Shell Oil Company - "Let's collect rocks & shells"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Life of John of Barneveld, 1609"

Leonard Huxley - "The Life and Letters of Thomas Henry Huxley Volume 1"

John Thomas Simpson - "Hidden Treasure"

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




But the lady who had preceded them had some reason of her own for not
waiting to recover herself in the vestibule. When the gentleman in
charge of her asked if he should get a glass of water, she answered
sharply, "Get a cab--and be quick about it."

The cab was found in a moment; the gentleman got in after her, by the
lady's invitation. "Are you better now?" he asked.

"I have never had anything the matter with me," she replied, quietly;
"tell the man to drive faster."

Having obeyed his instructions, the gentleman (otherwise Amelius) began
to look a little puzzled. The lady (Mrs. Farnaby herself) perceived his
condition of mind, and favoured him with an explanation.

"I had my own motive for asking you to luncheon today," she began, in
that steady downright way of speaking that was peculiar to her. "I
wanted to have a word with you privately. My niece Regina--don't be
surprised at my calling her my niece, when you have heard Mr. Farnaby
call her his daughter. She _is_ my niece. Adopting her is a mere
phrase. It doesn't alter facts; it doesn't make her Mr. Farnaby's child
or mine, does it?"

She had ended with a question, but she seemed to want no answer to it.
Her face was turned towards the cab-window, instead of towards Amelius.
He was one of those rare people who are capable of remaining silent
when they have nothing to say. Mrs. Farnaby went on.

"My niece Regina is a good creature in her way; but she suspects
people. She has some reason of her own for trying to prevent me from
taking you into my confidence; and her friend Cecilia is helping her.
Yes, yes; the concert was the obstacle which they had arranged to put
in my way. You were obliged to go, after telling them you wanted to
hear the music; and I couldn't complain, because they had got a fourth
ticket for me. I made up my mind what to do; and I have done it.
Nothing wonderful in my being taken ill with the heat; nothing
wonderful in your doing your duty as a gentleman and looking after
me--and what is the consequence? Here we are together, on our way to my
room, in spite of them. Not so bad for a poor helpless creature like
me, is it?"

Inwardly wondering what it all meant, and what she could possibly want
with him, Amelius suggested that the young ladies might leave the
concert-room, and, not finding them in the vestibule, might follow them
back to the house.

Mrs. Farnaby turned her head from the window, and looked him in the
face for the first time. "I have been a match for them so far," she
said; "leave it to me, and you will find I can be a match for them
still."

After saying this, she watched the puzzled face of Amelius with a
moment's steady scrutiny. Her full lips relaxed into a faint smile; her
head sank slowly on her bosom. "I wonder whether he thinks I am a
little crazy?" she said quietly to herself. "Some women in my place
would have gone mad years ago. Perhaps it might have been better for
_me?"_ She looked up again at Amelius. "I believe you are a
good-tempered fellow," she went on. "Are you in your usual temper now?
Did you enjoy your lunch? Has the lively company of the young ladies
put you in a good humour with women generally? I want you to be in a
particularly good humour with me."

She spoke quite gravely. Amelius, a little to his own astonishment,
found himself answering gravely on his side; assuring her, in the most
conventional terms, that he was entirely at her service. Something in
her manner affected him disagreeably. If he had followed his impulse,
he would have jumped out of the cab, and have recovered his liberty and
his light-heartedness at one and the same moment, by running away at
the top of his speed.

The driver turned into the street in which Mr. Farnaby's house was
situated. Mrs. Farnaby stopped him, and got out at some little distance
from the door. "You think the young ones will follow us back," she said
to Amelius. "It doesn't matter, the servants will have nothing to tell
them if they do." She checked him in the act of knocking, when they
reached the house door. "It's tea-time downstairs," she whispered,
looking at her watch. "You and I are going into the house, without
letting the servants know anything about it. _Now_ do you understand?"

She produced from her pocket a steel ring, with several keys attached
to it. "A duplicate of Mr. Farnaby's key," she explained, as she chose
one, and opened the street door. "Sometimes, when I find myself waking
in the small hours of the morning, I can't endure my bed; I must go out
and walk. My key lets me in again, just as it lets us in now, without
disturbing anybody. You had better say nothing about it to Mr. Farnaby.
Not that it matters much; for I should refuse to give up my key if he
asked me. But you're a good-natured fellow--and you don't want to make
bad blood between man and wife, do you? Step softly, and follow me."

