^, *^.^a2. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3; /. V.x 1.0 1.1 1.25 ■^ 1^ 12.2 ^ m 12.0 III— U IIIIII.6 ^ ^. V] /] A ^ J> > '^ > y /^ Photographic Sciences Corpomtion 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4503 N? \ \\ A v <8^/V i\ ■^ CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques Technical and Bibliographic Notaa/Notat tachniquaa at bibliographiquas The Institute has attempted to obtain the beat original copy available for filming. Features of this copy which may be bibliographically unique, which may alter any of the images In the reproduction, or which may significantly change the usual method of filming, are checked below. D D n D D n □ n n Coloured covers/ Couverture de couleur Covers damaged/ Couverture endommagde Covers restored and/or laminated/ Couverture restaurde et/ou pelllcul6e Cover title missing/ Le titre de couverture manque Coioured maps/ Cartes gdographiques en couleur Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/ Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) Coloured plates and/or illustrations/ Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur Bound with other material/ Reli6 avec d'autres documents Tight binding miy cause shadows or distortion along interior margin/ La reliure serr^e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion le long de la marge intirieure Blank leavec added during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajouties lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte, mais, lorsque cela 6tait possible, ces pages n'ont pas 6t6 filmies. Additional comments:/ Commentaires suppldmentaires: L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire qu'il lui a AtA possible de se procurer. Les details de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-Atre uniques du p.iint de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une Image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une modification dans la mithode normale de filmage sont indiquAs ci-dessous. □ Coloured pages/ Pages de couleur □ Pages damaged/ Pages endommag^as I I Pages restored and/or laminated/ D Pages restauries et/ou pelliculdes Pages discoloured, stained or foxei Pages d6color6es, tacheties ou piqu^es Pages detached/ Pages d6tach6es Showthrough/ Transparence Quality of prir Qualitd indgale de i'impression Includes supplementary materii Comprend du matiriel supplementaire Only edition available/ Seule Edition disponible r~n Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ I I Pages detached/ r~^ Showthrough/ I I Quality of print varies/ I I Includes supplementary material/ I I Only edition available/ T s T y\ IV d ei bi ri re rr Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been ref limed to ensure the best possible image/ Les pages totalemont ou partiellement obscurciss par un feuiliet d'errata, une palure, etc., ont 6X6 film6es it nouveau de fapon 6 obtenir la meilleure image possible. This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est film4 au 'iaux de rMuction indiqu6 ci-dessous. 10X 14X 18X 22X 26X SOX y 12X 16X 20X 24X 28X 32X The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks to the generosity of: National Library of Canada L'exemplaire film6 fut reproduit grAce d la gAn4rosit6 de: Bibliothdque nationale du Canada The images appearing here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in iteeping with the filming contract specifications. Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. Tne last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the syiv^bol —»> (meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the syryibol V (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratit s. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les images suivantes ont it6 reproduites avec le plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et de la nettet« de l'exemplaire film6, et en conformit6 avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture e i papier est imprimis sont film«s en commenpant par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film6s en ccmmenpant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaltra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbols — ►signifie "A SUIVRE", Is symbols V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmfo d des taux de rdduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est film6 d partir de I'angle supireur gauche, de gauche d droite. et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n6cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mithode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 i 4 • 6 7 THE FALLEN LEAVES. lobtL BY WILKIE COLLI]V[S, Author of " The Woman in White," " Man and Wife," " The Haunted Hotel," " Poor Miss Finch," " The New Magdalen," d:c. CANADIAN COPYRIO-HT EDITIOI^. ROSE-BELFORD PUBLISHING COMPANY. MDCCCLXXIX. / Entered according: to Act of the Parlia- ment of Canada, in the year one thoU' sand eight hundred and seventy-nine, by \YiLKiR Collins, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture. a h r ti h d PRINTED AND BOUND BY HUNTER, ROSE & CO., TORONTO. th lii m THE FALLEN LEAVES. ibe prologue. I. I HE resistless influences which are one day to reign supreme over our poor hearts, and to shape the sad short course of our lives, are sometimes of mysteriously remote ori- gin, and find their devious ways to us through the hearts and the lives of strangers. While the young man whose troubled career it is here pro- posed to follow was wearing his first jacket, and bowling his first hoop, a domestic misfortune, falling on a household of strangers, was destined nevertheless to have its ultimate influ- ence over his happiness, and to shape the whole aftercourse of his life. For this reason, some First Words must precede the Story, and must present the brief narrative of what happened in the household of strangers. By what devious ways the event here related affected the chief personage of these pages, as he grew to manhood, it will be the business of the story to trace, over land and sea, among men and women, in bright days and dull days alike, until the end is reached and the pen (God willing) is put back in the desk. II. Old Benjamin Ronald (of the Stationers' Company) took a young wife at the ripe age of fifty, and carried with him into the holy state of matrimony some of the habits of his bachelor life. As a bachelor, he hid never willingly left his shop (situated in that exclusively commercial region of London which is called 2 6 THE FALLEN LEAVES. ' the City ') from one year's end to another. As a married man, he persisted in following the same monotonous course ; with this one difference, that he now had a woman to follow it with him. ' Travelling by railway,' he explained to his wife, * will make your head ache — it makes my head ache. Travelling by sea will make you sick — it makes me sick. If you want change of air, every sort is to be found in the City. If you admire the beauties of Nature, there is Finsbury-square with the beauties of Nature carefully selected and arranged. When we are in London, you (and I) are all right : and when we are out of London, you (and I) are all wrong.' As surely as the autumn holiday season set in, so surely Old Ronald resisted his wife's petition for a change of scene in that form of words. A man habitually fortified behind his oAvn inbred obstinacy and selfishness is for the most part an irresistible power within the limits of his domestic circle. As a rule, patient Mrs. Ro- nald yielded, and her husband stood revealed to his neigh- bours in the glorious character of a married man who had his own way. But in the autumn of 1856, the retribution which sooner or later descends on despotisms, great and small, overtook the iron rule of Old Ronald, and defeated the domestic tyrant on the battlefield of his own fireside. The children born of the marriage, two in number, were both daughters. The elder had mortally offended her father by marrying imprudently in a pecuniary sense. He had declared that she should never enter his house again ; and he had mer- cilessly kept his word. The younger daughter (now eighteen years of age) proved to be also a source of parental inquietude, in another way. She was the passive cause of the revolt which set her father's authority at defiance. For some little time past she had been out of health. After many ineffectual trials of the mild influence of persuasion, her mother's patience at last gave way. Mrs. Ronald insisted — yes, actually insisted — on taking Miss Emma to the seaside. < What's the matter with you 1 ' Old Ronald asked ; detect- ing something that perplexed him in his wife's look and manner, on the memorable occasion when she asserted a will of her own for the first time in her life. THE FALLEN LEAVES. A man of finer observation would have discovered the signs of no ordinary anxiety and alarm, struggling to show them- selves openly in the poor woman's face. Her husband only saw a change that puzzled him. ' Send for Emma,' he said, his natural cunning inspiring him with the idea of confronting the mother and daughter, and of seeing what came of thit. Emma appeared, plump and short, with large blue eyes, and full pouting lips, and splendid yellow hair ; otherwise miser- ably pale, languid in her movements, careless in her dress, sul- len in her manner. Out of health as her mother said, and as her father saw. ' You can see for yourself,' said Mrs. Ronald, * that the girl is pining for fresh air. I have heard Eamsgate recommended.* Old Ronald looked at his daughter. She represented the one tender place in his nature. It was not a large place ; but it did exist. And the proof of it is, that he began to yield — with the worst possible grace. * Well, we will see about it,' he said. * There is no time to be lost,' Mrs. Ronald persisted. ' I mean to take her to Eamsgate to-morrow.' Mr. Ronald looked at his wife as a dog looks at the mad- dened sheep that turns on him. ' You Tjean % ' repeated the stationer. * Upon my soul — what next ! You mean? Where is the money to come from % Answer me thist.* Mrs. Ronald declined to be drawn into a conjugal dispute, in the presence of her daughter. She took Emma's arm, and led her to the door. There she stopped and spoke. * I have al- ready told you that the girl is ill,' she said to her husband. * And I now tell you again she must have the sea air. For God's sake, don't let us quarrel ! I have enough to try me without that.' She closed the door on herself and her daugh- ter, and left her lord and master standing face to face with the wreck of his own outraged authority. What further progress was made by the domestic revolt, when the bed-room candles were lit, and the hour of retire- ment had arrived with the night, is naturally involved in mys- tery. This alone is certain : On the next morning, the luggage was packed, and the cab was called to the door. Mrs. Ronald spoke her parting words to her husband in private. 8 THE FALLEN LEA VES. • 1 hope 1 havo not cxprossed myself too strongly about taking Emma to the sea-sido,' she saul in gentle pleatling tones. * I am anxious about otir girl's health, if' I have offunded you — without meaning it, God knows I — say you forgive me be- fore I go. I have tried honestly, dear, to be a good wife to you. And you have always trusted me, haven't you 1 Atid you trust me still — I am sure you trust me still.' She took his lean, cold hand, and pnjssed it fervently : her eyes rested on him with a strange mixture of timidity and anxiety. Still in the prime of her life, she preserved the personal attractions — the fair, calm, refined face, the natural grace of look and movement — which had made her marriage to a man old enough to be her father a cause of angry astonish- ment among all her friends. In the agitation that now pos- sessed her, her colour rose, her eyes brightened ; she looked for the moment almost young enough to bo Emma's sister. Her husband opened his h.ard old eyes in surly bewilderment. * Why need you make this fuss V he asked. * I don't under- stand you.' Mrs. Ronald shrank at those words as if he had struck her. She kissed him in silence, and joined her < aughter in the cab, For the rest of the day, the persons in the stationer's em- ployment had a hard time of it with their master in the shop. Something had upset Old Ronald. He ordered the shutters to be put up earlier that evening than usual. Instead of going to his club (at the tavern round the corner), he took a long walk in the lonely and lifeless streets of the city by night. There was no disguising it from himself; his wife's behaviour at part- ing had made him uneasy. He naturally swore at her for taking that liberty, while he lay awake alone in his bed. ' Damn the woman ! What does she mean V The cry of the soul utters itself in various forms of expression. That was the cry of Old Ronald's soul, literally translated. I III. The li^xt morning brought him a letter from Ramsgate. * I write immediately to tell you of our safe arrival. We have found comfortable lodgings (as the address at the head of THE FALLEN LEAVES. this lotter will inform you) in Albion place. I thank you, and Kmina di'siros to tiiank you also, for your kindness in provid- ing us with ample means for taking our little trip. It is beau- tit'id weatlh'r to-day ; the sea is culm, and the pleasure boats are out. We do not, of course, expect to see you here. But if you do, by any chance, overcome your objection to moving out of London, I have a little request to make. IMease let mo hear of your visit beforehand — so that I may not omit all need- ful preparations. I know you dislike being troubled with letters (except ou business), so I will not write too frequently. Be so good as to take no news as good news, in tne intervals. When you have a few minutes to spare, you will write, I hope, and tell me how you and the shop are going on. Emma sends her love, in which I beg to join.' So the letter was expressed, antl so it ended. 'They needn't be afraid of my troubling them. Calm seas and pleasure-boats ! Stuff and nonsense ! ' Such was t' e first impression which his wife's report of herself produced on Old Ronald's m!.4d. After awhile, he looked at the letter again — and frowned and reflected. * Please let me hear of your visit beforehand,' he repeated to himself, as if the request had been, in some incomprehensible way, offensive to him. He opened the drawer of his desk, and threw the letter into it. When business was over for the day, he went to his club at the tavern, and made himself unusually disagreeable to every- body. A week passed. In the interval, he wrote briefly to his wife. ' I'm all right, and the shop goes on as usual.* He also for- warded one or two letters which came for Mrs. Ronald. No more news reached him from Ramsgate. * I suppose they're enjoying themselves,* he reflected. 