Frances Hodgson Burnett - "In the Closed Room"

Various - "Literary and Philosophical Essays"

Mary E. Wilkins - "The Heart's Highway"

Frank Pinkerton - "Jim Cummings"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Fallen Leaves

W >> Wilkie Collins >> The Fallen Leaves




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.