Books: The Fallen Leaves

W >> Wilkie Collins >> The Fallen Leaves

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29

The last words of the boatman's lament fell lower, lower, lower on Mr.
Ronald's ears--he lost them altogether--he lost the view of the sea--he
lost the sense of the wind blowing over him. Suddenly, he was roused as
if from a deep sleep. On one side, the man from Broadstairs was shaking
him by the collar. "I say, Master, cheer up; what's come to you?" On
the other side, a compassionate lady was offering her smelling-bottle.
"I am afraid, sir, you have fainted." He struggled to his feet, and
vacantly thanked the lady. The man from Broadstairs--with an eye to
salvage--took charge of the human wreck, and towed him to the nearest
public-house. "A chop and a glass of brandy-and-water," said this good
Samaritan of the nineteenth century. "That's what you want. I'm peckish
myself, and I'll keep you company."

He was perfectly passive in the hands of any one who would take charge
of him; he submitted as if he had been the boatman's dog, and had heard
the whistle.

It could only be truly said that he had come to himself, when there had
been time enough for him to feel the reanimating influence of the food
and drink. Then he got to his feet, and looked with incredulous wonder
at the companion of his meal. The man from Broadstairs opened his
greasy lips, and was silenced by the sudden appearance of a gold coin
between Mr. Ronald's finger and thumb. "Don't speak to me; pay the
bill, and bring me the change outside." When the boatman joined him, he
was reading a letter; walking to and fro, and speaking at intervals to
himself. "God help me, have I lost my senses? I don't know what to do
next." He referred to the letter again: "if you don't believe me, ask
Mrs. Turner, Number 1, Slains Row, Ramsgate." He put the letter back in
his pocket, and rallied suddenly. "Slains Row," he said, turning to the
boatman. "Take me there directly, and keep the change for yourself."

The boatman's gratitude was (apparently) beyond expression in words. He
slapped his pocket cheerfully, and that was all. Leading the way
inland, he went downhill, and uphill again--then turned aside towards
the eastern extremity of the town.

Farnaby, still following, with the woman behind him, stopped when the
boatman diverged towards the east, and looked up at the name of the
street. "I've got my instructions," he said; "I know where he's going.
Step out! We'll get there before him, by another way."

Mr. Ronald and his guide reached a row of poor little houses, with poor
little gardens in front of them and behind them. The back windows
looked out on downs and fields lying on either side of the road to
Broadstairs. It was a lost and lonely spot. The guide stopped, and put
a question with inquisitive respect. "What number, sir?" Mr. Ronald had
sufficiently recovered himself to keep his own counsel. "That will do,"
he said. "You can leave me." The boatman waited a moment. Mr. Ronald
looked at him. The boatman was slow to understand that his leadership
had gone from him. "You're sure you don't want me any more?" he said.
"Quite sure," Mr. Ronald answered. The man from Broadstairs
retired--with his salvage to comfort him.

Number 1 was at the farther extremity of the row of houses. When Mr.
Ronald rang the bell, the spies were already posted. The woman loitered
on the road, within view of the door. Farnaby was out of sight, round
the corner, watching the house over the low wooden palings of the back
garden.

A lazy-looking man, in his shirt sleeves, opened the door. "Mrs. Turner
at home?" he repeated. "Well, she's at home; but she's too busy to see
anybody. What's your pleasure?" Mr. Ronald declined to accept excuses
or to answer questions. "I must see Mrs. Turner directly," he said, "on
important business." His tone and manner had their effect on the lazy
man. "What name?" he asked. Mr. Ronald declined to mention his name.
"Give my message," he said. "I won't detain Mrs. Turner more than a
minute." The man hesitated--and opened the door of the front parlour.
An old woman was fast asleep on a ragged little sofa. The man gave up
the front parlour, and tried the back parlour next. It was empty.
"Please to wait here," he said--and went away to deliver his message.

The parlour was a miserably furnished room. Through the open window,
the patch of back garden was barely visible under fluttering rows of
linen hanging out on lines to dry. A pack of dirty cards, and some
plain needlework, littered the bare little table. A cheap American
clock ticked with stern and steady activity on the mantelpiece. The
smell of onions was in the air. A torn newspaper, with stains of beer
on it, lay on the floor. There was some sinister influence in the place
which affected Mr. Ronald painfully. He felt himself trembling, and sat
down on one of the rickety chairs. The minutes followed one another
wearily. He heard a trampling of feet in the room above--then a door
opened and closed--then the rustle of a woman's dress on the stairs. In
a moment more, the handle of the parlour door was turned. He rose, in
anticipation of Mrs. Turner's appearance. The door opened. He found
himself face to face with his wife.

