Charles Franklin Carter - "Old Mission Stories of California"

Henry Handel Richardson - "Maurice Guest"

Richard Wagner (translated by Edward Dannreuther) - "On Conducting (Ueber das Dirigiren):"

L. Frank Baum - "American Fairy Tales"

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




Amelius produced the books, in some little surprise at Sally's
extraordinary anxiety to begin her lessons, while the unaltered dress
lay neglected on the carpet at her feet. A discreet abstract of the
history of England, published for the use of young persons, happened to
be at the top of the books. The system of education under Amelius
recognized the laws of chance: they began with the history, because it
turned up first. Sally read aloud; and Sally's master explained obscure
passages, and corrected occasional errors of pronunciation, as she went
on. On that particular morning, there was little to explain and nothing
to correct. "Am I doing it well today?" Sally inquired, on reaching the
end of her task.

"Very well, indeed."

She shut the book, and looked at her teacher. "I wonder how it is," she
resumed, "that I get on so much better with my lessons here than I did
at the Home? And yet it's foolish of me to wonder. I get on better,
because you are teaching me, of course. But I don't feel satisfied with
myself. I'm the same helpless creature--I feel your kindness, and can't
make any return to you--for all my learning. I should like--" She left
the thought in her unexpressed, and opened her copy-book. "I'll do my
writing now," she said, in a quiet resigned way. "Perhaps I may improve
enough, some day, to keep your accounts for you." She chose her pen a
little absently, and began to write. Amelius looked over her shoulder,
and laughed; she was writing his name. He pointed to the copper-plate
copy on the top line, presenting an undeniable moral maxim, in
characters beyond the reach of criticism:--Change Is A Law Of Nature.
"There, my dear, you are to copy that till you're tired of it," said
the easy master; "and then we'll try overleaf, another copy beginning
with letter D."

Sally laid down her pen. "I don't like 'Change is a law of Nature',"
she said, knitting her pretty eyebrows into a frown. "I looked at those
words yesterday, and they made me miserable at night. I was foolish
enough to think that we should always go on together as we go on now,
till I saw that copy. I hate the copy! It came to my mind when I was
awake in the dark, and it seemed to tell me that _we_ were going to
change some day. That's the worst of learning--one knows too much, and
then there's an end of one's happiness. Thoughts come to you, when you
don't want them. I thought of the young lady we saw last week in the
park."

She spoke gravely and sadly. The bright contentment which had given a
new charm to her eyes since she had been at the cottage, died out of
them as Amelius looked at her. What had become of her childish manner
and her artless smile? He drew his chair nearer to her. "What young
lady do you mean?" he asked.

Sally shook her head, and traced lines with her pen on the blotting
paper. "Oh, you can't have forgotten her! A young lady, riding on a
grand white horse. All the people were admiring her. I wonder you cared
to look at me, after that beautiful creature had gone by. Ah, she knows
all sorts of things that I don't--_she_ doesn't sound a note at a time
on the piano, and as often as not the wrong one; _she_ can say her
multiplication table, and knows all the cities in the world. I dare say
she's almost as learned as you are. If you had her living here with
you, wouldn't you like it better than only having me!" She dropped her
arms on the table, and laid her head on them wearily. "The dreadful
streets!" she murmured, in low tones of despair. "Why did I think of
the dreadful streets, and the night I met with you--after I had seen
the young lady? Oh, Amelius, are you tired of me? are you ashamed of
me?" She lifted her head again, before he could answer, and controlled
herself by a sudden effort of resolution. "I don't know what's the
matter with me this morning," she said, looking at him with a pleading
fear in her eyes. "Never mind my nonsense--I'll do the copy!" She
began to write the unendurable assertion that change is a law of
Nature, with trembling fingers and fast heaving breath. Amelius took
the pen gently out of her hand. His voice faltered as he spoke to her.

"We will give up the lessons for today, Sally. You have had a bad
night's rest, my dear, and you are feeling it--that's all. Do you think
you are well enough to come out with me, and try if the air will revive
you a little?"

She rose, and took his hand, and kissed it. "I believe, if I was dying,
I should get well enough to go out with you! May I ask one little
favour? Do you mind if we don't go into the park today?"

"What has made you take a dislike to the park, Sally?"

"We might meet the beautiful young lady again," she answered, with her
head down. "I don't want to do that."

"We will go wherever you like, my child. You shall decide--not I."