'The house looks queer without them ; I'll go to the club.' He stayed later than usual, and drank more than usual, that night. It was nearly one in the morning, when he let himself in with his latch-key, and went up-stairs to bed. Approaching the toilet-table, he found a letter lying on it, addressed to * Mr. Ronald — private.' It was not in his wife's handwriting; not in any handwriting known to him. The characters sloped the wrong way, and the envelope bore no post- 10 THE FALLEN LEA FES. mark. He eyed it over and over suspiciously. At last he opened it, and read these lines : ' You are advised by a true friend to lose no time in looking after your wife. There are strange doings at the soa-side. If you don't believe me, ask Mrs. Turner, ]No. 1, Slain's-row, Eamsgato.' No address, no date, no signature — an anonymous letter, the first ne had ever received in the long course of his life. Iiis hard brain was in no way affected by the liquor that he had drunk. He sat down on his bed, riechanicaliy folding and refolding the letter. The reference to • Mrs. Turner ' produced no impression on him of any sort : no person of that name, common as it was, happened to be numbered on the list of his friends or his customers. But for one circumstance, he would have thrown the letter aside, in contempt. His memory re- verted to his wife's incomprehensible behaviour at parting. Addressing him through that remembrance, the anonymous warning assumed a certain importance to his mind. He went down to his desk, in the back office, and took his wife's letter out of the drawer, and read it through slowly. * Ha !' he said, pausing as he came across the sentence which requested him to write beforehand, in the unlikely event of his deciding to go to Ramsgate. He thought again of the strangely persis- tent way in which his wife had dwelt on his trusting her ; he recalled her anxious looks, her deepening colour, her agitation at one moment, and then her sudden silence and sudden re- treat to the cab. Fed by these irritating influences, the inbred suspicion of his nature began to take fire slowly. She might be innocent enough in asking him to give her notice before he joined her at the sea-side — she might naturally be anxious to omit no needful preparation for his comfort. Still, he didn't like it ; no, he didn't like it. An appearance as of a slow col- lapse passed little by little over his rugged wrinkled face. He looked many years oldr r than his age, as he sat at the desk, with the flaring candlelight close in front of him, thinking. The anonymous letter lay before him, side by side with his wife's letter. On a sudden, he lifted his grey head, and clenched his fist, and struck the venomous written warning as if it had been a living thing that could feel. ' Whoever you are,' he said, ' I'll take your advice.' mi THE FALLEN LEAVEiS. n ho name. »S- persis- might TIo n«?ver even made tho attempt to j^o to lusd that night. His pipe lu'lpud him through th»! conifoitUiss and dreary hours. Once or twice he thought of hiH daugliter. Why had her mother been so aijxious aVjout her ? Why luid \wv mother taken her to Raningate ? Perliaps, as a Wind — ali, yes, perhaps as a hlind ! More for the sake of sonietidng to (h) than for any other reason, ho packed a handbag with a few necessaries. As soon as tlie servant was stirring, he ordered her to niakt! him a cup of strong coffee. After that, it was time to show himself as usual, on the opening of the shop. To his astonishment, he found his clerk taking down the shutters, in place of the porter. * What dot>s this mean 1 ' he asked. * Where is Farnaby ? ' The clerk looked at his master, and paused aghast, with a shutter in his hands. 'Good Lord! what has come to you,' he cried. * Are you ill 1 ' Old Ronald angrily repeated his question : * Where is Far- naby ? ' ' I don't know,' was the answer. * You don't know ? Have you been up to his bedroom ? ' 'Yes.' 'Welir * Well, he isn't in his bedroom. And, what's more, his bed hasn't been slept in last night. Farnaby's off, sir — nobody knows where.' Old Ronald dropped heavily into the nearest cliair. This second mystery, following on the mystery of the anonymous letter, staggered him. But his business instincts were still in good working order. He held out his keys to the clerk. * Get the petty cash-book,* he said, * and see if the mcney is all right.' The clerk received the keys under protest. * That's not the right reading of the riddle,' he remarked. * Do as I tell you ! ' The clerk opened the money-drawer under the counter ; counted the pounds, shillings and pence paid by chance cus- tomers up to the closing of the shop on the previous evening ; compared the result with the petty cash-book, and answered, * Right to a halfpenny.' i! I! 12 THE FALLEN LEAVES. '' I 2l< ,1;- ill i\ Satisfied so far, Old Eonald condescended to approach the speculative side of the subject, with the assistance of his subor- dinate. * If what you said just now means anything,* he re- sumed, ' it means that you suspect the reason why Farnaby has left my service. Let's hear it.' ' You know that I never liked John Farnaby,' the clerk be- gan. ' An active young fellow and a clever young fellow, I grant you. But a bad servant for all that. False, Mr. Ronald — false to the marrow of his bones.' Mr. Ronald's patience began to give way. ' Come to the facts,' he growled . ' Why has Farnaby gone off without a word to anybody 1 Do you know that 1 ' ' I know no more than you do,* the clerk answered coolly. ' Don't fly into a passion. I have got some facts for you, if you will only give me time. Turn them over in your own mind, and see what they 3ome to. Three days ago I was short of postage stamps, and I went to the office. Farnaby was there, waiting at; the desk where they pay the post office orders. There must have been ten or a dozen people with let- ters, orders, and what not between him and me. I got behind him quietly J and looked over his shoulder. I saw the clerk give him the money for his post office order. Five pounds in gold, which I reckoned as they lay on the counter, and a bank- note besides, which he crumpled up in his hand. I can't tell you how much it was for ; I only know it was a bank-note. Just ask yourself how a porter on twenty shillings a week (with a mother who takes in washing, and a father who takes in drink) comes to have a correspondent who sends him an order for five sovereigns — and a bank-note, value unknown. Say he's turned betting-man in secret. Very good. There*s the post office order, in that case, to show that he's got a run of luck. If he has got a run of luck, tell me this — why does he leave his place like a thief in the night ? He's not a slave ; he's not even an appren- tice. When he thinks he can better himself, he has no earthly need to keep it a secret that he means to leave your service. He may have met with an accident, to be sure. But that's not my belief. I say he's up to some mischief. And now comes the question : What are we to do ? ' Mr. Ronald, listening with his head down, and without in- 11 ■ ill I THE FALLEN LEAVES. 13 ►ach the is subor- ,' he re- Farnaby jlerk be- Fellow, I Konald e to the t a word 1 coolly, you, if mr own 'as short iby was st office with let- behind le clerk >unds in a bank- an't tell nk-note. )k (with ti drink) for five turned !e order, has got te like a appren- earthly service, lat's not V comes lout in- terposing a word on his own part, made an extraordinary an- swer. ' Leave it,' he said. Leave it till to-morrow.' ' Why 1 ' the clerk asked, without ceremony. Mr. Ronald made another extraordinary answer. ' Because I am obliged to go out of town for the day. Look after the business. The ironmonger's man over the way will help you to put up the shutters at night. If anybody inquires for me, say I shall be back to-morrow.' With those parting directions, heedless of the effect that he had produced on the clerk, he looked at his watch and left the shop. IV. The bell which gave five minutes' notice of the starting of the Ramsgate train had just rung. While the other travellers were hastening to the platform, two persons stood passively apart as if they had not even yet decided on taking their places in the train. One of the two was a smart young man in a cheap travelling suit ; mainly no- ticeable by his florid complexion, his restless dark eyes, and his profusely curling black hair. The other was a middle-aged woman in frowsy garments ; tall and stout, sly and sullen. The smart young man stood behind the uncongenial-looking person with whom he had associated himself, using her as a screen to hide him while he watched the travellers on their way to the train. As the bell rang, the woman suddenly faced her com- panion, and pointed to the railway clock. * Are you waiting to make up your mind till the train has she asked. The young man frowned impatiently. ' I am waiting for a person whom I expect to see,' he answered. * If the person travels by this train, we shall travel by it. If not, we shall come back here, and look out for the next train, and so on till nighttime conies, if i^^'s necessary.' The woman fixed her small scowling grey eyes on the man as he replied in those terms. * Look here,' she broke out. * I like to see my way before me. You're a stranger, young Mis- ter ; and it's as likely as not you've given me a false name and address. That don't matter, False names are commoner than gone ? 14 THE FALLEN LEAVES. true ones, in my line of life. But mind this ! I don't stir a step farther till I've got haK the money in my hand, and my return ticket there and back.' ' Hold your toi gue ! ' the man suddenly interposed in a whisper. • It's all right. I'll get the tickets.' He looked while he spoke at an elderly traveller, hastening by with his head down, deep in thought, noticing nobody. The traveller was Mr. Ronald. The young man, who had that moment recognised him, was his runaway porter, John Far- naby. Returning with the tickets, the porter took his repellent tra- velling companion by the arm, and hurried her along the plat- form to the train. * The money ! ' she whispered, as they took their places. Farnaby handed it to her, ready wrapped up in a morsel of paper. She opened the paper, satisfied herself that no trick had been played her, and leaned back in her corner to go to sleep. The train started. Old Ronald travelled by the second class ; his porter and his porter's companion accom- panied him secretly by the third. ^il V. !i 1;' It was still early in the afternoon when Mr. Ronald de- scended the narrow street which leads from the high land of the South-Eastern Railv/ay Station to the port of Ramsgate. Asking his way of the first policeman whom he met, he turned to the left, and reached the cliff on which the houses in Albion- place are situated. Farnaby followed him at a discreet dis- tance ; and the woman followed Farnaby. Arrived in sight of the lodging-house, Mr. Ronald paused — partly to recover his breath, partly to compose himself. He was consious of a change of feeling as he looked up at the win- dows ; his errand suddenly assumed a contemptible aspect in his own eyes. He almost felt ashamed of himself. After nineteen years of undisturbed married life, was it possible that he had doubted his wife — and that at the instigation of a stranger whose name even was unknown to him 1 * If she was to step out in the balcony, and see me down here,' he thought, * what ^ fool I should look ! ' He felt half inclined, at the moment W ilH' THE FALLEN LEAVES. 15 lon't stir a I, and my tosed in a hastening \ nobody. ) had that ohn Far- 3llent tra- the plat- :ihey took 3ed up in rself that er corner t^elled by n accom- naJd de- land of imsgate. turned Albion- eet dis- when he lifted the knocker of the door, to put it back again quietly, and return to London. No ! it was too late. The maid-servant was hanging up her bird cage in the area of the house ; the maidservant had seen him. ' Does Mrs. Ronald lodge here ? ' he asked. The girl lifted her eyebrows and opened her mouth — stared at him in speechless confusion — and disappeared in the kitchen regions. This strange reception of his inquiry irritated him unreasonably. He knocked with the absurd violence of a man who vents his anger on the first convenient thing that he can find. The landlady opened the door, and looked at him in stern and silent surprise. ' Does Mrs. Ronald lodge here 1 ' he repeated. The landlady answered with some appearance of effort — the effort of a person who was carefully considering her words be- fore she permitted them to puss her lips. * Mrs. Ronald has taken rooms here. But she has not occu- pied them yet.' * Not occupied them yet.' The words bewildered him as if they had been spoken in an unknown tongue. He stood stu- pidly silent on the door-step. His anger was gone ; an all- mastering fear throbbed heavily at his heart. The landlady looked at him, and said to her secret self: 'Just what I ex- pected ; there is something wrong ! ' ' Perhaps I have not sufficiently explained myself, sir,* she resumed with grave politeness. * Mrs. Ronald told me that she was staying at Ramsgate with friends. She would move into my house, she said, when her friends left — but they had not quite settled the day yet. She calls here for letters. Indeed, she was here early this morning, to pay the second week's rent. T asked when she thought of moving in. She didn't seem to know ; her friends (as I understood) had not made up their minds. I must say I thoiight it a little odd. Would you like to leave any message % ' Ke recovered himself sufficiently to speak. * Can you tell me where her friends live ? ' he said. The landlady shook her head. * No, indeed. I offered to csave Mrs. Ronald the trouble of calling here, by sending letters or cards to her present residence. She declined the offer — and I i! ;i 11:' (.1 !f. !:: she has never mentioned the address. Would you like to come in and rest, sir ! I will see that your card is taken care of, if you wish to leave it.* ' Thank you, ma'am — it doesn't matter — good morning.* The landlady looked after him as he descended the house- steps. * It's the husband, Peggy,' she said to the servant, waiting inquisitively behind her. * Poor old gentleman I And such a respectable-looking-woman, too ! ' Mr. Ronald walked mechanically to the end of the row of houses, and met the wide grand view of sea and sky. There were some seats behind the railing which fenced the edge of the cliff. He sat down, perfectly stupified and helpless, on the nearest bench. At the close of life, the loss of a man's customary nourish- ment extends its debilitating influence rapidly from his body to his mind. Mr. Ronald had tasted nothing but his cup of coffee since the previous night. His mind began to wander strangely; he was not angry or frightened or distressed. Instead of think- ing of what had just happened, he was thinking of his young days when he had been a cricket player. One special game re- vived in his memory, at which he had been struck on the head by the ball. ' Just the same feeling,' he reflected vacantly, with his hat off, and his hand on his forehead. 