Books: The Fallen Leaves

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Left together over their wine, the men began to talk politics.

I listened at the outset, expecting to get some information. Our
readings in modern history at Tadmor had informed us of the dominant
political position of the middle classes in England, since the time of
the first Reform Bill. Mr. Farnaby's guests represented the respectable
mediocrity of social position, the professional and commercial average
of the nation. They all talked glibly enough--I and an old gentleman
who sat next to me being the only listeners. I had spent the morning
lazily in the smoking-room of the hotel, reading the day's newspapers.
And what did I hear now, when the politicians set in for their
discussion? I heard the leading articles of the day's newspapers
translated into bald chat, and coolly addressed by one man to another,
as if they were his own individual views on public affairs! This absurd
imposture positively went the round of the table, received and
respected by everybody with a stolid solemnity of make-believe which it
was downright shameful to see. Not a man present said, "I saw that
today in the _Times_ or the _Telegraph."_ Not a man present had an
opinion of his own; or, if he had an opinion, ventured to express it;
or, if he knew nothing of the subject, was honest enough to say so. One
enormous Sham, and everybody in a conspiracy to take it for the real
thing: that is an accurate description of the state of political
feeling among the representative men at Mr. Farnaby's dinner. I am not
judging rashly by one example only; I have been taken to clubs and
public festivals, only to hear over and over again what I heard in Mr.
Farnaby's dining-room. Does it need any great foresight to see that
such a state of things as this cannot last much longer, in a country
which has not done with reforming itself yet? The time is coming, in
England, when the people who _have_ opinions of their own will be
heard, and when Parliament will be forced to open the door to them.

This is a nice outbreak of republican freedom! What does my
long-suffering friend think of it--waiting all the time to be presented
to Mr. Farnaby's niece? Everything in its place, Rufus. The niece
followed the politics, at the time; and she shall follow them now.

You shall hear first what my next neighbour said of her--a quaint old
fellow, a retired doctor, if I remember correctly. He seemed to be as
weary of the second-hand newspaper talk as I was; he quite sparkled and
cheered up when I introduced the subject of Miss Regina. Have I
mentioned her name yet? If not, here it is for you in full:--Miss
Regina Mildmay.

"I call her the brown girl," said the old gentleman. "Brown hair, brown
eyes, and a brown skin. No, not a brunette; not dark enough for that--a
warm, delicate brown; wait till you see it! Takes after her father, I
should tell you. He was a fine-looking man in his time; foreign blood
in his veins, by his mother's side. Miss Regina gets her queer name by
being christened after his mother. Never mind her name; she's a
charming person. Let's drink her health."

We drank her health. Remembering that he had called her "the brown
girl," I said I supposed she was still quite young.

"Better than young," the doctor answered; "in the prime of life. I call
her a girl, by habit. Wait till you see her!"

"Has she a good figure, sir?"

"Ha! you're like the Turks, are you? A nice-looking woman doesn't
content you--you must have her well-made too. We can accommodate you,
sir; we are slim and tall, with a swing of our hips, and we walk like a
goddess. Wait and see how her head is put on her shoulders--I say no
more. Proud? Not she! A simple, unaffected, kind-hearted creature.
Always the same; I never saw her out of temper in my life; I never
heard her speak ill of anybody. The man who gets her will be a man to
be envied, I can tell you!"

"Is she engaged to be married?"

"No. She has had plenty of offers; but she doesn't seem to care for
anything of that sort--so far. Devotes herself to Mrs. Farnaby, and
keeps up her school-friendships. A splendid creature, with the vital
thermometer at temperate heart--a calm, meditative, equable person.
Pass me the olives. Only think! the man who discovered olives is
unknown; no statue of him erected in any part of the civilized earth. I
know few more remarkable instances of human ingratitude."

I risked a bold question--but not on the subject of olives. "Isn't Miss
Regina's life rather a dull one in this house?"

