Books: The Fallen Leaves

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Phoebe rose to go. Her parting words revealed the double-sided nature
that was in her; the good and evil in perpetual conflict which should
be uppermost.

"Please don't mention me, sir, to Mrs. Farnaby," she said. "I don't
forgive her for what she's done to me; I don't say I won't be even with
her yet. But not in _that_ way! I won't have her death laid at my door.
Oh, but I know her temper--and I say it's as likely as not to kill her
or drive her mad, if she isn't warned about it in time. Never mind her
losing her money. If it's lost, it's lost, and she's got plenty more.
She may be robbed a dozen times over for all I care. But don't let her
set her heart on seeing her child, and then find it's all a swindle. I
hate her; but I can't and won't, let _that_ go on. Good-morning, sir."

Amelius was relieved by her departure. For a minute or two, he sat
absently stirring his coffee, and considering how he might most safely
perform the terrible duty of putting Mrs. Farnaby on her guard. Toff
interrupted his meditations by preparing the table for Sally's
breakfast; and, almost at the same moment, Sally herself, fresh and
rosy, opened her door a little way, and looked in.

"You have had a fine long sleep," said Amelius. "Have you quite got
over your walk yesterday?"

"Oh yes," she answered gaily; "I only feel my long walk now in my feet.
It hurts me to put my boots on. Can you lend me a pair of slippers?"

"A pair of my slippers? Why, Sally, you would be lost in them! What's
the matter with your feet?"

"They're both sore. And I think one of them has got a blister on it."

"Come in, and let's have a look at it?"

She came limping in, with her feet bare. "Don't scold me," she pleaded,
"I couldn't put my stockings on again, without washing them; and
they're not dry yet."

"I'll get you new stockings and slippers," said Amelius. "Which is the
foot with the blister?"

"The left foot," she answered, pointing to it.

CHAPTER 5

"Let me see the blister," said Amelius.

Sally looked longingly at the fire.

"May I warm my feet first?" she asked; "they are so cold."

In those words she innocently deferred the discovery which, if it had
been made at the moment, might have altered the whole after-course of
events. Amelius only thought now of preventing her from catching cold.
He sent Toff for a pair of the warmest socks that he possessed, and
asked if he should put them on for her. She smiled, and shook her head,
and put them on for herself.

When they had done laughing at the absurd appearance of the little feet
in the large socks, they only drifted farther and farther away from the
subject of the blistered foot. Sally remembered the terrible matron,
and asked if anything had been heard of her that morning. Being told
that Mrs. Payson had written, and that the doors of the institution
were closed to her, she recovered her spirits, and began to wonder
whether the offended authorities would let her have her clothes. Toff
offered to go and make the inquiry, later in the day; suggesting the
purchase of slippers and stockings, in the mean time, while Sally was
having her breakfast. Amelius approved of the suggestion; and Toff set
off on his errand, with one of Sally's boots for a pattern.

The morning had, by that time, advanced to ten o'clock.

Amelius stood before the fire talking, while Sally had her breakfast.
Having first explained the reasons which made it impossible that she
should live at the cottage in the capacity of his servant, he
astonished her by announcing that he meant to undertake the
superintendence of her education himself. They were to be master and
pupil, while the lessons were in progress; and brother and sister at
other times--and they were to see how they got on together, on this
plan, without indulging in any needless anxiety about the future.
Amelius believed with perfect sincerity that he had hit on the only
sensible arrangement, under the circumstances; and Sally cried
joyously, "Oh, how good you are to me; the happy life has come at
last!" At the hour when those words passed the daughter's lips, the
discovery of the conspiracy burst upon the mother in all its baseness
and in all its horror.

The suspicion of her infamous employer, which had induced Mrs. Sowler
to attempt to intrude herself into Phoebe's confidence, led her to make
a visit of investigation at Jervy's lodgings later in the day.
Informed, as Phoebe had been informed, that he was not at home, she
called again some hours afterwards. By that time, the landlord had
discovered that Jervy's luggage had been secretly conveyed away, and
that his tenant had left him, in debt for rent of the two best rooms in
the house.

No longer in any doubt of what had happened, Mrs. Sowler employed the
remaining hours of the evening in making inquiries after the missing
man. Not a trace of him had been discovered up to eight o'clock on the
next morning.

Shortly after nine o'clock--that is to say, towards the hour at which
Phoebe paid her visit to Amelius--Mrs. Sowler, resolute to know the
worst, made her appearance at the apartments occupied by Mrs. Farnaby.