'Dazed and giddy — just the same feeling ! ' He leaned back on the bench, and fixed his eyes on the sea, and wondered languidly what had come to him. Farnaby and the woman, still following, waited round the corner where they could just keep him in view. The blue lustre of the sky was without a cloud ; the sunny sea leapt under the fresh westerly breeze. From the beach, the cries of children at play, the shouts of donkey-boys drivin^^ their poor beasts, the distant notes of brass instruments play- ing a waltz, and the mellow music of the small waves breaking on the sand, rose joyously togt;ther on the fragrant air. On the next bench, a dirty old boatman was prosing to a stupid old visitor. Mr. Ronald listened, with a sense of vacant content in the mere act of listening. The boatman's words found their way to his ears like the other sounds that were abroad in the air. * Yes ; them's the Goodwin Sands, where you see the Hi ; THE FALLEN LEA VES. 17 light-ship. And that steamer there, towing a vessel into the harbour, that's the Ramsgate Tug. Do you know what I should like to see 1 I should like to see the Ramsgate Tug blow up. Why 1 I'll tell you why. I belong to Broadstairs ; I don't be- long to Ramsgate. Very well. I'm idling here, as you may without one copper piece in my pocket to rub against an- see don't belong to no other. What trade do I belong to ? I trade ; I belong to a boat. The bout's rotting at Broadstairs, for want of work. And all along of what 1 All along of the Tug. The Tug has took the bread out of our mouths ; me and my mates. What did a ship do in the good old times, when she got on them sands : Goodwin Sands. Went to pieces, if it come on to blow ; or got sucked down little by little when it was fair weather. Now I'm coming to it. What did We do (in the good old times, mind you) when we happened to see that ship in distress 1 Out with our boat, blow high or blow low, out with our boat. And saved the lives of the crew, did you say 1 Well, yes ; saving the crew was part of the day's work, to be sure ; the part we didn't get paid for. We saved the cargo, master ! and got salvage i ! Hundreds of pounds, I tell you, divided amongst us by law ! ! ! Ah, those times are gone ! A parcel of sneaks get together, and subscribe to build a Steam-Tug. When a ship gets on the sands now, out goes the Tug, by night and by day alike, and brings her safe into the harbour, and takes the bread out of our mouths. Shameful — that's what I call it — shameful.' The last words of the boatman's lament fell lower, lower, lower on Mr. Ronald's ears — he lost them altogether — he lost the view of the sea — he lost the sense of the wind blowing over him. Suddenly, he was roused as if from a deep sleep. On one side, the man from Broadstairs was shaking him by the collar. ' I say. Master, cheer up ; what's come to you 1 ' On the other side, a compassionate lady was offering her smelling- bottle, 'lam afraid, s'.r, you have fainted.' He struggled to his feet, and vacantly 'hanked the lady. The man from Broad- stairs — with an eye to tlie salvage — took charge of the human wreck, and towed him to the nearest public-house. * A chop and a glass of brandy-and-water,' said this good Samaritan of the nineteenth century. ' That's what you want, I'm peckish myself and I'll keep you company.' :r 1 1 III ! • ! li !l III ! in 18 THE FALLEN LEASES. He was perfectly passive in the hands of any one who would take charge of him ; he submitted as if he had been the boat- man's dog, and iiad heard the whistle. It couUl only be truly said that he had come to himself, when there had been time enough for him to feel the reaniinating influence of the food and drink. Then, he got on his feet, and looked with incredulous wonder at the companion of his meal. The man from Broadstairs opened his greasy lips, and was silenced by tlie sudden appearance of a gold coin between Mr. Ronald's finger and thumb. * Don't speak to me ; pay the bill, and bring me the change outside.' When the boatman joined him, he was reading a letter ; walking to and fro, and speaking at intervals to himself. * God help me, have I lost my senses 1 I don't know what to do next.' He referred to the letter again : • If you don't believe me, asked Mrs. Turner, Number I, Slain's-row, Ramsgate.' He put the letter back in his pocket, and rallied suddenly. * Slain's-row,' he said, turning to the boatman. * Take me there directly, and keep the change for yourself.' The boatman's gratitude was (apparently) beyond expres- sion in words. He slapped his pocket cheerfully, and that was al: Leading the way inland, he went down hill, and uphill again — then turned aside towards the eastern extremity of the town . Farnaby, still following, with the woman behind him, stopped when the boatman diverged towards the east, and looked up at the name of the streeet. * I've got my instructions,' he said ; ' I know where he's going. Step out ! We'll get there before him, by another way.' Mr. Ronald and his guide reached a row of poor little houses, with poor little gardens in front of them and behind them. The back windows looked out on downs and fields lying on either side of the road to Broadstairs. It was a lost and lonely spot. The guide stopped, and put a question with inquisitive respect. * What number, sir ? ' Mr. Ronald had sufficiently recovered himself to keep his own counsel. ' That will do,' he said. ' You can leave me.' The boatman waited a moment. Mr. Ronald looked at him. The boatman was slow to under- stand that his leadership had gone from him. * You're sure THE FALLEN LEA VES. 19 who would sn the boat- nself, when eaniinating lis feet, and jf his meal. s, and was etween Mr. 3ay the bill, man joined nd speaking my senses! jtter again : S^umber I, his pocket, ling to the change for nd expres- d that was and uphill mity of the m, stopped looked up s,' he said ; lere before tie houses, ind them. lying on and lonely nquisitive ufficiently b will do,' I moment. to under- ou're sure you don't want me any more ? ' he "?aid. * Quite sure,' Mr. Ronald answered. The man from Broadstairs retired — with his salvage to comfort him. Number 1 was at the farther extremity of the row of houses. When Mr. Roiiaid rang the bell, the spies were already posted. The woman loitered on the road, within view of the door. Farnaby was out of sight, round the corner, watching the house over the low wooden palings of the back garden. A lazy-looking man in his shirt sleeves, opened the door. ' Mrs. Turner at home ] ' he repeated. * Well, she's at home ; but she's too busy to see anybody. What's your pleasure 1 ' I Mr. Ronald declined to accept excuses or to answer ques- 1 tions. ' I must see Mrs. Turner directly,' he said, ' on '.mpor- tant business.' His tone and manner had their effect on the lazy man. * What name ] ' he asked. Mr. Ronald declined to mention his name. ' Give my message,' he said. * I won't detain Mrs. Turner more than a minute.' The man hesitated — and opened the door of the front parlour. An old woman was fast asleep on a ragged little sofa. The man gave up the front parlour, and tried the back parlour next. It was empty. ' Please to wait here,' he said — and went away to deliver his message. The parlour was a miserably-furnished room. Through the open window, the patch of back garden was barely visible under fluttering rows of linen hanging out on lines to dry. A pack of dirty cards and some plain needlework, littered the bare little table. A cheap American clock ticked with stern and steady activity on the mantel-piece. The smell of onions was in the air. A torn newspaper, with stains of beer on it, lay on the floor. There was some sinister influence in the placj which aff'ected Mr. Ronald painfully. He felt himself trembling, and sat down on one of the rickety chairs. The minutes followed one another wearily. He heard a trampling of feet in the room above — then a door opened and closed — then the rustle of a woman's dress on the stairs. In a moment more, the handle of the parlour doo/ was turned. He rose, in anticipation of Mrs. Turner's appearance. The door opened. He found himself face to face with his wife. Iti * '!i il' i '!■ f.ili! Mirh HIM* 'Mil', ^1 IS'ii: li i' 20 THE FALLEN LEAVES. VI. John Farnaby, posted at the garden paling, suddenly lifted his head and looked towards the open window of the back par- lour. He reflected for a moment — and then joined his female companion on the road in front of the house. * I want you at the back garden,' he said. * Come along ! ' ' How much longer am I to be kept kicking my heels in this wretched hole ? ' the woman asked sulkily. * As much longer as I please — if you want to go back to London with the other half of the money.' He showed it to her as he spoke. She followed him without another word. Arrived f,v -"he paling, Farnaby pointed to the window, and to the back garden-door, which was left ajar. * Speak softly,' he whispered. ' Do you hear voices in the house ? ' * I don't hear what they're talking about, if that's what you mean ? ' * I don't hear either. Now mind what I tell you — 1 have reasons of my own for getting a little nearer to that window. Sit down under the paling, so that you can't be seen from the house. If you hear a row, you may take it for granted that I am found out. In thao case go back to London by the next train, and meet me at the terminus at two o'clock to-morrow afternoon. If nothing happens, wait where you are till you hear from me or sec me again.' He laid his hand on the low paling and vaulted over it. The linen hanging up in the garden to dry offered him a means of concealment (if any one happened to look out of the window) of which he skilfully availed himself The dust-bin was at the side of the house, situated at a right angle to the parlour win- dow. He was safe behind the bin, provided no one appeared on the path which connected the patch of garden at the back with the patch in front. Here, running the risk, he waited and listened. The first voice that reached his ears was the voice of Mrs. Ronald. She was speaking with a firmness of tone that aston- ished him. * Hear me to the end, Benjamin,' she said. * I have a right to ask as much as that of my husband, and I do ask it. If I ■»i;;' 4 ■f3 iiiiUL THE FALLEN LEAVES. 21 keenly lifted le back par- i his female )me along ! ' leels in this go back to lowed it to er word, ndow, and )eak softly,' 's what you ou — 1 have at window, n from the nted that I the next to-morrow are till you br it. The a means of le window) was at the irlour win- 3 appeared the back he waited ce of Mrs. ;hat astoH' ve a right k it. If I liad been bent on nothing but saving the reputation of our miserable girl, you would have a right to blame rae for keoping you ignorant of the calamity that has fallen on us — ' There the voice of her husband interposed sternly. ' Calam- ity ? Say disgrace, everlasting disgrace.' Mrs. Ronald did not notice the interruption. Sadly and patiently she went on. ' But I had a harder trial still to face,' she said. ' I had to save her, in spite of herself, from the wretch who has brought this infamy on us. He has acted throughout in cold blood ; it is h' interest to marry her, and from first to last he has plotted to force the marriage on us. For God's sake don't speak loud ! She is in the room above us ; if she hears you it will be the death of her. Don't suppose I am talking at ran- dom ; I have looked at his letters to her ; I have got the con- fession of the servant girl. Such a confession ! Emma is his victim, body and soul. I know it ! I know that she sent him money (my money) from this place. I know that the servant (at her instigation) informed him by telegraph of the birth of the child. Oh, Benjamin, don't curse the poor helpless infant — such a sweet little girl ! Don't think of it ! don't think of it ! Show me the letter that brought you here ; I want to see the letter. Ah, I can tell you who wrote it ! He wrote it. lu his own interests ; always with his own interests in view. Don't you see it for yourself? If I succeeded in keeping this shame and misery a secret from everybody — if I take Emma away, to some place abroad on pretence of her health — there is an end of his hope of becoming your son-in-law ; there is an end of his being taken into the business. Yes, he, the iow-lived vag- abond who puts up the shop-shutters, he looks forward to being taken into partnership, and succeeding you when you die ! Isn't his object in writing that letter as plain to you now as the heaven above us ? His one chance is to set our temper in a flame, to provoke the scandal of a discovery — and to force the marriage on us as the only remedy left. Am I wrong in mak- ing any sacrifice, rather than bind our girl for life, our own flesh and blood, to such a man as that ? Surely you can feel for me, and forgive me, now. How could I own the truth to you, before I left London, knowing you as I do ? How could 3 M i '' ' i 'I- i ^ ■ 22 THE FALLEN LEAVES. I expect you to be patie^'t, to go into hiding, to pass under a false name — to do all the degrading things that must be don*^, if we are to keep Euiraa out of this man's way 1 No I I know no more than you do where Farnaby is to be found. Hush ! there is the door-bell. It's the doctor's time for his visit. I tell you again I don't know — on my sacred word of honour, I don't know where Farnaby is. Oh, be quiet ! bo quiet ! there's the doctor going up stairs ! don't let the doctor hear you ! ' So far, she had succeeded in composing her husband. But the fury which she had innocently roused in him, in her eager- ness to justify herself, now broke toyond all control. ' You lie ! ' he cried furiously. * If you know everything else about it, you know where Farnaby is. I'll be the death of him, if I swing for it on the gallows. Where is he 1 where is he ? ' A shriek from the upper room silenced him before Mrs. Ronald could speak again. His daughter had heard him ; his daughter had recognised his voice. A cry of terror from hev mother echoed the cry from above ; tlic sound of the opening and closing door followed instantly. Then there was a momentary silence. Mrs. Ronald's voice was heard from the upper room calling to the nurse, asleep in the front parlour. The nurse's grulF tones were just audible, answering from the parlour door. There was another interval of silence ; broken by another's voice, a stranger's voice — speaking at the window, close by. ' Follow me up-stairs, sir, directly,' the voice said in peremp- tory tones. ' As your daughter's medical attendant, I tell you in the plainest terms that you have seriously frightened her. In her critical condition I decline to answer for her life, unless you make the attempt at least, to undo the mischief you have done. Whether you mean it or not, soothe her with kind words ; say you have forgiven her. No ! I have nothing to do with your domestic troubles ; I have only my patient to think of. I don't care what she asks of you, you must give way to her now. If she falls into convulsions she will die — and her death will be at your door.' So, with feebler and feebler interruptions from Mr. Ronald, the doctor spoke. It ended plainly in his being obeyed. The departing footsteps of the men were the next sounds to be THE FALLEN LEAVES, 23 iss under a ist be doiT^, lO ! I know id. Ilush! [lis visit. I f honour, I liet ! there's ir you ! ' band. But 1 her ea^er- brol. ' You ilse about it, f him, if I is he r before Mrs. rd him ; his from above ; 3d instantly, nald's voice pe, asleep in ust audible, ler interval 3r's voice — in peremp- , I tell you itened her. life, unless 3f you have with kind nothing to patient to u must give e will die — yir. Ronald, eyed. The unds to be h«'ard. After that, there was a pause of silence — a long pause, broken by Mrs. Ronald, calling again from the upper regions. ' T.iko the child into the back parlour, nurse, and wait till I come to you. It's cooler there, at this time of day.