The doctor cautiously lowered his voice. "It would be dull enough to
some women. Regina's early life has been a hard one. Her mother was Mr.
Ronald's eldest daughter. The old brute never forgave her for marrying
against his wishes. Mrs. Ronald did all she could, secretly, to help
the young wife in disgrace. But old Ronald had sole command of the
money, and kept it to himself. From Regina's earliest childhood there
was always distress at home. Her father harassed by creditors, trying
one scheme after another, and failing in all; her mother and herself,
half starved--with their very bedclothes sometimes at the pawnbrokers.
I attended them in their illnesses, and though they hid their
wretchedness from everybody else (proud as Lucifer, both of them!),
they couldn't hide it from me. Fancy the change to this house! I don't
say that living here in clover is enough for such a person as Regina; I
only say it has its influence. She is one of those young women, sir,
who delight in sacrificing themselves to others--she is devoted, for
instance, to Mrs. Farnaby. I only hope Mrs. Farnaby is worthy of it!
Not that it matters to Regina. What she does, she does out of her own
sweetness of disposition. She brightens this household, I can tell you!
Farnaby did a wise thing, in his own domestic interests, when he
adopted her as his daughter. She thinks she can never be grateful
enough to him--the good creature!--though she has repaid him a
hundredfold. He'll find that out, one of these days, when a husband
takes her away. Don't suppose that I want to disparage our host--he's
an old friend of mine; but he's a little too apt to take the good
things that fall to his lot as if they were nothing but a just
recognition of his own merits. I have told him that to his face, often
enough to have a right to say it of him when he doesn't hear me. Do you
smoke? I wish they would drop their politics, and take to tobacco. I
say Farnaby! I want a cigar."

This broad hint produced an adjournment to the smoking-room, the doctor
leading the way. I began to wonder how much longer my introduction to
Miss Regina was to be delayed. It was not to come until I had seen a
new side of my host's character, and had found myself promoted to a
place of my own in Mr. Farnaby's estimation.

As we rose from table one of the guests spoke to me of a visit that he
had recently paid to the part of Buckinghamshire which I come from. "I
was shown a remarkably picturesque old house on the heath," he said.
"They told me it had been inhabited for centuries by the family of the
Goldenhearts. Are you in any way related to them?" I answered that I
was very nearly related, having been born in the house--and there, as I
suppose, the matter ended. Being the youngest man of the party, I
waited, of course, until the rest of the gentlemen had passed out to
the smoking-room. Mr. Farnaby and I were left together. To my
astonishment, he put his arm cordially into mine, and led me out of the
dining-room with the genial familiarity of an old friend!

"I'll give you such a cigar," he said, "as you can't buy for money in
all London. You have enjoyed yourself, I hope? Now we know what wine
you like, you won't have to ask the butler for it next time. Drop in
any day, and take pot-luck with us." He came to a standstill in the
hall; his brassy rasping voice assumed a new tone--a sort of parody of
respect. "Have you been to your family place," he asked, "since your
return to England?"

He had evidently heard the few words exchanged between his friend and
myself. It seemed odd that he should take any interest in a place
belonging to people who were strangers to him. However, his question
was easily answered. I had only to inform him that my father had sold
the house when he left England.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry to hear that!" he said. "Those old family places
ought to be kept up. The greatness of England, sir, strikes its roots
in the old families of England. They may be rich, or they may be
poor--that don't matter. An old family _is_ an old family; it's sad to
see their hearths and homes sold to wealthy manufacturers who don't
know who their own grandfathers were. Would you allow me to ask what is
the family motto of the Goldenhearts?"

Shall I own the truth? The bottles circulated freely at Mr. Farnaby's
table--I began to wonder whether he was quite sober. I said I was sorry
to disappoint him, but I really did not know what my family motto was.

He was unaffectedly shocked. "I think I saw a ring on your finger," he
said, as soon as he recovered himself. He lifted my left hand in his
own cold-fishy paw. The one ring I wear is of plain gold; it belonged
to my father and it has his initials inscribed on the signet.

"Good gracious, you haven't got your coat-of-arms on your seal!" cried
Mr. Farnaby. "My dear sir, I am old enough to be your father, and I
must take the freedom of remonstrating with you. Your coat-of-arms and
your motto are no doubt at the Heralds' Office--why don't you apply for
them? Shall I go there for you? I will do it with pleasure. You
shouldn't be careless about these things--you shouldn't indeed."

