I go there for you? I will do it with pleasure. You shouldn’t be
careless about these things--you shouldn’t indeed.”

I listened in speechless astonishment. Was he ironically expressing his
contempt for old families? We got into the smoking-room at last; and my
friend the doctor enlightened me privately in a corner. Every word Mr.
Farnaby had said had been spoken in earnest. This man, who owes his rise
from the lowest social position entirely to himself--who, judging by
his own experience, has every reason to despise the poor pride of
ancestry--actually feels a sincerely servile admiration for the accident
of birth! “Oh, poor human nature!” as Somebody says. How cordially I
agree with Somebody!

We went up to the drawing-room; and I was introduced to “the brown girl”
 at last. What impression did she produce on me?

Do you know, Rufus, there is some perverse reluctance in me to go on
with this inordinately long letter just when I have arrived at the most
interesting part of it. I can’t account for my own state of mind; I only
know that it is so. The difficulty of describing the young lady doesn’t
perplex me like the difficulty of describing Mrs. Farnaby. I can see her
now, as vividly as if she was present in the room. I even remember (and
this is astonishing in a man) the dress that she wore. And yet I shrink
from writing about her, as if there was something wrong in it. Do me a
kindness, good friend, and let me send off all these sheets of paper,
the idle work of an idle morning, just as they are. When I write next,
I promise to be ashamed of my own capricious state of mind, and to paint
the portrait of Miss Regina at full length.

In the mean while, don’t run away with the idea that she has made a
disagreeable impression upon me. Good heavens! it is far from that.
You have had the old doctor’s opinion of her. Very well. Multiply this
opinion by ten--and you have mine.


[NOTE:--A strange indorsement appears on this letter, dated several
months after the period at which it was received:--_“Ah, poor Amelius!
He had better have gone back to Miss Mellicent, and put up with the
little drawback of her age. What a bright, lovable fellow he was!
Goodbye to Goldenheart!”_

These lines are not signed. They are known, however, to be in the
handwriting of Rufus Dingwell.]



CHAPTER 2

I particularly want you to come and lunch with us, dearest Cecilia, the
day after tomorrow. Don’t say to yourself, “The Farnaby’s house is dull,
and Regina is too slow for me,” and don’t think about the long drive for
the horses, from your place to London. This letter has an interest of
its own, my dear--I have got something new for you. What do you think
of a young man, who is clever and handsome and agreeable--and, wonder
of wonders, quite unlike any other young Englishman you ever saw in your
life? You are to meet him at luncheon; and you are to get used to his
strange name beforehand. For which purpose I enclose his card.

He made his first appearance at our house, at dinner yesterday evening.

When he was presented to me at the tea-table, he was not to be put
off with a bow--he insisted on shaking hands. “Where I have been,” he
explained, “we help a first introduction with a little cordiality.” He
looked into his tea-cup, after he said that, with the air of a man who
could say something more, if he had a little encouragement. Of course,
I encouraged him. “I suppose shaking hands is much the same form in
America that bowing is in England?” I said, as suggestively as I could.

He looked up directly, and shook his head. “We have too many forms in
this country,” he said. “The virtue of hospitality, for instance, seems
to have become a form in England. In America, when a new acquaintance
says, ‘Come and see me,’ he means it. When he says it here, in nine
cases out of ten he looks unaffectedly astonished if you are fool enough
to take him at his word. I hate insincerity, Miss Regina--and now I have
returned to my own country, I find insincerity one of the established
institutions of English Society. ‘Can we do anything for you?’ Ask them
to do something for you--and you will see what it means. ‘Thank you for
such a pleasant evening!’ Get into the carriage with them when they
go home--and you will find that it means, ‘What a bore!’ ‘Ah, Mr.
So-and-so, allow me to congratulate you on your new appointment.’
Mr. So-and-so passes out of hearing--and you discover what the
congratulations mean. ‘Corrupt old brute! he has got the price of his
vote at the last division.’ ‘Oh, Mr. Blank, what a charming book you
have written!’ Mr. Blank passes out of hearing--and you ask what his
book is about. ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t read it. Hush! he’s
received at Court; one must say these things.’ The other day a friend
took me to a grand dinner at the Lord Mayor’s. I accompanied him first
to his club; many distinguished guests met there before going to the
dinner. Heavens, how they spoke of the Lord Mayor! One of them didn’t
know his name, and didn’t want to know it; another wasn’t certain
whether he was a tallow-chandler or a button-maker; a third, who had met
with him somewhere, described him as a damned ass; a fourth said, ‘Oh,
don’t be hard on him; he’s only a vulgar old Cockney, without an _h_ in
his whole composition.’ A chorus of general agreement followed, as the
dinner-hour approached: ‘What a bore!’ I whispered to my friend, ‘Why
do they go?’ He answered, ‘You see, one must do this sort of thing.’
And when we got to the Mansion House, they did that sort of thing with
a vengeance! When the speech-making set in, these very men who had been
all expressing their profound contempt for the Lord Mayor behind his
back, now flattered him to his face in such a shamelessly servile way,
with such a meanly complete insensibility to their own baseness, that
I did really and literally turn sick. I slipped out into the fresh air,
and fumigated myself, after the company I had kept, with a cigar. No,
no! it’s useless to excuse these things (I could quote dozens of other
instances that have come under my own observation) by saying that they
are trifles. When trifles make themselves habits of yours or of mine,
they become a part of your character or mine. We have an inveterately
false and vicious system of society in England. If you want to trace
one of the causes, look back to the little organized insincerities of
English life.”

Of course you understand, Cecilia, that this was not all said at one
burst, as I have written it here. Some of it came out in the way of
answers to my inquiries, and some of it was spoken in the intervals of
laughing, talking, and tea-drinking. But I want to show you how very
different this young man is from the young men whom we are in the habit
of meeting, and so I huddle his talk together in one sample, as Papa
Farnaby would call it.

My dear, he is decidedly handsome (I mean our delightful Amelius); his
face has a bright, eager look, indescribably refreshing as a contrast
to the stolid composure of the ordinary young Englishman. His smile is
charming; he moves as gracefully--with as little self-consciousness--as
my Italian greyhound. He has been brought up among the strangest people
in America; and (would you believe it?) he is actually a Socialist.
Don’t be alarmed. He shocked us all dreadfully by declaring that his
Socialism was entirely learnt out of the New Testament. I have looked at
the New Testament, since he mentioned some of his principles to me; and,
do you know, I declare it is true!

Oh, I forgot--the young Socialist plays and sings! When we asked him
to go to the piano, he got up and began directly. “I don’t do it well
enough,” he said, “to want a great deal of pressing.” He sang old
English songs, with great taste and sweetness. One of the gentlemen of
our party, evidently disliking him, spoke rather rudely, I thought.
“A Socialist who sings and plays,” he said, “is a harmless Socialist
indeed. I begin to feel that my balance is safe at my banker’s, and
that London won’t be set on fire with petroleum this time.” He got his
answer, I can tell you. “Why should we set London on fire? London takes
a regular percentage of your income from you, sir, whether you like it
or not, on sound Socialist principles. You are the man who has got the
money, and Socialism says:--You must and shall help the man who has got
none. That is exactly what your own Poor Law says to you, every time the
collector leaves the paper at your house.” Wasn’t it clever?--and it was
doubly severe, because it was good-humouredly said.

Between ourselves, Cecilia, I think he is struck with me. When I walked
about the room, his bright eyes followed me everywhere. And, when I took
a chair by somebody else, not feeling it quite right to keep him all to
myself, he invariably contrived to find a seat on the other side of me.
His voice, too, had a certain tone, addressed to me, and to no other
person in the room. Judge for yourself when you come here; but don’t
jump to conclusions, if you please. Oh no--I am not going to fall in
love with him! It isn’t in me to fall in love with anybody. Do you
remember what the last man whom I refused said of me? “She has a machine
on the left side of her that pumps blood through her body, but she has
no heart.” I pity the woman who marries _that_ man!

One thing more, my dear. This curious Amelius seems to notice trifles
which escape men in general, just as _we_ do. Towards the close of the
evening, poor Mamma Farnaby fell into one of her vacant states; half
asleep and half awake on the sofa in the back drawing-room. “Your aunt
interests me,” he whispered. “She must have suffered some terrible
sorrow, at some past time in her life.” Fancy a man seeing that! He
dropped some hints, which showed that he was puzzling his brains to
discover how I got on with her, and whether I was in her confidence or
not: he even went the length of asking what sort of life I led with the
uncle and aunt who have adopted me. My dear, it was done so delicately,
with such irresistible sympathy and such a charming air of respect,
that I was quite startled when I remembered, in the wakeful hours of
the night, how freely I had spoken to him. Not that I have betrayed any
secrets; for, as you know, I am as ignorant as everybody else of what
the early troubles of my poor dear aunt may have been. But I did tell
him how I came into the house a helpless little orphan girl; and how
generously these two good relatives adopted me; and how happy it made
me to find that I could really do something to cheer their sad childless
lives. “I wish I was half as good as you are,” he said. “I can’t
understand how you became fond of Mrs. Farnaby. Perhaps it began in
sympathy and compassion?” Just think of that, from a young Englishman!
He went on confessing his perplexities, as if we had known one another
from childhood. “I am a little surprised to see Mrs. Farnaby present at
parties of this sort; I should have thought she would have stayed in her
own room.” “That’s just what she objects to do,” I answered; “She says
people will report that her husband is ashamed of her, or that she is
not fit to be seen in society, if she doesn’t appear at the parties--and
she is determined not to be misrepresented in that way.” Can you
understand my talking to him with so little reserve? It is a specimen,
Cecilia, of the odd manner in which my impulses carry me away, in this
man’s company. He is so nice and gentle--and yet so manly. I shall be
curious to see if you can resist him, with your superior firmness and
knowledge of the world.

But the strangest incident of all I have not told you yet--feeling some
hesitation about the best way of describing it, so as to interest you in
what has deeply interested me. I must tell it as plainly as I can, and
leave it to speak for itself.

Who do you think has invited Amelius Goldenheart to luncheon? Not Papa
Farnaby, who only invites him to dinner. Not I, it is needless to say.
Who is it, then? Mamma Farnaby herself. He has actually so interested
her that she has been thinking of him, and dreaming of him, in his
absence!

I heard her last night, poor thing, talking and grinding her teeth in
her sleep; and I went into her room to try if I could quiet her, in
the usual way, by putting my cool hand on her forehead, and pressing it
gently. (The old doctor says it’s magnetism, which is ridiculous.) Well,
it didn’t succeed this time; she went on muttering, and making that
dreadful sound with her teeth. Occasionally a word was spoken clearly
enough to be intelligible. I could make no connected sense of what I
heard; but I could positively discover this--that she was dreaming of
our guest from America!

I said nothing about it, of course, when I went upstairs with her cup of
tea this morning. What do you think was the first thing she asked
for? Pen, ink, and paper. Her next request was that I would write Mr.
Goldenheart’s address on an envelope. “Are you going to write to him?”
 I asked. “Yes,” she said, “I want to speak to him, while John is out of
the way at business,” “Secrets?” I said, turning it off with a laugh.
She answered, speaking gravely and earnestly. “Yes; secrets.” The letter
was written, and sent to his hotel, inviting him to lunch with us on
the first day when he was disengaged. He has replied, appointing the day
after tomorrow. By way of trying to penetrate the mystery, I inquired
if she wished me to appear at the luncheon. She considered with herself,
before she answered that. “I want him to be amused, and put in a good
humour,” she said, “before I speak to him. You must lunch with us--and
ask Cecilia.” She stopped, and considered once more. “Mind one thing,”
 she went on. “Your uncle is to know nothing about it. If you tell him, I
will never speak to you again.”

Is this not extraordinary? Whatever her dream may have been, it has
evidently produced a strong impression on her. I firmly believe she
means to take him away with her to her own room, when the luncheon is
over. Dearest Cecilia, you must help me to stop this! I have never been
trusted with her secrets; they may, for all I know, be innocent secrets
enough, poor soul! But it is surely in the highest degree undesirable
that she should take into her confidence a young man who is only an
acquaintance of ours: she will either make herself ridiculous, or do
something worse. If Mr. Farnaby finds it out, I really tremble for what
may happen.

For the sake of old friendship, don’t leave me to face this difficulty
by myself. A line, only one line, dearest, to say that you will not fail
me.




BOOK THE THIRD. MRS. FARNABY’S FOOT



CHAPTER 1

It is an afternoon concert; and modern German music was largely
represented on the programme. The patient English people sat in
closely-packed rows, listening to the pretentious instrumental noises
which were impudently offered to them as a substitute for melody. While
these docile victims of the worst of all quackeries (musical quackery)
were still toiling through their first hour of endurance, a passing
ripple of interest stirred the stagnant surface of the audience caused
by the sudden rising of a lady overcome by the heat. She was quickly led
out of the concert-room (after whispering a word of explanation to two
young ladies seated at her side) by a gentleman who made a fourth member
of the party. Left by themselves, the young ladies looked at each other,
whispered to each other, half rose from their places, became confusedly
conscious that the wandering attention of the audience was fixed on
them, and decided at last on following their companions out of the hall.

But the lady who had preceded them had some reason of her own for not
waiting to recover herself in the vestibule. When the gentleman in
charge of her asked if he should get a glass of water, she answered
sharply, “Get a cab--and be quick about it.”

The cab was found in a moment; the gentleman got in after her, by the
lady’s invitation. “Are you better now?” he asked.

“I have never had anything the matter with me,” she replied, quietly;
“tell the man to drive faster.”

Having obeyed his instructions, the gentleman (otherwise Amelius) began
to look a little puzzled. The lady (Mrs. Farnaby herself) perceived his
condition of mind, and favoured him with an explanation.

“I had my own motive for asking you to luncheon today,” she began,
in that steady downright way of speaking that was peculiar to her. “I
wanted to have a word with you privately. My niece Regina--don’t be
surprised at my calling her my niece, when you have heard Mr. Farnaby
call her his daughter. She _is_ my niece. Adopting her is a mere phrase.
It doesn’t alter facts; it doesn’t make her Mr. Farnaby’s child or mine,
does it?”

She had ended with a question, but she seemed to want no answer to it.
Her face was turned towards the cab-window, instead of towards Amelius.
He was one of those rare people who are capable of remaining silent when
they have nothing to say. Mrs. Farnaby went on.

“My niece Regina is a good creature in her way; but she suspects people.
She has some reason of her own for trying to prevent me from taking you
into my confidence; and her friend Cecilia is helping her. Yes, yes; the
concert was the obstacle which they had arranged to put in my way. You
were obliged to go, after telling them you wanted to hear the music; and
I couldn’t complain, because they had got a fourth ticket for me. I made
up my mind what to do; and I have done it. Nothing wonderful in my being
taken ill with the heat; nothing wonderful in your doing your duty as a
gentleman and looking after me--and what is the consequence? Here we are
together, on our way to my room, in spite of them. Not so bad for a poor
helpless creature like me, is it?”

Inwardly wondering what it all meant, and what she could possibly
want with him, Amelius suggested that the young ladies might leave the
concert-room, and, not finding them in the vestibule, might follow them
back to the house.

Mrs. Farnaby turned her head from the window, and looked him in the face
for the first time. “I have been a match for them so far,” she said;
“leave it to me, and you will find I can be a match for them still.”

After saying this, she watched the puzzled face of Amelius with a
moment’s steady scrutiny. Her full lips relaxed into a faint smile; her
head sank slowly on her bosom. “I wonder whether he thinks I am a little
crazy?” she said quietly to herself. “Some women in my place would have
gone mad years ago. Perhaps it might have been better for _me?”_ She
looked up again at Amelius. “I believe you are a good-tempered fellow,”
 she went on. “Are you in your usual temper now? Did you enjoy your
lunch? Has the lively company of the young ladies put you in a good
humour with women generally? I want you to be in a particularly good
humour with me.”

She spoke quite gravely. Amelius, a little to his own astonishment,
found himself answering gravely on his side; assuring her, in the most
conventional terms, that he was entirely at her service. Something in
her manner affected him disagreeably. If he had followed his impulse, he
would have jumped out of the cab, and have recovered his liberty and his
light-heartedness at one and the same moment, by running away at the top
of his speed.

The driver turned into the street in which Mr. Farnaby’s house was
situated. Mrs. Farnaby stopped him, and got out at some little distance
from the door. “You think the young ones will follow us back,” she said
to Amelius. “It doesn’t matter, the servants will have nothing to tell
them if they do.” She checked him in the act of knocking, when they
reached the house door. “It’s tea-time downstairs,” she whispered,
looking at her watch. “You and I are going into the house, without
letting the servants know anything about it. _Now_ do you understand?”

She produced from her pocket a steel ring, with several keys attached to
it. “A duplicate of Mr. Farnaby’s key,” she explained, as she chose one,
and opened the street door. “Sometimes, when I find myself waking in
the small hours of the morning, I can’t endure my bed; I must go out
and walk. My key lets me in again, just as it lets us in now, without
disturbing anybody. You had better say nothing about it to Mr. Farnaby.
Not that it matters much; for I should refuse to give up my key if he
asked me. But you’re a good-natured fellow--and you don’t want to make
bad blood between man and wife, do you? Step softly, and follow me.”

Amelius hesitated. There was something repellent to him in entering
another man’s house under these clandestine conditions. “All right!”
 whispered Mrs. Farnaby, perfectly understanding him. “Consult your
dignity; go out again, and knock at the door, and ask if I am at home.
I only wanted to prevent a fuss and an interruption when Regina comes
back. If the servants don’t know we are here, they will tell her we
haven’t returned--don’t you see?”

It would have been absurd to contest the matter, after this. Amelius
followed her submissively to the farther end of the hall. There, she
opened the door of a long narrow room, built out at the back of the
house.

“This is my den,” she said, signing to Amelius to pass in. “While we are
here, nobody will disturb us.” She laid aside her bonnet and shawl, and
pointed to a box of cigars on the table. “Take one,” she resumed. “I
smoke too, when nobody sees me. That’s one of the reasons, I dare say,
why Regina wished to keep you out of my room. I find smoking composes
me. What do _you_ say?”

She lit a cigar, and handed the matches to Amelius. Finding that
he stood fairly committed to the adventure, he resigned himself to
circumstances with his customary facility. He too lit a cigar, and took
a chair by the fire, and looked about him with an impenetrable composure
worthy of Rufus Dingwell himself.

The room bore no sort of resemblance to a boudoir. A faded old turkey
carpet was spread on the floor. The common mahogany table had no
covering; the chintz on the chairs was of a truly venerable age. Some
of the furniture made the place look like a room occupied by a man.
Dumb-bells and clubs of the sort used in athletic exercises hung over
the bare mantelpiece; a large ugly oaken structure with closed doors,
something between a cabinet and a wardrobe, rose on one side to the
ceiling; a turning lathe stood against the opposite wall. Above the
lathe were hung in a row four prints, in dingy old frames of black wood,
which especially attracted the attention of Amelius. Mostly foreign
prints, they were all discoloured by time, and they all strangely
represented different aspects of the same subject--infants parted from
their parents by desertion or robbery. The young Moses was there, in
his ark of bulrushes, on the river bank. Good St. Francis appeared next,
roaming the streets, and rescuing forsaken children in the wintry night.
A third print showed the foundling hospital of old Paris, with the
turning cage in the wall, and the bell to ring when the infant was
placed in it. The next and last subject was the stealing of a child from
the lap of its slumbering nurse by a gipsy woman. These sadly suggestive
subjects were the only ornaments on the walls. No traces of books or
music were visible; no needlework of any sort was to be seen; no
elegant trifles; no china or flowers or delicate lacework or sparkling
jewelry--nothing, absolutely nothing, suggestive of a woman’s presence
appeared in any part of Mrs. Farnaby’s room.

“I have got several things to say to you,” she began; “but one thing
must be settled first. Give me your sacred word of honour that you will
not repeat to any mortal creature what I am going to tell you now.” She
reclined in her chair, and drew in a mouthful of smoke and puffed it out
again, and waited for his reply.

Young and unsuspicious as he was, this unscrupulous method of taking his
confidence by storm startled Amelius. His natural tact and good sense
told him plainly that Mrs. Farnaby was asking too much.

“Don’t be angry with me, ma’am,” he said; “I must remind you that you
are going to tell me your secrets, without any wish to intrude on them
on my part--”

She interrupted him there. “What does that matter?” she asked coolly.

Amelius was obstinate; he went on with what he had to say. “I should
like to know,” he proceeded, “that I am doing no wrong to anybody,
before I give you my promise?”

“You will be doing a kindness to a miserable creature,” she answered,
as quietly as ever; “and you will be doing no wrong to yourself or to
anybody else, if you promise. That is all I can say. Your cigar is out.
Take a light.”

Amelius took a light, with the dog-like docility of a man in a state of
blank amazement. She waited, watching him composedly until his cigar was
in working order again.

“Well?” she asked. “Will you promise now?”

Amelius gave her his promise.

“On your sacred word of honour?” she persisted.

Amelius repeated the formula. She reclined in her chair once more.
“I want to speak to you as if I was speaking to an old friend,” she
explained. “I suppose I may call you Amelius?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, Amelius, I must tell you first that I committed a sin, many long
years ago. I have suffered the punishment; I am suffering it still. Ever
since I was a young woman, I have had a heavy burden of misery on my
heart. I am not reconciled to it, I cannot submit to it, yet. I never
shall be reconciled to it, I never shall submit to it, if I live to be
a hundred. Do you wish me to enter into particulars? or will you have
mercy on me, and be satisfied with what I have told you so far?”

It was not said entreatingly, or tenderly, or humbly: she spoke with
a savage self-contained resignation in her manner and in her voice.
Amelius forgot his cigar again--and again she reminded him of it. He
answered her as his own generous impulsive temperament urged him; he
said, “Tell me nothing that causes you a moment’s pain; tell me only
how I can help you.” She handed him the box of matches; she said, “Your
cigar is out again.”

He laid down his cigar. In his brief span of life he had seen no human
misery that expressed itself in this way. “Excuse me,” he answered; “I
won’t smoke just now.”

She laid her cigar aside like Amelius, and crossed her arms over her
bosom, and looked at him, with the first softening gleam of tenderness
that he had seen in her face. “My friend,” she said, “yours will be
a sad life--I pity you. The world will wound that sensitive heart of
yours; the world will trample on that generous nature. One of these
days, perhaps, you will be a wretch like me. No more of that. Get up; I
have something to show you.”

Rising herself, she led the way to the large oaken press, and took her
bunch of keys out of her pocket again.

“About this old sorrow of mine,” she resumed. “Do me justice, Amelius,
at the outset. I haven’t treated it as some women treat their sorrows--I
haven’t nursed it and petted it and made the most of it to myself and to
others. No! I have tried every means of relief, every possible pursuit
that could occupy my mind. One example of what I say will do as well as
a hundred. See it for yourself.”

She put the key in the lock. It resisted her first efforts to open it.
With a contemptuous burst of impatience and a sudden exertion of her
rare strength, she tore open the two doors of the press. Behind the door
on the left appeared a row of open shelves. The opposite compartment,
behind the door on the right, was filled by drawers with brass handles.
She shut the left door; angrily banging it to, as if the opening of it
had disclosed something which she did not wish to be seen. By the merest
chance, Amelius had looked that way first. In the one instant in which
it was possible to see anything, he had noticed, carefully laid out on
one of the shelves, a baby’s long linen frock and cap, turned yellow by
the lapse of time.

The half-told story of the past was more than half told now. The
treasured relics of the infant threw their little glimmer of light on
the motive which had chosen the subjects of the prints on the wall.
A child deserted and lost! A child who, by bare possibility, might be
living still!

She turned towards Amelius suddenly, “There is nothing to interest you
on _that_ side,” she said. “Look at the drawers here; open them for
yourself.” She drew back as she spoke, and pointed to the uppermost of
the row of drawers. A narrow slip of paper was pasted on it, bearing
this inscription:--_“Dead Consolations.”_

Amelius opened the drawer; it was full of books. “Look at them,”
 she said. Amelius, obeying her, discovered dictionaries, grammars,
exercises, poems, novels, and histories--all in the German language.

“A foreign language tried as a relief,” said Mrs. Farnaby, speaking
quietly behind him. “Month after month of hard study--all forgotten now.
The old sorrow came back in spite of it. A dead consolation! Open the
next drawer.”

The next drawer revealed water-colours and drawing materials huddled
together in a corner, and a heap of poor little conventional landscapes
filling up the rest of the space. As works of art, they were wretched
in the last degree; monuments of industry and application miserably and
completely thrown away.

“I had no talent for that pursuit, as you see,” said Mrs. Farnaby. “But
I persevered with it, week after week, month after month. I thought to
myself, ‘I hate it so, it costs me such dreadful trouble, it so worries
and persecutes and humiliates me, that _this_ surely must keep my mind
occupied and my thoughts away from myself!’ No; the old sorrow stared me
in the face again on the paper that I was spoiling, through the colours
that I couldn’t learn to use. Another dead consolation! Shut it up.”

She herself opened a third and a fourth drawer. In one there appeared
a copy of Euclid, and a slate with the problems still traced on it; the
other contained a microscope, and the treatises relating to its use.
“Always the same effort,” she said, shutting the door of the press as
she spoke; “and always the same result. You have had enough of it, and
so have I.” She turned, and pointed to the lathe in the corner, and to
the clubs and dumb-bells over the mantelpiece. “I can look at _them_
patiently,” she went on; “they give me bodily relief. I work at the
lathe till my back aches; I swing the clubs till I’m ready to drop with
fatigue. And then I lie down on the rug there, and sleep it off, and
forget myself for an hour or two. Come back to the fire again. You have
seen my dead consolations; you must hear about my living consolation
next. In justice to Mr. Farnaby--ah, how I hate him!”

She spoke those last vehement words to herself, but with such intense
bitterness of contempt that the tones were quite loud enough to be
heard. Amelius looked furtively towards the door. Was there no hope that
Regina and her friend might return and interrupt them? After what he had
seen and heard, could _he_ hope to console Mrs. Farnaby? He could only
wonder what object she could possibly have in view in taking him into
her confidence. “Am I always to be in a mess with women?” he thought to
himself. “First poor Mellicent, and now this one. What next?” He lit his
cigar again. The brotherhood of smokers, and they alone, will understand
what a refuge it was to him at that moment.

“Give me a light,” said Mrs. Farnaby, recalled to the remembrance of her
own cigar. “I want to know one thing before I go on. Amelius, I watched
those bright eyes of yours at luncheon-time. Did they tell me the truth?
You’re not in love with my niece, are you?”

Amelius took his cigar out of his mouth, and looked at her.

“Out with it boldly!” she said.

Amelius let it out, to a certain extent. “I admire her very much,” he
answered.

“Ah,” Mrs. Farnaby remarked, “you don’t know her as well as I do.”

The disdainful indifference of her tone irritated Amelius. He was still
young enough to believe in the existence of gratitude; and Mrs. Farnaby
had spoken ungratefully. Besides, he was fond enough of Regina already
to feel offended when she was referred to slightingly.

“I am surprised to hear what you say of her,” he burst out. “She is
quite devoted to you.”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Farnaby, carelessly. “She is devoted to me, of
course--she is the living consolation I told you of just now. That was
Mr. Farnaby’s notion in adopting her. Mr. Farnaby thought to himself,
‘Here’s a ready-made daughter for my wife--that’s all this tiresome
woman wants to comfort her: now we shall do.’ Do you know what I call
that? I call it reasoning like an idiot. A man may be very clever at
his business--and may be a contemptible fool in other respects. Another
woman’s child a consolation to _me!_ Pah! it makes me sick to think of
it. I have one merit, Amelius, I don’t cant. It’s my duty to take care
of my sister’s child; and I do my duty willingly. Regina’s a good sort
of creature--I don’t dispute it. But she’s like all those tall darkish
women: there’s no backbone in her, no dash; a kind, feeble, goody-goody,
sugarish disposition; and a deal of quiet obstinacy at the bottom of
it, I can tell you. Oh yes, I do her justice; I don’t deny that she’s
devoted to me, as you say. But I am making a clean breast of it now.
And you ought to know, and you shall know, that Mr. Farnaby’s living
consolation is no more a consolation to me than the things you have seen
in the drawers. There! now we’ve done with Regina. No: there’s one thing
more to be cleared up. When you say you admire her, what do you mean? Do
you mean to marry her?”

For once in his life Amelius stood on his dignity. “I have too much
respect for the young lady to answer your question,” he said loftily.

“Because, if you do,” Mrs. Farnaby proceeded, “I mean to put every
possible obstacle in your way. In short, I mean to prevent it.”

This plain declaration staggered Amelius. He confessed the truth by
implication in one word.

“Why?” he asked sharply.

“Wait a little, and recover your temper,” she answered.

There was a pause. They sat, on either side of the fireplace, and eyed
each other attentively.

“Now are you ready?” Mrs. Farnaby resumed. “Here is my reason. If you
marry Regina, or marry anybody, you will settle down somewhere, and lead
a dull life.”

“Well,” said Amelius; “and why not, if I like it?”

“Because I want you to remain a roving bachelor; here today and gone
tomorrow--travelling all over the world, and seeing everything and
everybody.”

“What good will that do to _you,_ Mrs. Farnaby?”

She rose from her own side of the fireplace, crossed to the side on
which Amelius was sitting, and, standing before him, placed her hands
heavily on his shoulders. Her eyes grew radiant with a sudden interest
and animation as they looked down on him, riveted on his face.

“I am still waiting, my friend, for the living consolation that may yet
come to me,” she said. “And, hear this, Amelius! After all the years
that have passed, you may be the man who brings it to me.”

In the momentary silence that followed, they heard a double knock at the
house-door.

“Regina!” said Mrs. Farnaby.

As the name passed her lips, she sprang to the door of the room, and
turned the key in the lock.



CHAPTER 2

Amelius rose impulsively from his chair.

Mrs. Farnaby turned at the same moment, and signed to him to resume his
seat. “You have given me your promise,” she whispered. “All I ask of you
is to be silent.” She softly drew the key out of the door, and showed it
to him. “You can’t get out,” she said, “unless you take the key from me
by force!”

Whatever Amelius might think of the situation in which he now found
himself, the one thing that he could honourably do was to say nothing,
and submit to it. He remained quietly by the fire. No imaginable
consideration (he mentally resolved) should induce him to consent to a
second confidential interview in Mrs. Farnaby’s room.

The servant opened the house-door. Regina’s voice was heard in the hall.

“Has my aunt come in?”

“No, miss.”

“Have you heard nothing of her?”

“Nothing, miss.”

“Has Mr. Goldenheart been here?”

“No, miss.”

“Very extraordinary! What can have become of them, Cecilia?”

The voice of the other lady was heard in answer. “We have probably
missed them, on leaving the concert room. Don’t alarm yourself, Regina.
I must go back, under any circumstances; the carriage will be waiting
for me. If I see anything of your aunt, I will say that you are
expecting her at home.”

“One moment, Cecilia! (Thomas, you needn’t wait.) Is it really true that
you don’t like Mr. Goldenheart?”

“What! has it come to that, already? I’ll try to like him, Regina.
Goodbye again.”

The closing of the street door told that the ladies had separated. The
sound was followed, in another moment, by the opening and closing of the
dining-room door. Mrs. Farnaby returned to her chair at the fireplace.

“Regina has gone into the dining-room to wait for us,” she said. “I see
you don’t like your position here; and I won’t keep you more than a few
minutes longer. You are of course at a loss to understand what I was
saying to you, when the knock at the door interrupted us. Sit down again
for five minutes; it fidgets me to see you standing there, looking at
your boots. I told you I had one consolation still possibly left. Judge
for yourself what the hope of it is to me, when I own to you that I
should long since have put an end to my life, without it. Don’t think I
am talking nonsense; I mean what I say. It is one of my misfortunes that
I have no religious scruples to restrain me. There was a time when I
believed that religion might comfort me. I once opened my heart to a
clergyman--a worthy person, who did his best to help me. All useless! My
heart was too hard, I suppose. It doesn’t matter--except to give you
one more proof that I am thoroughly in earnest. Patience! patience! I am
coming to the point. I asked you some odd questions, on the day when you
first dined here? You have forgotten all about them, of course?”

“I remember them perfectly well,” Amelius answered.

“You remember them? That looks as if you had thought about them
afterwards. Come! tell me plainly what you did think?”

Amelius told her plainly. She became more and more interested, more and
more excited, as he went on.

“Quite right!” she exclaimed, starting to her feet and walking swiftly
backwards and forwards in the room. “There _is_ a lost girl whom I want
to find; and she is between sixteen and seventeen years old, as you
thought. Mind! I have no reason--not the shadow of a reason--for
believing that she is still a living creature. I have only my own stupid
obstinate conviction; rooted here,” she pressed both hands fiercely on
her heart, “so that nothing can tear it out of me! I have lived in that
belief--Oh, don’t ask me how long! it is so far, so miserably far, to
look back!” She stopped in the middle of the room. Her breath came and
went in quick heavy gasps; the first tears that had softened the hard
wretchedness in her eyes rose in them now, and transfigured them with
the divine beauty of maternal love. “I won’t distress you,” she said,
stamping on the floor, as she struggled with the hysterical passion that
was raging in her. “Give me a minute, and I’ll force it down again.”

She dropped into a chair, threw her arms heavily on the table, and laid
her head on them. Amelius thought of the child’s frock and cap hidden
in the cabinet. All that was manly and noble in his nature felt for the
unhappy woman, whose secret was dimly revealed to him now. The little
selfish sense of annoyance at the awkward situation in which she had
placed him, vanished to return no more. He approached her, and put his
hand gently on her shoulder. “I am truly sorry for you,” he said. “Tell
me how I can help you, and I will do it with all my heart.”

“Do you really mean that?” She roughly dashed the tears from her eyes,
and rose as she put the question. Holding him with one hand, she parted
the hair back from his forehead with the other. “I must see your whole
face,” she said--“your face will tell me. Yes: you do mean it. The world
hasn’t spoilt you, yet. Do you believe in dreams?”

Amelius looked at her, startled by the sudden transition. She
deliberately repeated her question.

“I ask you seriously,” she said; “do you believe in dreams?”

Amelius answered seriously, on his side, “I can’t honestly say that I
do.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “like me. I don’t believe in dreams, either--I wish
I did! But it’s not in me to believe in superstitions; I’m too hard--and
I’m sorry for it. I have seen people who were comforted by their
superstitions; happy people, possessed of faith. Don’t you even believe
that dreams are sometimes fulfilled by chance?”

“Nobody can deny that,” Amelius replied; “the instances of it are too
many. But for one dream fulfilled by a coincidence, there are--”

“A hundred at least that are _not_ fulfilled,” Mrs. Farnaby interposed.
“Very well. I calculate on that. See how little hope can live on! There
is just the barest possibility that what I dreamed of you the other
night may come to pass. It’s a poor chance; but it has encouraged me to
take you into my confidence, and ask you to help me.”

This strange confession--this sad revelation of despair still
unconsciously deceiving itself under the disguise of hope--only
strengthened the compassionate sympathy which Amelius already felt for
her. “What did you dream about me?” he asked gently.

“It’s nothing to tell,” she replied. “I was in a room that was quite
strange to me; and the door opened, and you came in leading a young girl
by the hand. You said, ‘Be happy at last; here she is.’ My heart knew
her instantly, though my eyes had never seen her since the first days
of her life. And I woke myself, crying for joy. Wait! it’s not all told
yet. I went to sleep again, and dreamed it again, and woke, and lay
awake for awhile, and slept once more, and dreamed it for the third
time. Ah, if I could only feel some people’s confidence in three times!
No; it produced an impression on me--and that was all. I got as far as
thinking to myself, there is just a chance; I haven’t a creature in the
world to help me; I may as well speak to him. O, you needn’t remind me
that there is a rational explanation of my dream. I have read it all
up, in the Encyclopaedia in the library. One of the ideas of wise men
is that we think of something, consciously or unconsciously, in the
daytime, and then reproduce it in a dream. That’s my case, I daresay.
When you were first introduced to me, and when I heard where you had
been brought up, I thought directly that _she_ might have been one among
the many forlorn creatures who had drifted to your Community, and that I
might find her through you. Say that thought went to my bed with me--and
we have the explanation of my dream. Never mind! There is my one poor
chance in a hundred still left. You will remember me, Amelius, if you
_should_ meet with her, won’t you?”

The implied confession of her own intractable character, without
religious faith to ennoble it, without even imagination to refine
it--the unconscious disclosure of the one tender and loving instinct in
her nature still piteously struggling for existence, with no sympathy to
sustain it, with no light to guide it--would have touched the heart of
any man not incurably depraved. Amelius spoke with the fervour of his
young enthusiasm. “I would go to the uttermost ends of the earth, if I
thought I could do you any good. But, oh, it sounds so hopeless!”

She shook her head, and smiled faintly.

“Don’t say that! You are free, you have money, you will travel about
in the world and amuse yourself. In a week you will see more than
stay-at-home people see in a year. How do we know what the future has
in store for us? I have my own idea. She may be lost in the labyrinth
of London, or she may be hundreds of thousands of miles away. Amuse
yourself, Amelius--amuse yourself. Tomorrow or ten years hence, you
might meet with her!”

In sheer mercy to the poor creature, Amelius refused to encourage her
delusion. “Even supposing such a thing could happen,” he objected, “how
am I to know the lost girl? You can’t describe her to me; you have not
seen her since she was a child. Do you know anything of what happened at
the time--I mean at the time when she was lost?”

“I know nothing.”

“Absolutely nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Have you never felt a suspicion of how it happened?”

Her face changed: she frowned as she looked at him. “Not till weeks and
months had passed,” she said, “not till it was too late. I was ill
at the time. When my mind got clear again, I began to suspect one
particular person--little by little, you know; noticing trifles, and
thinking about them afterwards.” She stopped, evidently restraining
herself on the point of saying more.

Amelius tried to lead her on. “Did you suspect the person--?” he began.

“I suspected him of casting the child helpless on the world!” Mrs.
Farnaby interposed, with a sudden burst of fury. “Don’t ask me any more
about it, or I shall break out and shock you!” She clenched her fists as
she said the words. “It’s well for that man,” she muttered between her
teeth, “that I have never got beyond suspecting, and never found out the
truth! Why did you turn my mind that way? You shouldn’t have done it.
Help me back again to what we were saying a minute ago. You made some
objection; you said--?”

“I said,” Amelius reminded her, “that, even if I did meet with the
missing girl, I couldn’t possibly know it. And I must say more than
that--I don’t see how you yourself could be sure of recognizing her, if
she stood before you at this moment.”

He spoke very gently, fearing to irritate her. She showed no sign of
irritation--she looked at him, and listened to him, attentively.

“Are you setting a trap for me?” she asked. “No!” she cried, before
Amelius could answer, “I am not mean enough to distrust you--I forgot
myself. You have innocently said something that rankles in my mind. I
can’t leave it where you have left it; I don’t like to be told that I
shouldn’t recognize her. Give me time to think. I must clear this up.”

She consulted her own thoughts, keeping her eyes fixed on Amelius.

“I am going to speak plainly,” she announced, with a sudden appearance
of resolution. “Listen to this. When I banged to the door of that big
cupboard of mine, it was because I didn’t want you to see something on
the shelves. Did you see anything in spite of me?”

The question was not an easy one to answer. Amelius hesitated. Mrs.
Farnaby insisted on a reply.

“Did you see anything?” she reiterated

Amelius owned that he had seen something.

She turned away from him, and looked into the fire. Her firm full tones
sank so low, when she spoke next, that he could barely hear them.

“Was it something belonging to a child?”

“Yes.”

“Was it a baby’s frock and cap? Answer me. We have gone too far to go
back. I don’t want apologies or explanations--I want, Yes or No.”

“Yes.”

There was an interval of silence. She never moved; she still looked into
fire--looked, as if all her past life was pictured there in the burning
coals.

“Do you despise me?” she asked at last, very quietly.

“As God hears me, I am only sorry for you!” Amelius answered.

Another woman would have melted into tears. This woman still looked into
the fire--and that was all. “What a good fellow!” she said to herself,
“what a good fellow he is!”

There was another pause. She turned towards him again as abruptly as she
had turned away.

“I had hoped to spare you, and to spare myself,” she said. “If the
miserable truth has come out, it is through no curiosity of yours, and
(God knows!) against every wish of mine. I don’t know if you really felt
like a friend towards me before--you must be my friend now. Don’t speak!
I know I can trust you. One last word, Amelius, about my lost child. You
doubt whether I should recognize her, if she stood before me now. That
might be quite true, if I had only my own poor hopes and anxieties to
guide me. But I have something else to guide me--and, after what has
passed between us, you may as well know what it is: it might even, by
accident, guide you. Don’t alarm yourself; it’s nothing distressing this
time. How can I explain it?” she went on; pausing, and speaking in some
perplexity to herself. “It would be easier to show it--and why not?” She
addressed herself to Amelius once more. “I’m a strange creature,”
 she resumed. “First, I worry you about my own affairs--then I puzzle
you--then I make you sorry for me--and now (would you think it?) I am
going to amuse you! Amelius, are you an admirer of pretty feet?”

Amelius had heard of men (in books) who had found reason to doubt
whether their own ears were not deceiving them. For the first time, he
began to understand those men, and to sympathize with them. He admitted,
in a certain bewildered way, that he was an admirer of pretty feet--and
waited for what was to come next.

“When a woman has a pretty hand,” Mrs. Farnaby proceeded; “she is ready
enough to show it. When she goes out to a ball, she favours you with a
view of her bosom, and a part of her back. Now tell me! If there is no
impropriety in a naked bosom--where is the impropriety in a naked foot?”

Amelius agreed, like a man in a dream.

“Where, indeed!” he remarked--and waited again for what was to come
next.

“Look out of the window,” said Mrs. Farnaby.

Amelius obeyed. The window had been opened for a few inches at the
top, no doubt to ventilate the room. The dull view of the courtyard was
varied by the stables at the farther end, and by the kitchen skylight
rising in the middle of the open space. As Amelius looked out, he
observed that some person at that moment in the kitchen required
apparently a large supply of fresh air. The swinging window, on the side
of the skylight which was nearest to him, was invisibly and noiselessly
pulled open from below; the similar window, on the other side, being
already wide open also. Judging by appearance, the inhabitants of the
kitchen possessed a merit which is exceedingly rare among domestic
servants--they understood the laws of ventilation, and appreciated the
blessing of fresh air.

“That will do,” said Mrs. Farnaby. “You can turn round now.”

Amelius turned. Mrs. Farnaby’s boots and stockings were on the
hearthrug, and one of Mrs. Farnaby’s feet was placed, ready for
inspection, on the chair which he had just left. “Look at my right foot
first,” she said, speaking gravely and composedly in her ordinary tone.

It was well worth looking at--a foot equally beautiful in form and
in colour: the instep arched and high, the ankle at once delicate and
strong, the toes tinged with rose-colour at the tips. In brief, it was
a foot to be photographed, to be cast in plaster, to be fondled and
kissed. Amelius attempted to express his admiration, but was not
allowed to get beyond the first two or three words. “No,” Mrs. Farnaby
explained, “this is not vanity--simply information. You have seen my
right foot; and you have noticed that there is nothing the matter with
it. Very well. Now look at my left foot.”

She put her left foot up on the chair. “Look between the third toe and
the fourth,” she said.

Following his instructions, Amelius discovered that the beauty of the
foot was spoilt, in this case, by a singular defect. The two toes were
bound together by a flexible web, or membrane, which held them to each
other as high as the insertion of the nail on either side.

“Do you wonder,” Mrs. Farnaby asked, “why I show you the fault in my
foot? Amelius! my poor darling was born with my deformity--and I want
you to know exactly what it is, because neither you nor I can say what
reason for remembering it there may not be in the future.” She stopped,
as if to give him an opportunity of speaking. A man shallow and flippant
by nature might have seen the disclosure in a grotesque aspect. Amelius
was sad and silent. “I like you better and better,” she went on. “You
are not like the common run of men. Nine out of ten of them would have
turned what I have just told you into a joke--nine out of ten would have
said, ‘Am I to ask every girl I meet to show me her left foot?’ You are
above that; you understand me. Have I no means of recognizing my own
child, now?”

She smiled, and took her foot off the chair--then, after a moment’s
thought, she pointed to it again.

“Keep this as strictly secret as you keep everything else,” she said.
“In the past days, when I used to employ people privately to help me to
find her, it was my only defence against being imposed upon. Rogues and
vagabonds thought of other marks and signs--but not one of them could
guess at such a mark as that. Have you got your pocket-book, Amelius? In
case we are separated at some later time, I want to write the name and
address in it of a person whom we can trust. I persist, you see, in
providing for the future. There’s the one chance in a hundred that my
dream may come true--and you have so many years before you, and so many
girls to meet with in that time!”

She handed back the pocket-book, which Amelius had given to her, after
having inscribed a man’s name and address on one of the blank leaves.

“He was my father’s lawyer,” she explained; “and he and his son are both
men to be trusted. Suppose I am ill, for instance--no, that’s absurd; I
never had a day’s illness in my life. Suppose I am dead (killed perhaps
by some accident, or perhaps by my own hand), the lawyers have my
written instructions, in the case of my child being found. Then again--I
am such an unaccountable woman--I may go away somewhere, all by myself.
Never mind! The lawyers shall have my address, and my positive orders
(though they keep it a secret from all the world besides) to tell it to
you. I don’t ask your pardon, Amelius, for troubling you. The chances
are so terribly against me; it is all but impossible that I shall ever
see you--as I saw you in my dream--coming into the room, leading my girl
by the hand. Odd, isn’t it? This is how I veer about between hope and
despair. Well, it may amuse you to remember it, one of these days. Years
hence, when I am at rest in mother earth, and when you are a middle aged
married man, you may tell your wife how strangely you once became the
forlorn hope of the most wretched woman that ever lived--and you may say
to each other, as you sit by your snug fireside, ‘Perhaps that poor lost
daughter is still living somewhere, and wondering who her mother was.’
No! I won’t let you see the tears in my eyes again--I’ll let you go at
last.”

She led the way to the door--a creature to be pitied, if ever there was
a pitiable creature yet: a woman whose whole nature was maternal, who
was nothing if not a mother; and who had lived through sixteen years of
barren life, in the hopeless anticipation of recovering her lost child!

“Goodbye, and thank you,” she said. “I want to be left by myself, my
dear, with that little frock and cap which you found out in spite of me.
Go, and tell my niece it’s all right--and don’t be stupid enough to fall
in love with a girl who has no love to give you in return.” She pushed
Amelius into the hall. “Here he is, Regina!” she called out; “I have
done with him.”

Before Amelius could speak, she had shut herself into her room. He
advanced along the hall, and met Regina at the door of the dining-room.



CHAPTER 3

The young lady spoke first.

“Mr. Goldenheart,” she said, with the coldest possible politeness,
“perhaps you will be good enough to explain what this means?”

She turned back into the dining-room. Amelius followed her in silence.
“Here I am, in another scrape with a woman!” he thought to himself. “Are
men in general as unlucky as I am, I wonder?”

“You needn’t close the door,” said Regina maliciously. “Everybody in the
house is welcome to hear what _I_ have to say to you.”

Amelius made a mistake at the outset--he tried what a little humility
would do to help him. There is probably no instance on record in which
humility on the part of a man has ever really found its way to the
indulgence of an irritated woman. The best and the worst of them alike
have at least one virtue in common--they secretly despise a man who is
not bold enough to defend himself when they are angry with him.

“I hope I have not offended you?” Amelius ventured to say.

She tossed her head contemptuously. “Oh dear, no! I am not offended.
Only a little surprised at your being so very ready to oblige my aunt.”

In the short experience of her which had fallen to the lot of Amelius,
she had never looked so charmingly as she looked now. The nervous
irritability under which she was suffering brightened her face with the
animation which was wanting in it at ordinary times. Her soft brown eyes
sparkled; her smooth dusky cheeks glowed with a warm red flush; her
tall supple figure asserted its full dignity, robed in a superb dress of
silken purple and black lace, which set off her personal attractions to
the utmost advantage. She not only roused the admiration of Amelius--she
unconsciously gave him back the self-possession which he had, for the
moment, completely lost. He was man enough to feel the humiliation of
being despised by the one woman in the world whose love he longed
to win; and he answered with a sudden firmness of tone and look that
startled her.

“You had better speak more plainly still, Miss Regina,” he said. “You
may as well blame me at once for the misfortune of being a man.”

She drew back a step. “I don’t understand you,” she answered.

“Do I owe no forbearance to a woman who asks a favour of me?” Amelius
went on. “If a man had asked me to steal into the house on tiptoe, I
should have said--well! I should have said something I had better not
repeat. If a man had stood between me and the door when you came back, I
should have taken him by the collar and pulled him out of my way. Could
I do that, if you please, with Mrs. Farnaby?”

Regina saw the weak point of this defence with a woman’s quickness of
perception. “I can’t offer any opinion,” she said; “especially when you
lay all the blame on my aunt.”

Amelius opened his lips to protest--and thought better of it. He wisely
went straight on with what he had still to say.

“If you will let me finish,” he resumed, “you will understand me a
little better than that. Whatever blame there may be, Miss Regina, I am
quite ready to take on myself. I merely wanted to remind you that I was
put in an awkward position, and that I couldn’t civilly find a way out
of it. As for your aunt, I will only say this: I know of hardly any
sacrifice that I would not submit to, if I could be of the smallest
service to her. After what I heard, while I was in her room--”

Regina interrupted him at that point. “I suppose it’s a secret between
you?” she said.

“Yes; it’s a secret,” Amelius proceeded, “as you say. But one thing I
may tell you, without breaking my promise. Mrs. Farnaby has--well! has
filled me with kindly feeling towards her. She has a claim, poor soul,
to my truest sympathy. And I shall remember her claim. And I shall be
faithful to what I feel towards her as long as I live!”

It was not very elegantly expressed; but the tone was the tone of true
feeling in his voice trembled, his colour rose. He stood before her,
speaking with perfect simplicity straight from his heart--and the
woman’s heart felt it instantly. This was the man whose ridicule she had
dreaded, if her aunt’s rash confidence struck him in an absurd light!
She sat down in silence, with a grave sad face, reproaching herself for
the wrong which her too ready distrust had inflicted on him; longing to
ask his pardon, and yet hesitating to say the simple words.

He approached her chair, and, placing his hand on the back of it, said
gently, “do you think a little better of me now?”

She had taken off her gloves: she silently folded and refolded them in
her lap.

“Your good opinion is very precious to me,” Amelius pleaded, bending
a little nearer to her. “I can’t tell you how sorry I should be--” He
stopped, and put it more strongly. “I shall never have courage enough to
enter the house again, if I have made you think meanly of me.”

A woman who cared nothing for him would have easily answered this. The
calm heart of Regina began to flutter: something warned her not to trust
herself to speak. Little as he suspected it, Amelius had troubled the
tranquil temperament of this woman. He had found his way to those
secret reserves of tenderness--placid and deep--of which she was hardly
conscious herself, until his influence had enlightened her. She was
afraid to look up at him; her eyes would have told him the truth. She
lifted her long, finely shaped, dusky hand, and offered it to him as the
best answer that she could make.

Amelius took it, looked at it, and ventured on his first familiarity
with her--he kissed it. She only said, “Don’t!” very faintly.

“The Queen would let me kiss her hand if I went to Court,” Amelius
reminded her, with a pleasant inner conviction of his wonderful
readiness at finding an excuse.

She smiled in spite of herself. “Would the Queen let you hold it?” she
asked, gently releasing her hand, and looking at him as she drew it
away. The peace was made without another word of explanation. Amelius
took a chair at her side. “I’m quite happy now you have forgiven me,” he
said. “You don’t know how I admire you--and how anxious I am to please
you, if I only knew how!”

He drew his chair a little nearer; his eyes told her plainly that his
language would soon become warmer still, if she gave him the smallest
encouragement. This was one reason for changing the subject. But there
was another reason, more cogent still. Her first painful sense of having
treated him unjustly had ceased to make itself keenly felt; the lower
emotions had their opportunity of asserting themselves. Curiosity,
irresistible curiosity, took possession of her mind, and urged her to
penetrate the mystery of the interview between Amelius and her aunt.

“Will you think me very indiscreet,” she began slyly, “if I made a
little confession to you?”

Amelius was only too eager to hear the confession: it would pave the way
for something of the same sort on his part.

“I understand my aunt making the heat in the concert-room a pretence for
taking you away with her,” Regina proceeded; “but what astonishes me is
that she should have admitted you to her confidence after so short an
acquaintance. You are still--what shall I say?--you are still a new
friend of ours.”

“How long will it be before I become an old friend?” Amelius asked. “I
mean,” he added, with artful emphasis, “an old friend of _yours?”_

Confused by the question, Regina passed it over without notice. “I am
Mrs. Farnaby’s adopted daughter,” she resumed. “I have been with her
since I was a little girl--and yet she has never told me any of her
secrets. Pray don’t suppose that I am tempting you to break faith with
my aunt! I am quite incapable of such conduct as that.”

Amelius saw his way to a thoroughly commonplace compliment which
possessed the charm of complete novelty so far as his experience was
concerned. He would actually have told her that she was incapable of
doing anything which was not perfectly becoming to a charming person, if
she had only given him time! She was too eager in the pursuit of her
own object to give him time. “I _should_ like to know,” she went on,
“whether my aunt has been influenced in any way by a dream that she had
about you.”

Amelius started. “Has she told you of her dream?” he asked, with some
appearance of alarm.

Regina blushed and hesitated, “My room is next to my aunt’s,” she
explained. “We keep the door between us open. I am often in and out when
she is disturbed in her sleep. She was talking in her sleep, and I
heard your name--nothing more. Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it?
Perhaps I ought not to expect you to answer me?”

“There is no harm in my answering you,” said Amelius. “The dream really
had something to do with her trusting me. You may not think quite so
unfavourably of her conduct now you know that.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Regina replied constrainedly. “If my
aunt’s secrets have interested you--what right have I to object? I am
sure I shall say nothing. Though I am not in my aunt’s confidence, nor
in your confidence, you will find I can keep a secret.”

She folded up her gloves for the twentieth time at least, and gave
Amelius his opportunity of retiring by rising from her chair. He made
a last effort to recover the ground that he had lost, without betraying
Mrs. Farnaby’s trust in him.

“I am sure you can keep a secret,” he said. “I should like to give you
one of my secrets to keep--only I mustn’t take the liberty, I suppose,
just yet?”

She new perfectly well what he wanted to say. Her heart began to quicken
its beat; she was at a loss how to answer. After an awkward silence, she
made an attempt to dismiss him. “Don’t let me detain you,” she said, “if
you have any engagement.”

Amelius silently looked round him for his hat. On a table behind him
a monthly magazine lay open, exhibiting one of those melancholy modern
“illustrations” which present the English art of our day in its laziest
and lowest state of degradation. A vacuous young giant, in flowing
trousers, stood in a garden, and stared at a plump young giantess with
enormous eyes and rotund hips, vacantly boring holes in the grass with
the point of her parasol. Perfectly incapable of explaining itself, this
imbecile production put its trust in the printer, whose charitable types
helped it, at the bottom of the page, with the title of “Love at First
Sight.” On those remarkable words Amelius seized, with the desperation
of the drowning man, catching at the proverbial straw. They offered him
a chance of pleading his cause, this time, with a happy indirectness
of allusion at which not even a young lady’s susceptibility could take
offence.

“Do you believe in that?” he said, pointing to the illustration.

Regina declined to understand him. “In what?” she asked.

“In love at first sight.”

It would be speaking with inexcusable rudeness to say plainly that she
told him a lie. Let the milder form of expression be, that she modestly
concealed the truth. “I don’t know anything about it,” she said.

_“I_ do,” Amelius remarked smartly.

She persisted in looking at the illustration. Was there an infection
of imbecility in that fatal work? She was too simple to understand him,
even yet! “You do--what?” she inquired innocently.

“I know what love at first sight is,” Amelius burst out.

Regina turned over the leaves of the magazine. “Ah,” she said, “you have
read the story.”

“I haven’t read the story,” Amelius answered. “I know what I felt
myself--on being introduced to a young lady.”

She looked up at him with a sly smile. “A young lady in America?” she
asked.

“In England, Miss Regina.” He tried to take her hand--but she kept
it out of his reach. “In London,” he went on, drifting back into his
customary plainness of speech. “In this very street,” he resumed,
seizing her hand before she was aware of him. Too much bewildered to
know what else to do, Regina took refuge desperately in shaking hands
with him. “Goodbye, Mr. Goldenheart,” she said--and gave him his
dismissal for the second time.

Amelius submitted to his fate; there was something in her eyes which
warned him that he had ventured far enough for that day.

“May I call again, soon?” he asked piteously.

“No!” answered a voice at the door which they both recognized--the voice
of Mrs. Farnaby.

“Yes!” Regina whispered to him, as her aunt entered the room. Mrs.
Farnaby’s interference, following on the earlier events of the day, had
touched the young lady’s usually placable temper in a tender place--and
Amelius reaped the benefit of it.

Mrs. Farnaby walked straight up to him, put her hand in his arm, and led
him out into the hall.

“I had my suspicions,” she said; “and I find they have not misled me.
Twice already, I have warned you to let my niece alone. For the third,
and last time, I tell you that she is as cold as ice. She will trifle
with you as long as it flatters her vanity; and she will throw you over,
as she has thrown other men over. Have your fling, you foolish fellow,
before you marry anybody. Pay no more visits to this house, unless they
are visits to me. I shall expect to hear from you.” She paused, and
pointed to a statue which was one of the ornaments in the hall. “Look at
that bronze woman with the clock in her hand. That’s Regina. Be off with
you--goodbye!”

Amelius found himself in the street. Regina was looking out at the
dining-room window. He kissed his hand to her: she smiled and bowed.
“Damn the other men!” Amelius said to himself. “I’ll call on her
tomorrow.”



CHAPTER 4

Returning to his hotel, he found three letters waiting for him on the
sitting-room table.

The first letter that he opened was from his landlord, and contained his
bill for the past week. As he looked at the sum total, Amelius presented
to perfection the aspect of a serious young man. He took pen, ink,
and paper, and made some elaborate calculations. Money that he had too
generously lent, or too freely given away, appeared in his statement of
expenses, as well as money that he had spent on himself. The result may
be plainly stated in his own words: “Goodbye to the hotel; I must go
into lodgings.”

Having arrived at this wise decision, he opened the second letter. It
proved to be written by the lawyers who had already communicated with
him at Tadmor, on the subject of his inheritance.


“DEAR SIR,

“The enclosed, insufficiently addressed as you will perceive, only
reached us this day. We beg to remain, etc.”


Amelius opened the letter enclosed, and turned to the signature for
information. The name instantly took him back to the Community: the
writer was Mellicent.

Her letter began abruptly, in these terms:

“Do you remember what I said to you when we parted at Tadmor? I said,
‘Be comforted, Amelius, the end is not yet.’ And I said again, ‘You will
come back to me.’

“I remind you of this, my friend--directing to your lawyers, whose names
I remember when their letter to you was publicly read in the Common
Room. Once or twice a year I shall continue to remind you of those
parting words of mine: there will be a time perhaps when you will thank
me for doing so.

“In the mean while, light your pipe with my letters; my letters don’t
matter. If I can comfort you, and reconcile you to your life--years
hence, when you, too, my Amelius, may be one of the Fallen Leaves like
me--then I shall not have lived and suffered in vain; my last days on
earth will be the happiest days that I have ever seen.

“Be pleased not to answer these lines, or any other written words of
mine that may follow, so long as you are prosperous and happy. With
_that_ part of your life I have nothing to do. You will find friends
wherever you go--among the women especially. Your generous nature shows
itself frankly in your face; your manly gentleness and sweetness speak
in every tone of your voice; we poor women feel drawn towards you by
an attraction which we are not able to resist. Have you fallen in love
already with some beautiful English girl? Oh, be careful and prudent!
Be sure, before you set your heart on her, that she is worthy of you! So
many women are cruel and deceitful. Some of them will make you believe
you have won their love, when you have only flattered their vanity; and
some are poor weak creatures whose minds are set on their own interests,
and who may let bad advisers guide them, when you are not by. For your
own sake, take care!

“I am living with my sister, at New York. The days and weeks glide by
me quietly; you are in my thoughts and my prayers; I have nothing to
complain of; I wait and hope. When the time of my banishment from the
Community has expired, I shall go back to Tadmor; and there you will
find me, Amelius, the first to welcome you when your spirits are sinking
under the burden of life, and your heart turns again to the friends of
your early days.

“Goodbye, my dear--goodbye!”


Amelius laid the letter aside, touched and saddened by the artless
devotion to him which it expressed. He was conscious also of a feeling
of uneasy surprise, when he read the lines which referred to his
possible entanglement with some beautiful English girl. Here, with
widely different motives, was Mrs. Farnaby’s warning repeated, by
a stranger writing from another quarter of the globe! It was an odd
coincidence, to say the least of it. After thinking for a while, he
turned abruptly to the third letter that was waiting for him. He was not
at ease; his mind felt the need of relief.

The third letter was from Rufus Dingwell; announcing the close of his
tour in Ireland, and his intention of shortly joining Amelius in London.
The excellent American expressed, with his customary absence of reserve,
his fervent admiration of Irish hospitality, Irish beauty, and Irish
whisky. “Green Erin wants but one thing more,” Rufus predicted, “to be
a Paradise on earth--it wants the day to come when we shall send an
American minister to the Irish Republic.” Laughing over this quaint
outbreak, Amelius turned from the first page to the second. As his eyes
fell on the next paragraph, a sudden change passed over him; he let the
letter drop on the floor.

“One last word,” the American wrote, “about that nice long bright letter
of yours. I have read it with strict attention, and thought over it
considerably afterwards. Don’t be riled, friend Amelius, if I tell
you in plain words, that your account of the Farnabys doesn’t make me
happy--quite the contrary, I do assure you. My back is set up, sir,
against that family. You will do well to drop them; and, above all
things, mind what you are about with the brown miss, who has found
her way to your favourable opinion in such an almighty hurry. Do me a
favour, my good boy. Just wait till I have seen her, will you?”

Mrs. Farnaby, Mellicent, Rufus--all three strangers to each other; and
all three agreed nevertheless in trying to part him from the beautiful
young Englishwoman! “I don’t care,” Amelius thought to himself “They may
say what they please--I’ll marry Regina, if she will have me!”




