CHAPTER 1

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!”_