"I wish to speak to you," she began abruptly, "about that young man we
both know of. Have you seen anything of him lately?"

Mrs. Farnaby, steadily on her guard, deferred answering the question.
"Why do you want to know?" she said.

The reply was instantly ready. "Because I have reason to believe he has
bolted, with your money in his pocket."

"He has done nothing of the sort," Mrs. Farnaby rejoined.

"Has he got your money?" Mrs. Sowler persisted. "Tell me the truth--and
I'll do the same by you. He has cheated me. If you're cheated too, it's
your own interest to lose no time in finding him. The police may catch
him yet. _Has_ he got your money?"

The woman was in earnest--in terrible earnest--her eyes and her voice
both bore witness to it. She stood there, the living impersonation of
those doubts and fears which Mrs. Farnaby had confessed, in writing to
Amelius. Her position, at that moment, was essentially a position of
command. Mrs. Farnaby felt it in spite of herself. She acknowledged
that Jervy had got the money.

"Did you sent it to him, or give it to him?" Mrs. Sowler asked.

"I gave it to him."

"When?"

"Yesterday evening."

Mrs. Sowler clenched her fists, and shook them in impotent rage. "He's
the biggest scoundrel living," she exclaimed furiously; "and you're the
biggest fool! Put on your bonnet and come to the police. If you get
your money back again before he's spent it all, don't forget it was
through me."

The audacity of the woman's language roused Mrs. Farnaby. She pointed
to the door. "You are an insolent creature," she said; "I have nothing
more to do with you."

"You have nothing more to do with me?" Mrs. Sowler repeated. "You and
the young man have settled it all between you, I suppose." She laughed
scornfully. "I dare say now you expect to see him again?"

Mrs. Farnaby was irritated into answering this. "I expect to see him
this morning," she said, "at ten o'clock."

"And the lost young lady with him?"

"Say nothing about my lost daughter! I won't even hear you speak of
her."

Mrs. Sowler sat down. "Look at your watch," she said. "It must be nigh
on ten o'clock by this time. You'll make a disturbance in the house if
you try to turn me out. I mean to wait here till ten o'clock."

On the point of answering angrily, Mrs. Farnaby restrained herself.
"You are trying to force a quarrel on me," she said; "you shan't spoil
the happiest morning of my life. Wait here by yourself."

She opened the door that led into her bedchamber, and shut herself in.
Perfectly impenetrable to any repulse that could be offered to her,
Mrs. Sowler looked at the closed door with a sardonic smile, and
waited.

The clock in the hall struck ten. Mrs. Farnaby returned again to the
sitting-room, walked straight to the window, and looked out.

"Any sign of him?" said Mrs. Sowler.

There were no signs of him. Mrs. Farnaby drew a chair to the window,
and sat down. Her hands turned icy cold. She still looked out into the
street.

"I'm going to guess what's happened," Mrs. Sowler resumed. "I'm a
sociable creature, you know, and I must talk about something. About the
money, now? Has the young man had his travelling expenses of you? To go
to foreign parts, and bring your girl back with him, eh? I expect
that's how it was. You see, I know him so well. And what happened, if
you please, yesterday evening? Did he tell you he'd brought her back,
and got her at his own place? And did he say he wouldn't let you see
her till you paid him his reward as well as his travelling expenses?
And did you forget my warning to you not to trust him? I'm a good one
at guessing when I try. I see you think so yourself. Any signs of him
yet?"

Mrs. Farnaby looked round from the window. Her manner was completely
changed; she was nervously civil to the wretch who was torturing her.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, if I have offended you," she said faintly.
"I am a little upset--I am so anxious about my poor child. Perhaps you
are a mother yourself? You oughtn't to frighten me; you ought to feel
for me." She paused, and put her hand to her head. "He told me
yesterday evening," she went on slowly and vacantly, "that my poor
darling was at his lodgings; he said she was so worn out with the long
journey from abroad, that she must have a night's rest before she could
come to me. I asked him to tell me where he lived, and let me go to
her. He said she was asleep and must not be disturbed. I promised to go
in on tiptoe, and only look at her; I offered him more money, double
the money to tell me where she was. He was very hard on me. He only
said, wait till ten tomorrow morning--and wished me goodnight. I ran
out to follow him, and fell on the stairs, and hurt myself. The people
of the house were very kind to me." She turned her head back towards
the window, and looked out into the street again. "I must be patient,"
she said; "he's only a little late."