BOOK THE FOURTH. LOVE AND MONEY



CHAPTER 1

In an interval of no more than three weeks what events may not present
themselves? what changes may not take place? Behold Amelius, on the
first drizzling day of November, established in respectable lodgings, at
a moderate weekly rent. He stands before his small fireside, and warms
his back with an Englishman’s severe sense of enjoyment. The cheap
looking-glass on the mantelpiece reflects the head and shoulders of a
new Amelius. His habits are changed; his social position is in course of
development. Already, he is a strict economist. Before long, he expects
to become a married man.

It is good to be economical: it is, perhaps, better still to be the
accepted husband of a handsome young woman. But, for all that, a man
in a state of moral improvement, with prospects which his less favoured
fellow creatures may reasonably envy, is still a man subject to the
mischievous mercy of circumstances, and capable of feeling it keenly.
The face of the new Amelius wore an expression of anxiety, and, more
remarkable yet, the temper of the new Amelius was out of order.

For the first time in his life he found himself considering trivial
questions of sixpences, and small favours of discount for cash
payments--an irritating state of things in itself. There were more
serious anxieties, however, to trouble him than these. He had no reason
to complain of the beloved object herself. Not twelve hours since he
had said to Regina, with a voice that faltered, and a heart that beat
wildly, “Are you fond enough of me to let me marry you?” And she had
answered placidly, with a heart that would have satisfied the most
exacting stethoscope in the medical profession, “Yes, if you like.”
 There was a moment of rapture, when she submitted for the first time to
be kissed, and when she consented, on being gently reminded that it was
expected of her, to return the kiss--once, and no more. But there was
also an attendant train of serious considerations which followed on the
heels of Amelius when the kissing was over, and when he had said goodbye
for the day.

He had two women for enemies, both resolutely against him in the matter
of his marriage.

Regina’s correspondent and bosom friend, Cecilia, who had begun by
disliking him, without knowing why, persisted in maintaining her
unfavourable opinion of the new friend of the Farnabys. She was a young
married woman; and she had an influence over Regina which promised, when
the fit opportunity came, to make itself felt. The second, and by far
the more powerful hostile influence, was the influence of Mrs. Farnaby.
Nothing could exceed the half sisterly, half motherly, goodwill with
which she received Amelius on those rare occasions when they happened
to meet, unembarrassed by the presence of a third person in the room.
Without actually reverting to what had passed between them during their
memorable interview, Mrs. Farnaby asked questions, plainly showing that
the forlorn hope which she associated with Amelius was a hope still
firmly rooted in her mind. “Have you been much about London lately?”
 “Have you met with any girls who have taken your fancy?” “Are you
getting tired of staying in the same place, and are you going to travel
soon?” Inquiries such as these she was, sooner or later, sure to make
when they were alone. But if Regina happened to enter the room, or
if Amelius contrived to find his way to her in some other part of the
house, Mrs. Farnaby deliberately shortened the interview and silenced
the lovers--still as resolute as ever to keep Amelius exposed to the
adventurous freedom of a bachelor’s life. For the last week, his only
opportunities of speaking to Regina had been obtained for him secretly
by the well-rewarded devotion of her maid. And he had now the prospect
before him of asking Mr. Farnaby for the hand of his adopted daughter,
with the certainty of the influence of two women being used against
him--even if he succeeded in obtaining a favourable reception for his
proposal from the master of the house.

Under such circumstances as these--alone, on a rainy November day, in
a lodging on the dreary eastward side of the Tottenham Court Road--even
Amelius bore the aspect of a melancholy man. He was angry with his cigar
because it refused to light freely. He was angry with the poor deaf
servant-of-all-work, who entered the room, after one thumping knock
at the door, and made, in muffled tones, the barbarous announcement,
“Here’s somebody a-wantin’ to see yer.”

“Who the devil is Somebody?” Amelius shouted.

“Somebody is a citizen of the United States,” answered Rufus, quietly
entering the room. “And he’s sorry to find Claude A. Goldenheart’s
temperature at boiling-point already!”

He had not altered in the slightest degree since he had left the
steamship at Queenstown. Irish hospitality had not fattened him;
the change from sea to land had not suggested to him the slightest
alteration in his dress. He still wore the huge felt hat in which he
had first presented himself to notice on the deck of the vessel. The
maid-of-all-work raised her eyes to the face of the long lean stranger,
overshadowed by the broadbrimmed hat, in reverent amazement. “My love
to you, miss,” said Rufus, with his customary grave cordiality; _“I’ll_
shut the door.” Having dismissed the maid with that gentle hint, he
shook hands heartily with Amelius. “Well, I call this a juicy morning,”
 he said, just as if they had met at the cabin breakfast-table as usual.

For the moment, at least, Amelius brightened at the sight of his
fellow-traveller. “I am really glad to see you,” he said. “It’s lonely
in these new quarters, before one gets used to them.”

Rufus relieved himself of his hat and great coat, and silently looked
about the room. “I’m big in the bones,” he remarked, surveying the
rickety lodging-house furniture with some suspicion; “and I’m a trifle
heavier than I look. I shan’t break one of these chairs if I sit down on
it, shall I?” Passing round the table (littered with books and letters)
in search of the nearest chair, he accidentally brushed against a sheet
of paper with writing on it. “Memorandum of friends in London, to be
informed of my change of address,” he read, looking at the paper, as
he picked it up, with the friendly freedom that characterized him. “You
have made pretty good use of your time, my son, since I took my leave
of you in Queenstown harbour. I call this a reasonable long list of
acquaintances made by a young stranger in London.”

“I met with an old friend of my family at the hotel,” Amelius explained.
“He was a great loss to my poor father, when he got an appointment in
India; and, now he has returned, he has been equally kind to me. I am
indebted to his introduction for most of the names on that list.”

“Yes?” said Rufus, in the interrogative tone of a man who was waiting to
hear more. “I’m listening, though I may not look like it. Git along.”

Amelius looked at his visitor, wondering in what precise direction he
was to “git along.”

“I’m no friend to partial information,” Rufus proceeded; “I like to
round it off complete, as it were, in my own mind. There are names on
this list that you haven’t accounted for yet. Who provided you, sir,
with the balance of your new friends?”

Amelius answered, not very willingly, “I met them at Mr. Farnaby’s
house.”

Rufus looked up from the list with the air of a man surprised by
disagreeable information, and unwilling to receive it too readily.
“How?” he exclaimed, using the old English equivalent (often heard in
America) for the modern “What?”

“I met them at Mr. Farnaby’s,” Amelius repeated.

“Did you happen to receive a letter of my writing, dated Dublin?” Rufus
asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you set any particular value on my advice?”

“Certainly!”

“And you cultivate social relations with Farnaby and family,
notwithstanding?”

“I have motives for being friendly with them, which--which I haven’t had
time to explain to you yet.”

Rufus stretched out his long legs on the floor, and fixed his shrewd
grave eyes steadily on Amelius.

“My friend,” he said, quietly, “in respect of personal appearance and
pleasing elasticity of spirits, I find you altered for the worse, I do.
It may be Liver, or it may be Love. I reckon, now I think of it, you’re
too young yet for Liver. It’s the brown miss--that’s what ‘tis. I hate
that girl, sir, by instinct.”

“A nice way of talking of a young lady you never saw!” Amelius broke
out.

Rufus smiled grimly. “Go ahead!” he said. “If you can get vent in
quarrelling with me, go ahead, my son.”

He looked round the room again, with his hands in his pockets,
whistling. Descending to the table in due course of time, his quick eye
detected a photograph placed on the open writing desk which Amelius had
been using earlier in the day. Before it was possible to stop him,
the photograph was in his hand. “I believe I’ve got her likeness,” he
announced. “I do assure you I take pleasure in making her acquaintance
in this sort of way. Well, now, I declare she’s a columnar creature!
Yes, sir; I do justice to your native produce--your fine fleshy beef-fed
English girl. But I tell you this: after a child or two, that sort runs
to fat, and you find you have married more of her than you bargained
for. To what lengths may you have proceeded, Amelius, with this splendid
and spanking person?”

Amelius was just on the verge of taking offence. “Speak of her
respectfully,” he said, “if you expect me to answer you.”

Rufus stared in astonishment. “I’m paying her all manner of
compliments,” he protested, “and you’re not satisfied yet. My friend,
I still find something about you, on this occasion, which reminds me
of meat cut against the grain. You’re almost nasty--you are! The air of
London, I reckon, isn’t at all the thing for you. Well, it don’t matter
to me; I like you. Afloat or ashore, I like you. Do you want to know
what I should do, in your place, if I found myself steering a little too
nigh to the brown miss? I should--well, to put it in one word, I should
scatter. Where’s the harm, I’ll ask you, if you try another girl or two,
before you make your mind up. I shall be proud to introduce you to our
slim and snaky sort at Coolspring. Yes. I mean what I say; and I’ll go
back with you across the pond.” Referring in this disrespectful manner
to the Atlantic Ocean, Rufus offered his hand in token of unalterable
devotion and goodwill.

Who could resist such a man as this? Amelius, always in extremes, wrung
his hand, with an impetuous sense of shame. “I’ve been sulky,” he said,
“I’ve been rude, I ought to be ashamed of myself--and I am. There’s only
one excuse for me, Rufus. I love her with all my heart and soul; and
I’m engaged to be married to her. And yet, if you understand my way of
putting it, I’m--in short, I’m in a mess.”

With this characteristic preface, he described his position as exactly
as he could; having due regard to the necessary reserve on the subject
of Mrs. Farnaby. Rufus listened, with the closest attention, from
beginning to end; making no attempt to disguise the unfavourable
impression which the announcement of the marriage-engagement had made on
him. When he spoke next, instead of looking at Amelius as usual, he held
his head down, and looked gloomily at his boots.

“Well,” he said, “you’ve gone ahead this time, and that’s a fact. She
didn’t raise any difficulties that a man could ride off on--did she?”

“She was all that was sweet and kind!” Amelius answered, with
enthusiasm.

“She was all that was sweet and kind,” Rufus absently repeated, still
intent on the solid spectacle of his own boots. “And how about uncle
Farnaby? Perhaps he’s sweet and kind likewise, or perhaps he cuts up
rough? Possible--is it not, sir?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t spoken to him yet.”

Rufus suddenly looked up. A faint gleam of hope irradiated his long lank
face. “Mercy be praised! there’s a last chance for you,” he remarked.
“Uncle Farnaby may say No.”

“It doesn’t matter what he says,” Amelius rejoined. “She’s old enough to
choose for herself, he can’t stop the marriage.”

Rufus lifted one wiry yellow forefinger, in a state of perpendicular
protest. “He cannot stop the marriage,” the sagacious New Englander
admitted; “but he can stop the money, my son. Find out how you stand
with him before another day is over your head.”

“I can’t go to him this evening.” said Amelius; “he dines out.”

“Where is he now?”

“At his place of business.”

“Fix him at his place of business. Right away!” cried Rufus, springing
with sudden energy to his feet.

“I don’t think he would like it,” Amelius objected. “He’s not a very
pleasant fellow, anywhere; but he’s particularly disagreeable at his
place of business.”

Rufus walked to the window, and looked out. The objections to Mr.
Farnaby appeared to fail, so far, in interesting him.

“To put it plainly,” Amelius went on, “there’s something about him that
I can’t endure. And--though he’s very civil to me, in his way--I
don’t think he has ever got over the discovery that I am a Christian
Socialist.”

Rufus abruptly turned round from the window, and became attentive again.
“So you told him that--did you?” he said.

“Of course!” Amelius rejoined, sharply. “Do you suppose I am ashamed of
the principles in which I have been brought up?”

“You don’t care, I reckon, if all the world knows your principles,
persisted Rufus, deliberately leading him on.

“Care?” Amelius reiterated. “I only wish I had all the world to listen
to me. They should hear of my principles, with no bated breath, I
promise you!”

There was a pause. Rufus turned back again to the window. “When
Farnaby’s at home, where does he live?” he asked suddenly--still keeping
his face towards the street.

Amelius mentioned the address. “You don’t mean that you are going to
call there?” he inquired, with some anxiety.

“Well, I reckoned I might catch him before dinner-time. You seem to be
sort of feared to speak to him yourself. I’m your friend, Amelius--and
I’ll speak for you.”

The bare idea of the interview struck Amelius with terror. “No, no!” he
said. “I’m much obliged to you, Rufus. But in a matter of this sort, I
shouldn’t like to transfer the responsibility to my friend. I’ll speak
to Mr. Farnaby in a day or two.”

Rufus was evidently not satisfied with this. “I do suppose, now,”
 he suggested, “you’re not the only man moving in this metropolis
who fancies Miss Regina. Query, my son: if you put off Farnaby much
longer--” He paused and looked at Amelius. “Ah,” he said, “I reckon I
needn’t enlarge further: there _is_ another man. Well, it’s the same
in my country; I don’t know what he does, with You: he always turns up,
with Us, just at the time when you least want to see him.”

There _was_ another man--an older and a richer man than Amelius; equally
assiduous in his attentions to the aunt and to the niece; submissively
polite to his favoured young rival. He was the sort of person, in age
and in temperament, who would be perfectly capable of advancing his own
interests by means of the hostile influence of Mrs. Farnaby. Who could
say what the result might be if, by some unlucky accident, he made the
attempt before Amelius had secured for himself the support of the master
of the house? In his present condition of nervous irritability, he was
ready to believe in any coincidence of the disastrous sort. The wealthy
rival was a man of business, a near city neighbour of Mr. Farnaby. They
might be together at that moment; and Regina’s fidelity to her lover
might be put to a harder test than she was prepared to endure. Amelius
remembered the gentle conciliatory smile (too gentle by half) with which
his placid mistress had received his first kisses--and, without stopping
to weigh conclusions, snatched up his hat. “Wait here for me, Rufus,
like a good fellow. I’m off to the stationer’s shop.” With those parting
words, he hurried out of the room.

Left by himself, Rufus began to rummage the pockets of his frockcoat--a
long, loose, and dingy garment which had become friendly and comfortable
to him by dint of ancient use. Producing a handful of correspondence,
he selected the largest envelope of all; shook out on the table several
smaller letters enclosed; picked one out of the number; and read the
concluding paragraph only, with the closest attention.

“I enclose letters of introduction to the secretaries of literary
institutions in London, and in some of the principal cities of England.
If you feel disposed to lecture yourself, or if you can persuade friends
and citizens known to you to do so, I believe it may be in your power to
advance in this way the interests of our Bureau. Please take notice
that the more advanced institutions, which are ready to countenance and
welcome free thought in religion, politics, and morals, are marked on
the envelopes with a cross in red ink. The envelopes without a mark are
addressed to platforms on which the customary British prejudices remain
rampant, and in which the charge for places reaches a higher figure than
can be as yet obtained in the sanctuaries of free thought.”

Rufus laid down the letter, and, choosing one among the envelopes marked
in red ink, looked at the introduction enclosed. “If the right sort of
invitation reached Amelius from this institution,” he thought, “the
boy would lecture on Christian Socialism with all his heart and soul. I
wonder what the brown miss and her uncle would say to that?”

He smiled to himself, and put the letter back in the envelope, and
considered the subject for a while. Below the odd rough surface, he
was a man in ten thousand; no more single-hearted and more affectionate
creature ever breathed the breath of life. He had not been understood in
his own little circle; there had been a want of sympathy with him,
and even a want of knowledge of him, at home. Amelius, popular with
everybody, had touched the great heart of this man. He perceived the
peril that lay hidden under the strange and lonely position of his
fellow-voyager--so innocent in the ways of the world, so young and so
easily impressed His fondness for Amelius, it is hardly too much to say,
was the fondness of a father for a son. With a sigh, he shook his head,
and gathered up his letters, and put them back in his pockets. “No, not
yet,” he decided. “The poor boy really loves her; and the girl may be
good enough to make the happiness of his life.” He got up and walked
about the room. Suddenly he stopped, struck by a new idea. “Why
shouldn’t I judge for myself?” he thought. “I’ve got the address--I
reckon I’ll look in on the Farnabys, in a friendly way.”

He sat down at the desk, and wrote a line, in the event of Amelius being
the first to return to the lodgings:


DEAR BOY,

“I don’t find her photograph tells me quite so much as I want to know.
I have a mind to see the living original. Being your friend, you know,
it’s only civil to pay my respects to the family. Expect my unbiased
opinion when I come back.

“Yours,

“RUFUS.”


Having enclosed and addressed these lines, he took up his greatcoat--and
checked himself in the act of putting it on. The brown miss was a
British miss. A strange New Englander had better be careful of his
personal appearance, before he ventured into her presence. Urged by this
cautious motive, he approached the looking-glass, and surveyed himself
critically.

“I doubt I might be the better,” it occurred to him, “if I brushed my
hair, and smelt a little of perfume. Yes. I’ll make a toilet. Where’s
the boy’s bedroom, I wonder?”

He observed a second door in the sitting-room, and opened it at hazard.
Fortune had befriended him, so far: he found himself in his young
friend’s bedchamber.

The toilet of Amelius, simple as it was, had its mysteries for Rufus.
He was at a loss among the perfumes. They were all contained in a
modest little dressing case, without labels of any sort to describe the
contents of the pots and bottles. He examined them one after another,
and stopped at some recently invented French shaving-cream. “It smells
lovely,” he said, assuming it to be some rare pomatum. “Just what I
want, it seems, for my head.” He rubbed the shaving cream into his
bristly iron-gray hair, until his arms ached. When he had next sprinkled
his handkerchief and himself profusely, first with rose water, and then
(to make quite sure) with eau-de-cologne used as a climax, he felt that
he was in a position to appeal agreeably to the senses of the softer
sex. In five minutes more, he was on his way to Mr. Farnaby’s private
residence.



CHAPTER 2

The rain that had begun with the morning still poured on steadily in the
afternoon. After one look out of the window, Regina decided on passing
the rest of the day luxuriously, in the company of a novel, by her own
fireside. With her feet on the tender, and her head on the soft cushion
of her favourite easy-chair, she opened the book. Having read the first
chapter and part of the second, she was just lazily turning over the
leaves in search of a love scene, when her languid interest in the novel
was suddenly diverted to an incident in real life. The sitting-room door
was gently opened, and her maid appeared in a state of modest confusion.

“If you please, miss, here’s a strange gentleman who comes from Mr.
Goldenheart. He wishes particularly to say--”

She paused, and looked behind her. A faint and curious smell of mingled
soap and scent entered the room, followed closely by a tall, calm,
shabbily-dressed man, who laid a wiry yellow hand on the maid’s
shoulder, and stopped her effectually before she could say a word more.

“Don’t you think of troubling yourself to git through with it, my
dear; I’m here, and I’ll finish for you.” Addressing the maid in
these encouraging terms, the stranger advanced to Regina, and actually
attempted to shake hands with her! Regina rose--and looked at him.
It was a look that ought to have daunted the boldest man living; it
produced no sort of effect on _this_ man. He still held out his hand;
his lean face broadened with a pleasant smile. “My name is Rufus
Dingwell,” he said. “I come from Coolspring, Mass.; and Amelius is my
introduction to yourself and family.”

Regina silently acknowledged this information by a frigid bow, and
addressed herself to the maid, waiting at the door: “Don’t leave the
room, Phoebe.”

Rufus, inwardly wondering what Phoebe was wanted for, proceeded to
express the cordial sentiments proper to the occasion. “I have heard
about you, miss; and I take pleasure in making your acquaintance.”

The unwritten laws of politeness obliged Regina to say something. “I
have not heard Mr. Goldenheart mention your name,” she remarked. “Are
you an old friend of his?”

Rufus explained with genial alacrity. “We crossed the Pond together,
miss. I like the boy; he’s bright and spry; he refreshes me--he does. We
go ahead with most things in my country; and friendship’s one of them.
How _do_ you find yourself? Won’t you shake hands?” He took her
hand, without waiting to be repelled this time, and shook it with the
heartiest good-will.

Regina shuddered faintly: she summoned assistance in case of further
familiarity. “Phoebe, tell my aunt.”

Rufus added a message on his own account. “And say this, my dear. I
sincerely desire to make the acquaintance of Miss Regina’s aunt, and any
other members of the family circle.”

Phoebe left the room, smiling. Such an amusing visitor as this was
a rare person in Mr. Farnaby’s house. Rufus looked after her, with
unconcealed approval. The maid appeared to be more to his taste than
the mistress. “Well, that’s a pretty creature, I do declare,” he said
to Regina. “Reminds me of our American girls--slim in the waist, and
carries her head nicely. How old may she be, now?”

Regina expressed her opinion of this familiar question by pointing, with
silent dignity, to a chair.

“Thank you, miss; not that one,” said Rufus. “You see, I’m long in the
legs, and if I once got down as low as that, I reckon I should have to
restore the balance by putting my feet up on the grate; and that’s not
manners in Great Britain--and quite right too.”

He picked out the highest chair he could find, and admired the
workmanship as he drew it up to the fireplace. “Most sumptuous and
elegant,” he said. “The style of the Re_nay_sance, as they call it.”
 Regina observed with dismay that he had not got his hat in his hand like
other visitors. He had left it no doubt in the hall; he looked as if he
had dropped in to spend the day, and stay to dinner.

“Well, miss, I’ve seen your photograph,” he resumed; “and I don’t
much approve of it, now I see You. My sentiments are not altogether
favourable to that art. I delivered a lecture on photographic
portraiture at Coolspring; and I described it briefly as justice without
mercy. The audience took the idea; they larfed, they did. Larfin’
reminds me of Amelius. Do you object to his being a Christian Socialist,
miss?”

The young lady’s look, when she answered the question, was not lost on
Rufus. He registered it, mentally, in case of need. “Amelius will soon
get over all that nonsense,” she said, “when he has been a little longer
in London.”

“Possible,” Rufus admitted. “The boy is fond of you. Yes: he loves you.
I have noticed him, and I can certify to that. I may also remark that he
wants a deal of love in return. No doubt, miss, you have observed that
circumstance yourself?”

Regina resented this last inquiry as an outrage on propriety. “What next
will he say?” she thought to herself. “I must put this presuming man in
his proper place.” She darted another annihilating look at him, as she
spoke in her turn. “May I ask, Mr.--Mr.----?”

“Dingwell,” said Rufus, prompting her.

“May I ask, Mr. Dingwell, if you have favoured me by calling here at the
request of Mr. Goldenheart?”

Genial and simple-minded as he was, eagerly as he desired to appreciate
at her full value the young lady who was one day to be the wife of
Amelius, Rufus felt the tone in which those words were spoken. It was
not easy to stimulate his modest sense of what was fairly due to him
into asserting itself, but the cold distrust, the deliberate distance
of Regina’s manner, exhausted the long-suffering indulgence of this
singularly patient man. “The Lord, in his mercy, preserve Amelius from
marrying You,” he thought, as he rose from his chair, and advanced with
a certain simple dignity to take leave of her.

“It did not occur to me, miss, to pay my respects to you, till Amelius
and I had parted company,” he said. “Please to excuse me. I should have
been welcome, in my country, with no better introduction than being (as
I may say) his friend and well-wisher. If I have made a mistake--”

He stopped. Regina had suddenly changed colour. Instead of looking at
him, she was looking over his shoulder, apparently at something behind
him. He turned to see what it was. A lady, short and stout, with strange
wild sorrowful eyes, had noiselessly entered the room while he was
speaking: she was waiting, as it seemed, until he had finished what he
had to say. When they confronted each other, she moved to meet him, with
a firm heavy step, and with her hand held out in token of welcome.

“You may feel equally sure, sir, of a friendly reception here,” she
said, in her steady self-possessed way. “I am this young lady’s aunt;
and I am glad to see the friend of Amelius in my house.” Before Rufus
could answer, she turned to Regina. “I waited,” she went on, “to give
you an opportunity of explaining yourself to this gentleman. I am afraid
he has mistaken your coldness of manner for intentional rudeness.”

The colour rushed back into Regina’s face--she vibrated for a moment
between anger and tears. But the better nature in her broke its way
through the constitutional shyness and restraint which habitually kept
it down. “I meant no harm, sir,” she said, raising her large beautiful
eyes submissively to Rufus; “I am not used to receiving strangers. And
you did ask me some very strange questions,” she added, with a sudden
burst of self-assertion. “Strangers are not in the habit of saying
such things in England.” She looked at Mrs. Farnaby, listening with
impenetrable composure, and stopped in confusion. Her aunt would not
scruple to speak to the stranger about Amelius in her presence--there
was no knowing what she might not have to endure. She turned again to
Rufus. “Excuse me,” she said, “if I leave you with my aunt--I have an
engagement.” With that trivial apology, she made her escape from the
room.

“She has no engagement,” Mrs. Farnaby briefly remarked as the door
closed. “Sit down, sir.”

For once, even Rufus was not as his ease. “I can hit it off, ma’am, with
most people,” he said. “I wonder what I’ve done to offend your niece?”

“My niece (with many good qualities) is a narrow-minded young woman,”
 Mrs. Farnaby explained. “You are not like the men she is accustomed to
see. She doesn’t understand you--you are not a commonplace gentleman.
For instance,” Mrs. Farnaby continued, with the matter-of-fact gravity
of a woman innately inaccessible to a sense of humour, “you have got
something strange on your hair. It seems to be melting, and it
smells like soap. No: it’s no use taking out your handkerchief--your
handkerchief won’t mop it up. I’ll get a towel.” She opened an inner
door, which disclosed a little passage, and a bath-room beyond it. “I’m
the strongest person in the house,” she resumed, returning with a towel
in her hand, as gravely as ever. “Sit still, and don’t make apologies.
If any of us can rub you dry, I’m the woman.” She set to work with the
towel, as if she had been Rufus’s mother, making him presentable in the
days of his boyhood. Giddy under the violence of the rubbing, staggered
by the contrast between the cold reception accorded to him by the niece,
and the more than friendly welcome offered by the aunt, Rufus submitted
to circumstances in docile and silent bewilderment. “There; you’ll do
till you get home--nobody can laugh at you now,” Mrs. Farnaby announced.
“You’re an absent-minded man, I suppose? You wanted to wash your head,
and you forgot the warm water and the towel. Was that how it happened,
sir?”

“I thank you with all my heart, ma’am; I took it for pomatum,” Rufus
answered. “Would you object to shaking hands again? This cordial welcome
of yours reminds me, I do assure you, of home. Since I left New England,
I’ve never met with the like of you. I do suppose now it was my hair
that set Miss Regina’s back up? I’m not quite easy in my mind, ma’am,
about your niece. I’m sort of feared of what she may say of me to
Amelius. I meant no harm, Lord knows.”

The secret of Mrs. Farnaby’s extraordinary alacrity in the use of the
towel began slowly to show itself now. The tone of her American guest
had already become the friendly and familiar tone which it had been
her object to establish. With a little management, he might be made an
invaluable ally in the great work of hindering the marriage of Amelius.

“You are very fond of your young friend?” she began quietly.

“That is so, ma’am.”

“And he has told you that he has taken a liking to my niece?”

“And shown me her likeness,” Rufus added.

“And shown you her likeness. And you thought you would come here, and
see for yourself what sort of girl she was?”

“Naturally,” Rufus admitted.

Mrs. Farnaby revealed, without further hesitation, the object that she
had in view. “Amelius is little more than a lad, still,” she said. “He
has got all his life before him. It would be a sad thing, if he married
a girl who didn’t make him happy.” She turned in her chair, and pointed
to the door by which Regina had left them. “Between ourselves,” she
resumed, dropping her voice to a whisper, “do you believe my niece will
make him happy?”

Rufus hesitated.

“I’m above family prejudices,” Mrs. Farnaby proceeded. “You needn’t be
afraid of offending me. Speak out.”

Rufus would have spoken out to any other woman in the universe. _This_
woman had preserved him from ridicule--_this_ woman had rubbed his head
dry. He prevaricated.

“I don’t suppose I understand the ladies in this country,” he said.

But Mrs. Farnaby was not to be trifled with. “If Amelius was your son,
and if he asked you to consent to his marriage with my niece,” she
rejoined, “would you say Yes?”

This was too much for Rufus. “Not if he went down on both his knees to
ask me,” he answered.

Mrs. Farnaby was satisfied at last, and owned it without reserve. “My
own opinion,” she said, “exactly expressed! don’t be surprised. Didn’t I
tell you I had no family prejudices? Do you know if he has spoken to my
husband, yet?”

Rufus looked at his watch. “I reckon he’s just about done it by this
time.”

Mrs. Farnaby paused, and reflected for a moment. She had already
attempted to prejudice her husband against Amelius, and had received
an answer which Mr. Farnaby considered to be final. “Mr. Goldenheart
honours us if he seeks our alliance; he is the representative of an old
English family.” Under these circumstances, it was quite possible that
the proposals of Amelius had been accepted. Mrs. Farnaby was not the
less determined that the marriage should never take place, and not the
less eager to secure the assistance of her new ally. “When will Amelius
tell you about it?” she asked.

“When I go back to his lodgings, ma’am.”

“Go back at once--and bear this in mind as you go. If you can find out
any likely way of parting these two young people (in their own best
interests), depend on one thing--if I can help you, I will. I’m as fond
of Amelius as you are. Ask him if I haven’t done my best to keep him
away from my niece. Ask him if I haven’t expressed my opinion, that
she’s not the right wife for him. Come and see me again as soon as you
like. I’m fond of Americans. Good morning.”

Rufus attempted to express his sense of gratitude, in his own briefly
eloquent way. He was not allowed a hearing. With one and the same
action, Mrs. Farnaby patted him on the shoulder, and pushed him out of
the room.

“If that woman was an American citizen,” Rufus reflected, on his way
through the streets, “she’d be the first female President of the
United States!” His admiration of Mrs. Farnaby’s energy and resolution,
expressed in these strong terms, acknowledged but one limit. Highly as
he approved of her, there was nevertheless an unfathomable something in
the woman’s eyes that disturbed and daunted him.




CHAPTER 3

Rufus found his friend at the lodgings, prostrate on the sofa, smoking
furiously. Before a word had passed between them, it was plain to the
New Englander that something had gone wrong.

“Well,” he asked; “and what does Farnaby say?”

“Damn Farnaby!”

Rufus was secretly conscious of an immense sense of relief. “I call
that a stiff way of putting it,” he quietly remarked; “but the meaning’s
clear. Farnaby has said No.”

Amelius jumped off the sofa, and planted himself defiantly on the
hearthrug.

“You’re wrong for once,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “The
exasperating part of it is that Farnaby has said neither Yes nor No.
The oily-whiskered brute--you haven’t seen him yet, have you?--began
by saying Yes. ‘A man like me, the heir of a fine old English family,
honoured him by making proposals; he could wish no more brilliant
prospect for his dear adopted child. She would fill the high position
that was offered to her, and fill it worthily.’ That was the fawning
way in which he talked to me at first! He squeezed my hand in his horrid
cold shiny paw till, I give you my word of honour, I felt as if I was
going to be sick. Wait a little; you haven’t heard the worst of it
yet. He soon altered his tone--it began with his asking me, if I had
‘considered the question of settlements’. I didn’t know what he meant.
He had to put it in plain English; he wanted to hear what my property
was. ‘Oh, that’s soon settled,’ I said. ‘I’ve got five hundred a year;
and Regina is welcome to every farthing of it.’ He fell back in his
chair as if I had shot him; he turned--it was worse than pale, he
positively turned green. At first he wouldn’t believe me; he declared I
must be joking. I set him right about that immediately. His next change
was a proud impudence. ‘Have you not observed, sir, in what style Regina
is accustomed to live in my house? Five hundred a year? Good heavens!
With strict economy, five hundred a year might pay her milliner’s bill
and the keep of her horse and carriage. Who is to pay for everything
else--the establishment, the dinner-parties and balls, the tour abroad,
the children, the nurses, the doctor? I tell you this, Mr. Goldenheart,
I’m willing to make a sacrifice to you, as a born gentleman, which I
would certainly not consent to in the case of any self-made man. Enlarge
your income, sir, to no more than four times five hundred pounds, and
I guarantee a yearly allowance to Regina of half as much again, besides
the fortune which she will inherit at my death. That will make your
income three thousand a year to start with. I know something of domestic
expenses, and I tell you positively, you can’t do it on a farthing
less.’ That was his language, Rufus. The insolence of his tone I can’t
attempt to describe. If I hadn’t thought of Regina, I should have
behaved in a manner unworthy of a Christian--I believe I should have
taken my walking-cane, and given him a sound thrashing.”

Rufus neither expressed surprise nor offered advice. He was lost in
meditation on the wealth of Mr. Farnaby. “A stationer’s business seems
to eventuate in a lively profit, in this country,” he said.

“A stationer’s business?” Amelius repeated disdainfully. “Farnaby has
half a dozen irons in the fire besides that. He’s got a newspaper, and a
patent medicine, and a new bank, and I don’t know what else. One of his
own friends said to me, ‘Nobody knows whether Farnaby is rich or poor;
he is going to do one of two things--he is going to die worth millions,
or to die bankrupt.’ Oh, if I can only live to see the day when
Socialism will put that sort of man in his right place!”

“Try a republic, on our model, first,” said Rufus. “When Farnaby talks
of the style his young woman is accustomed to live in, what does he
mean?”

“He means,” Amelius answered smartly, “a carriage to drive out in,
champagne on the table, and a footman to answer the door.”

“Farnaby’s ideas, sir, have crossed the water and landed in New York,”
 Rufus remarked. “Well, and what did you say to him, on your side?”

“I gave it to him, I can tell you! ‘That’s all ostentation,’ I said.
‘Why can’t Regina and I begin life modestly? What do we want with a
carriage to drive out in, and champagne on the table, and a footman
to answer the door? We want to love each other and be happy. There
are thousands of as good gentlemen as I am, in England, with wives
and families, who would ask for nothing better than an income of five
hundred a year. The fact is, Mr. Farnaby, you’re positively saturated
with the love of money. Get your New Testament and read what Christ
says of rich people.’ What do you think he did, when I put it in that
unanswerable way? He held up his hand, and looked horrified. ‘I can’t
allow profanity in my office,’ says he. ‘I have my New Testament read to
me in church, sir, every Sunday.’ That’s the sort of Christian, Rufus,
who is the average product of modern times! He was as obstinate as a
mule; he wouldn’t give way a single inch. His adopted daughter, he said,
was accustomed to live in a certain style. In that same style she should
live when she was married, so long as he had a voice in the matter.
Of course, if she chose to set his wishes and feelings at defiance, in
return for all that he had done for her, she was old enough to take her
own way. In that case, he would tell me as plainly as he meant to tell
her, that she must not look to a single farthing of his money to help
her, and not expect to find her name down in his will. He felt the
honour of a family alliance with me as sincerely as ever. But he must
abide by the conditions that he had stated. On those terms, he would be
proud to give me the hand of Regina at the altar, and proud to feel that
he had done his duty by his adopted child. I let him go on till he had
run himself out--and then I asked quietly, if he could tell me the
way to increase my income to two thousand a year. How do you think he
answered me?”

“Perhaps he offered to utilise your capital in his business,” Rufus
guessed.

“Not he! He considered business quite beneath me; my duty to myself,
as a gentleman, was to adopt a profession. On reflection, it turned out
that there was but one likely profession to try, in my case--the Law.
I might be called to the Bar, and (with luck) I might get remunerative
work to do, in eight or ten years’ time. That, I declare to you, was the
prospect he set before me, if I chose to take his advice. I asked if
he was joking. Certainly not! I was only one-and-twenty years old (he
reminded me); I had plenty of time to spare--I should still marry young
if I married at thirty. I took up my hat, and gave him a bit of my mind
at parting. ‘If you really mean anything,’ I said, ‘you mean that Regina
is to pine and fade and be a middle-aged woman, and that I am to resist
the temptations that beset a young man in London, and lead the life of
a monk for the next ten years--and all for what? For a carriage to ride
out in, champagne on the table, and a footman to answer the door! Keep
your money, Mr. Farnaby; Regina and I will do without it.’--What are
you laughing at? I don’t think you could have put it more strongly
yourself.”

Rufus suddenly recovered his gravity. “I tell you this, Amelius,”
 he replied; “you afford (as we say in my country) meaty fruit for
reflection--you do.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I reckon you remember when we were aboard the boat. You gave us a
narrative of what happened in that Community of yours, which I can truly
cha_rac_terise as a combination of native eloquence and chastening
good sense. I put the question to myself, sir, what has become of that
well-informed and discreet young Christian, now he has changed the
sphere to England and mixed with the Farnabys? It’s not to be denied
that I see him before me in the flesh when I look across the table here;
but it’s equally true that I miss him altogether, in the spirit.”

Amelius sat down again on the sofa. “In plain words,” he said, “you
think I have behaved like a fool in this matter?”

Rufus crossed his long legs, and nodded his head in silent approval.
Instead of taking offence, Amelius considered a little.

“It didn’t strike me before,” he said. “But, now you mention it, I can
understand that I appear to be a simple sort of fellow in what is called
Society here; and the reason, I suspect, is that it’s not the society in
which I have been accustomed to mix. The Farnabys are new to me, Rufus.
When it comes to a question of my life at Tadmor, of what I saw and
learnt and felt in the Community--then, I can think and speak like a
reasonable being, because I am thinking and speaking of what I know
thoroughly well. Hang it, make some allowance for the difference of
circumstances! Besides, I’m in love, and that alters a man--and, I have
heard some people say, not always for the better. Anyhow, I’ve done it
with Farnaby, and it can’t be undone. There will be no peace for me now,
till I have spoken to Regina. I have read the note you left for me. Did
you see her, when you called at the house?”

The quiet tone in which the question was put surprised Rufus. He had
fully expected, after Regina’s reception of him, to be called to account
for the liberty that he had taken. Amelius was too completely absorbed
by his present anxieties to consider trivial questions of etiquette.
Hearing that Rufus had seen Regina, he never even asked for his friend’s
opinion of her. His mind was full of the obstacles that might be
interposed to his seeing her again.

“Farnaby is sure, after what has passed between us, to keep her out
of my way if he can,” Amelius said. “And Mrs. Farnaby, to my certain
knowledge, will help him. They don’t suspect _you._ Couldn’t you call
again--you’re old enough to be her father--and make some excuse to take
her out with you for a walk?”

The answer of Rufus to this was Roman in its brevity. He pointed to the
window, and said, “Look at the rain.”

“Then I must try her maid once more,” said Amelius, resignedly. He took
his hat and umbrella. “Don’t leave me, old fellow,” he resumed as he
opened the door. “This is the turning-point of my life. I’m sorely in
need of a friend.”

“Do you think she will marry you against the will of her uncle and
aunt?” Rufus asked.

“I am certain of it,” Amelius answered. With that he left the room.

Rufus looked after him sadly. Sympathy and sorrow were expressed in
every line of his rugged face. “My poor boy! how will he bear it, if she
says No? What will become of him, if she says Yes?” He rubbed his
hand irritably across his forehead, like a man whose own thoughts were
repellent to him. In a moment more, he plunged into his pockets, and
drew out again the letters introducing him to the secretaries of public
institutions. “If there’s salvation for Amelius,” he said, “I reckon I
shall find it here.”



CHAPTER 4

The medium of correspondence between Amelius and Regina’s maid was an
old woman who kept a shop for the sale of newspapers and periodicals,
in a by-street not far from Mr. Farnaby’s house. From this place
his letters were delivered to the maid, under cover of the morning
newspapers--and here he found the answers waiting for him later in the
day. “If Rufus could only have taken her out for a walk, I might have
seen Regina this afternoon,” thought Amelius. “As it is, I may have to
wait till to-morrow, or later still. And then, there’s the sovereign to
Phoebe.” He sighed as he thought of the fee. Sovereigns were becoming
scarce in our young Socialist’s purse.

Arriving in sight of the newsvendor’s shop, Amelius noticed a man
leaving it, who walked away towards the farther end of the street. When
he entered the shop himself a minute afterwards, the woman took up a
letter from the counter. “A young man has just left this for you,” she
said.

Amelius recognised the maid’s handwriting on the address. The man whom
he had seen leaving the shop was Phoebe’s messenger.

He opened the letter. Her mistress, Phoebe explained, was too much
flurried to be able to write. The master had astonished the whole
household by appearing among them at least three hours before the time
at which he was accustomed to leave his place of business. He had found
“Mrs. Ormond” (otherwise Regina’s friend and correspondent, Cecilia)
paying a visit to his niece, and had asked to speak with her in private,
before she took leave. The result was an invitation to Regina, from Mrs.
Ormond, to stay for a little while at her house in the neighbourhood
of Harrow. The ladies were to leave London together, in Mrs. Ormond’s
carriage, that afternoon. Under stress of strong persuasion, on the part
of her uncle and aunt as well as her friend, Regina had ended in giving
way. But she had not forgotten the interests of Amelius. She was willing
to see him privately on the next day, provided he left London by the
train which reached Harrow soon after eleven in the forenoon. If it
happened to rain, then he must put off his journey until the first fine
day, arriving in any case at the same hour. The place at which he was to
wait was described to him; and with these instructions the letter ended.

The rapidity with which Mr. Farnaby had carried out his resolution to
separate the lovers placed the weakness of Regina’s character before
Amelius in a new and startling light. Why had she not stood on her
privileges, as a woman who had arrived at years of discretion, and
refused to leave London until she had first heard what her lover had to
say? Amelius had left his American friend, feeling sure that Regina’s
decision would be in his favour, when she was called upon to choose
between the man who was ready to marry her, and the man who was nothing
but her uncle by courtesy. For the first time, he now felt that his
own confident anticipations might, by bare possibility, deceive him.
He returned to his lodgings, in such a state of depression, that
compassionate Rufus insisted on taking him out to dinner, and hurried
him off afterwards to the play. Thoroughly prostrated, Amelius submitted
to the genial influence of his friend. He had not even energy enough
to feel surprised when Rufus stopped, on their way to the tavern, at a
dingy building adorned with a Grecian portico, and left a letter and a
card in charge of a servant at the side-door.

The next day, by a happy interposition of Fortune, proved to be a day
without rain. Amelius followed his instructions to the letter. A little
watery sunshine showed itself as he left the station at Harrow. His mind
was still in such a state of doubt and disturbance that it drew from
superstition a faint encouragement to hope. He hailed the feeble
November sunlight as a good omen.

Mr. and Mrs. Ormond’s place of residence stood alone, surrounded by its
own grounds. A wooden fence separated the property, on one side, from a
muddy little by-road, leading to a neighbouring farm. At a wicket-gate
in this fence, giving admission to a shrubbery situated at some distance
from the house, Amelius now waited for the appearance of the maid.

After a delay of a few minutes only, the faithful Phoebe approached the
gate with a key in her hand. “Where is she?” Amelius asked, as the girl
opened the gate for him.

“Waiting for you in the shrubbery. Stop, sir; I have something to say to
you first.”

Amelius took out his purse, and produced the fee. Even he had observed
that Phoebe was perhaps a little too eager to get her money!

“Thank you, sir. Please to look at your watch. You mustn’t be with Miss
Regina a moment longer than a quarter of an hour.”

“Why not?”

“This is the time, sir, when Mrs. Ormond is engaged every day with
her cook and housekeeper. In a quarter of an hour the orders will be
given--and Mrs. Ormond will join Miss Regina for a walk in the grounds.
You will be the ruin of me, sir, if she finds you here.” With that
warning, the maid led the way along the winding paths of the shrubbery.

“I must thank you for your letter, Phoebe,” said Amelius, as he followed
her. “By-the-by, who was your messenger?”

Phoebe’s answer was no answer at all. “Only a young man, sir,” she said.

“In plain words, your sweetheart, I suppose?”

Phoebe’s expressive silence was her only reply. She turned a corner, and
pointed to her mistress standing alone before the entrance of a damp and
deserted summer-house.

Regina put her handkerchief to her eyes, when the maid had discreetly
retired. “Oh,” she said softly, “I am afraid this is very wrong.”

Amelius removed the handkerchief by the exercise of a little gentle
force, and administered comfort under the form of a kiss. Having opened
the proceedings in this way, he put his first question, “Why did you
leave London?”

“How could I help it!” said Regina, feebly. “They were all against me.
What else could I do?”

It occurred to Amelius that she might, at her age, have asserted a will
of her own. He kept his idea, however, to himself, and, giving her his
arm, led her slowly along the path of the shrubbery. “You have heard, I
suppose, what Mr. Farnaby expects of me?” he said.

“Yes, dear.”

_“I_ call it worse than mercenary--I call it downright brutal.”

“Oh, Amelius, don’t talk so!”

Amelius came suddenly to a standstill. “Does that mean you agree with
him?” he asked.

“Don’t be angry with me, dear. I only meant there was some excuse for
him.”

“What excuse?”

“Well, you see, he has a high idea of your family, and he thought you
were rich people. And--I know you didn’t mean it, Amelius--but, still,
you did disappoint him.”

Amelius dropped her arm. This mildly-persistent defence of Mr. Farnaby
exasperated him.

“Perhaps I have disappointed _you?”_ he said.

 “Oh, no, no! Oh, how cruel you are!” The ready tears showed themselves
again in her magnificent eyes--gentle considerate tears that raised
no storm in her bosom, and produced no unbecoming results in her face.
“Don’t be hard on me!” she said, appealing to him helplessly, like a
charming overgrown child.

Some men might have still resisted her; but Amelius was not one of them.
He took her hand, and pressed it tenderly.

“Regina,” he said, “do you love me?”

“You know I do!”

He put his arm round her waist, he concentrated the passion that was in
him into a look, and poured the look into her eyes. “Do you love me as
dearly as I love you?” he whispered.

She felt it with all the little passion that was in her. After a moment
of hesitation, she put one arm timidly round his neck, and, bending her
grand head, laid it on his bosom. Her finely-rounded, supple, muscular
figure trembled, as if she had been the most fragile woman living. “Dear
Amelius!” she murmured inaudibly. He tried to speak to her--his voice
failed him. She had, in perfect innocence, fired his young blood. He
drew her closer and closer to him: he lifted her head, with a masterful
resolution which she was not able to resist, and pressed his kisses in
hot and breathless succession on her lips. His vehemence frightened her.
She tore herself out of his arms with a sudden exertion of strength that
took him completely by surprise. “I didn’t think you would have been
rude to me!” With that mild reproach, she turned away, and took the
path which led from the shrubbery to the house. Amelius followed her,
entreating that she would accept his excuses and grant him a few minutes
more. He modestly laid all the blame on her beauty--lamented that he
had not resolution enough to resist the charm of it. When did that
commonplace compliment ever fail to produce its effect? Regina smiled
with the weakly complacent good-nature, which was only saved from being
contemptible by its association with her personal attractions. “Will
you promise to behave?” she stipulated. And Amelius, not very eagerly,
promised.

“Shall we go into the summer-house?” he suggested.

“It’s very damp at this time of year,” Regina answered, with placid good
sense. “Perhaps we might catch cold--we had better walk about.”

They walked accordingly. “I wanted to speak to you about our marriage,”
 Amelius resumed.

She sighed softly. “We have some time to wait,” she said, “before we can
think of that.”

He passed this reply over without notice. “You know,” he went on, “that
I have an income of five hundred a year?”

“Yes, dear.”

“There are hundreds of thousands of respectable artisans, Regina, (with
large families), who live comfortably on less than half my income.”

“Do they, dear?”

“And many gentlemen are not better off. Curates, for instance. Do you
see what I am coming to, my darling?”

“No, dear.”

“Could you live with me in a cottage in the country, with a nice garden,
and one little maid to wait on us, and two or three new dresses in a
year?”

Regina lifted her fine eyes in sober ecstasy to the sky. “It sounds very
tempting,” she remarked, in the sweetest tones of her voice.

“And it could all be done,” Amelius proceeded, “on five hundred a year.”

“Could it, dear?”

“I have calculated it--allowing the necessary margin--and I am sure
of what I say. And I have done something else; I have asked about the
Marriage License. I can easily find lodgings in the neighbourhood. We
might be married at Harrow in a fortnight.”

Regina started: her eyes opened widely, and rested on Amelius with
an expression of incredulous wonder. “Married in a fortnight?” she
repeated. “What would my uncle and aunt say?”

“My angel, our happiness doesn’t depend on your uncle and aunt--our
happiness depends on ourselves. Nobody has any power to control us. I am
a man, and you are a woman; and we have a right to be married whenever
we like.” Amelius pronounced this last oracular sentence with his head
held high, and a pleasant inner persuasion of the convincing manner in
which he had stated his case.

“Without my uncle to give me away!” Regina exclaimed. “Without my aunt!
With no bridesmaids, and no friends, and no wedding-breakfast! Oh,
Amelius, what _can_ you be thinking of?” She drew back a step, and
looked at him in helpless consternation.

For the moment, and the moment only, Amelius lost all patience with her.
“If you really loved me,” he said bitterly, “you wouldn’t think of
the bridesmaids and the breakfast!” Regina had her answer ready in her
pocket--she took out her handkerchief. Before she could lift it to
her eyes, Amelius recovered himself. “No, no,” he said, “I didn’t mean
that--I am sure you love me--take my arm again. Do you know, Regina, I
doubt whether your uncle has told you everything that passed between us.
Are you really aware of the hard terms that he insists on? He expects
me to increase my five hundred a year to two thousand, before he will
sanction our marriage.”

“Yes, dear, he told me that.”

“I have as much chance of earning fifteen hundred a year, Regina, as I
have of being made King of England. Did he tell you _that?”_

“He doesn’t agree with you, dear--he thinks you might earn it (with your
abilities) in ten years.”

This time it was the turn of Amelius to look at Regina in helpless
consternation. “Ten years?” he repeated. “Do you coolly contemplate
waiting ten years before we are married? Good heavens! is it possible
that you are thinking of the money? that _you_ can’t live without
carriages and footmen, and ostentation and grandeur--?”

He stopped. For once, even Regina showed that she had spirit enough to
be angry. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself to speak to me in that
way!” she broke out indignantly. “If you have no better opinion of me
than that, I won’t marry you at all--no, not if you had fifty thousand a
year, sir, to-morrow! Am I to have no sense of duty to my uncle--to
the good man who has been a second father to me? Do you think I am
ungrateful enough to set his wishes at defiance? Oh yes, I know you
don’t like him! I know that a great many people don’t like him. That
doesn’t make any difference to Me! But for dear uncle Farnaby, I might
have gone to the workhouse, I might have been a starving needlewoman, a
poor persecuted maid-of-all-work. Am I to forget that, because you have
no patience, and only think of yourself? Oh, I wish I had never met with
you! I wish I had never been fool enough to be as fond of you as I am!”
 With that confession, she turned her back on him, and took refuge in her
handkerchief once more.

Amelius stood looking at her in silent despair. After the tone in
which she had spoken of her obligations to her uncle, it was useless to
anticipate any satisfactory result from the exertion of his influence
over Regina. Recalling what he had seen and heard, in Mrs. Farnaby’s
room, Amelius could not doubt that the motive of pacifying his wife was
the motive which had first led Farnaby to receive Regina into his house.
Was it unreasonable or unjust to infer, that the orphan child must have
been mainly indebted to Mrs. Farnaby’s sense of duty to the memory of
her sister for the parental protection afforded to her, from that time
forth? It would have been useless, and worse than useless, to place
before Regina such considerations as these. Her exaggerated idea of the
gratitude that she owed to her uncle was beyond the limited reach of
reason. Nothing was to be gained by opposition; and no sensible course
was left but to say some peace-making words and submit.

“I beg your pardon, Regina, if I have offended you. You have sadly
disappointed me. I haven’t deliberately misjudged you; I can say no
more.”

She turned round quickly, and looked at him. There was an ominous
change to resignation in his voice, there was a dogged submission in
his manner, that alarmed her. She had never yet seen him under the
perilously-patient aspect in which he now presented himself, after his
apology had been made.

“I forgive you, Amelius, with all my heart,” she said--and timidly held
out her hand.

He took it, raised it silently to his lips, and dropped it again.

She suddenly turned pale. All the love that she had in her to give to
a man, she had given to Amelius. Her heart sank; she asked herself, in
blank terror, if she had lost him.

“I am afraid it is _I_ who have offended _you,”_ she said. “Don’t be
angry with me, Amelius! don’t make me more unhappy than I am!”

“I am not in the least angry,” he answered, still in the quiet subdued
way that terrified her. “You can’t expect me, Regina, to contemplate a
ten years’ engagement cheerfully.”

She took his hand, and held it in both her own hands--held it, as if his
love for her was there and she was determined not to let it go.

“If you will only leave it to me,” she pleaded, “the engagement shan’t
be so long as that. Try my uncle with a little kindness and respect,
Amelius, instead of saying hard words to him. Or let _me_ try him, if
you are too proud to give way. May I say that you had no intention of
offending him, and that you are willing to leave the future to me?”

“Certainly,” said Amelius, “if you think it will be of the slightest
use.” His tone added plainly, “I don’t believe in your uncle, mind, as
you do.”

She still persisted. “It will be of the greatest use,” she went on. “He
will let me go home again, and he will not object to your coming to see
me. He doesn’t like to be despised and set at defiance--who does? Be
patient, Amelius; and I will persuade him to expect less money from
you--only what you may earn, dear, with your talents, long before ten
years have passed.” She waited for a word of reply which might show that
she had encouraged him a little. He only smiled. “You talk of loving
me,” she said, drawing back from him with a look of reproach; “and you
don’t even believe what I say to you.” She stopped, and looked behind
her with a faint cry of alarm. Hurried footsteps were audible on the
other side of the evergreens that screened them. Amelius stepped back to
a turn in the path, and discovered Phoebe.

“Don’t stay a moment longer, sir!” cried the girl. “I’ve been to the
house--and Mrs. Ormond isn’t there--and nobody knows where she is. Get
out by the gate, sir, while you have the chance.”

Amelius returned to Regina. “I mustn’t get the girl into a scrape,” he
said. “You know where to write to me. Good-bye.”

Regina made a sign to the maid to retire. Amelius had never taken leave
of her as he was taking leave of her now. She forgot the fervent embrace
and the daring kisses--she was desperate at the bare idea of losing him.
“Oh, Amelius, don’t doubt that I love you! Say you believe I love you!
Kiss me before you go!”

He kissed her--but, ah, not as he had kissed her before. He said the
words she wanted him to say--but only to please her, not with all his
heart. She let him go; reproaches would be wasted at that moment.

Phoebe found her pale and immovable, rooted to the spot on which they
had parted. “Dear, dear me, miss, what’s gone wrong?”

And her mistress answered wildly, in words that had never before passed
her placid lips, “O Phoebe, I wish I was dead!”


Such was the impression left on the mind of Regina by the interview in
the shrubbery.

The impression left on the mind of Amelius was stated in equally strong
language, later in the day. His American friend asked innocently for
news, and was answered in these terms:

“Find something to occupy my mind, Rufus, or I shall throw the whole
thing over and go to the devil.”

The wise man from New England was too wise to trouble Amelius with
questions, under these circumstances. “Is that so?” was all he said.
Then he put his hand in his pocket, and, producing a letter, laid it
quietly on the table.

“For me?” Amelius asked.

“You wanted something to occupy your mind,” the wily Rufus answered.
“There ‘tis.”

Amelius read the letter. It was dated, “Hampden Institution.” The
secretary invited Amelius, in highly complimentary terms, to lecture,
in the hall of the Institution, on Christian Socialism as taught and
practised in the Community at Tadmor. He was offered two-thirds of the
profits derived from the sale of places, and was left free to
appoint his own evening (at a week’s notice) and to issue his own
advertisements. Minor details were reserved to be discussed with the
secretary, when the lecturer had consented to the arrangement proposed
to him.

Having finished the letter, Amelius looked at his friend. “This is your
doing,” he said.

Rufus admitted it, with his customary candour. He had a letter of
introduction to the secretary, and he had called by appointment that
morning. The Institution wanted something new to attract the members
and the public. Having no present intention of lecturing himself, he
had thought of Amelius, and had spoken his thought. “I mentioned,” Rufus
added slyly, “that I didn’t reckon you would mount the platform. But
he’s a sanguine creature, that secretary--and he said he’d try.”

“Why should I say No?” Amelius asked, a little irritably. “The secretary
pays me a compliment, and offers me an opportunity of spreading
our principles. Perhaps,” he added, more quietly, after a moment’s
reflection, “you thought I might not be equal to the occasion--and, in
that case, I don’t say you were wrong.”

Rufus shook his head. “If you had passed your life in this decrepit
little island,” he replied, “I might have doubted you, likely enough.
But Tadmor’s situated in the United States. If they don’t practise
the boys in the art of orating, don’t you tell me there’s an American
citizen with a voice in _that_ society. Guess again, my son. You won’t?
Well, then, ‘twas uncle Farnaby I had in my mind. I said to myself--not
to the secretary--Amelius is bound to consider uncle Farnaby. Oh, my!
what would uncle Farnaby say?”

The hot temper of Amelius took fire instantly. “What the devil do I care
for Farnaby’s opinions?” he burst out. “If there’s a man in England who
wants the principles of Christian Socialism beaten into his thick head,
it’s Farnaby. Are you going to see the secretary again?”

“I might look in,” Rufus answered, “in the course of the evening.”

“Tell him I’ll give the lecture--with my compliments and thanks. If I
can only succeed,” pursued Amelius, hearing himself with the new idea,
“I may make a name as a lecturer, and a name means money, and money
means beating Farnaby with his own weapons. It’s an opening for me,
Rufus, at the crisis of my life.”

“That is so,” Rufus admitted. “I may as well look up the secretary.”

“Why shouldn’t I go with you?” Amelius suggested.

“Why not?” Rufus agreed.

They left the house together.




BOOK THE FIFTH. THE FATAL LECTURE



CHAPTER 1

Late that night Amelius sat alone in his room, making notes for the
lecture which he had now formally engaged himself to deliver in a week’s
time.

Thanks to his American education (as Rufus had supposed), he had not
been without practice in the art of public speaking. He had learnt to
face his fellow-creatures in the act of oratory, and to hear the sound
of his own voice in a silent assembly, without trembling from head to
foot. English newspapers were regularly sent to Tadmor, and English
politics were frequently discussed in the little parliament of the
Community. The prospect of addressing a new audience, with their
sympathies probably against him at the outset, had its terrors
undoubtedly. But the more formidable consideration, to the mind of
Amelius, was presented by the limits imposed on him in the matter of
time. The lecture was to be succeeded (at the request of a clerical
member of the Institution) by a public discussion; and the secretary’s
experience suggested that the lecturer would do well to reduce his
address within the compass of an hour. “Socialism is a large subject
to be squeezed into that small space,” Amelius had objected. And the
secretary sighed, and answered, “They won’t listen any longer.”

Making notes, from time to time, of the points on which it was most
desirable to insist, and on the relative positions which they should
occupy in his lecture, the memory of Amelius became more and more
absorbed in recalling the scenes in which his early life had been
passed.

He laid down his pen, as the clock of the nearest church struck the
first dark hour of the morning, and let his thoughts take him back
again, without interruption or restraint, to the hills and vales of
Tadmor. Once more the kind old Elder Brother taught him the noble
lessons of Christianity as they came from the inspired Teacher’s own
lips; once more he took his turn of healthy work in the garden and the
field; once more the voices of his companions joined with him in the
evening songs, and the timid little figure of Mellicent stood at his
side, content to hold the music-book and listen. How poor, how corrupt,
did the life look that he was leading now, by comparison with the life
that he had led in those earlier and happier days! How shamefully he had
forgotten the simple precepts of Christian humility, Christian sympathy,
and Christian self-restraint, in which his teachers had trusted as the
safeguards that were to preserve him from the foul contact of the world!
Within the last two days only, he had refused to make merciful allowance
for the errors of a man, whose life had been wasted in the sordid
struggle upward from poverty to wealth. And, worse yet, he had cruelly
distressed the poor girl who loved him, at the prompting of those
selfish passions which it was his first and foremost duty to restrain.
The bare remembrance of it was unendurable to him, in his present frame
of mind. With his customary impetuosity, he snatched up the pen, to make
atonement before he went to rest that night. He wrote in few words to
Mr. Farnaby, declaring that he regretted having spoken impatiently and
contemptuously at the interview between them, and expressing the hope
that their experience of each other, in the time to come, might perhaps
lead to acceptable concessions on either side. His letter to Regina
was written, it is needless to say, in warmer terms and at much greater
length: it was the honest outpouring of his love and his penitence. When
the letters were safe in their envelopes he was not satisfied, even yet.
No matter what the hour might be, there was no ease of mind for Amelius,
until he had actually posted his letters. He stole downstairs, and
softly unbolted the door, and hurried away to the nearest letter-box.
When he had let himself in again with his latch-key, his mind was
relieved at last. “Now,” he thought, as he lit his bed-room candle, “I
can go to sleep!”

A visit from Rufus was the first event of the day.

The two set to work together to draw out the necessary advertisement
of the lecture. It was well calculated to attract attention in certain
quarters. The announcement addressed itself, in capital letters, to all
honest people who were poor and discontented. “Come, and hear the remedy
which Christian Socialism provides for your troubles, explained to you
by a friend and a brother; and pay no more than sixpence for the
place that you occupy.” The necessary information as to time and place
followed this appeal; including the offer of reserved seats at higher
prices. By advice of the secretary, the advertisement was not sent
to any journal having its circulation among the wealthier classes of
society. It appeared prominently in one daily paper and in two weekly
papers; the three possessing an aggregate sale of four hundred thousand
copies. “Assume only five readers to each copy,” cried sanguine Amelius,
“and we appeal to an audience of two millions. What a magnificent
publicity!”

There was one inevitable result of magnificent publicity which Amelius
failed to consider. His advertisements were certain to bring people
together, who might otherwise never have met in the great world of
London, under one roof. All over England, Scotland, and Ireland,
he invited unknown guests to pass the evening with him. In such
circumstances, recognitions may take place between persons who have lost
sight of each other for years; conversations may be held, which might
otherwise never have been exchanged; and results may follow, for which
the hero of the evening may be innocently responsible, because two or
three among his audience happen to be sitting to hear him on the
same bench. A man who opens his doors, and invites the public
indiscriminately to come in, runs the risk of playing with inflammable
materials, and can never be sure at what time or in what direction they
may explode.

Rufus himself took the fair copies of the advertisement to the nearest
agent. Amelius stayed at home to think over his lecture.

He was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Farnaby’s answer to his letter.
The man of the oily whiskers wrote courteously and guardedly. He was
evidently flattered and pleased by the advance that had been made to
him; and he was quite willing “under the circumstances” to give the
lovers opportunities of meeting at his house. At the same time, he
limited the number of the opportunities. “Once a week, for the present,
my dear sir. Regina will doubtless write to you, when she returns to
London.”