She gathered up her dress from the floor, and hurried away to her
room--without looking back at him as usual when she opened the door.

Left by himself, Amelius sat at the table, mechanically turning over
the lesson-books. Sally had perplexed and even distressed him. His
capacity to preserve the harmless relations between them, depended
mainly on the mute appeal which the girl's ignorant innocence
unconsciously addressed to him. He felt this vaguely, without
absolutely realizing it. By some mysterious process of association
which he was unable to follow, a saying of the wise Elder Brother at
Tadmor revived in his memory, while he was trying to see his way
through the difficulties that beset him. "You will meet with many
temptations, Amelius, when you leave our Community," the old man had
said at parting; "and most of them will come to you through women. Be
especially on your guard, my son, if you meet with a woman who makes
you feel truly sorry for her. She is on the high-road to your passions,
through the open door of your sympathies--and all the more certainly if
she is not aware of it herself." Amelius felt the truth expressed in
those words as he had never felt it yet. There had been signs of a
changing nature in Sally for some little time past. But they had
expressed themselves too delicately to attract the attention of a man
unprepared to be on the watch. Only on that morning, they had been
marked enough to force themselves on his notice. Only on that morning,
she had looked at him, and spoken to him, as she had never looked or
spoken before. He began dimly to see the danger for both of them, to
which he had shut his eyes thus far. Where was the remedy? what ought
he to do? Those questions came naturally into his mind--and yet, his
mind shrank from pursuing them.

He got up impatiently, and busied himself in putting away the
lesson-books--a small duty hitherto always left to Toff.

It was useless; his mind dwelt persistently on Sally.

While he moved about the room, he still saw the look in her eyes, he
still heard the tone of her voice, when she spoke of the young lady in
the park. The words of the good physician whom he had consulted about
her recurred to his memory now. "The natural growth of her senses has
been stunted, like the natural growth of her body, by starvation,
terror, exposure to cold, and other influences inherent in the life
that she has led." And then the doctor had spoken of nourishing food,
pure air, and careful treatment--of the life, in short, which she had
led at the cottage--and had predicted that she would develop into "an
intelligent and healthy young woman." Again he asked himself, "What
ought I to do?"

He turned aside to the window, and looked out. An idea occurred to him.
How would it be, if he summoned courage enough to tell her that he was
engaged to be married?

No! Setting aside his natural dread of the shock that he might inflict
on the poor grateful girl who had only known happiness under his care,
the detestable obstacle of Mr. Farnaby stood immovably in his way.
Sally would be sure to ask questions about his engagement, and would
never rest until they were answered. It had been necessarily impossible
to conceal her mother's name from her. The discovery of her father, if
she heard of Regina and Regina's uncle, would be simply a question of
time. What might such a man be not capable of doing, what new act of
treachery might he not commit, if he found himself claimed by the
daughter whom he had deserted? Even if the expression of Mrs. Farnaby's
last wishes had not been sacred to Amelius, this consideration alone
would have kept him silent, for Sally's sake.

He now doubted for the first time if he had calculated wisely in
planning to trust Sally's sad story, after his marriage, to the
sympathies of his wife. The jealousy that she might naturally feel of a
young girl, who was an object of interest to her husband, did not
present the worst difficulty to contend with. She believed in her
uncle's integrity as she believed in her religion. What would she say,
what would she do, if the innocent witness to Farnaby's infamy was
presented to her; if Amelius asked the protection for Sally which her
own father had refused to her in her infancy; and if he said, as he
must say, "Your uncle is the man"?

And yet, what prospect could he see but the prospect of making the
disclosure when he looked to his own interests next, and thought of his
wedding day? Again the sinister figure of Farnaby confronted him. How
could he receive the wretch whom Regina would innocently welcome to the
house? There would be no longer a choice left; it would be his duty to
himself to tell his wife the terrible truth. And what would be the
result? He recalled the whole course of his courtship, and saw Farnaby
always on a level with himself in Regina's estimation. In spite of his
natural cheerfulness, in spite of his inbred courage, his heart failed
him, when he thought of the time to come.

As he turned away from the window, Sally's door opened: she joined him,
ready for the walk. Her spirits had rallied, assisted by the cheering
influence of dressing to go out. Her charming smile brightened her
face. In sheer desperation, reckless of what he did or said, Amelius
held out both hands to welcome her. "That's right, Sally!" he cried.
"Look pleased and pretty, my dear; let's be happy while we can--and let
the future take care of itself!"



