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The patients being dismissed, Toff attempted to explain the object of
his visit. But the old naval surgeon insisted on clearing the ground by
means of a plain question first. "Has your master sent you here--or is
this another private interview, like the last?"

"It is all that is most private," Toff answered; "my poor master is
wasting away in unrelieved wretchedness and suspense. Something must be
done for him. Oh, dear and good sir, help me in this most miserable
state of things! Tell me the truth about Miss Sally!"

Old Pinfold put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the parlour
wall, looking at the Frenchman with a complicated expression, in which
genuine sympathy mingled oddly with a quaint sense of amusement.
"You're a worthy chap," he said; "and you shall have the truth. I have
been obliged to deceive your master about this troublesome young Sally;
I have stuck to it that she is too ill to see him, or to answer his
letters. Both lies. There's nothing the matter with her now, but a
disease that I can't cure, the disease of a troubled mind. She's got it
into her head that she has everlastingly degraded herself in his
estimation by leaving him and coming here. It's no use telling
her--what, mind you, is perfectly true--that she was all but out of her
senses, and not in the least responsible for what she did at the time
when she did it. She holds to her own opinion, nevertheless. 'What can
he think of me, but that I have gone back willingly to the disgrace of
my old life? I should throw myself out of the window, if he came into
the room!' That's how she answers me--and, what makes matters worse
still, she's breaking her heart about him all the time. The poor wretch
is so eager for any little word of news about his health and his
doings, that it's downright pitiable to see her. I don't think her
fevered little brain will bear it much longer--and hang me if I can
tell what to do next to set things right! The two women, her friends,
have no sort of influence over her. When I saw her this morning, she
was ungrateful enough to say, 'Why didn't you let me die?' How your
master got among these unfortunate people is more than I know, and is
no business of mine; I only wish he had been a different sort of man.
Before I knew him as well as I know him now, I predicted, like a fool,
that he would be just the person to help us in managing the girl. I
have altered my opinion. He's such a glorious fellow--so impulsive and
so tender-hearted--that he would be certain, in her present excited
state, to do her more harm than good. Do you know if he is going to be
married?"

Toff, listening thus far in silent distress, suddenly looked up.

"Why do you ask me, sir?"

"It's an idle question, I dare say," old Pinfold remarked. "Sally
persists in telling us she's in the way of his prospects in life--and
it's got somehow into her perverse little head that his prospects in
life mean his marriage, and she's in the way of _that._--Hullo! are you
going already?"

"I want to go to Miss Sally, sir. I believe I can say something to
comfort her. Do you think she will see me?"

"Are you the man who has got the nickname of Toff? She sometimes talks
about Toff."

"Yes, sir, yes! I am Theophile Leblond, otherwise Toff. Where can I find
her?"

Surgeon Pinfold rang a bell. "My errand-boy is going past the house, to
deliver some medicine," he answered. "It's a poor place; but you'll
find it neat and nice enough--thanks to your good master. He's helping
the two women to begin life again out of this country; and, while
they're waiting their turn to get a passage, they've taken an extra
room and hired some decent furniture, by your master's own wish. Oh,
here's the boy; he'll show you the way. One word before you go. What do
you think of saying to Sally?"

"I shall tell her, for one thing, sir, that my master is miserable for
want of her."

Surgeon Pinfold shook his head. "That won't take you very far on the
way to persuading her. You will make _her_ miserable too--and there's
about all you will get by it."

Toff lifted his indicative forefinger to the side of his nose. "Suppose
I tell her something else, sir? Suppose I tell her my master is not
going to be married to anybody?"

"She won't believe you know anything about it."

"She will believe, for this reason," said Toff, gravely; "I put the
question to my master before I came here; and I have it from his own
lips that there is no young lady in the way, and that he is
not--positively not--going to be married. If I tell Miss Sally this,
sir, how do you say it will end? Will you bet me a shilling it has no
effect on her?"

"I won't bet a farthing! Follow the boy--and tell young Sally I have
sent her a better doctor than I am."