Regina wrote, by return of post. The next morning Amelius received a
letter from her which enchanted him. She had never loved him as she
loved him now; she longed to see him again; she had prevailed on Mrs.
Ormond to let her shorten her visit, and to intercede for her with
the authorities at home. They were to return together to London on the
afternoon of the next day. Amelius would be sure to find her, if he
arranged to call in time for five-o’clock tea.

Towards four o’clock on the next day, while Amelius was putting the
finishing touches to his dress, he was informed that “a young
person wished to see him.” The visitor proved to be Phoebe, with her
handkerchief to her eyes; indulging in grief, in humble imitation of her
young mistress’s gentle method of proceeding on similar occasions.

“Good God!” cried Amelius, “has anything happened to Regina?”

“No, sir,” Phoebe murmured behind the handkerchief. “Miss Regina is at
home, and well.”

“Then what are you crying about?”

Phoebe forgot her mistress’s gentle method. She answered, with an
explosion of sobs, “I’m ruined, sir!”

“What do you mean by being ruined? Who’s done it?”

“You’ve done it, sir!”

Amelius started. His relations with Phoebe had been purely and entirely
of the pecuniary sort. She was a showy, pretty girl, with a smart
little figure--but with some undeniably bad lines, which only observant
physiognomists remarked, about her eyebrows and her mouth. Amelius was
not a physiognomist; but he was in love with Regina, which at his age
implied faithful love. It is only men over forty who can court the
mistress, with reserves of admiration to spare for the maid.

“Sit down,” said Amelius; “and tell me in two words what you mean.”

Phoebe sat down, and dried her eyes. “I have been infamously treated,
sir, by Mrs. Farnaby,” she began--and stopped, overpowered by the bare
remembrance of her wrongs. She was angry enough, at that moment, to be
off her guard. The vindictive nature that was in the girl found its way
outward, and showed itself in her face. Amelius perceived the change,
and began to doubt whether Phoebe was quite worthy of the place which
she had hitherto held in his estimation.

“Surely there must be some mistake,” he said. “What opportunity has Mrs.
Farnaby had of ill-treating you? You have only just got back to London.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, we got back sooner than we expected. Mrs.
Ormond had business in town: and she left Miss Regina at her own door,
nearly two hours since.”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, I had hardly taken off my bonnet and shawl, when I was sent
for by Mrs. Farnaby. ‘Have you unpacked your box yet?’ says she. I
told her I hadn’t had time to do so. ‘You needn’t trouble yourself to
unpack,’ says she. ‘You are no longer in Miss Regina’s service. There
are your wages--with a month’s wages besides, in place of the customary
warning.’ I’m only a poor girl, sir, but I up and spoke to her as plain
as she spoke to me. ‘I want to know,’ I says, ‘why I am sent away in
this uncivil manner?’ I couldn’t possibly repeat what she said. My blood
boils when I think of it,” Phoebe declared, with melodramatic vehemence.
“Somebody has found us out, sir. Somebody has told Mrs. Farnaby of your
private meeting with Miss Regina in the shrubbery, and the money you
kindly gave me. I believe Mrs. Ormond is at the bottom of it; you
remember nobody knew where she was, when I thought she was in the
house speaking to the cook. That’s guess-work, I allow, so far. What is
certain is, that I have been spoken to as if I was the lowest creature
that walks the streets. Mrs. Farnaby refuses to give me a character,
sir. She actually said she would call in the police, if I didn’t leave
the house in half an hour. How am I to get another place, without a
character? I’m a ruined girl, that’s what I am--and all through You!”

Threatened at this point with an illustrative outburst of sobbing
Amelius was simple enough to try the consoling influence of a sovereign.
“Why don’t you speak to Miss Regina?” he asked. “You know she will help
you.”

“She has done all she can, sir. I have nothing to say against Miss
Regina--she’s a good creature. She came into the room, and begged, and
prayed, and took all the blame on herself. Mrs. Farnaby wouldn’t hear
a word. ‘I’m mistress here,’ she says; ‘you had better go back to your
room.’ Ah, Mr. Amelius, I can tell you Mrs. Farnaby is your enemy as
well as mine! you’ll never marry her niece if _she_ can stop it. Mark my
words, sir, that’s the secret of the vile manner in which she has used
me. My conscience is clear, thank God. I’ve tried to serve the cause of
true love--and I’m not ashamed of it. Never mind! my turn is to come.
I’m only a poor servant, sent adrift in the world without a character.
Wait a little! you see if I am not even (and better than even) with Mrs.
Farnaby, before long! _I know what I know._ I am not going to say any
more than that. She shall rue the day,” cried Phoebe, relapsing into
melodrama again, “when she turned me out of the house like a thief!”

“Come! come!” said Amelius, sharply, “you mustn’t speak in that way.”

Phoebe had got her money: she could afford to be independent. She
rose from her chair. The insolence which is the almost invariable
accompaniment of a sense of injury among Englishwomen of her class
expressed itself in her answer to Amelius. “I speak as I think, sir. I
have some spirit in me; I am not a woman to be trodden underfoot--and so
Mrs. Farnaby shall find, before she is many days older.”

“Phoebe! Phoebe! you are talking like a heathen. If Mrs. Farnaby has
behaved to you with unjust severity, set her an example of moderation on
your side. It’s your duty as a Christian to forgive injuries.”

Phoebe burst out laughing. “Hee-hee-hee! Thank you, sir, for a sermon
as well as a sovereign. You have been most kind, indeed!” She changed
suddenly from irony to anger. “I never was called a heathen before!
Considering what I have done for you, I think you might at least have
been civil. Good afternoon, sir.” She lifted her saucy little snub-nose,
and walked with dignity out of the room.

For the moment, Amelius was amused. As he heard the house-door closed,
he turned laughing to the window, for a last look at Phoebe in the
character of an injured Christian. In an instant the smile left his
lips--he drew back from the window with a start.

A man had been waiting for Phoebe, in the street. At the moment when
Amelius looked out, she had just taken his arm. He glanced back at the
house, as they walked away together. Amelius immediately recognised,
in Phoebe’s companion (and sweetheart), a vagabond Irishman, nicknamed
Jervy, whose face he had last seen at Tadmor. Employed as one of
the agents of the Community in transacting their business with the
neighbouring town, he had been dismissed for misconduct, and had been
unwisely taken back again, at the intercession of a respectable person
who believed in his promises of amendment. Amelius had suspected this
man of being the spy who officiously informed against Mellicent and
himself, but having discovered no evidence to justify his suspicions, he
had remained silent on the subject. It was now quite plain to him
that Jervy’s appearance in London could only be attributed to a
second dismissal from the service of the Community, for some offence
sufficiently serious to oblige him to take refuge in England. A more
disreputable person it was hardly possible for Phoebe to have
become acquainted with. In her present vindictive mood, he would be
emphatically a dangerous companion and counsellor. Amelius felt this so
strongly, that he determined to follow them, on the chance of finding
out where Jervy lived. Unhappily, he had only arrived at this resolution
after a lapse of a minute or two. He ran into the street but it was too
late; not a trace of them was to be discovered. Pursuing his way to Mr.
Farnaby’s house, he decided on mentioning what had happened to Regina.
Her aunt had not acted wisely in refusing to let the maid refer to her
for a character. She would do well to set herself right with Phoebe, in
this particular, before it was too late.



CHAPTER 2

Mrs. Farnaby stood at the door of her own room, and looked at her niece
with an air of contemptuous curiosity.

“Well? You and your lover have had a fine time of it together, I
suppose? What do you want here?”

“Amelius wishes particularly to speak to you, aunt.”

“Tell him to save himself the trouble. He may reconcile your uncle to
his marriage--he won’t reconcile Me.”

“It’s not about that, aunt; it’s about Phoebe.”

“Does he want me to take Phoebe back again?”

At that moment Amelius appeared in the hall, and answered the question
himself. “I want to give you a word of warning,” he said.

Mrs. Farnaby smiled grimly. “That excites my curiosity,” she replied.
“Come in. I don’t want _you,”_ she added, dismissing her niece at the
door. “So you’re willing to wait ten years for Regina?” she continued,
when Amelius was alone with her. “I’m disappointed in you; you’re a poor
weak creature, after all. What about that young hussy, Phoebe?”

Amelius told her unreservedly all that had passed between the discarded
maid and himself, not forgetting, before he concluded, to caution her on
the subject of the maid’s companion. “I don’t know what that man may
not do to mislead Phoebe,” he said. “If I were you, I wouldn’t drive her
into a corner.”

Mrs. Farnaby eyed him scornfully from head to foot. “You used to have
the spirit of a man in you,” she answered. “Keeping company with Regina
has made you a milksop already. If you want to know what I think of
Phoebe and her sweetheart--” she stopped, and snapped her fingers.
“There!” she said, “that’s what I think! Now go back to Regina. I can
tell you one thing--she will never be your wife.”

Amelius looked at her in quiet surprise. “It seems odd,” he remarked,
“that you should treat me as you do, after what you said to me, the last
time I was in this room. You expect me to help you in the dearest wish
of your life--and you do everything you can to thwart the dearest wish
of _my_ life. A man can’t keep his temper under continual provocation.
Suppose I refuse to help you?”

Mrs. Farnaby looked at him with the most exasperating composure. “I defy
you to do it,” she answered.

“You defy me to do it!” Amelius exclaimed.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Mrs. Farnaby went on. “Do you think I don’t
know you better than you know yourself?” She stepped up close to him;
her voice sank suddenly to low and tender tones. “If that last unlikely
chance should turn out in my favour,” she went on; “if you really did
meet with my poor girl, one of these days, and knew that you had met
with her--do you mean to say you could be cruel enough, no matter how
badly I behaved to you, to tell me nothing about it? Is _that_ the heart
I can feel beating under my hand? Is _that_ the Christianity you learnt
at Tadmor? Pooh, pooh, you foolish boy! Go back to Regina; and tell her
you have tried to frighten me, and you find it won’t do.”

The next day was Saturday. The advertisement of the lecture appeared in
the newspapers. Rufus confessed that he had been extravagant enough,
in the case of the two weekly journals, to occupy half a page.
“The public,” he explained, “have got a nasty way of overlooking
advertisements of a modest and retiring character. Hit ‘em in the eyes
when they open the paper, or you don’t hit ‘em at all.”

Among the members of the public attracted by the new announcement, Mrs.
Farnaby was one. She honoured Amelius with a visit at his lodgings. “I
called you a poor weak creature yesterday” (these were her first words
on entering the room); “I talked like a fool. You’re a splendid fellow;
I respect your courage, and I shall attend your lecture. Never mind what
Mr. Farnaby and Regina say. Regina’s poor little conventional soul
is shaken, I dare say; you needn’t expect to have my niece among your
audience. But Farnaby is a humbug, as usual. He affects to be horrified;
he talks big about breaking off the match. In his own self, he’s
bursting with curiosity to know how you will get through with it. I tell
you this--he will sneak into the hall and stand at the back where nobody
can see him. I shall go with him; and, when you’re on the platform, I’ll
hold up my handkerchief like this. Then you’ll know he’s there. Hit him
hard, Amelius--hit him hard! Where is your friend Rufus? just gone away?
I like that American. Give him my love, and tell him to come and see
me.” She left the room as abruptly as she had entered it. Amelius looked
after her in amazement. Mrs. Farnaby was not like herself; Mrs. Farnaby
was in good spirits!

Regina’s opinion of the lecture arrived by post.

Every other word in her letter was underlined; half the sentences began
with “Oh!”; Regina was shocked, astonished, ashamed, alarmed. What would
Amelius do next? Why had he deceived her, and left her to find it out in
the papers? He had undone all the good effect of those charming letters
to her father and herself. He had no idea of the disgust and abhorrence
which respectable people would feel at his odious Socialism. Was she
never to know another happy moment? and was Amelius to be the cause of
it? and so on, and so on.

Mr. Farnaby’s protest followed, delivered by Mr. Farnaby himself.
He kept his gloves on when he called; he was solemn and pathetic; he
remonstrated, in the character of one of the ancestors of Amelius; he
pitied the ancient family “mouldering in the silent grave,” he would
abstain from deciding in a hurry, but his daughter’s feelings were
outraged, and he feared it might be his duty to break off the match.
Amelius, with perfect good temper, offered him a free admission, and
asked him to hear the lecture and decide for himself whether there was
any harm in it. Mr. Farnaby turned his head away from the ticket as if
it was something indecent. “Sad! sad!” That was his only farewell to the
gentleman-Socialist.

On the Sunday (being the only day in London on which a man can use his
brains without being interrupted by street music), Amelius rehearsed his
lecture. On the Monday, he paid his weekly visit to Regina.

She was reported--whether truly or not it was impossible for him to
discover--to have gone out in the carriage with Mrs. Ormond. Amelius
wrote to her in soothing and affectionate terms, suggesting, as he had
suggested to her father, that she should wait to hear the lecture before
she condemned it. In the mean time, he entreated her to remember
that they had promised to be true to one another, in time and
eternity--Socialism notwithstanding.

The answer came back by private messenger. The tone was serious.
Regina’s principles forbade her to attend a Socialist lecture. She hoped
Amelius was in earnest in writing as he did about time and eternity. The
subject was very awful to a rightly-constituted mind. On the next page,
some mitigation of this severity followed in a postscript. Regina would
wait at home to see Amelius, the day after his “regrettable appearance
in public.”

The evening of Tuesday was the evening of the lecture.

Rufus posted himself at the ticket-taker’s office, in the interests of
Amelius. “Even sixpences do sometimes stick to a man’s fingers, on their
way from the public to the money-box,” he remarked. The sixpences did
indeed flow in rapidly; the advertisements had, so far, produced their
effect. But the reserved seats sold very slowly. The members of the
Institution, who were admitted for nothing, arrived in large numbers,
and secured the best places. Towards eight o’clock (the hour at which
the lecture was to begin), the sixpenny audience was still pouring in.
Rufus recognised Phoebe among the late arrivals, escorted by a person in
the dress of a gentleman, who was palpably a blackguard nevertheless. A
short stout lady followed, who warily shook hands with Rufus, and said,
“Let me introduce you to Mr. Farnaby.” Mr. Farnaby’s mouth and chin were
shrouded in a wrapper; his hat was over his eyebrows. Rufus observed
that he looked as if he was ashamed of himself. A gaunt, dirty, savage
old woman, miserably dressed, offered her sixpence to the moneytaker,
while the two gentlemen were shaking hands; the example, it is needless
to say, being set by Rufus. The old woman looked attentively at all
that was visible of Mr. Farnaby--that is to say, at his eyes and his
whiskers--by the gas-lamp hanging in the corridor. She instantly drew
back, though she had got her ticket; waited until Mr. Farnaby had paid
for his wife and himself, and then followed close behind them, into the
hall.

And why not? The advertisements addressed this wretched old creature as
one of the poor and discontented public. Sixteen years ago, John Farnaby
had put his own child into that woman’s hands at Ramsgate, and had never
seen either of them since.



CHAPTER 3

Entering the hall, Mr. Farnaby discovered without difficulty the
position of modest retirement of which he was in search.

The cheap seats were situated, as usual, on that part of the floor of
the building which was farthest from the platform. A gallery at this end
of the hall threw its shadow over the hindermost benches and the
gangway by which they were approached. In the sheltering obscurity thus
produced, Mr. Farnaby took his place; standing in the corner formed by
the angle it which the two walls of the building met, with his dutiful
wife at his side.

Still following them, unnoticed in the crowd, the old woman stopped at
the extremity of the hindermost bench, looked close at a smartly-dressed
young man who occupied the last seat at the end, and who paid marked
attention to a pretty girl sitting by him, and whispered in his ear,
“Now then, Jervy! can’t you make room for Mother Sowler?”

The man started and looked round. “You here?” he exclaimed, with an
oath.

Before he could say more, Phoebe whispered to him on the other side,
“What a horrid old creature! How did you ever come to know her?”

At the same moment, Mrs. Sowler reiterated her request in more
peremptory language. “Do you hear, Jervy--do you hear? Sit a little
closer.”

Jervy apparently had his reasons for treating the expression of Mrs.
Sowler’s wishes with deference, shabby as she was. Making abundant
apologies, he asked his neighbours to favour him by sitting a little
nearer to each other, and so contrive to leave a morsel of vacant space
at the edge of the bench.

Phoebe, making room under protest, began to whisper again. “What does
she mean by calling you Jervy? She looks like a beggar. Tell her your
name is Jervis.”

The reply she received did not encourage her to say more. “Hold your
tongue; I have reasons for being civil to her--you be civil too.”

He turned to Mrs. Sowler, with the readiest submission to circumstances.
Under the surface of his showy looks and his vulgar facility of manner,
there lay hidden a substance of callous villainy and impenetrable
cunning. He had in him the materials out of which the clever murderers
are made, who baffle the police. If he could have done it with impunity,
he would have destroyed without remorse the squalid old creature who sat
by him, and who knew enough of his past career in England to send him
to penal servitude for life. As it was, he spoke to her with a spurious
condescension and good humour. “Why, it must be ten years, Mrs. Sowler,
since I last saw you! What have you been doing?”

The woman frowned at him as she answered. “Can’t you look at me, and
see? Starving!” She eyed his gaudy watch and chain greedily. “Money
don’t seem to be scarce with you. Have you made your fortune in
America?”

He laid his hand on her arm, and pressed it warningly. “Hush!” he said,
under his breath. “We’ll talk about that, after the lecture.” His bright
shifty black eyes turned furtively towards Phoebe--and Mrs. Sowler
noticed it. The girl’s savings in service had paid for his jewelry and
his fine clothes. She silently resented his rudeness in telling her to
“hold her tongue”; sitting, sullen, with her impudent little nose in the
air. Jervy tried to include her indirectly in his conversation with his
shabby old friend. “This young lady,” he said, “knows Mr. Goldenheart.
She feels sure he’ll break down; and we’ve come here to see the fun. I
don’t hold with Socialism myself--I am for, what my favourite
newspaper calls, the Altar and the Throne. In short, my politics are
Conservative.”

“Your politics are in your girl’s pocket,” muttered Mrs. Sowler. “How
long will her money last?”

Jervy turned a deaf ear to the interruption. “And what has brought
you here?” he went on, in his most ingratiating way. “Did you see the
advertisement in the papers?”

Mrs. Sowler answered loud enough to be heard above the hum of talking in
the sixpenny places. “I was having a drop of gin, and I saw the paper at
the public-house. I’m one of the discontented poor. I hate rich people;
and I’m ready to pay my sixpence to hear them abused.”

“Hear, hear!” said a man near, who looked like a shoemaker.

“I hope he’ll give it to the aristocracy,” added one of the shoemaker’s
neighbours, apparently a groom out of place.

“I’m sick of the aristocracy,” cried a woman with a fiery face and a
crushed bonnet. “It’s them as swallows up the money. What business have
they with their palaces and their parks, when my husband’s out of work,
and my children hungry at home?”

The acquiescent shoemaker listened with admiration. “Very well put,” he
said; “very well put.”

These expressions of popular feeling reached the respectable ears of Mr.
Farnaby. “Do you hear those wretches?” he said to his wife.

Mrs. Farnaby seized the welcome opportunity of irritating him. “Poor
things!” she answered. “In their place, we should talk as they do.”

“You had better go into the reserved seats,” rejoined her husband,
turning from her with a look of disgust. “There’s plenty of room. Why do
you stop here?”

“I couldn’t think of leaving you, my dear! How did you like my American
friend?”

“I am astonished at your taking the liberty of introducing him to me.
You knew perfectly well that I was here incognito. What do I care about
a wandering American?”

Mrs. Farnaby persisted as maliciously as ever. “Ah, but you see, I like
him. The wandering American is my ally.”

“Your ally! What do you mean?”

“Good heavens, how dull you are! don’t you know that I object to my
niece’s marriage engagement? I was quite delighted when I heard of this
lecture, because it’s an obstacle in the way. It disgusts Regina, and
it disgusts You--and my dear American is the man who first brought
it about. Hush! here’s Amelius. How well he looks! So graceful and so
gentlemanlike,” cried Mrs. Farnaby, signalling with her handkerchief to
show Amelius their position in the hall. “I declare I’m ready to become
a Socialist before he opens his lips!”

The personal appearance of Amelius took the audience completely by
surprise. A man who is young and handsome is not the order of man who
is habitually associated in the popular mind with the idea of a lecture.
After a moment of silence, there was a spontaneous burst of applause.
It was renewed when Amelius, first placing on his table a little book,
announced his intention of delivering the lecture extempore. The absence
of the inevitable manuscript was in itself an act of mercy that cheered
the public at starting.

The orator of the evening began.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thoughtful people accustomed to watch the signs
of the times in this country, and among the other nations of Europe, are
(so far as I know) agreed in the conclusion, that serious changes are
likely to take place in present forms of government, and in existing
systems of society, before the century in which we live has reached its
end. In plain words, the next revolution is not so unlikely, and not so
far off, as it pleases the higher and wealthier classes among European
populations to suppose. I am one of those who believe that the coming
convulsion will take the form, this time, of a social revolution, and
that the man at the head of it will not be a military or a political
man--but a Great Citizen, sprung from the people, and devoted heart and
soul to the people’s cause. Within the limits assigned to me to-night,
it is impossible that I should speak to you of government and society
among other nations, even if I possessed the necessary knowledge and
experience to venture on so vast a subject. All that I can now attempt
to do is (first) to point out some of the causes which are paving the
way for a coming change in the social and political condition of this
country; and (secondly) to satisfy you that the only trustworthy
remedy for existing abuses is to be found in the system which Christian
Socialism extracts from this little book on my table--the book which you
all know under the name of The New Testament. Before, however, I enter
on my task, I feel it a duty to say one preliminary word on the subject
of my claim to address you, such as it is. I am most unwilling to speak
of myself--but my position here forces me to do so. I am a stranger to
all of you; and I am a very young man. Let me tell you, then, briefly,
what my life has been, and where I have been brought up--and then decide
for yourselves whether it is worth your while to favour me with your
attention, or not.”

“A very good opening,” remarked the shoemaker.

“A nice-looking fellow,” said the fiery-faced woman, “I should like to
kiss him.”

“He’s too civil by half,” grumbled Mrs. Sowler; “I wish I had my
sixpence back in my pocket.”

“Give him time.” whispered Jervy, “and he’ll warm up. I say, Phoebe,
he doesn’t begin like a man who is going to break down. I don’t expect
there will be much to laugh at to-night.”

“What an admirable speaker!” said Mrs. Farnaby to her husband. “Fancy
such a man as that, being married to such an idiot as Regina!”

“There’s always a chance for him,” returned Mr. Farnaby, savagely, “as
long as he’s not married to such a woman as You!”

In the mean time, Amelius had claimed national kindred with his audience
as an Englishman, and had rapidly sketched his life at Tadmor, in its
most noteworthy points. This done, he put the question whether they
would hear him. His frankness and freshness had already won the public:
they answered by a general shout of applause.

“Very well,” Amelius proceeded, “now let us get on. Suppose we take
a glance (we have no time to do more) at the present state of our
religious system, first. What is the public aspect of the thing called
Christianity, in the England of our day? A hundred different sects
all at variance with each other. An established church, rent in every
direction by incessant wrangling--disputes about black gowns or white;
about having candlesticks on tables, or off tables; about bowing to
the east or bowing to the west; about which doctrine collects the most
respectable support and possesses the largest sum of money, the doctrine
in my church, or the doctrine in your church, or the doctrine in the
church over the way. Look up, if you like, from this multitudinous and
incessant squabbling among the rank and file, to the high regions in
which the right reverend representatives of state religion sit apart.
Are they Christians? If they are, show me the Bishop who dare assert his
Christianity in the House of Lords, when the ministry of the day happens
to see its advantage in engaging in a war! Where is that Bishop, and how
many supporters does he count among his own order? Do you blame me for
using intemperate language--language which I cannot justify? Take a
fair test, and try me by that. The result of the Christianity of the
New Testament is to make men true, humane, gentle, modest, strictly
scrupulous and strictly considerate in their dealings with their
neighbours. Does the Christianity of the churches and the sects produce
these results among us? Look at the staple of the country, at the
occupation which employs the largest number of Englishmen of all
degrees--Look at our Commerce. What is its social aspect, judged by the
morality which is in this book in my hand? Let those organised systems
of imposture, masquerading under the disguise of banks and companies,
answer the question--there is no need for me to answer it. You know what
respectable names are associated, year after year, with the shameless
falsification of accounts, and the merciless ruin of thousands on
thousands of victims. You know how our poor Indian customer finds his
cotton-print dress a sham that falls to pieces; how the savage who deals
honestly with us for his weapon finds his gun a delusion that bursts;
how the half-starved needlewoman who buys her reel of thread finds
printed on the label a false statement of the number of yards that she
buys; you know that, in the markets of Europe, foreign goods are fast
taking the place of English goods, because the foreigner is the most
honest manufacturer of the two--and, lastly, you know, what is worse
than all, that these cruel and wicked deceptions, and many more like
them, are regarded, on the highest commercial authority, as ‘forms of
competition’ and justifiable proceedings in trade. Do you believe in
the honourable accumulation of wealth by men who hold such opinions and
perpetrate such impostures as these? I don’t! Do you find any brighter
and purer prospect when you look down from the man who deceives you and
me on the great scale, to the man who deceives us on the small? I
don’t! Everything we eat, drink, and wear is a more or less adulterated
commodity; and that very adulteration is sold to us by the tradesmen at
such outrageous prices, that we are obliged to protect ourselves on the
Socialist principle, by setting up cooperative shops of our own. Wait!
and hear me out, before you applaud. Don’t mistake the plain purpose
of what I am saying to you; and don’t suppose that I am blind to the
brighter side of the dark picture that I have drawn. Look within the
limits of private life, and you will find true Christians, thank God,
among clergymen and laymen alike; you will find men and women who
deserve to be called, in the highest sense of the word, disciples of
Christ. But my business is not with private life--my business is with
the present public aspect of the religion, morals, and politics of this
country; and again I say it, that aspect presents one wide field of
corruption and abuse, and reveals a callous and shocking insensibility
on the part of the nation at large to the spectacle of its own
demoralisation and disgrace.”

There Amelius paused, and took his first drink of water.

Reserved seats at public performances seem, by some curious affinity,
to be occupied by reserved persons. The select public, seated nearest to
the orator, preserved discreet silence. But the hearty applause from the
sixpenny places made ample amends. There was enough of the lecturer’s
own vehemence and impetuosity in this opening attack--sustained as it
undeniably was by a sound foundation of truth--to appeal strongly to the
majority of his audience. Mrs. Sowler began to think that her sixpence
had been well laid out, after all; and Mrs. Farnaby pointed the direct
application to her husband of all the hardest hits at commerce, by
nodding her head at him as they were delivered.

Amelius went on.

“The next thing we have to discover is this: Will our present system of
government supply us with peaceable means for the reform of the abuses
which I have already noticed? not forgetting that other enormous abuse,
represented by our intolerable national expenditure, increasing with
every year. Unless you insist on it, I do not propose to waste our
precious time by saying anything about the House of Lords, for three
good reasons. In the first place, that assembly is not elected by the
people, and it has therefore no right of existence in a really free
country. In the second place, out of its four hundred and eighty-five
members, no less than one hundred and eighty-four directly profit by the
expenditure of the public money; being in the annual receipt, under one
pretence or another, of more than half a million sterling. In the third
place, if the assembly of the Commons has in it the will, as well as the
capacity, to lead the way in the needful reforms, the assembly of the
Lords has no alternative but to follow, or to raise the revolution which
it only escaped, by a hair’s-breadth, some forty years since. What do
you say? Shall we waste our time in speaking of the House of Lords?”

Loud cries from the sixpenny benches answered No; the ostler and the
fiery-faced woman being the most vociferous of all. Here and there,
certain dissentient individuals raised a little hiss--led by Jervy, in
the interests of “the Altar and the Throne.”

Amelius resumed.

“Well, will the House of Commons help us to get purer Christianity, and
cheaper government, by lawful and sufficient process of reform? Let me
again remind you that this assembly has the power--if it has the will.
Is it so constituted at present as to have the will? There is the
question! The number of members is a little over six hundred and fifty.
Out of this muster, one fifth only represent (or pretend to represent)
the trading interests of the country. As for the members charged
with the interests of the working class, they are more easily counted
still--they are two in number! Then, in heaven’s name (you will ask),
what interest does the majority of members in this assembly represent?
There is but one answer--the military and aristocratic interest. In
these days of the decay of representative institutions, the House of
Commons has become a complete misnomer. The Commons are not represented;
modern members belong to classes of the community which have really no
interest in providing for popular needs and lightening popular burdens.
In one word, there is no sort of hope for us in the House of Commons.
And whose fault is this? I own it with shame and sorrow--it is
emphatically the fault of the people. Yes, I say to you plainly, it is
the disgrace and the peril of England that the people themselves have
elected the representative assembly which ignores the people’s wants!
You voters, in town and county alike, have had every conceivable
freedom and encouragement secured to you in the exercise of your sacred
trust--and there is the modern House of Commons to prove that you are
thoroughly unworthy of it!”

These bold words produced an outbreak of disapprobation from the
audience, which, for the moment, completely overpowered the speaker’s
voice. They were prepared to listen with inexhaustible patience to the
enumeration of their virtues and their wrongs--but they had not paid
sixpence each to be informed of the vicious and contemptible part which
they play in modern politics. They yelled and groaned and hissed--and
felt that their handsome young lecturer had insulted them!

Amelius waited quietly until the disturbance had worn itself out.

“I am sorry I have made you angry with me,” he said, smiling. “The blame
for this little disturbance really rests with the public speakers who
are afraid of you and who flatter you--especially if you belong to the
working classes. You are not accustomed to have the truth told you to
your faces. Why, my good friends, the people in this country, who
are unworthy of the great trust which the wise and generous English
constitution places in their hands, are so numerous that they can be
divided into distinct classes! There is the highly-educated class
which despairs, and holds aloof. There is the class beneath--without
self-respect, and therefore without public spirit--which can be bribed
indirectly, by the gift of a place, by the concession of a lease, even
by an invitation to a party at a great house which includes the wives
and the daughters. And there is the lower class still--mercenary,
corrupt, shameless to the marrow of its bones--which sells itself and
its liberties for money and drink. When I began this discourse,
and adverted to great changes that are to come, I spoke of them as
revolutionary changes. Am I an alarmist? Do I unjustly ignore the
capacity for peaceable reformation which has preserved modern England
from revolutions, thus far? God forbid that I should deny the truth, or
that I should alarm you without need! But history tells me, if I look no
farther back than to the first French Revolution, that there are social
and political corruptions, which strike their roots in a nation
so widely and so deeply, that no force short of the force of a
revolutionary convulsion can tear them up and cast them away. And I do
personally fear (and older and wiser men than I agree with me), that
the corruptions at which I have only been able to hint, in this brief
address, are fast extending themselves--in England, as well as in Europe
generally--beyond the reach of that lawful and bloodless reform which
has served us so well in past years. Whether I am mistaken in this view
(and I hope with all my heart it may be so), or whether events yet in
the future will prove that I am right, the remedy in either case,
the one sure foundation on which a permanent, complete, and worthy
reformation can be built--whether it prevents a convulsion or whether
it follows a convulsion--is only to be found within the covers of this
book. Do not, I entreat you, suffer yourselves to be persuaded by those
purblind philosophers who assert that the divine virtue of Christianity
is a virtue which is wearing out with the lapse of time. It is the abuse
and corruption of Christianity that is wearing out--as all falsities
and all impostures must and do wear out. Never, since Christ and his
apostles first showed men the way to be better and happier, have
the nations stood in sorer need of a return to that teaching, in its
pristine purity and simplicity, than now! Never, more certainly than at
this critical time, was it the interest as well as the duty of mankind
to turn a deaf ear to the turmoil of false teachers, and to trust
in that all-wise and all-merciful Voice which only ceased to exalt,
console, and purify humanity, when it expired in darkness under the
torture of the cross! Are these the wild words of an enthusiast? Is this
the dream of an earthly Paradise in which it is sheer folly to believe?
I can tell you of one existing community (one among others) which
numbers some hundreds of persons; and which has found prosperity and
happiness, by reducing the whole art and mystery of government to the
simple solution set forth in the New Testament--fear God, and love thy
neighbour as thyself.”

By these gradations Amelius arrived at the second of the two parts into
which he had divided his address.

He now repeated, at greater length and with a more careful choice of
language, the statement of the religious and social principles of
the Community at Tadmor, which he had already addressed to his two
fellow-travellers on the voyage to England. While he confined himself to
plain narrative, describing a mode of life which was entirely new to
his hearers, he held the attention of the audience. But when he began to
argue the question of applying Christian Socialism to the government of
large populations as well as small--when he inquired logically whether
what he had proved to be good for some hundreds of persons was not
also good for some thousands, and, conceding that, for some hundreds of
thousands, and so on until he had arrived, by dint of sheer argument,
at the conclusion that what had succeeded at Tadmor must necessarily
succeed on a fair trial in London--then the public interest began to
flag. People remembered their coughs and colds, and talked in whispers,
and looked about them with a vague feeling of relief in staring at each
other. Mrs. Sowler, hitherto content with furtively glancing at Mr.
Farnaby from time to time, now began to look at him more boldly, as he
stood in his corner with his eyes fixed sternly on the platform at
the other end of the hall. He too began to feel that the lecture was
changing its tone. It was no longer the daring outbreak which he
had come to hear, as his sufficient justification (if necessary) for
forbidding Amelius to enter his house. “I have had enough of it,” he
said, suddenly turning to his wife, “let us go.”

If Mrs. Farnaby could have been forewarned that she was standing in that
assembly of strangers, not as one of themselves, but as a woman with a
formidable danger hanging over her head--or if she had only happened to
look towards Phoebe, and had felt a passing reluctance to submit herself
to the possibly insolent notice of a discharged servant--she might have
gone out with her husband, and might have so escaped the peril that had
been lying in wait for her, from the fatal moment when she first
entered the hall. As it was she refused to move. “You forget the public
discussion,” she said. “Wait and see what sort of fight Amelius makes of
it when the lecture is over.”

She spoke loud enough to be heard by some of the people seated nearest
to her. Phoebe, critically examining the dresses of the few ladies in
the reserved seats, twisted round on the bench, and noticed for the
first time the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Farnaby in their dim corner.
“Look!” she whispered to Jervy, “there’s the wretch who turned me out of
her house without a character, and her husband with her.”

Jervy looked round, in his turn, a little doubtful of the accuracy of
his sweetheart’s information. “Surely they wouldn’t come to the sixpenny
places,” he said. “Are you certain it’s Mr. and Mrs. Farnaby?”

He spoke in cautiously-lowered tones; but Mrs. Sowler had seen him
look back at the lady and gentleman in the corner, and was listening
attentively to catch the first words that fell from his lips.

“Which is Mr. Farnaby?” she asked.

“The man in the corner there, with the white silk wrapper over his
mouth, and his hat down to his eyebrows.”

Mrs. Sowler looked round for a moment--to make sure that Jervy’s man and
her man were one and the same.

“Farnaby?” she muttered to herself, in the tone of a person who heard
the name for the first time. She considered a little, and leaning across
Jervy, addressed herself to his companion. “My dear,” she whispered,
“did that gentleman ever go by the name of Morgan, and have his letters
addressed to the George and Dragon, in Tooley-street?”

Phoebe lifted her eyebrows with a look of contemptuous surprise, which
was an answer in itself. “Fancy the great Mr. Farnaby going by an
assumed name, and having his letters addressed to a public-house!” she
said to Jervy.

Mrs. Sowler asked no more questions. She relapsed into muttering
to herself, under her breath. “His whiskers have turned gray, to be
sure--but I know his eyes again; I’ll take my oath to it, there’s no
mistaking _his_ eyes!” She suddenly appealed to Jervy. “Is Mr. Farnaby
rich?” she asked.

“Rolling in riches!” was the answer.

“Where does he live?”

Jervy was cautious how he replied to that; he consulted Phoebe. “Shall I
tell her?”

Phoebe answered petulantly, “I’m turned out of the house; I don’t care
what you tell her!”

Jervy again addressed the old woman, still keeping his information in
reserve. “Why do you want to know where he lives?”

“He owes me money,” said Mrs. Sowler.

Jervy looked hard at her, and emitted a long low whistle, expressive of
blank amazement. The persons near, annoyed by the incessant whispering,
looked round irritably, and insisted on silence. Jervy ventured
nevertheless on a last interruption. “You seem to be tired of this,” he
remarked to Phoebe; “let’s go and get some oysters.” She rose directly.
Jervy tapped Mrs. Sowler on the shoulder, as they passed her. “Come and
have some supper,” he said; “I’ll stand treat.”

The three were necessarily noticed by their neighbours as they passed
out. Mrs. Farnaby discovered Phoebe--when it was too late. Mr. Farnaby
happened to look first at the old woman. Sixteen years of squalid
poverty effectually disguised her, in that dim light. He only looked
away again, and said to his wife impatiently, “Let us go too!”

Mrs. Farnaby was still obstinate. “You can go if you like,” she said; “I
shall stay here.”



CHAPTER 4

“Three dozen oysters, bread-and-butter, and bottled stout; a private
room and a good fire.” Issuing these instructions, on his arrival at the
tavern, Jervy was surprised by a sudden act of interference on the part
of his venerable guest. Mrs. Sowler actually took it on herself to order
her own supper!

“Nothing cold to eat or drink for me,” she said. “Morning and night,
waking and sleeping, I can’t keep myself warm. See for yourself, Jervy,
how I’ve lost flesh since you first knew me! A steak, broiling hot from
the gridiron, and gin-and-water, hotter still--that’s the supper for
me.”

“Take the order, waiter,” said Jervy, resignedly; “and let us see the
private room.”

The tavern was of the old-fashioned English sort, which scorns to learn
a lesson of brightness and elegance from France. The private room can
only be described as a museum for the exhibition of dirt in all its
varieties. Behind the bars of the rusty little grate a dying fire was
drawing its last breath. Mrs. Sowler clamoured for wood and coals;
revived the fire with her own hands; and seated herself shivering as
close to the fender as the chair would go. After a while, the composing
effect of the heat began to make its influence felt: the head of
the half-starved wretch sank: a species of stupor overcame her--half
faintness, and half sleep.

Phoebe and her sweetheart sat together, waiting the appearance of the
supper, on a little sofa at the other end of the room. Having certain
objects to gain, Jervy put his arm round her waist, and looked and spoke
in his most insinuating manner.

“Try and put up with Mother Sowler for an hour or two,” he said. “My
sweet girl, I know she isn’t fit company for you! But how can I turn my
back on an old friend?”

“That’s just what surprises me,” Phoebe answered. “I don’t understand
such a person being a friend of yours.”

Always ready with the necessary lie, whenever the occasion called for
it, Jervy invented a pathetic little story, in two short parts.
First part: Mrs. Sowler, rich and respected; a widow inhabiting a
villa-residence, and riding in her carriage. Second part: a villainous
lawyer; misplaced confidence; reckless investments; death of the
villain; ruin of Mrs. Sowler. “Don’t talk about her misfortunes when
she wakes,” Jervy concluded, “or she’ll burst out crying, to a dead
certainty. Only tell me, dear Phoebe, would _you_ turn your back on a
forlorn old creature because she has outlived all her other friends, and
hasn’t a farthing left in the world? Poor as I am, I can help her to a
supper, at any rate.”

Phoebe expressed her admiration of these noble sentiments by an
inexpensive ebullition of tenderness, which failed to fulfill Jervy’s
private anticipations. He had aimed straight at her purse--and he had
only hit her heart! He tried a broad hint next. “I wonder whether I
shall have a shilling or two left to give Mrs. Sowler, when I have paid
for the supper?” He sighed, and pulled out some small change, and looked
at it in eloquent silence. Phoebe was hit in the right place at last.
She handed him her purse. “What is mine will be yours, when we are
married,” she said; “why not now?” Jervy expressed his sense of
obligation with the promptitude of a grateful man; he repeated
those precious words, “My sweet girl!” Phoebe laid her head on his
shoulder--and let him kiss her, and enjoyed it in silent ecstasy with
half-closed eyes. The scoundrel waited and watched her, until she was
completely under his influence. Then, and not till then, he risked the
gradual revelation of the purpose which had induced him to withdraw from
the hall, before the proceedings of the evening had reached their end.

“Did you hear what Mrs. Sowler said to me, just before we left the
lecture?” he asked.

“No, dear.”

“You remember that she asked me to tell her Farnaby’s address?”

“Oh yes! And she wanted to know if he had ever gone by the name of
Morgan. Ridiculous--wasn’t it?”

“I’m not so sure of that, my dear. She told me, in so many words,
that Farnaby owed her money. He didn’t make his fortune all at once, I
suppose. How do we know what he might have done in his young days, or
how he might have humbugged a feeble woman. Wait till our friend there
at the fire has warmed her old bones with some hot grog--and I’ll find
out something more about Farnaby’s debt.”

“Why, dear? What is it to you?”

Jervy reflected for a moment, and decided that the time had come to
speak more plainly.

“In the first place,” he said, “it would only be an act of common
humanity, on my part, to help Mrs. Sowler to get her money. You see
that, don’t you? Very well. Now, I am no Socialist, as you are aware;
quite the contrary. At the same time, I am a remarkably just man; and
I own I was struck by what Mr. Goldenheart said about the uses to which
wealthy people are put, by the Rules at Tadmor. ‘The man who has got the
money is bound, by the express law of Christian morality, to use it in
assisting the man who has got none.’ Those were his words, as nearly as
I can remember them. He put it still more strongly afterwards; he
said, ‘A man who hoards up a large fortune, from a purely selfish
motive--either because he is a miser, or because he looks only to the
aggrandisement of his own family after his death--is, in either case,
an essentially unchristian person, who stands in manifest need of
enlightenment and control by Christian law.’ And then, if you remember,
some of the people murmured; and Mr. Goldenheart stopped them by reading
a line from the New Testament, which said exactly what he had been
saying--only in fewer words. Now, my dear girl, Farnaby seems to me to
be one of the many people pointed at in this young gentleman’s lecture.
Judging by looks, I should say he was a hard man.”

“That’s just what he is--hard as iron! Looks at his servants as if they
were dirt under his feet; and never speaks a kind word to them from one
year’s end to another.”

“Suppose I guess again? He’s not particularly free-handed with his
money--is he?”

“He! He will spend anything on himself and his grandeur; but he never
gave away a halfpenny in his life.”

Jervy pointed to the fireplace, with a burst of virtuous indignation.
“And there’s that poor old soul starving for want of the money he owes
her! Damn it, I agree with the Socialists; it’s a virtue to make that
sort of man bleed. Look at you and me! We are the very people he ought
to help--we might be married at once, if we only knew where to find a
little money. I’ve seen a deal of the world, Phoebe; and my experience
tells me there’s something about that debt of Farnaby’s which he doesn’t
want to have known. Why shouldn’t we screw a few five-pound notes for
ourselves out of the rich miser’s fears?”

Phoebe was cautious. “It’s against the law--ain’t it?” she said.

“Trust me to keep clear of the law,” Jervy answered. “I won’t stir in
the matter till I know for certain that he daren’t take the police into
his confidence. It will be all easy enough when we are once sure of
that. You have been long enough in the family to find out Farnaby’s weak
side. Would it do, if we got at him, to begin with, through his wife?”

Phoebe suddenly reddened to the roots of her hair. “Don’t talk to me
about his wife!” she broke out fiercely; “I’ve got a day of reckoning to
come with that lady--” She looked at Jervy and checked herself. He was
watching her with an eager curiosity, which not even his ready cunning
was quick enough to conceal.

“I wouldn’t intrude on your little secrets, darling, for the world!” he
said, in his most persuasive tones. “But, if you want advice, you know
that I am heart and soul at your service.”

Phoebe looked across the room at Mrs. Sowler, still nodding over the
fire.

“Never mind now,” she said; “I don’t think it’s a matter for a man to
advise about--it’s between Mrs. Farnaby and me. Do what you like with
her husband; I don’t care; he’s a brute, and I hate him. But there’s one
thing I insist on--I won’t have Miss Regina frightened or annoyed; mind
that! She’s a good creature. There, read the letter she wrote to me
yesterday, and judge for yourself.”

Jervy looked at the letter. It was not very long. He resignedly took
upon himself the burden of reading it.


“DEAR PHOEBE,

“Don’t be downhearted. I am your friend always, and I will help you to
get another place. I am sorry to say that it was indeed Mrs. Ormond who
found us out that day. She had her suspicions, and she watched us, and
told my aunt. This she owned to me with her own lips. She said, ‘I would
do anything, my dear, to save you from an ill-assorted marriage.’ I am
very wretched about it, because I can never look on her as my friend
again. My aunt, as you know, is of Mrs. Ormond’s way of thinking. You
must make allowances for her hot temper. Remember, out of your kindness
towards me, you had been secretly helping forward the very thing which
she was most anxious to prevent. That made her very angry; but, never
fear, she will come round in time. If you don’t want to spend your
little savings, while you are waiting for another situation, let me
know. A share of my pocket-money is always at your service.

“Your friend,

“REGINA.”


“Very nice indeed,” said Jervy, handing the letter back, and yawning as
he did it. “And convenient, too, if we run short of money. Ah, here’s
the waiter with the supper, at last! Now, Mrs. Sowler, there’s a time
for everything--it’s time to wake up.”

He lifted the old woman off her chair, and settled her before the
table, like a child. The sight of the hot food and drink roused her to
a tigerish activity. She devoured the meat with her eyes as well as her
teeth; she drank the hot gin-and-water in fierce gulps, and set down
the glass with audible gasps of relief. “Another one,” she cried, “and I
shall begin to feel warm again!”

Jervy, watching her from the opposite side of the table, with Phoebe
close by him as usual, had his own motives for encouraging her to talk,
by the easy means of encouraging her to drink. He sent for another glass
of the hot grog. Phoebe, daintily picking up her oysters with her fork,
affected to be shocked at Mrs. Sowler’s coarse method of eating and
drinking. She kept her eyes on her plate, and only consented to
taste malt liquor under modest protest. When Jervy lit a cigar, after
finishing his supper, she reminded him, in an impressively genteel
manner, of the consideration which he owed to the presence of an elderly
lady. “I like it myself, dear,” she said mincingly; “but perhaps Mrs.
Sowler objects to the smell?”

Mrs. Sowler burst into a hoarse laugh. “Do I look as if I was likely to
be squeamish about smells?” she asked, with the savage contempt for her
own poverty, which was one of the dangerous elements in her character.
“See the place I live in, young woman, and then talk about smells if you
like!”

This was indelicate. Phoebe picked a last oyster out of its shell, and
kept her eyes modestly fixed on her plate. Observing that the second
glass of gin-and-water was fast becoming empty, Jervy risked the first
advances, on his way to Mrs. Sowler’s confidence.

“About that debt of Farnaby’s?” he began. “Is it a debt of long
standing?”

Mrs. Sowler was on her guard. In other words, Mrs. Sowler’s head was
only assailable by hot grog, when hot grog was administered in large
quantities. She said it was a debt of long standing, and she said no
more.

“Has it been standing seven years?”

Mrs. Sowler emptied her glass, and looked hard at Jervy across the
table. “My memory isn’t good for much, at my time of life.” She gave him
that answer, and she gave him no more.

Jervy yielded with his best grace. “Try a third glass,” he said;
“there’s luck, you know, in odd numbers.”

Mrs. Sowler met this advance in the spirit in which it was made. She was
obliging enough to consult her memory, even before the third glass made
its appearance. “Seven years, did you say?” she repeated. “More than
twice seven years, Jervy! What do you think of that?”

Jervy wasted no time in thinking. He went on with his questions.

“Are you quite sure that the man I pointed out to you, at the lecture,
is the same man who went by the name of Morgan, and had his letters
addressed to the public-house?”

“Quite sure. I’d swear to him anywhere--only by his eyes.”

“And have you never yet asked him to pay the debt?”

“How could I ask him, when I never knew what his name was till you told
me to-night?”

“What amount of money does he owe you?”

Whether Mrs. Sowler had her mind prophetically fixed on a fourth glass
of grog, or whether she thought it time to begin asking questions on her
own account, is not easy to say. Whatever her motive might be, she slyly
shook her head, and winked at Jervy. “The money’s my business,” she
remarked. “You tell me where he lives--and I’ll make him pay me.”

Jervy was equal to the occasion. “You won’t do anything of the sort,” he
said.

Mrs. Sowler laughed defiantly. “So you think, my fine fellow!”

“I don’t think at all, old lady--I’m certain. In the first place,
Farnaby don’t owe you the debt by law, after seven years. In the second
place, just look at yourself in the glass there. Do you think the
servants will let you in, when you knock at Farnaby’s door? You want a
clever fellow to help you--or you’ll never recover that debt.”

Mrs. Sowler was accessible to reason (even half-way through her third
glass of grog), when reason was presented to her in convincing terms.
She came to the point at once. “How much do you want?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Jervy answered; “I don’t look to _you_ to pay my commission.”

Mrs. Sowler reflected a little--and understood him. “Say that again,”
 she insisted, “in the presence of your young woman as witness.”

Jervy touched his young woman’s hand under the table, warning her to
make no objection, and to leave it to him. Having declared for the
second time that he would not take a farthing from Mrs. Sowler, he went
on with his inquiries.

“I’m acting in your interests, Mother Sowler,” he said; “and you’ll be
the loser, if you don’t answer my questions patiently, and tell me the
truth. I want to go back to the debt. What is it for?”

“For six weeks’ keep of a child, at ten shillings a week.”

Phoebe looked up from her plate.

“Whose child?” Jervy asked, noticing the sudden movement.

“Morgan’s child--the same man you said was Farnaby.”

“Do you know who the mother was?”

“I wish I did! I should have got the money out of her long ago.”

Jervy stole a look at Phoebe. She had turned pale; she was listening,
with her eyes riveted on Mrs. Sowler’s ugly face.

“How long ago was it?” Jervy went on.

“Better than sixteen years.”

“Did Farnaby himself give you the child?”

“With his own hands, over the garden-paling of a house at Ramsgate. He
saw me and the child into the train for London. I had ten pounds from
him, and no more. He promised to see me, and settle everything, in a
month’s time. I have never set eyes on him from that day, till I saw him
paying his money this evening at the door of the hall.”

Jervy stole another look at Phoebe. She was still perfectly unconscious
that he was observing her. Her attention was completely absorbed by Mrs.
Sowler’s replies. Speculating on the possible result, Jervy abandoned
the question of the debt, and devoted his next inquiries to the subject
of the child.

“I promise you every farthing of your money, Mother Sowler,” he said,
“with interest added to it. How old was the child when Farnaby gave it
to you?”

“Old? Not a week old, I should say!”

“Not a week old?” Jervy repeated, with his eye on Phoebe. “Dear, dear
me, a newborn baby, one may say!”

The girl’s excitement was fast getting beyond control. She leaned across
the table, in her eagerness to hear more.

“And how long was this poor child under your care?” Jervy went on.

“How can I tell you, at this distance of time? For some months, I should
say. This I’m certain of--I kept it for six good weeks after the ten
pounds he gave me were spent. And then--” she stopped, and looked at
Phoebe.

“And then you got rid of it?”

Mrs. Sowler felt for Jervy’s foot under the table, and gave it a
significant kick. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of, miss,” she
said, addressing her answer defiantly to Phoebe. “Being too poor to keep
the little dear myself, I placed it under the care of a good lady, who
adopted it.”

Phoebe could restrain herself no longer. She burst out with the next
question, before Jervy could open his lips.

“Do you know where the lady is now?”

“No,” said Mrs. Sowler shortly; “I don’t.”

“Do you know where to find the child?”

Mrs. Sowler slowly stirred up the remains of her grog. “I know no more
than you do. Any more questions, miss?”

Phoebe’s excitement completely blinded her to the evident signs of a
change in Mrs. Sowler’s temper for the worse. She went on headlong.

“Have you never seen the child since you gave her to the lady?”

Mrs. Sowler set down her glass, just as she was raising it to her lips.
Jervy paused, thunderstruck, in the act of lighting a second cigar.

_“Her?”_ Mrs. Sowler repeated slowly, her eyes fixed on Phoebe with
a lowering expression of suspicion and surprise. “Her?” She turned to
Jervy. “Did you ask me if the child was a girl or a boy?”

“I never even thought of it,” Jervy replied.

“Did I happen to say it myself, without being asked?”

Jervy deliberately abandoned Phoebe to the implacable old wretch, before
whom she had betrayed herself. It was the only likely way of forcing
the girl to confess everything. “No,” he answered; “you never said it
without being asked.”

Mrs. Sowler turned once more to Phoebe. “How do you know the child was a
girl?” she inquired.

Phoebe trembled, and said nothing. She sat with her head down, and her
hands, fast clasped together, resting on her lap.

“Might I ask, if you please,” Mrs. Sowler proceeded, with a ferocious
assumption of courtesy, “how old you are, miss? You’re young enough and
pretty enough not to mind answering to your age, I’m sure.”

Even Jervy’s villainous experience of the world failed to forewarn him
of what was coming. Phoebe, it is needless to say, instantly fell into
the trap.

“Twenty-four,” she replied, “next birthday.”

“And the child was put into my hands, sixteen years ago,” said Mrs.
Sowler. “Take sixteen from twenty-four, and eight remains. I’m more
surprised than ever, miss, at your knowing it to be a girl. It couldn’t
have been your child--could it?”

Phoebe started to her feet, in a state of fury. “Do you hear that?” she
cried, appealing to Jervy. “How dare you bring me here to be insulted by
that drunken wretch?”

Mrs. Sowler rose, on her side. The old savage snatched up her empty
glass--intending to throw it at Phoebe. At the same moment, the ready
Jervy caught her by the arm, dragged her out of the room, and shut the
door behind them.

There was a bench on the landing outside. He pushed Mrs. Sowler down on
the bench with one hand, and took Phoebe’s purse out of his pocket with
the other. “Here’s a pound,” he said, “towards the recovery of that
debt of yours. Go home quietly, and meet me at the door of this house
tomorrow evening, at six.”

Mrs. Sowler, opening her lips to protest, suddenly closed them again,
fascinated by the sight of the gold. She clutched the coin, and became
friendly and familiar in a moment. “Help me downstairs, deary,” she
said, “and put me into a cab. I’m afraid of the night air.”

“One word more, before I put you into a cab,” said Jervy. “What did you
really do with the child?”

Mrs. Sowler grinned hideously, and whispered her reply, in the strictest
confidence.

“Sold her to Moll Davies, for five-and-sixpence.”

“Who was Moll Davis?”

“A cadger.”

“And you really know nothing now of Moll Davis or the child?”

“Should I want you to help me if I did?” Mrs. Sowler asked
contemptuously. “They may be both dead and buried, for all I know to the
contrary.”

Jervy put her into the cab, without further delay. “Now for the other
one!” he said to himself, as he hurried back to the private room.



CHAPTER 5

Some men would have found it no easy task to console Phoebe, under
the circumstances. Jervy had the immense advantage of not feeling
the slightest sympathy for her: he was in full command of his large
resources of fluent assurance and ready flattery. In less than five
minutes, Phoebe’s tears were dried, and her lover had his arm round her
waist again, in the character of a cherished and forgiven man.

“Now, my angel!” he said (Phoebe sighed tenderly; he had never called
her his angel before), “tell me all about it in confidence. Only let
me know the facts, and I shall see my way to protecting you against
any annoyance from Mrs. Sowler in the future. You have made a very
extraordinary discovery. Come closer to me, my dear girl. Did it happen
in Farnaby’s house?”

“I heard it in the kitchen,” said Phoebe.

Jervy started. “Did any one else hear it?” he asked.

“No. They were all in the housekeeper’s room, looking at the Indian
curiosities which her son in Canada had sent to her. I had left my bird
on the dresser--and I ran into the kitchen to put the cage in a safe
place, being afraid of the cat. One of the swinging windows in the
skylight was open; and I heard voices in the back room above, which is
Mrs. Farnaby’s room.”

“Whose voices did you hear?”

“Mrs. Farnaby’s voice, and Mr. Goldenheart’s.”

“Mrs. Farnaby?” Jervy repeated, in surprise. “Are you sure it was
_Mrs.?”_

“Of course I am! Do you think I don’t know that horrid woman’s voice?
She was saying a most extraordinary thing when I first heard her--she
was asking if there was anything wrong in showing her naked foot. And a
man answered, and the voice was Mr. Goldenheart’s. You would have felt
curious to hear more, if you had been in my place, wouldn’t you? I
opened the second window in the kitchen, so as to make sure of not
missing anything. And what do you think I heard her say?”

“You mean Mrs. Farnaby?”

“Yes. I heard her say, ‘Look at my right foot--you see there’s nothing
the matter with it.’ And then, after a while, she said, ‘Look at my left
foot--look between the third toe and the fourth.’ Did you ever hear of
such a audacious thing for a married woman to say to a young man?”

“Go on! go on! What did _he_ say?”

“Nothing; I suppose he was looking at her foot.”

“Her left foot?”

“Yes. Her left foot was nothing to be proud of, I can tell you! By her
own account, she has some horrid deformity in it, between the third toe
and the fourth. No; I didn’t hear her say what the deformity was. I only
heard her call it so--and she said her ‘poor darling’ was born with
the same fault, and that was her defence against being imposed upon by
rogues--I remember the very words--‘in the past days when I employed
people to find her.’ Yes! she said _‘her.’_ I heard it plainly. And she
talked afterwards of her ‘poor lost daughter’, who might be still living
somewhere, and wondering who her mother was. Naturally enough, when I
heard that hateful old drunkard talking about a child given to her by
Mr. Farnaby, I put two and two together. Dear me, how strangely you
look! What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m only very much interested--that’s all. But there’s one thing I
don’t understand. What had Mr. Goldenheart to do with all this?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, then, I tell you now. Mrs. Farnaby is not only a heartless
wretch, who turns a poor girl out of her situation, and refuses to give
her a character--she’s a fool besides. That precious exhibition of her
nasty foot was to inform Mr. Goldenheart of something she wanted him to
know. If he happened to meet with a girl, in his walks or his travels,
and if he found that she had the same deformity in the same foot, then
he might know for certain--”

“All right! I understand. But why Mr. Goldenheart?”

“Because she had a dream that Mr. Goldenheart had found the lost girl,
and because she thought there was one chance in a hundred that her dream
might come true! Did you ever hear of such a fool before? From what I
could make out, I believe she actually cried about it. And that same
woman turns me into the street to be ruined, for all she knows or cares.
Mind this! I would have kept her secret--it was no business of mine,
after all--if she had behaved decently to me. As it is, I mean to be
even with her; and what I heard down in the kitchen is more than enough
to help me to it. I’ll expose her somehow--I don’t quite know how; but
that will come with time. You will keep the secret, dear, I’m sure. We
are soon to have all our secrets in common, when we are man and wife,
ain’t we? Why, you’re not listening to me! What _is_ the matter with
you?”

Jervy suddenly looked up. His soft insinuating manner had vanished; he
spoke roughly and impatiently.

“I want to know something. Has Farnaby’s wife got money of her own?”

Phoebe’s mind was still disturbed by the change in her lover. “You speak
as if you were angry with me,” she said.

Jervy recovered his insinuating tones, with some difficulty. “My
dear girl, I love you! How can I be angry with you? You’ve set me
thinking--and it bothers me a little, that’s all. Do you happen to know
if Mrs. Farnaby has got money of her own?”

Phoebe answered this time. “I’ve heard Miss Regina say that Mrs.
Farnaby’s father was a rich man,” she said.

“What was his name?”

“Ronald.”

“Do you know when he died?”

“No.”

Jervy fell into thought again, biting his nails in great perplexity.
After a moment or two, an idea came to him. “The tombstone will tell
me!” he exclaimed, speaking to himself. He turned to Phoebe, before she
could express her surprise, and asked if she knew where Mr. Ronald was
buried.

“Yes,” said Phoebe, “I’ve heard that. In Highgate cemetery. But why do
you want to know?”

Jervy looked at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said; “I’ll see you
safe home.”

“But I want to know--”

“Put on your bonnet, and wait till we are out in the street.”

Jervy paid the bill, with all needful remembrance of the waiter. He was
generous, he was polite; but he was apparently in no hurry to favour
Phoebe with the explanation that he had promised. They had left the
tavern for some minutes--and he was still rude enough to remain absorbed
in his own reflections. Phoebe’s patience gave way.

“I have told you everything,” she said reproachfully; “I don’t call it
fair dealing to keep me in the dark after that.”

He roused himself directly. “My dear girl, you entirely mistake me!”

The reply was as ready as usual; but it was spoken rather absently.
Only that moment, he had decided on informing Phoebe (to some extent, at
least) of the purpose which he was then meditating. He would infinitely
have preferred using Mrs. Sowler as his sole accomplice. But he knew the
girl too well to run that risk. If he refused to satisfy her curiosity,
she would be deterred by no scruples of delicacy from privately watching
him; and she might say something (either by word of month or by writing)
to the kind young mistress who was in correspondence with her, which
might lead to disastrous results. It was of the last importance to him,
so far to associate Phoebe with his projected enterprise, as to give her
an interest of her own in keeping his secrets.

“I have not the least wish,” he resumed, “to conceal any thing from you.
So far as I can see my way at present, you shall see it too.” Reserving
in this dexterous manner the freedom of lying, whenever he found it
necessary to depart from the truth, he smiled encouragingly, and waited
to be questioned.

Phoebe repeated the inquiry she had made at the tavern. “Why do you want
to know where Mr. Ronald is buried?” she asked bluntly.

“Mr. Ronald’s tombstone, my dear, will tell me the date of Mr. Ronald’s
death,” Jervy rejoined. “When I have got the date, I shall go to a place
near St. Paul’s, called Doctors’ Commons; I shall pay a shilling fee,
and I shall have the privilege of looking at Mr. Ronald’s will.”

“And what good will that do you?”

“Very properly put, Phoebe! Even shillings are not to be wasted, in our
position. But my shilling will buy two sixpennyworths of information.
I shall find out what sum of money Mr. Ronald has left to his daughter;
and I shall know for certain whether Mrs. Farnaby’s husband has any
power over it, or not.”

“Well?” said Phoebe, not much interested so far--“and what then?”

Jervy looked about him. They were in a crowded thoroughfare at the time.
He preserved a discreet silence, until they had arrived at the first
turning which led down a quiet street.