CHAPTER 6

The capricious influences which combine to make us happy are never so
certain to be absent influences as when we are foolish enough to talk
about them. Amelius had talked about them. When he and Sally left the
cottage, the road which led them away from the park was also the road
which led them past a church. The influences of happiness left them at
the church door.

Rows of carriages were in waiting; hundreds of idle people were
assembled about the church steps; the thunderous music of the organ
rolled out through the open doors--a grand wedding, with choral
service, was in course of celebration. Sally begged Amelius to take her
in to see it. They tried the front entrance, and found it impossible to
get through the crowd. A side entrance, and a fee to a verger,
succeeded better. They obtained space enough to stand on, with a view
of the altar.

The bride was a tall buxom girl, splendidly dressed: she performed her
part in the ceremony with the most unruffled composure. The bridegroom
exhibited an instructive spectacle of aged Nature, sustained by Art.
His hair, his complexion, his teeth, his breast, his shoulders, and his
legs, showed what the wig-maker, the valet, the dentist, the tailor,
and the hosier can do for a rich old man, who wishes to present a
juvenile appearance while he is buying a young wife. No less than three
clergymen were present, conducting the sale. The demeanour of the rich
congregation was worthy of the glorious bygone days of the Golden Calf.
So far as could be judged by appearances, one old lady, in a pew close
to the place at which Amelius and Sally were standing, seemed to be the
only person present who was not favourably impressed by the ceremony.

"I call it disgraceful," the old lady remarked to a charming young
person seated next to her.

But the charming young person--being the legitimate product of the
present time--had no more sympathy with questions of sentiment than a
Hottentot. "How can you talk so, grandmamma!" she rejoined. "He has
twenty thousand a year--and that lucky girl will be mistress of the
most splendid house in London."

"I don't care," the old lady persisted; "it's not the less a disgrace
to everybody concerned in it. There is many a poor friendless creature,
driven by hunger to the streets, who has a better claim to our sympathy
than that shameless girl, selling herself in the house of God! I'll
wait for you in the carriage--I won't see any more of it."

Sally touched Amelius. "Take me out!" she whispered faintly.

He supposed that the heat in the church had been too much for her. "Are
you better now?" he asked, when they got into the open air.

She held fast by his arm. "Let's get farther away," she said. "That
lady is coming after us--I don't want her to see me again. I am one of
the creatures she talked about. Is the mark of the streets on me, after
all you have done to rub it out?"

The wild misery in her words presented another development in her
character which was entirely new to Amelius. "My dear child," he
remonstrated, "you distress me when you talk in that way. God knows the
life you are leading now."

But Sally's mind was still full of its own acutely painful sense of
what the lady had said. "I saw her," she burst out--"I saw her look at
me while she spoke!"

"And she thought you better worth looking at than the bride--and quite
right, too!" Amelius rejoined. "Come, come, Sally, be like yourself.
You don't want to make me unhappy about you, I am sure?"

He had taken the right way with her: she felt that simple appeal, and
asked his pardon with all the old charm in her manner and her voice.
For the moment, she was "Simple Sally" again. They walked on in
silence. When they had lost sight of the church, Amelius felt her hand
beginning to tremble on his arm. A mingled expression of tenderness and
anxiety showed itself in her blue eyes as they looked up at him. "I am
thinking of something else now," she said; "I am thinking of You. May I
ask you something?"

Amelius smiled. The smile was not reflected as usual in Sally's face.
"It's nothing particular," she explained in an odd hurried way; "the
church put it into my head. You--" She hesitated, and tried it under
another form. "Will you be married yourself, Amelius, one of these
days?"

He did his best to evade the question. "I am not rich, Sally, like the
old gentleman we have just seen."

Her eyes turned away from him; she sighed softly to herself. "You will
be married some day," she said. "Will you do one kind thing more for
me, Amelius, when I die? You remember my reading in the newspaper of
the new invention for burning the dead--and my asking you about it. You
said you thought it was better than burying, and you had a good mind to
leave directions to be burnt instead of buried, when your time came.
When _my_ time has come, will you leave other directions about
yourself, if I ask you?"

"My dear, you are talking in a very strange way! If you will have it
that I am to be married some day, what has that to do with your death?"