Mrs. Sowler rose, and tapped her smartly on the shoulder. "Lies!" she
burst out. "He knows no more where your daughter is than I do--and he's
off with your money!"

The woman's hateful touch struck out a spark of the old fire in Mrs.
Farnaby. Her natural force of character asserted itself once more.
_"You_ lie!" she rejoined. "Leave the room!"

The door was opened, while she spoke. A respectable woman-servant came
in with a letter. Mrs. Farnaby took it mechanically, and looked at the
address. Jervy's feigned handwriting was familiar to her. In the
instant when she recognized it, the life seemed to go out of her like
an extinguished light. She stood pale and still and silent, with the
unopened letter in her hand.

Watching her with malicious curiosity, Mrs. Sowler coolly possessed
herself of the letter, looked at it, and recognized the writing in her
turn. "Stop!" she cried, as the servant was on the point of going out.
"There's no stamp on this letter. Was it brought by hand? Is the
messenger waiting?"

The respectable servant showed her opinion of Mrs. Sowler plainly in
her face. She replied as briefly and as ungraciously as
possible:--"No."

"Man or woman?" was the next question.

"Am I to answer this person, ma'am?" said the servant, looking at Mrs.
Farnaby.

"Answer me instantly," Mrs. Sowler interposed--"in Mrs. Farnaby's own
interests. Don't you see she can't speak to you herself?"

"Well, then," said the servant, "it was a man."

"A man with a squint?"

"Yes."

"Which way did he go?"

"Towards the square."

Mrs. Sowler tossed the letter on the table, and hurried out of the
room. The servant approached Mrs. Farnaby. "You haven't opened your
letter yet, ma'am," she said.

"No," said Mrs. Farnaby vacantly, "I haven't opened it yet."

"I'm afraid it's bad news, ma'am?"

"Yes. I think it's bad news."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, thank you. Yes; one thing. Open my letter for me, please."

It was a strange request to make. The servant wondered, and obeyed. She
was a kind-hearted woman; she really felt for the poor lady. But the
familiar household devil, whose name is Curiosity, and whose
opportunities are innumerable, prompted her next words when she had
taken the letter out of the envelope:--"Shall I read it to you, ma'am?"

"No. Put it down on the table, please. I'll ring when I want you."

The mother was alone--alone, with her death-warrant waiting for her on
the table.

The clock downstairs struck the half hour after ten. She moved, for the
first time since she had received the letter. Once more she went to the
window, and looked out. It was only for a moment. She turned away
again, with a sudden contempt for herself. "What a fool I am!" she
said--and took up the open letter.

She looked at it, and put it down again. "Why should I read it," she
asked herself, "when I know what is in it, without reading?"

Some framed woodcuts from the illustrated newspapers were hung on the
walls. One of them represented a scene of rescue from shipwreck. A
mother embracing her daughter, saved by the lifeboat, was among the
foreground groups. The print was entitled, "The Mercy of Providence."
Mrs. Farnaby looked at it with a moment's steady attention. "Providence
has its favourites," she said; "I am not one of them."

After thinking a little, she went into her bedroom, and took two papers
out of her dressing-case. They were medical prescriptions.

She turned next to the chimneypiece. Two medicine-bottles were placed
on it. She took one of them down--a bottle of the ordinary size, known
among chemists as a six-ounce bottle. It contained a colourless liquid.
The label stated the dose to be "two table-spoonfuls," and bore, as
usual, a number corresponding with a number placed on the prescription.
She took up the prescription. It was a mixture of bi-carbonate of soda
and prussic acid, intended for the relief of indigestion. She looked at
the date, and was at once reminded of one of the very rare occasions on
which she had required the services of a medical man. There had been a
serious accident at a dinner-party, given by some friends. She had
eaten sparingly of a certain dish, from which some of the other guests
had suffered severely. It was discovered that the food had been cooked
in an old copper saucepan. In her case, the trifling result had been a
disturbance of digestion, and nothing more. The doctor had prescribed
accordingly. She had taken but one dose: with her healthy constitution
she despised physic. The remainder of the mixture was still in the
bottle.

She considered again with herself--then went back to the chimneypiece,
and took down the second bottle.