I listened in speechless astonishment. Was he ironically expressing his
contempt for old families? We got into the smoking-room at last; and my
friend the doctor enlightened me privately in a corner. Every word Mr.
Farnaby had said had been spoken in earnest. This man, who owes his
rise from the lowest social position entirely to himself--who, judging
by his own experience, has every reason to despise the poor pride of
ancestry--actually feels a sincerely servile admiration for the
accident of birth! "Oh, poor human nature!" as Somebody says. How
cordially I agree with Somebody!

We went up to the drawing-room; and I was introduced to "the brown
girl" at last. What impression did she produce on me?

Do you know, Rufus, there is some perverse reluctance in me to go on
with this inordinately long letter just when I have arrived at the most
interesting part of it. I can't account for my own state of mind; I
only know that it is so. The difficulty of describing the young lady
doesn't perplex me like the difficulty of describing Mrs. Farnaby. I
can see her now, as vividly as if she was present in the room. I even
remember (and this is astonishing in a man) the dress that she wore.
And yet I shrink from writing about her, as if there was something
wrong in it. Do me a kindness, good friend, and let me send off all
these sheets of paper, the idle work of an idle morning, just as they
are. When I write next, I promise to be ashamed of my own capricious
state of mind, and to paint the portrait of Miss Regina at full length.

In the mean while, don't run away with the idea that she has made a
disagreeable impression upon me. Good heavens! it is far from that. You
have had the old doctor's opinion of her. Very well. Multiply this
opinion by ten--and you have mine.

[NOTE:--A strange indorsement appears on this letter, dated several
months after the period at which it was received:--_"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!"_

These lines are not signed. They are known, however, to be in the
handwriting of Rufus Dingwell.]

CHAPTER 2

I particularly want you to come and lunch with us, dearest Cecilia, the
day after tomorrow. Don't say to yourself, "The Farnaby's house is
dull, and Regina is too slow for me," and don't think about the long
drive for the horses, from your place to London. This letter has an
interest of its own, my dear--I have got something new for you. What do
you think of a young man, who is clever and handsome and
agreeable--and, wonder of wonders, quite unlike any other young
Englishman you ever saw in your life? You are to meet him at luncheon;
and you are to get used to his strange name beforehand. For which
purpose I enclose his card.

He made his first appearance at our house, at dinner yesterday evening.

When he was presented to me at the tea-table, he was not to be put off
with a bow--he insisted on shaking hands. "Where I have been," he
explained, "we help a first introduction with a little cordiality." He
looked into his tea-cup, after he said that, with the air of a man who
could say something more, if he had a little encouragement. Of course,
I encouraged him. "I suppose shaking hands is much the same form in
America that bowing is in England?" I said, as suggestively as I could.

He looked up directly, and shook his head. "We have too many forms in
this country," he said. "The virtue of hospitality, for instance, seems
to have become a form in England. In America, when a new acquaintance
says, 'Come and see me,' he means it. When he says it here, in nine
cases out of ten he looks unaffectedly astonished if you are fool
enough to take him at his word. I hate insincerity, Miss Regina--and
now I have returned to my own country, I find insincerity one of the
established institutions of English Society. 'Can we do anything for
you?' Ask them to do something for you--and you will see what it means.
'Thank you for such a pleasant evening!' Get into the carriage with
them when they go home--and you will find that it means, 'What a bore!'
'Ah, Mr. So-and-so, allow me to congratulate you on your new
appointment.' Mr. So-and-so passes out of hearing--and you discover
what the congratulations mean. 'Corrupt old brute! he has got the price
of his vote at the last division.' 'Oh, Mr. Blank, what a charming book
you have written!' Mr. Blank passes out of hearing--and you ask what
his book is about. 'To tell you the truth, I haven't read it. Hush!
he's received at Court; one must say these things.' The other day a
friend took me to a grand dinner at the Lord Mayor's. I accompanied him
first to his club; many distinguished guests met there before going to
the dinner. Heavens, how they spoke of the Lord Mayor! One of them
didn't know his name, and didn't want to know it; another wasn't
certain whether he was a tallow-chandler or a button-maker; a third,
who had met with him somewhere, described him as a damned ass; a fourth
said, 'Oh, don't be hard on him; he's only a vulgar old Cockney,
without an _h_ in his whole composition.' A chorus of general agreement
followed, as the dinner-hour approached: 'What a bore!' I whispered to
my friend, 'Why do they go?' He answered, 'You see, one must do this
sort of thing.' And when we got to the Mansion House, they did that
sort of thing with a vengeance! When the speech-making set in, these
very men who had been all expressing their profound contempt for the
Lord Mayor behind his back, now flattered him to his face in such a
shamelessly servile way, with such a meanly complete insensibility to
their own baseness, that I did really and literally turn sick. I
slipped out into the fresh air, and fumigated myself, after the company
I had kept, with a cigar. No, no! it's useless to excuse these things
(I could quote dozens of other instances that have come under my own
observation) by saying that they are trifles. When trifles make
themselves habits of yours or of mine, they become a part of your
character or mine. We have an inveterately false and vicious system of
society in England. If you want to trace one of the causes, look back
to the little organized insincerities of English life."