VI

John Farnaby, posted at the garden paling, suddenly lifted his head and
looked towards the open window of the back parlour. He reflected for a
moment--and then joined his female companion on the road in front of
the house.

"I want you at the back garden," he said. "Come along!"

"How much longer am I to be kept kicking my heels in this wretched
hole?" the woman asked sulkily.

"As much longer as I please--if you want to go back to London with the
other half of the money." He showed it to her as he spoke. She followed
him without another word.

Arrived at the paling, Farnaby pointed to the window, and to the back
garden door, which was left ajar. "Speak softly," he whispered. "Do you
hear voices in the house?"

"I don't hear what they're talking about, if that's what you mean."

"I don't hear, either. Now mind what I tell you--I have reasons of my
own for getting a little nearer to that window. Sit down under the
paling, so that you can't be seen from the house. If you hear a row,
you may take it for granted that I am found out. In that case, go back
to London by the next train, and meet me at the terminus at two o'clock
tomorrow afternoon. If nothing happens, wait where you are till you
hear from me or see me again."

He laid his hand on the low paling, and vaulted over it. The linen
hanging up in the garden to dry offered him a means of concealment (if
any one happened to look out of the window) of which he skilfully
availed himself. The dust-bin was at the side of the house, situated at
a right angle to the parlour window. He was safe behind the bin,
provided no one appeared on the path which connected the patch of
garden at the back with the patch in front. Here, running the risk, he
waited and listened.

The first voice that reached his ears was the voice of Mrs. Ronald. She
was speaking with a firmness of tone that astonished him.

"Hear me to the end, Benjamin," she said. "I have a right to ask as
much as that of my husband, and I do ask it. If I had been bent on
nothing but saving the reputation of our miserable girl, you would have
a right to blame me for keeping you ignorant of the calamity that has
fallen on us--"

There the voice of her husband interposed sternly. "Calamity! Say
disgrace, everlasting disgrace."

Mrs. Ronald did not notice the interruption. Sadly and patiently she
went on.

"But I had a harder trial still to face," she said. "I had to save her,
in spite of herself, from the wretch who has brought this infamy on us.
He has acted throughout in cold blood; it is his interest to marry her,
and from first to last he has plotted to force the marriage on us. For
God's sake, don't speak loud! She is in the room above us; if she hears
you it will be the death of her. Don't suppose I am talking at random;
I have looked at his letters to her; I have got the confession of the
servant-girl. Such a confession! Emma is his victim, body and soul. I
know it! I know that she sent him money (_my_ money) from this place. I
know that the servant (at _her_ instigation) informed him by telegraph
of the birth of the child. Oh, Benjamin, don't curse the poor helpless
infant--such a sweet little girl! don't think of it! I don't think of
it! Show me the letter that brought you here; I want to see the letter.
Ah, I can tell you who wrote it! _He_ wrote it. In his own interests;
always with his own interests in view. Don't you see it for yourself?
If I succeed in keeping this shame and misery a secret from
everybody--if I take Emma away, to some place abroad, on pretence of
her health--there is an end of his hope of becoming your son-in-law;
there is an end of his being taken into the business. Yes! he, the
low-lived vagabond who puts up the shop-shutters, _he_ looks forward to
being taken into partnership, and succeeding you when you die! Isn't
his object in writing that letter as plain to you now as the heaven
above us? His one chance is to set your temper in a flame, to provoke
the scandal of a discovery--and to force the marriage on us as the only
remedy left. Am I wrong in making any sacrifice, rather than bind our
girl for life, our own flesh and blood, to such a man as that? Surely
you can feel for me, and forgive me, now. How could I own the truth to
you, before I left London, knowing you as I do? How could I expect you
to be patient, to go into hiding, to pass under a false name--to do all
the degrading things that must be done, if we are to keep Emma out of
this man's way? No! I know no more than you do where Farnaby is to be
found. Hush! there is the door-bell. It's the doctor's time for his
visit. I tell you again I don't know--on my sacred word of honour, I
don't know where Farnaby is. Oh, be quiet! be quiet! there's the doctor
going upstairs! don't let the doctor hear you!"