While Toff was on his way to Sally, Toff's boy was disturbing Amelius
by the announcement of a visitor. The card sent in bore this
inscription: "Brother Bawkwell, from Tadmor."

Amelius looked at the card; and ran into the hall to receive the
visitor, with both hands held out in hearty welcome. "Oh, I am so glad
to see you!" he cried. "Come in, and tell me all about Tadmor!"

Brother Bawkwell acknowledged the enthusiastic reception offered to him
by a stare of grim surprise. He was a dry, hard old man, with a scrubby
white beard, a narrow wrinkled forehead, and an obstinate lipless
mouth; fitted neither by age nor temperament to be the intimate friend
of any of his younger brethren among the Community. But, at that
saddest time of his life, the heart of Amelius warmed to any one who
reminded him of his tranquil and happy days at Tadmor. Even this frozen
old Socialist now appeared to him, for the first time, under the
borrowed aspect of a welcome friend.

Brother Bawkwell took the chair offered to him, and opened the
proceedings, in solemn silence, by looking at his watch. "Twenty-five
minutes past two," he said to himself--and put the watch back again.

"Are you pressed for time?" Amelius asked.

"Much may be done in ten minutes," Brother Bawkwell answered, in a
Scotch accent which had survived the test of half a lifetime in
America. "I would have you know I am in England on a mission from the
Community, with a list of twenty-seven persons in all, whom I am
appointed to confer with on matters of varying importance. Yours,
friend Amelius, is a matter of minor importance. I can give you ten
minutes."

He opened a big black pocket-book, stuffed with a mass of letters; and,
placing two of them on the table before him, addressed Amelius as if he
was making a speech at a public meeting.

"I have to request your attention to certain proceedings of the Council
at Tadmor, bearing date the third of December last; and referring to a
person under sentence of temporary separation from the Community, along
with yourself--"

"Mellicent!" Amelius exclaimed.

"We have no time for interruptions," Brother Bawkwell remarked. "The
person _is_ Sister Mellicent; and the business before the Council was
to consider a letter, under her signature, received December second.
Said letter," he proceeded, taking up one of his papers, "is abridged
as follows by the Secretary to the Council. In substance, the writer
states (first): 'That the married sister under whose protection she has
been living at New York is about to settle in England with her husband,
appointed to manage the branch of his business established in London.
(Second): That she, meaning Sister Mellicent, has serious reasons for
not accompanying her relatives to England, and has no other friends to
take charge of her welfare, if she remains in New York. (Third): That
she appeals to the mercy of the Council, under these circumstances, to
accept the expression of her sincere repentance for the offence of
violating a Rule, and to permit a friendless and penitent creature to
return to the only home left to her, her home at Tadmor.' No, friend
Amelius--we have no time for expressions of sympathy; the first half of
the ten minutes has nearly expired. I have further to notify you that
the question was put to the vote, in this form: 'Is it consistent with
the serious responsibility which rests on the Council, to consider the
remission of any sentence justly pronounced under the Book of Rules?'
The result was very remarkable; the votes for and against being equally
divided. In this event, as you know, our laws provide that the decision
rests with the Elder Brother--who gave his vote thereupon for
considering the remission of the sentence; and moved the next
resolution that the sentence be remitted accordingly. Carried by a
small majority. Whereupon, Sister Mellicent was received again at
Tadmor."

"Ah, the dear old Elder Brother," cried Amelius--"always on the side of
mercy!"

Brother Bawkwell held up his hand in protest. "You seem to have no
idea," he said, "of the value of time. Do be quiet! As travelling
representative of the Council, I am further instructed to say, that the
sentence pronounced against yourself stands duly remitted, in
consequence of the remission of the sentence against Sister Mellicent.
You likewise are free to return to Tadmor, at your own will and
pleasure. But--attend to what is coming, friend Amelius!--the Council
holds to its resolution that your choice between us and the world shall
be absolutely unbiased. In the fear of exercising even an indirect
influence, we have purposely abstained from corresponding with you.
With the same motive we now say, that if you do return to us, it must
be with no interference on our part. We inform you of an event that has
happened in your absence--and we do no more."