“What I have to tell you,” he said, “must not be accidentally heard by
anybody. Here, my dear, we are all but out of the world--and here I can
speak to you safely. I promise you two good things. You shall bring Mrs.
Farnaby to that day of reckoning; and we will find money enough to marry
on comfortably as soon as you like.”

Phoebe’s languid interest in the subject began to revive: she insisted
on having a clearer explanation than this. “Do you mean to get the money
out of Mr. Farnaby?” she inquired.

“I will have nothing to do with Mr. Farnaby--unless I find that his
wife’s money is not at her own disposal. What you heard in the kitchen
has altered all my plans. Wait a minute--and you will see what I am
driving at. How much do you think Mrs. Farnaby would give me, if I found
that lost daughter of hers?”

Phoebe suddenly stood still, and looked at the sordid scoundrel who was
tempting her in blank amazement.

“But nobody knows where the daughter is,” she objected.

“You and I know that the daughter has a deformity in her left foot,”
 Jervy replied; “and you and I know exactly in what part of the foot it
is. There’s not only money to be made out of that knowledge--but money
made easily, without the slightest risk. Suppose I managed the matter by
correspondence, without appearing in it personally? Don’t you think
Mrs. Farnaby would open her purse beforehand, if I mentioned the exact
position of that little deformity, as a proof that I was to be depended
on?”

Phoebe was unable, or unwilling, to draw the obvious conclusion, even
now.

“But, what would you do,” she said, “when Mrs. Farnaby insisted on
seeing her daughter?”

There was something in the girl’s tone--half fearful, half
suspicious--which warned Jervy that he was treading on dangerous ground.
He knew perfectly well what he proposed to do, in the case that had been
so plainly put him. It was the simplest thing in the world. He had only
to make an appointment with Mrs. Farnaby for a meeting on a future day,
and to take to flight in the interval; leaving a polite note behind him
to say that it was all a mistake, and that he regretted being too poor
to return the money. Having thus far acknowledged the design he had in
view, could he still venture on answering his companion without reserve?
Phoebe was vain, Phoebe was vindictive; and, more promising still,
Phoebe was a fool. But she was not yet capable of consenting to an act
of the vilest infamy, in cold blood. Jervy looked at her--and saw that
the foreseen necessity for lying had come at last.

“That’s just the difficulty,” he said; “that’s just where I don’t see my
way plainly yet. Can you advise me?”

Phoebe started, and drew back from him. _“I_ advise you!” she exclaimed.
“It frightens me to think of it. If you make her believe she is going to
see her daughter, and if she finds out that you have robbed and deceived
her, I can tell you this--with her furious temper--you would drive her
mad.”

Jervy’s reply was a model of well-acted indignation. “Don’t talk of
anything so horrible,” he exclaimed. “If you believe me capable of such
cruelty as that, go to Mrs. Farnaby, and warn her at once!”

“It’s too bad to speak to me in that way!” Phoebe rejoined, with the
frank impetuosity of an offended woman. “You know I would die, rather
than get you into trouble. Beg my pardon directly--or I won’t walk
another step with you!”

Jervy made the necessary apologies, with all possible humility. He had
gained his end--he could now postpone any further discussion of the
subject, without arousing Phoebe’s distrust. “Let us say no more about
it, for the present,” he suggested; “we will think it over, and talk
of pleasanter things in the mean time. Kiss me, my dear girl; there’s
nobody looking.”

So he made peace with his sweetheart, and secured to himself, at the
same time, the full liberty of future action of which he stood in need.
If Phoebe asked any more questions, the necessary answer was obvious to
the meanest capacity. He had merely to say, “The matter is beset with
difficulties which I didn’t see at first--I have given it up.”

Their nearest way back to Phoebe’s lodgings took them through the street
which led to the Hampden Institution. Passing along the opposite side of
the road, they saw the private door opened. Two men stepped out. A third
man, inside, called after one of them. “Mr. Goldenheart! you have left
the statement of receipts in the waiting-room.” “Never mind,” Amelius
answered; “the night’s receipts are so small that I would rather not be
reminded of them again.” “In my country,” a third voice remarked, “if
he had lectured as he has lectured to-night, I reckon I’d have given him
three hundred dollars, gold (sixty pounds, English currency), and have
made my own profit by the transaction. The British nation has lost its
taste, sir, for intellectual recreation. I wish you good evening.”

Jervy hurried Phoebe out of the way, just as the two gentlemen were
crossing the street. He had not forgotten events at Tadmor--and he was
by no means eager to renew his former acquaintance with Amelius.



CHAPTER 6

Rufus and his young friend walked together silently as far as a large
square. Here they stopped, having reached the point at which it was
necessary to take different directions on their way home.

“I’ve a word of advice, my son, for your private ear,” said the New
Englander. “The barometer behind your waistcoat points to a downhearted
state of the moral atmosphere. Come along to home with me--you want a
whisky cocktail badly.”

“No, thank you, my dear fellow,” Amelius answered a little sadly. “I own
I’m downhearted, as you say. You see, I expected this lecture to be a
new opening for me. Personally, as you know, I don’t care two straws
about money. But my marriage depends on my adding to my income; and the
first attempt I’ve made to do it has ended in a total failure. I’m all
abroad again, when I look to the future--and I’m afraid I’m fool enough
to let it weigh on my spirits. No, the cocktail isn’t the right remedy
for me. I don’t get the exercise and fresh air, here, that I used to get
at Tadmor. My head burns after all that talking to-night. A good long
walk will put me right, and nothing else will.”

Rufus at once offered to accompany him. Amelius shook his head. “Did
you ever walk a mile in your life, when you could ride?” he asked
good-humouredly. “I mean to be on my legs for four or five hours; I
should only have to send you home in a cab. Thank you, old fellow,
for the brotherly interest you take in me. I’ll breakfast with you
to-morrow, at your hotel. Good night.”

Some curious prevision of evil seemed to trouble the mind of the
good New Englander. He held Amelius fast by the hand: he said, very
earnestly, “It goes against the grit with me to see you wandering off by
yourself at this time of night--it does, I tell you! Do me a favour for
once, my bright boy--go right away to bed.”

Amelius laughed, and released his hand. “I shouldn’t sleep, if I did go
to bed. Breakfast to-morrow, at ten o’clock. Goodnight, again!”

He started on his walk, at a pace which set pursuit on the part of Rufus
at defiance. The American stood watching him, until he was lost to sight
in the darkness. “What a grip that young fellow has got on me, in no
more than a few months!” Rufus thought, as he slowly turned away in
the direction of his hotel. “Lord send the poor boy may keep clear of
mischief this night!”

Meanwhile, Amelius walked on swiftly, straight before him, careless in
what direction he turned his steps, so long as he felt the cool air and
kept moving.

His thoughts were not at first occupied with the doubtful question of
his marriage; the lecture was still the uppermost subject in his mind.
He had reserved for the conclusion of his address the justification of
his view of the future, afforded by the widespread and frightful poverty
among the millions of the population of London alone. On this melancholy
theme he had spoken with the eloquence of true feeling, and had produced
a strong impression, even on those members of the audience who were most
resolutely opposed to the opinions which he advocated. Without any undue
exercise of self-esteem, he could look back on the close of his lecture
with the conviction that he had really done justice to himself and to
his cause. The retrospect of the public discussion that had followed
failed to give him the same pleasure. His warm temper, his vehemently
sincere belief in the truth of his own convictions, placed him at a
serious disadvantage towards the more self-restrained speakers (all
older than himself) who rose, one after another, to combat his views.
More than once he had lost his temper, and had been obliged to make
his apologies. More than once he had been indebted to the ready help
of Rufus, who had taken part in the battle of words, with the generous
purpose of covering his retreat. “No!” he thought to himself, with
bitter humility, “I’m not fit for public discussions. If they put me
into Parliament tomorrow, I should only get called to order and do
nothing.”

He reached the bank of the Thames, at the eastward end of the Strand.

Walking straight on, as absently as ever, he crossed Waterloo Bridge,
and followed the broad street that lay before him on the other side. He
was thinking of the future again: Regina was in his mind now. The one
prospect that he could see of a tranquil and happy life--with duties as
well as pleasures; duties that might rouse him to find the vocation
for which he was fit--was the prospect of his marriage. What was
the obstacle that stood in his way? The vile obstacle of money; the
contemptible spirit of ostentation which forbade him to live humbly on
his own sufficient little income, and insisted that he should purchase
domestic happiness at the price of the tawdry splendour of a rich
tradesman and his friends. And Regina, who was free to follow her
own better impulses--Regina, whose heart acknowledged him as its
master--bowed before the golden image which was the tutelary deity of
her uncle’s household, and said resignedly, Love must wait!

Still walking blindly on, he was roused on a sudden to a sense of
passing events. Crossing a side-street at the moment, a man caught him
roughly by the arm, and saved him from being run over. The man had a
broom in his hand; he was a crossing-sweeper. “I think I’ve earned my
penny, sir!” he said.

Amelius gave him half-a-crown. The man shouldered his broom, and tossed
up the money, in a transport of delight. “Here’s something to go home
with!” he cried, as he caught the half-crown again.

“Have you got a family at home?” Amelius asked.

“Only one, sir,” said the man. “The others are all dead. She’s as good
a girl and as pretty a girl as ever put on a petticoat--though I say it
that shouldn’t. Thank you kindly, sir. Good night!”

Amelius looked after the poor fellow, happy at least for that night! “If
I had only been lucky enough to fall in love with the crossing-sweeper’s
daughter,” he thought bitterly, _“she_ would have married me when I
asked her.”

He looked along the street. It curved away in the distance, with no
visible limit to it. Arrived at the next side-street on his left,
Amelius turned down it, weary of walking longer in the same direction.
Whither it might lead him he neither knew nor cared. In his present
humour it was a pleasurable sensation to feel himself lost in London.

The short street suddenly widened; a blaze of flaring gaslight dazzled
his eyes; he heard all round him the shouting of innumerable voices. For
the first time since he had been in London, he found himself in one of
the street-markets of the poor.

On either side of the road, the barrows of the costermongers--the
wandering tradesmen of the highway--were drawn up in rows; and every man
was advertising his wares, by means of the cheap publicity of his own
voice. Fish and vegetables; pottery and writing-paper; looking-glasses,
saucepans, and coloured prints--all appealed together to the scantily
filled purses of the crowds who thronged the pavement. One lusty
vagabond stood up in a rickety donkey-cart, knee-deep in apples, selling
a great wooden measure full for a penny, and yelling louder than all the
rest. “Never was such apples sold in the public streets before! Sweet
as flowers, and sound as a bell. Who says the poor ain’t looked after,”
 cried the fellow, with ferocious irony, “when they can have such
apple-sauce as this to their loin of pork? Here’s nobby apples; here’s
a penn’orth for your money. Sold again! Hullo, you! you look hungry.
Catch! there’s an apple for nothing, just to taste. Be in time, be in
time before they’re all sold!” Amelius moved forward a few steps, and
was half deafened by rival butchers, shouting, “Buy, buy, buy!” to
audiences of ragged women, who fingered the meat doubtfully, with
longing eyes. A little farther--and there was a blind man selling
staylaces, and singing a Psalm; and, beyond him again, a broken-down
soldier playing “God save the Queen” on a tin flageolet. The one silent
person in this sordid carnival was a Lascar beggar, with a printed
placard round his neck, addressed to “The Charitable Public.” He held
a tallow candle to illuminate the copious narrative of his misfortunes;
and the one reader he obtained was a fat man, who scratched his head,
and remarked to Amelius that he didn’t like foreigners. Starving boys
and girls lurked among the costermongers’ barrows, and begged piteously
on pretence of selling cigar-lights and comic songs. Furious women stood
at the doors of public-houses, and railed on their drunken husbands for
spending the house-money in gin. A thicker crowd, towards the middle of
the street, poured in and out at the door of a cookshop. Here the people
presented a less terrible spectacle--they were even touching to see.
These were the patient poor, who bought hot morsels of sheep’s heart
and liver at a penny an ounce, with lamentable little mouthfuls of
peas-pudding, greens, and potatoes at a halfpenny each. Pale children
in corners supped on penny basins of soup, and looked with hungry
admiration at their enviable neighbours who could afford to buy stewed
eels for twopence. Everywhere there was the same noble resignation to
their hard fate, in old and young alike. No impatience, no complaints.
In this wretched place, the language of true gratitude was still to be
heard, thanking the good-natured cook for a little spoonful of
gravy thrown in for nothing--and here, humble mercy that had its one
superfluous halfpenny to spare gave that halfpenny to utter destitution,
and gave it with right good-will. Amelius spent all his shillings and
sixpences, in doubling and trebling the poor little pennyworths of
food--and left the place with tears in his eyes.

He was near the end of the street by this time. The sight of the misery
about him, and the sense of his own utter inability to remedy it,
weighed heavily on his spirits. He thought of the peaceful and
prosperous life at Tadmor. Were his happy brethren of the Community and
these miserable people about him creatures of the same all-merciful God?
The terrible doubts which come to all thinking men--the doubts which are
not to be stifled by crying “Oh, fie!” in a pulpit--rose darkly in his
mind. He quickened his pace. “Let me let out of it,” he said to himself,
“let me get out of it!”




BOOK THE SIXTH. FILIA DOLOROSA



CHAPTER 1

Amelius found it no easy matter to pass quickly through the people
loitering and gossiping about him. There was greater freedom for a rapid
walker in the road. He was on the point of stepping off the pavement,
when a voice behind him--a sweet soft voice, though it spoke very
faintly--said, “Are you good-natured, sir?”

He turned, and found himself face to face with one of the saddest
sisterhood on earth--the sisterhood of the streets.

His heart ached as he looked at her, she was so poor and so young. The
lost creature had, to all appearance, barely passed the boundary between
childhood and girlhood--she could hardly be more than fifteen or sixteen
years old. Her eyes, of the purest and loveliest blue, rested on Amelius
with a vacantly patient look, like the eyes of a suffering child. The
soft oval outline of her face would have been perfect if the cheeks
had been filled out; they were wasted and hollow, and sadly pale. Her
delicate lips had none of the rosy colour of youth; and her finely
modelled chin was disfigured by a piece of plaster covering some injury.
She was little and thin; her worn and scanty clothing showed her frail
youthful figure still waiting for its perfection of growth. Her pretty
little bare hands were reddened by the raw night air. She trembled as
Amelius looked at her in silence, with compassionate wonder. But for the
words in which she had accosted him, it would have been impossible to
associate her with the lamentable life that she led. The appearance of
the girl was artlessly virginal and innocent; she looked as if she had
passed through the contamination of the streets without being touched
by it, without fearing it, or feeling it, or understanding it. Robed in
pure white, with her gentle blue eyes raised to heaven, a painter might
have shown her on his canvas as a saint or an angel; and the critical
world would have said, Here is the true ideal--Raphael himself might
have painted this!

“You look very pale,” said Amelius. “Are you ill?”

“No, sir--only hungry.”

Her eyes half closed; she reeled from sheer weakness as she said the
words. Amelius held her up, and looked round him. They were close to
a stall at which coffee and slices of bread-and-butter were sold. He
ordered some coffee to be poured out, and offered her the food. She
thanked him and tried to eat. “I can’t help it, sir,” she said faintly.
The bread dropped from her hand; her weary head sank on his shoulder.

Two young women--older members of the sad sisterhood--were passing at
the moment. “She’s too far gone, sir, to eat,” said one of them. “I know
what would do her good, if you don’t mind going into a public-house.”

“Where is it?” said Amelius. “Be quick!”

One of the women led the way. The other helped Amelius to support the
girl. They entered the crowded public-house. In less than a minute, the
first woman had forced her way through the drunken customers at the bar,
and had returned with a glass of port-wine and cloves. The girl revived
as the stimulant passed her lips. She opened her innocent blue eyes
again, in vague surprise. “I shan’t die this time,” she said quietly.

A corner of the place was not occupied; a small empty cask stood there.
Amelius made the poor creature sit down and rest a little. He had only
gold in his purse; and, when the woman had paid for the wine, he offered
her some of the change. She declined to take it. “I’ve got a shilling or
two, sir,” she said; “and I can take care of myself. Give it to Simple
Sally.”

“You’ll save her a beating, sir, for one night at least,” said the other
woman. “We call her Simple Sally, because she’s a little soft, poor
soul--hasn’t grown up, you know, in her mind, since she was a child.
Give her some of your change, sir, and you’ll be doing a kind thing.”

All that is most unselfish, all that is most divinely compassionate and
self-sacrificing in a woman’s nature, was as beautiful and as undefiled
as ever in these women--the outcasts of the hard highway!

Amelius turned to the girl. Her head had sunk on her bosom; she was half
asleep. She looked up as he approached her.

“Would you have been beaten to-night,” he asked, “if you had not met
with me?”

“Father always beats me, sir,” said Simple Sally, “if I don’t bring
money home. He threw a knife at me last night. It didn’t hurt much--it
only cut me here,” said the girl, pointing to the plaster on her chin.

One of the women touched Amelius on the shoulder, and whispered to him.
“He’s no more her father, sir, than I am. She’s a helpless creature--and
he takes advantage of her. If I only had a place to take her to, he
should never set eyes on her again. Show the gentleman your bosom,
Sally.”

She opened her poor threadbare little shawl. Over the lovely girlish
breast, still only growing to the rounded beauty of womanhood, there was
a hideous blue-black bruise. Simple Sally smiled, and said, “That _did_
hurt me, sir. I’d rather have the knife.”

Some of the nearest drinkers at the bar looked round and laughed.
Amelius tenderly drew the shawl over the girl’s cold bosom. “For God’s
sake, let us get away from this place!” he said.

The influence of the cool night air completed Simple Sally’s recovery.
She was able to eat now. Amelius proposed retracing his steps to the
provision-shop, and giving her the best food that the place afforded.
She preferred the bread-and-butter at the coffee-stall. Those thick
slices, piled up on the plate, tempted her as a luxury. On trying the
luxury, one slice satisfied her. “I thought I was hungry enough to eat
the whole plateful,” said the girl, turning away from the stall, in the
vacantly submissive manner which it saddened Amelius to see. He bought
more of the bread-and-butter, on the chance that her appetite might
revive. While he was wrapping it in a morsel of paper, one of her elder
companions touched him and whispered, “There he is, sir!” Amelius looked
at her. “The brute who calls himself her father,” the woman explained
impatiently.

Amelius turned, and saw Simple Sally with her arm in the grasp of a
half-drunken ruffian; one of the swarming wild beasts of Low London,
dirtied down from head to foot to the colour of the street mud--the
living danger and disgrace of English civilization. As Amelius eyed him,
he drew the girl away a step or two. “You’ve got a gentleman this time,”
 he said to her; “I shall expect gold to-night, or else--!” He finished
the sentence by lifting his monstrous fist, and shaking it in her
face. Cautiously as he had lowered his tones in speaking, the words had
reached the keenly sensitive ears of Amelius. Urged by his hot temper,
he sprang forward. In another moment, he would have knocked the brute
down--but for the timely interference of the arm of the law, clad in a
policeman’s great-coat. “Don’t get yourself into trouble, sir,” said the
man good-humouredly. “Now, you Hell-fire (that’s the nice name they know
him by, sir, in these parts), be off with you!” The wild beast on two
legs cowered at the voice of authority, like the wild beast on four: he
was lost to sight, at the dark end of the street, in a moment.

“I saw him threaten her with his fist,” said Amelius, his eyes still
aflame with indignation. “He has bruised her frightfully on the breast.
Is there no protection for the poor creature?”

“Well, sir,” the policeman answered, “you can summon him if you like. I
dare say he’d get a month’s hard labour. But, don’t you see, it would be
all the worse for her when he came out of prison.”

The policeman’s view of the girl’s position was beyond dispute. Amelius
turned to her gently; she was shivering with cold or terror, perhaps
with both. “Tell me,” he said, “is that man really your father?”

“Lord bless you, sir!” interposed the policeman, astonished at the
gentleman’s simplicity, “Simple Sally hasn’t got father or mother--have
you, my girl?”

She paid no heed to the policeman. The sorrow and sympathy, plainly
visible in Amelius, filled her with a childish interest and surprise.
She dimly understood that it was sorrow and sympathy for _her._ The
bare idea of distressing this new friend, so unimaginably kind and
considerate, seemed to frighten her. “Don’t fret about _me,_ sir,” she
said timidly; “I don’t mind having no father nor mother; I don’t mind
being beaten.” She appealed to the nearest of her two women-friends. “We
get used to everything, don’t we, Jenny?”

Amelius could bear no more. “It’s enough to break one’s heart to hear
you, and see you!” he burst out--and suddenly turned his head aside. His
generous nature was touched to the quick; he could only control himself
by an effort of resolution that shook him, body and soul. “I can’t and
won’t let that unfortunate creature go back to be beaten and starved!”
 he said, passionately addressing himself to the policeman. “Oh, look at
her! How helpless, and how young!”

The policeman stared. These were strange words to him. But all true
emotion carries with it, among all true people, its own title to
respect. He spoke to Amelius with marked respect.

“It’s a hard case, sir, no doubt,” he said. “The girl’s a quiet,
well-disposed creature--and the other two there are the same. They’re of
the sort that keep to themselves, and don’t drink. They all of them do
well enough, as long as they don’t let the liquor overcome them. Half
the time it’s the men’s fault when they do drink. Perhaps the workhouse
might take her in for the night. What’s this you’ve got girl, in your
hand? Money?”

Amelius hastened to say that he had given her the money. “The
workhouse!” he repeated. “The very sound of it is horrible.”

“Make your mind easy, sir,” said the policeman; “they won’t take her in
at the workhouse, with money in her hand.”

In sheer despair, Amelius asked helplessly if there was no hotel near.
The policeman pointed to Simple Sally’s threadbare and scanty clothes,
and left them to answer the question for themselves. “There’s a place
they call a coffee-house,” he said, with the air of a man who thought
he had better provoke as little further inquiry on that subject as
possible.

Too completely pre-occupied, or too innocent in the ways of London,
to understand the man, Amelius decided on trying the coffee-house. A
suspicious old woman met them at the door, and spied the policeman in
the background. Without waiting for any inquiries, she said, “All full
for to-night,”--and shut the door in their faces.

“Is there no other place?” said Amelius.

“There’s a lodging-house,” the policeman answered, more doubtfully than
ever. “It’s getting late, sir; and I’m afraid you’ll find ‘em packed
like herrings in a barrel. Come, and see for yourself.”

He led the way into a wretchedly lighted by-street, and knocked with
his foot on a trap-door in the pavement. The door was pushed open from
below, by a sturdy boy with a dirty night-cap on his head.

“Any of ‘em wanted to-night, sir?” asked the sturdy boy, the moment he
saw the policeman.

“What does he mean?” said Amelius.

“There’s a sprinkling of thieves among them, sir,” the policeman
explained. “Stand out of the way, Jacob, and let the gentleman look in.”

He produced his lantern, and directed the light downwards, as he spoke.
Amelius looked in. The policeman’s figure of speech, likening the
lodgers to “herrings in a barrel,” accurately described the scene.
On the floor of a kitchen, men, women, and children lay all huddled
together in closely packed rows. Ghastly faces rose terrified out of
the seething obscurity, when the light of the lantern fell on them. The
stench drove Amelius back, sickened and shuddering.

“How’s the sore place on your head, Jacob?” the policeman inquired.
“This is a civil boy,” he explained to Amelius, “and I like to encourage
him.”

“I’m getting better, sir, as fast as I can,” said the boy.

“Good night, Jacob.”

“Good night, sir.” The trap-door fell--and the lodging-house disappeared
like the vision of a frightful dream.

There was a moment of silence among the little group on the pavement. It
was not easy to solve the question of what to do next. “There seems to
be some difficulty,” the policeman remarked, “about housing this girl
for the night.”

“Why shouldn’t we take her along with us?” one of the women suggested.
“She won’t mind sleeping three in a bed, I know.”

“What are you thinking of?” the other woman remonstrated. “When he finds
she don’t come home, our place will be the first place he looks for her
in.”

Amelius settled the difficulty, in his own headlong way, “I’ll take care
of her for the night,” he said. “Sally, will you trust yourself with
me?”

She put her hand in his, with the air of a child who was ready to go
home. Her wan face brightened for the first time. “Thank you, sir,” she
said; “I’ll go anywhere along with you.”

The policeman smiled. The two women looked thunderstruck. Before they
had recovered themselves, Amelius forced them to take some money from
him, and cordially shook hands with them. “You’re good creatures,” he
said, in his eager, hearty way; “I’m sincerely sorry for you. Now, Mr.
Policeman, show me where to find a cab--and take that for the trouble I
am giving you. You’re a humane man, and a credit to the force.”

In five minutes more, Amelius was on the way to his lodgings, with
Simple Sally by his side. The act of reckless imprudence which he was
committing was nothing but an act of Christian duty, to his mind. Not
the slightest misgiving troubled him. “I shall provide for her in some
way!” he thought to himself cheerfully. He looked at her. The weary
outcast was asleep already in her corner of the cab. From time to time
she still shivered, even in her sleep. Amelius took off his great-coat,
and covered her with it. How some of his friends at the club would have
laughed, if they had seen him at that moment!

He was obliged to wake her when the cab stopped. His key admitted them
to the house. He lit his candle in the hall, and led her up the stairs.
“You’ll soon be asleep again, Sally,” he whispered.

She looked round the little sitting-room with drowsy admiration. “What a
pretty place to live in!” she said.

“Are you hungry again?” Amelius asked.

She shook her head, and took off her shabby bonnet; her pretty
light-brown hair fell about her face and her shoulders. “I think I’m too
tired, sir, to be hungry. Might I take the sofa-pillow, and lay down on
the hearth-rug?”

Amelius opened the door of his bedroom. “You are to pass the night more
comfortably than that,” he answered. “There is a bed for you here.”

She followed him in, and looked round the bedroom, with renewed
admiration of everything that she saw. At the sight of the hairbrushes
and the comb, she clapped her hands in ecstasy. “Oh, how different from
mine!” she exclaimed. “Is the comb tortoise-shell, sir, like one sees
in the shop-windows?” The bath and the towels attracted her next; she
stood, looking at them with longing eyes, completely forgetful of the
wonderful comb. “I’ve often peeped into the ironmongers’ shops,” she
said, “and thought I should be the happiest girl in the world, if I had
such a bath as that. A little pitcher is all I have got of my own, and
they swear at me when I want it filled more than once. In all my life, I
have never had as much water as I should like.” She paused, and thought
for a moment. The forlorn, vacant look appeared again, and dimmed the
beauty of her blue eyes. “It will be hard to go back, after seeing all
these pretty things,” she said to herself--and sighed, with that inborn
submission to her fate so melancholy to see in a creature so young.

“You shall never go back again to that dreadful life,” Amelius
interposed. “Never speak of it, never think of it any more. Oh, don’t
look at me like that!”

She was listening with an expression of pain, and with both her hands
lifted to her head. There was something so wonderful in the idea which
he had suggested to her, that her mind was not able to take it all in
at once. “You make my head giddy,” she said. “I’m such a poor stupid
girl--I feel out of myself, like, when a gentleman like you sets me
thinking of new things. Would you mind saying it again, sir?”

“I’ll say it to-morrow morning,” Amelius rejoined kindly. “You are
tired, Sally--go to rest.”

She roused herself, and looked at the bed. “Is that your bed, sir?”

“It’s your bed to-night,” said Amelius. “I shall sleep on the sofa, in
the next room.”

Her eyes rested on him, for a moment, in speechless surprise; she looked
back again at the bed. “Are you going to leave me by myself?” she asked
wonderingly. Not the faintest suggestion of immodesty--nothing that
the most profligate man living could have interpreted impurely--showed
itself in her look or manner, as she said those words.

Amelius thought of what one of her women-friends had told him. “She
hasn’t grown up, you know, in her mind, since she was a child.” There
were other senses in the poor victim that were still undeveloped,
besides the mental sense. He was at a loss how to answer her, with the
respect which was due to that all-atoning ignorance. His silence amazed
and frightened her.

“Have I said anything to make you angry with me?” she asked.

Amelius hesitated no longer. “My poor girl,” he said, “I pity you from
the bottom of my heart! Sleep well, Simple Sally--sleep well.” He left
her hurriedly, and shut the door between them.

She followed him as far as the closed door; and stood there alone,
trying to understand him, and trying all in vain! After a while, she
found courage enough to whisper through the door. “If you please, sir--”
 She stopped, startled by her own boldness. He never heard her; he was
standing at the window, looking out thoughtfully at the night; feeling
less confident of the future already. She still stood at the door,
wretched in the firm persuasion that she had offended him. Once she
lifted her hand to knock at the door, and let it drop again at her
side. A second time she made the effort, and desperately summoned the
resolution to knock. He opened the door directly.

“I’m very sorry if I said anything wrong,” she began faintly, her breath
coming and going in quick hysteric gasps. “Please forgive me, and wish
me good night.” Amelius took her hand; he said good night with the
utmost gentleness, but he said it sorrowfully. She was not quite
comforted yet. “Would you mind, sir--?” She paused awkwardly, afraid
to go on. There was something so completely childlike in the artless
perplexity of her eyes, that Amelius smiled. The change in his
expression gave her back her courage in an instant; her pale delicate
lips reflected his smile prettily. “Would you mind giving me a kiss,
sir?” she said. Amelius kissed her. Let the man who can honestly say he
would have done otherwise, blame him. He shut the door between them once
more. She was quite happy now. He heard her singing to herself as she
got ready for bed.

Once, in the wakeful watches of the night, she startled him. He heard a
cry of pain or terror in the bedroom. “What is it?” he asked through the
door; “what has frightened you?” There was no answer. After a minute or
two, the cry was repeated. He opened the door, and looked in. She was
sleeping, and dreaming as she slept. One little thin white arm was
lifted in the air, and waved restlessly to and fro over her head. “Don’t
kill me!” she murmured, in low moaning tones--“oh, don’t kill me!”
 Amelius took her arm gently, and laid it back on the coverlet of the
bed. His touch seemed to exercise some calming influence over her: she
sighed, and turned her head on the pillow; a faint flush rose on her
wasted cheeks, and passed away again--she sank quietly into dreamless
sleep.

Amelius returned to his sofa, and fell into a broken slumber. The
hours of the night passed. The sad light of the November morning dawned
mistily through the uncurtained window, and woke him.

He started up, and looked at the bedroom door. “Now what is to be done?”
 That was his first thought, on waking: he was beginning to feel his
responsibilities at last.


CHAPTER 2

The landlady of the lodgings decided what was to be done.

“You will be so good, sir, as to leave my apartments immediately,” she
said to Amelius. “I make no claim to the week’s rent, in consideration
of the short notice. This is a respectable house, and it shall be kept
respectable at any sacrifice.”

Amelius explained and protested; he appealed to the landlady’s sense of
justice and sense of duty, as a Christian woman.

The reasoning which would have been irresistible at Tadmor was reasoning
completely thrown away in London. The landlady remained as impenetrable
as the Egyptian Sphinx. “If that creature in the bedroom is not out
of my house in an hour’s time, I shall send for the police.” Having
answered her lodger’s arguments in those terms, she left the room, and
banged the door after her.

“Thank you, sir, for being so kind to me. I’ll go away directly--and
then, perhaps, the lady will forgive you.”

Amelius looked round. Simple Sally had heard it all. She was dressed in
her wretched clothes, and was standing at the open bedroom door, crying,

“Wait a little,” said Amelius, wiping her eyes with his own
handkerchief; “and we will go away together. I want to get you some
better clothes; and I don’t exactly know how to set about it. Don’t cry,
my dear--don’t cry.”

The deaf maid-of-all-work came in, as he spoke. She too was in tears.
Amelius had been good to her, in many little ways--and she was the
guilty person who had led to the discovery in the bedroom. “If you had
only told me, sir,” she said pentitently, “I’d have kep’ it secret. But,
there, I went in with your ‘ot water, as usual, and, O Lor’, I was that
startled I dropped the jug, and run downstairs again--!”

Amelius stopped the further progress of the apology. “I don’t blame you,
Maria,” he said; “I’m in a difficulty. Help me out of it; and you will
do me a kindness.”

Maria partially heard him, and no more. Afraid of reaching the
landlady’s ears, as well as the maid’s ears, if he raised his voice, he
asked if she could read writing. Yes, she could read writing, if it was
plain. Amelius immediately reduced the expression of his necessities to
writing, in large text. Maria was delighted. She knew the nearest shop
at which ready-made outer clothing for women could be obtained, and
nothing was wanted, as a certain guide to an ignorant man, but two
pieces of string. With one piece, she measured Simple Sally’s height,
and with the other she took the slender girth of the girl’s waist--while
Amelius opened his writing-desk, and supplied himself with the last sum
of spare money that he possessed. He had just closed the desk again,
when the voice of the merciless landlady was heard, calling imperatively
for Maria.

The maid-of-all-work handed the two indicative strings to Amelius.
“They’ll ‘elp you at the shop,” she said--and shuffled out of the room.

Amelius turned to Simple Sally. “I am going to get you some new
clothes,” he began.

The girl stopped him there: she was incapable of listening to a word
more. Every trace of sorrow vanished from her face in an instant. She
clapped her hands. “Oh!” she cried, “new clothes! clean clothes! Let me
go with you.”

Even Amelius saw that it was impossible to take her out in the streets
with him in broad daylight, dressed as she was then. “No, no,” he said,
“wait here till you get your new things. I won’t be half an hour gone.
Lock yourself in if you’re afraid, and open the door to nobody till I
come back!”

Sally hesitated; she began to look frightened.

“Think of the new dress, and the pretty bonnet,” suggested Amelius,
speaking unconsciously in the tone in which he might have promised a toy
to a child.

He had taken the right way with her. Her face brightened again. “I’ll do
anything you tell me,” she said.

He put the key in her hand, and was out in the street directly.

Amelius possessed one valuable moral quality which is exceedingly rare
among Englishmen. He was not in the least ashamed of putting himself
in a ridiculous position, when he was conscious that his own motives
justified him. The smiling and tittering of the shop-women, when he
stated the nature of his errand, and produced his two pieces of string,
failed to annoy him in the smallest degree. He laughed too. “Funny,
isn’t it,” he said, “a man like me buying gowns and the rest of it? She
can’t come herself--and you’ll advise me, like good creatures, won’t
you?” They advised their handsome young customer to such good purpose,
that he was in possession of a gray walking costume, a black cloth
jacket, a plain lavender-coloured bonnet, a pair of black gloves, and
a paper of pins, in little more than ten minutes’ time. The nearest
trunk-maker supplied a travelling-box to hold all these treasures; and a
passing cab took Amelius back to his lodgings, just as the half-hour
was out. But one event had happened during his absence. The landlady had
knocked at the door, had called through it in a terrible voice, “Half an
hour more!” and had retired again without waiting for an answer.

Amelius carried the box into the bedroom. “Be as quick as you can,
Sally,” he said--and left her alone, to enjoy the full rapture of
discovering the new clothes.

When she opened the door and showed herself, the change was so wonderful
that Amelius was literally unable to speak to her. Joy flushed her pale
cheeks, and diffused its tender radiance over her pure blue eyes. A more
charming little creature, in that momentary transfiguration of pride
and delight, no man’s eyes ever looked on. She ran across the room to
Amelius, and threw her arms round his neck. “Let me be your servant!”
 she cried; “I want to live with you all my life. Jump me up! I’m wild--I
want to fly through the window.” She caught sight of herself in the
looking-glass, and suddenly became composed and serious. “Oh,” she said,
with the quaintest mixture of awe and astonishment, “was there ever such
another bonnet as this? Do look at it--do please look at it!”

Amelius good-naturedly approached to look at it. At the same moment
the sitting-room door was opened, without any preliminary ceremony of
knocking--and Rufus walked into the room. “It’s half after ten,” he
said, “and the breakfast is spoiling as fast as it can.”

Before Amelius could make his excuses for having completely forgotten
his engagement, Rufus discovered Sally. No woman, young or old, high in
rank or low in rank, ever found the New Englander unprepared with his
own characteristic acknowledgment of the debt of courtesy which he owed
to the sex. With his customary vast strides, he marched up to Sally and
insisted on shaking hands with her. “How do you find yourself, miss? I
take pleasure in making your acquaintance.” The girl turned to Amelius
with wide-eyed wonder and doubt. “Go into the next room, Sally, for a
minute or two,” he said. “This gentleman is a friend of mine, and I have
something to say to him.”

“That’s an _active_ little girl,” said Rufus, looking after her as she
ran to the friendly shelter of the bedroom. “Reminds me of one of our
girls at Coolspring--she does. Well, now, and who may Sally be?”

Amelius answered the question, as usual, without the slightest reserve.
Rufus waited in impenetrable silence until he had completed his
narrative--then took him gently by the arm, and led him to the window.
With his hands in his pockets and his long legs planted wide apart
on his big feet, the American carefully studied the face of his young
friend under the strongest light that could fall on it.

“No,” said Rufus, speaking quietly to himself, “the boy is not raving
mad, so far as I can see. He has every appearance on him of meaning what
he says. And this is what comes of the Community of Tadmor, is it? Well,
civil and religious liberty is dearly purchased sometimes in the United
States--and that’s a fact.”

Amelius turned away to pack his portmanteau. “I don’t understand you,”
 he said.

“I don’t suppose you do,” Rufus remarked. “I am at a similar loss myself
to understand _you._ My store of sensible remarks is copious on most
occasions--but I’m darned if I ain’t dried up in the face of this! Might
I venture to ask what that venerable Chief Christian at Tadmor would say
to the predicament in which I find my young Socialist this morning?”

“What would he say?” Amelius repeated. “Just what he said when Mellicent
first came among us. ‘Ah, dear me! Another of the Fallen Leaves!’ I wish
I had the dear old man here to help me. _He_ would know how to restore
that poor starved, outraged, beaten creature to the happy place on God’s
earth which God intended her to fill!”

Rufus abruptly took him by the hand. “You mean that?” he said.

“What else could I mean?” Amelius rejoined sharply.

“Bring her right away to breakfast at the hotel!” cried Rufus, with
every appearance of feeling infinitely relieved. “I don’t say I can
supply you with the venerable Chief Christian--but I can find a woman
to fix you, who is as nigh to being an angel, barring the wings, as any
she-creature since the time of mother Eve.” He knocked at the bedroom
door, turning a deaf ear to every appeal for further information which
Amelius could address to him. “Breakfast is waiting, miss!” he called
out; “and I’m bound to tell you that the temper of the cook at our hotel
is a long way on the wrong side of uncertain. Well, Amelius, this is
the age of exhibition. If there’s ever an exhibition of ignorance in
the business of packing a portmanteau, you run for the Gold Medal--and a
unanimous jury will vote it, I reckon, to a young man from Tadmor. Clear
out, will you, and leave it to me.”

He pulled off his coat, and conquered the difficulties of packing in
a hurry, as if he had done nothing else all his life. The landlady
herself, appearing with pitiless punctuality exactly at the expiration
of the hour, “smoothed her horrid front” in the polite and placable
presence of Rufus. He insisted on shaking hands with her; he took
pleasure in making her acquaintance; she reminded him, he did assure
her, of the lady of the captain-general of the Coolspring Branch of the
St. Vitus Commandery; and he would take the liberty to inquire whether
they were related or not. Under cover of this fashionable conversation,
Simple Sally was taken out of the room by Amelius without attracting
notice. She insisted on carrying her threadbare old clothes away with
her in the box which had contained the new dress. “I want to look at
them sometimes,” she said, “and think how much better off I am now.”
 Rufus was the last to take his departure; he persisted in talking to the
landlady all the way down the stairs and out to the street door.

While Amelius was waiting for his friend on the house-steps, a young
man driving by in a cab leaned out and looked at him. The young man was
Jervy, on his way from Mr. Ronald’s tombstone to Doctors’ Commons.


CHAPTER 3

With a rapid succession of events the morning had begun. With a rapid
succession of events the day went on.

The breakfast being over, rooms at the hotel were engaged by Rufus for
his “two young friends.” After this, the next thing to be done was to
provide Simple Sally with certain necessary, but invisible, articles of
clothing, which Amelius had never thought of. A note to the nearest shop
produced the speedy arrival of a smart lady, accompanied by a boy and
a large basket. There was some difficulty in persuading Sally to trust
herself alone in her room with the stranger. She was afraid, poor soul,
of everybody but Amelius. Even the good American failed to win her
confidence. The distrust implanted in her feeble mind by the terrible
life that she had led, was the instinctive distrust of a wild animal.
“Why must I go among other people?” she whispered piteously to Amelius.
“I only want to be with You!” It was as completely useless to
reason with her as it would have been to explain the advantages of
a comfortable cage to a newly caught bird. There was but one way of
inducing her to submit to the most gently exerted interference. Amelius
had only to say, “Do it, Sally, to please me.” And Sally sighed, and did
it.

In her absence Amelius reiterated his inquiries, in relation to
that unknown friend whom Rufus had not scrupled to describe as “an
angel--barring the wings.”

The lady in question, the American briefly explained, was an
Englishwoman--the wife of one of his countrymen, established in London
as a merchant. He had known them both intimately before their departure
from the United States; and the old friendship had been cordially
renewed on his arrival in England. Associated with many other charitable
institutions, Mrs. Payson was one of the managing committee of a “Home
for Friendless Women,” especially adapted to receive poor girls in
Sally’s melancholy position. Rufus offered to write a note to Mrs.
Payson; inquiring at what hour she could receive his friend and himself,
and obtain permission for them to see the “Home.” Amelius, after some
hesitation, accepted the proposal. The messenger had not been long
despatched with the note before the smart person from the shop made her
appearance once more, reporting that “the young lady’s outfit had been
perfectly arranged,” and presenting the inevitable result in the shape
of a bill. The last farthing of ready money in the possession of Amelius
proved to be insufficient to discharge the debt. He accepted a loan from
Rufus, until he could give his bankers the necessary order to sell
out some of his money invested in the Funds. His answer, when Rufus
protested against this course, was characteristic of the teaching which
he owed to the Community. “My dear fellow, I am bound to return the
money you have lent to me--in the interests of our poor brethren. The
next friend who borrows of you may not have the means of paying you
back.”

After waiting for the return of Simple Sally, and waiting in vain,
Amelius sent a chambermaid to her room, with a message to her. Rufus
disapproved of this hasty proceeding. “Why disturb the girl at her
looking-glass?” asked the old bachelor, with his quaintly humorous
smile.

Sally came in with no bright pleasure in her eyes this time; the girl
looked worn and haggard. She drew Amelius away into a corner, and
whispered to him. “I get a pain sometimes where the bruise is,” she
said; “and I’ve got it bad, now.” She glanced, with an odd furtive
jealousy, at Rufus. “I kept away from you,” she explained, “because I
didn’t want _him_ to know.” She stopped, and put her hand on her bosom,
and clenched her teeth fast. “Never mind,” she said cheerfully, as the
pang passed away again; “I can bear it.”

Amelius, acting on impulse, as usual, instantly ordered the most
comfortable carriage that the hotel possessed. He had heard terrible
stories of the possible result of an injury to a woman’s bosom. “I shall
take her to the best doctor in London,” he announced. Sally whispered
to him again--still with her eye on Rufus. “Is _he_ going with us?”
 she asked. “No,” said Amelius; “one of us must stay here to receive a
message.” Rufus looked after them very gravely, as the two left the room
together.

Applying for information to the mistress of the hotel, Amelius obtained
the address of a consulting surgeon of great celebrity, while Sally was
getting ready to go out.

“Why don’t you like my good friend upstairs?” he said to the girl as
they drove away from the house. The answer came swift and straight from
the heart of the daughter of Eve. “Because _you_ like him!” Amelius
changed the subject: he asked if she was still in pain. She shook her
head impatiently. Pain or no pain, the uppermost idea in her mind was
still that idea of being his servant, which had already found expression
in words before they left the lodgings. “Will you let me keep my
beautiful new dress for going out on Sundays?” she asked. “The shabby
old things will do when I am your servant. I can black your boots, and
brush your clothes, and keep your room tidy--and I will try hard to
learn, if you will have me taught to cook.” Amelius attempted to change
the subject again. He might as well have talked to her in an unknown
tongue. The glorious prospect of being his servant absorbed the whole of
her attention. “I’m little and I’m stupid,” she went on; “but I do think
I could learn to cook, if I knew I was doing it for _You.”_ She paused,
and looked at him anxiously. “Do let me try!” she pleaded; “I haven’t
had much pleasure in my life--and I should like it so!” It was
impossible to resist this. “You shall be as happy as I can make you,
Sally,” Amelius answered; “God knows it isn’t much you ask for!”

Something in those compassionate words set her thinking in another
direction. It was sad to see how slowly and painfully she realized the
idea that had been suggested to her.

“I wonder whether you _can_ make me happy?” she said. “I suppose I have
been happy before this--but I don’t know when. I don’t remember a time
when I was not hungry or cold. Wait a bit. I do think I _was_ happy
once. It was a long while ago, and it took me a weary time to do it--but
I did learn at last to play a tune on the fiddle. The old man and his
wife took it in turns to teach me. Somebody gave me to the old man and
his wife; I don’t know who it was, and I don’t remember their names.
They were musicians. In the fine streets they sang hymns, and in the
poor streets they sang comic songs. It was cold, to be sure, standing
barefoot on the pavement--but I got plenty of halfpence. The people said
I was so little it was a shame to send me out, and so I got halfpence.
I had bread and apples for supper, and a nice little corner under the
staircase, to sleep in. Do you know, I do think I did enjoy myself at
that time,” she concluded, still a little doubtful whether those faint
and far-off remembrances were really to be relied on.

Amelius tried to lead her to other recollections. He asked her how old
she was when she played the fiddle.

“I don’t know,” she answered; “I don’t know how old I am now. I don’t
remember anything before the fiddle. I can’t call to mind how long it
was first--but there came a time when the old man and his wife got into
trouble. They went to prison, and I never saw them afterwards. I ran
away with the fiddle; to get the halfpence, you know, all to myself. I
think I should have got a deal of money, if it hadn’t been for the boys.
They’re so cruel, the boys are. They broke my fiddle. I tried selling
pencils after that; but people didn’t seem to want pencils. They
found me out begging. I got took up, and brought before the
what-do-you-call-him--the gentleman who sits in a high place, you know,
behind a desk. Oh, but I was frightened, when they took me before the
gentleman! He looked very much puzzled. He says, ‘Bring her up here;
she’s so small I can hardly see her.’ He says, ‘Good God! what am I to
do with this unfortunate child?’ There was plenty of people about. One
of them says, ‘The workhouse ought to take her.’ And a lady came in, and
she says, ‘I’ll take her, sir, if you’ll let me.’ And he knew her, and
he let her. She took me to a place they called a Refuge--for wandering
children, you know. It was very strict at the Refuge. They did give
us plenty to eat, to be sure, and they taught us lessons. They told us
about Our Father up in Heaven. I said a wrong thing--I said, ‘I don’t
want him up in Heaven; I want him down here.’ They were very much
ashamed of me when I said that. I was a bad girl; I turned ungrateful.
After a time, I ran away. You see, it was so strict, and I was so used
to the streets. I met with a Scotchman in the streets. He wore a kilt,
and played the pipes; he taught me to dance, and dressed me up like a
Scotch girl. He had a curious wife, a sort of half-black woman. She used
to dance too--on a bit of carpet, you know, so as not to spoil her fine
shoes. They taught me songs; he taught me a Scotch song. And one day
his wife said _she_ was English (I don’t know how that was, being
a half-black woman), and I should learn an English song. And they
quarrelled about it. And she had her way. She taught me ‘Sally in our
Alley’. That’s how I come to be called Sally. I hadn’t any name of my
own--I always had nicknames. Sally was the last of them, and Sally has
stuck to me. I hope it isn’t too common a name to please you? Oh, what a
fine house! Are we really going in? Will they let _me_ in? How stupid
I am! I forgot my beautiful clothes. You won’t tell them, will you, if
they take me for a lady?”

The carriage had stopped at the great surgeon’s house: the waiting-room
was full of patients. Some of them were trying to read the books and
newspapers on the table; and some of them were looking at each other,
not only without the slightest sympathy, but occasionally even with
downright distrust and dislike. Amelius took up a newspaper, and gave
Sally an illustrated book to amuse her, while they waited to see the
Surgeon in their turn.

Two long hours passed, before the servant summoned Amelius to the
consulting-room. Sally was wearily asleep in her chair. He left her
undisturbed, having questions to put relating to the imperfectly
developed state of her mind, which could not be asked in her presence.
The surgeon listened, with no ordinary interest, to the young stranger’s
simple and straightforward narrative of what had happened on the
previous night. “You are very unlike other young men,” he said; “may I
ask how you have been brought up?” The reply surprised him. “This opens
quite a new view of Socialism,” he said. “I thought your conduct highly
imprudent at first--it seems to be the natural result of your teaching
now. Let me see what I can do to help you.”

He was very grave and very gentle, when Sally was presented to him.
His opinion of the injury to her bosom relieved the anxiety of Amelius:
there might be pain for some little time to come, but there were no
serious consequences to fear. Having written his prescription, and
having put several questions to Sally, the surgeon sent her back, with
marked kindness of manner, to wait for Amelius in the patients’ room.

“I have young daughters of my own,” he said, when the door was closed;
“and I cannot but feel for that unhappy creature, when I contrast her
life with theirs. So far as I can see it, the natural growth of her
senses--her higher and her lower senses alike--has been stunted, like
the natural growth of her body, by starvation, terror, exposure to
cold, and other influences inherent in the life that she has led. With
nourishing food, pure air, and above all kind and careful treatment,
I see no reason, at her age, why she should not develop into an
intelligent and healthy young woman. Pardon me if I venture on giving
you a word of advice. At your time of life, you will do well to place
her at once under competent and proper care. You may live to regret
it, if you are too confident in your own good motives in such a case
as this. Come to me again, if I can be of any use to you. No,” he
continued, refusing to take his fee; “my help to that poor lost girl is
help given freely.” He shook hands with Amelius--a worthy member of the
noble order to which he belonged.

The surgeon’s parting advice, following on the quaint protest of Rufus,
had its effect on Amelius. He was silent and thoughtful when he got into
the carriage again.

Simple Sally looked at him with a vague sense of alarm. Her heart beat
fast, under the perpetually recurring fear that she had done something
or said something to offend him. “Was it bad behaviour in me,” she
asked, “to fall asleep in the chair?” Reassured, so far, she was still
as anxious as ever to get at the truth. After long hesitation, and long
previous thought, she ventured to try another question. “The gentleman
sent me out of the room--did he say anything to set you against me?”

“The gentleman said everything that was kind of you,” Amelius replied,
“and everything to make me hope that you will live to be a happy girl.”

She said nothing to that; vague assurances were no assurances to
her--she only looked at him with the dumb fidelity of a dog. Suddenly,
she dropped on her knees in the carriage, hid her face in her hands, and
cried silently. Surprised and distressed, he attempted to raise her and
console her. “No!” she said obstinately. “Something has happened to vex
you, and you won’t tell me what it is. Do, do, do tell me what it is!”

“My dear child,” said Amelius, “I was only thinking anxiously about you,
in the time to come.”

She looked up at him quickly. “What! have you forgotten already?” she
exclaimed. “I’m to be your servant in the time to come.” She dried her
eyes, and took her place again joyously by his side. “You did frighten
me,” she said, “and all for nothing. But you didn’t mean it, did you?”

An older man might have had the courage to undeceive her: Amelius shrank
from it. He tried to lead her back to the melancholy story--so common
and so terrible; so pitiable in its utter absence of sentiment or
romance--the story of her past life.

“No,” she answered, with that quick insight where her feelings were
concerned, which was the only quick insight that she possessed. “I don’t
like making you sorry; and you did look sorry--you did--when I talked
about it before. The streets, the streets, the streets; little girl, or
big girl, it’s only the streets; and always being hungry or cold; and
cruel men when it isn’t cruel boys. I want to be happy! I want to enjoy
my new clothes! You tell me about your own self. What makes you so kind?
I can’t make it out; try as I may, I can’t make it out.”

Some time elapsed before they got back to the hotel. Amelius drove as
far as the City, to give the necessary instructions to his bankers.

On returning to the sitting-room at last, he discovered that his
American friend was not alone. A gray-haired lady with a bright
benevolent face was talking earnestly to Rufus. The instant Sally
discovered the stranger, she started back, fled to the shelter of her
bedchamber, and locked herself in. Amelius, entering the room after a
little hesitation, was presented to Mrs. Payson.

“There was something in my old friend’s note,” said the lady, smiling
and turning to Rufus, “which suggested to me that I should do well to
answer it personally. I am not too old yet to follow the impulse of the
moment, sometimes; and I am very glad that I did so. I have heard what
is, to me, a very interesting story. Mr. Goldenheart, I respect you! And
I will prove it by helping you, with all my heart and soul, to save that
poor little girl who has just run away from me. Pray don’t make excuses
for her; I should have run away too, at her age. We have arranged,” she
continued, looking again at Rufus, “that I shall take you both to the
Home, this afternoon. If we can prevail on Sally to go with us, one
serious obstacle in our way will be overcome. Tell me the number of her
room. I want to try if I can’t make friends with her. I have had some
experience; and I don’t despair of bringing her back here, hand in hand
with the terrible person who has frightened her.”

The two men were left together. Amelius attempted to speak.

“Keep it down,” said Rufus; “no premature outbreak of opinion, if you
please, yet awhile. Wait till she has fixed Sally, and shown us the
Paradise of the poor girls. It’s within the London postal district, and
that’s all I know about it. Well, now, and did you go to the doctor?
Thunder! what’s come to the boy? Seems as though he had left his
complexion in the carriage! He looks, I do declare, as if he wanted
medical tinkering himself.”

Amelius explained that his past night had been a wakeful one, and that
the events of the day had not allowed him any opportunities of repose.
“Since the morning,” he said, “things have hurried so, one on the top
of the other, that I am beginning to feel a little dazed and weary.”
 Without a word of remark, Rufus produced the remedy. The materials were
ready on the sideboard--he made a cocktail.

“Another?” asked the New Englander, after a reasonable lapse of time.

Amelius declined taking another. He stretched himself on the sofa; his
good friend considerately took up a newspaper. For the first time that
day, he had now the prospect of a quiet interval for rest and thought.
In less than a minute the delusive prospect vanished. He started to his
feet again, disturbed by a new anxiety. Having leisure to think, he had
thought of Regina. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed; “she’s waiting to see
me--and I never remembered it till this moment!” He looked at his watch:
it was five o’clock. “What am I to do?” he said helplessly.

Rufus laid down the newspaper, and considered the new difficulty in its
various aspects.

“We are bound to go with Mrs. Payson to the Home,” he said; “and, I
tell you this, Amelius, the matter of Sally is not a matter to be played
with; it’s a thing that’s got to be done. In your place I should write
politely to Miss Regina, and put it off till to-morrow.”

In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a man who took Rufus for his
counsellor was a man who acted wisely in every sense of the word.
Events, however, of which Amelius and his friend were both ignorant
alike, had so ordered it, that the American’s well-meant advice, in this
one exceptional case, was the very worst advice that could have been
given. In an hour more, Jervy and Mrs. Sowler were to meet at the tavern
door. The one last hope of protecting Mrs. Farnaby from the abominable
conspiracy of which she was the destined victim, rested solely on the
fulfilment by Amelius of his engagement with Regina for that day. Always
ready to interfere with the progress of the courtship, Mrs. Farnaby
would be especially eager to seize the first opportunity of speaking to
her young Socialist friend on the subject of his lecture. In the course
of the talk between them, the idea which, in the present disturbed state
of his mind, had not struck him yet--the idea that the outcast of the
streets might, by the barest conceivable possibility, be identified with
the lost daughter--would, in one way or another, be almost infallibly
suggested to Amelius; and, at the eleventh hour, the conspiracy would be
foiled. If, on the other hand, the American’s fatal advice was followed,
the next morning’s post might bring a letter from Jervy to Mrs.
Farnaby--with this disastrous result. At the first words spoken by
Amelius, she would put an end to all further interest in the subject on
his part, by telling him that the lost girl had been found, and found by
another person.

Rufus pointed to the writing-materials on a side table, which he had
himself used earlier in the day. The needful excuse was, unhappily,
quite easy to find. A misunderstanding with his landlady had obliged
Amelius to leave his lodgings at an hour’s notice, and had occupied him
in trying to find a new residence for the rest of the day. The note was
written. Rufus, who was nearest to the bell, stretched out his hand to
ring for the messenger. Amelius suddenly stopped him.

“She doesn’t like me to disappoint her,” he said. “I needn’t stay
long--I might get there and back in half an hour, in a fast cab.”

His conscience was not quite easy. The sense of having forgotten
Regina--no matter how naturally and excusably--oppressed him with a
feeling of self-reproach. Rufus raised no objection; the hesitation of
Amelius was unquestionably creditable to him. “If you must do it, my
son,” he said, “do it right away--and we’ll wait for you.”

Amelius took up his hat. The door opened as he approached it, and Mrs.
Payson entered the room, leading Simple Sally by the hand.

“We are all going together,” said the genial old lady, “to see my large
family of daughters at the Home. We can have our talk in the carriage.
It’s an hour’s drive from this place--and I must be back again to dinner
at half-past seven.”

Amelius and Rufus looked at each other. Amelius thought of pleading an
engagement, and asking to be excused. Under the circumstances, it was
assuredly not a very gracious thing to do. Before he could make up his
mind, one way or the other, Sally stole to his side, and put her hand
on his arm. Mrs. Payson had done wonders in conquering the girl’s
inveterate distrust of strangers, and, to a certain extent at least,
winning her confidence. But no early influence could shake Sally’s
dog-like devotion to Amelius. Her jealous instinct discovered something
suspicious in his sudden silence. “You must go with us,” she said, “I
won’t go without you.”

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Payson added; “I promised her that, of course,
beforehand.”

Rufus rang the bell, and despatched the messenger to Regina. “That’s the
one way out of it, my son,” he whispered to Amelius, as they followed
Mrs. Payson and Sally down the stairs of the hotel.


They had just driven up to the gates of the Home, when Jervy and his
accomplice met at the tavern, and entered on their consultation in a
private room.

In spite of her poverty-stricken appearance, Mrs. Sowler was not
absolutely destitute. In various underhand and wicked ways, she
contrived to put a few shillings in her pocket from week to week. If she
was half starved, it was for the very ordinary reason, among persons
of her vicious class, that she preferred spending her money on drink.
Stating his business with her, as reservedly and as cunningly as usual,
Jervy found, to his astonishment, that even this squalid old creature
presumed to bargain with him. The two wretches were on the point of a
quarrel which might have delayed the execution of the plot against Mrs.
Farnaby, but for the vile self-control which made Jervy one of the most
formidable criminals living. He gave way on the question of money--and,
from that moment, he had Mrs. Sowler absolutely at his disposal.

“Meet me to-morrow morning, to receive your instructions,” he said. “The
time is ten sharp; and the place is the powder-magazine in Hyde Park.
And mind this! You must be decently dressed--you know where to hire
the things. If I smell you of spirits to-morrow morning, I shall employ
somebody else. No; not a farthing now. You will have your money--first
instalment only, mind!--to-morrow at ten.”

Left by himself, Jervy sent for pen, ink, and paper. Using his left
hand, which was just as serviceable to him as his right, he traced these
lines:--

“You are informed, by an unknown friend, that a certain lost young lady
is now living in a foreign country, and may be restored to her afflicted
mother on receipt of a sufficient sum to pay expenses, and to reward the
writer of this letter, who is undeservedly, in distressed circumstances.

“Are you, madam, the mother? I ask the question in the strictest
confidence, knowing nothing certainly but that your husband was the
person who put the young lady out to nurse in her infancy.

“I don’t address your husband, because his inhuman desertion of the
poor baby does not incline me to trust him. I run the risk of trusting
you--to a certain extent--at starting. Shall I drop a hint which
may help you to identify the child, in your own mind? It would be
inexcusably foolish on my part to speak too plainly, just yet. The hint
must be a vague one. Suppose I use a poetical expression, and say that
the young lady is enveloped in mystery from head to foot--especially the
foot?

“In the event of my addressing the right person, I beg to offer a
suggestion for a preliminary interview.

“If you will take a walk on the bridge over the Serpentine River, on
Kensington Gardens side, at half-past ten o’clock to-morrow morning,
holding a white handkerchief in your left hand, you will meet the
much-injured woman, who was deceived into taking charge of the infant
child at Ramsgate, and will be satisfied so far that you are giving your
confidence to persons who really deserve it.”

Jervy addressed this infamous letter to Mrs. Farnaby, in an ordinary
envelope, marked “Private.” He posted it, that night, with his own hand.



CHAPTER 4

“Rufus! I don’t quite like the way you look at me. You seem to think--”

“Give it tongue, my son. What do I seem to think?”

“You think I’m forgetting Regina. You don’t believe I’m just as fond of
her as ever. The fact is, you’re an old bachelor.”

“That is so. Where’s the harm, Amelius?”

“I don’t understand--”

“You’re out there, my bright boy. I reckon I understand more than you
think for. The wisest thing you ever did in your life is what you did
this evening, when you committed Sally to the care of those ladies at
the Home.”

“Good night, Rufus. We shall quarrel if I stay here any longer.”

“Good night, Amelius. We shan’t quarrel, stay here as long as you like.”

The good deed had been done; the sacrifice--already a painful
sacrifice--had been made. Mrs. Payson was old enough to speak plainly,
as well as seriously, to Amelius of the absolute necessity of separating
himself from Simple Sally, without any needless delay. “You have seen
for yourself,” she said, “that the plan on which this little household
is ruled is the unvarying plan of patience and kindness. So far as Sally
is concerned, you can be quite sure that she will never hear a harsh
word, never meet with a hard look, while she is under our care. The
lamentable neglect under which the poor creature has suffered, will be
tenderly remembered and atoned for, here. If we can’t make her happy
among us, I promise that she shall leave the Home, if she wishes it, in
six weeks’ time. As to yourself, consider your position if you persist
in taking her back with you. Our good friend Rufus has told me that you
are engaged to be married. Think of the misinterpretations, to say the
least of it, to which you would subject yourself--think of the reports
which would sooner or later find their way to the young lady’s ears, and
of the deplorable consequences that would follow. I believe implicitly
in the purity of your motives. But remember Who taught us to pray that
we may not be led into temptation--and complete the good work that you
have begun, by leaving Sally among friends and sisters in this house.”