So far, she had succeeded in composing her husband. But the fury which
she had innocently roused in him, in her eagerness to justify herself,
now broke beyond all control. "You lie!" he cried furiously. "If you
know everything else about it, you know where Farnaby is. I'll be the
death of him, if I swing for it on the gallows! Where is he? Where is
he?"

A shriek from the upper room silenced him before Mrs. Ronald could
speak again. His daughter had heard him; his daughter had recognized
his voice.

A cry of terror from her mother echoed the cry from above; the sound of
the opening and closing of the door followed instantly. Then there was
a momentary silence. Then Mrs. Ronald's voice was heard from the upper
room calling to the nurse, asleep in the front parlour. The nurse's
gruff tones were just audible, answering from the parlour door. There
was another interval of silence; broken by another voice--a stranger's
voice--speaking at the open window, close by.

"Follow me upstairs, sir, directly," the voice said in peremptory
tones. "As your daughter's medical attendant, I tell you in the
plainest terms that you have seriously frightened her. In her critical
condition, I decline to answer for her life, unless you make the
attempt at least to undo the mischief you have done. Whether you mean
it or not, soothe her with kind words; say you have forgiven her. No! I
have nothing to do with your domestic troubles; I have only my patient
to think of. I don't care what she asks of you, you must give way to
her now. If she falls into convulsions, she will die--and her death
will be at your door."

So, with feebler and feebler interruptions from Mr. Ronald, the doctor
spoke. It ended plainly in his being obeyed. The departing footsteps of
the men were the next sounds to be heard. After that, there was a pause
of silence--a long pause, broken by Mrs. Ronald, calling again from the
upper regions. "Take the child into the back parlour, nurse, and wait
till I come to you. It's cooler there, at this time of the day."

The wailing of an infant, and the gruff complaining of the nurse, were
the next sounds that reached Farnaby in his hiding place. The nurse was
grumbling to herself over the grievance of having been awakened from
her sleep. "After being up all night, a person wants rest. There's no
rest for anybody in this house. My head's as heavy as lead, and every
bone in me has got an ache in it."

Before long, the renewed silence indicated that she had succeeded in
hushing the child to sleep. Farnaby forgot the restraints of caution
for the first time. His face flushed with excitement; he ventured
nearer to the window, in his eagerness to find out what might happen
next. After no long interval, the next sound came--a sound of heavy
breathing, which told him that the drowsy nurse was falling asleep
again. The window-sill was within reach of his hands. He waited until
the heavy breathing deepened to snoring. Then he drew himself up by the
window-sill, and looked into the room.

The nurse was fast asleep in an armchair; and the child was fast asleep
on her lap.

He dropped softly to the ground again. Taking off his shoes, and
putting them in his pockets, he ascended the two or three steps which
led to the half-open back garden door. Arrived in the passage, he could
just hear them talking upstairs. They were no doubt still absorbed in
their troubles; he had only the servant to dread. The splashing of
water in the kitchen informed him that she was safely occupied in
washing. Slowly and softly he opened the back parlour door, and stole
across the room to the nurse's chair.

One of her hands still rested on the child. The serious risk was the
risk of waking her, if he lost his presence of mind and hurried it!

He glanced at the American clock on the mantelpiece. The result
relieved him; it was not so late as he had feared. He knelt down, to
steady himself, as nearly as possible on a level with the nurse's
knees. By a hair's breadth at a time, he got both hands under the
child. By a hair's breadth at a time, he drew the child away from her;
leaving her hand resting on her lap by degrees so gradual that the
lightest sleeper could not have felt the change. That done (barring
accidents), all was done. Keeping the child resting easily on his left
arm, he had his right hand free to shut the door again. Arrived at the
garden steps, a slight change passed over the sleeping infant's
face--the delicate little creature shivered as it felt the full flow of
the open air. He softly laid over its face a corner of the woollen
shawl in which it was wrapped. The child reposed as quietly on his arm
as if it had still been on the nurse's lap.

In a minute more he was at the paling. The woman rose to receive him,
with the first smile that had crossed her face since they had left
London.

"So you've got the baby," she said, "Well, you _are_ a deep one!"

"Take it," he answered irritably. "We haven't a moment to lose."

Only stopping to put on his shoes, he led the way towards the more
central part of the town. The first person he met directed him to the
railway station. It was close by. In five minutes more the woman and
the baby were safe in the train to London.