He paused, and looked again at his watch. Time proverbially works
wonders. Time closed his lips.

Amelius replied with a heavy heart. The message from the Council had
recalled him from the remembrance of Mellicent to the sense of his own
position. "My experience of the world has been a very hard one," he
said. "I would gladly go back to Tadmor this very day, but for one
consideration--" He hesitated; the image of Sally was before him. The
tears rose in his eyes; he said no more.

Brother Bawkwell, driven hard by time, got on his legs, and handed to
Amelius the second of the two papers which he had taken out of his
pocket-book.

"Here is a purely informal document," he said; "being a few lines from
Sister Mellicent, which I was charged to deliver to you. Be pleased to
read it as quickly as you can, and tell me if there is any reply."

There was not much to read:--"The good people here, Amelius, have
forgiven me and let me return to them. I am living happily now, dear,
in my remembrances of you. I take the walks that we once took
together--and sometimes I go out in the boat on the lake, and think of
the time when I told you my sad story. Your poor little pet creatures
are under my care; the dog, and the fawn, and the birds--all well, and
waiting for you, with me. My belief that you will come back to me
remains the same unshaken belief that it has been from the first. Once
more I say it--you will find me the first to welcome you, when your
spirits are sinking under the burden of life, and your heart turns
again to the friends of your early days. Until that time comes, think
of me now and then. Good-bye."

"I am waiting," said Brother Bawkwell, taking his hat in his hand.

Amelius answered with an effort. "Thank her kindly in my name," he
said: "that is all." His head drooped while he spoke; he fell into
thought as if he had been alone in the room.

But the emissary from Tadmor, warned by the minute-hand on the watch,
recalled his attention to passing events. "You would do me a kindness,"
said Brother Bawkwell, producing a list of names and addresses, "if you
could put me in the way of finding the person named, eighth from the
top. It's getting on towards twenty minutes to three."

The address thus pointed out was at no great distance, on the northern
side of the Regent's Park. Amelius, still silent and thoughtful, acted
willingly as a guide. "Please thank the Council for their kindness to
me," he said, when they reached their destination. Brother Bawkwell
looked at friend Amelius with a calm inquiring eye. "I think you'll end
in coming back to us," he said. "I'll take the opportunity, when I see
you at Tadmor, of making a few needful remarks on the value of time."

Amelius went back to the cottage, to see if Toff had returned, in his
absence, before he paid his daily visit to Surgeon Pinfold. He called
down the kitchen stairs, "Are you there, Toff?" And Toff answered
briskly, "At your service, sir."

The sky had become cloudy, and threatened rain. Not finding his
umbrella in the hall, Amelius went into the library to look for it. As
he closed the door behind him, Toff and his boy appeared on the kitchen
stairs; both walking on tiptoe, and both evidently on the watch for
something.

Amelius found his umbrella. But it was characteristic of the melancholy
change in him that he dropped languidly into the nearest chair, instead
of going out at once with the easy activity of happier days. Sally was
in his mind again; he was rousing his resolution to set the doctor's
commands at defiance, and to insist on seeing her, come what might of
it.

He suddenly looked up. A slight sound had startled him.

It was a faint rustling sound; and it came from the sadly silent room
which had once been Sally's.

He listened, and heard it again. He sprang to his feet--his heart beat
wildly--he opened the door of the room.

She was there.

Her hands were clasped over her fast-heaving breast. She was powerless
to look at him, powerless to speak to him--powerless to move towards
him, until he opened his arms to her. Then, all the love and all the
sorrow in the tender little heart flowed outward to him in a low
murmuring cry. She hid her blushing face on his bosom. The rosy colour
softly tinged her neck--the unspoken confession of all she feared, and
all she hoped.

It was a time beyond words. They were silent in each other's arms.

But under them, on the floor below, the stillness in the cottage was
merrily broken by an outburst of dance-music--with a rhythmical
thump-thump of feet, keeping time to the cheerful tune. Toff was
playing his fiddle; and Toff's boy was dancing to his father's music.