"It doesn't matter, Amelius. When I have nothing left to live for, I
suppose it's as likely as not I may die. Will you tell them to bury me
in some quiet place, away from London, where there are very few graves?
And when you leave your directions, don't say you are to be burnt.
Say--when you have lived a long, long life, and enjoyed all the
happiness you have deserved so well--say you are to be buried, and your
grave is to be near mine. I should like to think of the same trees
shading us, and the same flowers growing over us. No! don't tell me I'm
talking strangely again--I can't bear it; I want you to humour me and
be kind to me about this. Do you mind going home? I'm feeling a little
tired--and I know I'm poor company for you today."

The talk flagged at dinner-time, though Toff did his best to keep it
going.

In the evening, the excellent Frenchman made an effort to cheer the two
dull young people. He came in confidentially with his fiddle, and said
he had a favour to ask. "I possess some knowledge, sir, of the
delightful art of dancing. Might I teach young Miss to dance? You see,
if I may venture to say so, the other lessons--oh, most useful, most
important, the other lessons! but they are just a little serious.
Something to relieve her mind, sir--if you will forgive me for
mentioning it. I plead for innocent gaiety--let us dance!"

He played a few notes on the fiddle, and placed his right foot in
position, and waited amiably to begin. Sally thanked him, and made the
excuse that she was tired. She wished Amelius good night, without
waiting until they were alone together--and, for the first time,
without giving him the customary kiss.

Toff waited until she had gone, and approached his master on tiptoe,
with a low bow.

"May I take the liberty of expressing an opinion, sir. A young girl who
rejects the remedy of the fiddle presents a case of extreme gravity.
Don't despair, sir! It is my pride and pleasure to be never at a loss,
where your interests are concerned. This is, I think, a matter for the
ministrations of a woman. If you have confidence in my wife, I venture
to suggest a visit from Madame Toff."

He discreetly retired, and left his master to think about it.

The time passed--and Amelius was still thinking, and still as far as
ever from arriving at a conclusion, when he heard a door opened behind
him. Sally crossed the room before he could rise from his chair: her
cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, her hair fell loose over her
shoulders--she dropped at his feet, and hid her face on his knees. "I'm
an ungrateful wretch!" she burst out; "I never kissed you when I said
good night."

With the best intentions, Amelius took the worst possible way of
composing her--he treated her trouble lightly. "Perhaps you forgot it?"
he said.

She lifted her head, and looked at him, with the tears in her eyes.
"I'm bad enough," she answered; "but not so bad as that. Oh, don't
laugh! there's nothing to laugh at. Have you done with liking me? Are
you angry with me for behaving so badly all day, and bidding you good
night as if you were Toff? You shan't be angry with me!" She jumped up,
and sat on his knee, and put her arms round his neck. "I haven't been
to bed," she whispered; "I was too miserable to go to sleep. I don't
know what's been the matter with me today. I seem to be losing the
little sense I ever had. Oh, if I could only make you understand how
fond I am of you! And yet I've had bitter thoughts, as if I was a
burden to you, and I had done a wrong thing in coming here--and you
would have told me so, only you pitied the poor wretch who had nowhere
else to go." She tightened her hold round his neck, and laid her
burning cheek against his face. "Oh, Amelius, my heart is sore! Kiss
me, and say, 'Good night, Sally!'"

He was young--he was a man--for a moment he lost his self control; he
kissed her as he had never kissed her yet.

Then, he remembered; he recovered himself; he put her gently away from
him, and led her to the door of her room, and closed it on her in
silence. For a little while, he waited alone. The interval over, he
rang for Toff.

"Do you think your wife would take Miss Sally as an apprentice?" he
asked.

Toff looked astonished. "Whatever you wish, sir, my wife will do. Her
knowledge of the art of dressmaking is--" Words failed him to express
his wife's immense capacity as a dressmaker. He kissed his hand in mute
enthusiasm, and blew the kiss in the direction of Madame Toff's
establishment. "However," he proceeded, "I ought to tell you one thing,
sir; the business is small, small, very small. But we are all in the
hands of Providence--the business will improve, one day." He lifted his
shoulders and lifted his eyebrows, and looked perfectly satisfied with
his wife's prospects.

"I will go and speak to Madame Toff myself, tomorrow morning," Amelius
resumed. "It's quite possible that I may be obliged to leave London for
a little while--and I must provide in some way for Miss Sally. Don't
say a word about it to her yet, Toff, and don't look miserable. If I go
away, I shall take you with me. Good night."