Of course you understand, Cecilia, that this was not all said at one
burst, as I have written it here. Some of it came out in the way of
answers to my inquiries, and some of it was spoken in the intervals of
laughing, talking, and tea-drinking. But I want to show you how very
different this young man is from the young men whom we are in the habit
of meeting, and so I huddle his talk together in one sample, as Papa
Farnaby would call it.

My dear, he is decidedly handsome (I mean our delightful Amelius); his
face has a bright, eager look, indescribably refreshing as a contrast
to the stolid composure of the ordinary young Englishman. His smile is
charming; he moves as gracefully--with as little self-consciousness--as
my Italian greyhound. He has been brought up among the strangest people
in America; and (would you believe it?) he is actually a Socialist.
Don't be alarmed. He shocked us all dreadfully by declaring that his
Socialism was entirely learnt out of the New Testament. I have looked
at the New Testament, since he mentioned some of his principles to me;
and, do you know, I declare it is true!

Oh, I forgot--the young Socialist plays and sings! When we asked him to
go to the piano, he got up and began directly. "I don't do it well
enough," he said, "to want a great deal of pressing." He sang old
English songs, with great taste and sweetness. One of the gentlemen of
our party, evidently disliking him, spoke rather rudely, I thought. "A
Socialist who sings and plays," he said, "is a harmless Socialist
indeed. I begin to feel that my balance is safe at my banker's, and
that London won't be set on fire with petroleum this time." He got his
answer, I can tell you. "Why should we set London on fire? London takes
a regular percentage of your income from you, sir, whether you like it
or not, on sound Socialist principles. You are the man who has got the
money, and Socialism says:--You must and shall help the man who has got
none. That is exactly what your own Poor Law says to you, every time
the collector leaves the paper at your house." Wasn't it clever?--and
it was doubly severe, because it was good-humouredly said.

Between ourselves, Cecilia, I think he is struck with me. When I walked
about the room, his bright eyes followed me everywhere. And, when I
took a chair by somebody else, not feeling it quite right to keep him
all to myself, he invariably contrived to find a seat on the other side
of me. His voice, too, had a certain tone, addressed to me, and to no
other person in the room. Judge for yourself when you come here; but
don't jump to conclusions, if you please. Oh no--I am not going to fall
in love with him! It isn't in me to fall in love with anybody. Do you
remember what the last man whom I refused said of me? "She has a
machine on the left side of her that pumps blood through her body, but
she has no heart." I pity the woman who marries _that_ man!

One thing more, my dear. This curious Amelius seems to notice trifles
which escape men in general, just as _we_ do. Towards the close of the
evening, poor Mamma Farnaby fell into one of her vacant states; half
asleep and half awake on the sofa in the back drawing-room. "Your aunt
interests me," he whispered. "She must have suffered some terrible
sorrow, at some past time in her life." Fancy a man seeing that! He
dropped some hints, which showed that he was puzzling his brains to
discover how I got on with her, and whether I was in her confidence or
not: he even went the length of asking what sort of life I led with the
uncle and aunt who have adopted me. My dear, it was done so delicately,
with such irresistible sympathy and such a charming air of respect,
that I was quite startled when I remembered, in the wakeful hours of
the night, how freely I had spoken to him. Not that I have betrayed any
secrets; for, as you know, I am as ignorant as everybody else of what
the early troubles of my poor dear aunt may have been. But I did tell
him how I came into the house a helpless little orphan girl; and how
generously these two good relatives adopted me; and how happy it made
me to find that I could really do something to cheer their sad
childless lives. "I wish I was half as good as you are," he said. "I
can't understand how you became fond of Mrs. Farnaby. Perhaps it began
in sympathy and compassion?" Just think of that, from a young
Englishman! He went on confessing his perplexities, as if we had known
one another from childhood. "I am a little surprised to see Mrs.
Farnaby present at parties of this sort; I should have thought she
would have stayed in her own room." "That's just what she objects to
do," I answered; "She says people will report that her husband is
ashamed of her, or that she is not fit to be seen in society, if she
doesn't appear at the parties--and she is determined not to be
misrepresented in that way." Can you understand my talking to him with
so little reserve? It is a specimen, Cecilia, of the odd manner in
which my impulses carry me away, in this man's company. He is so nice
and gentle--and yet so manly. I shall be curious to see if you can
resist him, with your superior firmness and knowledge of the world.