To any honourable man, these were unanswerable words. Coming after what
Rufus and the surgeon had already said to him, they left Amelius no
alternative but to yield. He pleaded for leave to write to Sally, and
to see her, at a later interval, when she might be reconciled to her new
life. Mrs. Payson had just consented to both requests, Rufus had just
heartily congratulated him on his decision--when the door was thrown
violently open. Simple Sally ran into the room, followed by one of the
women-attendants in a state of breathless surprise.

“She showed me a bedroom,” cried Sally, pointing indignantly to the
woman; “and she asked if I should like to sleep there.” She turned to
Amelius, and caught him by the hand to lead him away. The ineradicable
instinct of distrust had been once more roused in her by the too zealous
attendant. “I’m not going to stay here,” she said; “I’m going away with
You!”

Amelius glanced at Mrs. Payson. Sally tried to drag him to the door.
He did his best to reassure her by a smile; he spoke confusedly some
composing words. But his honest face, always accustomed to tell
the truth, told the truth now. The poor lost creature, whose feeble
intelligence was so slow to discern, so inapt to reflect, looked at him
with the heart’s instantaneous perception, and saw her doom. She let
go of his hand. Her head sank. Without word or cry, she dropped on the
floor at his feet.

The attendant instantly raised her, and placed her on a sofa. Mrs.
Payson saw how resolutely Amelius struggled to control himself, and
felt for him with all her heart. Turning aside for a moment, she hastily
wrote a few lines, and returned to him. “Go, before we revive her,”
 she whispered; “and give what I have written to the coachman. You shall
suffer no anxiety that I can spare you,” said the excellent woman; “I
will stay here myself to-night, and reconcile her to the new life.”

She held out her hand; Amelius kissed it in silence. Rufus led him out.
Not a word dropped from his lips on the long drive back to London.

His mind was disturbed by other subjects besides the subject of Sally.
He thought of his future, darkened by the doubtful marriage-engagement
that was before him. Alone with Rufus, for the rest of the evening, he
petulantly misunderstood the sympathy with which the kindly American
regarded him. Their bedrooms were next to each other. Rufus heard him
walking restlessly to and fro, and now and then talking to himself.
After a while, these sounds ceased. He was evidently worn out, and was
getting the rest that he needed, at last.

The next morning he received a few lines from Mrs. Payson, giving a
favourable account of Sally, and promising further particulars in a day
or two.

Encouraged by this good news, revived by a long night’s sleep, he went
towards noon to pay his postponed visit to Regina. At that early hour,
he could feel sure that his interview with her would not be interrupted
by visitors. She received him quietly and seriously, pressing his hand
with a warmer fondness than usual. He had anticipated some complaint
of his absence on the previous day, and some severe allusion to his
appearance in the capacity of a Socialist lecturer. Regina’s indulgence,
or Regina’s interest in circumstances of more pressing importance,
preserved a merciful silence on both subjects.

“It is a comfort to me to see you, Amelius,” she said; “I am in trouble
about my uncle, and I am weary of my own anxious thoughts. Something
unpleasant has happened in Mr. Farnaby’s business. He goes to the City
earlier, and he returns much later, than usual. When he does come back,
he doesn’t speak to me--he locks himself into his room; and he looks
worn and haggard when I make his breakfast for him in the morning.
You know that he is one of the directors of the new bank? There was
something about the bank in the newspaper yesterday which upset him
dreadfully; he put down his cup of coffee--and went away to the City,
without eating his breakfast. I don’t like to worry you about it,
Amelius. But my aunt seems to take no interest in her husband’s
affairs--and it is really a relief to me to talk of my troubles to you.
I have kept the newspaper; do look at what it says about the bank, and
tell me if you understand it!”

Amelius read the passage pointed out to him. He knew as little of
banking business as Regina. “So far as I can make it out,” he said,
“they’re paying away money to their shareholders which they haven’t
earned. How do they do that, I wonder?”

Regina changed the subject in despair. She asked Amelius if he had found
new lodgings. Hearing that he had not yet succeeded in the search for a
residence, she opened a drawer of her work-table, and took out a card.

“The brother of one of my schoolfellows is going to be married,” she
said. “He has a pretty bachelor cottage in the neighbourhood of the
Regent’s Park--and he wants to sell it, with the furniture, just as it
is. I don’t know whether you care to encumber yourself with a little
house of your own. His sister has asked me to distribute some of his
cards, with the address and the particulars. It might be worth your
while, perhaps, to look at the cottage when you pass that way.”

Amelius took the card. The small feminine restraints and gentlenesses
of Regina, her quiet even voice, her serene grace of movement, had a
pleasantly soothing effect on his mind after the anxieties of the last
four and twenty hours. He looked at her bending over her embroidery,
deftly and gracefully industrious--and drew his chair closer to her.
She smiled softly over her work, conscious that he was admiring her, and
placidly pleased to receive the tribute.

“I would buy the cottage at once,” said Amelius, “if I thought you would
come and live in it with me.”

She looked up gravely, with her needle suspended in her hand.

“Don’t let us return to that,” she answered, and went on again with her
embroidery.

“Why not?” Amelius asked.

She persisted in working, as industriously as if she had been a poor
needlewoman, with serious reasons for being eager to get her money. “It
is useless,” she replied, “to speak of what cannot be for some time to
come.”

Amelius stopped the progress of the embroidery by taking her hand. Her
devotion to her work irritated him.

“Look at me, Regina,” he said, steadily controlling himself. “I want
to propose that we shall give way a little on both sides. I won’t hurry
you; I will wait a reasonable time. If I promise that, surely you
may yield a little in return. Money seems to be a hard taskmaster,
my darling, after what you have told me about your uncle. See how he
suffers because he is bent on being rich; and ask yourself if it isn’t a
warning to us not to follow his example! Would you like to see _me_ too
wretched to speak to you, or to eat my breakfast--and all for the sake
of a little outward show? Come, come! let us think of ourselves. Why
should we waste the best days of our life apart, when we are both free
to be happy together? I have another good friend besides Rufus--the good
friend of my father before me. He knows all sorts of great people, and
he will help me to some employment. In six months’ time I might have a
little salary to add to my income. Say the sweetest words, my darling,
that ever fell from your lips--say you will marry me in six months!”

It was not in a woman’s nature to be insensible to such pleading
as this. She all but yielded. “I should like to say it, dear!” she
answered, with a little fluttering sigh.

“Say it, then!” Amelius suggested tenderly.

She took refuge again in her embroidery. “If you would only give me a
little time,” she suggested, “I might say it.”

“Time for what, my own love?”

“Time to wait, dear, till my uncle is not quite so anxious as he is
now.”

“Don’t talk of your uncle, Regina! You know as well as I do what he
would say. Good heavens! why can’t you decide for yourself? No! I don’t
want to hear over again about what you owe to Mr. Farnaby--I heard
enough of it on that day in the shrubbery. Oh, my dear girl, do have
some feeling for me! do for once have a will of your own!”

Those last words were an offence to her self-esteem. “I think it’s very
rude to tell me I have no will of my own,” she said, “and very hard
to press in this way when you know I am in trouble.” The inevitable
handkerchief appeared, adding emphasis to the protest--and the becoming
tears showed themselves modestly in Regina’s magnificent eyes.

Amelius started out of his chair, and walked away to the window. That
last reference to Mr. Farnaby’s pecuniary cares was more than he had
patience to endure. “She can’t even forget her uncle and his bank,” he
thought, “when I am speaking to her of our marriage!”

He kept his face hidden from her, at the window. By some subtle process
of association which he was unable to trace, the image of Simple Sally
rose in his mind. An irresistible influence forced him to think of
her--not as the poor, starved, degraded, half-witted creature of the
streets, but as the grateful girl who had asked for no happier future
than to be his servant, who had dropped senseless at his feet at the
bare prospect of parting with him. His sense of self-respect, his
loyalty to his betrothed wife, resolutely resisted the unworthy
conclusion to which his own thoughts were leading him. He turned back
again to Regina; he spoke so loudly and so vehemently that the gathering
flow of her tears was suspended in surprise. “You’re right, you’re quite
right, my dear! I ought to give you time, of course. I try to control
my hasty temper, but I don’t always succeed--just at first. Pray forgive
me; it shall be exactly as you wish.”

Regina forgave him, with a gentle and ladylike astonishment at the
excitable manner in which he made his excuses. She even neglected her
embroidery, and put her face up to him to be kissed. “You are so nice,
dear,” she said, “when you are not violent and unreasonable. It is such
a pity you were brought up in America. Won’t you stay to lunch?”

Happily for Amelius, the footman appeared at this critical moment with
a message: “My mistress wishes particularly to see you, sir, before you
go.”

This was the first occasion, in the experience of the lovers, on which
Mrs. Farnaby had expressed her wishes through the medium of a servant,
instead of appearing personally. The curiosity of Regina was mildly
excited. “What a very odd message!” she said; “what does it mean? My
aunt went out earlier than usual this morning, and I have not seen her
since. I wonder whether she is going to consult you about my uncle’s
affairs?”

“I’ll go and see,” said Amelius.

“And stay to lunch?” Regina reiterated.

“Not to-day, my dear.”

“To-morrow, then?”

“Yes, to-morrow.” So he escaped. As he opened the door, he looked back,
and kissed his hand. Regina raised her head for a moment, and smiled
charmingly. She was hard at work again over her embroidery.



CHAPTER 5

The door of Mrs. Farnaby’s ground-floor room, at the back of the house,
was partially open. She was on the watch for Amelius.

“Come in!” she cried, the moment he appeared in the hall. She pulled him
into the room, and shut the door with a bang. Her face was flushed, her
eyes were wild. “I have something to tell you, you dear good fellow,”
 she burst out excitedly--“Something in confidence, between you and me!”
 She paused, and looked at him with sudden anxiety and alarm. “What’s the
matter with you?” she asked.

The sight of the room, the reference to a secret, the prospect of
another private conference, forced back the mind of Amelius, in one
breathless instant, to his first memorable interview with Mrs. Farnaby.
The mother’s piteously hopeful words, in speaking of her lost daughter,
rang in his ears again as if they had just fallen from her lips. “She
may be lost in the labyrinth of London.... To-morrow, or ten years
hence, you _might_ meet with her.” There were a hundred chances
against it--a thousand, ten thousand chances against it. The startling
possibility flashed across his brain, nevertheless, like a sudden
flow of daylight across the dark. _“Have_ I met with her, at the first
chance?”

“Wait,” he cried; “I have something to say before you speak to me. Don’t
deceive yourself with vain hopes. Promise me that, before I begin.”

She waved her hand derisively. “Hopes?” she repeated; “I have done with
hopes, I have done with fears--I have got to certainties, at last!”

He was too eager to heed anything that she said to him; his whole soul
was absorbed in the coming disclosure. “Two nights since,” he went on,
“I was wandering about London, and I met--”

She burst out laughing. “Go on!” she cried, with a wild derisive gaiety.

Amelius stopped, perplexed and startled. “What are you laughing at?” he
asked.

“Go on!” she repeated. “I defy you to surprise me. Out with it! Whom did
you meet?”

Amelius proceeded doubtfully, by a word at a time. “I met a poor girl in
the streets,” he said, steadily watching her.

She changed completely at those words; she looked at him with an aspect
of stern reproach. “No more of it,” she interposed; “I have not waited
all these miserable years for such a horrible end as that.” Her face
suddenly brightened; a radiant effusion of tenderness and triumph flowed
over it, and made it young and happy again. “Amelius!” she said, “listen
to this. My dream has come true--my girl is found! Thanks to you, though
you don’t know it.”

Amelius looked at her. Was she speaking of something that had really
happened? or had she been dreaming again?

Absorbed in her own happiness, she made no remark on his silence. “I
have seen the woman,” she went on. “This bright blessed morning I have
seen the woman who took her away in the first days of her poor little
life. The wretch swears she was not to blame. I tried to forgive her.
Perhaps I almost did forgive her, in the joy of hearing what she had
to tell me. I should never have heard it, Amelius, if you had not given
that glorious lecture. The woman was one of your audience. She would
never have spoken of those past days; she would never have thought of
me--”

At those words, Mrs. Farnaby abruptly stopped, and turned her face away
from Amelius. After waiting a little, finding her still silent, still
immovable, he ventured on putting a question.

“Are you sure you are not deceived?” he asked. “I remember you told me
that rogues had tried to impose on you, in past times when you employed
people to find her.”

“I have proof that I am not being imposed upon,” Mrs. Farnaby answered,
still keeping her face hidden from him. “One of them knows of the fault
in her foot.”

“One of them?” Amelius repeated. “How many of them are there?”

“Two. The old woman, and a young man.”

“What are their names?”

“They won’t tell me their names yet.”

“Isn’t that a little suspicious?”

“One of them knows,” Mrs. Farnaby reiterated, “of the fault in her
foot.”

“May I ask which of them knows? The old woman, I suppose?”

“No, the young man.”

“That’s strange, isn’t it? Have you seen the young man?”

“I know nothing of him, except the little that the woman told me. He has
written me a letter.”

“May I look at it?”

“I daren’t let you look at it!”

Amelius said no more. If he had felt the smallest suspicion that the
disclosure volunteered by Mrs. Farnaby, at their first interview, had
been overheard by the unknown person who had opened the swinging window
in the kitchen, he might have recalled Phoebe’s vindictive language at
his lodgings, and the doubts suggested to him by his discovery of
the vagabond waiting for her in the street. As it was, he was simply
puzzled. The one plain conclusion to his mind was, unhappily, the
natural conclusion after what he had heard--that Mrs. Farnaby had no
sort of interest in the discovery of Simple Sally, and that he need
trouble himself with no further anxiety in that matter. Strange as Mrs.
Farnaby’s mysterious revelation seemed, her correspondent’s knowledge
of the fault in the foot was circumstance in his favour, beyond dispute.
Amelius still wondered inwardly how it was that the woman who had taken
charge of the child had failed to discover what appeared to be known to
another person. If he had been aware that Mrs. Sowler’s occupation at
the time was the occupation of a “baby-farmer,” and that she had many
other deserted children pining under her charge, he might have easily
understood that she was the last person in the world to trouble herself
with a minute examination of any one of the unfortunate little creatures
abandoned to her drunken and merciless neglect. Jervy had satisfied
himself, before he trusted her with his instructions, that she knew no
more than the veriest stranger of any peculiarity in one or the other of
the child’s feet.

Interpreting Mrs. Farnaby’s last reply to him as an intimation that
their interview was at an end, Amelius took up his hat to go.

“I hope with all my heart,” he said, “that what has begun so well will
end well. If there is any service that I can do for you--”

She drew nearer to him, and put her hand gently on his shoulder. “Don’t
think that I distrust you,” she said very earnestly; “I am unwilling to
shock you--that is all. Even this great joy has a dark side to it; my
miserable married life casts its shadow on everything that happens to
me. Keep secret from everybody the little that I have told you--you will
ruin me if you say one word of it to any living creature. I ought not to
have opened my heart to you--but how could I help it, when the happiness
that is coming to me has come through you? When you say good-bye to me
to-day, Amelius, you say good-bye to me for the last time in this house.
I am going away. Don’t ask me why--that is one more among the things
which I daren’t tell you! You shall hear from me, or see me--I promise
that. Give me some safe address to write to; some place where there are
no inquisitive women who may open my letter in your absence.”

She handed him her pocket-book. Amelius wrote down in it the address of
his club.

She took his hand. “Think of me kindly,” she said. “And, once more,
don’t be afraid of my being deceived. There is a hard part of me still
left which keeps me on my guard. The old woman tried, this morning, to
make me talk to her about that little fault we know of in my child’s
foot. But I thought to myself, ‘If you had taken a proper interest in my
poor baby while she was with you, you must sooner or later have found it
out.’ Not a word passed my lips. No, no, don’t be anxious when you think
of me. I am as sharp as they are; I mean to find out how the man who
wrote to me discovered what he knows; he shall satisfy me, I promise
you, when I see him or hear from him next. All this is between ourselves
strictly, sacredly between ourselves. Say nothing--I know I can trust
you. Good-bye, and forgive me for having been so often in your way with
Regina. I shall never be in your way again. Marry her, if you think
she is good enough for you; I have no more interest now in your being
a roving bachelor, meeting with girls here, there, and everywhere. You
shall know how it goes on. Oh, I am so happy!”

She burst into tears, and signed to Amelius with a wild gesture of
treaty to leave her.

He pressed her hand in silence, and went out.

Almost as the door closed on him, the variable woman changed again. For
a while she walked rapidly to and fro, talking to herself. The course of
her tears ceased. Her lips closed firmly; her eyes assumed an expression
of savage resolve. She sat down at the table and opened her desk. “I’ll
read it once more,” she said to herself, “before I seal it up.”

She took from her desk a letter of her own writing, and spread it out
before her. With her elbows on the table, and her hands clasped fiercely
in her hair, she read these lines addressed to her husband:--


JOHN FARNABY,--I have always suspected that you had something to do
with the disappearance of our child. I know for certain now that you
deliberately cast your infant daughter on the mercy of the world, and
condemned your wife to a life of wretchedness.

“Don’t suppose that I have been deceived! I have spoken with the woman
who waited by the garden-paling at Ramsgate, and who took the child from
your hands. She saw you with me at the lecture; and she is absolutely
sure that you are the man.

“Thanks to the meeting at the lecture-hall, I am at last on the trace of
my lost daughter. This morning I heard the woman’s story. She kept the
child, on the chance of its being reclaimed, until she could afford to
keep it no longer. She met with a person who was willing to adopt it,
and who took it away with her to a foreign country, not mentioned to me
yet. In that country my daughter is still living, and will be restored
to me on conditions which will be communicated in a few days’ time.

“Some of this story may be true, and some of it may be false; the woman
may be lying to serve her own interests with me. Of one thing I am
sure--my girl is identified, by means known to me of which there can
be no doubt. And she must be still living, because the interest of the
persons treating with me is an interest in her life.

“When you receive this letter, on your return from business to-night,
I shall have left you, and left you for ever. The bare thought of even
looking at you again fills me with horror. I have my own income, and
I mean to take my own way. In your best interests I warn you, make
no attempt to trace me. I declare solemnly that, rather than let your
deserted daughter be polluted by the sight of you, I would kill you with
my own hand, and die for it on the scaffold. If she ever asks for her
father, I will do you one service. For the honour of human nature, I
will tell her that her father is dead. It will not be all a falsehood. I
repudiate you and your name--you are dead to me from this time forth.

“I sign myself by my father’s name--

“EMMA RONALD.”


She had said herself that she was unwilling to shock Amelius. This was
the reason.

After thinking a little, she sealed and directed the letter. This done,
she unlocked the wooden press which had once contained the baby’s frock
and cap, and those other memorials of the past which she called her
“dead consolations.” After satisfying herself that the press was
empty, she wrote on a card, “To be called for by a messenger from my
bankers”--and tied the card to a tin box in a corner, secured by a
padlock. She lifted the box, and placed it in front of the press, so
that it might be easily visible to any one entering the room. The safe
keeping of her treasures provided for, she took the sealed letter,
and, ascending the stairs, placed it on the table in her husband’s
dressing-room. She hurried out again, the instant after, as if the sight
of the place were intolerable to her.

Passing to the other end of the corridor, she entered her own
bedchamber, and put on her bonnet and cloak. A leather handbag was on
the bed. She took it up, and looked round the large luxurious room with
a shudder of disgust. What she had suffered, within those four walls, no
human creature knew but herself. She hurried out, as she had hurried out
of her husband’s dressing-room.

Her niece was still in the drawing-room. As she reached the door, she
hesitated, and stopped. The girl was a good girl, in her own dull placid
way--and her sister’s daughter, too. A last little act of kindness would
perhaps be a welcome act to remember. She opened the door so suddenly
that Regina started, with a small cry of alarm. “Oh, aunt, how you
frighten one! Are you going out?” “Yes; I’m going out,” was the short
answer. “Come here. Give me a kiss.” Regina looked up in wide-eyed
astonishment. Mrs. Farnaby stamped impatiently on the floor. Regina
rose, gracefully bewildered. “My dear aunt, how very odd!” she said--and
gave the kiss demanded, with a serenely surprised elevation of her
finely shaped eyebrows. “Yes,” said Mrs. Farnaby; “that’s it--one of my
oddities. Go back to your work. Good-bye.”

She left the room, as abruptly as she had entered it. With her firm
heavy step she descended to the hall, passed out at the house door, and
closed it behind her--never to return to it again.



CHAPTER 6

Amelius left Mrs. Farnaby, troubled by emotions of confusion and alarm,
which he was the last man living to endure patiently. Her extraordinary
story of the discovered daughter, the still more startling assertion of
her solution to leave the house, the absence of any plain explanation,
the burden of secrecy imposed on him--all combined together to irritate
his sensitive nerves. “I hate mysteries,” he thought; “and ever since I
landed in England, I seem fated to be mixed up in them. Does she really
mean to leave her husband and her niece? What will Farnaby do? What will
become of Regina?”

To think of Regina was to think of the new repulse of which he had been
made the subject. Again he had appealed to her love for him, and again
she had refused to marry him at his own time.

He was especially perplexed and angry, when he reflected on the
unassailably strong influence which her uncle appeared to have over her.
All Regina’s sympathy was with Mr. Farnaby and his troubles. Amelius
might have understood her a little better, if she had told him what
had passed between her uncle and herself on the night of Mr. Farnaby’s
return, in a state of indignation, from the lecture. In terror of the
engagement being broken off, she had been forced to confess that she
was too fond of Amelius to prevail on herself to part with him. If
he attempted a second exposition of his Socialist principles on the
platform, she owned that it might be impossible to receive him again as
a suitor. But she pleaded hard for the granting of a pardon to the first
offence, in the interests of her own tranquillity, if not in mercy to
Amelius. Mr. Farnaby, already troubled by his commercial anxieties,
had listened more amiably, and also more absently, than usual; and had
granted her petition with the ready indulgence of a preoccupied man. It
had been decided between them that the offence of the lecture should be
passed over in discreet silence. Regina’s gratitude for this concession
inspired her sympathy with her uncle in his present state of suspense.
She had been sorely tempted to tell Amelius what had happened. But the
natural reserve of her character--fortified, in this instance, by the
defensive pride which makes a woman unwilling, before marriage, to
confess her weakness unreservedly to the man who has caused it--had
sealed her lips. “When he is a little less violent and a little more
humble,” she thought, “perhaps I may tell him.”

So it fell out that Amelius took his way through the streets, a
mystified and an angry man.

Arrived in sight of the hotel, he stopped, and looked about him.

It was impossible to disguise from himself that a lurking sense of
regret was making itself felt, in his present frame of mind, when he
thought of Simple Sally. In all probability, he would have quarrelled
with any man who had accused him of actually lamenting the girl’s
absence, and wanting her back again. He happened to recollect her
artless blue eyes, with their vague patient look, and her quaint
childish questions put so openly in so sweet a voice--and that was
all. Was there anything reprehensible, if you please, in an act of
remembrance? Comforting himself with these considerations, he moved on
again a step or two--and stopped once more. In his present humour,
he shrank from facing Rufus. The American read him like a book; the
American would ask irritating questions. He turned his back on the
hotel, and looked at his watch. As he took it out, his finger and thumb
touched something else in his waistcoat-pocket. It was the card that
Regina had given to him--the card of the cottage to let. He had nothing
to do, and nowhere to go. Why not look at the cottage? If it proved
to be not worth seeing, the Zoological Gardens were in the
neighbourhood--and there are periods in a man’s life when he finds the
society that walks on four feet a welcome relief from the society that
walks on two.

It was a fairly fine day. He turned northward towards the Regent’s Park.

The cottage was in a by-road, just outside the park: a cottage in
the strictest sense of the word. A sitting-room, a library, and a
bedroom--all of small proportions--and, under them a kitchen and two
more rooms, represented the whole of the little dwelling from top to
bottom. It was simply and prettily furnished; and it was completely
surrounded by its own tiny plot of garden-ground. The library especially
was a perfect little retreat, looking out on the back garden; peaceful
and shady, and adorned with bookcases of old carved oak.

Amelius had hardly looked round the room, before his inflammable brain
was on fire with a new idea. Other idle men in trouble had found the
solace and the occupation of their lives in books. Why should he not
be one of them? Why not plunge into study in this delightful
retirement--and perhaps, one day, astonish Regina and Mr. Farnaby
by bursting on the world as the writer of a famous book? Exactly as
Amelius, two days since, had seen himself in the future, a public
lecturer in receipt of glorious fees--so he now saw himself the
celebrated scholar and writer of a new era to come. The woman who showed
the cottage happened to mention that a gentleman had already looked over
it that morning, and had seemed to like it. Amelius instantly gave her
a shilling, and said, “I take it on the spot.” The wondering woman
referred him to the house-agent’s address, and kept at a safe distance
from the excitable stranger as she let him out. In less than another
hour, Amelius had taken the cottage, and had returned to the hotel with
a new interest in life and a new surprise for Rufus.

As usual, in cases of emergency, the American wasted no time in talking.
He went out at once to see the cottage, and to make his own inquiries
of the agent. The result amply proved that Amelius had not been imposed
upon. If he repented of his bargain, the gentleman who had first seen
the cottage was ready to take it off his hands, at a moment’s notice.

Going back to the Hotel, Rufus found Amelius resolute to move into
his new abode, and eager for the coming life of study and retirement.
Knowing perfectly well before-hand how this latter project would end,
the American tried the efficacy of a little worldly temptation. He had
arranged, he said, “to have a good time of it in Paris”; and he proposed
that Amelius should be his companion. The suggestion produced not the
slightest effect; Amelius talked as if he was a confirmed recluse,
in the decline of life. “Thank you,” he said, with the most amazing
gravity; “I prefer the company of my books, and the seclusion of my
study.” This declaration was followed by more selling-out of money
in the Funds, and by a visit to a bookseller, which left a handsome
pecuniary result inscribed on the right side of the ledger.

On the next day, Amelius presented himself towards two o’clock at Mr.
Farnaby’s house. He was not so selfishly absorbed in his own projects
as to forget Mrs. Farnaby. On the contrary, he was honestly anxious for
news of her.

A certain middle-aged man of business has been briefly referred to, in
these pages, as one of Regina’s faithful admirers, patiently submitting
to the triumph of his favoured young rival. This gentleman, issuing from
his carriage with his card-case ready in his hand, met Amelius at
the door, with a face which announced plainly that a catastrophe had
happened. “You have heard the sad news, no doubt?” he said, in a rich
bass voice attuned to sadly courteous tones. The servant opened the
door before Amelius could answer. After a contest of politeness, the
middle-aged gentleman consented to make his inquiries first. “How is Mr.
Farnaby? No better? And Miss Regina? Very poorly, oh? Dear, dear me!
Say I called, if you please.” He handed in two cards, with a severe
enjoyment of the melancholy occasion and the rich bass sounds of his
own voice. “Very sad, is it not?” he said, addressing his youthful
rival with an air of paternal indulgence. “Good morning.” He bowed with
melancholy grace, and got into his carriage.

Amelius looked after the prosperous merchant, as the prancing horses
drew him away. “After all,” he thought bitterly, “she might be happier
with that rich prig than she could be with me.” He stepped into the
hall, and spoke to the servant. The man had his message ready. Miss
Regina would see Mr. Goldenheart, if he would be so good as to wait in
the dinning-room.

Regina appeared, pale and scared; her eyes inflamed with weeping. “Oh,
Amelius, can you tell me what this dreadful misfortune means? Why has
she left us? When she sent for you yesterday, what did she say?”

In his position, Amelius could make but one answer. “Your aunt said she
thought of going away. But,” he added, with perfect truth, “she refused
to tell me why, or where she was going. I am quite as much at a loss to
understand her as you are. What does your uncle propose to do?”

Mr. Farnaby’s conduct, as described by Regina, thickened the mystery--he
proposed to do nothing.

He had been found on the hearth-rug in his dressing-room; having
apparently been seized with a fit, in the act of burning some paper.
The ashes were discovered close by him, just inside the fender. On his
recovery, his first anxiety was to know if a letter had been burnt.
Satisfied on this point, he had ordered the servants to assemble round
his bed, and had peremptorily forbidden them to open the door to their
mistress, if she ever returned at any future time to the house. Regina’s
questions and remonstrances, when she was left alone with him, were
answered, once for all, in these pitiless terms:--“If you wish to
deserve the fatherly interest that I take in you, do as I do: forget
that such a person as your aunt ever existed. We shall quarrel, if you
ever mention her name in my hearing again.” This said, he had instantly
changed the subject; instructing Regina to write an excuse to “Mr.
Melton” (otherwise, the middle-aged rival), with whom he had been
engaged to dine that evening. Relating this latter event, Regina’s
ever-ready gratitude overflowed in the direction of Mr. Melton. “He was
so kind! he left his guests in the evening, and came and sat with my
uncle for nearly an hour.” Amelius made no remark on this; he led the
conversation back to the subject of Mrs. Farnaby. “She once spoke to me
of her lawyers,” he said. “Do _they_ know nothing about her?”

The answer to this question showed that the sternly final decision of
Mr. Farnaby was matched by equal resolution on the part of his wife.

One of the partners in the legal firm had called that morning, to see
Regina on a matter of business. Mrs. Farnaby had appeared at the office
on the previous day, and had briefly expressed her wish to make a small
annual provision for her niece, in case of future need. Declining to
enter into any explanation, she had waited until the necessary document
had been drawn out; had requested that Regina might be informed of the
circumstance; and had then taken her departure in absolute silence.
Hearing that she had left her husband, the lawyer, like every one else,
was completely at a loss to understand what it meant.

“And what does the doctor say?” Amelius asked next.

“My uncle is to be kept perfectly quiet,” Regina answered; “and is not
to return to business for some time to come. Mr. Melton, with his usual
kindness, has undertaken to look after his affairs for him. Otherwise,
my uncle, in his present state of anxiety about the bank, would never
have consented to obey the doctor’s orders. When he can safely travel,
he is recommended to go abroad for the winter, and get well again in
some warmer climate. He refuses to leave his business--and the doctor
refuses to take the responsibility. There is to be a consultation of
physicians tomorrow. Oh, Amelius, I was really fond of my aunt--I am
heart-broken at this dreadful change!”

There was a momentary silence. If Mr. Melton had been present, he would
have said a few neatly sympathetic words. Amelius knew no more than
a savage of the art of conventional consolation. Tadmor had made him
familiar with the social and political questions of the time, and had
taught him to speak in public. But Tadmor, rich in books and newspapers,
was a powerless training institution in the matter of small talk.

“Suppose Mr. Farnaby is obliged to go abroad,” he suggested, after
waiting a little, “what will you do?”

Regina looked at him, with an air of melancholy surprise. “I shall do
my duty, of course,” she answered gravely. “I shall accompany my dear
uncle, if he wishes it.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“It is time he took his medicine,” she resumed; “you will excuse me,
I am sure.” She shook hands, not very warmly--and hastened out of the
room.

Amelius left the house, with a conviction which disheartened him--the
conviction that he had never understood Regina, and that he was not
likely to understand her in the future. He turned for relief to the
consideration of Mr. Farnaby’s strange conduct, under the domestic
disaster which had befallen him.

Recalling what he had observed for himself, and what he had heard
from Mrs. Farnaby when she had first taken him into her confidence, he
inferred that the subject of the lost child had not only been a subject
of estrangement between the husband and wife, but that the husband was,
in some way, the person blamable for it. Assuming this theory to be the
right one, there would be serious obstacles to the meeting of the mother
and child, in the mother’s home. The departure of Mrs. Farnaby was,
in that case, no longer unintelligible--and Mr. Farnaby’s otherwise
inexplicable conduct had the light of a motive thrown on it, which might
not unnaturally influence a hard-hearted man weary alike of his wife
and his wife’s troubles. Arriving at this conclusion by a far shorter
process than is here indicated, Amelius pursued the subject no further.
At the time when he had first visited the Farnabys, Rufus had advised
him to withdraw from closer intercourse with them, while he had the
chance. In his present mood, he was almost in danger of acknowledging to
himself that Rufus had proved to be right.

He lunched with his American friend at the hotel. Before the meal was
over Mrs. Payson called, to say a few cheering words about Sally.

It was not to be denied that the girl remained persistently silent and
reserved. In other respects the report was highly favourable. She was
obedient to the rules of the house; she was always ready with any little
services that she could render to her companions; and she was so eager
to improve herself, by means of her reading-lessons and writing-lessons,
that it was not easy to induce her to lay aside her book and her slate.
When the teacher offered her some small reward for her good conduct,
and asked what she would like, the sad little face brightened, and the
faithful creature’s answer was always the same--“I should like to know
what he is doing now.” (Alas for Sally!--“he” meant Amelius.)

“You must wait a little longer before you write to her,” Mrs. Payson
concluded, “and you must not think of seeing her for some time to come.
I know you will help us by consenting to this--for Sally’s sake.”

Amelius bowed in silence. He would not have confessed what he felt, at
that moment, to any living soul--it is doubtful if he even confessed
it to himself. Mrs. Payson, observing him with a woman’s keen sympathy,
relented a little. “I might give her a message,” the good lady
suggested--“just to say you are glad to hear she is behaving so well.”

“Will you give her this?” Amelius asked.

He took from his pocket a little photograph of the cottage, which he had
noticed on the house-agent’s desk, and had taken away with him. “It is
_my_ cottage now,” he explained, in tones that faltered a little; “I am
going to live there; Sally might like to see it.”

“Sally _shall_ see it,” Mrs. Payson agreed--“if you will only let
me take this away first.” She pointed to the address of the cottage,
printed under the photograph. Past experience in the Home made her
reluctant to trust Sally with the address in London at which Amelius was
to be found.

Rufus produced a huge complex knife, out of the depths of which a pair
of scissors burst on touching a spring. Mrs. Payson cut off the address,
and placed the photograph in her pocket-book. “Now,” she said, “Sally
will be happy, and no harm can come of it.”

“I’ve known you, ma’am, nigh on twenty years,” Rufus remarked. “I do
assure you that’s the first rash observation I ever heard from your
lips.”




BOOK THE SEVENTH. THE VANISHING HOPES



CHAPTER 1

Two days later, Amelius moved into his cottage.

He had provided himself with a new servant, as easily as he had provided
himself with a new abode. A foreign waiter at the hotel--a gray-haired
Frenchman of the old school, reputed to be the most ill-tempered
servant in the house--had felt the genial influence of Amelius with the
receptive readiness of his race. Here was a young Englishman, who spoke
to him as easily and pleasantly as if he was speaking to a friend--who
heard him relate his little grievances, and never took advantage of that
circumstance to turn him into ridicule--who said kindly, “I hope you
don’t mind my calling you by your nickname,” when he ventured to explain
that his Christian name was “Theophile,” and that his English fellow
servants had facetiously altered and shortened it to “Toff,” to suit
their insular convenience. “For the first time, sir,” he had hastened
to add, “I feel it an honour to be Toff, when _you_ speak to me.” Asking
everybody whom he met if they could recommend a servant to him, Amelius
had put the question, when Toff came in one morning with the hot water.
The old Frenchman made a low bow, expressive of devotion. “I know of
but one man, sir, whom I can safely recommend,” he answered--“take me.”
 Amelius was delighted; he had only one objection to make. “I don’t want
to keep two servants,” he said, while Toff was helping him on with his
dressing-gown. “Why should you keep two servants, sir?” the Frenchman
inquired. Amelius answered, “I can’t ask you to make the beds.” “Why
not?” said Toff--and made the bed, then and there, in five minutes. He
ran out of the room, and came back with one of the chambermaid’s brooms.
“Judge for yourself, sir--can I sweep a carpet?” He placed a chair for
Amelius. “Permit me to save you the trouble of shaving yourself. Are
you satisfied? Very good. I am equally capable of cutting your hair, and
attending to your corns (if you suffer, sir, from that inconvenience).
Will you allow me to propose something which you have not had yet for
your breakfast?” In half an hour more, he brought in the new dish.
“Oeufs a la Tripe. An elementary specimen, sir, of what I can do for you
as a cook. Be pleased to taste it.” Amelius ate it all up on the spot;
and Toff applied the moral, with the neatest choice of language. “Thank
you, sir, for a gratifying expression of approval. One more specimen
of my poor capabilities, and I have done. It is barely possible--God
forbid!--that you may fall ill. Honour me by reading that document.” He
handed a written paper to Amelius, dated some years since in Paris, and
signed in an English name. “I testify with gratitude and pleasure
that Theophile Leblond has nursed me through a long illness, with an
intelligence and devotion which I cannot too highly praise.” “May you
never employ me, sir, in that capacity,” said Toff. “I have only to
add that I am not so old as I look, and that my political opinions have
changed, in later life, from red-republican to moderate-liberal. I also
confess, if necessary, that I still have an ardent admiration for the
fair sex.” He laid his hand on his heart, and waited to be engaged.

So the household at the cottage was modestly limited to Amelius and
Toff.

Rufus remained for another week in London, to watch the new experiment.
He had made careful inquiries into the Frenchman’s character, and had
found that the complaints of his temper really amounted to this--that
“he gave himself the airs of a gentleman, and didn’t understand a joke.”
 On the question of honesty and sobriety, the testimony of the proprietor
of the hotel left Rufus nothing to desire. Greatly to his surprise,
Amelius showed no disposition to grow weary of his quiet life, or to
take refuge in perilous amusements from the sober society of his books.
He was regular in his inquiries at Mr. Farnaby’s house; he took long
walks by himself; he never mentioned Sally’s name; he lost his interest
in going to the theatre, and he never appeared in the smoking-room of
the club. Some men, observing the remarkable change which had passed
over his excitable temperament, would have hailed it as a good sign for
the future. The New Englander looked below the surface, and was not so
easily deceived. “My bright boy’s soul is discouraged and cast down,”
 was the conclusion that he drew. “There’s darkness in him where there
once was light; and, what’s worse than all, he caves in, and keeps it to
himself.” After vainly trying to induce Amelius to open his heart, Rufus
at last went to Paris, with a mind that was ill at ease.

On the day of the American’s departure, the march of events was resumed;
and the unnaturally quiet life of Amelius began to be disturbed again.

Making his customary inquiries in the forenoon at Mr. Farnaby’s door,
he found the household in a state of agitation. A second council of
physicians had been held, in consequence of the appearance of some
alarming symptoms in the case of the patient. On this occasion, the
medical men told him plainly that he would sacrifice his life to his
obstinacy, if he persisted in remaining in London and returning to
his business. By good fortune, the affairs of the bank had greatly
benefited, through the powerful interposition of Mr. Melton. With the
improved prospects, Mr. Farnaby (at his niece’s entreaty) submitted to
the doctor’s advice. He was to start on the first stage of his journey
the next morning; and, at his own earnest desire, Regina was to go with
him. “I hate strangers and foreigners; and I don’t like being alone. If
you don’t go with me, I shall stay where I am--and die.” So Mr. Farnaby
put it to his adopted daughter, in his rasping voice and with his hard
frown.

“I am grieved, dear Amelius, to go away from you,” Regina said; “but
what can I do? It would have been so nice if you could have gone with
us. I did hint something of the sort; but--”

Her downcast face finished the sentence. Amelius felt the bare idea of
being Mr. Farnaby’s travelling companion make his blood run cold. And
Mr. Farnaby, on his side, reciprocated the sentiment. “I will write
constantly, dear,” Regina resumed; “and you will write back, won’t you?
Say you love me; and promise to come tomorrow morning, before we go.”

She kissed him affectionately--and, the instant after, checked the
responsive outburst of tenderness in Amelius, by that utter want of tact
which (in spite of the popular delusion to the contrary) is so much more
common in women than in men, “My uncle is so particular about packing
his linen,” she said; “nobody can please him but me; I must ask you to
let me run upstairs again.”

Amelius went out into the street, with his head down and his lips fast
closed. He was not far from Mrs. Payson’s house. “Why shouldn’t I call?”
 he thought to himself. His conscience added, “And hear some news of
Sally.”

There was good news. The girl was brightening mentally and
physically--she was in a fair way, if she only remained in the Home, to
be “Simple” Sally no longer. Amelius asked if she had got the photograph
of the cottage. Mrs. Payson laughed. “Sleeps with it under her pillow,
poor child,” she said, “and looks at it fifty times a day.” Thirty years
since, with infinitely less experience to guide her, the worthy matron
would have followed her instincts, and would have hesitated to tell
Amelius quite so much about the photograph. But some of a woman’s
finer sensibilities do get blunted with the advance of age and the
accumulation of wisdom.

Instead of pursuing the subject of Sally’s progress, Amelius, to Mrs.
Payson’s surprise, made a clumsy excuse, and abruptly took his leave.

He felt the need of being alone; he was conscious of a vague distrust
of himself, which degraded him in his own estimation. Was he, like
characters he had read of in books, the victim of a fatality?
The slightest circumstances conspired to heighten his interest in
Sally--just at the time when Regina had once more disappointed him.
He was as firmly convinced, as if he had been the strictest moralist
living, that it was an insult to Regina, and an insult to his own
self-respect, to set the lost creature whom he had rescued in any light
of comparison with the young lady who was one day to be his wife. And
yet, try as he might to drive her out, Sally kept her place in his
thoughts. There was, apparently, some innate depravity in him. If a
looking-glass had been handed to him at that moment, he would have been
ashamed to look himself in the face.

After walking until he was weary, he went to his club.

The porter gave him a letter as he crossed the hall. Mrs. Farnaby had
kept her promise, and had written to him. The smoking-room was deserted
at that time of day. He opened his letter in solitude, looked at it,
crumpled it up impatiently, and put it into his pocket. Not even Mrs.
Farnaby could interest him at that critical moment. His own affairs
absorbed him. The one idea in his mind, after what he had heard about
Sally, was the idea of making a last effort to hasten the date of his
marriage before Mr. Farnaby left England. “If I can only feel sure of
Regina--”

His thoughts went no further than that. He walked up and down the
empty smoking-room, anxious and irritable, dissatisfied with himself,
despairing of the future. “I can but try it!” he suddenly decided--and
turned at once to the table to write a letter.

Death had been busy with the members of his family in the long interval
that had passed since he and his father left England. His nearest
surviving relative was his uncle--his father’s younger brother--who
occupied a post of high importance in the Foreign Office. To this
gentleman he now wrote, announcing his arrival in England, and his
anxiety to qualify himself for employment in a Government office. “Be so
good as to grant me an interview,” he concluded; “and I hope to satisfy
you that I am not unworthy of your kindness, if you will exert your
influence in my favour.”

He sent away his letter at once by a private messenger, with
instructions to wait for an answer.

It was not without doubt, and even pain, that he had opened
communication with a man whose harsh treatment of his father it was
impossible for him to forget. What could the son expect? There was but
one hope. Time might have inclined the younger brother to make atonement
to the memory of the elder, by a favourable reception of his nephew’s
request.

His father’s last words of caution, his own boyish promise not to claim
kindred with his relations in England, were vividly present to the mind
of Amelius, while he waited for the return of the messenger. His one
justification was in the motives that animated him. Circumstances, which
his father had never anticipated, rendered it an act of duty towards
himself to make the trial at least of what his family interest could
do for him. There could be no sort of doubt that a man of Mr. Farnaby’s
character would yield, if Amelius could announce that he had the promise
of an appointment under Government--with the powerful influence of a
near relation to accelerate his promotion. He sat, idly drawing lines
on the blotting-paper; at one moment regretting that he had sent his
letter; at another, comforting himself in the belief that, if his father
had been living to advise him, his father would have approved of the
course that he had taken.

The messenger returned with these lines of reply:--

“Under any ordinary circumstances, I should have used my influence
to help you on in the world. But, when you not only hold the most
abominable political opinions, but actually proclaim those opinions in
public, I am amazed at your audacity in writing to me. There must be
no more communication between us. While you are a Socialist, you are a
stranger to me.”

Amelius accepted this new rebuff with ominous composure. He sat quietly
smoking in the deserted room, with his uncle’s letter in his hand.

Among the other disastrous results of the lecture, some of the
newspapers had briefly reported it. Preoccupied by his anxieties,
Amelius had forgotten this when he wrote to his relative. “Just like
me!” he thought, as he threw the letter into the fire. His last hopes
floated up the chimney, with the tiny puff of smoke from the burnt
paper. There was now no other chance of shortening the marriage
engagement left to try. He had already applied to the good friend whom
he had mentioned to Regina. The answer, kindly written in this case, had
not been very encouraging:--

“I have other claims to consider. All that I can do, I will do. Don’t be
disheartened--I only ask you to wait.”

Amelius rose to go home--and sat down again. His natural energy seemed
to have deserted him--it required an effort to leave the club. He took
up the newspapers, and threw them aside, one after another. Not one
of the unfortunate writers and reporters could please him on that
inauspicious day. It was only while he was lighting his second cigar
that he remembered Mrs. Farnaby’s unread letter to him. By this time, he
was more than weary of his own affairs. He read the letter.

“I find the people who have my happiness at their mercy both dilatory
and greedy.” (Mrs. Farnaby wrote); “but the little that I can persuade
them to tell me is very favourable to my hopes. I am still, to my
annoyance, only in personal communication with the hateful old woman.
The young man either sends messages, or writes to me through the post.
By this latter means he has accurately described, not only in which
of my child’s feet the fault exists, but the exact position which it
occupies. Here, you will agree with me, is positive evidence that he is
speaking the truth, whoever he is.

“But for this reassuring circumstance, I should feel inclined to be
suspicious of some things--of the obstinate manner, for instance, in
which the young man keeps himself concealed; also, of his privately
warning me not to trust the woman who is his own messenger, and not to
tell her on any account of the information which his letters convey
to me. I feel that I ought to be cautious with him on the question of
money--and yet, in my eagerness to see my darling, I am ready to
give him all that he asks for. In this uncertain state of mind, I am
restrained, strangely enough, by the old woman herself. She warns me
that he is the sort of man, if he once gets the money, to spare himself
the trouble of earning it. It is the one hold I have over him (she
says)--so I control the burning impatience that consumes me as well as I
can.

“No! I must not attempt to describe my own state of mind. When I tell
you that I am actually afraid of dying before I can give my sweet love
the first kiss, you will understand and pity me. When night comes, I
feel sometimes half mad.

“I send you my present address, in the hope that you will write and
cheer me a little. I must not ask you to come and see me yet. I am not
fit for it--and, besides, I am under a promise, in the present state of
the negotiations, to shut the door on my friends. It is easy enough to
do that; I have no friend, Amelius, but you.

“Try to feel compassionately towards me, my kind-hearted boy. For so
many long years, my heart has had nothing to feed on but the one hope
that is now being realized at last. No sympathy between my husband and
me (on the contrary, a horrid unacknowledged enmity, which has always
kept us apart); my father and mother, in their time both wretched about
my marriage, and with good reason; my only sister dying in poverty--what
a life for a childless woman! don’t let us dwell on it any longer.

“Goodbye for the present, Amelius. I beg you will not think I am always
wretched. When I want to be happy, I look to the coming time.”

This melancholy letter added to the depression that weighed on the
spirits of Amelius. It inspired him with vague fears for Mrs. Farnaby.
In her own interests, he would have felt himself tempted to consult
Rufus (without mentioning names), if the American had been in London. As
things were, he put the letter back in his pocket with a sigh. Even Mrs.
Farnaby, in her sad moments, had a consoling prospect to contemplate.
“Everybody but me!” Amelius thought.

His reflections were interrupted by the appearance of an idle young
member of the club, with whom he was acquainted. The new-comer remarked
that he looked out of spirits, and suggested that they should dine
together and amuse themselves somewhere in the evening. Amelius accepted
the proposal: any man who offered him a refuge from himself was a friend
to him on that day. Departing from his temperate habits, he deliberately
drank more than usual. The wine excited him for the time, and then left
him more depressed than ever; and the amusements of the evening produced
the same result. He returned to his cottage so completely disheartened,
that he regretted the day when he had left Tadmor.

But he kept his appointment, the next morning, to take leave of Regina.

The carriage was at the door, with a luggage-laden cab waiting behind
it. Mr. Farnaby’s ill-temper vented itself in predictions that they
would be too late to catch the train. His harsh voice, alternating
with Regina’s meek remonstrances, reached the ears of Amelius from the
breakfast-room. “I’m not going to wait for the gentleman-Socialist,”
 Mr. Farnaby announced, with his hardest sarcasm of tone. “Dear uncle,
we have a quarter of an hour to spare!” “We have nothing of the sort;
we want all that time to register the luggage.” The servant’s voice was
heard next. “Mr. Goldenheart, miss.” Mr. Farnaby instantly stepped into
the hall. “Goodbye!” he called to Amelius, through the open door of the
dining-room--and passed straight on to the carriage. “I shan’t wait,
Regina!” he shouted, from the doorstep. “Let him go by himself!” said
Amelius indignantly, as Regina hurried into the room. “Oh, hush, hush,
dear! Suppose he heard you? No week shall pass without my writing to
you; promise you will write back, Amelius. One more kiss! Oh, my dear!”
 The servant interposed, keeping discreetly out of sight. “I beg your
pardon, miss, my master wishes to know whether you are going with him or
not.” Regina waited to hear no more. She gave her lover a farewell look
to remember her by, and ran out.

That innate depravity which Amelius had lately discovered in his own
nature, let the forbidden thoughts loose in him again as he watched the
departing carriage from the door. “If poor little Sally had been in her
place--!” He made an effort of virtuous resolution, and stopped there.
“What a blackguard a man may be,” he penitently reflected, “without
suspecting it himself!”

He descended the house-steps. The discreet servant wished him good
morning, with a certain cheery respect--the man was delighted to have
seen the last of his hard master for some months to come. Amelius
stopped and turned round, smiling grimly. He was in such a reckless
humour, that he was even ready to divert his mind by astonishing a
footman. “Richard,” he said, “are you engaged to be married?” Richard
stared in blank surprise at the strange question--and modestly admitted
that he was engaged to marry the housemaid next door. “Soon?” asked
Amelius, swinging his stick. “As soon as I have saved a little more
money, sir.” “Damn the money!” cried Amelius--and struck his stick on
the pavement, and walked away with a last look at the house as if he
hated the sight of it. Richard watched the departing young gentleman,
and shook his head ominously as he shut the door.



CHAPTER 2

Amelius went straight back to the cottage, with the one desperate
purpose of reverting to the old plan, and burying himself in his books.
Surveying his well-filled shelves with an impatience unworthy of a
scholar, Hume’s “History of England” unhappily caught his eye. He took
down the first volume. In less than half an hour he discovered that
Hume could do nothing for him. Wisely inspired, he turned to the truer
history next, which men call fiction. The writings of the one supreme
genius, who soars above all other novelists as Shakespeare soars above
all other dramatists--the writings of Walter Scott--had their place of
honour in his library. The collection of the Waverley Novels at Tadmor
had not been complete. Enviable Amelius had still to read _Rob Roy._
He opened the book. For the rest of the day he was in love with Diana
Vernon; and when he looked out once or twice at the garden to rest his
eyes, he saw “Andrew Fairservice” busy over the flowerbeds.

He closed the last page of the noble story as Toff came in to lay the
cloth for dinner.

The master at table and the servant behind his chair were accustomed
to gossip pleasantly during meals. Amelius did his best to carry on the
talk as usual. But he was no longer in the delightful world of illusion
which Scott had opened to him. The hard realities of his own everyday
life had gathered round him again. Observing him with unobtrusive
attention, the Frenchman soon perceived the absence of the easy humour
and the excellent appetite which distinguished his young master at other
times.

“May I venture to make a remark, sir?” Toff inquired, after a long pause
in the conversation.

“Certainly.”

“And may I take the liberty of expressing my sentiments freely?”

“Of course you may.”

“Dear sir, you have a pretty little simple dinner to-day,” Toff began.
“Forgive me for praising myself, I am influenced by the natural pride
of having cooked the dinner. For soup, you have Croute au pot; for meat,
you have Tourne-dos a la sauce poivrade; for pudding, you have Pommes
au beurre. All so nice--and you hardly eat anything, and your amiable
conversation falls into a melancholy silence which fills me with regret.
Is it you who are to blame for this? No, sir! it is the life you lead. I
call it the life of a monk; I call it the life of a hermit--I say boldly
it is the life of all others which is most unsympathetic to a young man
like you. Pardon the warmth of my expressions; I am eager to make my
language the language of utmost delicacy. May I quote a little song? It
is in an old, old, old French piece, long since forgotten, called ‘Les
Maris Garcons’. There are two lines in that song (I have often heard
my good father sing them) which I will venture to apply to your case;
‘Amour, delicatesse, et gaite; D’un bon Francais c’est la devise!’ Sir,
you have naturally delicatesse and gaite--but the last has, for some
days, been under a cloud. What is wanted to remove that cloud? L’Amour!
Love, as you say in English. Where is the charming woman, who is the
only ornament wanting to this sweet cottage? Why is she still invisible?
Remedy that unhappy oversight, sir. You are here in a suburban Paradise.
I consult my long experience; and I implore you to invite Eve.--Ha!
you smile; your lost gaiety returns, and you feel it as I do. Might I
propose another glass of claret, and the reappearance on the table of
the Tourne-dos a la poivrade?”

It was impossible to be melancholy in this man’s company. Amelius
sanctioned the return of the Tourne-dos, and tried the other glass of
claret. “My good friend,” he said, with something like a return of his
old easy way, “you talk about charming women, and your long experience.
Let’s hear what your experience has been.”

For the first time Toff began to look a little confused.

“You have honoured me, sir, by calling me your good friend,” he said.
“After that, I am sure you will not send me away if I own the truth. No!
My heart tells me I shall not appeal to your indulgence in vain. Dear
sir, in the holidays which you kindly give me, I provide competent
persons to take care of the house in my absence, don’t I? One person,
if you remember, was a most handsome engaging young man. He is, if you
please, my son by my first wife--now an angel in heaven. Another
person, who took care of the house, on the next occasion, was a little
black-eyed boy; a miracle of discretion for his age. He is my son by my
second wife--now another angel in heaven. Forgive me, I have not
done yet. Some few days since, you thought you heard an infant crying
downstairs. Like a miserable wretch, I lied; I declared it was the
infant in the next house. Ah, sir, it was my own cherubim baby by my
third wife--an angel close by in the Edgeware Road, established in a
small milliner shop, which will expand to great things by-and-by. The
intervals between my marriages are not worthy of your notice. Fugitive
caprices, sir--fugitive caprices! To sum it all up (as you say in
England), it is not in me to resist the enchanting sex. If my third
angel dies, I shall tear my hair--but I shall none the less take a
fourth.”

“Take a dozen if you like,” said Amelius. “Why should you have kept all
this from my knowledge?”

Toff hung his head. “I think it was one of my foreign mistakes,” he
pleaded. “The servants’ advertisements in your English newspapers
frighten me. How does the most meritorious manservant announce
himself when he wants the best possible place? He says he is ‘without
encumbrances.’ Gracious heaven, what a dreadful word to describe the
poor pretty harmless children! I was afraid, sir, you might have some
English objection to _my_ ‘encumbrances.’ A young man, a boy, and a
cherubim-baby; not to speak of the sacred memories of two women, and the
charming occasional society of a third; all inextricably enveloped in
the life of one amorous-meritorious French person--surely there was
reason for hesitation here? No matter; I bless my stars I know better
now, and I withdraw myself from further notice. Permit me to recall your
attention to the Roquefort cheese, and a mouthful of potato-salad to
correct the richness of him.”


The dinner was over at last. Amelius was alone again.

It was a still evening. Not a breath of wind stirred among the trees in
the garden; no vehicles passed along the by-road in which the cottage
stood. Now and then, Toff was audible downstairs, singing French songs
in a high cracked voice, while he washed the plates and dishes, and
set everything in order for the night. Amelius looked at his
bookshelves--and felt that, after _Rob Roy,_ there was no more reading
for him that evening. The slow minutes followed one another wearily;
the deadly depression of the earlier hours of the day was stealthily
fastening its hold on him again. How might he best resist it? His
healthy out-of-door habits at Tadmor suggested the only remedy that he
could think of. Be his troubles what they might, his one simple method
of resisting them, at all other times, was his simple method now. He
went out for a walk.

For two hours he rambled about the great north-western suburb of London.
Perhaps he felt the heavy oppressive weather, or perhaps his good dinner
had not agreed with him. Any way, he was so thoroughly worn out, that he
was obliged to return to the cottage in a cab.

Toff opened the door--but not with his customary alacrity. Amelius was
too completely fatigued to notice any trifling circumstance. Otherwise,
he would certainly have perceived something odd in the old Frenchman’s
withered face. He looked at his master, as he relieved him of his
hat and coat, with the strangest expression of interest and anxiety;
modified by a certain sardonic sense of amusement underlying the more
serious emotions. “A nasty dull evening,” Amelius said wearily.
And Toff, always eager to talk at other times, only answered, “Yes,
sir”--and retreated at once to the kitchen regions.

The fire was bright; the curtains were drawn; the reading-lamp, with
its ample green shade, was on the table--a more comfortable room no man
could have found to receive him after a long walk. Reclining at his
ease in his chair, Amelius thought of ringing for some restorative
brandy-and-water. While he was thinking, he fell asleep; and, while he
slept, he dreamed.

Was it a dream?

He certainly saw the library--not fantastically transformed, but just
like what the room really was. So far, he might have been wide awake,
looking at the familiar objects round him. But, after a while, an event
happened which set the laws of reality at defiance. Simple Sally, miles
away in the Home, made her appearance in the library, nevertheless. He
saw the drawn curtains over the window parted from behind; he saw the
girl step out from them, and stop, looking at him timidly. She was
clothed in the plain dress that he had bought for her; and she looked
more charming in it than ever. The beauty of health claimed kindred now,
in her pretty face, with the beauty of youth: the wan cheeks had begun
to fill out, and the pale lips were delicately suffused with their
natural rosy red. Little by little her first fears seemed to subside.
She smiled, and softly crossed the room, and stood at his side. After
looking at him with a rapt expression of tenderness and delight, she
laid her hands on the arm of the chair, and said, in the quaintly quiet
way which he remembered so well, “I want to kiss you.” She bent over
him, and kissed him with the innocent freedom of a child. Then she
raised herself again, and looked backwards and forwards between Amelius
and the lamp. “The firelight is the best,” she said. Darkness fell over
the room as she spoke; he saw her no more; he heard her no more. A blank
interval followed; there flowed over him the oblivion of perfect sleep.
His next conscious sensation was a feeling of cold--he shivered, and
woke.

The impression of the dream was in his mind at the moment of waking. He
started as he raised himself in the chair. Was he dreaming still? No; he
was certainly awake. And, as certainly, the room was dark!

He looked and looked. It was not to be denied, or explained away. There
was the fire burning low, and leaving the room chilly--and there,
just visible on the table, in the flicker of the dying flame, was the
extinguished lamp!

He mended the fire, and put his hand on the bell to ring for Toff, and
thought better of it. What need had he of the lamplight? He was too
weary for reading; he preferred going to sleep again, and dreaming again
of Sally. Where was the harm in dreaming of the poor little soul, so far
away from him? The happiest part of his life now was the part of it that
was passed in sleep.

As the fresh coals began to kindle feebly, he looked again at the
lamp. It was odd, to say the least of it, that the light should have
accidentally gone out, exactly at the right time to realize the fanciful
extinction of it in his dream. How was it there was no smell of a
burnt-out lamp? He was too lazy, or too tired, to pursue the question.
Let the mystery remain a mystery--and let him rest in peace! He settled
himself fretfully in his chair. What a fool he was to bother his head
about a lamp, instead of closing his eyes and going to sleep again!

The room began to recover its pleasant temperature. He shifted the
cushion in the chair, so that it supported his head in perfect comfort,
and composed himself to rest. But the capricious influences of sleep had
deserted him: he tried one position after another, and all in vain.
It was a mere mockery even to shut his eyes. He resigned himself
to circumstances, and stretched out his legs, and looked at the
companionable fire.

Of late he had thought more frequently than usual of his past days in
the Community. His mind went back again now to that bygone time. The
clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. They were all at supper, at
Tadmor--talking over the events of the day. He saw himself again at the
long wooden table, with shy little Mellicent in the chair next to him,
and his favourite dog at his feet waiting to be fed. Where was Mellicent
now? It was a sad letter that she had written to him, with the strange
fixed idea that he was to return to her one day. There was something
very winning and lovable about the poor creature who had lived such a
hard life at home, and had suffered so keenly. It was a comfort to think
that she would go back to the Community. What happier destiny could she
hope for? Would she take care of his dog for him when she went back?
They had all promised to be kind to his pet animals in his absence; but
the dog was fond of Mellicent; he would be happier with Mellicent than
with the rest of them. And his little tame fawn, and his birds--how were
they doing? He had not even written to inquire after them; he had been
cruelly forgetful of those harmless dumb loving friends. In his present
solitude, in his dreary doubts of the future, what would he not give to
feel the dog nestling in his bosom, and the fawn’s little rough tongue
licking his hand! His heart ached as he thought of it: a choking
hysterical sensation oppressed his breathing. He tried to rise, and ring
for lights, and rouse his manhood to endure and resist. It was not to be
done. Where was his courage? where was the cheerfulness which had never
failed him at other time? He sank back in the chair, and hid his face in
his hands for shame at his own weakness, and burst out crying.

The touch of soft persuasive fingers suddenly thrilled through him.

His hands were gently drawn away from his face; a familiar voice, sweet
and low, said, “Oh, don’t cry!” Dimly through his tears he saw the
well-remembered little figure standing between him and the fire. In his
unendurable loneliness, he had longed for his dog, he had longed for
his fawn. There was the martyred creature from the streets, whom he
had rescued from nameless horror, waiting to be his companion, servant,
friend! There was the child-victim of cold and hunger, still only
feeling her way to womanhood; innocent of all other aspirations, so long
as she might fill the place which had once been occupied by the dog and
the fawn!

Amelius looked at her with a momentary doubt whether he was waking or
sleeping. “Good God!” he cried, “am I dreaming again?”

“No,” she said, simply. “You are awake this time. Let me dry your eyes;
I know where you put your handkerchief.” She perched on his knee, and
wiped away the tears, and smoothed his hair over his forehead. “I was
frightened to show myself till I heard you crying,” she confessed. “Then
I thought, ‘Come! he can’t be angry with me now’--and I crept out from
behind the curtains there. The old man let me in. I can’t live without
seeing you; I’ve tried till I could try no longer. I owned it to the old
man when he opened the door. I said, ‘I only want to look at him; won’t
you let me in?’ And he says, ‘God bless me, here’s Eve come already!’ I
don’t know what he meant--he let me in, that’s all I care about. He’s a
funny old foreigner. Send him away; I’m to be your servant now. Why
were you crying? I’ve cried often enough about You. No; that can’t be--I
can’t expect you to cry about _me;_ I can only expect you to scold me. I
know I’m a bad girl.”