* The Wiiiling of an infant, and the gruff complaining of the nurse, were the next sounds that reached Farnaby in liis hid- ing-place. Tlie m\rse was grumbling to herself over the grie- vance of having been awakened from her sleep. ' After being up all night, a person wants rest. There's no rest for any- })ody in tliis house. My head's as heavy as lead, and every bone in me has got an ache in it.* Before long, the renewed silence indicated that she had suc- ceeded in hushing the child to sleep. Farnaby forgot the restraints of caution for the first time. His face flushed with excitement ; he ventured nearer to the window, in his eager- ness to find out what might happen next. After no long interval, the next sound came — a sound of heavy breathing, which told him that the drowsy nurse was falling asleep again. The window sill was within reach of his hards. He waited until the heavy breathing deepened to snoring. Then he drew himself up by the window-sill and looked into the room. The nurse was fast asleep in an arm-chair ; and the child was fast asleep on her 'ap. He dropped softly to the ground again. Taking off his shoes, and putting them in his pocket, he asceaded the two or three steps which led to the half-open back garden door. Ar- rived in the passage, he could just hear them talking up-stairs. They were no doubt still absorbed in their troubles ; he had only the servant to dread. The splashing of water in the kitchen informed him that she was s£ fely occupied in wasliing. Slowly and softly he opened the back parlour door, and stole across the room to the nurse*s chair. One of her hands still rested on the child. The serious risk was the risk of waking her, if he lost his presence of mind and hurried it ! He glanced at the American clock on the mantel-piece. The result relieved him ; it was not so late as he had feared. He knelt down to steady himself, as nearly as possible on a level ii! Ill 1 in I 'I'! , .1 II ii !-■ ,t 24 THE FALLEN LEAVES. with the nurse's knees. By a hairsbreadth at a time, he got both hands under the child. By a hairsbreadth at a time, he drew the child away from her ; leaving her hands resting on her lap by degrees so gradual that the lightest sleeper could not have felt the change. That done (barring accidents), all was done. Keeping the child resting easily on his left arm, ho had his right hand free to shut the door again. Arrived at the garden steps a slight change passed over the sleeping infant's face — the delicate little creature shivered as it felt the full flow of the open air. He softly laid over its face a corner of the woollen shawl in which it was wrapped. The child reposed as quietly on his arm as if it had still been on the nurse's lap. In a minute more he was at the paling. The woman rose to receive him with the first smile that had crossed her face since they had left London. • So you've got the baby ? ' she said. • Well you are a deep one ! ' ' Take it,' he answered irritably. ' We haven't a moment to lose.' Only stopping to put on his shoes, he led the way to the more central part of the town. The first person he met direc- ted him to the railway station. It was close by. In five minutes more, the woman and the baby were safe on the train to London. ' There's the other half of the money,' he said, handing it to her through the carriage window. The woman eyed the child in her arms with a frowning ex- pression of doubt. * All very well as long as it lasts, ' she said. * And what after that 1 ' ' Of course, I shall call and see you,' he answered. She looked hard at him, and expressed the whole value she set on that assurance in four words. * Of course you will ! ' The train started for London. Farnaby watched it, as it left the platform, with a look of unfeigned relief. * There ! ' he thought to himself, ' Emma's reputation is safe enough now ! When we are married, we mustn't have a love-child in the way of our prospects in life.' Leaving the station he stopped at the refreshment room, and m \ '" ■ , aaji THE FALLEN LEAVES. 25 firank a glass of brandy-and-water. ' Something to screw me up,' lie thought, 'for what is to come.' What was to como (after he had got rid of the child) had been carefelly considered by him, on the journey to Ramsgate. ' Emma's husband-that- is-to-be ' — he had reasoned it out — ' will naturally be the first person Emma wants to see, when the lo^i of the baby has upset the house. If Old Konald has a grain of affection left in him, he must let her marry me after that ! ' Acting on this view of his position, he took the way that led back to Slain's-row, and rang the door-bell as became a visitor who had no rensons for concealment now. The household was doubtless already disorganised by the discovery of the child's disappearance. Neither servant nor landlord was active in answering the bell. Farnaby submitted to be kept waiting with perfect composure. There are occa- sions on which a handsome man is bound to put his personal advantages to their best use. He took out his pocket-comb, and touched up the arrangement of his whiskers with a skilled and gentle hand. Approaching footsteps made themselves heard along the passage at last. Farnaby put back his comb, and buttoned his coat briskly. * Now for it !' he said, as the door was opened at last. THE END OF THE PROLOGUE. 1 I ~^K CHAPTER I. IXTEEN years after the date of Mr. Ronald's disastrous discovery at Ramsgate — that is to say, in the year 1872 — the steamship Aquila left the port of New York, bound for Liverpool. It was the month of September. The passenger-list of the Aquila had comparatively few names inscribed on it. In the autumn season, the voyage from America to England, but for the remunerative value of the cargo, would prove to be for the most part a profitless voyage to shipowners. The flow of pas- sengers, at that time of year, sets steadily the other way. Americans are returning from Europe to their own country. Tourists have delayed the voyage until the fierce August heat of the United States has subsided, and the delicious Indian Summer is ready to welcome them. At bed and board the passengers by the Aquila on her homeward voyage had plenty of room, and the choicest morsels for everybody alike on the well-spread dinner-table. The wind was favourable, the weather was lovely. Cheer- fulness and good-humour pervaded the ship from stem to stern. The courteous captain did the honours of the cabin-table with the air of a gentleman who was receiving friends in his own house. The handsome doctor promenaded the deck arm-in-arm with ladies in course of rapid recovery from the first gastric consequences of travelling by sea. The excellent chief-engineer, musical in his leisure moments to his fingers' ends, played the fiddle in his cabin, accompanied on the flute by that young Apollo of the Atlantic trade, the steward's mate. Only on the third morning of the voyage was the harmony on board the Aquila disturbed by a passing moment of discord — due to an unexpected addition to the ranks of the passengers, in the shape of a lost bird ! It was merely a weary little land-bird (blown out of its course, 1 1! THE FALLEN LEAVES. 27 's disastrous in the year ' New York, r-list of the it. In the md, but for o be for the flow of pas- other way. vn country. (August heat ious Indian board the had plenty ike on the y. Cheer- sm to stern. table with n his own arm-in-arm irst gastric sf-engineer, played the hat young 'nly on the board the due to an the shape its course, as the learned in such matters supposed) ; and it perched on one of tiie yards to rest and recover itself after iis long flight. The instant the creature was discovered, the insatiate Anglo- Saxon delight in killing birds, from the majestic eagle to the contemptible sparrow, displayed itself in its full frenzy. The crew ran about the decks, the passengers rushed into their cabins, eager to seize the first gun and to have the first shot. An old quarter-master of the Aquila was the enviable man, who first found the means of destruction ready to bis hand. He lifted the gun to hi; shoulder, he had his finger on the trigger, when he was suddenly pounced upon by one of the passengers — a young, slim, sunburnt active man — who snatched away the gun, discharged it over the side of the vessel, and turned furi- ously on the quarter-master. ' You wretch ! would you kill the poor weary bird that trusts our hospitality, and only asks us to give it a rest ] That little harmless thin? is as much one of God's creatures as you are. I'm ashamed of you — I'm hor- rified at you — you've got bird-murder in your face ; I hate the sight of you ! ' The quarter-master — a large, grave, fat man, slow alike in his bodily and his mental movements — listened to this extraor- dinary remonstrance with a fixed stare of amazement, and an open mouth, from which the unspat tobacco juice trickled in little brown streams. When the impetuous young gentleman paused (not for want of words, merely for want of breath), the quarter-master turned about, and addressed himself to the audience gathered round. * Gentlemen,' he said, with a Roman brevity, ' this young fellow is mad.' The captain's voice checked the general outbreak if laughter. * That will do, quarter-master. Let it be understood that no- bor";' is to shoot the bird — and let me suggest to you, sir, that you might have expressed your humane sentiments quite as efi^ectually in less violent language.' Addressed in those terms, the impetuous young man burat into another fit of excitement. ' You're quite right, sir I I deserve every word you have said to me ; I feel I have disgraced myself.' He ran after the quarter-master, and soized him by both hands. * I beg your pardon ; I beg your pardon with all my heart. You would have served me right if you had thrown :*ll iii ■'ii. 1) lip %i^ :\ ^^ ¥ 28 THE FALLEN LEA VES. excuse "Let me overboard after the language I used to you. Pray my quick temper ; pray forgive me. What do you say ? bygones be bygones 1 " That's a capital way of putting it. You're a thorough good fellow. If I can ever be of the smallest use to you (there's my card and address in London), iet me know it. I entreat you, let me know it.' He returned in a violent hurry to the captain. ' I've made it up with the quarter-master, sir. He forgives me ; he bears no malice. Allow me to con- gratulate you on having such a good Christian in your ship. I wish I was like him ! Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, for the disturbance I have made. It sha'n't happen again — I pro- mise you that.' The male travellers in general looked at each other, and seemed to agree with the quarter-master's opinion of their fel- low-passenger. The women, touched by his evident sincerity, and charmed with his handsome, blushing, eager face, agreed that he was quite right to save the poor bird, and that it would be all the better for the weaker part of creation generally if other men were more like him. While the various opinions were still in course of expression, the sound of the luncheon bell cleared the deck passengers, with two exceptions. One was the impetuous young man. The other was a middle-aged traveller, with a grizzled beard and a penetrating eye, who had silently observed the proceedings, and who now took the oppor- tunity of introducing himself to the hero of the moment. ' Are you not going to take any luncheon ? ' he asked. * No, sir. Among the people I have lived with, we don't eat at intervals of three or four hours, all day long.' * Will you excuse me,' pursued the other, * if I own I should like to know what people you have been living with ? My name is Hethcote ; I was associated, at one time of my life, with a college devoted to the training of young men. From what I have seen and heard this morning, I fancy you have not been educated on any of the recognised systems that are popular at the present day. Am I right 1 ' The excitable young man suddenly became the picture of resignation, and answered in a formula of words as if he was repeating a lesson. * I am Claude-Amelius-Goldenheart. Aged twenty-one. Son, THE FALLEN LEAVES. 29 *ray excuse ay ? " Let putting it. bhe smallest et me know n a violent rter-master, me to con- ur ship. I blemen, for a,in — I pro- other, and Df their fel- t sincerity, ace, agreed at it would :enerally if IS opinions J luncheon ons. One liddle-aged B, who had the oppor- lent. ced. don't eat I should My name e, with a m what I not been )opular at jicture of f he was ae. Son, \ and only child, of the late Claude Goldenheart, of Shedfield Heath, Bu ^kinghamshire, England. I have been brought up by the Prir'itive Christian Socialists, at Tadmor Community, State of Illinois. I have inherited an income of five hundred a year. And I am now, with the approval of the Community, going to London to see life.' Mr. Hethcote received this copious flow of information, in some doubt whether he had been made the victim of coarse raillery, or whether he had merely heard a quaint statement of facts. Claude-Amelius-Goldenheart saw that he had produced an unfavourable impression, and hastened to set himself right. * Excuse me, sir,' he said, * I am not making game of you, as you seem to suppose. We are taught to be courteous to every- body, in our Community. The truth is, there seems to be some- thing odd about me (I'm sure I don't know what), which makes people whom I meet on my travels curious to know who I am. If you'll please to remember, it's a long way from Illinois to New York, and curious strangers are not scarce on the journey. When one is obliged to keep on saying the same thing over and over again, a form saves a deal of trouble. I have made a form for myself — which is respectfully at the disposal of any person who does me the honour to wish for my acquaintance. Will that do, sir ? Very well, then, shake hands, to show you're sat- isfied.' Mr. Hethcote shook hands, more than satisfied. He found it impossible to resist the bright honest brown eyes, the simple winning cordial manner of the young fellow with the quaint formula and the strange name. ' Come, Mr. Goldenheart,' he said, leading the way to a ieat on deck, ' let us sit down com- fortably, and have a talk.' 'Anything you like, sir — but don't call me Mr. Goldenheart.' * Why not ? ' * Well, it sounds formal. And, besides, you're old enough to be my father ; it's my duty to call you Mister — or Sir, as we say to our elders at Tadmor. I have left all my friends behind me at the Community — and I feel lonely out here on this big ocean, among strangers. Do me a kindness, sir. Call me by my Christian name -, and give me a friendly slap on the back if you find me get along smoothly in the course of the day.' m 30 Tffi: FALLEN LEAVES. ! 