But the strangest incident of all I have not told you yet--feeling some
hesitation about the best way of describing it, so as to interest you
in what has deeply interested me. I must tell it as plainly as I can,
and leave it to speak for itself.

Who do you think has invited Amelius Goldenheart to luncheon? Not Papa
Farnaby, who only invites him to dinner. Not I, it is needless to say.
Who is it, then? Mamma Farnaby herself. He has actually so interested
her that she has been thinking of him, and dreaming of him, in his
absence!

I heard her last night, poor thing, talking and grinding her teeth in
her sleep; and I went into her room to try if I could quiet her, in the
usual way, by putting my cool hand on her forehead, and pressing it
gently. (The old doctor says it's magnetism, which is ridiculous.)
Well, it didn't succeed this time; she went on muttering, and making
that dreadful sound with her teeth. Occasionally a word was spoken
clearly enough to be intelligible. I could make no connected sense of
what I heard; but I could positively discover this--that she was
dreaming of our guest from America!

I said nothing about it, of course, when I went upstairs with her cup
of tea this morning. What do you think was the first thing she asked
for? Pen, ink, and paper. Her next request was that I would write Mr.
Goldenheart's address on an envelope. "Are you going to write to him?"
I asked. "Yes," she said, "I want to speak to him, while John is out of
the way at business," "Secrets?" I said, turning it off with a laugh.
She answered, speaking gravely and earnestly. "Yes; secrets." The
letter was written, and sent to his hotel, inviting him to lunch with
us on the first day when he was disengaged. He has replied, appointing
the day after tomorrow. By way of trying to penetrate the mystery, I
inquired if she wished me to appear at the luncheon. She considered
with herself, before she answered that. "I want him to be amused, and
put in a good humour," she said, "before I speak to him. You must lunch
with us--and ask Cecilia." She stopped, and considered once more. "Mind
one thing," she went on. "Your uncle is to know nothing about it. If
you tell him, I will never speak to you again."

Is this not extraordinary? Whatever her dream may have been, it has
evidently produced a strong impression on her. I firmly believe she
means to take him away with her to her own room, when the luncheon is
over. Dearest Cecilia, you must help me to stop this! I have never been
trusted with her secrets; they may, for all I know, be innocent secrets
enough, poor soul! But it is surely in the highest degree undesirable
that she should take into her confidence a young man who is only an
acquaintance of ours: she will either make herself ridiculous, or do
something worse. If Mr. Farnaby finds it out, I really tremble for what
may happen.

For the sake of old friendship, don't leave me to face this difficulty
by myself. A line, only one line, dearest, to say that you will not
fail me.

BOOK THE THIRD

MRS. FARNABY'S FOOT

CHAPTER 1

It is an afternoon concert; and modern German music was largely
represented on the programme. The patient English people sat in
closely-packed rows, listening to the pretentious instrumental noises
which were impudently offered to them as a substitute for melody. While
these docile victims of the worst of all quackeries (musical quackery)
were still toiling through their first hour of endurance, a passing
ripple of interest stirred the stagnant surface of the audience caused
by the sudden rising of a lady overcome by the heat. She was quickly
led out of the concert-room (after whispering a word of explanation to
two young ladies seated at her side) by a gentleman who made a fourth
member of the party. Left by themselves, the young ladies looked at
each other, whispered to each other, half rose from their places,
became confusedly conscious that the wandering attention of the
audience was fixed on them, and decided at last on following their
companions out of the hall.

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