 Book 8, Chapter 1 of The Fallen Leaves. The day which had united the mother and daughter, only to part them again in this world forever, had advanced to evening. Amelius and Sally were together again in the cottage, sitting by the library fire. The silence in the room was uninterrupted. On the open desk, near Amelius, lay the letter which Mrs. Farnaby had written to him on the morning of her death. He had found the letter, with the envelope unfastened, on the floor of the bed-chamber, and had fortunately secured it before the landlady and the servant had ventured back to the room. The doctor, returning a few minutes afterwards, had warned the two women that a coroner's inquest would be held in the house, and had vainly cautioned them to be careful of what they said or did in the interval. Not only the subject of the death, but a discovery which had followed, revealing the name of the ill-fated woman marked on her linen, and showing that she had used an assumed name in taking the lodgings as Mrs. Ronald became the gossip of the neighborhood in a few hours. Under these circumstances, the catastrophe was made the subject of a paragraph in the evening journals, the name being added for the information of any surviving relatives who might be ignorant of the sad event. If the landlady had found the letter, that circumstance also would in all probability have formed part of the statement in the newspapers, and the secret of Mrs. Farnaby's life and death would have been revealed to the public view. I can trust you, and only you, she wrote to Amelius, to fulfill the last wishes of a dying woman. You know me, and you know how I looked forward to the prospect of a happy life in retirement with my child. The only hope that I lived for has proved to be a cruel delusion. I have only this morning discovered, beyond the possibility of doubt, that I have been made the victim of wretches who have deliberately lied to me from the first to last. If I had been a happier woman, I might have had other interests to sustain me under this frightful disaster. As I am, death is my one refuge left. My suicide will be known to no creature but yourself. Some years since the idea of self-destruction concealed under the disguise of a common mistake presented itself to my mind. I kept the means, very simple means, by me, thinking I might end in that way after all. When you read this, I shall be at rest, or ever. You will do what I have yet to ask of you, in merciful remembrance of me. I am sure of that. You have a long life before you, Amelius. My foolish fancy about you and my lost girl still lingers in my mind. I still think it may be just possible that you may meet with her in the course of years. If this does happen, I implore you, by the tenderness and pity that you once felt for me, to tell no human creature that she is my daughter, and, if John Farnaby is living at the time, I forbid you, with the authority of a dying friend, to let her see him, or to let her know even that such a person exists. Are you at a loss to account for my motives? I may make the shameful confession which will enlighten you, now I know that we shall never meet again. My child was born before my marriage, and the man who afterwards became my husband, a man of low origin, I should tell you, was the father. He had calculated on this disgraceful circumstance to force my parents to make his fortune by making me his wife. I now know what I only vaguely suspected before, that he deliberately abandoned his child, as a likely cause of hindrance and scandal in the way of his prosperous career in life. Do you now think I am asking too much, when I entreat you never even to speak to my lost darling of this unnatural wretch? As for my own fair fame, I am not thinking of myself. With death close at my side, I think of my poor mother, and of all that she suffered and sacrificed to save me from the disgrace that I had deserved. For her sake, not for mine, keep silence to friends and enemies alike if they ask you who my girl is, with the one exception of my lawyer. Years since, I left in his care the means of making a small provision for my child, on the chance that she might live to claim it. You can show him this letter as your authority in case of need. Try not to forget me, Emilius, but don't grieve about me. I go to my death as you go to your sleep when you are tired. I leave you my grateful love. You have always been good to me. There is no more to write. I hear the servant returning from the chemists, bringing with her only release from the hard burden of life without hope. May you be happier than I have been. Good-bye. So she parted from him for ever. But the fatal association of the unhappy woman's sorrows with the life and fortune of Emilius was not at an end yet. He had neither hesitation nor misgiving in resolving to show a natural respect to the wishes of the dead. Now that the miserable story of the past had been unreservedly disclosed to him, he would have felt himself bound in honour, even without instructions to guide him, to keep the discovery of the daughter a secret for the mother's sake. With that conviction he had read the distressing letter. With that conviction he now rose to provide for the safekeeping of it under lock and key. Just as he had secured the letter in a private drawer of his desk, Toff came in with a card, and announced that a gentleman wished to see him. Emilius, looking at the card, was surprised to find on it the name of Mr. Melton. Some lines were written on it in pencil. I have called to speak with you on a matter of serious importance. Wondering what his middle-aged rival could want with him, Emilius instructed Toff to admit the visitor. Sowie started to her feet, with her customary distrust of strangers. May I run away before he comes in? She asked. If you like, Emilius answered quietly. She ran to the door of her room at the moment when Toff appeared again, announcing the visitor. Mr. Melton entered just before she disappeared. He saw the flutter of her dress as the door closed behind her. I fear I am disturbing you, he said, looking hard at the door. He was perfectly dressed. His hat and gloves were models of what such things ought to be. He was melancholy and courteous, blandly distrustful of the flying skirts which he had seen at the door. When Emilius offered him a chair he took it with a mysterious sigh, mournfully resigned to the sad necessity of sitting down. I won't prolong my intrusion on you, he resumed. You have no doubt seen the melancholy news in the evening papers? I haven't seen the evening papers, Emilius answered. What news do you mean? Mr. Melton leaned back in his chair and expressed emotions of sorrow and surprise in a perfect state of training by gently raising his smooth white hands. Oh, dear, dear, this is very sad. I had hoped to find you in full possession of the particulars, reconciled, as we must all be, to the inscrutable ways of providence. For it meant me to break it to you as gently as possible. I came here to inquire if you had heard yet from Miss Regina. Understand my motive. There must be no misapprehension between us on that subject. There is a very serious necessity. Pray follow me carefully. I say, a very serious necessity for my communicating immediately with Miss Regina's uncle, and I know of nobody who was so likely to hear from the travelers so soon after their departure as yourself. You are, in a certain sense, a member of the family. Stop a minute," said Emilius. I beg your pardon," said Mr. Melton politely, at a loss to understand the interruption. I didn't at first know what you meant, Emilius explained. You put it, if you will forgive me for saying so, in rather a roundabout way. If you are alluding