Amelius hesitated. There was something repellent to him in entering
another man's house under these clandestine conditions. "All right!"
whispered Mrs. Farnaby, perfectly understanding him. "Consult your
dignity; go out again, and knock at the door, and ask if I am at home.
I only wanted to prevent a fuss and an interruption when Regina comes
back. If the servants don't know we are here, they will tell her we
haven't returned--don't you see?"

It would have been absurd to contest the matter, after this. Amelius
followed her submissively to the farther end of the hall. There, she
opened the door of a long narrow room, built out at the back of the
house.

"This is my den," she said, signing to Amelius to pass in. "While we
are here, nobody will disturb us." She laid aside her bonnet and shawl,
and pointed to a box of cigars on the table. "Take one," she resumed.
"I smoke too, when nobody sees me. That's one of the reasons, I dare
say, why Regina wished to keep you out of my room. I find smoking
composes me. What do _you_ say?"

She lit a cigar, and handed the matches to Amelius. Finding that he
stood fairly committed to the adventure, he resigned himself to
circumstances with his customary facility. He too lit a cigar, and took
a chair by the fire, and looked about him with an impenetrable
composure worthy of Rufus Dingwell himself.

The room bore no sort of resemblance to a boudoir. A faded old turkey
carpet was spread on the floor. The common mahogany table had no
covering; the chintz on the chairs was of a truly venerable age. Some
of the furniture made the place look like a room occupied by a man.
Dumb-bells and clubs of the sort used in athletic exercises hung over
the bare mantelpiece; a large ugly oaken structure with closed doors,
something between a cabinet and a wardrobe, rose on one side to the
ceiling; a turning lathe stood against the opposite wall. Above the
lathe were hung in a row four prints, in dingy old frames of black
wood, which especially attracted the attention of Amelius. Mostly
foreign prints, they were all discoloured by time, and they all
strangely represented different aspects of the same subject--infants
parted from their parents by desertion or robbery. The young Moses was
there, in his ark of bulrushes, on the river bank. Good St. Francis
appeared next, roaming the streets, and rescuing forsaken children in
the wintry night. A third print showed the foundling hospital of old
Paris, with the turning cage in the wall, and the bell to ring when the
infant was placed in it. The next and last subject was the stealing of
a child from the lap of its slumbering nurse by a gipsy woman. These
sadly suggestive subjects were the only ornaments on the walls. No
traces of books or music were visible; no needlework of any sort was to
be seen; no elegant trifles; no china or flowers or delicate lacework
or sparkling jewelry--nothing, absolutely nothing, suggestive of a
woman's presence appeared in any part of Mrs. Farnaby's room.

"I have got several things to say to you," she began; "but one thing
must be settled first. Give me your sacred word of honour that you will
not repeat to any mortal creature what I am going to tell you now." She
reclined in her chair, and drew in a mouthful of smoke and puffed it
out again, and waited for his reply.

Young and unsuspicious as he was, this unscrupulous method of taking
his confidence by storm startled Amelius. His natural tact and good
sense told him plainly that Mrs. Farnaby was asking too much.

"Don't be angry with me, ma'am," he said; "I must remind you that you
are going to tell me your secrets, without any wish to intrude on them
on my part--"

She interrupted him there. "What does that matter?" she asked coolly.

Amelius was obstinate; he went on with what he had to say. "I should
like to know," he proceeded, "that I am doing no wrong to anybody,
before I give you my promise?"

"You will be doing a kindness to a miserable creature," she answered,
as quietly as ever; "and you will be doing no wrong to yourself or to
anybody else, if you promise. That is all I can say. Your cigar is out.
Take a light."

Amelius took a light, with the dog-like docility of a man in a state of
blank amazement. She waited, watching him composedly until his cigar
was in working order again.

"Well?" she asked. "Will you promise now?"

Amelius gave her his promise.

"On your sacred word of honour?" she persisted.

Amelius repeated the formula. She reclined in her chair once more. "I
want to speak to you as if I was speaking to an old friend," she
explained. "I suppose I may call you Amelius?"

"Certainly."

"Well, Amelius, I must tell you first that I committed a sin, many long
years ago. I have suffered the punishment; I am suffering it still.
Ever since I was a young woman, I have had a heavy burden of misery on
my heart. I am not reconciled to it, I cannot submit to it, yet. I
never shall be reconciled to it, I never shall submit to it, if I live
to be a hundred. Do you wish me to enter into particulars? or will you
have mercy on me, and be satisfied with what I have told you so far?"