She cast one doubtful look at him, and hung her head--waiting to be
scolded. Amelius lost all control over himself. He took her in his arms
and kissed her again and again. “You are a dear good grateful little
creature!” he burst out--and suddenly stopped, aware too late of the act
of imprudence which he had committed. He put her away from him; he tried
to ask severe questions, and to administer merited reproof. Even if he
had succeeded, Sally was too happy to listen to him. “It’s all right
now,” she cried. “I’m never, never, never to go back to the Home! Oh,
I’m so happy! Let’s light the lamp again!”

She found the matchbox on the chimneypiece. In a minute more the room
was bright. Amelius sat looking at her, perfectly incapable of deciding
what he ought to say or do next. To complete his bewilderment, the voice
of the attentive old Frenchman made itself heard through the door, in
discreetly confidential tones.

“I have prepared an appetising little supper, sir,” said Toff. “Be
pleased to ring when you and the young lady are ready.”



CHAPTER 3

Toff’s interference proved to have its use. The announcement of
the little supper--plainly implying Simple Sally’s reception at the
cottage--reminded Amelius of his responsibilities. He at once stepped
out into the passage, and closed the door behind him.

The old Frenchman was waiting to be reprimanded or thanked, as the case
might be, with his head down, his shoulders shrugged up to his ears, and
the palms of his hands spread out appealingly on either side of him--a
model of mute resignation to circumstances.

“Do you know that you have put me in a very awkward position?” Amelius
began.

Toff lifted one of his hands to his heart. “You are aware of my
weakness, sir. When that charming little creature presented herself at
the door, sinking with fatigue, I could no more resist her than I could
take a hop-skip-and-jump over the roof of this cottage. If I have done
wrong, take no account of the proud fidelity with which I have served
you--tell me to pack up and go; but don’t ask me to assume a position of
severity towards that enchanting Miss. It is not in my heart to do
it,” said Toff, lifting his eyes with tearful solemnity to an imaginary
heaven. “On my sacred word of honour as a Frenchman, I would die rather
than do it!”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Amelius rejoined a little impatiently. “I don’t
blame you--but you have got me into a scrape, for all that. If I did my
duty, I should send for a cab, and take her back.”

Toff opened his twinkling old eyes in a perfect transport of
astonishment. “What!” he cried, “take her back? Without rest, without
supper? And you call that duty? How inconceivably ugly does duty look
when it assumes an inhospitable aspect towards a woman! Pardon me, sir;
I must express my sentiments or I shall burst. You will say perhaps that
I have no conception of duty? Pardon me again--my conception of duty is
_here!”_

He threw open the door of the sitting-room. In spite of his anxiety,
Amelius burst out laughing. The Frenchman’s inexhaustible contrivances
had transformed the sitting-room into a bedroom for Sally. The sofa had
become a snug little white bed; a hairbrush and comb, and a bottle of
eau-de-cologne, were on the table; a bath stood near the fire, with cans
of hot and cold water, and a railway rug placed under them to save the
carpet. “I dare not presume to contradict you, sir,” said Toff, “but
there is _my_ conception of duty! In the kitchen, I have another
conception, keeping warm; you can smell it up the stairs. Salmi of
partridge, with the littlest possible dash of garlic in the sauce. Oh,
sir, let that angel rest and refresh herself! Virtuous severity, believe
me, is a most horribly unbecoming virtue at your age!” He spoke quite
seriously, with the air of a profound moralist, asserting principles
that did equal honour to his head and his heart.

Amelius went back to the library.

Sally was resting in the easy-chair; her position showed plainly that
she was suffering from fatigue. “I have had a long, long walk,” she
said; “and I don’t know which aches worst, my back or my feet. I don’t
care--I’m quite happy now I’m here.” She nestled herself comfortably in
the chair. “Do you mind my looking at you?” she asked. “Oh, it’s so long
since I saw you!”

There was a new undertone of tenderness in her voice--innocent
tenderness that openly avowed itself. The reviving influences of the
life at the Home had done much--and had much yet left to do. Her wasted
face and figure were filling out, her cheeks and lips were regaining
their lovely natural colour, as Amelius had seen in his dream. But her
eyes, in repose, still resumed their vacantly patient look; and her
manner, with a perceptible increase of composure and confidence, had
not lost its quaint childish charm. Her growth from girl to woman was a
growth of fine gradations, guided by the unerring deliberation of Nature
and Time.

“Do you think they will follow you here, from the Home?” Amelius asked.

She looked at the clock. “I don’t think so,” she said quietly. “It’s
hours since I slipped out by the back door. They have very strict rules
about runaway girls--even when their friends bring them back. If _you_
send me back--” she stopped, and looked thoughtfully into the fire.

“What will you do, if I send you back?”

“What one of our girls did, before they took her in at the Home. She
jumped into the river. ‘Made a hole in the water’; that’s how she calls
it. She’s a big strong girl; and they got her out, and saved her. She
says it wasn’t painful, till they brought her to again. I’m little and
weak--I don’t think they could bring _me_ to life, if they tried.”

Amelius made a futile attempt to reason with her. He even got so far
as to tell her that she had done very wrong to leave the Home. Sally’s
answer set all further expostulation at defiance. Instead of attempting
to defend herself, she sighed wearily, and said, “I had no money; I
walked all the way here.”

The well-intended remonstrances of Amelius were lost in compassionate
surprise. “You poor little soul!” he exclaimed, “it must be seven or
eight miles at least!”

“I dare say,” said Sally. “It don’t matter, now I’ve found you.”

“But how did you find me? Who told you where I lived?”

She smiled, and took from her bosom the photograph of the cottage.

“But Mrs. Payson cut off the address!” cried Amelius, bursting out with
the truth in the impulse of the moment.

Sally turned over the photograph, and pointed to the back of the card,
on which the photographer’s name and address were printed. “Mrs. Payson
didn’t think of this,” she said shyly.

“Did _you_ think of it?” Amelius asked.

Sally shook her head. “I’m too stupid,” she replied. “The girl who made
the hole in the water put me up to it. ‘Have you made up your mind to
run away?’ she says. And I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘You go to the man who did the
picture,’ she says; ‘he knows where the place is, I’ll be bound.’ I
asked my way till I found him. And he did know. And he told me. He was a
good sort; he gave me a glass of beer, he said I looked so tired. I said
we’d go and have our portraits taken some day--you, and your servant.
May I tell the funny old foreigner that he is to go away now I have come
to you?” The complete simplicity with which she betrayed her jealousy
of Toff made Amelius smile. Sally, watching every change in his face,
instantly drew her own conclusion. “Ah!” she said cheerfully, “I’ll keep
your room cleaner than he keeps it! I smelt dust on the curtains when I
was hiding from you.”

Amelius thought of his dream. “Did you come out while I was asleep?” he
asked.

“Yes; I wasn’t frightened of you, when you were asleep. I had a good
look at you; and I gave you a kiss.” She made that confession without
the slightest sign of confusion; her calm blue eyes looked him straight
in the face. “You got restless,” she went on; “and I got frightened
again. I put out the lamp. I says to myself, ‘If he does scold me, I can
bear it better in the dark.’”

Amelius listened, wondering. Had he seen drowsily what he thought he
had dreamed, or was there some mysterious sympathy between Sally and
himself? The occult speculations were interrupted by Sally. “May I take
off my bonnet, and make myself tidy?” she asked. Some men might have
said No. Amelius was not one of them.

The library possessed a door of communication with the sitting-room; the
bedchamber occupied by Amelius being on the other side of the cottage.
When Sally saw Toff’s reconstructed room, she stood at the door, in
speechless admiration of the vision of luxury revealed to her. From time
to time Amelius, alone in the library, heard her dabbling in her bath,
and humming the artless old English song from which she had taken her
name. Once she knocked at the closed door, and made a request through
it--“There is scent on the table; may I have some?” And once Toff
knocked at the other door, opening into the passage, and asked when
“pretty young Miss” would be ready for supper. Events went on in the
little household as if Sally had become an integral part of it already.
“What _am_ I to do?” Amelius asked himself. And Toff, entering at the
moment to lay the cloth, answered respectfully, “Hurry the young person,
sir, or the salmi will be spoilt.”

She came out from her room, walking delicately on her sore feet--so
fresh and charming, that Toff, absorbed in admiration, made a mistake in
folding a napkin for the first time in his life. “Champagne, of course,
sir?” he said in confidence to Amelius. The salmi of partridge appeared;
the inspiriting wine sparkled in the glasses; Toff surpassed himself
in all the qualities which made a servant invaluable at a supper
table. Sally forgot the Home, forgot the cruel streets, and laughed and
chattered as gaily as the happiest girl living. Amelius, expanding in
the joyous atmosphere of youth and good spirits, shook off his sense of
responsibility, and became once more the delightful companion who won
everybody’s love. The effervescent gaiety of the evening was at its
climax; the awful forms of duty, propriety, and good sense had been long
since laughed out of the room--when Nemesis, goddess of retribution,
announced her arrival outside, by a crashing of carriage-wheels and a
peremptory ring at the cottage bell.

There was dead silence; Amelius and Sally looked at each other. The
experienced Toff at once guessed what had happened. “Is it her father or
mother?” he asked of Amelius, a little anxiously. Hearing that she had
never even seen her father or mother, he snapped his fingers joyously,
and led the way on tiptoe into the hall. “I have my idea,” he whispered.
“Let us listen.”

A woman’s voice, high, clear, and resolute, speaking apparently to the
coachman, was the next audible sound. “Say I come from Mrs. Payson, and
must see Mr. Goldenheart directly.” Sally trembled and turned pale.
“The matron!” she said faintly. “Oh, don’t let her in!” Amelius took
the terrified girl back to the library. Toff followed them, respectfully
asking to be told what a “matron” was. Receiving the necessary
explanation, he expressed his contempt for matrons bent on carrying
charming persons into captivity, by opening the library door and
spitting into the hall. Having relieved his mind in this way, he
returned to his master and laid a lank skinny forefinger cunningly
along the side of his nose. “I suppose, sir, you don’t want to see
this furious woman?” he said. Before it was possible to say anything in
reply, another ring at the bell announced that the furious woman wanted
to see Amelius. Toff read his master’s wishes in his master’s face.
Not even this emergency could find him unprepared: he was as ready to
circumvent a matron as to cook a dinner. “The shutters are up, and the
curtains are drawn,” he reminded Amelius. “Not a morsel of light is
visible outside. Let them ring--we have all gone to bed.” He turned to
Sally, grinning with impish enjoyment of his own stratagem. “Ha, Miss!
what do you think of that?” There was a third pull at the bell as he
spoke. “Ring away, Missess Matrone!” he cried. “We are fast asleep--wake
us if you can.” The fourth ring was the last. A sharp crack revealed
the breaking of the bellwire, and was followed by the shrill fall of the
iron handle on the pavement before the garden gate. The gate, like the
palings, was protected at the top from invading cats. “Compose yourself,
Miss,” said Toff, “if she tries to get over the gate, she will stick on
the spikes.” In another moment, the sound of retiring carriage-wheels
announced the defeat of the matron, and settled the serious question of
receiving Sally for the night.

She sat silent by the window, when Toff had left the room, holding back
the curtains and looking out at the murky sky.

“What are you looking for?” Amelius asked.

“I was looking for the stars.”

Amelius joined her at the window. “There are no stars to be seen
tonight.”

She let the curtain fall to again. “I was thinking of night-time at the
Home,” she said. “You see, I got on pretty well, in the day, with my
reading and writing. I wanted so to improve myself. My mind was troubled
with the fear of your despising such an ignorant creature as I am; so I
kept on at my lessons. I thought I might surprise you by writing you a
pretty letter some day. One of the teachers (she’s gone away ill) was
very good to me. I used to talk to her; and, when I said a wrong word,
she took me up, and told me the right one. She said you would think
better of me when you heard me speak properly--and I do speak better,
don’t I? All this was in the day. It was the night that was the hard
time to get through--when the other girls were all asleep, and I had
nothing to think of but how far away I was from you. I used to get
up, and put the counterpane round me, and stand at the window. On
fine nights the stars were company to me. There were two stars, near
together, that I got to know. Don’t laugh at me--I used to think one of
them was you, and one of them me. I wondered whether you would die, or
I should die, before I saw you again. And, most always, it was my star
that went out first. Lord, how I used to cry! It got into my poor stupid
head that I should never see you again. I do believe I ran away because
of that. You won’t tell anybody, will you? It was so foolish, I am
ashamed of it now. I wanted to see your star and my star tonight. I
don’t know why. Oh, I’m so fond of you!” She dropped on her knees, and
took his hand, and put it on her head. “It’s burning hot,” she said,
“and your kind hand cools it.”

Amelius raised her gently, and led her to the door of her room. “My poor
Sally, you are quite worn out. You want rest and sleep. Let us say good
night.”

“I will do anything you tell me,” she answered. “If Mrs. Payson comes
tomorrow, you won’t let her take me away? Thank you. Goodnight.” She
put her hands on his shoulders, with innocent familiarity, and lifted
herself to him on tiptoe, and kissed him as a sister might have kissed
him.

Long after Sally was asleep in her bed, Amelius sat by the library fire,
thinking.

The revival of the crushed feeling and fancy in the girl’s nature,
so artlessly revealed in her sad little story of the stars that were
“company to her,” not only touched and interested him, but clouded his
view of the future with doubts and anxieties which had never troubled
him until that moment. The mysterious influences under which the girl’s
development was advancing were working morally and physically together.
Weeks might pass harmlessly, months might pass harmlessly--but the time
must come when the innocent relations between them would be beset
by peril. Unable, as yet, fully to realize these truths, Amelius
nevertheless felt them vaguely. His face was troubled, as he lit the
candle at last to go to his bed. “I don’t see my way as clearly as I
could wish,” he reflected. “How will it end?”

How indeed!



CHAPTER 4

At eight o’clock the next morning, Amelius was awakened by Toff. A
letter had arrived, marked “Immediate,” and the messenger was waiting
for an answer.

The letter was from Mrs. Payson. She wrote briefly, and in formal terms.
After referring to the matron’s fruitless visit to the cottage on the
previous night, Mrs. Payson proceeded in these words:--“I request you
will immediately let me know whether Sally has taken refuge with you,
and has passed the night under your roof. If I am right in believing
that she has done so, I have only to inform you that the doors of the
Home are henceforth closed to her, in conformity with our rules. If I am
wrong, it will be my painful duty to lose no time in placing the matter
in the hands of the police.”

Amelius began his reply, acting on impulse as usual. He wrote,
vehemently remonstrating with Mrs. Payson on the unforgiving and
unchristian nature of the rules at the Home. Before he was halfway
through his composition, the person who had brought the letter sent a
message to say that he was expected back immediately, and that he hoped
Mr. Goldenheart would not get a poor man into trouble by keeping him
much longer. Checked in the full flow of his eloquence, Amelius angrily
tore up the unfinished remonstrance, and matched Mrs. Payson’s briefly
business-like language by an answer in one line:--“I beg to inform you
that you are quite right.” On reflection, he felt that the second letter
was not only discourteous as a reply to a lady, but also ungrateful
as addressed to Mrs. Payson personally. At the third attempt, he wrote
becomingly as well as briefly. “Sally has passed the night here, as my
guest. She was suffering from severe fatigue; it would have been an act
of downright inhumanity to send her away. I regret your decision, but
of course I submit to it. You once said, you believed implicitly in
the purity of my motives. Do me the justice, however you may blame my
conduct, to believe in me still.”

Having despatched these lines, the mind of Amelius was at ease again,
He went into the library, and listened to hear if Sally was moving.
The perfect silence on the other side of the door informed him that the
weary girl was still fast asleep. He gave directions that she was on no
account to be disturbed, and sat down to breakfast by himself.

While he was still at table, Toff appeared, with profound mystery in
his manner, and discreet confidence in the tones of his voice. “Here’s
another one, sir!” the Frenchman announced, in his master’s ear.

“Another one?” Amelius repeated. “What do you mean?”

“She is not like the sweet little sleeping Miss.” Toff explained. “This
time, sir, it’s the beauty of the devil himself, as we say in France.
She refuses to confide in me; and she appears to be agitated--both bad
signs. Shall I get rid of her before the other Miss wakes?”

“Hasn’t she got a name?” Amelius asked.

Toff answered, in his foreign accent, “One name only--Faybay.”

“Do you mean Phoebe?”

“Have I not said it, sir?”

“Show her in directly.”

Toff glanced at the door of Sally’s room, shrugged his shoulders, and
obeyed his instructions.

Phoebe appeared, looking pale and anxious. Her customary assurance of
manner had completely deserted her: she stopped in the doorway, as if
she was afraid to enter the room.

“Come in, and sit down,” said Amelius. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m troubled in my mind, sir,” Phoebe answered. “I know it’s taking
a liberty to come to you. But I went yesterday to ask Miss Regina’s
advice, and found she had gone abroad with her uncle. I have something
to say about Mrs. Farnaby, sir; and there’s no time to be lost in saying
it. I know of nobody but you that I can speak to, now Miss Regina is
away. The footman told me where you lived.”

She stopped, evidently in the greatest embarrassment. Amelius tried to
encourage her. “If I can be of any use to Mrs. Farnaby,” he said, “tell
me at once what to do.”

Phoebe’s eyes dropped before his straightforward look as he spoke to
her.

“I must ask you to please excuse my mentioning names, sir,” she resumed
confusedly. “There’s a person I’m interested in, whom I wouldn’t get
into trouble for the whole world. He’s been misled--I’m sure he’s been
misled by another person--a wicked drunken old woman, who ought to be
in prison if she had her deserts. I’m not free from blame myself--I know
I’m not. I listened, sir, to what I oughtn’t to have heard; and I told
it again (I’m sure in the strictest confidence, and not meaning anything
wrong) to the person I’ve mentioned. Not the old women--I mean the
person I’m interested in. I hope you understand me, sir? I wish to speak
openly, excepting the names, on account of Mrs. Farnaby.”

Amelius thought of Phoebe’s vindictive language the last time he had
seen her. He looked towards a cabinet in a corner of the room, in which
he had placed Mrs. Farnaby’s letter. An instinctive distrust of his
visitor began to rise in his mind. His manner altered--he turned to his
plate, and went on with his breakfast. “Can’t you speak to me plainly?”
 he said. “Is Mrs. Farnaby in any trouble?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And can I do anything to help her out of it?”

“I am sure you can, sir--if you only know where to find her.”

“I do know where to find her. She has written to tell me. The last time
I saw you, you expressed yourself very improperly about Mrs. Farnaby;
you spoke as if you meant some harm to her.”

“I mean nothing but good to her now, sir.”

“Very well, then. Can’t you go and speak to her yourself, if I give you
the address?”

Phoebe’s pale face flushed a little. “I couldn’t do that, sir,” she
answered, “after the way Mrs. Farnaby has treated me. Besides, if she
knew that I had listened to what passed between her and you--” She
stopped again, more painfully embarrassed than ever.

Amelius laid down his knife and fork. “Look here!” he said; “this sort
of thing is not in my way. If you can’t make a clean breast of it, let’s
talk of something else. I’m very much afraid,” he went on, with his
customary absence of all concealment, “you’re not the harmless sort of
girl I once took you for. What do you mean by ‘what passed between Mrs.
Farnaby and me’?”

Phoebe put her handkerchief to her eyes. “It’s very hard to speak to me
so harshly,” she said, “when I’m sorry for what I’ve done, and am only
anxious to prevent harm coming of it.”

_“What_ have you done?” cried honest Amelius, weary of the woman’s
inveterately indirect way of explaining herself to him.

The flash of his quick temper in his eyes, as he put that
straightforward question, roused a responsive temper in Phoebe which
stung her into speaking openly at last. She told Amelius what she had
heard in the kitchen as plainly as she had told it to Jervy--with this
one difference, that she spoke without insolence when she referred to
Mrs. Farnaby.

Listening in silence until she had done, Amelius started to his feet,
and opening the cabinet, took from it Mrs. Farnaby’s letter. He read the
letter, keeping his back towards Phoebe--waited a moment thinking--and
suddenly turned on the woman with a look that made her shrink in her
chair. “You wretch!” he said; “you detestable wretch!”

In the terror of the moment, Phoebe attempted to leave the room. Amelius
stopped her instantly. “Sit down again,” he said; “I mean to have the
whole truth out of you, now.”

Phoebe recovered her courage. “You have had the whole truth, sir; I
could tell you no more if I was on my deathbed.”

Amelius refused to believe her. “There is a vile conspiracy against Mrs.
Farnaby,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me you are not in it?”

“So help me God, sir, I never even heard of it till yesterday!”

The tone in which she spoke shook the conviction of Amelius; the
indescribable ring of truth was in it.

“There are two people who are cruelly deluding and plundering this poor
lady,” he went on. “Who are they?”

“I told you, if you remember, that I couldn’t mention names, sir.”

Amelius looked again at the letter. After what he had heard, there was
no difficulty in identifying the invisible “young man,” alluded to by
Mrs. Farnaby, with the unnamed “person” in whom Phoebe was interested.
Who was he? As the question passed through his mind, Amelius remembered
the vagabond whom he had recognized with Phoebe, in the street. There
was no doubt of it now--the man who was directing the conspiracy in the
dark was Jervy! Amelius would unquestionably have been rash enough
to reveal this discovery, if Phoebe had not stopped him. His renewed
reference to Mrs. Farnaby’s letter and his sudden silence after looking
at it roused the woman’s suspicions. “If you’re planning to get my
friend into trouble,” she burst out, “not another word shall pass my
lips!”

Even Amelius profited by the warning which that threat unintentionally
conveyed to him.

“Keep your own secrets,” he said; “I only want to spare Mrs. Farnaby a
dreadful disappointment. But I must know what I am talking about when I
go to her. Can’t you tell me how you found out this abominable swindle?”

Phoebe was perfectly willing to tell him. Interpreting her long involved
narrative into plain English, with the names added, these were the
facts related:--Mrs. Sowler, bearing in mind some talk which had
passed between them on the occasion of a supper, had called at
Phoebe’s lodgings on the previous day, and had tried to entrap her into
communicating what she knew of Mrs. Farnaby’s secrets. The trap failing,
Mrs. Sowler had tried bribery next; had promised Phoebe a large sum of
money, to be equally divided between them, if she would only speak; had
declared that Jervy was perfectly capable of breaking his promise of
marriage, and “leaving them both in the lurch, if he once got the money
into his own pocket” and had thus informed Phoebe, that the conspiracy,
which she supposed to have been abandoned, was really in full progress,
without her knowledge. She had temporised with Mrs. Sowler, being afraid
to set such a person openly at defiance; and had hurried away at once,
to have an explanation with Jervy. He was reported to be “not at home.”
 Her fruitless visit to Regina had followed--and there, so far as facts
were concerned, was an end of the story.

Amelius asked her no questions, and spoke as briefly as possible when
she had done. “I will go to Mrs. Farnaby this morning,” was all he said.

“Would you please let me hear how it ends?” Phoebe asked.

Amelius pushed his pocket-book and pencil across the table to her,
pointing to a blank leaf on which she could write her address. While
she was thus employed the attentive Toff came in, and (with his eye on
Phoebe) whispered in his master’s ear. He had heard Sally moving about.
Would it be more convenient, under the circumstances, if she had her
breakfast in her own room? Toff’s astonishment was a sight to see when
Amelius answered, “Certainly not. Let her breakfast here.”

Phoebe rose to go. Her parting words revealed the double-sided nature
that was in her; the good and evil in perpetual conflict which should be
uppermost.

“Please don’t mention me, sir, to Mrs. Farnaby,” she said. “I don’t
forgive her for what she’s done to me; I don’t say I won’t be even with
her yet. But not in _that_ way! I won’t have her death laid at my door.
Oh, but I know her temper--and I say it’s as likely as not to kill her
or drive her mad, if she isn’t warned about it in time. Never mind her
losing her money. If it’s lost, it’s lost, and she’s got plenty more.
She may be robbed a dozen times over for all I care. But don’t let her
set her heart on seeing her child, and then find it’s all a swindle. I
hate her; but I can’t and won’t, let _that_ go on. Good-morning, sir.”

Amelius was relieved by her departure. For a minute or two, he sat
absently stirring his coffee, and considering how he might most safely
perform the terrible duty of putting Mrs. Farnaby on her guard.
Toff interrupted his meditations by preparing the table for Sally’s
breakfast; and, almost at the same moment, Sally herself, fresh and
rosy, opened her door a little way, and looked in.

“You have had a fine long sleep,” said Amelius. “Have you quite got over
your walk yesterday?”

“Oh yes,” she answered gaily; “I only feel my long walk now in my feet.
It hurts me to put my boots on. Can you lend me a pair of slippers?”

“A pair of my slippers? Why, Sally, you would be lost in them! What’s
the matter with your feet?”

“They’re both sore. And I think one of them has got a blister on it.”

“Come in, and let’s have a look at it?”

She came limping in, with her feet bare. “Don’t scold me,” she pleaded,
“I couldn’t put my stockings on again, without washing them; and they’re
not dry yet.”

“I’ll get you new stockings and slippers,” said Amelius. “Which is the
foot with the blister?”

“The left foot,” she answered, pointing to it.



CHAPTER 5

“Let me see the blister,” said Amelius.

Sally looked longingly at the fire.

“May I warm my feet first?” she asked; “they are so cold.”

In those words she innocently deferred the discovery which, if it had
been made at the moment, might have altered the whole after-course of
events. Amelius only thought now of preventing her from catching cold.
He sent Toff for a pair of the warmest socks that he possessed, and
asked if he should put them on for her. She smiled, and shook her head,
and put them on for herself.

When they had done laughing at the absurd appearance of the little feet
in the large socks, they only drifted farther and farther away from the
subject of the blistered foot. Sally remembered the terrible matron, and
asked if anything had been heard of her that morning. Being told that
Mrs. Payson had written, and that the doors of the institution were
closed to her, she recovered her spirits, and began to wonder whether
the offended authorities would let her have her clothes. Toff offered
to go and make the inquiry, later in the day; suggesting the purchase
of slippers and stockings, in the mean time, while Sally was having her
breakfast. Amelius approved of the suggestion; and Toff set off on his
errand, with one of Sally’s boots for a pattern.

The morning had, by that time, advanced to ten o’clock.

Amelius stood before the fire talking, while Sally had her breakfast.
Having first explained the reasons which made it impossible that she
should live at the cottage in the capacity of his servant, he astonished
her by announcing that he meant to undertake the superintendence of her
education himself. They were to be master and pupil, while the lessons
were in progress; and brother and sister at other times--and they were
to see how they got on together, on this plan, without indulging in
any needless anxiety about the future. Amelius believed with perfect
sincerity that he had hit on the only sensible arrangement, under the
circumstances; and Sally cried joyously, “Oh, how good you are to me;
the happy life has come at last!” At the hour when those words passed
the daughter’s lips, the discovery of the conspiracy burst upon the
mother in all its baseness and in all its horror.

The suspicion of her infamous employer, which had induced Mrs. Sowler to
attempt to intrude herself into Phoebe’s confidence, led her to make a
visit of investigation at Jervy’s lodgings later in the day. Informed,
as Phoebe had been informed, that he was not at home, she called again
some hours afterwards. By that time, the landlord had discovered that
Jervy’s luggage had been secretly conveyed away, and that his tenant had
left him, in debt for rent of the two best rooms in the house.

No longer in any doubt of what had happened, Mrs. Sowler employed the
remaining hours of the evening in making inquiries after the missing
man. Not a trace of him had been discovered up to eight o’clock on the
next morning.

Shortly after nine o’clock--that is to say, towards the hour at which
Phoebe paid her visit to Amelius--Mrs. Sowler, resolute to know the
worst, made her appearance at the apartments occupied by Mrs. Farnaby.

“I wish to speak to you,” she began abruptly, “about that young man we
both know of. Have you seen anything of him lately?”

Mrs. Farnaby, steadily on her guard, deferred answering the question.
“Why do you want to know?” she said.

The reply was instantly ready. “Because I have reason to believe he has
bolted, with your money in his pocket.”

“He has done nothing of the sort,” Mrs. Farnaby rejoined.

“Has he got your money?” Mrs. Sowler persisted. “Tell me the truth--and
I’ll do the same by you. He has cheated me. If you’re cheated too, it’s
your own interest to lose no time in finding him. The police may catch
him yet. _Has_ he got your money?”

The woman was in earnest--in terrible earnest--her eyes and her voice
both bore witness to it. She stood there, the living impersonation of
those doubts and fears which Mrs. Farnaby had confessed, in writing to
Amelius. Her position, at that moment, was essentially a position of
command. Mrs. Farnaby felt it in spite of herself. She acknowledged that
Jervy had got the money.

“Did you sent it to him, or give it to him?” Mrs. Sowler asked.

“I gave it to him.”

“When?”

“Yesterday evening.”

Mrs. Sowler clenched her fists, and shook them in impotent rage. “He’s
the biggest scoundrel living,” she exclaimed furiously; “and you’re the
biggest fool! Put on your bonnet and come to the police. If you get your
money back again before he’s spent it all, don’t forget it was through
me.”

The audacity of the woman’s language roused Mrs. Farnaby. She pointed to
the door. “You are an insolent creature,” she said; “I have nothing more
to do with you.”

“You have nothing more to do with me?” Mrs. Sowler repeated. “You and
the young man have settled it all between you, I suppose.” She laughed
scornfully. “I dare say now you expect to see him again?”

Mrs. Farnaby was irritated into answering this. “I expect to see him
this morning,” she said, “at ten o’clock.”

“And the lost young lady with him?”

“Say nothing about my lost daughter! I won’t even hear you speak of
her.”

Mrs. Sowler sat down. “Look at your watch,” she said. “It must be nigh
on ten o’clock by this time. You’ll make a disturbance in the house if
you try to turn me out. I mean to wait here till ten o’clock.”

On the point of answering angrily, Mrs. Farnaby restrained herself. “You
are trying to force a quarrel on me,” she said; “you shan’t spoil the
happiest morning of my life. Wait here by yourself.”

She opened the door that led into her bedchamber, and shut herself in.
Perfectly impenetrable to any repulse that could be offered to her, Mrs.
Sowler looked at the closed door with a sardonic smile, and waited.

The clock in the hall struck ten. Mrs. Farnaby returned again to the
sitting-room, walked straight to the window, and looked out.

“Any sign of him?” said Mrs. Sowler.

There were no signs of him. Mrs. Farnaby drew a chair to the window,
and sat down. Her hands turned icy cold. She still looked out into the
street.

“I’m going to guess what’s happened,” Mrs. Sowler resumed. “I’m a
sociable creature, you know, and I must talk about something. About the
money, now? Has the young man had his travelling expenses of you? To go
to foreign parts, and bring your girl back with him, eh? I expect that’s
how it was. You see, I know him so well. And what happened, if you
please, yesterday evening? Did he tell you he’d brought her back, and
got her at his own place? And did he say he wouldn’t let you see her
till you paid him his reward as well as his travelling expenses? And
did you forget my warning to you not to trust him? I’m a good one at
guessing when I try. I see you think so yourself. Any signs of him yet?”

Mrs. Farnaby looked round from the window. Her manner was completely
changed; she was nervously civil to the wretch who was torturing her. “I
beg your pardon, ma’am, if I have offended you,” she said faintly. “I am
a little upset--I am so anxious about my poor child. Perhaps you are a
mother yourself? You oughtn’t to frighten me; you ought to feel for
me.” She paused, and put her hand to her head. “He told me yesterday
evening,” she went on slowly and vacantly, “that my poor darling was
at his lodgings; he said she was so worn out with the long journey from
abroad, that she must have a night’s rest before she could come to me.
I asked him to tell me where he lived, and let me go to her. He said she
was asleep and must not be disturbed. I promised to go in on tiptoe, and
only look at her; I offered him more money, double the money to tell
me where she was. He was very hard on me. He only said, wait till ten
tomorrow morning--and wished me goodnight. I ran out to follow him, and
fell on the stairs, and hurt myself. The people of the house were very
kind to me.” She turned her head back towards the window, and looked
out into the street again. “I must be patient,” she said; “he’s only a
little late.”

Mrs. Sowler rose, and tapped her smartly on the shoulder. “Lies!” she
burst out. “He knows no more where your daughter is than I do--and he’s
off with your money!”

The woman’s hateful touch struck out a spark of the old fire in Mrs.
Farnaby. Her natural force of character asserted itself once more.
_“You_ lie!” she rejoined. “Leave the room!”

The door was opened, while she spoke. A respectable woman-servant came
in with a letter. Mrs. Farnaby took it mechanically, and looked at the
address. Jervy’s feigned handwriting was familiar to her. In the
instant when she recognized it, the life seemed to go out of her like
an extinguished light. She stood pale and still and silent, with the
unopened letter in her hand.

Watching her with malicious curiosity, Mrs. Sowler coolly possessed
herself of the letter, looked at it, and recognized the writing in her
turn. “Stop!” she cried, as the servant was on the point of going
out. “There’s no stamp on this letter. Was it brought by hand? Is the
messenger waiting?”

The respectable servant showed her opinion of Mrs. Sowler plainly in her
face. She replied as briefly and as ungraciously as possible:--“No.”

“Man or woman?” was the next question.

“Am I to answer this person, ma’am?” said the servant, looking at Mrs.
Farnaby.

“Answer me instantly,” Mrs. Sowler interposed--“in Mrs. Farnaby’s own
interests. Don’t you see she can’t speak to you herself?”

“Well, then,” said the servant, “it was a man.”

“A man with a squint?”

“Yes.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Towards the square.”

Mrs. Sowler tossed the letter on the table, and hurried out of the room.
The servant approached Mrs. Farnaby. “You haven’t opened your letter
yet, ma’am,” she said.

“No,” said Mrs. Farnaby vacantly, “I haven’t opened it yet.”

“I’m afraid it’s bad news, ma’am?”

“Yes. I think it’s bad news.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. Yes; one thing. Open my letter for me, please.”

It was a strange request to make. The servant wondered, and obeyed. She
was a kind-hearted woman; she really felt for the poor lady. But
the familiar household devil, whose name is Curiosity, and whose
opportunities are innumerable, prompted her next words when she had
taken the letter out of the envelope:--“Shall I read it to you, ma’am?”

“No. Put it down on the table, please. I’ll ring when I want you.”

The mother was alone--alone, with her death-warrant waiting for her on
the table.

The clock downstairs struck the half hour after ten. She moved, for the
first time since she had received the letter. Once more she went to the
window, and looked out. It was only for a moment. She turned away again,
with a sudden contempt for herself. “What a fool I am!” she said--and
took up the open letter.

She looked at it, and put it down again. “Why should I read it,” she
asked herself, “when I know what is in it, without reading?”

Some framed woodcuts from the illustrated newspapers were hung on the
walls. One of them represented a scene of rescue from shipwreck. A
mother embracing her daughter, saved by the lifeboat, was among the
foreground groups. The print was entitled, “The Mercy of Providence.”
 Mrs. Farnaby looked at it with a moment’s steady attention. “Providence
has its favourites,” she said; “I am not one of them.”

After thinking a little, she went into her bedroom, and took two papers
out of her dressing-case. They were medical prescriptions.

She turned next to the chimneypiece. Two medicine-bottles were placed
on it. She took one of them down--a bottle of the ordinary size, known
among chemists as a six-ounce bottle. It contained a colourless liquid.
The label stated the dose to be “two table-spoonfuls,” and bore, as
usual, a number corresponding with a number placed on the prescription.
She took up the prescription. It was a mixture of bi-carbonate of soda
and prussic acid, intended for the relief of indigestion. She looked at
the date, and was at once reminded of one of the very rare occasions on
which she had required the services of a medical man. There had been a
serious accident at a dinner-party, given by some friends. She had eaten
sparingly of a certain dish, from which some of the other guests had
suffered severely. It was discovered that the food had been cooked in
an old copper saucepan. In her case, the trifling result had been a
disturbance of digestion, and nothing more. The doctor had prescribed
accordingly. She had taken but one dose: with her healthy constitution
she despised physic. The remainder of the mixture was still in the
bottle.

She considered again with herself--then went back to the chimneypiece,
and took down the second bottle.

It contained a colourless liquid also; but it was only half the size of
the first bottle, and not a drop had been taken. She waited, observing
the difference between the two bottles with extraordinary attention. In
this case also, the prescription was in her possession--but it was not
the original. A line at the top stated that it was a copy made by the
chemist, at the request of a customer. It bore the date of more than
three years since. A morsel of paper was pinned to the prescription,
containing some lines in a woman’s handwriting:--“With your enviable
health and strength, my dear, I should have thought you were the last
person in the world to want a tonic. However, here is my prescription,
if you must have it. Be very careful to take the right dose, because
there’s poison in it.” The prescription contained three ingredients,
strychnine, quinine, and nitro-hydrochloric acid; and the dose was
fifteen drops in water. Mrs. Farnaby lit a match, and burnt the lines of
her friend’s writing. “As long ago as that,” she reflected, “I thought
of killing myself. Why didn’t I do it?”

The paper having been destroyed, she put back the prescription for
indigestion in her dressing-case; hesitated for a moment; and opened the
bedroom window. It looked into a lonely little courtyard. She threw
the dangerous contents of the second and smaller bottle out into the
yard--and then put it back empty on the chimneypiece. After another
moment of hesitation, she returned to the sitting-room, with the bottle
of mixture, and the copied prescription for the tonic strychnine drops,
in her hand.

She put the bottle on the table, and advanced to the fireplace to ring
the bell. Warm as the room was, she began to shiver. Did the eager life
in her feel the fatal purpose that she was meditating, and shrink from
it? Instead of ringing the bell, she bent over the fire, trying to warm
herself.

“Other women would get relief in crying,” she thought. “I wish I was
like other women!”

The whole sad truth about herself was in that melancholy aspiration. No
relief in tears, no merciful oblivion in a fainting-fit, for _her._
The terrible strength of the vital organization in this woman knew no
yielding to the unutterable misery that wrung her to the soul. It roused
its glorious forces to resist: it held her in a stony quiet, with a grip
of iron.

She turned away from the fire wondering at herself. “What baseness is
there in me that fears death? What have I got to live for _now?”_
The open letter on the table caught her eye. “This will do it!” she
said--and snatched it up, and read it at last.

“The least I can do for you is to act like a gentleman, and spare you
unnecessary suspense. You will not see me this morning at ten, for the
simple reason that I really don’t know, and never did know, where to
find your daughter. I wish I was rich enough to return the money. Not
being able to do that, I will give you a word of advice instead. The
next time you confide any secrets of yours to Mr. Goldenheart, take
better care that no third person hears you.”

She read those atrocious lines, without any visible disturbance of
the dreadful composure that possessed her. Her mind made no effort to
discover the person who had listened and betrayed her. To all ordinary
curiosities, to all ordinary emotions, she was morally dead already.

The one thought in her was a thought that might have occurred to a man.
“If I only had my hands on his throat, how I could wring the life out
of him! As it is--” Instead of pursuing the reflection, she threw the
letter into the fire, and rang the bell.

“Take this at once to the nearest chemist’s,” she said, giving the
strychnine prescription to the servant; “and wait, please, and bring it
back with you.”

She opened her desk, when she was alone, and tore up the letters and
papers in it. This done, she took her pen, and wrote a letter. It was
addressed to Amelius.

When the servant entered the room again, bringing with her the
prescription made up, the clock downstairs struck eleven.



CHAPTER 6

Toff returned to the cottage, with the slippers and the stockings.

“What a time you have been gone!” said Amelius.

“It is not my fault, sir,” Toff explained. “The stockings I obtained
without difficulty. But the nearest shoe shop in this neighbourhood sold
only coarse manufactures, and all too large. I had to go to my wife, and
get her to take me to the right place. See!” he exclaimed, producing
a pair of quilted silk slippers with blue rosettes, “here is a design,
that is really worthy of pretty feet. Try them on, Miss.”

Sally’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the slippers. She rose at once,
and limped away to her room. Amelius, observing that she still walked in
pain, called her back. “I had forgotten the blister,” he said. “Before
you put on the new stockings, Sally, let me see your foot.” He turned
to Toff. “You’re always ready with everything,” he went on; “I wonder
whether you have got a needle and a bit of worsted thread?”

The old Frenchman answered, with an air of respectful reproach. “Knowing
me, sir, as you do,” he said, “could you doubt for a moment that I mend
my own clothes and darn my own stockings?” He withdrew to his bedroom
below, and returned with a leather roll. “When you are ready, sir?” he
said, opening the roll at the table, and threading the needle, while
Sally removed the sock from her left foot.

She took a chair near the window, at the suggestion of Amelius. He knelt
down so as to raise her foot to his knee. “Turn a little more towards
the light,” he said. He took the foot in his hand, lifted it, looked at
it--and suddenly let it drop back on the floor.

A cry of alarm from Sally instantly brought Toff to the window. “Oh,
look!” she cried; “he’s ill!” Toff lifted Amelius to a chair. “For God’s
sake, sir,” cried the terrified old man, “what’s the matter?” Amelius
had turned to the strange ashy paleness which is only seen in men of his
florid complexion, overwhelmed by sudden emotion. He stammered when
he tried to speak. “Fetch the brandy!” said Toff, pointing to the
liqueur-case on the sideboard. Sally brought it at once; the strong
stimulant steadied Amelius.

“I’m sorry to have frightened you,” he said faintly. “Sally!--Dear, dear
little Sally, go in, and get your things on directly. You must come out
with me; I’ll tell you why afterwards. My God! why didn’t I find this
out before?” He noticed Toff, wondering and trembling. “Good old fellow!
don’t alarm yourself--you shall know about it, too. Go! run! get the
first cab you can find!”

Left alone for a few minutes, he had time to compose himself. He did his
best to take advantage of the time; he tried to prepare his mind for the
coming interview with Mrs. Farnaby. “I must be careful of what I do,”
 he thought, conscious of the overwhelming effect of the discovery on
himself; “She doesn’t expect _me_ to bring her daughter to her.”

Sally returned to him, ready to go out. She seemed to be afraid of him,
when he approached her, and took her hand. “Have I done anything wrong?”
 she asked, in her childish way. “Are you going to take me to some other
Home?” The tone and look with which she put the question burst through
the restraints which Amelius had imposed on himself for her sake. “My
dear child!” he said, “can you bear a great surprise? I’m dying to tell
you the truth--and I hardly dare do it.” He took her in his arms.
She trembled piteously. Instead of answering him, she reiterated her
question, “Are you going to take me to some other Home?” He could endure
it no longer. “This is the happiest day of your life, Sally!” he cried;
“I am going to take you to your mother.”

He held her close to him, and looked at her in dread of having spoken
too plainly.

She slowly lifted her eyes to him in vacant fear and surprise; she burst
into no expression of delight; no overwhelming emotion made her sink
fainting in his arms. The sacred associations which gather round the
mere name of Mother were associations unknown to her; the man who held
her to him so tenderly, the hero who had pitied and saved her, was
father and mother both to her simple mind. She dropped her head on
his breast; her faltering voice told him that she was crying. “Will my
mother take me away from you?” she asked. “Oh, do promise to bring me
back with you to the cottage!”

For the moment, and the moment only, Amelius was disappointed in her.
The generous sympathies in his nature guided him unerringly to the truer
view. He remembered what her life had been. Inexpressible pity for her
filled his heart. “Oh, my poor Sally, the time is coming when you will
not think as you think now! I will do nothing to distress you. You
mustn’t cry--you must be happy, and loving and true to your mother.” She
dried her eyes, “I’ll do anything you tell me,” she said, “as long as
you bring me back with you.”

Amelius sighed, and said no more. He took her out with him gravely and
silently, when the cab was announced to be ready. “Double your fare,” he
said, when he gave the driver his instructions, “if you get there in a
quarter of an hour.” It wanted twenty-five minutes to twelve when the
cab left the cottage.

At that moment, the contrast of feeling between the two could hardly
have been more strongly marked. In proportion as Amelius became more and
more agitated, so Sally recovered the composure and confidence that she
had lost. The first question she put to him related, not to her mother,
but to his strange behaviour when he had knelt down to look at her foot.
He answered, explaining to her briefly and plainly what his conduct
meant. The description of what had passed between her mother and Amelius
interested and yet perplexed her. “How can she be so fond of me, without
knowing anything about me for all those years?” she asked. “Is my mother
a lady? Don’t tell her where you found me; she might be ashamed of
me.” She paused, and looked at Amelius anxiously. “Are you vexed about
something? May I take hold of your hand?” Amelius gave her his hand; and
Sally was satisfied.

As the cab drew up at the house, the door was opened from within. A
gentleman, dressed in black, hurriedly came out; looked at Amelius; and
spoke to him as he stepped from the cab to the pavement.

“I beg your pardon, sir. May I ask if you are any relative of the lady
who lives in this house?”

“No relative,” Amelius answered. “Only a friend, who brings good news to
her.”

The stranger’s grave face suddenly became compassionate as well as
grave. “I must speak with you before you go upstairs,” he said, lowering
his voice as he looked at Sally, still seated in the cab. “You will
perhaps excuse the liberty I am taking, when I tell you that I am a
medical man. Come into the hall for a moment--and don’t bring the young
lady with you.”

Amelius told Sally to wait in the cab. She saw his altered looks, and
entreated him not to leave her. He promised to keep the house door open
so that she could see him while he was away from her, and hastened into
the hall.

“I am sorry to say I have bad, very bad, news for you,” the doctor
began. “Time is of serious importance--I must speak plainly. You have
heard of mistakes made by taking the wrong bottle of medicine? The poor
lady upstairs is, I fear, in a dying state, from an accident of that
sort. Try to compose yourself. You may really be of use to me, if you
are firm enough to take my place while I am away.”

Amelius steadied himself instantly. “What I can do, I will do,” he
answered.

The doctor looked at him. “I believe you,” he said. “Now listen. In this
case, a dose limited to fifteen drops has been confounded with a dose
of two table-spoonsful; and the drug taken by mistake is strychnine. One
grain of the poison has been known to prove fatal--she has taken three.
The convulsion fits have begun. Antidotes are out of the question--the
poor creature can swallow nothing. I have heard of opium as a possible
means of relief; and I am going to get the instrument for injecting it
under the skin. Not that I have much belief in the remedy; but I must
try something. Have you courage enough to hold her, if another of the
convulsions comes on in my absence?”

“Will it relieve her, if I hold her?” Amelius, asked.

“Certainly.”

“Then I promise to do it.”

“Mind! you must do it thoroughly. There are only two women upstairs;
both perfectly useless in this emergency. If she shrieks to you to be
held, exert your strength--take her with a firm grasp. If you only touch
her (I can’t explain it, but it is so), you will make matters worse.”

The servant ran downstairs, while he was speaking. “Don’t leave us,
sir--I’m afraid it’s coming on again.”

“This gentleman will help you, while I am away,” said the doctor. “One
word more,” he went on, addressing Amelius. “In the intervals between
the fits, she is perfectly conscious; able to listen, and even to speak.
If she has any last wishes to communicate, make good use of the time.
She may die of exhaustion, at any moment. I will be back directly.”

He hurried to the door.

“Take my cab,” said Amelius, “and save time.”

“But the young lady--”

“Leave her to me.” He opened the cab door, and gave his hand to Sally.
It was done in a moment. The doctor drove off.

Amelius saw the servant waiting for them in the hall. He spoke to Sally,
telling her, considerately and gently, what he had heard, before he took
her into the house. “I had such good hopes for you,” he said; “and it
has come to this dreadful end! Have you courage to go through with it,
if I take you to her bedside? You will be glad one day, my dear, to
remember that you cheered your mother’s last moments on earth.”

Sally put her hand in his. “I will go anywhere,” she said softly, “with
You.”

Amelius led her into the house. The servant, in pity for her youth,
ventured on a word of remonstrance. “Oh, sir, you’re not going to let
the poor young lady see that dreadful sight upstairs!”

“You mean well,” Amelius answered; “and I thank you. If you knew what I
know, you would take her upstairs, too. Show the way.”

Sally looked at him in silent awe as they followed the servant together.
He was not like the same man. His brows were knit; his lips were
fast set; he held the girl’s hand in a grip that hurt her. The latent
strength of will in him--that reserved resolution, so finely and firmly
entwined in the natures of sensitively organized men--was rousing itself
to meet the coming trial. The doctor would have doubly believed in him,
if the doctor had seen him at that moment.

They reached the first-floor landing.

Before the servant could open the drawing-room door, a shriek rang
frightfully through the silence of the house. The servant drew back, and
crouched trembling on the upper stairs. At the same moment, the door was
flung open, and another woman ran out, wild with terror. “I can’t bear
it!” she cried, and rushed up the stairs, blind to the presence
of strangers in the panic that possessed her. Amelius entered the
drawing-room, with his arm round Sally, holding her up. As he placed her
in a chair, the dreadful cry was renewed. He only waited to rouse and
encourage her by a word and a look--and ran into the bedroom.

For an instant, and an instant only, he stood horror-struck in the
presence of the poisoned woman.

The fell action of the strychnine wrung every muscle in her with the
torture of convulsion. Her hands were fast clenched; her head was bent
back: her body, rigid as a bar of iron, was arched upwards from the bed,
resting on the two extremities of the head and the heels: the staring
eyes, the dusky face, the twisted lips, the clenched teeth, were
frightful to see. He faced it. After the one instant of hesitation, he
faced it.

Before she could cry out again, his hands were on her. The whole
exertion of his strength was barely enough to keep the frenzied throbs
of the convulsion, as it reached its climax, from throwing her off the
bed. Through the worst of it, he was still equal to the trust that
had been placed in him, still faithful to the work of mercy. Little
by little, he felt the lessening resistance of the rigid body, as the
paroxysm began to subside. He saw the ghastly stare die out of her eyes,
and the twisted lips relax from their dreadful grin. The tortured body
sank, and rested; the perspiration broke out on her face; her languid
hands fell gently over on the bed. For a while, the heavy eyelids
closed--then opened again feebly. She looked at him. “Do you know
me?” he asked, bending over her. And she answered in a faint whisper,
“Amelius!”

He knelt down by her, and kissed her hand. “Can you listen, if I tell
you something?”

She breathed heavily; her bosom heaved under the suffocating oppression
that weighed upon it. As he took her in his arms to raise her in the
bed, Sally’s voice reached him, in low imploring tones, from the next
room. “Oh, let me come to you! I’m so frightened here by myself.”

He waited, before he told her to come in, looking for a moment at the
face that was resting on his breast. A gray shadow was stealing over it;
a cold and clammy moisture struck a chill through him as he put his hand
on her forehead. He turned towards the next room. The girl had ventured
as far as the door; he beckoned to her. She came in timidly, and stood
by him, and looked at her mother. Amelius signed to her to take his
place. “Put your arms round her,” he whispered. “Oh, Sally, tell her who
you are in a kiss!” The girl’s tears fell fast as she pressed her lips
on her mother’s cheek. The dying woman looked at her, with a glance of
helpless inquiry--then looked at Amelius. The doubt in her eyes was too
dreadful to be endured. Arranging the pillows so that she could keep
her raised position in the bed, he signed to Sally to approach him, and
removed the slipper from her left foot. As he took it off, he looked
again at the bed--looked and shuddered. In a moment more, it might be
too late. With his knife he ripped up the stocking, and, lifting her
on the bed, put her bare foot on her mother’s lap. “Your child! your
child!” he cried; “I’ve found your own darling! For God’s sake, rouse
yourself! Look!”

She heard him. She lifted her feebly declining head. She looked. She
knew.

For one awful moment, the sinking vital forces rallied, and hurled
back the hold of Death. Her eyes shone radiant with the divine light of
maternal love; an exulting cry of rapture burst from her. Slowly, very
slowly, she bent forward, until her face rested on her daughter’s foot.
With a faint sigh of ecstasy she kissed it. The moments passed--and the
bent head was raised no more. The last beat of the heart was a beat of
joy.




BOOK THE EIGHTH. DAME NATURE DECIDES



CHAPTER 1

The day which had united the mother and daughter, only to part them
again in this world for ever, had advanced to evening.

Amelius and Sally were together again in the cottage, sitting by the
library fire. The silence in the room was uninterrupted. On the open
desk, near Amelius, lay the letter which Mrs. Farnaby had written to him
on the morning of her death.

He had found the letter--with the envelope unfastened--on the floor of
the bedchamber, and had fortunately secured it before the landlady and
the servant had ventured back to the room. The doctor, returning a few
minutes afterwards, had warned the two women that a coroner’s inquest
would be held in the house, and had vainly cautioned them to be careful
of what they said or did in the interval. Not only the subject of the
death, but a discovery which had followed, revealing the name of the
ill-fated woman marked on her linen, and showing that she had used an
assumed name in taking the lodgings as Mrs. Ronald, became the gossip
of the neighbourhood in a few hours. Under these circumstances, the
catastrophe was made the subject of a paragraph in the evening journals;
the name being added for the information of any surviving relatives
who might be ignorant of the sad event. If the landlady had found the
letter, that circumstance also would in all probability, have formed
part of the statement in the newspapers, and the secret of Mrs.
Farnaby’s life and death would have been revealed to the public view.

“I can trust you, and you only,” she wrote to Amelius, “to fulfil the
last wishes of a dying woman. You know me, and you know how I looked
forward to the prospect of a happy life in retirement with my child. The
one hope that I lived for has proved to be a cruel delusion. I have only
this morning discovered, beyond the possibility of doubt, that I have
been made the victim of wretches who have deliberately lied to me from
first to last. If I had been a happier woman, I might have had other
interests to sustain me under this frightful disaster. Such as I am,
Death is my one refuge left.

“My suicide will be known to no creature but yourself. Some years since,
the idea of self destruction--concealed under the disguise of a common
mistake--presented itself to my mind. I kept the means, very simple
means, by me, thinking I might end in that way after all. When you read
this I shall be at rest for ever. You will do what I have yet to ask of
you, in merciful remembrance of me--I am sure of that.

“You have a long life before you, Amelius. My foolish fancy about you
and my lost girl still lingers in my mind; I still think it may be just
possible that you may meet with her, in the course of years.

“If this does happen, I implore you, by the tenderness and pity that
you once felt for me, to tell no human creature that she is my daughter;
and, if John Farnaby is living at the time, I forbid you, with the
authority of a dying friend, to let her see him, or to let her know even
that such a person exists. Are you at a loss to account for my motives?
I may make the shameful confession which will enlighten you, now I know
that we shall never meet again. My child was born before my marriage;
and the man who afterwards became my husband--a man of low origin, I
should tell you--was the father. He had calculated on this disgraceful
circumstance to force my parents to make his fortune, by making me
his wife. I now know, what I only vaguely suspected before, that he
deliberately abandoned his child, as a likely cause of hindrance and
scandal in the way of his prosperous career in life. Do you now think
I am asking too much, when I entreat you never even to speak to my lost
darling of this unnatural wretch? As for my own fair fame, I am not
thinking of myself. With Death close at my side, I think of my poor
mother, and of all that she suffered and sacrificed to save me from the
disgrace that I had deserved. For her sake, not for mine, keep silence
to friends and enemies alike if they ask you who my girl is--with the
one exception of my lawyer. Years since, I left in his care the means of
making a small provision for my child, on the chance that she might live
to claim it. You can show him this letter as your authority, in case of
need.

“Try not to forget me, Amelius--but don’t grieve about me. I go to
my death as you go to your sleep when you are tired. I leave you my
grateful love--you have always been good to me. There is no more to
write; I hear the servant returning from the chemist’s, bringing with
her only release from the hard burden of life without hope. May you be
happier than I have been! Goodbye!”

So she parted from him for ever. But the fatal association of the
unhappy woman’s sorrows with the life and fortune of Amelius was not at
an end yet.

He had neither hesitation nor misgiving in resolving to show a natural
respect to the wishes of the dead. Now that the miserable story of the
past had been unreservedly disclosed to him, he would have felt himself
bound in honour, even without instructions to guide him, to keep the
discovery of the daughter a secret, for the mother’s sake. With that
conviction, he had read the distressing letter. With that conviction, he
now rose to provide for the safe keeping of it under lock and key.


Just as he had secured the letter in a private drawer of his desk, Toff
came in with a card, and announced that a gentleman wished to see him.
Amelius, looking at the card, was surprised to find on it the name of
“Mr. Melton.” Some lines were written on it in pencil: “I have called
to speak with you on a matter of serious importance.” Wondering what his
middle-aged rival could want with him, Amelius instructed Toff to admit
the visitor.

Sally started to her feet, with her customary distrust of strangers.
“May I run away before he comes in?” she asked. “If you like,” Amelius
answered quietly. She ran to the door of her room, at the moment when
Toff appeared again, announcing the visitor. Mr. Melton entered just
before she disappeared: he saw the flutter of her dress as the door
closed behind her.

“I fear I am disturbing you?” he said, looking hard at the door.

He was perfectly dressed: his hat and gloves were models of what such
things ought to be; he was melancholy and courteous; blandly distrustful
of the flying skirts which he had seen at the door. When Amelius offered
him a chair, he took it with a mysterious sigh; mournfully resigned
to the sad necessity of sitting down. “I won’t prolong my intrusion on
you,” he resumed. “You have no doubt seen the melancholy news in the
evening papers?”

“I haven’t seen the evening papers,” Amelius answered; “what news do you
mean?”

Mr. Melton leaned back in his chair, and expressed emotions of sorrow
and surprise, in a perfect state of training, by gently raising his
smooth white hands.

“Oh dear, dear! this is very sad. I had hoped to find you in full
possession of the particulars--reconciled, as we must all be, to the
inscrutable ways of Providence. Permit me to break it to you as gently
as possible. I came here to inquire if you had heard yet from Miss
Regina. Understand my motive! there must be no misapprehension between
us on that subject. There is a very serious necessity--pray follow
me carefully--I say, a very serious necessity for my communicating
immediately with Miss Regina’s uncle; and I know of nobody who is so
likely to hear from the travellers, so soon after their departure, as
yourself. You are, in a certain sense, a member of the family--”

“Stop a minute,” said Amelius.

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Melton politely, at a loss to understand
the interruption.

“I didn’t at first know what you meant,” Amelius explained. “You put it,
if you will forgive me for saying so, in rather a roundabout way. If you
are alluding, all this time, to Mrs. Farnaby’s death, I must honestly
tell you that I know of it already.”

The bland self-possession of Mr. Melton’s face began to show signs
of being ruffled. He had been in a manner deluded into exhibiting his
conventionally fluent eloquence, in the choicest modulations of his
sonorous voice--and it wounded his self esteem to be placed in his
present position. “I understood you to say,” he remarked stiffly, “that
you had not seen the evening newspapers.”

“You are quite right,” Amelius rejoined; “I have not seen them.”

“Then may I inquire,” Mr. Melton proceeded, “how you became informed of
Mrs. Farnaby’s death?”

Amelius replied with his customary frankness. “I went to call on the
poor lady this morning,” he said, “knowing nothing of what had happened.
I met the doctor at the door; and I was present at her death.”

Even Mr. Melton’s carefully-trained composure was not proof against the
revelation that now opened before him. He burst out with an exclamation
of astonishment, like an ordinary man.

“Good heavens, what does this mean!”

Amelius took it as a question addressed to himself. “I’m sure I don’t
know,” he said quietly.

Mr. Melton, misunderstanding Amelius on his side, interpreted those
innocent words as an outbreak of vulgar interruption. “Pardon me,”
 he said coldly. “I was about to explain myself. You will presently
understand my surprise. After seeing the evening paper, I went at once
to make inquiries at the address mentioned. In Mr. Farnaby’s absence, I
felt bound to do this as his old friend. I saw the landlady, and, with
her assistance, the doctor also. Both these persons spoke of a gentleman
who had called that morning, accompanied by a young lady; and who had
insisted on taking the young lady upstairs with him. Until you mentioned
just now that you were present at the death, I had no suspicion that you
were ‘the gentleman’. Surprise on my part was, I think, only natural.
I could hardly be expected to know that you were in Mrs. Farnaby’s
confidence about the place of her retreat. And with regard to the young
lady, I am still quite at a loss to understand--”

“If you understand that the people at the house told you the truth, so
far as I am concerned,” Amelius interposed, “I hope that will be enough.
With regard to the young lady, I must beg you to excuse me for speaking
plainly. I have nothing to say about her, to you or to anybody.”

Mr. Melton rose with the utmost dignity and the fullest possession of
his vocal resources.

“Permit me to assure you,” he said, with frigidly fluent politeness,
“that I have no wish to force myself into your confidence. One remark
I will venture to make. It is easy enough, no doubt, to keep your own
secrets, when you are speaking to _me._ You will find some difficulty,
I fear, in pursuing the same course, when you are called upon to
give evidence before the coroner. I presume you know that you will be
summoned as a witness at the inquest?”

“I left my name and address with the doctor for that purpose,” Amelius
rejoined as composedly as ever; “and I am ready to bear witness to what
I saw at poor Mrs. Farnaby’s bedside. But if all the coroners in England
questioned me about anything else, I should say to them just what I have
said to you.”

Mr. Melton smiled with well bred irony. “We shall see,” he said. “In the
mean time, I presume I may ask you, in the interests of the family, to
send me the address on the letter, as soon as you hear from Miss Regina.
I have no other means of communicating with Mr. Farnaby. In respect to
the melancholy event, I may add that I have undertaken to provide for
the funeral, and to pay any little outstanding debts, and so forth. As
Mr. Farnaby’s old friend and representative--”

The conclusion of the sentence was interrupted by the entrance of Toff
with a note, and an apology for his intrusion. “I beg your pardon, sir;
the person is waiting. She says it’s only a receipt to sign. The box is
in the hall.”

Amelius examined the enclosure. It was a formal document, acknowledging
the receipt of Sally’s clothes, returned to her by the authorities at
the Home. As he took a pen to sign the receipt he looked towards the
door of Sally’s room. Mr. Melton, observing the look, prepared to
retire. “I am only interrupting you,” he said. “You have my address on
my card. Good evening.”