It contained a colourless liquid also; but it was only half the size of
the first bottle, and not a drop had been taken. She waited, observing
the difference between the two bottles with extraordinary attention. In
this case also, the prescription was in her possession--but it was not
the original. A line at the top stated that it was a copy made by the
chemist, at the request of a customer. It bore the date of more than
three years since. A morsel of paper was pinned to the prescription,
containing some lines in a woman's handwriting:--"With your enviable
health and strength, my dear, I should have thought you were the last
person in the world to want a tonic. However, here is my prescription,
if you must have it. Be very careful to take the right dose, because
there's poison in it." The prescription contained three ingredients,
strychnine, quinine, and nitro-hydrochloric acid; and the dose was
fifteen drops in water. Mrs. Farnaby lit a match, and burnt the lines
of her friend's writing. "As long ago as that," she reflected, "I
thought of killing myself. Why didn't I do it?"

The paper having been destroyed, she put back the prescription for
indigestion in her dressing-case; hesitated for a moment; and opened
the bedroom window. It looked into a lonely little courtyard. She threw
the dangerous contents of the second and smaller bottle out into the
yard--and then put it back empty on the chimneypiece. After another
moment of hesitation, she returned to the sitting-room, with the bottle
of mixture, and the copied prescription for the tonic strychnine drops,
in her hand.

She put the bottle on the table, and advanced to the fireplace to ring
the bell. Warm as the room was, she began to shiver. Did the eager life
in her feel the fatal purpose that she was meditating, and shrink from
it? Instead of ringing the bell, she bent over the fire, trying to warm
herself.

"Other women would get relief in crying," she thought. "I wish I was
like other women!"

The whole sad truth about herself was in that melancholy aspiration. No
relief in tears, no merciful oblivion in a fainting-fit, for _her._ The
terrible strength of the vital organization in this woman knew no
yielding to the unutterable misery that wrung her to the soul. It
roused its glorious forces to resist: it held her in a stony quiet,
with a grip of iron.

She turned away from the fire wondering at herself. "What baseness is
there in me that fears death? What have I got to live for _now?"_ The
open letter on the table caught her eye. "This will do it!" she
said--and snatched it up, and read it at last.

"The least I can do for you is to act like a gentleman, and spare you
unnecessary suspense. You will not see me this morning at ten, for the
simple reason that I really don't know, and never did know, where to
find your daughter. I wish I was rich enough to return the money. Not
being able to do that, I will give you a word of advice instead. The
next time you confide any secrets of yours to Mr. Goldenheart, take
better care that no third person hears you."

She read those atrocious lines, without any visible disturbance of the
dreadful composure that possessed her. Her mind made no effort to
discover the person who had listened and betrayed her. To all ordinary
curiosities, to all ordinary emotions, she was morally dead already.

The one thought in her was a thought that might have occurred to a man.
"If I only had my hands on his throat, how I could wring the life out
of him! As it is--" Instead of pursuing the reflection, she threw the
letter into the fire, and rang the bell.

"Take this at once to the nearest chemist's," she said, giving the
strychnine prescription to the servant; "and wait, please, and bring it
back with you."

She opened her desk, when she was alone, and tore up the letters and
papers in it. This done, she took her pen, and wrote a letter. It was
addressed to Amelius.

When the servant entered the room again, bringing with her the
prescription made up, the clock downstairs struck eleven.

CHAPTER 6

Toff returned to the cottage, with the slippers and the stockings.

"What a time you have been gone!" said Amelius.

"It is not my fault, sir," Toff explained. "The stockings I obtained
without difficulty. But the nearest shoe shop in this neighbourhood
sold only coarse manufactures, and all too large. I had to go to my
wife, and get her to take me to the right place. See!" he exclaimed,
producing a pair of quilted silk slippers with blue rosettes, "here is
a design, that is really worthy of pretty feet. Try them on, Miss."

Sally's eyes sparkled at the sight of the slippers. She rose at once,
and limped away to her room. Amelius, observing that she still walked
in pain, called her back. "I had forgotten the blister," he said.
"Before you put on the new stockings, Sally, let me see your foot." He
turned to Toff. "You're always ready with everything," he went on; "I
wonder whether you have got a needle and a bit of worsted thread?"

The old Frenchman answered, with an air of respectful reproach.
"Knowing me, sir, as you do," he said, "could you doubt for a moment
that I mend my own clothes and darn my own stockings?" He withdrew to
his bedroom below, and returned with a leather roll. "When you are
ready, sir?" he said, opening the roll at the table, and threading the
needle, while Sally removed the sock from her left foot.