'llii ' Which of your names shall it be 1' Mr. Hethcote asked, humouring this odd lad. * Claude ] ' * No. Not Claude. The Primitive Christians said Claude was a finicking French name. Call me Amelius, and I shall begin to feel at home again. If you're in a hurry, cut it down to three letters (as they did at Tadu:ci'), and call me Mel' * Very good,' said Mr. Hethcote. ' Now, my friend Amelius (or Mel), I am going to speak out plainly, as you do. The Pri- mitive Christian Socialists must have great confidence in their system of education, to turn you adrift in the world without a companion to look after you.' * You've hit it, sir,' Amelius answered coolly. * They have unlimited confidence in their system of education. And I'm a proof of it.' ' You have relations in London, I suppose ? ' Mr. Hethcote proceeded. For the first time the face of Amelius showed a shadow of sadness on it. ' I have relations,' he said. * But I have promised never to claim kindred with them. " They are hard and \7orldly ; and they will make you hard and worldly, too." That's what my father said to me on his death-bed.' He took off his hat when he mentioned his father's death, and came to a sudden pause — with his head bent down, like a man absorbed in thought. In less than a minute he put on his hat again, and looked up with his bright winning sr^ale. * We say a little prayer for the loved ones who are gone, when we speak of them,' he explained. * But we don't say it out loud, for fear of seeming to parade our religious convictions. We hate cant in our Community.' 'I cordially agree with the Community, Amelius. But, my good fellow, have you really no friends to welcome you, when you get to London ? ' Amelius lifted his hand mysteriously. * W ait a little ! ' he said — and took a letter from the breast-pocket of his coat. Mr. Heth- cote, watching him, observed that he looked at the address with an expression of unfeigned pride and pleasure. * One of our brethren at the C'ommunity has given me this,' he announced. * It's a letter of introduction, sir, to a remarka- ble man — a man who is an example to all the rest of us. He THE FALLEN LEAVES. 31 has risen, by aint of integrity and perseverance, from the posi- tion of a poor porter in a shop to be one of the most respected mercantile characters in the City of London.' With this exordium, Amelias handed his letter to Mr. Heth- cote. It was addressed as follows : — [p. Hethcote a shadow of To John Farnahy, Esquire^ Messrs. Ronald and Farnahy, Stationers, Aldergate Street, London. CHAPTER II. R. HETHCOTE looked at the address on the letter with an expression of surprise, which did not escape the no- tice of Amelius. *Do you know Mr. Farnaby ? ' he asked. ' I have some acquaintance with him,' was the answer, given with a certain appearance of constraint. Amelius went ou eagerly with his questions. ' What sort of a man is he ? Do you think he will be prejudiced against me, because I have been brought up at Tadmor ? ' ' I must be a little better acquainted, Amelius, with you and Tadmor, before I can answer your question. Suppose you tell me how you became one of the Socialists, to begin with 1 ' * I was only a little boy, Mr. Hethcote, at that time.' * Very good. Even little boys have memories. Is there any objection to your telling me what you can remember % ' 4 ' ■J 32 fHE FALLEN LEAVES. !:i ' I Mill r* ii'i ; ii ''•I ill ;|V ill!! I'' Amelius answered rather sadly, with his eyes bent on the deck. * I remember something happening which threw a gloom over us, at home in England. I heard that my mother was concerned in it. When I grew older, 1 never presumed to ask my father what it was ; and he never offered to tell me. I only know this : that he forgave her some wrong she had done him, and let her go on living at home — and that relations and friends all blamed him, and fell away from him, from that time. Not long afterwards, while I was at school, my mother died. I was sent for, to follow her funeral with my father. When we got back, and were alone together, he took me on his knee aiid kissed me. " Which will you do, Amelius," he said ; " stay in England with your uncle and aunt, or come with me all the way to America, and never go back to England again 1 Take time to think of it." I wanted no time to think of it ; I said " Go with you, papa." He frightened me by bursting out cry- ing ; it was the first time I had ever seen him in teai^. I can understand it now. He had been cut to the heart, and had borne it like a martyr ; and his boy was his one friend left. Well, by the end of the week we were on board the ship ; and there we met a benevolent gentleman, with a long grey beard, who bade my father welcome, and presented me with a cake. In my ignorance, I thought he was the captain. Nothing of the sort. He was the first Socialist I had ever seen ; and it was he who had persuaded my father to leave England.' Mr. Hethcote's opinions of Socialists began to show them- selves (a little sourly) in Mr. Hethcote's smile. * And how did you get on with the benevolent gentleman ? ' he asked. * After converting your father, did he convert you — with the cake 1 ' Amelius smiled. 'Do him justice, sir; he didn't trust to the cake. He waited till we were in sight of the American land — ftnd then he preached me a little sermon, on our arrival, entirely for ray own use.* * A sermon ? ' Mr. Hethcote repeated. ' Very little religion in it, I suspect.' * Very little indeed, sir,' Amelius answered. * Only as much religion as there is in the New Testament. I was not qiiite old enough to understand him easily — so he wrote down his dis- course on the fly-leaf of a story-book I had with me, and gave ! il THE FALLEN LEAVES. 33 it to me to read when I was tired of the stories. Stories were scarce with me in those days ; and, when I had exhausted my I little stock, rather than read nothing, I read my sermon — read it so often that I think I can remember every wor.' I' i I 36 THE FALLEN LEAVES. munity is in one respect like the Pope — the Comn. unity is in- fallible. We won't dwell on that. You have stated your prin- ciples. As to the application of theui next 1 Nobody has a right to bo rich amoni^ you, of course 1 ' * Put it the other way, Mr. Hethcote. All men have a right to be rich — provided they don't make other people poor, as a part of the process. We don't trouble ourselves much about money ; that's the truth. We are farmers, carpenters, weavers, and printers ; and what we earn (ask our neighbours if we don't earn it honestly) goes into the common funu> A man who comes to us with money puts it into the fund, and so makes things easy for the next man who comes with empty pockets. While they are with us, they all live in the same comfort, and have their equal share in the same profits — deducting the sum in reserve for sudden calls and bad times. If they leave us the man who has brought money withhim has his undisputed right to take it away again ; and the man who has brought none bids us good-bye, all the richer for his equal share in the profits which he has personally earned. The only fuss at our place about money that 1 can remember was fthe fuss about my five hundred a year. I wanted to hand it over to the fund. It was my own, mind — inherited from my mother's property on my coming of age. The Elders wouldn't hear of it : the Coun- cil wouldn't hear of it: the general vot^ of the Community wouldn't hear of it. " We agreed with his father that he should decide for himself when he grew to manhood " — that was how they put it. "Let him go back to the Old World; and let him be free to choose, by the test of his own experience, what his future life shall be." How do you think it will end, Mr. Hethcote 1 Shall I return to the Community 1 Or shall I stop in London 1 ' Mr. Hethcote answered, without a moment's hesitation, *You will stop in London.' * I'll bet you two to one, sir, he goes back to the Commu- nity.' In those words, a third voice (speaking in a strong New England accent) insinuated itself into the conversation from behind. Amelius and Mr. Hethcote, looking around, dis- covered a long, lean, grave stranger — with his face over- THE FALLEN LEAVES. M unity is m- ij your prin- obody has a have a right 3 poor, as a much about srs, weavers, s if we don't L man who id so makes pty pockets. ;omfort, and ing the sum leave us the ited right to t none bids a the profits ,t our place >out my five B fund. It property on : the Coun- Community er that he ood " — that 31d World ; experience, it will end, % Or shall hesitation, he Commu- jtrong New sation from iround, dis- face over- shadowed by a huge felt hat. ' Have you been listening to our conversation 1 ' Mr. Hethcote asked haughtily. * I have been listening,' answered the grave stranger, * with considerable interest. This young man, I find, opens a new chapter to me in the book of humanity. Do you accept my bet, sir 1 My name is Rufus Dingwell ; and my home is at Coolspring, Mass. You do not bet 1 I express my regret, and have the pleasure of taking a seat alongside of you. What is your name, sir ? Hethcote ? We have one of that name at Coolspring. He is much respected. Mr. Claude A. Golden- heart, you are no stranger to me — no, sir. I procured your name from the steward, when the little difficulty occurred just now about the bird. Your ntime considerably surprised me.' * Why 1 ' Amelius asked. ' Well, sir — not to say that your surname (being Golden- heart) reminds one unexpectedly of the Pilgrim's Progress — I happen to be already acquainted with you. By reputation.' Amelius looked puzzled. * By reputation ? ' he said. ' What does that mean V ' It means, sir, that you occupy a prominent position in a re- ceni number of our popular journal, entitled The Coolspring Bemxrat. Tiie late romantic incident which caused the with- drawal of Miss Mellieent from your Community has produced a species of social commotion at Coolspring. Among our ladies, the tone of sentiment, sir, is universally favourable to you. When I left, I do assure you, you were a popular character among us. The name of Claude A. Goldenheart was, so to speak, in everybody's mouth.' Amelius listened to this, with the colour suddenly deepening on his face, and with every appeart^nce of heartfelt annoyance and ^\jLci. 'There is no such thing as keeping a secret in America,' he said, irritably. ' Some spy must have got among us ; none of our people would have exposed the poor lady to public comment. How would you like it, Mr. Dingwell, if the newspapers published the private sorrows of your wife or your daughter ? ' Rufus Dingwell answered with the straightforward sincerity of feeling which is one of the indisputable virtues of his nation. * I had not thought of it in that light, sir,' he said. ' You have 4 H m ii I '' ii!^ If 'i' '.i 11 .iilH 88 TJ/E FALLEN LEAVES. been good enough to credit me with a wife or a daughter. I do not possess either of those ladies ; but your argumt t hits me, notwithstanding — hits me hard, I tell you. He looked at Mr. Hethcote, who sat silently and stiffly disapproving of all this familiarity, and applied himself in perfect innocence and good faith to making things pleasant in that quarter. * You are a stranger, sir,' said Rufus ; ' and you would doubtless like to peruse the article which is the subject of conversation 1 ' He took a newspaper slip from his pocket-book, and offered it to the astonished Englishman. ' I shall be glad to hear your senti- ments, sir, on the view propounded by our mutual friend, Claude A. Goldenheart.' Before Mr. Hethcote could reply, Amelius interposed in his own headlong way. * Give it me ! I want to read it first I * He snatched at the newspaper slip. Rufus checked him with grave composure. ' I am of a cool temperament myself, sir, but that don't prevent me admiring heat in others. Short of boiling point — mind that ! * With this hint the wise New- Englander permitted AmeliuS to take possession of the printed slip. Mr. Hethcote, finding an opportunity of saying a word at last, asserted himself a little haughtily. * I beg you will both of you understand that I decline to read anything which relates to another person's private affairs.' Neither the one nor the other of his companions paid the slightest heed to this announcement. Amelius was reading the newspaper extract, and placid Rufus was watching him. In another moment, he crumpled up the slip, and threw it indig- nantly on the deck. ' It's as full of lies as it can hold ! ' he burst out. * It's all over the United States by this time,' Rufus remarked. * And I don't doubt we shall find the English papers have copied it, when we get to Liverpool. If you take my advice, you will cultivate a sagacious insensibility to the comments of the press.' ' Do you think I care for myself 1 ' AmeliuB asked, indig- nantly. * It's the poor woman I am thinking of. What can I do to clear her character ] ' • Well, sir,' suggested Rufus, * in your place, I should have THE FALLEN LEAVES. 39 notification circulated through the ship, announcing a lecture )n the subject (weather permitting) in the course of the after- loon. That's the way we should do it at Coolspring.' A melius listened without conviction. * It's certainly useless to make a secret of the matter now/ he said ; ' but I don't see \y way to make it more public still.' He paused and looked lat Mr. Hethcote. * It so happened, sir,' he resumed, * that ||this unfortunate affair is an example of some of the Rules of our "!Jommunity, which I had not had time to speak of when Mr. Ungwell here joined us. It will bo a relief to me to contra- lict these abominable falsehoods to somebody ; and I should like (if you don't mind) to hear what you think of my con- luct, from your own point of view. It might prepare me,' he ulded, smiling rather uneasily, ' for what 1 may find in the English newspapers.' With these words of introduction he told his sad story — jocosely described in the newspaper heading as * Miss Mellicent ind Goldenheart among the Socialists at Tadmor.' CHAPTER III. EARLY six months since,' said Amelius, ' we had notice by letter of the arrival of an unmarried English lady, who wished to become a member of our Community. You rill understand my motive in keeping her family name a secret : ^ven the newspaper has grace enough only to mention her by ler Christian name. I don't want to cheat you out of your Interest ; so I will own at once that Miss Mellicent was not 3autiful, and not young. When she came to us, she was thirty- [ight years old, and time and trial had set their marks on her ice, plainly enough for anybody to see. Notwithstanding this all thought her an interesting woman. It might have been le sweetness of her voice ; or perhaps it was something in her cpression — a sort of patience and kindness that seemed to i; ,. I; .1 II i V I 'i; M''\ *ir i j'V: ';■;! 111 111); 40 THE FALLEN LEAVES. blame nobody and to expect nothing — that took our fancy. There ! I can't explain it ; I can only say there were young wo- men and pretty women at Tadraor who failed to win us as Miss Mellicent di .ly en- THE FALLEN LEAVES. 41 Pi ir fancy. )ung wo- s as Miss Kufus )graph of ived her, ise wt! all y is done. j1 ; some- muse us. of intro- the name f the wo- kvho lived the Wes- showing, the trees d at Miss 1 I heard he Fallen kvho have ave toiled isappoint- wonnded llder Bro- elf ; it's a who are over the ^i w clouded at him in mpassion- \ And— oom -the lity .ly en- gaged in moralizing on her.