all this time to Mrs. Farnaby's death, I must honestly tell you that I know of it already. The bland self-possession of Mr. Melton's face began to show signs of being ruffled. He had been, in a manner, deluded into exhibiting his conventionally fluid eloquence in the choice's modulations of a sonorous voice, and it wounded his self-esteem to be placed in his present position. I understood you to say, he remarked stiffly, that you had not seen the evening newspapers. You are quite right, Emilius rejoined. I have not seen them. Then may I inquire?" Mr. Melton proceeded. How you became informed of Mrs. Farnaby's death? Emilius replied with his customary frankness. I went to call on the poor lady this morning, he said, knowing nothing of what had happened. I met the doctor at the door, and I was present at her death. Even Mr. Melton's carefully trained composure was not proof against the revelation that now opened before him. He burst out with an exclamation of astonishment, like an ordinary man. Good heavens! What does this mean?" Emilius took it as a question addressed to himself. I'm sure I don't know, he said quietly. Mr. Melton, misunderstanding Emilius on his side, interpreted those innocent words as an outbreak of vulgar interruption. Pardon me, he said coldly. I was about to explain myself. You will presently understand my surprise. After seeing the evening paper, I went at once to make inquiries that the address mentioned. In Mr. Farnaby's absence, I felt bound to do this as his old friend. I saw the landlady, and with her assistance the doctor also. Both these persons spoke of a gentleman who had called that morning, accompanied by a young lady, and who had insisted on taking the young lady upstairs with him. Until you mentioned just now that you were present at the death, I had no suspicion that you were the gentleman. The surprise on my part was, I think, only natural. I could hardly be expected to know that you were Mrs. Farnaby's confidence about the place of her retreat. And with regard to the young lady, I am still quite at a loss to understand, if you understand that the people at the house told you the truth, as far as I am concerned—Emilius interposed—I hope that will be enough. With regard to the young lady, I must beg you to excuse me for speaking plainly. I have nothing to say about her, to you, or to anybody. Mr. Melton rose with the utmost dignity and the fullest possession of his vocal resources. Permit me to assure you, he said, with rigidly fluid politeness, that I have no wish to force myself into your confidence. One remark I will venture to make. It is easy enough, no doubt, to keep your own secrets when you are speaking to me. You will find some difficulty, I fear, in pursuing the same course when you were called upon to give evidence before the coroner. I presume you know that you will be summoned as a witness at the inquest. I left my name and address with the doctor for that purpose—Emilius rejoined as compulsively as ever—and I am ready to bear witness to what I saw at poor Miss Farnaby's bedside. But if all the coroners in England question me about anything else, I should say to them just what I have said to you. Mr. Melton smiled with well-bred irony. We shall see, he said. In the meantime, I presume I may ask you, in the interests of the family, to send me the address on the letter, as soon as you hear from Miss Regina. I have no other means of communicating with Mr. Farnaby. In respect to the melancholy event, I shall add that I have undertaken to provide for the funeral and to pay any little outstanding debts and so forth. Was Mr. Farnaby's old friend and representative? The conclusion of the sentence was interrupted by the entrance of Toff with a note, and an apology for his intrusion. I beg your pardon, sir. The person is waiting. She says it's only a receipt to sign. The box is in the hall. Emilius examined the enclosure. It was a formal document acknowledging the receipt of Sally's clothes returned to her by the authorities at the home. As he took a pen to sign the receipt, he looked toward the door of Sally's room. Mr. Melton, observing the look, prepared to retire. I am only interrupting you, he said. You have my address on my card. Good evening. On his way out he passed an elderly woman waiting in the hall. Toff, hastening before him to open the garden gate, was saluted by the gruff voice for Cabman outside. The lady whom he had driven to the cottage had not paid him his right fare. He meant to have the money or the lady's name and address, and summon her. Quietly crossing the road, Mr. Melton heard the woman's voice next. She had got her receipt and had followed him out. In the dispute about affairs and distances that ensued, the contending party has more than once mentioned the name of the home and of the locality in which it was situated. Possessing this information, Mr. Melton looked in at his club, consulted a directory under the heading of Charitable Institutions, and solved the mystery of the vanishing petticoats at the door. He had discovered an inmate of the asylum for lost woman in the home of the man to whom Regina was engaged to be married. The next morning's post brought to Emilius a letter from Regina. It was dated from a hotel in Paris. Her dear uncle had overestimated his strength. He had refused to stay and rest for the night at Boulogne, and had suffered so severely from the fatigue of the long journey that he had been confined to his bed since his arrival. The English physician consulted had declined to say when he would be strong enough to travel again. The constitution of the patient must have received some serious shock. He was brought very low. Having carefully reported the new medical opinion, Regina was at liberty to indulge herself, next, in expressions of affection, and to assure Emilius of her anxiety to hear from him as soon as possible. But, in this case again, the dear uncle's convenience was still the first consideration. She reverted to Mr. Farnaby in making her excuses for a hurly written letter. The poor invalid suffered from depression of spirits. His great consolation in his illness was to hear his niece read to him. He was calling for her, indeed, at that moment. The inevitable post-script warmed into a mild effusion of fondness. How I wish you could be with us! But alas it cannot be! Emilius copied the address on the letter, and sent it to Mr. Melton immediately. It was then the twenty-fourth day of the month. The title train did not leave London early that morning, and the inquest was deferred to suit other pressing engagements of the coroner until the twenty-sixth. Mr. Melton decided, after his interview with Emilius, that the emergency was sufficiently serious to justify him in following his telegram to Paris. It was clearly his duty, as an old friend, to mention to Mr. Farnaby what he had discovered at the cottage, as well as what he had heard from the landlady and the doctor, leaving it to the uncle's discretion to act as he thought right in the interests of the niece. Whether that course of action might not also serve the interests of Mr. Melton himself, in the character of an unsuccessful suitor for Regina's hand, he did not stop to inquire, beyond his duty it was, for the present at least, not his business, to look. That night the two gentlemen held a private consultation in Paris, the doctor having previously certified that his patient was incapable of supporting the journey back to London under any circumstances. The question of the formal proceedings rendered necessary by Mrs. Farnaby's death having been discussed and disposed of. Mr. Melton next entered on the narrative which the obligations of friendship imperatively demanded from