It was not said entreatingly, or tenderly, or humbly: she spoke with a
savage self-contained resignation in her manner and in her voice.
Amelius forgot his cigar again--and again she reminded him of it. He
answered her as his own generous impulsive temperament urged him; he
said, "Tell me nothing that causes you a moment's pain; tell me only
how I can help you." She handed him the box of matches; she said, "Your
cigar is out again."

He laid down his cigar. In his brief span of life he had seen no human
misery that expressed itself in this way. "Excuse me," he answered; "I
won't smoke just now."

She laid her cigar aside like Amelius, and crossed her arms over her
bosom, and looked at him, with the first softening gleam of tenderness
that he had seen in her face. "My friend," she said, "yours will be a
sad life--I pity you. The world will wound that sensitive heart of
yours; the world will trample on that generous nature. One of these
days, perhaps, you will be a wretch like me. No more of that. Get up; I
have something to show you."

Rising herself, she led the way to the large oaken press, and took her
bunch of keys out of her pocket again.

"About this old sorrow of mine," she resumed. "Do me justice, Amelius,
at the outset. I haven't treated it as some women treat their
sorrows--I haven't nursed it and petted it and made the most of it to
myself and to others. No! I have tried every means of relief, every
possible pursuit that could occupy my mind. One example of what I say
will do as well as a hundred. See it for yourself."

She put the key in the lock. It resisted her first efforts to open it.
With a contemptuous burst of impatience and a sudden exertion of her
rare strength, she tore open the two doors of the press. Behind the
door on the left appeared a row of open shelves. The opposite
compartment, behind the door on the right, was filled by drawers with
brass handles. She shut the left door; angrily banging it to, as if the
opening of it had disclosed something which she did not wish to be
seen. By the merest chance, Amelius had looked that way first. In the
one instant in which it was possible to see anything, he had noticed,
carefully laid out on one of the shelves, a baby's long linen frock and
cap, turned yellow by the lapse of time.

The half-told story of the past was more than half told now. The
treasured relics of the infant threw their little glimmer of light on
the motive which had chosen the subjects of the prints on the wall. A
child deserted and lost! A child who, by bare possibility, might be
living still!

She turned towards Amelius suddenly, "There is nothing to interest you
on _that_ side," she said. "Look at the drawers here; open them for
yourself." She drew back as she spoke, and pointed to the uppermost of
the row of drawers. A narrow slip of paper was pasted on it, bearing
this inscription:--_"Dead Consolations."_

Amelius opened the drawer; it was full of books. "Look at them," she
said. Amelius, obeying her, discovered dictionaries, grammars,
exercises, poems, novels, and histories--all in the German language.

"A foreign language tried as a relief," said Mrs. Farnaby, speaking
quietly behind him. "Month after month of hard study--all forgotten
now. The old sorrow came back in spite of it. A dead consolation! Open
the next drawer."

The next drawer revealed water-colours and drawing materials huddled
together in a corner, and a heap of poor little conventional landscapes
filling up the rest of the space. As works of art, they were wretched
in the last degree; monuments of industry and application miserably and
completely thrown away.

"I had no talent for that pursuit, as you see," said Mrs. Farnaby. "But
I persevered with it, week after week, month after month. I thought to
myself, 'I hate it so, it costs me such dreadful trouble, it so worries
and persecutes and humiliates me, that _this_ surely must keep my mind
occupied and my thoughts away from myself!' No; the old sorrow stared
me in the face again on the paper that I was spoiling, through the
colours that I couldn't learn to use. Another dead consolation! Shut it
up."

She herself opened a third and a fourth drawer. In one there appeared a
copy of Euclid, and a slate with the problems still traced on it; the
other contained a microscope, and the treatises relating to its use.
"Always the same effort," she said, shutting the door of the press as
she spoke; "and always the same result. You have had enough of it, and
so have I." She turned, and pointed to the lathe in the corner, and to
the clubs and dumb-bells over the mantelpiece. "I can look at _them_
patiently," she went on; "they give me bodily relief. I work at the
lathe till my back aches; I swing the clubs till I'm ready to drop with
fatigue. And then I lie down on the rug there, and sleep it off, and
forget myself for an hour or two. Come back to the fire again. You have
seen my dead consolations; you must hear about my living consolation
next. In justice to Mr. Farnaby--ah, how I hate him!"