On his way out, he passed an elderly woman, waiting in the hall. Toff,
hastening before him to open the garden gate, was saluted by the gruff
voice of a cabman, outside. “The lady whom he had driven to the cottage
had not paid him his right fare; he meant to have the money, or the
lady’s name and address, and summon her.” Quietly crossing the road, Mr.
Melton heard the woman’s voice next: she had got her receipt, and had
followed him out. In the dispute about fares and distances that ensued,
the contending parties more than once mentioned the name of the Home and
of the locality in which it was situated. Possessing this information,
Mr. Melton looked in at his club; consulted a directory, under the
heading of “Charitable Institutions;” and solved the mystery of the
vanishing petticoats at the door. He had discovered an inmate of an
asylum for lost women, in the house of the man to whom Regina was
engaged to be married!


The next morning’s post brought to Amelius a letter from Regina. It was
dated from an hotel in Paris. Her “dear uncle” had over estimated his
strength. He had refused to stay and rest for the night at Boulogne; and
had suffered so severely from the fatigue of the long journey that he
had been confined to his bed since his arrival. The English physician
consulted had declined to say when he would be strong enough to travel
again; the constitution of the patient must have received some serious
shock; he was brought very low. Having carefully reported the new
medical opinion, Regina was at liberty to indulge herself, next, in
expressions of affection, and to assure Amelius of her anxiety to
hear from him as soon as possible. But, in this case again, the “dear
uncle’s” convenience was still the first consideration. She reverted to
Mr. Farnaby, in making her excuses for a hurriedly written letter. The
poor invalid suffered from depression of spirits; his great consolation
in his illness was to hear his niece read to him: he was calling for
her, indeed, at that moment. The inevitable postscript warmed into a
mild effusion of fondness, “How I wish you could be with us. But, alas,
it cannot be!”

Amelius copied the address on the letter, and sent it to Mr. Melton
immediately.

It was then the twenty-fourth day of the month. The tidal train did not
leave London early that morning; and the inquest was deferred, to suit
other pressing engagements of the coroner, until the twenty-sixth. Mr.
Melton decided, after his interview with Amelius, that the emergency was
sufficiently serious to justify him in following his telegram to Paris.
It was clearly his duty, as an old friend, to mention to Mr. Farnaby
what he had discovered at the cottage, as well as what he had heard from
the landlady and the doctor; leaving it to the uncle’s discretion to act
as he thought right in the interests of the niece. Whether that course
of action might not also serve the interests of Mr. Melton himself, in
the character of an unsuccessful suitor for Regina’s hand, he did not
stop to inquire. Beyond his duty it was, for the present at least, not
his business to look.

That night, the two gentlemen held a private consultation in Paris; the
doctor having previously certified that his patient was incapable of
supporting the journey back to London, under any circumstances.

The question of the formal proceedings rendered necessary by Mrs.
Farnaby’s death having been discussed and disposed of, Mr. Melton
next entered on the narrative which the obligations of friendship
imperatively demanded from him. To his astonishment and alarm, Mr.
Farnaby started up in the bed like a man panic-stricken. “Did you say,”
 he stammered, as soon as he could speak, “you mean to make inquiries
about that--that girl?”

“I certainly thought it desirable, bearing in mind Mr. Goldenheart’s
position in your family.”

“Do nothing of the sort! Say nothing to Regina or to any living
creature. Wait till I get well again--and leave me to deal with it. I am
the proper person to take it in hand. Don’t you see that for yourself?
And, look here! there may be questions asked at the inquest. Some
impudent scoundrel on the jury may want to pry into what doesn’t concern
him. The moment you’re back in London, get a lawyer to represent us--the
sharpest fellow that can be had for money. Tell him to stop all prying
questions. Who the girl is, and what made that cursed young Socialist
Goldenheart take her upstairs with him--all that sort of thing has
nothing to do with the manner in which my wife met her death. You
understand? I look to you, Melton, to see yourself that this is done.
The less said at the infernal inquest, the better. In my position, it’s
an exposure that my enemies will make the most of, as it is. I’m too ill
to go into the thing any further. No: I don’t want Regina. Go to her in
the sitting room, and tell the courier to get you something to eat and
drink. And, I say! For God’s sake don’t be late for the Boulogne train
tomorrow morning.”

Left by himself, he gave full vent to his fury; he cursed Amelius with
oaths that are not to be written.

He had burnt the letter which Mrs. Farnaby had written to him, on
leaving him forever; but he had not burnt out of his memory the words
which that letter contained. With his wife’s language vividly present to
his mind, he could arrive at but one conclusion, after what Mr. Melton
had told him. Amelius was concerned in the discovery of his deserted
daughter; Amelius had taken the girl to her dying mother’s bedside. With
his idiotic Socialist notions, he would be perfectly capable of owning
the truth, if inquiries were made. The unblemished reputation which John
Farnaby had built up by the self-seeking hypocrisy of a lifetime was
at the mercy of a visionary young fool, who believed that rich men were
created for the benefit of the poor, and who proposed to regenerate
society by reviving the obsolete morality of the Primitive Christians.
Was it possible for him to come to terms with such a person as this?
There was not an inch of common ground on which they could meet. He
dropped back on his pillow in despair, and lay for a while frowning and
biting his nails. Suddenly he sat up again in the bed, and wiped his
moist forehead, and heaved a heavy breath of relief. Had his illness
obscured his intelligence? How was it he had not seen at once the
perfectly easy way out of the difficulty which was presented by the
facts themselves? Here is a man, engaged to marry my niece, who has been
discovered keeping a girl at his cottage--who even had the audacity to
take her upstairs with him when he made a call on my wife. Charge him
with it in plain words; break off the engagement publicly in the face
of society; and, if the profligate scoundrel tries to defend himself by
telling the truth, who will believe him--when the girl was seen running
out of his room? and when he refused, on the question being put to him,
to say who she was?

So, in ignorance of his wife’s last instructions to Amelius--in equal
ignorance of the compassionate silence which an honourable man preserves
when a woman’s reputation is at his mercy--the wretch needlessly plotted
and planned to save his usurped reputation; seeing all things, as such
men invariably do, through the foul light of his own inbred baseness and
cruelty. He was troubled by no retributive emotions of shame or remorse,
in contemplating this second sacrifice to his own interests of the
daughter whom he had deserted in her infancy. If he felt any misgivings,
they related wholly to himself. His head was throbbing, his tongue was
dry; a dread of increasing his illness shook him suddenly. He drank
some of the lemonade at his bedside, and lay down to compose himself to
sleep.

It was not to be done; there was a burning in his eyeballs, there was
a wild irregular beating at his heart, which kept him awake. In some
degree, at least, retribution seemed to be on the way to him already.

Mr. Melton, delicately administering sympathy and consolation to
Regina--whose affectionate nature felt keenly the calamity of her aunt’s
death--Mr. Melton, making himself modestly useful, by reading aloud
certain devotional poems much prized by Regina, was called out of the
room by the courier.

“I have just looked in at Mr. Farnaby, sir,” said the man; “and I am
afraid he is worse.”

The physician was sent for. He thought so seriously of the change in the
patient, that he obliged Regina to accept the services of a professed
nurse. When Mr. Melton started on his return journey the next morning,
he left his friend in a high fever.



CHAPTER 2

The inquiry into the circumstances under which Mrs. Farnaby had died was
held in the forenoon of the next day.

Mr. Melton surprised Amelius by calling for him, and taking him to the
inquest. The carriage stopped on the way, and a gentleman joined them,
who was introduced as Mr. Melton’s legal adviser. He spoke to Amelius
about the inquest; stating, as his excuse for asking certain discreet
questions, that his object was to suppress any painful disclosures. On
reaching the house, Mr. Melton and his lawyer said a few words to the
coroner downstairs, while the jury were assembling on the floor above.

The first witness examined was the landlady.

After deposing to the date at which the late Mrs. Farnaby had hired
her lodgings, and verifying the statements which had appeared in
the newspapers, she was questioned about the life and habits of the
deceased. She described her late lodger as a respectable lady, punctual
in her payments, and quiet and orderly in her way of life: she received
letters, but saw no friends. On several occasions, an old woman was
admitted to speak with her; and these visits seemed to be anything but
agreeable to the deceased. Asked if she knew anything of the old woman,
or of what had passed at the interviews described, the witness answered
both questions in the negative. When the woman called, she always told
the servant to announce her as “the nurse.”

Mr. Melton was next examined, to prove the identity of the deceased.

He declared that he was quite unable to explain why she had left her
husband’s house under an assumed name. Asked if Mr. and Mrs. Farnaby had
lived together on affectionate terms, he acknowledged that he had
heard, at various times, of a want of harmony between them, but was not
acquainted with the cause. Mr. Farnaby’s high character and position in
the commercial world spoke for themselves: the restraints of a gentleman
guided him in his relations with his wife. The medical certificate of
his illness in Paris was then put in; and Mr. Melton’s examination came
to an end.

The chemist who had made up the prescription was the third witness. He
knew the woman who brought it to his shop to be in the service of the
first witness examined; an old customer of his, and a highly respected
resident in the neighbourhood. He made up all prescriptions himself in
which poisons were conspicuous ingredients; and he had affixed to the
bottle a slip of paper, bearing the word “Poison,” printed in large
letters. The bottle was produced and identified; and the directions in
the prescription were shown to have been accurately copied on the label.

A general sensation of interest was excited by the appearance of the
next witness--the woman servant. It was anticipated that her evidence
would explain how the fatal mistake about the medicine had occurred.
After replying to the formal inquiries, she proceeded as follows:

“When I answered the bell, at the time I have mentioned, I found the
deceased standing at the fireplace. There was a bottle of medicine on
the table, by her writing desk. It was a much larger bottle than that
which the last witness identified, and it was more than three parts full
of some colourless medicine. The deceased gave me a prescription to take
to the chemist’s, with instructions to wait, and bring back the physic.
She said, ‘I don’t feel at all well this morning; I thought of trying
some of this medicine,’ pointing to the bottle by her desk; ‘but I
am not sure it is the right thing for me. I think I want a tonic. The
prescription I have given you is a tonic.’ I went out at once to our
chemist and got it. I found her writing a letter when I came back, but
she finished it immediately, and pushed it away from her. When I put the
bottle I had brought from the chemist on the table, she looked at the
other larger bottle which she had by her; and she said, ‘You will
think me very undecided; I have been doubting, since I sent you to the
chemist, whether I had not better begin with this medicine here, before
I try the tonic. It’s a medicine for the stomach; and I fancy it’s only
indigestion that’s the matter with me, after all.’ I said, ‘You eat but
a poor breakfast, ma’am, this morning. It isn’t for me to advise; but,
as you seem to be in doubt about yourself, wouldn’t it be better to send
for a doctor?’ She shook her head, and said she didn’t want to have
a doctor if she could possibly help it. ‘I’ll try the medicine for
indigestion first,’ she says; ‘and if it doesn’t relieve me, we will see
what is to be done, later in the day.’ While we were talking, the tonic
was left in its sealed paper cover, just as I had brought it from the
shop. She took up the bottle containing the stomach medicine, and read
the directions on it: ‘Two tablespoonsful by measure-glass twice a day.’
I asked if she had a measure-glass; and she said, Yes, and sent me to
her bedroom to look for it. I couldn’t find it. While I was looking, I
heard her cry out, and ran back to the drawing-room to see what was the
matter. ‘Oh!’ she says, ‘how clumsy I am! I’ve broken the bottle.’ She
held up the bottle of the stomach medicine and showed it to me, broken
just below the neck. ‘Go back to the bedroom,’ she says, ‘and see if you
can find an empty bottle; I don’t want to waste the medicine if I can
help it.’ There was only one empty bottle in the bedroom, a bottle on
the chimney-piece. I took it to her immediately. She gave me the broken
bottle; and while I poured the medicine into the bottle which I had
found in the bedroom, she opened the paper which covered the tonic I
had brought from the chemist. When I had done, and the two bottles were
together on the table--the bottle that I had filled, and the bottle that
I had brought front the chemist--I noticed that they were both of the
same size, and that both had a label pasted on them, marked ‘Poison.’ I
said to her, ‘You must take care, ma’am, you don’t make any mistake,
the two bottles are so exactly alike.’ ‘I can easily prevent that,’ she
says, and dipped her pen in the ink, and copied the directions on the
broken bottle, on to the label of the bottle that I had just filled.
‘There!’ she said. ‘Now I hope your mind’s at ease?’ She spoke
cheerfully, as if she was joking with me. And then she said, ‘But
where’s the measure-glass?’ I went back to the bedroom to look for it,
and couldn’t find it again. She changed all at once, upon that--she
became quite angry; and walked up and down in a fume, abusing me for my
stupidity. It was very unlike her. On all other occasions she was a
most considerate lady. I made allowances for her. She had been very much
upset earlier in the morning, when she had received a letter, which she
told me herself contained bad news. Yes; another person was present at
the time--the same woman that my mistress told you of. The woman looked
at the address on the letter, and seemed to know who it was from. I told
her a squint-eyed man had brought it to the house--and then she left
directly. I don’t know where she went, or the address at which she
lives, or who the messenger was who brought the letter. As I have said,
I made allowances for the deceased lady. I went downstairs, without
answering, and got a tumbler and a tablespoon to serve instead of the
measure-glass. When I came back with the things, she was still walking
about in a temper. She took no notice of me. I left the room again
quietly, seeing she was not in a state to be spoken to. I saw nothing
more of her, until we were alarmed by hearing her scream. We found
the poor lady on the floor in a kind of fit. I ran out and fetched the
nearest doctor. This is the whole truth, on my oath; and this is all I
know about it.”

The landlady was recalled at the request of the jury, and questioned
again about the old woman. She could give no information. Being asked
next if any letters or papers belonging to, or written by, the deceased
lady had been found, she declared that, after the strictest search,
nothing had been discovered but two medical prescriptions. The writing
desk was empty.

The doctor was the next witness.

He described the state in which he found the patient, on being called
to the house. The symptoms were those of poisoning by strychnine.
Examination of the prescriptions and the bottles, aided by the servant’s
information, convinced him that a fatal mistake had been made by the
deceased; the nature of which he explained to the jury as he had already
explained it to Amelius. Having mentioned the meeting with Amelius
at the house-door, and the events which had followed, he closed his
evidence by stating the result of the postmortem examination, proving
that the death was caused by the poison called strychnine.

The landlady and the servant were examined again. They were instructed
to inform the jury exactly of the time that had elapsed, from the moment
when the servant had left the deceased alone in the drawing-room, to
the time when the screams were first heard. Having both given the
same evidence, on this point, they were next asked whether any person,
besides the old woman, had visited the deceased lady--or had on any
pretence obtained access to her in the interval. Both swore positively
that there had not even been a knock at the house-door in the interval,
and that the area-gate was locked, and the key in the possession of the
landlady. This evidence placed it beyond the possibility of doubt that
the deceased had herself taken the poison. The question whether she had
taken it by accident was the only question left to decide, when Amelius
was called as the next witness.

The lawyer retained by Mr. Melton, to watch the case on behalf of Mr.
Farnaby, had hitherto not interfered. It was observed that he paid the
closest attention to the inquiry, at the stage which it had now reached.

Amelius was nervous at the outset. The early training in America, which
had hardened him to face an audience and speak with self-possession
on social and political subjects had not prepared him for the very
difficult ordeal of a first appearance as a witness. Having answered
the customary inquiries, he was so painfully agitated in describing Mrs.
Farnaby’s sufferings, that the coroner suspended the examination for a
few minutes, to give him time to control himself. He failed, however, to
recover his composure, until the narrative part of his evidence had come
to an end. When the critical questions, bearing on his relations with
Mrs. Farnaby, began, the audience noticed that he lifted his head,
and looked and spoke, for the first time, like a man with a settled
resolution in him, sure of himself.

The questions proceeded:

Was he in Mrs. Farnaby’s confidence, on the subject of her domestic
differences with her husband? Did those differences lead to her
withdrawing herself from her husband’s roof? Did Mrs. Farnaby inform
him of the place of her retreat? To these three questions the witness,
speaking quite readily in each case, answered Yes. Asked next, what the
nature of the ‘domestic differences’ had been; whether they were likely
to affect Mrs. Farnaby’s mind seriously; why she had passed under an
assumed name, and why she had confided the troubles of her married life
to a young man like himself, only introduced to her a few months since,
the witness simply declined to reply to the inquiries addressed to him.
“The confidence Mrs. Farnaby placed in me,” he said to the coroner, “was
a confidence which I gave her my word of honour to respect. When I have
said that, I hope the jury will understand that I owe it to the memory
of the dead to say no more.”

There was a murmur of approval among the audience, instantly checked by
the coroner. The foreman of the jury rose, and remarked that scruples
of honour were out of place at a serious inquiry of that sort. Hearing
this, the lawyer saw his opportunity, and got on his legs. “I represent
the husband of the deceased lady,” he said. “Mr. Goldenheart has
appealed to the law of honour to justify him in keeping silence. I am
astonished that there is a man to be found in this assembly who fails to
sympathize with him. But as there appears to be such a person present,
I ask permission, sir, to put a question to the witness. It may, or may
not, satisfy the foreman of the jury; but it will certainly assist the
object of the present inquiry.”

The coroner, after a glance at Mr. Melton, permitted the lawyer to put
his question in these terms:--

“Did your knowledge of Mrs. Farnaby’s domestic troubles give you any
reason to apprehend that they might urge her to commit suicide?

“Certainly not,” Amelius answered. “When I called on her, on the morning
of her death, I had no apprehension whatever of her committing suicide.
I went to the house as the bearer of good news; and I said so to the
doctor, when he first spoke to me.”

The doctor confirmed this. The foreman was silenced, if not convinced.
One of his brother-jurymen, however, feeling the force of example,
interrupted the proceedings, by assailing Amelius with another
question:--“We have heard that you were accompanied by a young lady at
the time you have mentioned, and that you took her upstairs with you. We
want to know what business the young lady had in the house?”

The lawyer interfered again. “I object to that question,” he said. “The
purpose of the inquest is to ascertain how Mrs. Farnaby met with her
death. What has the young lady to do with it? The doctor’s evidence has
already told us that she was not at the house, until after he had been
called in, and the deadly action of the poison had begun. I appeal,
sir, to the law of evidence, and to you, as the presiding authority, to
enforce it. Mr. Goldenheart, who is acquainted with the circumstances
of the deceased lady’s life, has declared on his oath that there was
nothing in those circumstances to inspire him with any apprehension
of her committing suicide. The evidence of the servant at the lodgings
points plainly to the conclusion already arrived at by the medical
witness, that the death was the result of a lamentable mistake, and of
that alone. Is our time to be wasted in irrelevant questions, and are
the feelings of the surviving relatives to be cruelly lacerated to no
purpose, to satisfy the curiosity of strangers?”

A strong expression of approval from the audience followed this. The
lawyer whispered to Mr. Melton, “It’s all right!”

Order being restored, the coroner ruled that the juryman’s question
was not admissible, and that the servant’s evidence, taken with the
statements of the doctor and the chemist, was the only evidence for
the consideration of the jury. Summing up to this effect, he recalled
Amelius, at the request of the foreman, to inquire if the witness knew
anything of the old woman who had been frequently alluded to in the
course of the proceedings. Amelius could answer this question as
honestly as he had answered the questions preceding it. He neither knew
the woman’s name, nor where she was to be found. The coroner inquired,
with a touch of irony, if the jury wished the inquest to be adjourned,
under existing circumstances.

For the sake of appearances, the jury consulted together. But the
luncheon-hour was approaching; the servant’s evidence was undeniably
clear and conclusive; the coroner, in summing up, had requested them not
to forget that the deceased had lost her temper with the servant, and
that an angry woman might well make a mistake which would be unlikely
in her cooler moments. All these influences led the jury irrepressibly,
over the obstacles of obstinacy, on the way to submission. After a
needless delay, they returned a verdict of “death by misadventure.” The
secret of Mrs. Farnaby’s suicide remained inviolate; the reputation of
her vile husband stood as high as ever; and the future life of Amelius
was, from that fatal moment, turned irrevocably into a new course.



CHAPTER 3

On the conclusion of the proceedings, Mr. Melton, having no further
need of Amelius or the lawyer, drove away by himself. But he was too
inveterately polite to omit making his excuses for leaving them in a
hurry; he expected, he said, to find a telegram from Paris waiting at
his house. Amelius only delayed his departure to ask the landlady if
the day of the funeral was settled. Hearing that it was arranged for the
next morning, he thanked her, and returned at once to the cottage.

Sally was waiting his arrival to complete some purchases of mourning for
her unhappy mother; Toff’s wife being in attendance to take care of
her. She was curious to know how the inquest had ended. In answering
her question, Amelius was careful to warn her, if her companion made
any inquiries, only to say that she had lost her mother under very sad
circumstances. The two having left the cottage, he instructed Toff to
let in a stranger, who was to call by previous appointment, and to close
the door to every one else. In a few minutes, the expected person,
a young man, who gave the name of Morcross, made his appearance, and
sorely puzzled the old Frenchman. He was well dressed; his manner was
quiet and self-possessed--and yet he did not look like a gentleman. In
fact, he was a policeman of the higher order, in plain clothes.

Being introduced to the library, he spread out on the table some sheets
of manuscript, in the handwriting of Amelius, with notes in red ink on
the margin, made by himself.

“I understand, sir,” he began, “that you have reasons for not bringing
this case to trial in a court of law?”

“I am sorry to say,” Amelius answered, “that I dare not consent to the
exposure of a public trial, for the sake of persons living and dead.
For the same reason, I have written the account of the conspiracy with
certain reserves. I hope I have not thrown any needless difficulties in
your way?”

“Certainly not, sir. But I should wish to ask, what you propose to do,
in case I discover the people concerned in the conspiracy?”

Amelius owned, very reluctantly, that he could do nothing with the old
woman who had been the accomplice. “Unless,” he added, “I can induce
her to assist me in bringing the man to justice for other crimes which I
believe him to have committed.”

“Meaning the man named Jervy, sir, in this statement?”

“Yes. I have reason to believe that he has been obliged to leave the
United States, after committing some serious offence--”

“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, sir. Is it serious enough to
charge him with, under the treaty between the two countries?”

“I don’t doubt it’s serious enough. I have telegraphed to the persons
who formerly employed him, for the particulars. Mind this! I will stick
at no sacrifice to make that scoundrel suffer for what he has done.”

In those plain words Amelius revealed, as frankly as usual, the
purpose that was in him. The terrible remembrances associated with Mrs.
Farnaby’s last moments had kindled, in his just and generous nature, a
burning sense of the wrong inflicted on the poor heart-broken creature
who had trusted and loved him. The unendurable thought that the wretch
who had tortured her, robbed her, and driven her to her death had
escaped with impunity, literally haunted him night and day. Eager to
provide for Sally’s future, he had followed Mrs. Farnaby’s instructions,
and had seen the lawyer privately, during the period that had elapsed
between the death and the inquest. Hearing that there were formalities
to be complied with, which would probably cause some delay, he had at
once announced his determination to employ the interval in attempting
the pursuit of Jervy. The lawyer--after vainly pointing out the serious
objections to the course proposed--so far yielded to the irresistible
earnestness and good faith of Amelius as to recommend him to a competent
man, who could be trusted not to deceive him. The same day the man had
received a written statement of the case; and he had now arrived to
report the result of his first proceedings to his employer.

“One thing I want to know, before you tell me anything else,” Amelius
resumed. “Is my written description of Jervy plain enough to help you to
find him?”

“It’s so plain, sir, that some of the older men in our office have
recognized him by it--under another name than the name you give him.”

“Does that add to the difficulty of tracing him?”

“He has been a long time away from England, sir; and it’s by no means
easy to trace him, on that account. I have been to the young woman,
named Phoebe in your statement, to find out what she can tell me about
him. She’s ready enough, in the intervals of crying, to help us to
lay our hands on the man who has deserted her. It’s the old story of a
fellow getting at a girl’s secrets and a girl’s money, under pretence of
marrying her. At one time, she’s furious with him, and at another she’s
ready to cry her eyes out. I got some information from her; it’s not
much, but it may help us. The name of the old woman, who has been the
go-between in the business, is Mrs. Sowler--known to the police as
an inveterate drunkard, and worse. I don’t think there will be much
difficulty in tracing Mrs. Sowler. As to Jervy, if the young woman is
to be believed, and I think she is, there’s little doubt that he has got
the money from the lady mentioned in my instructions here, and that he
has bolted with the sum about him. Wait a bit, sir, I haven’t done with
my discoveries yet. I asked the young woman, of course, if she had his
photograph. He’s a sharp fellow; she had it, but he got it away from
her, on pretence of giving her a better one, before he took himself off.
Having missed this chance, I asked next if she knew where he lived last.
She directed me to the place; and I have had a talk with the landlord.
He tells me of a squint-eyed man, who was a good deal about the house,
doing Jervy’s dirty work for him. If I am not misled by the description,
I think I know the man. I have my own notion of what he’s capable of
doing, if he gets the chance--and I propose to begin by finding our way
to him, and using him as a means of tracing Jervy. It’s only right to
tell you that it may take some time to do this--for which reason I have
to propose, in the mean while, trying a shorter way to the end in view.
Do you object, sir, to the expense of sending a copy of your description
of Jervy to every police-station in London?”

“I object to nothing which may help to find him. Do you think the police
have got him anywhere?”

“You forget, sir, that the police have no orders to take him. What I’m
speculating on is the chance that he has got the money about him--say in
small banknotes, for convenience of changing them, you know.”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, the people he lives among--the squint-eyed man, for
instance!--don’t stick at trifles. If any of them have found out that
Jervy’s purse is worth having--”

“You mean they would rob him?”

“And murder him too, sir, if he tried to resist.”

Amelius started to his feet. “Send round to the police-stations without
losing another minute,” he said. “And let me hear what the answer is,
the instant you receive it.”

“Suppose I get the answer late at night, sir?”

“I don’t care when you get it, night or day. Dead or living, I will
undertake to identify him. Here’s a duplicate key of the garden gate.
Come this way, and I’ll show you where my bedroom is. If we are all
in bed, tap at the window--and I will be ready for you at a moment’s
notice.”

On that understanding Morcross left the cottage.

The day when the mortal remains of Mrs. Farnaby were laid at rest was a
day of heavy rain. Mr. Melton, and two or three other old friends, were
the attendants at the funeral. When the coffin was borne into the
damp and reeking burial ground, a young man and a woman were the only
persons, beside the sexton and his assistants, who stood by the open
grave. Mr. Melton, recognizing Amelius, was at a loss to understand
who his companion could be. It was impossible to suppose that he would
profane that solemn ceremony by bringing to it the lost woman at the
cottage. The thick black veil of the person with him hid her face from
view. No visible expressions of grief escaped her. When the last sublime
words of the burial service had been read, those two mourners were left,
after the others had all departed, still standing together by the grave.
Mr. Melton decided on mentioning the circumstance confidentially when
he wrote to his friend in Paris. Telegrams from Regina, in reply to his
telegrams from London, had informed him that Mr. Farnaby had felt the
benefit of the remedies employed, and was slowly on the way to recovery.
It seemed likely that he would, in no long time, take the right course
for the protection of his niece. For the enlightenment which might, or
might not, come with that time, Mr. Melton was resigned to wait, with
the disciplined patience to which he had been mainly indebted for his
success in life.


“Always remember your mother tenderly, my child,” said Amelius, as they
left the burial ground. “She was sorely tried, poor thing, in her life
time, and she loved you very dearly.”

“Do you know anything of my father?” Sally asked timidly. “Is he still
living?”

“My dear, you will never see your father. I must be all that the kindest
father and mother could have been to you, now. Oh, my poor little girl!”

She pressed his arm to her as she held it. “Why should you pity me?” she
said. “Haven’t I got You?”

They passed the day together quietly at the cottage. Amelius took down
some of his books, and pleased Sally by giving her his first lessons.
Soon after ten o’clock she withdrew, at the usual early hour, to her
room. In her absence, he sent for Toff, intending to warn him not to be
alarmed if he heard footsteps in the garden, after they had all gone to
bed. The old servant had barely entered the library, when he was called
away by the bell at the outer gate. Amelius, looking into the hall,
discovered Morcross, and signed to him eagerly to come in. The
police-officer closed the door cautiously behind him. He had arrived
with news that Jervy was found.



CHAPTER 4

“Where has he been found?” Amelius asked, snatching up his hat.

“There’s no hurry, sir,” Morcross answered quietly. “When I had the
honour of seeing you yesterday, you said you meant to make Jervy suffer
for what he had done. Somebody else has saved you the trouble. He was
found this evening in the river.”

“Drowned?”

“Stabbed in three places, sir; and put out of the way in the
river--that’s the surgeon’s report. Robbed of everything he
possessed--that’s the police report, after searching his pockets.”

Amelius was silent. It had not entered into his calculations that crime
breeds crime, and that the criminal might escape him under that law.
For the moment, he was conscious of a sense of disappointment, revealing
plainly that the desire for vengeance had mingled with the higher
motives which animated him. He felt uneasy and ashamed, and longed as
usual to take refuge in action from his own unwelcome thoughts. “Are
you sure it is the man?” he asked. “My description may have misled the
police--I should like to see him myself.”

“Certainly, sir. While we are about it, if you feel any curiosity to
trace Jervy’s ill-gotten money, there’s a chance (from what I have
heard) of finding the man with the squint. The people at our place think
it’s likely he may have been concerned in the robbery, if he hasn’t
committed the murder.”

In an hour after, under the guidance of Morcross, Amelius passed through
the dreary doors of a deadhouse, situated on the southern bank of the
Thames, and saw the body of Jervy stretched out on a stone slab. The
guardian who held the lantern, inured to such horrible sights, declared
that the corpse could not have been in the water more than two days. To
any one who had seen the murdered man, the face, undisfigured by injury
of any kind, was perfectly recognizable. Amelius knew him again, dead,
as certainly as he had known him again, living, when he was waiting for
Phoebe in the street.

“If you’re satisfied, sir,” said Morcross, “the inspector at the
police-station is sending a sergeant to look after ‘Wall-Eyes’--the name
they give hereabouts to the man suspected of the robbery. We can take
the sergeant with us in the cab, if you like.”

Still keeping on the southern bank of the river, they drove for
a quarter of an hour in a westerly direction, and stopped at a
public-house. The sergeant of police went in by himself to make the
first inquiries.

“We are a day too late, sir,” he said to Amelius, on returning to the
cab. “Wall-Eyes was here last night, and Mother Sowler with him, judging
by the description. Both of them drunk--and the woman the worse of the
two. The landlord knew nothing more about it; but there’s a man at
the bar tells me he heard of them this morning (still drinking) at the
Dairy.”

“The Dairy?” Amelius repeated.

Morcross interposed with the necessary explanation. “An old house, sir,
which once stood by itself in the fields. It was a dairy a hundred years
ago; and it has kept the name ever since, though it’s nothing but a low
lodging house now.”

“One of the worst places on this side of the river,” the sergeant added,
“The landlord’s a returned convict. Sly as he is we shall have him again
yet, for receiving stolen goods. There’s every sort of thief among his
lodgers, from a pickpocket to a housebreaker. It’s my duty to continue
the inquiry, sir; but a gentleman like you will be better, I should say,
out of such a place as that.”

Still disquieted by the sight that he had seen in the deadhouse, and by
the associations which that sight had recalled, Amelius was ready for
any adventure which might relieve his mind. Even the prospect of a visit
to a thieves’ lodging house was more welcome to him than the prospect of
going home alone. “If there’s no serious objection to it,” he said, “I
own I should like to see the place.”

“You’ll be safe enough with us,” the sergeant replied. “If you don’t
mind filthy people and bad language--all right, sir! Cabman, drive to
the Dairy.”

Their direction was now towards the south, through a perfect labyrinth
of mean and dirty streets. Twice the driver was obliged to ask his way.
On the second occasion the sergeant, putting his head out of the window
to stop the cab, cried, “Hullo! there’s something up.”

They got out in front of a long low rambling house, a complete contrast
to the modern buildings about it. Late as the hour was, a mob had
assembled in front of the door. The police were on the spot keeping the
people in order.

Morcross and the sergeant pushed their way through the crowd, leading
Amelius between them. “Something wrong, sir, in the back kitchen,” said
one of the policemen answering the sergeant while he opened the street
door. A few yards down the passage there was a second door, with a
man on the watch by it. “There’s a nice to-do downstairs,” the man
announced, recognizing the sergeant, and unlocking the door with a key
which he took from his pocket. “The landlord at the Dairy knows his
lodgers, sir,” Morcross whispered to Amelius; “the place is kept like
a prison.” As they passed through the second door, a frantic voice
startled them, shouting in fury from below. An old man came hobbling
up the kitchen stairs, his eyes wild with fear, his long grey hair all
tumbled over his face. “Oh, Lord, have you got the tools for breaking
open the door?” he asked, wringing his dirty hands in an agony of
supplication. “She’ll set the house on fire! she’ll kill my wife and
daughter!” The sergeant pushed him contemptuously out of the way,
and looked round for Amelius. “It’s only the landlord, sir; keep near
Morcross, and follow me.”

They descended the kitchen stairs, the frantic cries below growing
louder and louder at every step they took; and made their way through
the thieves and vagabonds crowding together in the passage. Passing on
their right hand a solid old oaken door fast closed, they reached an
open wicket-gate of iron which led into a stone-paved yard. A heavily
barred window was now visible in the back wall of the house, raised
three or four feet from the pavement of the yard. The room within was
illuminated by a blaze of gaslight. More policemen were here, keeping
back more inquisitive lodgers. Among the spectators was a man with a
hideous outward squint, holding by the window-bars in a state of
drunken terror. The sergeant looked at him, and beckoned to one of the
policemen. “Take him to the station; I shall have something to say to
Wall-Eyes when he’s sober. Now then! stand back all of you, and let’s
see what’s going on in the kitchen.”

He took Amelius by the arm, and led him to the window. Even the sergeant
started when the scene inside met his view. “By God!” he cried, “it’s
Mother Sowler herself.”

It _was_ Mother Sowler. The horrible woman was tramping round and round
in the middle of the kitchen, like a beast in a cage; raving in the
dreadful drink-madness called delirium tremens. In the farthest corner
of the room, barricaded behind the table, the landlord’s wife and
daughter crouched in terror of their lives. The gas, turned full on,
blazed high enough to blacken the ceiling, and showed the heavy bolts
shot at the top and bottom of the solid door. Nothing less than a
battering-ram could have burst that door in from the outer side; an
hour’s work with the file would have failed to break a passage through
the bars over the window. “How did she get there?” the sergeant asked.
“Run downstairs, and bolted herself in, while the missus and the young
‘un were cooking”--was the answering cry from the people in the yard. As
they spoke, another vain attempt was made to break in the door from
the passage. The noise of the heavy blows redoubled the frenzy of the
terrible creature in the kitchen, still tramping round and round under
the blazing gaslight. Suddenly, she made a dart at the window, and
confronted the men looking in from the yard. Her staring eyes were
bloodshot; a purple-red flush was over her face; her hair waved wildly
about her, torn away in places by her own hands. “Cats!” she screamed,
glaring out of the window, “millions of cats! all their months wide
open spitting at me! Fire! fire to scare away the cats!” She searched
furiously in her pocket, and tore out a handful of loose papers. One of
them escaped, and fluttered downward to a wooden press under the window.
Amelius was nearest, and saw it plainly as it fell, “Good heavens!” he
exclaimed, “it’s a bank-note!” “Wall-Eyes’ money!” shouted the thieves
in the yard; “She’s going to burn Wall-Eyes’ money!” The madwoman turned
back to the middle of the kitchen, leapt up at the gas-burner, and set
fire to the bank-notes. She scattered them flaming all round her on the
kitchen floor. “Away with you!” she shouted, shaking her fists at the
visionary multitude of cats. “Away with you, up the chimney! Away with
you, out of the window!” She sprang back to the window, with her crooked
fingers twisted in her hair! “The snakes!” she shrieked; “the snakes are
hissing again in my hair! the beetles are crawling over my face!”
 She tore at her hair; she scraped her face with long black nails that
lacerated the flesh. Amelius turned away, unable to endure the sight of
her. Morcross took his place, eyed her steadily for a moment, and saw
the way to end it. “A quarter of gin!” he shouted. “Quick! before she
leaves the window!” In a minute he had the pewter measure in his hand,
and tapped at the window. “Gin, Mother Sowler! Break the window,
and have a drop of gin!” For a moment, the drunkard mastered her own
dreadful visions at the sight of the liquor. She broke a pane of
glass with her clenched fist. “The door!” cried Morcross, to the
panic-stricken women, barricaded behind the table. “The door!” he
reiterated, as he handed the gin in through the bars. The elder woman
was too terrified to understand him; her bolder daughter crawled
under the table, rushed across the kitchen, and drew the bolts. As the
madwoman turned to attack her, the room was filled with men, headed by
the sergeant. Three of them were barely enough to control the frantic
wretch, and bind her hand and foot. When Amelius entered the kitchen,
after she had been conveyed to the hospital, a five-pound note on
the press (secured by one of the police), and a few frail black ashes
scattered thinly on the kitchen floor, were the only relics left of the
ill-gotten money.


After-inquiry, patiently pursued in more than one direction, failed to
throw any light on the mystery of Jervy’s death. Morcross’s report to
Amelius, towards the close of the investigation, was little more than
ingenious guess-work.

“It seems pretty clear, sir, in the first place, that Mother Sowler must
have overtaken Wall-Eyes, after he had left the letter at Mrs. Farnaby’s
lodgings. In the second place, we are justified (as I shall show
you directly) in assuming that she told him of the money in Jervy’s
possession, and that the two succeeded in discovering Jervy--no doubt
through Wall-Eyes’ superior knowledge of his master’s movements.
The evidence concerning the bank-notes proves this. We know, by the
examination of the people at the Dairy, that Wall-Eyes took from his
pocket a handful of notes, when they refused to send for liquor without
having the money first. We are also informed, that the breaking-out of
the drink-madness in Mother Sowler showed itself in her snatching the
notes out of his hand, and trying to strangle him--before she ran down
into the kitchen and bolted herself in. Lastly, Mrs. Farnaby’s bankers
have identified the note saved from the burning, as one of forty
five-pound notes paid to her cheque. So much for the tracing of the
money.

“I wish I could give an equally satisfactory account of the tracing of
the crime. We can make nothing of Wall-Eyes. He declares that he didn’t
even know Jervy was dead, till we told him; and he swears he found
the money dropped in the street. It is needless to say that this last
assertion is a lie. Opinions are divided among us as to whether he is
answerable for the murder as well as the robbery, or whether there was a
third person concerned in it. My own belief is that Jervy was drugged by
the old woman (with a young woman very likely used as a decoy), in some
house by the riverside, and then murdered by Wall-Eyes in cold blood.
We have done our best to clear the matter up, and we have not succeeded.
The doctors give us no hope of any assistance from Mother Sowler. If
she gets over the attack (which is doubtful), they say she will die to
a certainty of liver disease. In short, my own fear is that this will
prove to be one more of those murders which are mysteries to the police
as well as the public.”

The report of the case excited some interest, published in the
newspapers in conspicuous type. Meddlesome readers wrote letters,
offering complacently stupid suggestions to the police. After a while,
another crime attracted general attention; and the murder of Jervy
disappeared from the public memory, among other forgotten murders of
modern times.



CHAPTER 5

The last dreary days of November came to their end.

No longer darkened by the shadows of crime and torment and death, the
life of Amelius glided insensibly into the peaceful byways of seclusion,
brightened by the companionship of Sally. The winter days followed one
another in a happy uniformity of occupations and amusements. There were
lessons to fill up the morning, and walks to occupy the afternoon--and,
in the evenings, sometimes reading, sometimes singing, sometimes nothing
but the lazy luxury of talk. In the vast world of London, with its
monstrous extremes of wealth and poverty, and its all-permeating malady
of life at fever-heat, there was one supremely innocent and supremely
happy creature. Sally had heard of Heaven, attainable on the hard
condition of first paying the debt of death. “I have found a kinder
Heaven,” she said, one day. “It is here in the cottage; and Amelius has
shown me the way to it.”

Their social isolation was at this time complete: they were two
friendless people, perfectly insensible to all that was perilous and
pitiable in their own position. They parted with a kiss at night, and
they met again with a kiss in the morning--and they were as happily free
from all mistrust of the future as a pair of birds. No visitors came to
the house; the few friends and acquaintances of Amelius, forgotten
by him, forgot him in return. Now and then, Toff’s wife came to the
cottage, and exhibited the “cherubim-baby.” Now and then, Toff himself
(a musician among his other accomplishments) brought his fiddle
upstairs; and, saying modestly, “A little music helps to pass the time,”
 played to the young master and mistress the cheerful tinkling tunes
of the old vaudevilles of France. They were pleased with these small
interruptions when they came; and they were not disappointed when the
days passed, and the baby and the vaudevilles were hushed in absence and
silence. So the happy winter time went by; and the howling winds brought
no rheumatism with them, and even the tax-gatherer himself, looking
in at this earthly paradise, departed without a curse when he left his
little paper behind him.

Now and then, at long intervals, the outer world intruded itself in the
form of a letter.

Regina wrote, always with the same placid affection; always entering
into the same minute narrative of the slow progress of “dear uncle’s”
 return to health. He was forbidden to exert himself in any way. His
nerves were in a state of lamentable irritability. “I dare not even
mention your name to him, dear Amelius; it seems, I cannot think why, to
make him--oh, so unreasonably angry. I can only submit, and pray that
he may soon be himself again.” Amelius wrote back, always in the same
considerate and gentle tone; always laying the blame of his dull letters
on the studious uniformity of his life. He preserved, with a perfectly
easy conscience, the most absolute silence on the subject of Sally.
While he was faithful to Regina, what reason had he to reproach himself
with the protection that he offered to a poor motherless girl? When he
was married, he might mention the circumstances under which he had met
with Sally, and leave the rest to his wife’s sympathy.

One morning, the letters with the Paris post-mark were varied by a few
lines from Rufus.

“Every morning, my bright boy, I get up and say to myself, ‘Well! I
reckon it’s about time to take the route for London;’ and every morning,
if you’ll believe me, I put it off till next day. Whether it’s in the
good feeding (expensive, I admit; but when your cook helps you to digest
instead of hindering you, a man of my dyspeptic nation is too grateful
to complain)--or whether it’s in the air, which reminds me, I do assure
you, of our native atmosphere at Coolspring, Mass., is more than I can
tell, with a hard steel pen on a leaf of flimsy paper. You have heard
the saying, ‘When a good American dies, he goes to Paris’. Maybe,
sometimes, he’s smart enough to discount his own death, and rationally
enjoy the future time in the present. This you see is a poetic light.
But, mercy be praised, the moral of my residence in Paris is plain:--If
I can’t go to Amelius, Amelius must come to me. Note the address Grand
Hotel; and pack up, like a good boy, on receipt of this. Memorandum: The
brown Miss is here. I saw her taking the air in a carriage, and raised
my hat. She looked the other way.

“British--eminently British! But, there, I bear no malice; I am her most
obedient servant, and yours affectionately, RUFUS.--Postscript: I
want you to see some of our girls at this hotel. The genuine American
material, sir, perfected by Worth.”

Another morning brought with it a few sad lines from Phoebe. “After what
had happened, she was quite unable to face her friends; she had no heart
to seek employment in her own country--her present life was too dreary
and too hopeless to be endured. A benevolent lady had made her an offer
to accompany a party of emigrants to New Zealand; and she had accepted
the proposal. Perhaps, among the new people, she might recover her
self-respect and her spirits, and live to be a better woman. Meanwhile,
she bade Mr. Goldenheart farewell; and asked his pardon for taking the
liberty of wishing him happy with Miss Regina.”

Amelius wrote a few kind lines to Phoebe, and a cordial reply to Rufus,
making the pursuit of his studies his excuse for remaining in London.
After this, there was no further correspondence. The mornings succeeded
each other, and the postman brought no more news from the world outside.

But the lessons went on; and the teacher and pupil were as
inconsiderately happy as ever in each other’s society. Observing with
inexhaustible interest the progress of the mental development of
Sally, Amelius was slow to perceive the physical development which was
unobtrusively keeping pace with it. He was absolutely ignorant of the
part which his own influence was taking in the gradual and delicate
process of change. Ere long, the first forewarnings of the coming
disturbance in their harmless relations towards each other, began to
show themselves. Ere long, there were signs of a troubled mind in Sally,
which were mysteries to Amelius, and subjects of wonderment, sometimes
even trials of temper, to the girl herself.

One day, she looked in from the door of her room, in her white
dressing-gown, and asked to be forgiven if she kept the lessons of the
morning waiting for a little while.

“Come in,” said Amelius, “and tell me why.”

She hesitated. “You won’t think me lazy, if you see me in my
dressing-gown?”

“Of course not! Your dressing-gown, my dear, is as good as any other
gown. A young girl like you looks best in white.”

She came in with her work-basket, and her indoor dress over her arm.

Amelius laughed. “Why haven’t you put it on?” he asked.

She sat down in a corner, and looked at her work-basket, instead of
looking at Amelius. “It doesn’t fit me so well as it did,” she answered.
“I am obliged to alter it.”

Amelius looked at her--at the charming youthful figure that had filled
out, at the softly-rounded outline of the face with no angles and
hollows in it now. “Is it the dressmaker’s fault?” he asked slyly.

Her eyes were still on the basket. “It’s my fault,” she said. “You
remember what a poor little skinny creature I was, when you first saw
me. I--you won’t like me the worse for it, will you?--I am getting fat.
I don’t know why. They say happy people get fat. Perhaps that’s why.
I’m never hungry, and never frightened, and never miserable now--” She
stopped; her dress slipped from her lap to the floor. “Don’t look at
me!” she said--and suddenly put her hands over her face.

Amelius saw the tears finding their way through the pretty plump
fingers, which he remembered so shapeless and so thin. He crossed the
room, and touched her gently on the shoulder. “My dear child! have I
said anything to distress you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.” She hesitated; looked at him; and made a desperate
effort to tell him what was in her mind. “I’m afraid you’ll get tired
of me. There’s nothing about me to make you pity me now. You seem to
be--not quite the same--no! it isn’t that--I don’t know what’s come to
me--I’m a greater fool than ever. Give me my lesson, Amelius! please
give me my lesson!”

Amelius produced the books, in some little surprise at Sally’s
extraordinary anxiety to begin her lessons, while the unaltered dress
lay neglected on the carpet at her feet. A discreet abstract of the
history of England, published for the use of young persons, happened
to be at the top of the books. The system of education under Amelius
recognized the laws of chance: they began with the history, because it
turned up first. Sally read aloud; and Sally’s master explained obscure
passages, and corrected occasional errors of pronunciation, as she went
on. On that particular morning, there was little to explain and nothing
to correct. “Am I doing it well today?” Sally inquired, on reaching the
end of her task.

“Very well, indeed.”

She shut the book, and looked at her teacher. “I wonder how it is,” she
resumed, “that I get on so much better with my lessons here than I did
at the Home? And yet it’s foolish of me to wonder. I get on better,
because you are teaching me, of course. But I don’t feel satisfied with
myself. I’m the same helpless creature--I feel your kindness, and can’t
make any return to you--for all my learning. I should like--” She left
the thought in her unexpressed, and opened her copy-book. “I’ll do my
writing now,” she said, in a quiet resigned way. “Perhaps I may improve
enough, some day, to keep your accounts for you.” She chose her pen a
little absently, and began to write. Amelius looked over her shoulder,
and laughed; she was writing his name. He pointed to the copper-plate
copy on the top line, presenting an undeniable moral maxim, in
characters beyond the reach of criticism:--Change Is A Law Of Nature.
“There, my dear, you are to copy that till you’re tired of it,” said the
easy master; “and then we’ll try overleaf, another copy beginning with
letter D.”

Sally laid down her pen. “I don’t like ‘Change is a law of Nature’,”
 she said, knitting her pretty eyebrows into a frown. “I looked at those
words yesterday, and they made me miserable at night. I was foolish
enough to think that we should always go on together as we go on now,
till I saw that copy. I hate the copy! It came to my mind when I was
awake in the dark, and it seemed to tell me that _we_ were going to
change some day. That’s the worst of learning--one knows too much, and
then there’s an end of one’s happiness. Thoughts come to you, when you
don’t want them. I thought of the young lady we saw last week in the
park.”

She spoke gravely and sadly. The bright contentment which had given a
new charm to her eyes since she had been at the cottage, died out of
them as Amelius looked at her. What had become of her childish manner
and her artless smile? He drew his chair nearer to her. “What young lady
do you mean?” he asked.

Sally shook her head, and traced lines with her pen on the blotting
paper. “Oh, you can’t have forgotten her! A young lady, riding on a
grand white horse. All the people were admiring her. I wonder you cared
to look at me, after that beautiful creature had gone by. Ah, she knows
all sorts of things that I don’t--_she_ doesn’t sound a note at a time
on the piano, and as often as not the wrong one; _she_ can say her
multiplication table, and knows all the cities in the world. I dare say
she’s almost as learned as you are. If you had her living here with you,
wouldn’t you like it better than only having me!” She dropped her arms
on the table, and laid her head on them wearily. “The dreadful streets!”
 she murmured, in low tones of despair. “Why did I think of the dreadful
streets, and the night I met with you--after I had seen the young lady?
Oh, Amelius, are you tired of me? are you ashamed of me?” She lifted her
head again, before he could answer, and controlled herself by a sudden
effort of resolution. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me this
morning,” she said, looking at him with a pleading fear in her eyes.
“Never mind my nonsense--I’ll do the copy!” She began to write the
unendurable assertion that change is a law of Nature, with trembling
fingers and fast heaving breath. Amelius took the pen gently out of her
hand. His voice faltered as he spoke to her.

“We will give up the lessons for today, Sally. You have had a bad
night’s rest, my dear, and you are feeling it--that’s all. Do you think
you are well enough to come out with me, and try if the air will revive
you a little?”

She rose, and took his hand, and kissed it. “I believe, if I was dying,
I should get well enough to go out with you! May I ask one little
favour? Do you mind if we don’t go into the park today?”

“What has made you take a dislike to the park, Sally?”

“We might meet the beautiful young lady again,” she answered, with her
head down. “I don’t want to do that.”

“We will go wherever you like, my child. You shall decide--not I.”

She gathered up her dress from the floor, and hurried away to her
room--without looking back at him as usual when she opened the door.

Left by himself, Amelius sat at the table, mechanically turning over the
lesson-books. Sally had perplexed and even distressed him. His capacity
to preserve the harmless relations between them, depended mainly on the
mute appeal which the girl’s ignorant innocence unconsciously addressed
to him. He felt this vaguely, without absolutely realizing it. By some
mysterious process of association which he was unable to follow, a
saying of the wise Elder Brother at Tadmor revived in his memory, while
he was trying to see his way through the difficulties that beset him.
“You will meet with many temptations, Amelius, when you leave our
Community,” the old man had said at parting; “and most of them will come
to you through women. Be especially on your guard, my son, if you meet
with a woman who makes you feel truly sorry for her. She is on
the high-road to your passions, through the open door of your
sympathies--and all the more certainly if she is not aware of it
herself.” Amelius felt the truth expressed in those words as he had
never felt it yet. There had been signs of a changing nature in Sally
for some little time past. But they had expressed themselves too
delicately to attract the attention of a man unprepared to be on the
watch. Only on that morning, they had been marked enough to force
themselves on his notice. Only on that morning, she had looked at him,
and spoken to him, as she had never looked or spoken before. He began
dimly to see the danger for both of them, to which he had shut his eyes
thus far. Where was the remedy? what ought he to do? Those questions
came naturally into his mind--and yet, his mind shrank from pursuing
them.

He got up impatiently, and busied himself in putting away the
lesson-books--a small duty hitherto always left to Toff.

It was useless; his mind dwelt persistently on Sally.

While he moved about the room, he still saw the look in her eyes, he
still heard the tone of her voice, when she spoke of the young lady in
the park. The words of the good physician whom he had consulted about
her recurred to his memory now. “The natural growth of her senses
has been stunted, like the natural growth of her body, by starvation,
terror, exposure to cold, and other influences inherent in the life that
she has led.” And then the doctor had spoken of nourishing food, pure
air, and careful treatment--of the life, in short, which she had led
at the cottage--and had predicted that she would develop into “an
intelligent and healthy young woman.” Again he asked himself, “What
ought I to do?”

He turned aside to the window, and looked out. An idea occurred to him.
How would it be, if he summoned courage enough to tell her that he was
engaged to be married?

No! Setting aside his natural dread of the shock that he might inflict
on the poor grateful girl who had only known happiness under his care,
the detestable obstacle of Mr. Farnaby stood immovably in his way. Sally
would be sure to ask questions about his engagement, and would never
rest until they were answered. It had been necessarily impossible to
conceal her mother’s name from her. The discovery of her father, if she
heard of Regina and Regina’s uncle, would be simply a question of time.
What might such a man be not capable of doing, what new act of treachery
might he not commit, if he found himself claimed by the daughter whom he
had deserted? Even if the expression of Mrs. Farnaby’s last wishes had
not been sacred to Amelius, this consideration alone would have kept him
silent, for Sally’s sake.

He now doubted for the first time if he had calculated wisely in
planning to trust Sally’s sad story, after his marriage, to the
sympathies of his wife. The jealousy that she might naturally feel of
a young girl, who was an object of interest to her husband, did not
present the worst difficulty to contend with. She believed in her
uncle’s integrity as she believed in her religion. What would she say,
what would she do, if the innocent witness to Farnaby’s infamy was
presented to her; if Amelius asked the protection for Sally which her
own father had refused to her in her infancy; and if he said, as he must
say, “Your uncle is the man”?

And yet, what prospect could he see but the prospect of making the
disclosure when he looked to his own interests next, and thought of his
wedding day? Again the sinister figure of Farnaby confronted him. How
could he receive the wretch whom Regina would innocently welcome to the
house? There would be no longer a choice left; it would be his duty
to himself to tell his wife the terrible truth. And what would be the
result? He recalled the whole course of his courtship, and saw Farnaby
always on a level with himself in Regina’s estimation. In spite of his
natural cheerfulness, in spite of his inbred courage, his heart failed
him, when he thought of the time to come.

As he turned away from the window, Sally’s door opened: she joined him,
ready for the walk. Her spirits had rallied, assisted by the cheering
influence of dressing to go out. Her charming smile brightened her face.
In sheer desperation, reckless of what he did or said, Amelius held
out both hands to welcome her. “That’s right, Sally!” he cried. “Look
pleased and pretty, my dear; let’s be happy while we can--and let the
future take care of itself!”



CHAPTER 6

The capricious influences which combine to make us happy are never so
certain to be absent influences as when we are foolish enough to talk
about them. Amelius had talked about them. When he and Sally left the
cottage, the road which led them away from the park was also the road
which led them past a church. The influences of happiness left them at
the church door.

Rows of carriages were in waiting; hundreds of idle people were
assembled about the church steps; the thunderous music of the organ
rolled out through the open doors--a grand wedding, with choral service,
was in course of celebration. Sally begged Amelius to take her in to
see it. They tried the front entrance, and found it impossible to get
through the crowd. A side entrance, and a fee to a verger, succeeded
better. They obtained space enough to stand on, with a view of the
altar.

The bride was a tall buxom girl, splendidly dressed: she performed her
part in the ceremony with the most unruffled composure. The bridegroom
exhibited an instructive spectacle of aged Nature, sustained by Art.
His hair, his complexion, his teeth, his breast, his shoulders, and his
legs, showed what the wig-maker, the valet, the dentist, the tailor, and
the hosier can do for a rich old man, who wishes to present a juvenile
appearance while he is buying a young wife. No less than three
clergymen were present, conducting the sale. The demeanour of the rich
congregation was worthy of the glorious bygone days of the Golden Calf.
So far as could be judged by appearances, one old lady, in a pew close
to the place at which Amelius and Sally were standing, seemed to be the
only person present who was not favourably impressed by the ceremony.

“I call it disgraceful,” the old lady remarked to a charming young
person seated next to her.

But the charming young person--being the legitimate product of the
present time--had no more sympathy with questions of sentiment than
a Hottentot. “How can you talk so, grandmamma!” she rejoined. “He has
twenty thousand a year--and that lucky girl will be mistress of the most
splendid house in London.”

“I don’t care,” the old lady persisted; “it’s not the less a disgrace
to everybody concerned in it. There is many a poor friendless creature,
driven by hunger to the streets, who has a better claim to our sympathy
than that shameless girl, selling herself in the house of God! I’ll wait
for you in the carriage--I won’t see any more of it.”

Sally touched Amelius. “Take me out!” she whispered faintly.

He supposed that the heat in the church had been too much for her. “Are
you better now?” he asked, when they got into the open air.

She held fast by his arm. “Let’s get farther away,” she said. “That lady
is coming after us--I don’t want her to see me again. I am one of the
creatures she talked about. Is the mark of the streets on me, after all
you have done to rub it out?”

The wild misery in her words presented another development in her
character which was entirely new to Amelius. “My dear child,” he
remonstrated, “you distress me when you talk in that way. God knows the
life you are leading now.”

But Sally’s mind was still full of its own acutely painful sense of what
the lady had said. “I saw her,” she burst out--“I saw her look at me
while she spoke!”

“And she thought you better worth looking at than the bride--and quite
right, too!” Amelius rejoined. “Come, come, Sally, be like yourself. You
don’t want to make me unhappy about you, I am sure?”

He had taken the right way with her: she felt that simple appeal, and
asked his pardon with all the old charm in her manner and her voice.
For the moment, she was “Simple Sally” again. They walked on in silence.
When they had lost sight of the church, Amelius felt her hand beginning
to tremble on his arm. A mingled expression of tenderness and anxiety
showed itself in her blue eyes as they looked up at him. “I am thinking
of something else now,” she said; “I am thinking of You. May I ask you
something?”

Amelius smiled. The smile was not reflected as usual in Sally’s face.
“It’s nothing particular,” she explained in an odd hurried way; “the
church put it into my head. You--” She hesitated, and tried it under
another form. “Will you be married yourself, Amelius, one of these
days?”

He did his best to evade the question. “I am not rich, Sally, like the
old gentleman we have just seen.”

Her eyes turned away from him; she sighed softly to herself. “You will
be married some day,” she said. “Will you do one kind thing more for me,
Amelius, when I die? You remember my reading in the newspaper of the new
invention for burning the dead--and my asking you about it. You said
you thought it was better than burying, and you had a good mind to leave
directions to be burnt instead of buried, when your time came. When _my_
time has come, will you leave other directions about yourself, if I ask
you?”

“My dear, you are talking in a very strange way! If you will have it
that I am to be married some day, what has that to do with your death?”

“It doesn’t matter, Amelius. When I have nothing left to live for, I
suppose it’s as likely as not I may die. Will you tell them to bury me
in some quiet place, away from London, where there are very few graves?
And when you leave your directions, don’t say you are to be burnt.
Say--when you have lived a long, long life, and enjoyed all the
happiness you have deserved so well--say you are to be buried, and
your grave is to be near mine. I should like to think of the same trees
shading us, and the same flowers growing over us. No! don’t tell me I’m
talking strangely again--I can’t bear it; I want you to humour me and
be kind to me about this. Do you mind going home? I’m feeling a little
tired--and I know I’m poor company for you today.”

The talk flagged at dinner-time, though Toff did his best to keep it
going.

In the evening, the excellent Frenchman made an effort to cheer the two
dull young people. He came in confidentially with his fiddle, and
said he had a favour to ask. “I possess some knowledge, sir, of the
delightful art of dancing. Might I teach young Miss to dance? You see,
if I may venture to say so, the other lessons--oh, most useful, most
important, the other lessons! but they are just a little serious.
Something to relieve her mind, sir--if you will forgive me for
mentioning it. I plead for innocent gaiety--let us dance!”

He played a few notes on the fiddle, and placed his right foot in
position, and waited amiably to begin. Sally thanked him, and made
the excuse that she was tired. She wished Amelius good night, without
waiting until they were alone together--and, for the first time, without
giving him the customary kiss.

Toff waited until she had gone, and approached his master on tiptoe,
with a low bow.

“May I take the liberty of expressing an opinion, sir. A young girl who
rejects the remedy of the fiddle presents a case of extreme gravity.
Don’t despair, sir! It is my pride and pleasure to be never at a loss,
where your interests are concerned. This is, I think, a matter for the
ministrations of a woman. If you have confidence in my wife, I venture
to suggest a visit from Madame Toff.”

He discreetly retired, and left his master to think about it.

The time passed--and Amelius was still thinking, and still as far as
ever from arriving at a conclusion, when he heard a door opened behind
him. Sally crossed the room before he could rise from his chair: her
cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, her hair fell loose over her
shoulders--she dropped at his feet, and hid her face on his knees. “I’m
an ungrateful wretch!” she burst out; “I never kissed you when I said
good night.”

With the best intentions, Amelius took the worst possible way of
composing her--he treated her trouble lightly. “Perhaps you forgot it?”
 he said.

She lifted her head, and looked at him, with the tears in her eyes. “I’m
bad enough,” she answered; “but not so bad as that. Oh, don’t laugh!
there’s nothing to laugh at. Have you done with liking me? Are you angry
with me for behaving so badly all day, and bidding you good night as if
you were Toff? You shan’t be angry with me!” She jumped up, and sat on
his knee, and put her arms round his neck. “I haven’t been to bed,” she
whispered; “I was too miserable to go to sleep. I don’t know what’s been
the matter with me today. I seem to be losing the little sense I ever
had. Oh, if I could only make you understand how fond I am of you! And
yet I’ve had bitter thoughts, as if I was a burden to you, and I had
done a wrong thing in coming here--and you would have told me so, only
you pitied the poor wretch who had nowhere else to go.” She tightened
her hold round his neck, and laid her burning cheek against his face.
“Oh, Amelius, my heart is sore! Kiss me, and say, ‘Good night, Sally!’”

He was young--he was a man--for a moment he lost his self control; he
kissed her as he had never kissed her yet.

Then, he remembered; he recovered himself; he put her gently away
from him, and led her to the door of her room, and closed it on her in
silence. For a little while, he waited alone. The interval over, he rang
for Toff.

“Do you think your wife would take Miss Sally as an apprentice?” he
asked.

Toff looked astonished. “Whatever you wish, sir, my wife will do. Her
knowledge of the art of dressmaking is--” Words failed him to express
his wife’s immense capacity as a dressmaker. He kissed his hand in
mute enthusiasm, and blew the kiss in the direction of Madame Toff’s
establishment. “However,” he proceeded, “I ought to tell you one thing,
sir; the business is small, small, very small. But we are all in the
hands of Providence--the business will improve, one day.” He lifted his
shoulders and lifted his eyebrows, and looked perfectly satisfied with
his wife’s prospects.