him. To his astonishment and alarm Mr. Farnaby started up in the bed like a man panic-stricken. "'Do you say?' he stammered as soon as he could speak. "'You mean to make inquiries about that—that girl?' "'I certainly thought it desirable, bearing in mind Mr. Golden Hart's position in your family.' "'Do nothing of the sort. Say nothing to Regina or to any living creature. Say it till I get well again. And leave me to deal with it. I am the proper person to take it in hand. Don't you see that for yourself? And look here. There may be questions asked at the inquest. Some impudent scoundrel on the jury may want to pry into what doesn't concern him. The moment you're back in London, get a lawyer to represent us. The sharpest fellow that can be had for money. Tell him to stop all prying questions. Who the girl is, and what made that cursed young socialist Golden Hart take her upstairs with him? All that sort of thing has nothing to do with the manner in which my wife met her death. You understand? I look to you, Melton, to see yourself that this is done. Less said at that infernal inquest the better. In my position it's an exposure that my enemies will make the most of as it is. I'm too ill to go into the matter any further. No. I don't want Regina. Go to her in the sitting-room, and tell the courier to get you something to eat and drink. And I say, for God's sake, don't be late for the blown train to-morrow morning. Left to himself, he gave full vent to his fury. He cursed Amelius with oaths that are not to be written. He had burnt the letter which Mrs. Farnaby had written to him on leaving him for ever, but he had not burnt out of his memory the words which that letter contained. With his wife's language vividly present to his mind, he could arrive at but one conclusion after what Mr. Melton had told him. Amelius was concerned in the discovery of his deserted daughter. Amelius had taken the girl to her dying mother's bedside. With his idiotic socialist notions he would be perfectly capable of owning the truth if inquiries were made. The unblemished reputation which Don Farnaby had built up by the self-seeking hypocrisy of a lifetime was at the mercy of a visionary young fool who believed that rich men were created for the benefit of the poor and who proposed to regenerate society by reviving the obsolete morality of the primitive Christians. Was it possible for him to come to terms with such a person as this? There was not an inch of common ground on which they could meet. He dropped back on his pillow and despair, and lay for a while frowering and biting his nails. Suddenly he sat up again in the bed and wiped his moist forehead and heaved a heavy breath of relief. Had his illness obscured his own intelligence? How was it he had not seen at once the perfectly easy way out of the difficulty which was presented by the facts themselves? Here is a man, engaged to marry my niece, who has been discovered keeping a girl at his cottage, who even had the audacity to take her upstairs with him when he made a call on my wife. Charge him with it in plain words, break off the engagement publicly in the face of society, and if the profligate scoundrel tries to defend himself by telling the truth, who will believe him when the girl was seen running out of his room, and when he refused on the questions being put to him to say who she was? So in ignorance of his wife's last instructions to Humilius, an equal ignorance of the compassionate silence which an honourable man preserves when a woman's reputation is at his mercy, the wretch needlessly plotted and planned to save his usurped reputation, seeing all things as such men invariably do through the foul light of his own inbred baseness and cruelty. He was troubled by no retributive emotions of shame or remorse in contemplating the second sacrifice to his own interests of the daughter whom he had deserted in her infancy. If he felt any misgivings, they related wholly to himself. His head was throbbing, his tongue was dry, a dread of increasing his illness shook him suddenly. He drank some of the lemonade at his bedside, and laid down to compose himself to sleep. It was not to be done. There was a burning in his eyeballs, there was a wild irregular beating in his heart which kept him awake. In some degree at least, retribution seemed to be on the way to him already. Mr. Melton, delicately administering sympathy and consolation to Regina, whose affectionate nature felt keenly the calamity of her aunt's death. Mr. Melton, making himself modestly useful by reading aloud certain devotional poems much prized by Regina, was called out of the room by the courier. I have just looked in at Mr. Farnovich, sir," said the man, and I am afraid he is worse. The physician was sent for. He thought so seriously of the change in the patient that he obliged Regina to accept the services of a professed nurse. When Mr. Melton started on his return journey the next morning, he left his friend in a high fever. The inquiry into the circumstances under which Mrs. Farnovich had died was held in the forenoon of the next day. Mr. Melton surprised Emilius by calling for him and taking him to the inquest. The carriage stopped on the way and a gentleman joined them, who was introduced as Mr. Melton's legal advisor. He spoke to Emilius about the inquest, stating, as his excuse, for asking certain discreet questions that his object was to suppress any painful disclosures. Upon reaching the house Mr. Melton and his lawyer said a few words to the coroner downstairs while the jury were assembling on the floor above. The first witness examined was the landlady. After deposing to the date at which the late Mrs. Farnovich had hired her lodgings, and verifying the statements which had appeared in the newspapers, she was questioned about the life and habits of the deceased. She described her late lodgers as a respectable lady, punctual in her payments, and quietly and orderly in her way of life. She received letters, but saw no friends. On several occasions an old woman was admitted to speak with her, and these visits seemed to be anything but agreeable to the deceased. Asked if she knew anything of the old woman, or of what had passed at the interviews described, the witness answered both questions in the negative. When the woman called, she always told the servant to announce her as the nurse. Mr. Melton was next examined to prove the identity of the deceased. He declared that he was quite unable to explain why she had left her husband's house under an assumed name. Asked if Mr. and Mrs. Farnovich had lived together on affectionate terms, he acknowledged that he had heard, at various times, of a want of harmony between them, but was not acquainted with the cause. Mr. Farnovich's high character and position in the commercial world spoke for themselves. The restraints of a gentleman guided him in his relations with his wife. The medical certificate of his illness in Paris was then put in, and Mr. Melton's examination came to an end. The chemist who had made up the prescription was a third witness. He knew the woman who brought it to his shop to be in the service of the first witness examined, an old customer of his, and a highly respected resident in the neighborhood. He made up all the prescriptions himself in which poisons were conspicuous ingredients, and he had affixed to the bottle a slip of paper bearing the word poison printed in large letters. The bottle was produced and identified, and the directions in the prescription were shown to have been accurately copied on the label. The general sensation of interest was excited by the appearance of the next witness, the woman's servant. It was anticipated that her evidence would explain