* In those terms the ever-ready Rufus set the story going again. * Quite right,' Amelius resumed. * There she was, poor thing, a little, thin, timid creature, in a white dress, with a black scarf over her shoulders, trembling and wondering in a room full of strangers. The Elder Brother took her by the hand, and kissed heron the forehead, and bade her heartily welcome in the name of the Community. Then the women followed his example, and the men all shook hands with her. And then our chief put the three questions, which he is bound to address to all new arrivals when they first join us. " Do you come here of your own free will ? Do you bring with you a written recommenda- tion from one of our brethren which satisiies us that we do no wrong to ourselves or others in receiving you ? Do you under- stand that you are not bound to us by vows, but are tree to leave us again if the life here is not agreeable to you ? " Mat- ters being settled so far, the reading of the Rules, and the Pen- alties imposed for breaking them, came next. Some of Ithe Rules you know already ; others of smaller importance I needn't trouble you with . As for the Penalties, if you incur the lighter ones, you are subject to public rebuke or to isolation for a time from the social life of the Community. If you incur the hea- vier ones, you are either sent out into the world again for a given period, to return or not as you please ; or you are struck off the list of members, and expelled for good and all. Sup- pose these preliminaries agreed to by Miss Mellicent with silent submission, and let us get on to to the end of the ceremony — the reading of the Rules which settle the questions of love and marriage.* * Aha ! ' said Mr. Hethcote, ' we are coming to the difficulties of the Community at last 1 ' ' Are we also coming to Miss Mellicent, sir 1 ' Rufus inquired. * As a citizen of a free country in which I can love in one State, marry in another, and be divorced in a third, I am not inter- ested in your Rules — I am interested in your lady.' ' The twc are inseparable in this case,' Amelius answered gravely. * If I am to speak of Miss Mellicent, I must speak of the Rules ; you will soon see why. Our Community becomes a despotism, gentlemen, in .dealing with love and marriage. m i I S'-ii i \ F !j [\ -• ;l, f, i"-i ''1 r i 'i i! .' s '1 II w '111 il-. bU 42 ?^^J5: FALLEN LEAVES. For example, it positively prohibits any member afflicted with hereditary disease from marrying at all ; and it reserves to it- self, in the case of every proposed marriage among us, the right of permitting or forbidding it, in council. We can't even fall in love with each other, without being bound, under penalties, to report it to the Elder Brother ; who, in his turn, communi- cates it to the weekly council ; who, in their turn, decide whe- ther the courtship may go on or not. That's not the worst of it, even yet ! In some cases — where we haven't the slightest intention of falling in love with one another — tlie governing body takes the initiative. *' You two will do well to marry ; we see it if you don't. Just think of it, will you 1 " You may laugh ; some of our happiest marriages have been made in that way. Our governors in council act on an established principle ; here it is in a nut shell. The results of experience in the mat- ter of marriage, all over the world, show that a really wise choice of a husband or a wife is an exception to the rule ; and that husbands and wives in general, would be happier together if their marriages were managed for them by competent ad- visers on either side. Laws laid down on such lines as these, and others equally strict, which I have not mentioned yet, were not pr*i in force, Mr. Hethcote, as you suppose, without serious difficulties — difficulties which threatened the very existence of the community. But that was before my time. When I grew up, I found the husbands and wives about me content to ac- knowledge that the Rules fulfilled the purpose for which they had been made — the greatest happiness of the »ieatest number. It all looks very absurd, I dare say, from ycir point of view. But these queer regulations of ours answer the < Vniistian test — by their fruits ye shall know them. Our marii i ^leople don't live on separate sides of the house ; our children aia all healthy ; wife-beating is unknown among us ; and the practice in our divorce court wouldn't keep the most moderate lawyer on bread and cheese. Can you say as much for the success of the mar- riage laws in Europe ? I leave you, gentlemen to form your own opinions.' Mr Hethcote declined to express an opinion. Rufus de- clined to resign his interest in the lady. 'And what did Miss Mellicent say to it 1 * he inquired. THE FALLEN LEAVES. 43 * She said something that startled us all,' Amelius replied. * When the Elder Brother began to read the first words relating to love and marriage in the Book of Rules, she turned deadly pale ; and rose* up in her place with a sudden burst of courage or desperation — I don't know which. " Must you read that to me i " she asked. ** I have nothing to do, sir, with love or marriage." The Elder . Brother laid aside his Book of Rules. "If you are afflicted with an hereditary malady," he said, "the doctor from the town will examine you, and report to us." She answered, " I have no hereditary malady." The Elder Brother took up his book again. " In due course of time, my dear, the Council will decide for you whether you are to love and marry or not." And he read the Rules. She sat down again, and hid her face in her hands, and never moved or spoke until he had done. The regular questions followed. Had she anything to say, in the way of objection ? Nothing 1 In that case, would she sign the Rules 1 Yes ! The time came for supper and music. She excused herself like a child. " I feel very tired ; may I go to bed ? " The unmarried women in the same dor- mitory with her anticipated some romantic confession when she grew used to her new friends. They proved to be wrong. " My life has been one long disappointment," was all she said. " You will do me a kindness if you will take me as I am, and not ask me to talk about myself." There was nothing sulky or ungra- cious in the .expression of her wish to keep her own secret. A kinder or sweeter woman — never thinking of herself, always considerate of others — never lived. An accidental discovery made me her chief friend, among the men : it turned out that her childhood had been passed where my childhood had been passed, at Shedfield Heath in Buckinghamshire. She was never weary of consulting my boyish recollections, and compar- ing them with her own. " I love the place," she used to say ; " the only happy time of my life was the time passed there." On my sacred word of honour, this was the sort of talk that passed between us, for week after week. What other talk could pass between a man whose one-and-twentieth birthday was then near at hand, and a woman who was close on forty ? What could I do, when the poor broken disappointed creature met me on the hill or by the river, and said, " You are going :\ III Did T !8II! ^'}'\: !! ':iW U THE FALLEN LEA VES. out for a walk ; may I come with you ? " I never attempted to intrude myself into her confidence ; I never even asked her why she had joined the Community. You see what is coming, don't you ? / never saw it. I didn't know wliat it meant, when some of the younger women, meeting us together, looked at me (not at her), and smiled maliciously. My stupid eyes were opened at last by the woman who slept in the next bed to her in the dormitory — a woman old enough to be my mother, who took care of me when I was a child at Tadmor. She stop- ped me one morning, on my way to fish in the river. " Ame- lius," she said, " don't go to the fishing-house ; Mellicent is waiting for you." I stared at her in astonishment. She held up her finger at me : " Take care, you foolish boy ! You are drifting into a false position as fast as you can. Have you no suspicion of what is going on ? " I looked all around me, in search of what was going on. Nothing out of the common was to be seen anywhere. '* What can you possibly mean 1 " I asked. " You will ^.nly laugh at me if I tell you," she said. I promised not to laugh. She too looked all round her, as if she was afraid of somebody being near enough to hear us ; and then she let out the secret. " Amelius, ask for a holiday — and leave us for a whiL. Mellicent is in love wiih you." CHAPTER IV. EELLICENT is in love with you.' Amelius looked at his companions, in some doubt whe- ther they would preserve their gravity at this critical point in his story. They both showed him that his apprehen- sions were well founded. He was a little hurt — and he in- stantly revealed it. ' I own to my shame that I burst out laugh- ing myself,' he said. ' But you two gentlemen are older and wiser than I am. I didn't expect to find you just as ready to laugh at i oor Miss Mellicent as I was.' i__iU*. THE FALLEN LEA VES. 45 Mr. Hethcote declined to be reminded of his duties as a middle-aged gentleman in this back-handed manner. ' Gently, Amelius ! Ypu can't expect to persuade us that a laughable thing is not a thing to be laughed at. A woman close on forty who falls in love with a young fellow of twenty-one — ' ' Is a laughable circumstance,' Rufus interposed. ' Whereas a man of forty who fancies a young woman of twenty-one is all in the order of Nature. The men have settled it so. But why the women are to give up so much sooner than the men, is a question, sir, on which I have long wished to hear the senti- ments of the women themselves.' Mr. Hethcote dismissed the sentiments of the women with a wave of his hand. ' Let us hear the rest of it, Amelius. Of course you w^nt on to the fishing-house Y And of course you found Miss Mellicent there 1 ' * She came to the door to meet me, much as usual,' Amelius resumed — * and suddenly checked herself in the act of shaking hands with me. I can only suppose she saw something in my face that startled her. How it happened, I can't say ; but I felt my good spirits forsake me tue moment I found myself in her presence. I doubt if she had ever seen me so serious be- fore. " Have I offended you ? " she asked. Of course I denied it ; but failed to satisfy her. She began to tremble. " Has somebody said something against me 1 Are you weary of my company 1 " Tliose were the next questions. It was useless to say No. Some perverse distrust of me, or some despair of herself, overpowered her on a sudden. She sank down on the floor of the fishing-house, and began to cry — not a good hearty burst of tears ; a silent miserable resigned sort of crying, as if she had lost all claim to be pitied, and all right to feel wounded or hurt. I was so distressed that I thought of nothing but consoling her. I meant well — and I acted like a fool. A sen- sible man would have lifted her up, and left her to recover her- self. I lifted her up and put my ^rm around her waist. She looked at me as I did it. For just a moment, I declare she became twenty years younger ! She blushed as I have never seen a woman blush before or since — the colour flowed all over her neck as well as her face. Before I could say a word, she caught hold of my hand, and (of all the confusing things in the M /■ . i,ii:.i-:i Im M I' 46 THE FALLEN LEA FES. world ! ) kissed it ! " No ! '' she cried, " don't despise me ! Don't laugh at me ! Wait, and hear what my life has been — and then you will understand why a little kindness overpow- ers me." She looked round the corner of the fishing-house suspiciously. " I don't want anybody else to hear us," she said ; *' all the pride isn't beaten out of me yet. Come to the lake, and row me about in the boat." T took her out in the boat. Nobody could hear us certainly ; but she forgot and I forgot, that anybody might see us, and that appearances on the lake might lead to false conclusions on shore.' Mr. Hethcote and Rufus exchanged significant looks. They had not forgotten the llules of the Community, when two of its members showed a preference to each other's society. Amelius proceeded. * Well, there we were on the lake. I paddled with the oars — and she opened her whole heart to me. Her troubles had begun, in a very common way, with her mother's death, and her father's second marriage. She had a brother and a sister — the sister married to a German merchant, settled in New York ; the brother comfortably established as a sheep-farmer in Australia. So, you see, she was alone at home, at the mercy of tlie step-mother. I don't understand these cases myself ; but people who do, tell me that there are faults on both sides. To make matters worse, they were a poor family ; the one rich relative being a sister of the first wife, who disapproved of the widower marrying again, and never entered the house afterwards. Well, the step-mother had a sharp tongue — and Mellicent was the fi;st person to feel the sting of it. She was reproached with being an encumbrance on her father, when she ought to be doing something for her- self. There was no need to repeat those harsh words. The next day she answered an a Ivertisement. Before the week was over she was earning her bread as a daily governess.' Here, Rufus stopped the narrative, having an interesting question to put. * Might I inquire, sir, what her salary was 1 ' * Thirty pounds a year,' Amelius replied. ' She was out teaching from nine o'clock to two — and then went home again.' ' There seems to be nothing to complain of in that, as sala- ries go,' Mr. Hethcote remarked. * She made no cjmplaiut,' Amelius rejoined. ' She was satis- i*i THE FALLEN LEAVES. 47 fied with her salary; but she wasn't satistied with her iit»;. The meek little woman grew downright angry when she s|)(»ke of it. " I had no reason to complain of my employers," she said. " I was treated civilly and punctually paid ; but I never made friends of them. I tried in make friends of the children ; and sometimes I thought I had succeeded — -but, doar, when they were idle, and I was obliged to keep them to their lessons, I soon found how little hold I had on the love that I wanted them to give me. We see children in books who are perfect little angels ; never envious or greedy or sulky or deceitful ; always the same sweet, pious, tender, grateful, inuocent crea- tures — and it has been my misfortune never to meet with them, go where I might ! It is a hard world, Amelius, the world that I have lived in. I don't think there are such miserable lives anywhere as the lives led by the poor middle classes in England. From year's end to year's end, the one dreadful struggle to keep up appearances, and the heart-breaking mono- tony of an existence without change. We lived in the back street of a cheap suburb. I declare to you we had but one amusement in the whole long weary year — the annual concert the clergyman got up, in aid of his schools. The rest of the year it was all teaching for the first half of the day, and needle- work for the young family for the other half. My father had religious scruples ; he prohibited theatres, he prohibited danc- ing and light reading ; he even prohibited looking in at the shop windows, because we had no money to spare and they tempted us to buy. He went to business in the morning, and came back at night, and fell asleep after dinner, and woke up and read prayers — and next day to business and back, and sleep- ing and waking and reading prayers — and no break in it, week after week, month after month, except on Sunday, which was always the same Sunday, the same church, the service, the same dinner, the same book of sermons in the evening. Even when we had a fortnight once a year at the seaside, we always went to the same place and lodged in the same cheap house. The few friends we had, led just the same lives, and were beaten down flat by just the same monotony. All the women seemed to submit to it contentedly except my miserable self. I wanted so little ! Only a change now and then ; only a little sympa- 1 .'ill , "li'^l i,k H i\ '} III 'U >j|^ii ' ' ' 'n'ravvv^ ' '' ' ^ v4fii '■' i, iiWni -iwrfi ' '•tH 1 ... ..J ^ ^^^^^BH H^^^^B' 'r^aP "55»»i ■T^ i Hi M I t:,i.' 48 THE FALLEN LEA VES. thy when I was weary and sick at heart ; only somebody whom I could love and serve, and be rewarded with a smile and a kind word in return. Mothers shook their heads, and daugh- ters laughed at me. Have we time to be sentimental ? Haven't we enough to do, darning and mending, and turning our dresses, and making the joint last as long as possible, and keeping the children clean, and doing the washing at home — and tea and sugar rising, and my husband grumbling every week when I have to ask him for the house-money. 