“I will go and speak to Madame Toff myself, tomorrow morning,” Amelius
resumed. “It’s quite possible that I may be obliged to leave London for
a little while--and I must provide in some way for Miss Sally. Don’t
say a word about it to her yet, Toff, and don’t look miserable. If I go
away, I shall take you with me. Good night.”

Toff, with his handkerchief halfway to his eyes, recovered his native
cheerfulness. “I am invariably sick at sea, sir,” he said; “but, no
matter, I will attend you to the uttermost ends of the earth.”

So honest Amelius planned his way of escape from the critical position
in which he found himself. He went to his bed, troubled by anxieties
which kept him waking for many weary hours. Where was he to go to, when
he left Sally? If he could have known what had happened, on that very
day, on the other side of the Channel, he might have decided (in spite
of the obstacle of Mr. Farnaby) on surprising Regina by a visit to
Paris.



CHAPTER 7

On the morning when Amelius and Sally (in London) entered the church to
look at the wedding. Rufus (in Paris) went to the Champs Elysees to take
a walk.

He had advanced half-way up the magnificent avenue, when he saw Regina
for the second time, taking her daily drive, with an elderly woman in
attendance on her. Rufus took off his hat again, perfectly impenetrable
to the cold reception which he had already experienced. Greatly to his
surprise, Regina not only returned his salute, but stopped the carriage
and beckoned to him to speak to her. Looking at her more closely, he
perceived signs of suffering in her face which completely altered her
expression as he remembered it. Her magnificent eyes were dim and red;
she had lost her rich colour; her voice trembled as she spoke to him.

“Have you a few minutes to spare?” she asked.

“The whole day, if you like, Miss,” Rufus answered.

She turned to the woman who accompanied her. “Wait here for me,
Elizabeth; I have something to say to this gentleman.”

With those words, she got out of the carriage. Rufus offered her his
arm. She put her hand in it as readily as if they had been old friends.
“Let us take one of the side paths,” she said; “they are almost deserted
at this time of day. I am afraid I surprise you very much. I can only
trust to your kindness to forgive me for passing you without notice
the last time we met. Perhaps it may be some excuse for me that I am in
great trouble. It is just possible you may be able to relieve my mind. I
believe you know I am engaged to be married?”

Rufus looked at her with a sudden expression of interest. “Is this about
Amelius?” he asked.

She answered him almost inaudibly--“Yes.”

Rufus still kept his eyes fixed on her. “I don’t wish to say anything,
Miss,” he explained; “but, if you have any complaint to make of Amelius,
I should take it as a favour if you would look me straight in the face,
and mention it plainly.”

In the embarrassment which troubled Regina at that moment, he had
preferred the two requests of all others with which it was most
impossible for her to comply. She still looked obstinately on the
ground; and, instead of speaking of Amelius, she diverged to the subject
of Mr. Farnaby’s illness.

“I am staying in Paris with my uncle,” she said. “He has had a long
illness; but he is strong enough now to speak to me of things that have
been on his mind for some time past. He has so surprised me; he has made
me so miserable about Amelius--” She paused, and put her handkerchief
to her eyes. Rufus said nothing to console her--he waited doggedly until
she was ready to go on. “You know Amelius well,” she resumed; “you are
fond of him; you believe in him, don’t you? Do you think he is capable
of behaving basely to any person who trusts him? Is it likely, is it
possible, he could be false and cruel to Me?”

The mere question roused the indignation of Rufus. “Whoever said that of
him, Miss, told you a lie! I answer for my boy as I answer for myself.”

She looked at him at last, with a sudden expression of relief. “I said
so too,” she rejoined; “I said some enemy had slandered him. My uncle
won’t tell me who it is. He positively forbids me to write to Amelius;
he tells me I must never see Amelius again--he is going to write and
break off the engagement. Oh, it’s too cruel! too cruel!”

Thus far they had been walking on slowly. But now Rufus stopped,
determined to make her speak plainly.

“Take a word of advice from me, Miss,” he said. “Never trust anybody by
halves. There’s nothing I’m not ready to do, to set this matter right;
but I must know what I’m about first. What’s said against Amelius? Out
with it, no matter what ‘tis! I’m old enough to be your father; and I
feel for you accordingly--I do.”

The thorough sincerity of tone and manner which accompanied those words
had its effect. Regina blushed and trembled--but she spoke out.

“My uncle says Amelius has disgraced himself, and insulted me; my uncle
says there is a person--a girl living with him--” She stopped, with a
faint cry of alarm. Her hand, still testing on the arm of Rufus, felt
him start as the allusion to the girl passed her lips. “You have heard
of it!” she cried. “Oh, God help me, it’s true!”

“True?” Rufus repeated, with stern contempt. “What’s come to you?
Haven’t I told you already, it’s a lie? I’ll answer to it, Amelius is
true to you. Will that do? No? You’re an obstinate one, Miss--that you
are. Well! it’s due to the boy that I should set him right with you, if
words will do it. You know how he’s been brought up at Tadmor? Bear
that in mind--and now you shall have the truth of it, on the word of an
honest man.”

Without further preface, he told her how Amelius had met with Sally,
insisting strongly on the motives of pure humanity by which his friend
had been actuated. Regina listened with an obstinate expression of
distrust which would have discouraged most men. Rufus persisted,
nevertheless; and, to some extent at least, succeeded in producing the
right impression. When he reached the close of the narrative--when he
asserted that he had himself seen Amelius confide the girl unreservedly
to the care of a lady who was a dear and valued friend of his own; and
when he declared that there had been no after-meeting between them and
no written correspondence--then, at last, Regina owned that he had not
encouraged her to trust in the honour of Amelius, without reason to
justify him. But, even under these circumstances, there was a residue of
suspicion still left in her mind. She asked for the name of the lady to
whose benevolent assistance Amelius had been indebted. Rufus took out
one of his cards, and wrote Mrs. Payson’s name and address on it.

“Your nature, my dear, is not quite so confiding as I could have wished
to see it,” he said, quietly handing her the card. “But we can’t change
our natures--can we? And you’re not bound to believe a man like me,
without witnesses to back him. Write to Mrs. Payson, and make your mind
easy. And, while we are about it, tell me where I can telegraph to you
tomorrow--I’m off to London by the night mail.”

“Do you mean, you are going to see Amelius?

“That is so. I’m too fond of Amelius to let this trouble rest where ‘tis
now. I’ve been away from him, here in Paris, for some little time--and
you may tell me (and quite right, too) I can’t answer for what may have
been going on in my absence. No! now we are about it, we’ll have it out.
I mean to see Amelius and see Mrs. Payson, tomorrow morning. Just tell
your uncle to hold his hand, before he breaks off your marriage, and
wait for a telegram from me. Well? and this is your address, is it?
I know the hotel. A nice look-out on the Twillery Gardens--but a bad
cellar of wine, as I hear. I’m at the Grand Hotel myself, if there’s
anything else that troubles you before evening. Now I look at you again,
I reckon there’s something more to be said, if you’ll only let it find
its way to your tongue. No; it ain’t thanks. We’ll take the gratitude
for granted, and get to what’s behind it. There’s your carriage--and the
good lady looks tired of waiting. Well, now?”

“It’s only one thing,” Regina acknowledged, with her eyes on the ground
again. “Perhaps, when you go to London, you may see the--”

“The girl?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not likely. Say I do see her--what then?”

Regina’s colour began to show itself again. “If you do see her,” she
said, “I beg and entreat you won’t speak of _me_ in her hearing. I
should die of the shame of it, if she thought herself asked to give him
up out of pity for me. Promise I am not to be brought forward; promise
you won’t even mention my having spoken to you about it. On your word of
honour!”

Rufus gave her his promise, without showing any hesitation, or making
any remark. But when she shook hands with him, on returning to the
carriage, he held her hand for a moment. “Please to excuse me, Miss, if
I ask one question,” he said, in tones too low to be heard by any other
person. “Are you really fond of Amelius?”

“I am surprised you should doubt it,” she answered; “I am more--much
more than fond of him!”

Rufus handed her silently into the carriage, “Fond of him, are you?” he
thought, as he walked away by himself. “I reckon it’s a sort of fondness
that don’t wear well, and won’t stand washing.”



CHAPTER 8

Early the next morning, Rufus rang at the cottage gate.

“Well, Mr. Frenchman, and how do _you_ git along? And how’s Amelius?”

Toff, standing before the gate, answered with the utmost respect, but
showed no inclination to let the visitor in.

“Amelius has his intervals of laziness,” Rufus proceeded; “I bet he’s in
bed!”

“My young master was up and dressed an hour ago, sir--he has just gone
out.”

“That is so, is it? Well, I’ll wait till he comes back.” He pushed by
Toff, and walked into the cottage. “Your foreign ceremonies are clean
thrown away on me,” he said, as Toff tried to stop him in the hall. “I’m
the American savage; and I’m used up with travelling all night. Here’s
a little order for you: whisky, bitters, lemon, and ice--I’ll take a
cocktail in the library.”

Toff made a last desperate effort to get between the visitor and
the door. “I beg your pardon, sir, a thousand times; I must most
respectfully entreat you to wait--”

Before he could explain himself, Rufus, with the most perfect good
humour, pulled the old man out of his way. “What’s troubling this
venerable creature’s mind--” he inquired of himself, “does he think I
don’t know my way in?”

He opened the library door--and found himself face to face with Sally.
She had risen from her chair, hearing voices outside, and hesitating
whether to leave the room or not. They confronted each other, on either
side of the table, in silent dismay. For once Rufus was so completely
bewildered, that he took refuge in his customary form of greeting before
he was aware of it himself.

“How do you find yourself, Miss? I take pleasure in renewing our
acquaintance,--Thunder! that’s not it; I reckon I’m off my head. Do me
the favour, young woman, to forget every word I’ve said to you. If any
mortal creature had told me I should find you here, I should have said
‘twas a lie--and I should have been the liar. That makes a man feel
bad, I can tell you. No! don’t slide off, if you please, into the next
room--_that_ won’t set things right, nohow. Sit you down again. Now I’m
here, I have something to say. I’ll speak first to Mr. Frenchman. Listen
to this, old sir. If I happen to want a witness standing in the doorway,
I’ll ring the bell; for the present I can do without you. Bong Shewer,
as we say in your country.” He proceeded to shut the door on Toff and
his remonstrances.

“I protest, sir, against acts of violence, unworthy of a gentleman!”
 cried Toff, struggling to get back again.

“Be as angry as you please in the kitchen,” Rufus answered, persisting
in closing the door; “I won’t have a noise up here. If you know where
your master is, go and fetch him--and the sooner the better.” He turned
back to Sally, and surveyed her for a while in terrible silence. She
was afraid to look at him; her eyes were on the book which she had been
reading when he came in. “You look to me,” Rufus remarked, “as if you
had been settled here for a time. Never mind your book now; you can go
back to your reading after we’ve had a word or two together first.” He
reached out his long arm, and pulled the book to his own side of the
table. Sally innocently silenced him for the second time. He opened the
book, and discovered--the New Testament.

“It’s my lesson, if you please, sir. I’m to learn it where the pencil
mark is, before Amelius comes back.” She offered her poor little
explanation, trembling with terror. In spite of himself, Rufus began to
look at her less sternly.

“So you call him ‘Amelius’, do you?” he said. “I note that, Miss, as an
unfavourable sign to begin with. How long, if you please, has Amelius
turned schoolmarm, for your young ladyship’s benefit? Don’t you
understand? Well, you’re not the only inhabitant of Great Britain who
don’t understand the English language. I’ll put it plainer. When I last
saw Amelius, you were learning your lessons at the Home. What ill wind,
Miss, blew you in here? Did Amelius fetch you, or did you come of your
own accord, without waiting to be whistled for?” He spoke coarsely but
not ill-humouredly. Sally’s pretty downcast face was pleading with him
for mercy, and (as he felt, with supreme contempt for himself) was not
altogether pleading in vain. “If I guessed that you ran away from the
home,” he resumed, “should I guess right?”

She answered with a sudden accession of confidence. “Don’t blame
Amelius,” she said; “I did run away. I couldn’t live without him.”

“You don’t know how you can live, young one, till you’ve tried the
experiment. Well, and what did they do at the Home? Did they send after
you, to fetch you back?”

“They wouldn’t take me back--they sent my clothes here after me.”

“Ah, those were the rules, I reckon. I begin to see my way to the end of
it now. Amelius gave you house-room?”

She looked at him proudly. “He gave me a room of my own,” she said.

His next question was the exact repetition of the question which he
had put to Regina in Paris. The only variety was in the answer that he
received.

“Are you fond of Amelius?”

“I would die for him!”

Rufus had hitherto spoken, standing. He now took a chair.

“If Amelius had not been brought up at Tadmor,” he said, “I should take
my hat, and wish you good morning. As things are, a word more may be a
word in season. Your lessons here seem to have agreed with you, Miss.
You’re a different sort of girl to what you were when I last saw you.”

She surprised him by receiving that remark in silence. The colour left
her face. She sighed bitterly. The sigh puzzled Rufus: he held his
opinion of her in suspense, until he had heard more.

“You said just now you would die for Amelius,” he went on, eyeing her
attentively. “I take that to be a woman’s hysterical way of mentioning
that she feels interest in Amelius. Are you fond enough of him to leave
him, if you could only be persuaded that leaving him was for his good?”

She abruptly left the table, and went to the window. When her back was
turned to Rufus, she spoke. “Am I a disgrace to him?” she asked, in
tones so faint that he could barely hear them. “I have had my fears of
it, before now.”

If he had been less fond of Amelius, his natural kindness of heart might
have kept him silent. Even as it was, he made no direct reply. “You
remember how you were living when Amelius first met with you?” was all
he said.

The sad blue eyes looked at him in patient sorrow; the low sweet voice
answered--“Yes.” Only a look and a word--only the influence of an
instant--and, in that instant, Rufus’s last doubts of her vanished!

“Don’t think I say it reproachfully, my child! I know it was not your
fault; I know you are to be pitied, and not blamed.”

She turned her face towards him--pale, quiet, and resigned. “Pitied, and
not blamed,” she repeated. “Am I to be forgiven?”

He shrank from answering her. There was silence.

“You said just now,” she went on, “that I looked like a different girl,
since you last saw me. I _am_ a different girl. I think of things that
I never thought of before--some change, I don’t know what, has come over
me. Oh, my heart does hunger so to be good! I do so long to deserve what
Amelius has done for me! You have got my book there--Amelius gave it
to me; we read in it every day. If Christ had been on earth now, is it
wrong to think that Christ would have forgiven me?”

“No, my dear; it’s right to think so.”

“And, while I live, if I do my best to lead a good life, and if my last
prayer to God is to take me to heaven, shall I be heard?”

“You will be heard, my child, I don’t doubt it. But, you see, you have
got the world about you to reckon with--and the world has invented
a religion of its own. There’s no use looking for it in this book of
yours. It’s a religion with the pride of property at the bottom of it,
and a veneer of benevolent sentiment at the top. It will be very
sorry for you, and very charitable towards you: in short, it will do
everything for you except taking you back again.”

She had her answer to that. “Amelius has taken me back again,” she said.

“Amelius has taken you back again,” Rufus agreed. “But there’s one thing
he’s forgotten to do; he has forgotten to count the cost. It seems to
be left to me to do that. Look here, my girl! I own I doubted you when I
first came into this room; and I’m sorry for it, and I beg your pardon.
I do believe you’re a good girl--I couldn’t say why if I was asked, but
I do believe it for all that. I wish there was no more to be said--but
there is more; and neither you nor I must shirk it. Public opinion won’t
deal as tenderly with you as I do; public opinion will make the worst
of you, and the worst of Amelius. While you’re living here with
him--there’s no disguising it--you’re innocently in the way of the boy’s
prospects in life. I don’t know whether you understand me?”

She had turned away from him; she was looking out of the window once
more.

“I understand you,” she answered. “On the night when Amelius met with
me, he did wrong to take me away with him. He ought to have left me
where I was.”

“Wait a bit! that’s as far from my meaning as far can be. There’s a
look-out for everybody; and, if you’ll trust me, I’ll find a look-out
for _you.”_

She paid no heed to what he said: her next words showed that she was
pursuing her own train of thought.

“I am in the way of his prospects in life,” she resumed. “You mean that
he might be married some day, but for me?”

Rufus admitted it cautiously. “The thing might happen,” was all he said.

“And his friends might come and see him,” she went on; her face still
turned away, and her voice sinking into dull subdued tones. “Nobody
comes here now. You see I understand you. When shall I go away? I had
better not say good-bye, I suppose?--it would only distress him. I could
slip out of the house, couldn’t I?”

Rufus began to feel uneasy. He was prepared for tears--but not for such
resignation as this. After a little hesitation, he joined her at the
window. She never turned towards him; she still looked out straight
before her; her bright young face had turned pitiably rigid and pale. He
spoke to her very gently; advising her to think of what he had said, and
to do nothing in a hurry. She knew the hotel at which he stayed when he
was in London; and she could write to him there. If she decided to begin
a new life in another country, he was wholly and truly at her service.
He would provide a passage for her in the same ship that took him back
to America. At his age, and known as he was in his own neighbourhood,
there would be no scandal to fear. He could get her reputably and
profitably employed, in work which a young girl might undertake. “I’ll
be as good as a father to you, my poor child,” he said, “don’t think
you’re going to be friendless, if you leave Amelius. I’ll see to that!
You shall have honest people about you--and innocent pleasure in your
new life.”

She thanked him, still with the same dull tearless resignation. “What
will the honest people say,” she asked, “when they know who I am?”

“They have no business to know who you are--and they shan’t know it.”

“Ah! it comes back to the same thing,” she said. “You must deceive the
honest people, or you can do nothing for me. Amelius had better have
left me where I was! I disgraced nobody, I was a burden to nobody,
_there._ Cold and hunger and ill-treatment can sometimes be merciful
friends, in their way. If I had been left to them, they would have laid
me at rest by this time.” She turned to Rufus, before he could speak to
her. “I’m not ungrateful, sir; I’ll think of it, as you say; and I’ll
do all that a poor foolish creature can do, to be worthy of the interest
you take in me.” She lifted her hand to her head, with a momentary
expression of pain. “I’ve got a dull kind of aching here,” she said; “it
reminds me of my old life, when I was sometimes beaten on the head. May
I go and lie down a little, by myself?”

Rufus took her hand, and pressed it in silence. She looked back at him
as she opened the door of her room. “Don’t distress Amelius,” she said;
“I can bear anything but that.”

Left alone in the library, Rufus walked restlessly to and fro, driven by
a troubled mind. “I was bound to do it,” he thought; “and I ought to
be satisfied with myself. I’m not satisfied. The world is hard on
women--and the rights of property is a darned bad reason for it!”

The door from the hall was suddenly thrown open. Amelius entered the
room. He looked flushed and angry--he refused to take the hand that
Rufus offered to him.

“What’s this I hear from Toff? It seems that you forced your way in when
Sally was here. There are limits to the liberties that a man may take in
his friend’s house.”

“That’s true,” said Rufus quietly. “But when a man hasn’t taken
liberties, there don’t seem much to be said. Sally was at the Home, when
I last saw you--and nobody told me I should find her in this room.”

“You might have left the room, when you found her here. You have been
talking to her. If you have said anything about Regina--”

“I have said nothing about Miss Regina. You have a hot temper of your
own, Amelius. Wait a bit, and let it cool.”

“Never mind my temper. I want to know what you have been saying to
Sally. Stop! I’ll ask Sally herself.” He crossed the room to the inner
door, and knocked. “Come in here, my dear; I want to speak to you.”

The answer reached him faintly through the door. “I have got a bad
headache, Amelius. Please let me rest a little.” He turned back to
Rufus, and lowered his voice. But his eyes flashed; he was more angry
than ever.

“You had better go,” he said. “I can guess how you have been talking to
her--I know what her headache means. Any man who distresses that dear
little affectionate creature is a man whom I hold as my enemy. I spit
upon all the worldly considerations which pass muster with people like
you! No sweeter girl than poor Sally ever breathed the breath of life.
Her happiness is more precious to me than words can say. She is sacred
to me! And I have just proved it--I have just come from a good woman,
who will teach her an honest way of earning her bread. Not a breath of
scandal shall blow on her. If you, or any people like you, think I will
consent to cast her adrift on the world, or consign her to a prison
under the name of a Home, you little know my nature and my principles.
Here”--he snatched up the New Testament from the table, and shook it at
Rufus--“here are my principles, and I’m not ashamed of them!”

Rufus took up his hat.

“There’s one thing you’ll be ashamed of, my son, when you’re cool enough
to think about it,” he said; “you’ll be ashamed of the words you have
spoken to a friend who loves you. I’m not a bit angry myself. You remind
me of that time on board the steamer, when the quarter-master was going
to shoot the bird. You made it up with him--and you’ll come to my hotel
and make it up with me. And then we’ll shake hands, and talk about
Sally. If it’s not taking another liberty, I’ll trouble you for a
light.” He helped himself to a match from the box on the chimney-piece,
lit his cigar, and left the room.

He had not been gone half an hour, before the better nature of Amelius
urged him to follow Rufus and make his apologies. But he was too anxious
about Sally to leave the cottage, until he had seen her first. The tone
in which she had answered him, when he knocked at her door, suggested,
to his sensitive apprehension, that there was something more serious
the matter with her than a mere headache. For another hour, he waited
patiently, on the chance that he might hear her moving in her room.
Nothing happened. No sound reached his ears, except the occasional
rolling of carriage-wheels on the road outside.

His patience began to fail him, as the second hour moved on. He went to
the door, and listened, and still heard nothing. A sudden dread struck
him that she might have fainted. He opened the door a few inches, and
spoke to her. There was no answer. He looked in. The room was empty.

He ran into the hall, and called to Toff. Was she, by any chance,
downstairs? No. Or out in the garden? No. Master and man looked at each
other in silence. Sally was gone.



CHAPTER 9

Toff was the first who recovered himself.

“Courage, sir!” he said. “With a little thinking, we shall see the way
to find her. That rude American man, who talked with her this morning,
may be the person who has brought this misfortune on us.”

Amelius waited to hear no more. There was the chance, at least, that
something might have been said which had induced her to take refuge with
Rufus. He ran back to the library to get his hat.

Toff followed his master, with another suggestion. “One word more, sir,
before you go. If the American man cannot help us, we must be ready to
try another way. Permit me to accompany you as far as my wife’s shop. I
propose that she shall come back here with me, and examine poor little
Miss’s bedroom. We will wait, of course, for your return, before
anything is done. In the mean time, I entreat you not to despair. It
is at least possible that the means of discovery may be found in the
bedroom.”

They went out together, taking the first cab that passed them. Amelius
proceeded alone to the hotel.

Rufus was in his room. “What’s gone wrong?” he asked, the moment Amelius
opened the door. “Shake hands, my son, and smother up that little
trouble between us in silence. Your face alarms me--it does! What of
Sally?”

Amelius started at the question. “Isn’t she here?” he asked.

Rufus drew back. The mere action said, No, before he answered in words.

“Have you seen nothing of her? heard nothing of her?”

“Nothing. Steady, now! Meet it like a man; and tell me what has
happened.”

Amelius told him in two words. “Don’t suppose I’m going to break out
again as I did this morning,” he went on; “I’m too wretched and too
anxious to be angry. Only tell me, Rufus, have you said anything to
her--?”

Rufus held up his hand. “I see what you’re driving at. It will be more
to the purpose to tell you what she said to me. From first to last,
Amelius, I spoke kindly to her, and I did her justice. Give me a minute
to rummage my memory.” After brief consideration, he carefully repeated
the substance of what had passed between Sally and himself, during the
latter part of the interview between them. “Have you looked about in
her room?” he inquired, when he had done. “There might be a trifling
something to help you, left behind her there.”

Amelius told him of Toff’s suggestion. They returned together at once to
the cottage. Madame Toff was waiting to begin the search.

The first discovery was easily made. Sally had taken off one or two
little trinkets--presents from Amelius, which she was in the habit of
wearing--and had left them, wrapped up in paper, on the dressing-table.
No such thing as a farewell letter was found near them. The examination
of the wardrobe came next--and here a startling circumstance revealed
itself. Every one of the dresses which Amelius had presented to her was
hanging in its place. They were not many; and they had all, on previous
occasions, been passed in review by Toff’s wife. She was absolutely
certain that the complete number of the dresses was there in the
bedroom. Sally must have worn something, in place of her new clothes.
What had she put on?

Looking round the room, Amelius noticed in a corner the box in which he
had placed the first new dress that he had purchased for Sally, on the
morning after they had met. He tried to open the box: it was locked--and
the key was not to be found. The ever-ready Toff fetched a skewer from
the kitchen, and picked the lock in two minutes. On lifting the cover,
the box proved to be empty.

The one person present who understood what this meant was Amelius.

He remembered that Sally had taken her old threadbare clothes away with
her in the box, when the angry landlady had insisted on his leaving the
house. “I want to look at them sometimes,” the poor girl had said, “and
think how much better off I am now.” In those miserable rags she had
fled from the cottage, after hearing the cruel truth. “He had
better have left me where I was,” she had said. “Cold and hunger and
ill-treatment would have laid me at rest by this time.” Amelius fell on
his knees before the empty box, in helpless despair. The conclusion
that now forced itself on his mind completely unmanned him. She had
gone back, in the old dress, to die under the cold, the hunger, and the
horror of the old life.

Rufus took his hand, and spoke to him kindly. He rallied, and dashed
the tears from his eyes, and rose to his feet. “I know where to look
for her,” was all he said; “and I must do it alone.” He refused to enter
into any explanation, or to be assisted by any companion. “This is my
secret and hers,” he answered, “Go back to your hotel, Rufus--and pray
that I may not bring news which will make a wretched man of you for the
rest of your life.” With that he left them.

In another hour he stood once more on the spot at which he and Sally had
met.

The wild bustle and uproar of the costermongers’ night market no longer
rioted round him: the street by daylight was in a state of dreary
repose. Slowly pacing up and down, from one end to another, he waited
with but one hope to sustain him--the hope that she might have taken
refuge with the two women who had been her only friends in the dark days
of her life. Ignorant of the place in which they lived, he had no choice
but to wait for the appearance of one or other of them in the street.
He was quiet and resolved. For the rest of the day, and for the whole
of the night if need be, his mind was made up to keep steadfastly on the
watch.

When he could walk no longer, he obtained rest and refreshment in
the cookshop which he remembered so well; sitting on a stool near the
window, from which he could still command a view of the street. The
gas-lamps were alight, and the long winter’s night was beginning to set
in, when he resumed his weary march from end to end of the pavement. As
the darkness became complete, his patience was rewarded at last. Passing
the door of a pawnbroker’s shop, he met one of the women face to face,
walking rapidly, with a little parcel under her arm.

She recognized him with a cry of joyful surprise.

“Oh, sir, how glad I am to see you, to be sure! You’ve come to look
after Sally, haven’t you? Yes, yes; she’s safe in our poor place--but
in such a dreadful state. Off her head! clean off her head! Talks of
nothing but you. ‘I’m in the way of his prospects in life.’ Over and
over and over again, she keeps on saying that. Don’t be afraid; Jenny’s
at home, taking care of her. She wants to go out. Hot and wild, with a
kind of fever on her, she wants to go out. She asked if it rained. ‘The
rain may kill me in these ragged clothes,’ she says; ‘and then I shan’t
be in the way of his prospects in life.’ We tried to quiet her by
telling her it didn’t rain--but it was no use; she was as eager as ever
to go out. ‘I may get another blow on the bosom,’ she says; ‘and, maybe,
it will fall on the right place this time.’ No! there’s no fear of the
brute who used to beat her--he’s in prison. Don’t ask to see her just
yet, sir; please don’t! I’m afraid you would only make her worse, if I
took you to her now; I wouldn’t dare to risk it. You see, we can’t get
her to sleep; and we thought of buying something to quiet her at the
chemist’s. Yes, sir, it would be better to get a doctor to her. But I
wasn’t going to the doctor. If I must tell you, I was obliged to take
the sheets off the bed, to raise a little money--I was going to the
pawnbroker’s.” She looked at the parcel under her arm, and smiled. “I
may take the sheets back again, now I’ve met with you; and there’s a
good doctor lives close by--I can show you the way to him. Oh how pale
you do look! Are you very much tired? It’s only a little way to the
doctor. I’ve got an arm at your service--but you mightn’t like to be
seen waiting with such a person as me.”

Mentally and physically, Amelius was completely prostrated. The woman’s
melancholy narrative had overwhelmed him: he could neither speak nor
act. He mechanically put his purse in her hand, and went with her to the
house of the nearest medical man.

The doctor was at home, mixing drugs in his little surgery. After one
sharp look at Amelius, he ran into a back parlour, and returned with a
glass of spirits. “Drink this, sir,” he said--“unless you want to find
yourself on the floor in a fainting fit. And don’t presume again on your
youth and strength to treat your heart as if it was made of cast-iron.”
 He signed to Amelius to sit down and rest himself, and turned to the
woman to hear what was wanted of him. After a few questions, he said she
might go; promising to follow her in a few minutes, when the gentleman
would be sufficiently recovered to accompany him.

“Well, sir, are you beginning to feel like yourself again?” He was
mixing a composing draught, while he addressed Amelius in those terms.
“You may trust that poor wretch, who has just left us, to take care of
the sick girl,” he went on, in the quaintly familiar manner which seemed
to be habitual with him. “I don’t ask how you got into her company--it’s
no business of mine. But I am pretty well acquainted with the people in
my neighbourhood; and I can tell you one thing, in case you’re anxious.
The woman who brought you here, barring the one misfortune of her life,
is as good a creature as ever breathed; and the other one who lives with
her is the same. When I think of what they’re exposed to--well! I take
to my pipe, and compose my mind in that way. My early days were all
passed as a ship’s surgeon. I could get them both respectable employment
in Australia, if I only had the money to fit them out. They’ll die in
the hospital, like the rest, if something isn’t done for them. In my
hopeful moments, I sometimes think of a subscription. What do you say?
Will you put down a few shillings to set the example?”

“I will do more than that,” Amelius answered. “I have reasons for
wishing to befriend both those two poor women; and I will gladly engage
to find the outfit.”

The familiar old doctor held out his hand over the counter. “You’re
a good fellow, if ever there was one yet!” he burst out. “I can show
references which will satisfy you that I am not a rogue. In the mean
time, let’s see what is the matter with this little girl; you can tell
me about her as we go along.” He put his bottle of medicine in his
pocket, and his arm in the arm of Amelius--and so led the way out.

When they reached the wretched lodging-house in which the women lived,
he suggested that his companion would do well to wait at the door. “I’m
used to sad sights: it would only distress you to see the place. I won’t
keep you long waiting.”

He was as good as his word. In little more than ten minutes, he joined
Amelius again in the street.

“Don’t alarm yourself,” he said. “The case is not so serious as it
looks. The poor child is suffering under a severe shock to the brain and
nervous system, caused by that sudden and violent distress you hinted
at. My medicine will give her the one thing she wants to begin with--a
good night’s sleep.”

Amelius asked when she would be well enough to see him.

“Ah, my young friend, it’s not so easy to say, just yet! I could answer
you to better purpose tomorrow. Won’t that do? Must I venture on a rash
opinion? She ought to be composed enough to see you in three or four
days. And, when that time comes, it’s my belief you will do more than I
can do to set her right again.”

Amelius was relieved, but not quite satisfied yet. He inquired if it was
not possible to remove her from that miserable place.

“Quite impossible--without doing her serious injury. They have got money
to go on with; and I have told you already, she will be well taken care
of. I will look after her myself tomorrow morning. Go home, and get to
bed, and eat a bit of supper first, and make your mind easy. Come to
my house at twelve o’clock, noon, and you will find me ready with my
references, and my report of the patient. Surgeon Pinfold, Blackacre
Buildings; there’s the address. Good night.”



CHAPTER 10

After Amelius had left him, Rufus remembered his promise to communicate
with Regina by telegraph.

With his strict regard for truth, it was no easy matter to decide on
what message he should send. To inspire Regina, if possible, with
his own unshaken belief in the good faith of Amelius, appeared,
on reflection, to be all that he could honestly do, under present
circumstances. With an anxious and foreboding mind, he despatched his
telegram to Paris in these terms:--“Be patient for a while, and do
justice to A. He deserves it.”

Having completed his business at the telegraph-office, Rufus went next
to pay his visit to Mrs. Payson.

The good lady received him with a grave face and a distant manner, in
startling contrast to the customary warmth of her welcome. “I used to
think you were a man in a thousand,” she began abruptly; “and I find
you are no better than the rest of them. If you have come to speak to me
about that blackguard young Socialist, understand, if you please, that
I am not so easily imposed upon as Miss Regina. I have done my duty;
I have opened her eyes to the truth, poor thing. Ah, you ought to be
ashamed of yourself.”

Rufus kept his temper, with his habitual self-command. “It’s possible
you may be right,” he said quietly; “but the biggest rascal living has
a claim to an explanation, when a lady puzzles him. Have you any
particular objection, old friend, to tell me what you mean?”

The explanation was not of a nature to set his mind at ease.

Regina had written, by the mail which took Rufus to England, repeating
to Mrs. Payson what had passed at the interview in the Champs Elysees,
and appealing to her sympathy for information and advice. Receiving
the letter that morning, Mrs. Payson, acting on her own generous and
compassionate impulses, had already answered it, and sent it to the
post. Her experience of the unfortunate persons received at the Home was
far from inclining her to believe in the innocence of a runaway girl,
placed under circumstances of temptation. As an act of justice towards
Regina, she enclosed to her the letter in which Amelius had acknowledged
that Sally had passed the night under his roof.

“I believe I am only telling you the shameful truth,” Mrs. Payson
had written, “when I add that the girl has been an inmate of Mr.
Goldenheart’s cottage ever since. If you can reconcile this disgraceful
state of things, with Mr. Rufus Dingwell’s assertion of his friend’s
fidelity to his marriage-engagement, I have no right, and no wish,
to make any attempt to alter your opinion. But you have asked for my
advice, and I must not shrink from giving it. I am bound as an honest
woman, to tell you that your uncle’s resolution to break off the
engagement represents the course that I should have taken myself, if
a daughter of my own had been placed in your painful and humiliating
position.”

There was still ample time to modify this strong expression of opinion
by the day’s post. Rufus appealed vainly to Mrs. Payson to reconsider
the conclusion at which she had arrived. A more charitable and
considerate woman, within the limits of her own daily routine, it would
not be possible to find. But the largeness of mind which, having long
and trustworthy experience of a rule, can nevertheless understand that
other minds may have equal experience of the exception to the rule,
was one of the qualities which had not been included in the moral
composition of Mrs. Payson. She held firmly to her own narrowly
conscientious sense of her duty; stimulated by a natural indignation
against Amelius, who had bitterly disappointed her--against Rufus, who
had not scrupled to take up his defence. The two old friends parted in
coldness, for the first time in their lives.

Rufus returned to his hotel, to wait there for news from Amelius.

The day passed--and the one visitor who enlivened his solitude was
an American friend and correspondent, connected with the agency which
managed his affairs in England. The errand of this gentleman was to give
his client the soundest and speediest advice, relating to the investment
of money. Having indicated the safe and solid speculation, the
visitor added a warning word, relating to the plausible and dangerous
investments of the day. “For instance,” he said, “there’s that bank
started by Farnaby--”

“No need to warn me against Farnaby,” Rufus interposed; “I wouldn’t take
shares in his bank if he made me a present of them.”

The American friend looked surprised. “Surely,” he exclaimed, “you can’t
have heard the news already! They don’t even know it yet on the Stock
Exchange.”

Rufus explained that he had only spoken under the influence of personal
prejudice against Mr. Farnaby.

“What’s in the wind now?” he asked.

He was confidentially informed that a coming storm was in the wind: in
other words, that a serious discovery had been made at the bank. Some
time since, the directors had advanced a large sum of money to a man
in trade, under Mr. Farnaby’s own guarantee. The man had just died;
and examination of his affairs showed that he had only received a few
hundred pounds, on condition of holding his tongue. The bulk of the
money had been traced to Mr. Farnaby himself, and had all been
swallowed up by his newspaper, his patent medicine, and his other rotten
speculations, apart from his own proper business. “You may not know it,”
 the American friend concluded, “but the fact is, Farnaby rose from the
dregs. His bankruptcy is only a question of time--he will drop back to
the dregs; and, quite possibly, make his appearance to answer a criminal
charge in a court of law. I hear that Melton, whose credit has held up
the bank lately, is off to see his friend in Paris. They say Farnaby’s
niece is a handsome girl, and Melton is sweet on her. Awkward for
Melton.”

Rufus listened attentively. In signing the order for his investments, he
privately decided to stir no further, for the present, in the matter of
his young friend’s marriage-engagement.

For the rest of the day and evening, he still waited for Amelius, and
waited in vain. It was drawing near to midnight, when Toff made his
appearance with a message from his master. Amelius had discovered Sally,
and had returned in such a state of fatigue that he was only fit to
take some refreshment, and to go to his bed. He would be away from home
again, on the next morning; but he hoped to call at the hotel in the
course of the day. Observing Toff’s face with grave and steady scrutiny,
Rufus tried to extract some further information from him. But the old
Frenchman stood on his dignity, in a state of immovable reserve.

“You took me by the shoulder this morning, sir, and spun me round,” he
said; “I do not desire to be treated a second time like a teetotum.
For the rest, it is not my habit to intrude myself into my master’s
secrets.”

“It’s not _my_ habit,” Rufus coolly rejoined, “to bear malice. I beg to
apologise sincerely, sir, for treating you like a teetotum; and I offer
you my hand.”

Toff had got as far as the door. He instantly returned, with the dignity
which a Frenchman can always command in the serious emergencies of his
life. “You appeal to my heart and my honour, sir,” he said. “I bury the
events of the morning in oblivion; and I do myself the honour of taking
your hand.”

As the door closed on him, Rufus smiled grimly. “You’re not in the habit
of intruding yourself into your master’s secrets,” he repeated. “If
Amelius reads your face as I read it, he’ll look over his shoulder when
he goes out tomorrow--and, ten to one, he’ll see you behind him in the
distance!”

Late on the next day, Amelius presented himself at the hotel. In
speaking of Sally, he was unusually reserved, merely saying that she was
ill, and under medical care, and then changing the subject. Struck by
the depressed and anxious expression of his face, Rufus asked if he had
heard from Regina. No: a longer time than usual had passed since Regina
had written to him. “I don’t understand it,” he said sadly. “I suppose
you didn’t see anything of her in Paris?”

Rufus had kept his promise not to mention Regina’s name in Sally’s
presence. But it was impossible for him to look at Amelius, without
plainly answering the question put to him, for the sake of the friend
whom he loved. “I’m afraid there’s trouble coming to you, my son, from
that quarter.” With those warning words, he described all that had
passed between Regina and himself. “Some unknown enemy of yours has
spoken against you to her uncle,” he concluded. “I suppose you have made
enemies, my poor old boy, since you have been in London?”

“I know the man,” Amelius answered. “He wanted to marry Regina before I
met with her. His name is Melton.”

Rufus started. “I heard only yesterday, he was in Paris with Farnaby.
And that’s not the worst of it, Amelius. There’s another of them making
mischief--a good friend of mine who has shown a twist in her temper,
that has taken me by surprise after twenty years’ experience of her.
I reckon there’s a drop of malice in the composition of the best woman
that ever lived--and the men only discover it when another woman steps
in, and stirs it up. Wait a bit!” he went on, when he had related the
result of his visit to Mrs. Payson. “I have telegraphed to Miss Regina
to be patient, and to trust you. Don’t you write to defend yourself,
till you hear how you stand in her estimation, after my message.
Tomorrow’s post may tell.”

Tomorrow’s post did tell.

Two letters reached Amelius from Paris. One from Mr. Farnaby, curt and
insolent, breaking off the marriage-engagement. The other, from Regina,
expressed with great severity of language. Her weak nature, like all
weak natures, ran easily into extremes, and, once roused into asserting
itself, took refuge in violence as a shy person takes refuge in
audacity. Only a woman of larger and firmer mind would have written of
her wrongs in a more just and more moderate tone.

Regina began without any preliminary form of address. She had no heart
to upbraid Amelius, and no wish to speak of what she was suffering, to
a man who had but too plainly shown that he had no respect for himself,
and neither love, nor pity even, for her. In justice to herself,
she released him from his promise, and returned his letters and his
presents. Her own letters might be sent in a sealed packet, addressed to
her at her uncle’s place of business in London. She would pray that he
might be brought to a sense of the sin that he had committed, and that
he might yet live to be a worthy and a happy man. For the rest, her
decision was irrevocable. His own letter to Mrs. Payson condemned
him--and the testimony of an old and honoured friend of her uncle proved
that his wickedness was no mere act of impulse, but a deliberate course
of infamy and falsehood, continued over many weeks. From the moment when
she made that discovery, he was a stranger to her--and she now bade him
farewell.

“Have you written to her?” Rufus asked, when he had seen the letters.

Amelius reddened with indignation. He was not aware of it himself--but
his look and manner plainly revealed that Regina had lost her last hold
on him. Her letter had inflicted an insult--not a wound: he was outraged
and revolted; the deeper and gentler feelings, the emotions of a grieved
and humiliated lover, had been killed in him by her stern words of
dismissal and farewell.

“Do you think I would allow myself to be treated in that way, without
a word of protest?” he said to Rufus. “I have written, refusing to take
back my promise. ‘I declare, on my word of honour, that I have been
faithful to you and to my engagement’--that was how I put it--‘and I
scorn the vile construction which your uncle and his friend have placed
upon an act of Christian mercy on my part.’ I wrote more tenderly,
before I finished my letter; feeling for her distress, and being anxious
above all things not to add to it. We shall see if she has love enough
left for me to trust my faith and honour, instead of trusting false
appearances. I will give her time.”

Rufus considerately abstained from expressing any opinion. He waited
until the morning when a reply might be expected from Paris; and then he
called at the cottage.

Without a word of comment, Amelius put a letter into his friend’s hand.
It was his own letter to Regina returned to him. On the back of it,
there was a line in Mr. Farnaby’s handwriting:--“If you send any more
letters they will be burnt unopened.” In those insolent terms the wretch
wrote with bankruptcy and exposure hanging over his head.

Rufus spoke plainly upon this. “There’s an end of it now,” he said.
“That girl would never have made the right wife for you, Amelius: you’re
well out of it. Forget that you ever knew these people; and let us talk
of something else. How is Sally?”

At that ill-timed inquiry, Amelius showed his temper again. He was in a
state of nervous irritability which made him apt to take offence, where
no offence was intended. “Oh, you needn’t be alarmed!” he answered
petulantly; “there’s no fear of the poor child coming back to live with
me. She is still under the doctor’s care.”

Rufus passed over the angry reply without notice, and patted him on the
shoulder. “I spoke of the girl,” he said, “because I wanted to help her;
and I can help her, if you will let me. Before long, my son, I shall be
going back to the United States. I wish you would go with me!”

“And desert Sally!” cried Amelius.

“Nothing of the sort! Before we go, I’ll see that Sally is provided for
to your satisfaction. Will you think of it, to please me?”

Amelius relented. “Anything, to please you,” he said.

Rufus noticed his hat and gloves on the table, and left him without
saying more. “The trouble with Amelius,” he thought, as he closed the
cottage gate, “is not over yet.”



CHAPTER 11

The day on which worthy old Surgeon Pinfold had predicted that Sally
would be in a fair way of recovery had come and gone; and still the
medical report to Amelius was the same:--“You must be patient, sir; she
is not well enough to see you yet.”

Toff, watching his young master anxiously, was alarmed by the steadily
progressive change in him for the worse, which showed itself at this
time. Now sad and silent, and now again bitter and irritable, he had
deteriorated physically as well as morally, until he really looked
like the shadow of his former self. He never exchanged a word with his
faithful old servant, except when he said mechanically, “good morning”
 or “good night.” Toff could endure it no longer. At the risk of being
roughly misinterpreted, he followed his own kindly impulse, and spoke.
“May I own to you, sir,” he said, with perfect gentleness and respect,
“that I am indeed heartily sorry to see you so ill?”

Amelius looked up at him sharply. “You servants always make a fuss about
trifles. I am a little out of sorts; and I want a change--that’s all.
Perhaps I may go to America. You won’t like that; I shan’t complain if
you look out for another situation.”

The tears came into the old man’s eyes. “Never!” he answered fervently.
“My last service, sir, if you send me away, shall be my dearly loved
service here.”

All that was most tender in the nature of Amelius was touched to the
quick. “Forgive me, Toff,” he said; “I am lonely and wretched, and more
anxious about Sally than words can tell. There can be no change in my
life, until my mind is easy about that poor little girl. But if it does
end in my going to America, you shall go with me--I wouldn’t lose you,
my good friend, for the world.”

Toff still remained in the room, as if he had something left to say.
Entirely ignorant of the marriage engagement between Amelius and
Regina, and of the rupture in which it had ended, he vaguely suspected
nevertheless that his master might have fallen into an entanglement
with some lady unknown. The opportunity of putting the question was now
before him. He risked it in a studiously modest form.

“Are you going to America to be married, sir?”

Amelius eyed him with a momentary suspicion. “What has put that in your
head?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” Toff answered humbly--“unless it was my own vivid
imagination. Would there be anything very wonderful in a gentleman of
your age and appearance conducting some charming person to the altar?”

Amelius was conquered once more; he smiled faintly. “Enough of your
nonsense, Toff! I shall never be married--understand that.”

Toff’s withered old face brightened slyly. He turned away to withdraw;
hesitated; and suddenly went back to his master.

“Have you any occasion for my services, sir, for an hour or two?” he
asked.

“No. Be back before I go out, myself--be back at three o’clock.”

“Thank you, sir. My little boy is below, if you want anything in my
absence.”

The little boy dutifully attending Toff to the gate, observed with grave
surprise that his father snapped his fingers gaily at starting, and
hummed the first bars of the Marseillaise. “Something is going to
happen,” said Toff’s boy, on his way back to the house.


From the Regent’s Park to Blackacre Buildings is almost a journey from
one end of London to the other. Assisted for part of the way by an
omnibus, Toff made the journey, and arrived at the residence of Surgeon
Pinfold, with the easy confidence of a man who knew thoroughly well
where he was going, and what he was about. The sagacity of Rufus had
correctly penetrated his intentions; he had privately followed his
master, and had introduced himself to the notice of the surgeon--with a
mixture of motives, in which pure devotion to the interests of Amelius
played the chief part. His experience of the world told him that Sally’s
departure was only the beginning of more trouble to come. “What is the
use of me to my master,” he had argued, “except to spare him trouble, in
spite of himself?”

Surgeon Pinfold was prescribing for a row of sick people, seated before
him on a bench. “You’re not ill, are you?” he said sharply to Toff.
“Very well, then, go into the parlour and wait.”

The patients being dismissed, Toff attempted to explain the object of
his visit. But the old naval surgeon insisted on clearing the ground by
means of a plain question first. “Has your master sent you here--or is
this another private interview, like the last?”

“It is all that is most private,” Toff answered; “my poor master is
wasting away in unrelieved wretchedness and suspense. Something must
be done for him. Oh, dear and good sir, help me in this most miserable
state of things! Tell me the truth about Miss Sally!”

Old Pinfold put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the parlour
wall, looking at the Frenchman with a complicated expression, in which
genuine sympathy mingled oddly with a quaint sense of amusement. “You’re
a worthy chap,” he said; “and you shall have the truth. I have been
obliged to deceive your master about this troublesome young Sally;
I have stuck to it that she is too ill to see him, or to answer his
letters. Both lies. There’s nothing the matter with her now, but a
disease that I can’t cure, the disease of a troubled mind. She’s got
it into her head that she has everlastingly degraded herself in
his estimation by leaving him and coming here. It’s no use telling
her--what, mind you, is perfectly true--that she was all but out of her
senses, and not in the least responsible for what she did at the time
when she did it. She holds to her own opinion, nevertheless. ‘What can
he think of me, but that I have gone back willingly to the disgrace of
my old life? I should throw myself out of the window, if he came into
the room!’ That’s how she answers me--and, what makes matters worse
still, she’s breaking her heart about him all the time. The poor wretch
is so eager for any little word of news about his health and his doings,
that it’s downright pitiable to see her. I don’t think her fevered
little brain will bear it much longer--and hang me if I can tell what to
do next to set things right! The two women, her friends, have no sort
of influence over her. When I saw her this morning, she was ungrateful
enough to say, ‘Why didn’t you let me die?’ How your master got among
these unfortunate people is more than I know, and is no business of
mine; I only wish he had been a different sort of man. Before I knew him
as well as I know him now, I predicted, like a fool, that he would
be just the person to help us in managing the girl. I have altered
my opinion. He’s such a glorious fellow--so impulsive and so
tender-hearted--that he would be certain, in her present excited
state, to do her more harm than good. Do you know if he is going to be
married?”

Toff, listening thus far in silent distress, suddenly looked up.

“Why do you ask me, sir?”

“It’s an idle question, I dare say,” old Pinfold remarked. “Sally
persists in telling us she’s in the way of his prospects in life--and
it’s got somehow into her perverse little head that his prospects in
life mean his marriage, and she’s in the way of _that._--Hullo! are you
going already?”

“I want to go to Miss Sally, sir. I believe I can say something to
comfort her. Do you think she will see me?”

“Are you the man who has got the nickname of Toff? She sometimes talks
about Toff.”

“Yes, sir, yes! I am Theophile Leblond, otherwise Toff. Where can I find
her?”

Surgeon Pinfold rang a bell. “My errand-boy is going past the house, to
deliver some medicine,” he answered. “It’s a poor place; but you’ll find
it neat and nice enough--thanks to your good master. He’s helping the
two women to begin life again out of this country; and, while they’re
waiting their turn to get a passage, they’ve taken an extra room and
hired some decent furniture, by your master’s own wish. Oh, here’s the
boy; he’ll show you the way. One word before you go. What do you think
of saying to Sally?”

“I shall tell her, for one thing, sir, that my master is miserable for
want of her.”

Surgeon Pinfold shook his head. “That won’t take you very far on the way
to persuading her. You will make _her_ miserable too--and there’s about
all you will get by it.”

Toff lifted his indicative forefinger to the side of his nose. “Suppose
I tell her something else, sir? Suppose I tell her my master is not
going to be married to anybody?”

“She won’t believe you know anything about it.”

“She will believe, for this reason,” said Toff, gravely; “I put the
question to my master before I came here; and I have it from his
own lips that there is no young lady in the way, and that he is
not--positively not--going to be married. If I tell Miss Sally this,
sir, how do you say it will end? Will you bet me a shilling it has no
effect on her?”

“I won’t bet a farthing! Follow the boy--and tell young Sally I have
sent her a better doctor than I am.”


While Toff was on his way to Sally, Toff’s boy was disturbing Amelius by
the announcement of a visitor. The card sent in bore this inscription:
“Brother Bawkwell, from Tadmor.”

Amelius looked at the card; and ran into the hall to receive the
visitor, with both hands held out in hearty welcome. “Oh, I am so glad
to see you!” he cried. “Come in, and tell me all about Tadmor!”

Brother Bawkwell acknowledged the enthusiastic reception offered to him
by a stare of grim surprise. He was a dry, hard old man, with a scrubby
white beard, a narrow wrinkled forehead, and an obstinate lipless mouth;
fitted neither by age nor temperament to be the intimate friend of any
of his younger brethren among the Community. But, at that saddest time
of his life, the heart of Amelius warmed to any one who reminded him of
his tranquil and happy days at Tadmor. Even this frozen old Socialist
now appeared to him, for the first time, under the borrowed aspect of a
welcome friend.

Brother Bawkwell took the chair offered to him, and opened the
proceedings, in solemn silence, by looking at his watch. “Twenty-five
minutes past two,” he said to himself--and put the watch back again.

“Are you pressed for time?” Amelius asked.

“Much may be done in ten minutes,” Brother Bawkwell answered, in a
Scotch accent which had survived the test of half a lifetime in America.
“I would have you know I am in England on a mission from the Community,
with a list of twenty-seven persons in all, whom I am appointed to
confer with on matters of varying importance. Yours, friend Amelius, is
a matter of minor importance. I can give you ten minutes.”

He opened a big black pocket-book, stuffed with a mass of letters; and,
placing two of them on the table before him, addressed Amelius as if he
was making a speech at a public meeting.

“I have to request your attention to certain proceedings of the Council
at Tadmor, bearing date the third of December last; and referring to a
person under sentence of temporary separation from the Community, along
with yourself--”

“Mellicent!” Amelius exclaimed.

“We have no time for interruptions,” Brother Bawkwell remarked. “The
person _is_ Sister Mellicent; and the business before the Council was to
consider a letter, under her signature, received December second. Said
letter,” he proceeded, taking up one of his papers, “is abridged as
follows by the Secretary to the Council. In substance, the writer states
(first): ‘That the married sister under whose protection she has been
living at New York is about to settle in England with her husband,
appointed to manage the branch of his business established in London.
(Second): That she, meaning Sister Mellicent, has serious reasons for
not accompanying her relatives to England, and has no other friends to
take charge of her welfare, if she remains in New York. (Third): That
she appeals to the mercy of the Council, under these circumstances,
to accept the expression of her sincere repentance for the offence of
violating a Rule, and to permit a friendless and penitent creature to
return to the only home left to her, her home at Tadmor.’ No, friend
Amelius--we have no time for expressions of sympathy; the first half of
the ten minutes has nearly expired. I have further to notify you that
the question was put to the vote, in this form: ‘Is it consistent with
the serious responsibility which rests on the Council, to consider the
remission of any sentence justly pronounced under the Book of Rules?’
The result was very remarkable; the votes for and against being equally
divided. In this event, as you know, our laws provide that the
decision rests with the Elder Brother--who gave his vote thereupon for
considering the remission of the sentence; and moved the next resolution
that the sentence be remitted accordingly. Carried by a small majority.
Whereupon, Sister Mellicent was received again at Tadmor.”

“Ah, the dear old Elder Brother,” cried Amelius--“always on the side of
mercy!”

Brother Bawkwell held up his hand in protest. “You seem to have no
idea,” he said, “of the value of time. Do be quiet! As travelling
representative of the Council, I am further instructed to say, that
the sentence pronounced against yourself stands duly remitted, in
consequence of the remission of the sentence against Sister Mellicent.
You likewise are free to return to Tadmor, at your own will and
pleasure. But--attend to what is coming, friend Amelius!--the Council
holds to its resolution that your choice between us and the world shall
be absolutely unbiased. In the fear of exercising even an indirect
influence, we have purposely abstained from corresponding with you. With
the same motive we now say, that if you do return to us, it must be with
no interference on our part. We inform you of an event that has happened
in your absence--and we do no more.”

He paused, and looked again at his watch. Time proverbially works
wonders. Time closed his lips.

Amelius replied with a heavy heart. The message from the Council had
recalled him from the remembrance of Mellicent to the sense of his own
position. “My experience of the world has been a very hard one,” he
said. “I would gladly go back to Tadmor this very day, but for one
consideration--” He hesitated; the image of Sally was before him. The
tears rose in his eyes; he said no more.

Brother Bawkwell, driven hard by time, got on his legs, and handed
to Amelius the second of the two papers which he had taken out of his
pocket-book.

“Here is a purely informal document,” he said; “being a few lines from
Sister Mellicent, which I was charged to deliver to you. Be pleased to
read it as quickly as you can, and tell me if there is any reply.”

There was not much to read:--“The good people here, Amelius, have
forgiven me and let me return to them. I am living happily now, dear, in
my remembrances of you. I take the walks that we once took together--and
sometimes I go out in the boat on the lake, and think of the time when I
told you my sad story. Your poor little pet creatures are under my care;
the dog, and the fawn, and the birds--all well, and waiting for you,
with me. My belief that you will come back to me remains the same
unshaken belief that it has been from the first. Once more I say it--you
will find me the first to welcome you, when your spirits are sinking
under the burden of life, and your heart turns again to the friends
of your early days. Until that time comes, think of me now and then.
Good-bye.”

“I am waiting,” said Brother Bawkwell, taking his hat in his hand.

Amelius answered with an effort. “Thank her kindly in my name,” he said:
“that is all.” His head drooped while he spoke; he fell into thought as
if he had been alone in the room.

But the emissary from Tadmor, warned by the minute-hand on the watch,
recalled his attention to passing events. “You would do me a kindness,”
 said Brother Bawkwell, producing a list of names and addresses, “if you
could put me in the way of finding the person named, eighth from the
top. It’s getting on towards twenty minutes to three.”

The address thus pointed out was at no great distance, on the northern
side of the Regent’s Park. Amelius, still silent and thoughtful, acted
willingly as a guide. “Please thank the Council for their kindness to
me,” he said, when they reached their destination. Brother Bawkwell
looked at friend Amelius with a calm inquiring eye. “I think you’ll end
in coming back to us,” he said. “I’ll take the opportunity, when I see
you at Tadmor, of making a few needful remarks on the value of time.”

Amelius went back to the cottage, to see if Toff had returned, in his
absence, before he paid his daily visit to Surgeon Pinfold. He called
down the kitchen stairs, “Are you there, Toff?” And Toff answered
briskly, “At your service, sir.”

The sky had become cloudy, and threatened rain. Not finding his umbrella
in the hall, Amelius went into the library to look for it. As he closed
the door behind him, Toff and his boy appeared on the kitchen stairs;
both walking on tiptoe, and both evidently on the watch for something.

Amelius found his umbrella. But it was characteristic of the melancholy
change in him that he dropped languidly into the nearest chair, instead
of going out at once with the easy activity of happier days. Sally was
in his mind again; he was rousing his resolution to set the doctor’s
commands at defiance, and to insist on seeing her, come what might of
it.

He suddenly looked up. A slight sound had startled him.

It was a faint rustling sound; and it came from the sadly silent room
which had once been Sally’s.

He listened, and heard it again. He sprang to his feet--his heart beat
wildly--he opened the door of the room.

She was there.

Her hands were clasped over her fast-heaving breast. She was powerless
to look at him, powerless to speak to him--powerless to move towards
him, until he opened his arms to her. Then, all the love and all
the sorrow in the tender little heart flowed outward to him in a low
murmuring cry. She hid her blushing face on his bosom. The rosy colour
softly tinged her neck--the unspoken confession of all she feared, and
all she hoped.

It was a time beyond words. They were silent in each other’s arms.

But under them, on the floor below, the stillness in the cottage
was merrily broken by an outburst of dance-music--with a rhythmical
thump-thump of feet, keeping time to the cheerful tune. Toff was playing
his fiddle; and Toff’s boy was dancing to his father’s music.



CHAPTER 12

After waiting a day or two for news from Amelius, and hearing nothing,
Rufus went to make inquiries at the cottage.

“My master has gone out of town, sir,” said Toff, opening the door.

“Where?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Anybody with him?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Any news of Sally?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Rufus stepped into the hall. “Look here, Mr. Frenchman, three times is
enough. I have already apologized for treating you like a teetotum, on a
former occasion. I’m afraid I shall do it again, sir, if I don’t get an
answer to my next question--my hands are itching to be at you, they are!
When is Amelius expected back?”

“Your question is positive, sir,” said Toff, with dignity. “I am happy
to be able to meet it with a positive reply. My master is expected back
in three weeks’ time.”

Having obtained some information at last, Rufus debated with himself
what he should do next. He decided that “the boy was worth waiting for,”
 and that his wisest course (as a good American) would be to go back, and
wait in Paris.

Passing through the Garden of the Tuileries, two or three days later,
and crossing to the Rue de Rivoli, the name of one of the hotels in
that quarter reminded him of Regina. He yielded to the prompting of
curiosity, and inquired if Mr. Farnaby and his niece were still in
Paris.

The manager of the hotel was in the porter’s lodge at the time. So far
as he knew, he said, Mr. Farnaby and his niece, and an English gentleman
with them, were now on their travels. They had left the hotel with an
appearance of mystery. The courier had been discharged; and the coachman
of the hired carriage which took them away had been told to drive
straight forward until further orders. In short, as the manager put it,
the departure resembled a flight. Remembering what his American agent
had told him, Rufus received this information without surprise. Even the
apparently incomprehensible devotion of Mr. Melton to the interests of
such a man as Farnaby, failed to present itself to him as a perplexing
circumstance. To his mind, Mr. Melton’s conduct was plainly attributable
to a reward in prospect; and the name of that reward was--Miss Regina.

At the end of the three weeks, Rufus returned to London.

Once again, he and Toff confronted each other on the threshold of the
door. This time, the genial old man presented an appearance that was
little less than dazzling. From head to foot he was arrayed in new
clothes; and he exhibited an immense rosette of white ribbon in his
button-hole.

“Thunder!” cried Rufus. “Here’s Mr. Frenchman going to be married!”

Toff declined to humour the joke. He stood on his dignity as stiffly as
ever. “Pardon me, sir, I possess a wife and family already.”

“Do you, now? Well--none of your know-nothing answers this time. Has
Amelius come back?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what’s the news of Sally?”

“Good news, sir. Miss Sally has come back too.”

“You call that good news, do you? I’ll say a word to Amelius. What are
you standing there for? Let me by.”

“Pardon me once more, sir. My master and Miss Sally do not receive
visitors today.”

“Your master and Miss Sally?” Rufus repeated. “Has this old creature
been liquoring up a little too freely? What do you mean,” he burst out,
with a sudden change of tone to stern surprise--“what do you mean by
putting your master and Sally together?”

Toff shot his bolt at last. “They will be together, sir, for the rest of
their lives. They were married this morning.”


Rufus received the blow in dead silence. He turned about, and went back
to his hotel.

Reaching his room, he opened the despatch box in which he kept
his correspondence, and picked out the long letter containing the
description by Amelius of his introduction to the ladies of the Farnaby
family. He took up the pen, and wrote the indorsement which has been
quoted as an integral part of the letter itself, in the Second Book of
this narrative:--

“Ah, poor Amelius! He had better have gone back to Miss Mellicent, and
put up with the little drawback of her age. What a bright lovable fellow
he was! Goodbye to Goldenheart!”


Were the forebodings of Rufus destined to be fulfilled? This question
will be answered, it is hoped, in a Second Series of The Fallen Leaves.
The narrative of the married life of Amelius presents a subject too
important to be treated within the limits of the present story--and the
First Series necessarily finds its end in the culminating event of his
life, thus far.

THE END






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