how the fatal mistake about the medicine had occurred. After replying to the formal inquiries, she proceeded as follows. When I answered the bell, at the time I have mentioned, I found the disease standing at its fireplace. There was a bottle of medicine on the table by her writing desk. It was a much larger bottle than that which the last witness identified, and it was more than three parts full of some colorless medicine. The deceased gave me a prescription to take to the chemist, with instructions to wait and bring back the physic. She said, I don't feel it all well this morning. I thought of trying some of this medicine, pointing to the bottle by her desk. But I am not sure it is the right thing for me. I think I want a tonic. The prescription I have given you is a tonic. I went out at once to our chemist and got it. I found her writing a letter when I came back, but she finished it immediately and pushed it away from her. When I put the bottle I had brought from the chemist on the table, she looked at the other larger bottle which she had by her, and she said, You will think me very undecided. I have been doubting, since I sent you to the chemist, whether I had not to better begin with this medicine here, before I try the tonic. It's a medicine for the stomach, and I fancy its only indigestion that some matter with me, after all. I said, You ate but a poor breakfast, ma'am, this morning? It isn't for me to advise, but as you seem to be in doubt about yourself, wouldn't it be better to send for a doctor? She shook her head, and said she didn't want to have a doctor if she could possibly help it. I'll try this medicine for indigestion first, she says, and if that doesn't relieve me, we will see what is to be done later in the day. While we were talking, the tonic was left in its sealed paper cover, just as I had brought it from the shop. She took up the bottle containing the stomach medicine and read the directions on it. Two tablespoons by measure-glass twice a day. I asked if she had a measure-glass, and she said yes, and sent me to her bedroom to look for it. I couldn't find it. While I was looking, I heard her cry out, and ran back to the drawing-room to see what was the matter. Oh! she says. How clumsy I am! I've broken the bottle. She held up the bottle of the stomach medicine and showed it to me, broken just below the neck. Go back to the bedroom, she says, and see if you can find an empty bottle. I don't want to waste the medicine if I can help it. There was only one empty bottle in the bedroom, a bottle on the chimney-piece. I took it to her immediately. She gave me the broken bottle, and while I poured the medicine into the bottle which I had found in the bedroom, she opened the paper which covered the tonic I had brought from the chemist. When I had done, and the two bottles were together on the table, the bottle that I had filled and the bottle that I had brought from the chemist, I noticed that they were both of the same size, and that both had a label pasted on them, marked poison. I said to her, You must take care, ma'am, you don't want to make any mistake, the two bottles are so exactly alike. I can easily prevent that, she says, and dipped her pen in the ink, and copied the directions on the broken bottle onto the label of the bottle I had just filled. There, she said, now I hope your mind's at ease. She spoke cheerfully, as if she was joking with me. Then she said, But where's the measure-glass? I went back to the bedroom to look for it, and couldn't find it again. She changed all at once upon that. She became quite angry, and walked up and down in a fume, abusing me for my stupidity. It was very unlike her. On all other occasions she was a most considerate lady. I made allowances for her. She had been very much upset earlier in the morning when she had received a letter, when she told me herself contained bad news. Yes, another person was present at the time, the same woman that my mistress told you of. The woman looked at the address on the letter, and seemed to know who it was from. I told her a squint-eyed man had brought it to the house, and then she left directly. I don't know where she went, or the address at which she lives, or who the messenger was who brought the letter. As I have said, I made allowances for the deceased lady. I went downstairs without answering, and got a tumbler and a tablespoon to serve instead of the measure-glass. When I came back with the things, she was still walking about in a temper. She took no notice of me. I left the room again quietly, seeing she was not in a state to be spoken to. I saw nothing more of her until we were alarmed by hearing her scream. We found the poor lady on the floor in a kind of fit. I ran out and fetched the nearest doctor. That is the whole truth on my oath, and this is all I know about it. The landlady was recalled at the request of the jury, and questioned again about the old woman. She could give no information. Being asked next if any letters or papers belonging to, or written by, the deceased lady had been found, she declared that, after the strictest search, nothing had been discovered but two medical prescriptions. The writing desk was empty. The doctor was the next witness. He described the state in which he found the patient of being called to the house. The symptoms were those of poisoning by strictening. Examination of the prescriptions and the bottles, aided by the servant's information, convinced him that a fatal mistake had been made by the deceased, the nature of which he explained to the jury as he had already explained it to Emilius. Having mentioned the meeting with Emilius at the house door, and the events which had followed, he closed his evidence by stating the results of the post-mortem examination, proving that the death was caused by the poison called strictening. The landlady and the servant were examined again. They were instructed to inform the jury exactly of the time that had elapsed, from the moment when the servant had left the deceased alone in the wrong room, to the time when the screams were first heard. Having both given the same evidence on this point, they were next asked whether any person, beside the old woman, had visited the deceased lady, or had on any pretense obtained access to her in the interval. Both swore positively that there had not even been a knock at the house door in the interval, and that the area gate was locked and the key in possession of the landlady. This evidence placed it beyond the possibility of doubt that the deceased had herself taken the poison. The question whether she had taken it by accident was the only question left to decide when Emilius was called as the next witness. The lawyer retained by Mr. Melton, to watch the case on behalf of Mr. Farnaby, had hitherto not interfered. It was observed that he paid the closest attention to the inquiry at the stage which it had now reached. Emilius was nervous at the outset. The early training in America, which had hardened him to face an audience and speak with self-possession on social and political subjects, had not prepared him for the very difficult ordeal of a first appearance as a witness. Having answered the customer inquiries, he was so painfully agitated in describing Mrs. Farnaby's sufferings that the coroner suspended the examination for a few minutes to give him time to control himself. He failed, however, to recover his composure until a narrative part of his evidence had come to an end. When the critical questions bearing on his relations with Mrs. Farnaby began, the audience noticed that he lifted his head and looked and spoke for the first time, like a man with a subtle resolution in him, sure of himself. The