0, no more of it ! no more of it ! People meant for better things all ground down to the same sordid and selfish level — is that a pleasant sight to contemplate 1 I shudder when I think of the last twenty years of my life ! " That's what she Cv^mplained of, Mr. Hethcote, in the solitary middle of the lake, with nobody but me to hear her.' * In my country, sir,' Rufus remarked, * the Lecture Bureau would have provided for her amusement, on economical terms. And I reckon, if a married life would fix her, she might have tried it among Us by way of a change.' * That's the saddest part of the story,' said Amelius. * There came a time, only two years ago, when her prospects changed for the better. Her rich aunt (her mother's sister) died ; and — what do you think 1 — left her a legacy of six thousand pounds. There was a gleam of sunshine in her life ! The poor teacher was an heiress in a small way, with her fortune at her own dis- posal. They had something like a festival at home, for the first time ; presents to everybody, and kissings and congratu- lations, and new dresses at last. And, more than that, another wonderful event happened before long. A gentleman made his appearance in the family circle, with an intei-esting object in view — a gentleman who had called at the house in which she happened to be employed as teacher at the time, and had seen her occupied with her pupils. He had kept it to himself to be sure, but he had secretly admired her from that moment — and now it had come out ! She had never had a lover before; mind that. And he was a remarkably handsome man ; dressed beautifully, and sang and played, and was so humble and de- voted with it all. Do you think it wonderful that she said Yes, when he proposed to marry her 1 T don't think it wonderful THE FALLEN LEAVES. 4» at all. For the first few weeks of the courtship the sunshine was brighter than ever. Then the clouds began to rise. Anony- mous letters came, describing the handsome gentleman (seen under his fair surface) as nothing less than a scoundrel. She tore up the letters indignantly — she was too delicate even to show them to him. Signed letters came next, addressed to her father by an uncle and an aunt, both containing one and the same warning : "If your daughter insists on having him, tell her to take care of her money." A few days later, a visitor arrived — a brother, who spoke out more plairdy still. As au honourable man, he could not hear of wiiat was going on, without making the painful confession that his brother was forbidden to enter his house. That said, he washed his hands of all further responsibility. You, too, know the world, you will guess how it ended. Quarrels in tiie household ; the poor middle-aged woman, living in her fool's Paradise, blindly true to her lover ; convinced that he was foully wronged ; frantic when he declared that he would not connect himself with a family which suspected him. Ah, 1 iiave no patience when I think of it — I almost wish I had never begun to tell the story ! Do you know what he did % She was free, of course, at her age, to decide for herself ; there was no controlling her. The wedding day was fixed. Her father had declared he would not sanctiori it ; and her mother-in-law kept him to iiis word. She went alone to the church, to meet her promised husband. Ho never appeared ; he deserted her ; mercilessly deserted her — after she had sacrificed her own relations to him — on her wed- ding-day. She was taken home insensible, and had a brain fever. The doctors declined to answer for her life. Her father thougtil it time to look at her banker's pass-book. Out of her six thousand pounds she had privately given no less than four thousand to the scoundrel who had deceived and forsaken her ! Not a month afterwards he married a young girl — with a for- tune, of course. We read of such things in newspapers and books. But to have them brought home to one, after living one's own life among honest people — I tell you it stupified me !' He said no more. Below them in the cabin, voices were laughing and talking, to a cheerful accompaniment of clattei- ing knives and forks. Around them spread the exultant glory ■-\ !-.- , ." m oil m ; :,i ! m ill f m ilili III 'I itiiivi .1. I if . 50 Tlim FALLEN LEAVES. of scti and sky. All that they heard, all that they saw, was cruelly out of harmony with the miserable story which had just reached its end. With one accord the three men rose and paced the deck, feeling physically the same need of some movement to lighten their spirits. With one accord they waited a little, before the narrative was resumed. CHAPTER V. li. HETHCOTE was the first to speak again. ' I can understand the poor creature's motive in join- ing your Community,' he said. ' To a person of any sen- sibility her position, among such relatives as you describe, must have been simply unendurable after what had happened. How did she hear of Tadmor and the Socialists ] * * She had read one of our books,* Amelius answered ; * and she had her married sister at New York to go to. There were moments, after her recovery (she confessed it to me frankly), when the thought of suicide was in her mind. Her religious scruples saved her. She was kindly received by her sister and her sister's husband. They proposed to keep her with them to teach their children. No ! the new life offered to her was too like the old life — she was broken in body and mind ; she had no courage to face it. We have a resident agent in New York ; and he arranged for her journey to Tadmor. There is a gleam of brightness, at any rate, in this part of her story. She blessed the day, poor soul, when she joined us. Never before had she found herself among such kind-hearted, unsel- fish, simple people. Never before — ' he abruptly checked him- self, and looked a little confused. Obliging Rufus finished the sentence for him. * Never be- fore had she known a young man with such natural gifts of fascination as C. A. G. Don't you be too modest, sir ; it doesn't pay, I do assure you, in the nineteenth century.' il :? 1 i ^ '■■;■ ' A' 77/ A' FALLEN LEAVKS. 51 Amelius was not as ready with liis laugh as usual. * I wish 1 could drop it at the ponit we liavo reached now,' he said. *Uut she has left Tadnior ; and, in justice to her (after the scandals in the newspaper), I nnist tell you how she left it, and why. The mischief began when I was helping her out of the boat. Two of our young women met us on the bank of the lake, and asked me how I got on with my fishing. They didn't mean any harm, they were only in their custonmry good spirits. Still, there was no mistaking their looks and tones when they put the question. Miss Mellicent, in her confusion, made matters worse, She coloured up, and snatched her hand out of mine, and ran back to the house by herself. The girls, enjoying their own foolish joke, congratulated me on my pros- pects. I must have been out of sorts in some way — upset, perhaps, by what I had heard in the boat. Anyhow, I lost my temper, and / made matters worse, next. I said some angry words, and left them. The same evening I found a letter in my room. " For your sake, I must not be seen alone with you again. It is hard to lose the comfort of your sympathy, but I must submit. Think of me kindly as I think of you. It has done me good to open my heart to you." Only those lines, signed by Mellicent's initials. I was rash enough to keep the letter instead of destroying it. All might have ended well, nevertheless, if she had only held to her resolution. But, un- luckily, my twenty-first birth-day was close at hand ; and there was talk of keeping it as a festival in the Community. I was up with the sunrise when the day came ; having some farming- work to look after, and wanting to get it over in good time. My shortest way back to breakfast was through a wood. In the wood 1 met her.' * Al six months' ab- sence from the Community ; to return or not, as we pleased. A hard sentence, gentlemen — whatever we may think of it — to homeless and friendless people, to the Fallen Leaves that had drifted to Tadmor. In my case it had been already arranged that I was to leave. After what had happened, my departure was made compulsory in four-and twenty hours ; and I was for- bidden to return, until the date of my sentence had expired. In Mellicent's case they were still more strict. They would not trust her to travel by herself. A female member of the Community was appointed to accompany her to the house of her married sister at New York : she was ordered to be ready for the journey by sunrise the next morning. We bo*ened wider and wider in unutterable expectation. She suddenlv advanced her face so close to mine that T felt her hot breath on my cheeks as the next words burst their way through her lips. * Born in England 1 ' * No. Born at Tadmor.' She dropped my arm. The light died out of her eyes in an ''^ '■a '11 'I if !9i 64 THE FALLEN LEAVES. It I li !i u u 1*!:; If iif iliiii instant ; they wandered away again as if my very presence in the room had ceased to impress itself on her mind. In some inconceivable way, I had utterly destroyed some secret expec- tation that she had fixed on me. She actually left me on the sofa, and took a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. Mr. Farnaby, turning paler and paler, stepped up to her as she changed her place. I rose to look at the pictures on the wall nearest to me. You remarked the extraordinary keenness of my sense of hearing while we were fellow-passengers on the steamship. When he stooped over her, and whispered in her ear, I heard him — though nearly the whole breadth of the room was between us. • You hell cat ! ' — that was what Mr. Farna- by said to his wife. The clock on the mantelpiece struck the half hour after seven. In quick succession, the guests at the dinner now en- tered the room. I was so staggered by the extraordinary scene of married life which I had just witnessed, that the guests produced only a very faint impression upon me. My mind was absorbed in trying to find the true meaning of what I had seen and heard. Was Mrs. Farnaby a little mad ? I dismissed that idea as soon as it occurred to me ; nothing that I had observed in her justi- fied it. The truer conclusion appeared to be, that she was deeply interested in some absent (and possibly lost) young creature ; whose age, judging by actions and tones which had sufficiently revealed that part of the secret to me, could not be more than sixteen or seventeen years. How long had she cherished the hope of seeing the girl, or hearing of her 1 It must have been anyhow a hope very deeply rooted- for she had been very incapable of controlling herself when I had acci- dentally roused it. As for her husband, there could be no doubt that the subject was not merely distasteful to him, but so ab- solutely infuriating that he could not even keep his temp*^r, in the presence of a third person invited to his house. Had he injured the girl in any way 1 Was he responsible for her dis. appearance? Did his wife know it, or only suspect it 1 Who was the girl ? What was the secret of Mrs. Farnaby's extraor- dinary interest in her — Mrs. Farnaby, whose marriage was childless ; whose interest one would have thought should be THE FALLEN LEAVES. 65 naturally concentrated on her adopted daughter, her sister's orphan child ? In conjectures such as these, I completely lost myself. Let me hear what your ingenuity can make of the puzzle ; and let me return to Mr. Farnaby's dinner, waiting on Mr. Farnaby's table. The servant threw open the drawing-room door, and the most honoured guest present led Mrs. Farnaby to the dining-room. I roused myself to some observation of what was going on about me. No ladies had been invited ; and the men were all of a certain age. I looked in vain for the charming niece. Was she not well enough to appear at the dinner party ? I ventured on putting the question to Mr. Farnaby. * You will find her at the tea-table, when we return to the drawing-room. Girls are out of place at dinner-parties.* So he answered me — not very graciously. As I stepped out on the landing, I looked up ; I don't know why, unless I was the unconscious object of magnetic attrac- tion. Anyhow, 1 had my reward. A bright young face peeped over the balustrades of the upper staircase, and modestly with- drew itself again in a violent hurry. Everybody but Mr. Far- naby and myself had disappeared in the dining-room. Was she having a peep at the young Socialist ? ir Another interruption to my letter, caused by another change in the weather. The fog has vanished ; the waiter is turning off the gas, and letting in the drab-coloured daylight. I ask him if it is still raining. He smiles, and rubs his hands, and says, * It looks like clearing up soon, sir.' This man's head is gray ; he has been all his life a waiter in London — and he can still see the cheerful side of things. What a native strength of mind cast away on a vo(;ation that is unworthy of it ! Well — and now about the Farnaby dinner. I feel a tight- ness in the lower part of my waistcoat, Rufus, when I think of the dinner ; there was such a quantity of it, and Mr. Farnaby was so tyranically resolute in forcing his luxuries down the throats of his guests. His eye was upon me if I let my plate go away before it was empty — his eyes said, * I have paid for : t i r ; II ft:: '1 1 I f ! ;.' § m ^MM ii'fili R! ; 66 THE FALLEN LEA VES. this magnificent dinner, and I mean to see you eat it.' Our printed list of the dishes, as they succeeded each other, also informed us of the varieties of wino which it was imperatively necessary to drink with each dish. I got into difficulties early in the proceedings. The taste of sherry, for instance, is abso- lutely nauseous to me ; and Rhine wine turns into vinegar ten minutes after it has passed my lips. I asked for the wine that I could drink, out of its turn. You should have seen Mr. Farnaby's face, when I violated the rules of his dinner-table ! It was the one amusing incident of the feast — the one thing that alleviated the dreary and mysterious spectacle of Mrs. Farnaby. There she sat, with her mind hundreds of miles away from everything that was going on about her, entangling the two guests, on her right hand and on her left, in a net- work of vacant questions, just as she had entangled me. I discovered that one of these gentlemen was a barrister and the other a shipowner, by the answers which Mrs. Farnaby absently abstracted from them on the subject of their respec- tive vocations of life. And while she questioned incessantly, she ate incessantly. Her vigorous body insisted on being fed. She would have emptied her wine-glass (I suspect) as readily as she plied her knife and fork — but I discovered that a certaiu system of restraint was established in the matter of wine. At intervals, Mr. Farnaby just looked at the butler — and the butler and his b > ;tle, on those occasions, deliberately passed her by. Not the Slightest visible change was produced in her by the eating and drinking ; she was equal to any demands that any dinner could make on her. There was no flush in her face, no change in her spirits when she rose in obedience to English custom, and retired to the drawing-room. 