Books: The Fallen Leaves

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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."

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