questions proceeded. Was he in Mrs. Farnaby's confidence on the subject of her domestic differences with her husband, did those differences lead to her withdrawing herself from her husband's roof? Did Mrs. Farnaby inform him of the place of her retreat? To these three questions the witness, speaking quite readily in each case, answered yes. As next, while the nature of the domestic differences had been, whether they were likely to affect Mrs. Farnaby's mind seriously, why she had passed under an assumed name, and why she had confided the troubles of her married life to a young man like himself, only introduced to her a few months since, the witness simply declined to reply to the inquiries addressed to him. The confidence Mrs. Farnaby placed in me, he said to the coroner, was the confidence which I gave her my word of honor to respect. When I have said that, I hope the jury will understand that I owe it to the memory of the dead to say no more. There was a murmur of approval among the audience, instantly checked by the coroner. The foreman of the jury rose, and remarked that scruples of honor were out of place at a serious inquiry of that sort. Hearing this, the lawyer saw his opportunity and got to his legs. I represent the husband of the deceased lad, he said. Mr. Goldenheart has appealed to the law of honor to justify him in keeping silence. I am astonished that there is a man to be found in this assembly who fails to sympathize with him. But as there appears to be such a person present, I ask permission, sir, to put a question to the witness. It may or may not satisfy the foreman of the jury, but it will certainly assist the object of the present inquiry. The coroner, after a glance at Mr. Melton, permitted the lawyer to put his question in these terms. Did your knowledge of Mrs. Farnaby's domestic troubles give you any reason to apprehend that they might urge her to commit suicide? Certainly not, Amelie has answered. When I called on her, on the morning of her death, I had no apprehension whatever of her committing suicide. I went to the house as a bearer of good news, and I said so to the doctor when he first spoke to me. The doctor confirmed this. The foreman was silenced, if not convinced. One of his brother-jurymen, however, feeling the force of example, interrupted the proceedings by assailing Amelie's with another question. We have heard that you were accompanied by a young lady at the time you have mentioned, and that you took her upstairs with you. We want to know what business the young lady had in the house. The lawyer interfered again. I object to that question, he said. The purpose of the inquest is to ascertain how Mrs. Farnaby met with her death. What has the young lady to do with it? The doctor's evidence has already told us that she was not at the house until after he had been called in, and the deadly action of the poison had begun. I appeal, sir, to the law of evidence, and to you, as the presiding authority, to enforce it. Mr. Goldenheart, who is acquainted with the circumstances of the deceased lady's life, has declared in his oath that there was nothing in those circumstances to inspire him with any apprehension of her committing suicide. The evidence of the servant at the lodgings points plainly to the conclusion already arrived at by the medical witness that the death was a result of a lamentable mistake, and of that alone. Is our time to be wasted in irrelevant questions, and other feelings of the surviving relatives to be cruelly lacerated to no purpose to satisfy the curiosity of strangers? A strong expression of approval from the audience followed this. The lawyer whispered to Mr. Melton, it's all right. Order being restored. The coroner ruled that the juryman's question was not admissible, and that the servant's evidence, taken with the statements of the doctor and the chemist, was the only evidence for the consideration of the jury. Summing up to this effect, he recalled Emilius, at the request of the foreman, to inquire if the witness do anything of the old lady who had been frequently alluded to in the course of the proceedings. Emilius could answer this question as honestly as he answered the questions preceding it. He neither knew the woman's name, nor where she was to be found. The coroner inquired, with a touch of irony, if the jury wished the inquest to be adjourned under existing circumstances. For the sake of appearances, the jury consulted together. But the lunch and hour was approaching. The servant's evidence was undeniably clear and conclusive. The coroner, in summing up, had requested them not to forget that the deceased had lost her temper with the servant, and that an angry woman might well make a mistake which would be unlikely in her cooler moments. All these influences led the jury irrepressibly over the obstacles of obstinacy, on the way to submission. After a needless delay, they returned a verdict of, death by misadventure. The secret of Mrs. Farnaby's suicide remained inviolate. The reputation of her vile husband stood as high as ever, and the future life of Emilius was, from that fatal moment, turned irrevocably into a new course. CHAPTER VIII RECORDED by Raquel Olaya The Fallen Leaves by Wilk Collins Book VIII CHAPTER III On the conclusion of the proceedings, Mr. Melton, having no further need of Emilius or the lawyer, drove away by himself. But he was too inveterately polite to omit making his excuses for leaving them in a hurry. He expected, he said, to find a telegram from Paris, waiting at his house. Emilius only delayed his departure to ask the landlady if the day of the funeral was settled. Hearing that it was arranged for the next morning, he thanked her and returned at once to the cottage. Sally was awaiting his arrival to complete some purchases a morning for her unhappy mother, Toph's wife being in attendance to take care of her. She was curious to know how the inquest had ended. In answering her question, Emilius was careful to warn her if her companion made any inquiries, only to say that she had lost her mother under very sad circumstances. The two having left the cottage, he instructed Toph to let in a stranger who was to call by a previous appointment and to close the door to everyone else. In a few minutes, the expected person, a young man, who gave the name of Moorcross, made his appearance and sorely puzzled the old Frenchman. He was well dressed, his manner was quiet and self-possessed, and yet he did not look like a gentleman. In fact, he was a policeman of the higher order in plain clothes. Being introduced to the library, he spread out on the table some sheets of manuscript in the handwriting of Emilius when notes in red ink on the margin made by himself. I understand, sir, he began, that you have reasons for not bringing this case to trial in a court of law. I am sorry to say, Emilius answered, that I dare not consent to the exposure of a public trial for the sake of persons living and dead, for the same reason I have written the account of the conspiracy with certain reserves. I hope I have not thrown any needless difficulties in your way. Certainly not, sir, but I should wish to ask what you propose to do in case I discover the people concerned in the conspiracy. Emilius owned very reluctantly that he could do nothing with the old woman who had been the accomplice, unless, he added, I can induce her to assist me in bringing the man to justice for other crimes which I believe him to have committed. Meaning the man named Jervis, sir, in this statement? Yes. I have reason to believe that he has been obliged to leave the United States after committing some serious offence. I beg your pardon for interrupting you, sir. It is serious enough to charge