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 Tadnior had informed us of the dominant political position of the middle classes in Eng- land, since the time of the first Reform Bill. Mr. Farnaby's guests represented the respectable mediocrity of social posi- tion, the professional and commercial average of the nation. They talked glibly enough— I and an old gentleman who sat THE FALLEN LEAVES. 67 at next to me being the only listeners. I had spent the morning lazily in the smoking-room of tlie hotel, reading tiie clay's newspapers. And what did T 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 ad- dressed by one man to another, as if they were his own origi- nal views on public affairs ! This absurd imposture positively went the round of the table, received and respected by every- body with a stolid solemnity of make believe which was down- right shameful to see. Not a man present said, ' I saw that to-day 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 on the subject, was honest enough to say so. One enormous Sham, and everybody in a ^sonspiracy to take it for the real thing : that is an accurate description of the state of political feeling among the represen- tative 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 Mrs. Barnaby's niece ] Everything in its place Rufus. The niece followed the politics, at the time ; and she shall follow them now. Yon 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 tm 'I I SI ^» 68 THE FALLEN LEAVES. 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 her 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 ; she's really three or four and twenty, I forget which. Will that do for you ? Wait till you see her ! ' ' Has she p, good figu»'e, sirl ' * Ha ! you're like the Turks, are you ] A nice-looking wo- man 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, crea- ture. 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 ha-s 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 schonl-friendships. A splendid creature, with the vital thermometer at temperate heat — 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 civilised 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 womon. Regina's early life has been a hard one. Her mother was Mrs. Ronald's eldest daughter. The old brute nover 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 child- M THE FALLEN LEAVES. 69 hood there was always distress at home. Her father, harrassed by creditors, trying one scheme after another, and failing in all ; her mother and herself, half starved — with their very bed-clothes sometimes at the pawnbroker's. 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 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 therasjlves to others — she is devoted for instance to Mrs. Farnaby. I oiny hope Mrs. Farnaby is worthy of it ! Not that it natters to Regina. What she does, she does out of her own sweetness of dispositi' . 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 hundred-fold. He'll find that out, one of these days, Avhon a husband takes her away. Don't suppose that I want to disparage our host ; he's an old friend of mine — but lie's a little too apt to take the good things that f.til to his lot as if they were nothing but a just recognitio'. of his own merits. I have told him that to his face, ofte i enough to have a right to say it of him when he doesn'*^ near me. Do you smoke ? I wish they would drop their politics and take to tobacco. I say, Farnaby % 1 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 M. " \j ^ ^^^nuctuion. As we rose fron. table, one of the guests spoke to me of a visit that he had recently paid to that part of Buckingham- shire which I come from. ' I was shown a remarkably pictu- resipie old house, on the heath,' he said. ' They told me it had been inhabited for centuries by the family of the Golden- hearts. Are you in any way related to them ? ' I answered that I was very nearly related, having been born in the house 6 m% 70 THE FALLEN LEA VES. r ;!!'■ — and there, as I supposed, the matter ended. Being the youngest man of the party, I waited of course until the rest of the gentlemen had passed out of the dining-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 1 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 stand still in the hall ; his brassy, rasping voice assumed a new tone — a sort of parody of respect. 'Have you ooen to your family place,' he asked, 'since your return to England ? ' He had evidently heard thf few words exchanged between his friend and myself. It se^'.ned odd that he should take any interest in a place beloiigmg 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. ' O, 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 1 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 shocked. ' I think I saw a ring on your finger,* he unaffectedly 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 in- itials 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 THE FALLEN LEAVES. be your fatlier, and I must take the freedom of remonstrating with you. Your coatof-arras and your motto are no doubt at the Herald's Office — why don't you apply for them ? Shall I go there for you ? I wiil do it with pleasure. You shouldn't be careless about these things — you shouldn't indeed.' I listened in speechless astonishment. Wtis he ironically expressing his contempt for old families 1 We got into the smoking-room at last ; and my friend t.he 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 pride of an- cestry — actually feels a sincerely, servile admiration for the accident of birth ! * 0, 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. J 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 T 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 in full length. In the meanwhile, 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 his opinion by ten, and you have mine. [Note : — A strange indorsement appears on this letter, dated some months after the period at which it was received : — * Ah, 'Vj t f fP^l i ;s-9i 72 THE FALLEN LEAVES. poor Amelius ! He had better have gone hack to Miss Mellicent, and put up with the little drawback of her age. What a bright lovedble fellow he was ! Good-bye to GoldenJieart ! ' These lines are not signed. They are known, however, to of Rufus Dingwell.] be in the handwriting CHAPTER VII. Qo PARTICULARLY want you to come and hinch with us, dearest Cecilia, the day after to-morrow. 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 agree- able — and, wonder of wonders, utterly unlike any other young man you ever saw in your life ? You are to meet him at luncheon ; and you are to get used to his strange name before- hand. For which purpose I enclose his card. He iiiade his first appearance at our house, at dinner yester- day evening. When he was presented to me at the tea-table, he was not to be put off with a bow — lie insisted on shaking hands. * Where I have been,' he explained, ' we help a first introduc- tion 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 m^ans THE FALLEN LEA VES. 73 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 liegina — and now I have to return to my own country, I find insincerity one of the es- tablished institutions of English Society. " Can we do any- thing for you 1 " Ask them to do something for you — and you will see what it me^ns. " Thank you for such a pleasant even- ing ! " 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 appoint- ment." Mr. So and-so passes out of hearing — and yon discover what the congratulations mean. " Corrupt old brute ! he has got the price of his vote at the last division." " 0, 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 accom- panied 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, " 0, 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 1" He anpv/cred, " 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, 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 obser- v\ I' i I -Pi; 74 THE FALLEN LEAVES. vatioii). by saying that they are tiiiies. When iriHcs make themselves habits of yours or 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 PapaFarnaby would call it. My dear, he is decidedly handsome (I mean our delightful Ame- lius) ; 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 So- cialist. 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 ! 0, 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 pres- sing.' He sang old English songs with great taste and sweet- ness. One of the gentlemen of our party, evidently disliking him, spoke rather rudely, I thought. ' A Socialist who sings and pla>s,' 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 an- swer, I can tell you. ' Why sb.ould 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: THE FALLEN LEAVES, It) You must and shall keep 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 foliowed me everywhere. And, when I took a chair by somebody else, not feeling it quite right to keep him all to myscilf, 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 per- son in the room. Judge for yourself when you come here ; but don't jump to conclusions, if you please. O, no — I am not go- ing 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 tJiat man ! One thing more, my dear. This curious Amelius seems to notice trifles which escape men in general, just as we do. To- wards 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 time past 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 con- fidence or not : he even went the length of asking what sort of life I led with the uncle and aunt who have adopted mc 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 1 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 I ill ii'l 76 THE FALLEN LEAVES. of Mrs. Farnaby. Perhaps it began in sympathy and compas- sion 1 * Just think of that, from a young Englishman ! He went on confessing his perplexities, as if we had known one an- other 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 th 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 to luncheon ? Not Papa Farnaby, who only invites him to dinner. Not I, it is needless to say. Who is it then 1 Mamma Farnaby herself ? He has actually so interested her that she has been thinking of him, and dreaming of him, in his absence I I heard her last night, poor thing, talking and grinding her teeth in her sleep ; and I went into her roo.ia 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 mag- netism, 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 couid positively discover this — that she was dreaming of our guest from America. I said nothing about it, of course, when I went up stairs with her cup of tea this morning. What do you think was the first thing she asked for ? Pen, ink and papei-. Her next re- quest was that I would write Mr. Goldenheart's address on an envelope. ' Are you going to write to him ? ' I asked. * Yes,' THE FALLEN LEA VES. 77 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 to-morrow. By way of trying to penetrate the mystery, T inquired if she wished me to appear at the luncheon. She considered with herself before she answered that, * I want him to fee amused and put in a good humour,' she said, ' before I speak to him. You must lunch with us — and ask Cecilia.' '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 I have never been trusted with 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 ri- diculous, 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. i! f ' \ M . » CtlAPTER VIII. \\ 'jp T was an afternoon concert ; and modern German music W was largely represented on the programme. The patient ^ English people sat in closely-packed rows, listening to the portentous instrumental noises which were impudently offered n 1 ; I 111 78 THE FALLEN LEA VES. !t ! . to them as a substitute for melody. While these docile victims of the worst of all quackeries 'musical quackery) were still toil- ing through their first hour of endurance, a passing ripple of interest stirred the stagnant surface of the audience, caused by tlie 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 gen- tleman 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 compan- ions out of the hall. But the lady who had preceded tliem 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.' Th< cab was found in a moment ; the gentleman got in after her, by the lady's invitation. * Are you better now 1 ' he asked. * I have never had anything the matter with me,' she replied quietly ; ' tell the man to driv(5 faster.' Having obeyed his, instructions, the gentleman (otherwise Amelius) began to look a littlt; puzzled. The lady (Mrs. Farnaby herself) per- ceived his condition of mind, and favoured him with an ex- planation. ' I had my own motive fi 'I CHAPTER IX. § MELIUS 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 whisperer]. • All 1 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. T I! ii 88 THE iLLEN LEAVES, I . ; The servant opened the house-door. Kegina's voice was heard in the hall. * Has my aunt come in ? * * No, miss.' ' Have you h»ard nothing of her 1 ' * Nothing, miss.' * Has Mr. Goldenheart been here ? ' ' No, miss.* * Very extraordinary ! What can have become of them, Cecilia 1 ' 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 circum- stances ; the carriage will be waiting for me. If I see anything of your aunt, I will say 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, h'"s it come to that, already ? I'll try to like him, Regina. Good-bye again ! * The closing of the street-door told that the ladies had sepa- rated. 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 fire-place. * 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. Yon 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 adgets me to see you standing there, looking at your b ots. I told you I had one possible consolation still 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 mat- ter — except to give you one more proof that I am thoroughly THE FALLEN LEAVES. 89 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 did you think 1 ' Amelius told her plainly. She became more and more in- terested, more and more excited, as he went on. ' Quite right ! ' she exclaimed, starting to her feet and walk- ing swiftly backwards and forwards in the room. 'There is a lost girl whom 1 want to find ; and she is between sixteen and seventeen years old, as you thought. Mind ! I have no reason — not the shaaow of a reason — for believing that she is still a living creature. I have only my own stupid obstinate convic- tion ; 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 — O, don't ask me how long ! it is so far, so miserably far to look back.' She stopprd in the middle of the room. Her breath came and went in quick, heavy gasps ; the first tears that had softene