She took a chair near the window, at the suggestion of Amelius. He
knelt down so as to raise her foot to his knee. "Turn a little more
towards the light," he said. He took the foot in his hand, lifted it,
looked at it--and suddenly let it drop back on the floor.

A cry of alarm from Sally instantly brought Toff to the window. "Oh,
look!" she cried; "he's ill!" Toff lifted Amelius to a chair. "For
God's sake, sir," cried the terrified old man, "what's the matter?"
Amelius had turned to the strange ashy paleness which is only seen in
men of his florid complexion, overwhelmed by sudden emotion. He
stammered when he tried to speak. "Fetch the brandy!" said Toff,
pointing to the liqueur-case on the sideboard. Sally brought it at
once; the strong stimulant steadied Amelius.

"I'm sorry to have frightened you," he said faintly. "Sally!--Dear,
dear little Sally, go in, and get your things on directly. You must
come out with me; I'll tell you why afterwards. My God! why didn't I
find this out before?" He noticed Toff, wondering and trembling. "Good
old fellow! don't alarm yourself--you shall know about it, too. Go!
run! get the first cab you can find!"

Left alone for a few minutes, he had time to compose himself. He did
his best to take advantage of the time; he tried to prepare his mind
for the coming interview with Mrs. Farnaby. "I must be careful of what
I do," he thought, conscious of the overwhelming effect of the
discovery on himself; "She doesn't expect _me_ to bring her daughter to
her."

Sally returned to him, ready to go out. She seemed to be afraid of him,
when he approached her, and took her hand. "Have I done anything
wrong?" she asked, in her childish way. "Are you going to take me to
some other Home?" The tone and look with which she put the question
burst through the restraints which Amelius had imposed on himself for
her sake. "My dear child!" he said, "can you bear a great surprise? I'm
dying to tell you the truth--and I hardly dare do it." He took her in
his arms. She trembled piteously. Instead of answering him, she
reiterated her question, "Are you going to take me to some other Home?"
He could endure it no longer. "This is the happiest day of your life,
Sally!" he cried; "I am going to take you to your mother."

He held her close to him, and looked at her in dread of having spoken
too plainly.

She slowly lifted her eyes to him in vacant fear and surprise; she
burst into no expression of delight; no overwhelming emotion made her
sink fainting in his arms. The sacred associations which gather round
the mere name of Mother were associations unknown to her; the man who
held her to him so tenderly, the hero who had pitied and saved her, was
father and mother both to her simple mind. She dropped her head on his
breast; her faltering voice told him that she was crying. "Will my
mother take me away from you?" she asked. "Oh, do promise to bring me
back with you to the cottage!"

For the moment, and the moment only, Amelius was disappointed in her.
The generous sympathies in his nature guided him unerringly to the
truer view. He remembered what her life had been. Inexpressible pity
for her filled his heart. "Oh, my poor Sally, the time is coming when
you will not think as you think now! I will do nothing to distress you.
You mustn't cry--you must be happy, and loving and true to your
mother." She dried her eyes, "I'll do anything you tell me," she said,
"as long as you bring me back with you."

Amelius sighed, and said no more. He took her out with him gravely and
silently, when the cab was announced to be ready. "Double your fare,"
he said, when he gave the driver his instructions, "if you get there in
a quarter of an hour." It wanted twenty-five minutes to twelve when the
cab left the cottage.

At that moment, the contrast of feeling between the two could hardly
have been more strongly marked. In proportion as Amelius became more
and more agitated, so Sally recovered the composure and confidence that
she had lost. The first question she put to him related, not to her
mother, but to his strange behaviour when he had knelt down to look at
her foot. He answered, explaining to her briefly and plainly what his
conduct meant. The description of what had passed between her mother
and Amelius interested and yet perplexed her. "How can she be so fond
of me, without knowing anything about me for all those years?" she
asked. "Is my mother a lady? Don't tell her where you found me; she
might be ashamed of me." She paused, and looked at Amelius anxiously.
"Are you vexed about something? May I take hold of your hand?" Amelius
gave her his hand; and Sally was satisfied.

As the cab drew up at the house, the door was opened from within. A
gentleman, dressed in black, hurriedly came out; looked at Amelius; and
spoke to him as he stepped from the cab to the pavement.

"I beg your pardon, sir. May I ask if you are any relative of the lady
who lives in this house?"

"No relative," Amelius answered. "Only a friend, who brings good news
to her."

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