Books: The Fallen Leaves

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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."

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