him with under the treaty between the two countries? I don't doubt it's serious enough. I have telegraphed to the persons who formally employed him, for the particulars. Mind this. I will stick at no sacrifice to make that scoundrel suffer for what he has done. In those plain words Emilius revealed, as frankly as usual, the purpose that was in him. The terrible remembrances associated with Mrs. Farnaby's last moments had kindled. In his just and generous nature, a burning sense of wrong inflicted on the poor, heartbroken creature who had trusted and loved him. The unendurable thought that the wretch who had tortured her, robbed her, and driven her to her death had escaped with impunity, literally haunted him night and day. Eager to provide for Sally's future, he had followed Mrs. Farnaby's instructions, and had seen the lawyer privately during the period that had elapsed between the death and the inquest. Hearing that there were formalities to be complied with, which would probably cause some delay, he had at once announced his determination to employ the interval in attempting the pursuit of jervy. The lawyer, after vainly pointing out the serious objections to the course proposed, so far yielded to the irresistible earnestness and good faith of Emilius, as to recommend him to a competent man who could be trusted not to deceive him. The same day the man had received a written statement of the case, and he had now arrived to report the result of his first proceedings to his employer. One thing I want to know before you tell me anything else, Emilius resumed, is my written description of jervy plain enough to help you find him? It is plain, sir, that some of the older men in our office have recognized him by it under another name than the name you give him. Does that add to the difficulty of tracking him? He has been a long time away from England, sir, and it's by no means easy to trace him on that account. I have been to the young woman named Phoebe in your statement to find out what she can tell me about him. She's ready enough, in the intervals of crying, to help us lay our hands on the man who has deserted her. It's the old story of a fellow getting a girl's secrets and a girl's money under pretense of marrying her. But one time she's furious with him, and another she's ready to cry her eyes out. I got some information from her, it's not much, but it may help us. The name of the old woman who has been the go-between in the business is Mrs. Sauer, known to the police as an invertebrate drunkard, and worse. I don't think there will be much difficulty in tracing Mrs. Sauer. As for Jervie, if the young woman is to be believed, and I think she is, there's little doubt that he has got the money from the lady mentioned in my instructions here, and that he is bolted with the sum about him. Wait a bit, sir, I haven't done with my discoveries yet. I asked the young woman, of course, if she had his photograph. He's a sharp fellow. She had it, but he got it away from her, on the pretense of getting her a better one before he took himself off. I miss this chance. I ask next if she knew where he lived last. She directed me to the place, and I have had a talk with the landlord. He tells me of a squint-eyed man, who was a good deal about the house, doing Jervie's dirty work for him. If I am not misled by the description, I think I know the man. I have my own notion of what he's capable of doing, if he gets a chance, and I propose to begin by finding our way to him, and using him as a means of tracing Jervie. It's only right to tell you that it may take some time to do this, for which reason I have to propose, in the meanwhile trying a shorter way to the end in view. Do you object, sir, to the expense of sending a copy of your description of Jervie to every police station in London? I object to nothing which may help find him. Do you think the police have got him anywhere? You forget, sir, that the police have no orders to take him. What I'm speculating on is his chance that he has got the money about him, say, in small banknotes, for convenience of changing them, you know? Well, well, sir, the people he lives among, the squint-eyed man, for instance, don't stick at trifles. If any of them have found out that Jervie's purse is worth having, you mean they would rob him? And murder him, too, sir, if he's tried to resist. Emilia started to his feet, send round those police stations without losing another minute, he said, and let me hear what the answer is the instant you receive it. Suppose I get the answer late at night, sir. I don't care when you get it, night or day, dead or living, I will undertake to identify him. Here's a duplicate key of the garden gate. Come this way, and I'll show you where my bedroom is. If we are all in bed, tap at the window, and I will be ready for you at a moment's notice. On that understanding, Mark Ross left the cottage. The day when the mortal remains of Mrs. Farnerby were laid at rest was a day of heavy rain. Mr. Melton and two or three other old friends were the attendants at the funeral. When the coffin was born into the damp and reeking burial ground, a young man and a woman were the only persons, besides the sexton and his assistants, who stood by the open grave. Mr. Melton, recognizing Emilia's, was at a loss to understand who his companion could be. It was impossible to suppose that he would profane that solemn ceremony by bringing to it the lost woman at the cottage. The thick black veil of the person with him hit her face from view. No visible expression of grief escaped her. When the last sublime words of the burial service had been read, those two mourners were left, after the others had all departed, still standing together by the grave. Mr. Melton decided on mentioning the circumstance confidentially when he wrote to his friend in Paris. Telegrams from Regina, in reply to his telegrams from London, had informed him that Mr. Farnerby had felt the benefit of the remedies employed and was slowly on the way to recovery. It seemed likely that he would, in no long time, take the right course for the protection of his niece, for the enlightenment which might or might not come with that time. Mr. Melton was resigned to wait with the disciplined patience to which he had been mainly indebted for his success in life. Please remember your mother tenderly, my child, said Emilius, as they left the burial ground. She was sorely tried, poor thing, in her lifetime, and she loved you very dearly. Do you know anything of my father? Sally asked himedly. Is he still living? My dear, you will never see your father. I must be all that the kindest father and mother could have been to you now. Oh, my poor little girl. You pressed his arm to her as she held it. Why should you pity me, she said? Haven't I got you? They passed the day together quietly at the cottage. Emilius took down some of his books and pleased Sally by giving her his first lessons. Soon after ten o'clock she would drew at the usual early hour to her room. In her absence he sent for Toth, intending to warn him not to be alarmed if he heard footsteps in the garden after they had all gone to bed. The old servant had barely entered the library when he was called away by the bell at the outer gate. Emilius looking into the hall discovered Morkross and signed to him eagerly to come in. The police officer closed the door cautiously behind him. He had arrived with news that Jervie was found. Book 8, Chapter 3, Recorded by Raquel Olea Book 8, Chapter 4 of The Fallen Leaves This is a Leap or Vox recording. All Leap or Vox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit leaporvox.org. Recorded by Raquel Olea The Fallen Leaves Try Wilkie Collins, Book 8, Chapter 