She spoke those last vehement words to herself, but with such intense
bitterness of contempt that the tones were quite loud enough to be
heard. Amelius looked furtively towards the door. Was there no hope
that Regina and her friend might return and interrupt them? After what
he had seen and heard, could _he_ hope to console Mrs. Farnaby? He
could only wonder what object she could possibly have in view in taking
him into her confidence. "Am I always to be in a mess with women?" he
thought to himself. "First poor Mellicent, and now this one. What
next?" He lit his cigar again. The brotherhood of smokers, and they
alone, will understand what a refuge it was to him at that moment.

"Give me a light," said Mrs. Farnaby, recalled to the remembrance of
her own cigar. "I want to know one thing before I go on. Amelius, I
watched those bright eyes of yours at luncheon-time. Did they tell me
the truth? You're not in love with my niece, are you?"

Amelius took his cigar out of his mouth, and looked at her.

"Out with it boldly!" she said.

Amelius let it out, to a certain extent. "I admire her very much," he
answered.

"Ah," Mrs. Farnaby remarked, "you don't know her as well as I do."

The disdainful indifference of her tone irritated Amelius. He was still
young enough to believe in the existence of gratitude; and Mrs. Farnaby
had spoken ungratefully. Besides, he was fond enough of Regina already
to feel offended when she was referred to slightingly.

"I am surprised to hear what you say of her," he burst out. "She is
quite devoted to you."

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Farnaby, carelessly. "She is devoted to me, of
course--she is the living consolation I told you of just now. That was
Mr. Farnaby's notion in adopting her. Mr. Farnaby thought to himself,
'Here's a ready-made daughter for my wife--that's all this tiresome
woman wants to comfort her: now we shall do.' Do you know what I call
that? I call it reasoning like an idiot. A man may be very clever at
his business--and may be a contemptible fool in other respects. Another
woman's child a consolation to _me!_ Pah! it makes me sick to think of
it. I have one merit, Amelius, I don't cant. It's my duty to take care
of my sister's child; and I do my duty willingly. Regina's a good sort
of creature--I don't dispute it. But she's like all those tall darkish
women: there's no backbone in her, no dash; a kind, feeble,
goody-goody, sugarish disposition; and a deal of quiet obstinacy at the
bottom of it, I can tell you. Oh yes, I do her justice; I don't deny
that she's devoted to me, as you say. But I am making a clean breast of
it now. And you ought to know, and you shall know, that Mr. Farnaby's
living consolation is no more a consolation to me than the things you
have seen in the drawers. There! now we've done with Regina. No:
there's one thing more to be cleared up. When you say you admire her,
what do you mean? Do you mean to marry her?"

For once in his life Amelius stood on his dignity. "I have too much
respect for the young lady to answer your question," he said loftily.

"Because, if you do," Mrs. Farnaby proceeded, "I mean to put every
possible obstacle in your way. In short, I mean to prevent it."

This plain declaration staggered Amelius. He confessed the truth by
implication in one word.

"Why?" he asked sharply.

"Wait a little, and recover your temper," she answered.

There was a pause. They sat, on either side of the fireplace, and eyed
each other attentively.

"Now are you ready?" Mrs. Farnaby resumed. "Here is my reason. If you
marry Regina, or marry anybody, you will settle down somewhere, and
lead a dull life."

"Well," said Amelius; "and why not, if I like it?"

"Because I want you to remain a roving bachelor; here today and gone
tomorrow--travelling all over the world, and seeing everything and
everybody."

"What good will that do to _you,_ Mrs. Farnaby?"

She rose from her own side of the fireplace, crossed to the side on
which Amelius was sitting, and, standing before him, placed her hands
heavily on his shoulders. Her eyes grew radiant with a sudden interest
and animation as they looked down on him, riveted on his face.

"I am still waiting, my friend, for the living consolation that may yet
come to me," she said. "And, hear this, Amelius! After all the years
that have passed, you may be the man who brings it to me."

In the momentary silence that followed, they heard a double knock at
the house-door.

"Regina!" said Mrs. Farnaby.

As the name passed her lips, she sprang to the door of the room, and
turned the key in the lock.



CHAPTER 2

Amelius rose impulsively from his chair.

Mrs. Farnaby turned at the same moment, and signed to him to resume his
seat. "You have given me your promise," she whispered. "All I ask of
you is to be silent." She softly drew the key out of the door, and
showed it to him. "You can't get out," she said, "unless you take the
key from me by force!"