Toff, with his handkerchief halfway to his eyes, recovered his native
cheerfulness. "I am invariably sick at sea, sir," he said; "but, no
matter, I will attend you to the uttermost ends of the earth."

So honest Amelius planned his way of escape from the critical position
in which he found himself. He went to his bed, troubled by anxieties
which kept him waking for many weary hours. Where was he to go to, when
he left Sally? If he could have known what had happened, on that very
day, on the other side of the Channel, he might have decided (in spite
of the obstacle of Mr. Farnaby) on surprising Regina by a visit to
Paris.



CHAPTER 7

On the morning when Amelius and Sally (in London) entered the church to
look at the wedding. Rufus (in Paris) went to the Champs Elysees to
take a walk.

He had advanced half-way up the magnificent avenue, when he saw Regina
for the second time, taking her daily drive, with an elderly woman in
attendance on her. Rufus took off his hat again, perfectly impenetrable
to the cold reception which he had already experienced. Greatly to his
surprise, Regina not only returned his salute, but stopped the carriage
and beckoned to him to speak to her. Looking at her more closely, he
perceived signs of suffering in her face which completely altered her
expression as he remembered it. Her magnificent eyes were dim and red;
she had lost her rich colour; her voice trembled as she spoke to him.

"Have you a few minutes to spare?" she asked.

"The whole day, if you like, Miss," Rufus answered.

She turned to the woman who accompanied her. "Wait here for me,
Elizabeth; I have something to say to this gentleman."

With those words, she got out of the carriage. Rufus offered her his
arm. She put her hand in it as readily as if they had been old friends.
"Let us take one of the side paths," she said; "they are almost
deserted at this time of day. I am afraid I surprise you very much. I
can only trust to your kindness to forgive me for passing you without
notice the last time we met. Perhaps it may be some excuse for me that
I am in great trouble. It is just possible you may be able to relieve
my mind. I believe you know I am engaged to be married?"

Rufus looked at her with a sudden expression of interest. "Is this
about Amelius?" he asked.

She answered him almost inaudibly--"Yes."

Rufus still kept his eyes fixed on her. "I don't wish to say anything,
Miss," he explained; "but, if you have any complaint to make of
Amelius, I should take it as a favour if you would look me straight in
the face, and mention it plainly."

In the embarrassment which troubled Regina at that moment, he had
preferred the two requests of all others with which it was most
impossible for her to comply. She still looked obstinately on the
ground; and, instead of speaking of Amelius, she diverged to the
subject of Mr. Farnaby's illness.

"I am staying in Paris with my uncle," she said. "He has had a long
illness; but he is strong enough now to speak to me of things that have
been on his mind for some time past. He has so surprised me; he has
made me so miserable about Amelius--" She paused, and put her
handkerchief to her eyes. Rufus said nothing to console her--he waited
doggedly until she was ready to go on. "You know Amelius well," she
resumed; "you are fond of him; you believe in him, don't you? Do you
think he is capable of behaving basely to any person who trusts him? Is
it likely, is it possible, he could be false and cruel to Me?"

The mere question roused the indignation of Rufus. "Whoever said that
of him, Miss, told you a lie! I answer for my boy as I answer for
myself."

She looked at him at last, with a sudden expression of relief. "I said
so too," she rejoined; "I said some enemy had slandered him. My uncle
won't tell me who it is. He positively forbids me to write to Amelius;
he tells me I must never see Amelius again--he is going to write and
break off the engagement. Oh, it's too cruel! too cruel!"

Thus far they had been walking on slowly. But now Rufus stopped,
determined to make her speak plainly.

"Take a word of advice from me, Miss," he said. "Never trust anybody by
halves. There's nothing I'm not ready to do, to set this matter right;
but I must know what I'm about first. What's said against Amelius? Out
with it, no matter what 'tis! I'm old enough to be your father; and I
feel for you accordingly--I do."

The thorough sincerity of tone and manner which accompanied those words
had its effect. Regina blushed and trembled--but she spoke out.

"My uncle says Amelius has disgraced himself, and insulted me; my uncle
says there is a person--a girl living with him--" She stopped, with a
faint cry of alarm. Her hand, still testing on the arm of Rufus, felt
him start as the allusion to the girl passed her lips. "You have heard
of it!" she cried. "Oh, God help me, it's true!"