4 Where has he been found? Emilius asked, snatching up his hat. There's no hurry, sir, Morkross answered quietly. When I had the honour of seeing you yesterday, you said you meant to make Jervie suffer for what he had done. Somebody else has saved you the trouble. He was found this evening in the river. Drowned. Lived in three places, sir, and put out of the way in the river. That's the surgeon's report. Robbed of everything he possessed. That's the police report, after searching his pockets. Emilius was silent. It had not entered into his calculation. That crime breeds crime, and that the criminal might escape him under that law. For the moment he was conscious of a sense of disappointment, revealing plainly that the desire for vengeance had mingled with the higher motives which animated him. He felt uneasy and ashamed, and longed as usual to take refuge in action from his own unwelcome thoughts. Are you sure it is the man? he asked. My description may have misled the police. I should like to see him myself. Certainly, sir, while we are about it, if you feel any curiosity to trace Jervie's ill-gotten money, there's a chance, from what I have heard, of finding the man with the squint. The people at our place think it's likely he may have been concerned in the robbery if he hasn't committed the murder. In an hour after, under the guidance of Morkross, Emilius passed through the dreary doors of a dead house, situated on the southern bank of the Thim, and saw the body of Jervie stretched out on a stone slab. The guardian who held the lantern, and neared to such horrible sights, declared that the corpse could not have been in the water more than two days. To anyone who had seen the murdered man, the face, undisfigured by injury or any kind, was perfectly recognizable. Emilius knew him again, dead, as certainly as he had known him again living, when he was waiting for Phoebe in the street. If you're satisfied, sir," said Morkross, the inspector at the police station is sending a sergeant to look after Walleyes, the name they give hereabouts to the man suspected of the robbery. We can take the sergeant with us in the cab, if you like. Still keeping on the southern bank of the river, they drove for a quarter of an hour in a westerly direction, and stopped at a public house. The sergeant of police went in by himself, to make the first inquiries. We are a day too late, sir," he said to Emilius, on returning to the cab. Walleyes was here last night, and Mother Sauer with him, judging by the description. Both of them drunk, and the woman the worse of the two. The landlord knew nothing more about it, but there's a man at the bar, tells me he heard of them this morning, still drinking at the dairy. The dairy, Emilius repeated. Morkross interposed with the necessary explanation. An old house, sir, which one stood by itself in the fields. It was a dairy a hundred years ago, and it has kept the name ever since, though it's nothing but a low lodging-house now. One of the worst places on this side of the river, the sergeant added, the landlords have returned convict, sly as he is, we shall have him again yet, for receiving stolen goods. There's every sort of thief among his lodgers, from a pickpocket to a house-breaker. It's my duty to continue the inquiries, sir, but a gentleman like you will be better, I should say, out of such a place as that. Still disquieted by the sight that he had seen in the dead-house, and by the associations which that sight had recalled, Emilius was ready for any adventure which might relieve his mind. Even the prospect of a visit to a thief's lodging-house was more welcome to him than the prospect of going home alone. If there's no serious objection to it, he said, I own, I should like to see the place. You'll be safe enough with us, the sergeant replied, if you don't mind filthy people and bad language. All right, sir, cabmen, drive by the dairy. Their direction was now towards the south, through a perfect labyrinth of mean and dirty streets. Twice the driver was obliged to ask his way. On the second occasion, the sergeant, putting his head out of the window to stop the cab, cried, Hello, there's something up. They got out in front of a long, low, rambling house, a complete contrast to the modern buildings about it. Late as the hour was, a mob had assembled in front of the door. The police were on the spot, keeping the people in order. Moor Cross and the sergeant pushed their way through the crowd, leading Emilius between them. Something wrong, sir, in the back kitchen, said one of the policemen, answering the sergeant while he opened the street door. A few yards down the passage there was a second door, with a man on the watch by it. There's a nice to-do downstairs, the man announced, recognizing the sergeant and unlocking the door with a key which he took from his pocket. The landlord at the dairy knows his lodgers, sir. Moor Cross whispered to Emilius, the place is kept like a prison. As they passed through the second door, a frantic voice startled him, shouting in fury from below. An old man came hobbling up the kitchen stairs. His eyes wild with fear, his long gray hair all tumbled over his face. Oh, Lord, have you got the tools for breaking open the door? He asked, wringing his dirty hands in an agony of supplication. She'll set the house afire, she'll kill my wife and daughter! The sergeant pushed him contemptuously out of the way and looked round for Emilius. There's only the landlord, sir. Keep near Moor Cross and follow me. They descended the kitchen stairs. The frantic cries below, growing louder and louder, at every step they took, and made their way through the thieves and vagabonds crowding together in the passage. Passing on their right hand, a solid oak door fast closed. They reached an open, wicked gate of iron which led into a stone-paved yard. A heavy barred window was now visible in the back wall of the house, raised three or four feet from the pavement of the yard. The room within was illuminated by a blaze of gaslight. More policemen were here, keeping back more inquisitive lodgers. Among the spectators was a man with a hideous outward squint, holding by the window bars in a state of drunken terror. The sergeant looked at him and beckoned to one of the policemen. Take him to the station. I shall have something to say to Walleis when he's sober. Now then, stand back all of you and let's see what's going on in the kitchen. He took Emilius by the arm and led him to the window. Even the sergeant started when the scene inside met his view. By God! he cried, its mother Sauer herself. It was mother Sauer. The horrible woman was trampling round and round in the middle of the kitchen, like a beast in a cage, raving in the dreadful drink madness called delirium trimmons. In the farthest corner of the room, barricaded behind the table, the landlord's wife and daughter crouched in terror of their lives. The gas turned full on, placed high enough to blacken the ceiling, and showed the heavy bolt shot at the top and bottom of the solid door. Nothing less than a battering ram could have burst that door in from the outer side, and ours work with the file would have failed to break a passage through the bars over the window. How did she get in there? The sergeant asked. Run downstairs and bolt herself in while the missus and the youngin were cooking, was the answering cry from the people in the yard. As they spoke another vain attempt was made to break in the door from a passage. The noise of the heavy blows redoubled the frenzy of the terrible creature in the kitchen, still trampling round and round under the blazing gaslight. Suddenly she made a dart at the window and confronted the men looking in