Whatever Amelius might think of the situation in which he now found
himself, the one thing that he could honourably do was to say nothing,
and submit to it. He remained quietly by the fire. No imaginable
consideration (he mentally resolved) should induce him to consent to a
second confidential interview in Mrs. Farnaby's room.

The servant opened the house-door. Regina's voice was heard in the
hall.

"Has my aunt come in?"

"No, miss."

"Have you heard nothing of her?"

"Nothing, miss."

"Has Mr. Goldenheart been here?"

"No, miss."

"Very extraordinary! What can have become of them, Cecilia?"

The voice of the other lady was heard in answer. "We have probably
missed them, on leaving the concert room. Don't alarm yourself, Regina.
I must go back, under any circumstances; the carriage will be waiting
for me. If I see anything of your aunt, I will say that you are
expecting her at home."

"One moment, Cecilia! (Thomas, you needn't wait.) Is it really true
that you don't like Mr. Goldenheart?"

"What! has it come to that, already? I'll try to like him, Regina.
Goodbye again."

The closing of the street door told that the ladies had separated. The
sound was followed, in another moment, by the opening and closing of
the dining-room door. Mrs. Farnaby returned to her chair at the
fireplace.

"Regina has gone into the dining-room to wait for us," she said. "I see
you don't like your position here; and I won't keep you more than a few
minutes longer. You are of course at a loss to understand what I was
saying to you, when the knock at the door interrupted us. Sit down
again for five minutes; it fidgets me to see you standing there,
looking at your boots. I told you I had one consolation still possibly
left. Judge for yourself what the hope of it is to me, when I own to
you that I should long since have put an end to my life, without it.
Don't think I am talking nonsense; I mean what I say. It is one of my
misfortunes that I have no religious scruples to restrain me. There was
a time when I believed that religion might comfort me. I once opened my
heart to a clergyman--a worthy person, who did his best to help me. All
useless! My heart was too hard, I suppose. It doesn't matter--except to
give you one more proof that I am thoroughly in earnest. Patience!
patience! I am coming to the point. I asked you some odd questions, on
the day when you first dined here? You have forgotten all about them,
of course?"

"I remember them perfectly well," Amelius answered.

"You remember them? That looks as if you had thought about them
afterwards. Come! tell me plainly what you did think?"

Amelius told her plainly. She became more and more interested, more and
more excited, as he went on.

"Quite right!" she exclaimed, starting to her feet and walking swiftly
backwards and forwards in the room. "There _is_ a lost girl whom I want
to find; and she is between sixteen and seventeen years old, as you
thought. Mind! I have no reason--not the shadow of a reason--for
believing that she is still a living creature. I have only my own
stupid obstinate conviction; rooted here," she pressed both hands
fiercely on her heart, "so that nothing can tear it out of me! I have
lived in that belief--Oh, don't ask me how long! it is so far, so
miserably far, to look back!" She stopped in the middle of the room.
Her breath came and went in quick heavy gasps; the first tears that had
softened the hard wretchedness in her eyes rose in them now, and
transfigured them with the divine beauty of maternal love. "I won't
distress you," she said, stamping on the floor, as she struggled with
the hysterical passion that was raging in her. "Give me a minute, and
I'll force it down again."

She dropped into a chair, threw her arms heavily on the table, and laid
her head on them. Amelius thought of the child's frock and cap hidden
in the cabinet. All that was manly and noble in his nature felt for the
unhappy woman, whose secret was dimly revealed to him now. The little
selfish sense of annoyance at the awkward situation in which she had
placed him, vanished to return no more. He approached her, and put his
hand gently on her shoulder. "I am truly sorry for you," he said. "Tell
me how I can help you, and I will do it with all my heart."

"Do you really mean that?" She roughly dashed the tears from her eyes,
and rose as she put the question. Holding him with one hand, she parted
the hair back from his forehead with the other. "I must see your whole
face," she said--"your face will tell me. Yes: you do mean it. The
world hasn't spoilt you, yet. Do you believe in dreams?"

Amelius looked at her, startled by the sudden transition. She
deliberately repeated her question.

"I ask you seriously," she said; "do you believe in dreams?"

Amelius answered seriously, on his side, "I can't honestly say that I
do."

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "like me. I don't believe in dreams, either--I
wish I did! But it's not in me to believe in superstitions; I'm too
hard--and I'm sorry for it. I have seen people who were comforted by
their superstitions; happy people, possessed of faith. Don't you even
believe that dreams are sometimes fulfilled by chance?"