CHAPTER 12

After waiting a day or two for news from Amelius, and hearing nothing,
Rufus went to make inquiries at the cottage.

"My master has gone out of town, sir," said Toff, opening the door.

"Where?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Anybody with him?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Any news of Sally?"

"I don't know, sir."

Rufus stepped into the hall. "Look here, Mr. Frenchman, three times is
enough. I have already apologized for treating you like a teetotum, on
a former occasion. I'm afraid I shall do it again, sir, if I don't get
an answer to my next question--my hands are itching to be at you, they
are! When is Amelius expected back?"

"Your question is positive, sir," said Toff, with dignity. "I am happy
to be able to meet it with a positive reply. My master is expected back
in three weeks' time."

Having obtained some information at last, Rufus debated with himself
what he should do next. He decided that "the boy was worth waiting
for," and that his wisest course (as a good American) would be to go
back, and wait in Paris.

Passing through the Garden of the Tuileries, two or three days later,
and crossing to the Rue de Rivoli, the name of one of the hotels in
that quarter reminded him of Regina. He yielded to the prompting of
curiosity, and inquired if Mr. Farnaby and his niece were still in
Paris.

The manager of the hotel was in the porter's lodge at the time. So far
as he knew, he said, Mr. Farnaby and his niece, and an English
gentleman with them, were now on their travels. They had left the hotel
with an appearance of mystery. The courier had been discharged; and the
coachman of the hired carriage which took them away had been told to
drive straight forward until further orders. In short, as the manager
put it, the departure resembled a flight. Remembering what his American
agent had told him, Rufus received this information without surprise.
Even the apparently incomprehensible devotion of Mr. Melton to the
interests of such a man as Farnaby, failed to present itself to him as
a perplexing circumstance. To his mind, Mr. Melton's conduct was
plainly attributable to a reward in prospect; and the name of that
reward was--Miss Regina.

At the end of the three weeks, Rufus returned to London.

Once again, he and Toff confronted each other on the threshold of the
door. This time, the genial old man presented an appearance that was
little less than dazzling. From head to foot he was arrayed in new
clothes; and he exhibited an immense rosette of white ribbon in his
button-hole.

"Thunder!" cried Rufus. "Here's Mr. Frenchman going to be married!"

Toff declined to humour the joke. He stood on his dignity as stiffly as
ever. "Pardon me, sir, I possess a wife and family already."

"Do you, now? Well--none of your know-nothing answers this time. Has
Amelius come back?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what's the news of Sally?"

"Good news, sir. Miss Sally has come back too."

"You call that good news, do you? I'll say a word to Amelius. What are
you standing there for? Let me by."

"Pardon me once more, sir. My master and Miss Sally do not receive
visitors today."

"Your master and Miss Sally?" Rufus repeated. "Has this old creature
been liquoring up a little too freely? What do you mean," he burst out,
with a sudden change of tone to stern surprise--"what do you mean by
putting your master and Sally together?"

Toff shot his bolt at last. "They will be together, sir, for the rest
of their lives. They were married this morning."

Rufus received the blow in dead silence. He turned about, and went back
to his hotel.

Reaching his room, he opened the despatch box in which he kept his
correspondence, and picked out the long letter containing the
description by Amelius of his introduction to the ladies of the Farnaby
family. He took up the pen, and wrote the indorsement which has been
quoted as an integral part of the letter itself, in the Second Book of
this narrative:--

"Ah, poor Amelius! He had better have gone back to Miss Mellicent, and
put up with the little drawback of her age. What a bright lovable
fellow he was! Goodbye to Goldenheart!"

Were the forebodings of Rufus destined to be fulfilled? This question
will be answered, it is hoped, in a Second Series of The Fallen Leaves.
The narrative of the married life of Amelius presents a subject too
important to be treated within the limits of the present story--and the
First Series necessarily finds its end in the culminating event of his
life, thus far.

THE END

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