"There's the other half of the money," he said, handing it to her
through the carriage window.

The woman eyed the child in her arms with a frowning expression of
doubt. "All very well as long as it lasts," she said. "And what after
that?"

"Of course, I shall call and see you," he answered.

She looked hard at him, and expressed the whole value she set on that
assurance in four words. "Of course you will!"

The train started for London. Farnaby watched it, as it left the
platform, with a look of unfeigned relief. "There!" he thought to
himself. "Emma's reputation is safe enough now! When we are married, we
mustn't have a love-child in the way of our prospects in life."

Leaving the station, he stopped at the refreshment room, and drank a
glass of brandy-and-water. "Something to screw me up," he thought, "for
what is to come." What was to come (after he had got rid of the child)
had been carefully considered by him, on the journey to Ramsgate.
"Emma's husband-that-is-to-be"--he had reasoned it out--"will naturally
be the first person Emma wants to see, when the loss of the baby has
upset the house. If Old Ronald has a grain of affection left in him, he
must let her marry me after _that!"_

Acting on this view of his position, he took the way that led back to
Slains Row, and rang the door-bell as became a visitor who had no
reasons for concealment now.

The household was doubtless already disorganized by the discovery of
the child's disappearance. Neither master nor servant was active in
answering the bell. Farnaby submitted to be kept waiting with perfect
composure. There are occasions on which a handsome man is bound to put
his personal advantages to their best use. He took out his pocket-comb,
and touched up the arrangement of his whiskers with a skilled and
gentle hand. Approaching footsteps made themselves heard along the
passage at last. Farnaby put back his comb, and buttoned his coat
briskly. "Now for it!" he said, as the door was opened at last.

THE STORY

BOOK THE FIRST

AMELIUS AMONG THE SOCIALISTS

CHAPTER 1

Sixteen years after the date of Mr. Ronald's disastrous discovery at
Ramsgate--that is to say, in the year 1872--the steamship _Aquila_ left
the port of New York, bound for Liverpool.

It was the month of September. The passenger-list of the _Aquila_ had
comparatively few names inscribed on it. In the autumn season, the
voyage from America to England, but for the remunerative value of the
cargo, would prove to be for the most part a profitless voyage to
shipowners. The flow of passengers, at that time of year, sets steadily
the other way. Americans are returning from Europe to their own
country. Tourists have delayed the voyage until the fierce August heat
of the United States has subsided, and the delicious Indian summer is
ready to welcome them. At bed and board the passengers by the _Aquila_
on her homeward voyage had plenty of room, and the choicest morsels for
everybody alike on the well spread dinner-table.

The wind was favourable, the weather was lovely. Cheerfulness and
good-humour pervaded the ship from stem to stern. The courteous captain
did the honours of the cabin-table with the air of a gentleman who was
receiving friends in his own house. The handsome doctor promenaded the
deck arm-in-arm with ladies in course of rapid recovery from the first
gastric consequences of travelling by sea. The excellent chief
engineer, musical in his leisure moments to his fingers' ends, played
the fiddle in his cabin, accompanied on the flute by that young Apollo
of the Atlantic trade, the steward's mate. Only on the third morning of
the voyage was the harmony on board the _Aquila_ disturbed by a passing
moment of discord--due to an unexpected addition to the ranks of the
passengers, in the shape of a lost bird!

It was merely a weary little land-bird (blown out of its course, as the
learned in such matters supposed); and it perched on one of the yards
to rest and recover itself after its long flight.

The instant the creature was discovered, the insatiable Anglo-Saxon
delight in killing birds, from the majestic eagle to the contemptible
sparrow, displayed itself in its full frenzy. The crew ran about the
decks, the passengers rushed into their cabins, eager to seize the
first gun and to have the first shot. An old quarter-master of the
_Aquila_ was the enviable man, who first found the means of destruction
ready to his hand. He lifted the gun to his shoulder, he had his finger
on the trigger, when he was suddenly pounced upon by one of the
passengers--a young, slim, sunburnt, active man--who snatched away the
gun, discharged it over the side of the vessel, and turned furiously on
the quarter-master. "You wretch! would you kill the poor weary bird
that trusts our hospitality, and only asks us to give it a rest? That
little harmless thing is as much one of God's creatures as you are. I'm
ashamed of you--I'm horrified at you--you've got bird-murder in your
face; I hate the sight of you!"

