A. Herbert Gray - "Men, Women, and God"

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Elinor Wylie - "Nets to Catch the Wind"

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Books: The Fallen Leaves

W >> Wilkie Collins >> The Fallen Leaves




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."