The quarter-master--a large grave fat man, slow alike in his bodily and
his mental movements--listened to this extraordinary remonstrance with
a fixed stare of amazement, and an open mouth from which the unspat
tobacco-juice tricked in little brown streams. When the impetuous young
gentleman paused (not for want of words, merely for want of breath),
the quarter-master turned about, and addressed himself to the audience
gathered round. "Gentlemen," he said, with a Roman brevity, "this young
fellow is mad."

The captain's voice checked the general outbreak of laughter. "That
will do, quarter-master. Let it be understood that nobody is to shoot
the bird--and let me suggest to _you,_ sir, that you might have
expressed your sentiments quite as effectually in less violent
language."

Addressed in those terms, the impetuous young man burst into another
fit of excitement. "You're quite right, sir! I deserve every word you
have said to me; I feel I have disgraced myself." He ran after the
quartermaster, and seized him by both hands. "I beg your pardon; I beg
your pardon with all my heart. You would have served me right if you
had thrown me overboard after the language I used to you. Pray excuse
my quick temper; pray forgive me. What do you say? 'Let bygones _be_
bygones'? That's a capital way of putting it. You're a thorough good
fellow. If I can ever be of the smallest use to you (there's my card
and address in London), let me know it; I entreat you let me know it."
He returned in a violent hurry to the captain. "I've made it up with
the quarter-master, sir. He forgives me; he bears no malice. Allow me
to congratulate you on having such a good Christian in your ship. I
wish I was like him! Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, for the
disturbance I have made. It shan't happen again--I promise you that."

The male travellers in general looked at each other, and seemed to
agree with the quarter-master's opinion of their fellow-passenger. The
women, touched by his evident sincerity, and charmed with his handsome
blushing eager face, agreed that he was quite right to save the poor
bird, and that it would be all the better for the weaker part of
creation generally if other men were more like him. While the various
opinions were still in course of expression, the sound of the luncheon
bell cleared the deck of the passengers, with two exceptions. One was
the impetuous young man. The other was a middle-aged traveller, with a
grizzled beard and a penetrating eye, who had silently observed the
proceedings, and who now took the opportunity of introducing himself to
the hero of the moment.

"Are you not going to take any luncheon?" he asked.

"No, sir. Among the people I have lived with we don't eat at intervals
of three or four hours, all day long."

"Will you excuse me," pursued the other, "if I own I should like to
know _what_ people you have been living with? My name is Hethcote; I
was associated, at one time of my life, with a college devoted to the
training of young men. From what I have seen and heard this morning, I
fancy you have not been educated on any of the recognized systems that
are popular at the present day. Am I right?"

The excitable young man suddenly became the picture of resignation, and
answered in a formula of words as if he was repeating a lesson.

"I am Claude-Amelius-Goldenheart. Aged twenty-one. Son, and only child,
of the late Claude Goldenheart, of Shedfield Heath, Buckinghamshire,
England. I have been brought up by the Primitive Christian Socialists,
at Tadmor Community, State of Illinois. I have inherited an income of
five hundred a year. And I am now, with the approval of the Community,
going to London to see life."

Mr. Hethcote received this copious flow of information, in some doubt
whether he had been made the victim of coarse raillery, or whether he
had merely heard a quaint statement of facts.

Claude-Amelius-Goldenheart saw that he had produced an unfavourable
impression, and hastened to set himself right.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, "I am not making game of you, as you seem to
suppose. We are taught to be courteous to everybody, in our Community.
The truth is, there seems to be something odd about me (I'm sure I
don't know what), which makes people whom I meet on my travels curious
to know who I am. If you'll please to remember, it's a long way from
Illinois to New York, and curious strangers are not scarce on the
journey. When one is obliged to keep on saying the same thing over and
over again, a form saves a deal of trouble. I have made a form for
myself--which is respectfully at the disposal of any person who does me
the honour to wish for my acquaintance. Will that do, sir? Very well,
then; shake hands, to show you're satisfied."

Mr. Hethcote shook hands, more than satisfied. He found it impossible
to resist the bright honest brown eyes, the simple winning cordial
manner of the young fellow with the quaint formula and the strange
name. "Come, Mr. Goldenheart," he said, leading the way to a seat on
deck, "let us sit down comfortably, and have a talk."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29