from the yard. Her staring eyes were bloodshot. A purple red flesh was over her face. Her hair waved wildly about her, turn away in places by her own hands. Cats, she screamed, glaring out of the window. Millions of cats, all their mouths wide open, spitting at me. Fire! Fire! To scare away the cats! She searched furiously in her pocket and tore out a handful of loose papers. One of them escaped and fluttered downward to a wooden press under the window. Cats was nearest and saw it plainly as it fell. Good heavens! he exclaimed. It's a bank note. Wall-eyes money! shouted the thieves in the yard. She's going to burn Wall-eyes money! The mad woman turned back to the middle of the kitchen, left up at the gas burner and set fire to the bank notes. She scattered them flaming all round her on the kitchen floor. Away with you! she shouted, shaking her fists at the visionary multitude of cats. Away with you! up the chimney! Away with you! out the window! She sprang back to the window, with her crooked fingers twisted in her hair. The snakes! she shrieked. The snakes are hissing again in my hair. The beetles are crawling all over my face! She tore at her hair. She scraped her face with long black nails that lacerated the flesh. Emilius turned away, unable to endure the sight of her. Mocross took his place, eyed her steadily for a moment, and saw the way to end it. A quarter of gin, he shouted, quick, before she leaves the window. In a minute he had the pewter measure in his hand, and tapped at the window. Gin, mother Sauer, break the window and have a drop of gin! For a moment the drunken mastered her own dreadful visions at the sight of the liquor. She broke a pane of glass with her clenched fists. The door, cried Mocross, to the panic-stricken women barricaded behind the table. The door, he reiterated, as he handed the gin and threw the bars. The elder woman was too terrified to understand him. Her bolder daughter crawled under the table, rushed across the kitchen and drew the bolts. As the mad woman turned to attack her, the room was filled with men, headed by the sergeant. Three of them were barely enough to control the frantic rich, and find her hand and foot. When Emilius entered the kitchen, after she had been conveyed to the hospital, a five-pound note on the press, secured by one of the police, and a few frail black ashes scattered thinly on the kitchen floor, were the only relics left of the ill-gotten money. After inquiry, patiently pursued in more than one direction, failed to throw any light on the mystery of Derby's death. Mocross's report to Emilius towards the close of the investigation was a little more than ingenious guesswork. It seems pretty clear, sir, in the first place, that Mother Sauer must have overtaken Wallis after he had left the letter at Mrs. Farnaby's lodgings. In the second place, we are justified, as I shall show you directly, in assuming that she told him of the money in Derby's possession, and that the two succeeded in discovering Derby, no doubt through Wallis' superior knowledge of his master's movements. The evidence concerning the bank-nose proved this. We know, by the examination of the people at the Derby, that Wallis took from his pocket a handful of notes when they refused to send for liquor without having the money first. We are also informed that the breaking out of the drink madness in Mother Sauer showed itself in her snatching the notes out of his hand, and trying to strangle him before she ran down into the kitchen and bolted herself in. Lastly, Mrs. Farnaby's bankers have identified the note saved from the burning, as one of the forty-five pound notes paid to her check, so much for the tracing of the money. I wish I could give an equally satisfactory account of the tracing of the crime. We can make nothing of Wallis. He declares that he didn't even know Derby was dead, till we told him, and he swears he found the money dropped in the street. It is needless to say that this last assertion is a lie. Opinions are divided among us as to whether he is answerable for the murder as well as the robbery, or whether there was a third person concerned in it. My own belief is that Derby was drugged by the old woman, with a young woman very likely used as a decoy, in some house by the riverside and then murdered by Wallis in cold blood. We have done our best to clear the matter up, and we have not succeeded. The doctors give us no hope of any assistance from Mother Sauer. If she gets over the attack, which is doubtful, they say she will die to a certainty of liver disease. In short, my own fear is that this will prove to be one more of those murders which are mysterious to the police as well as the public. The report of the case excited some interest, published in the newspapers in Conspicuous Type. While some readers wrote letters offering complacently stupid suggestions to the police, after a while another crime attracted general attention, and the murder of Derby disappeared from the public memory, among other forgotten murders of modern times. End of book 8, chapter 4, recorded by Raquel Olea. Book 8, chapter 5 of The Fallen Leaves. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. The Fallen Leaves by Wilkie Collins. Book 8, Dame Nature Decides. Chapter 5, The Last Dreary Days of November, came to their end. No longer darkened by the shadows of crime and torment and death, the life of Emilius glided insensibly into the peaceful byways of seclusion brightened by the companionship of Sally. The winter days followed one another in a happy uniformity of occupations and amusements. There were lessons to fill up the morning and walks to occupy the afternoon. And in the evenings, sometimes reading, sometimes singing, sometimes nothing but the lazy luxury of talk. In the vast world of London, with its monstrous extremes of wealth and poverty, and its all-permeating malady of life at fever heat, there was one supremely innocent and supremely happy creature. Sally had heard of heaven, attainable on the hard condition of first paying the debt of death. I have found a kinder heaven, she said one day. It is here in the cottage, and Emilius has shown me the way to it. Their social isolation was, at this time, complete. They were two friendless people, perfectly insensible to all that was perilous and pitiable in their own position. They parted with a kiss at night, and they met again with a kiss in the morning, and they were as happily free from all mistrust of the future as a pair of birds. No visitors came to the house, the few friends and acquaintances of Emilius, forgotten by him, forgot him in return. Now and then, Toph's wife came to the cottage and exhibited the cherubim baby. Now and then, Toph himself, a musician among his other accomplishments, brought his fiddle upstairs and, saying modestly, a little music helps to pass the time, played to the young master and mistress the cheerful, tinkling tunes of the old vaudevilles of France. They were pleased with these small interruptions when they came, and they were not disappointed when the days passed and the baby and the vaudevilles were hushed in absence and silence. So the happy winter time went by, and the howling winds brought no rheumatism with them, and even the tax gatherer himself, looking in at this earthly paradise, departed without a curse when he left his little paper behind him. Now and then, at long intervals, the outer world intruded itself in the form of a letter. Regina wrote, always with the same placid affection, always entering into the same minute narrative of the slow progress of, dear uncle's return to health, he was forbidden to exert himself in any way, his nerves were in a state of lamentable irritability. I dare not even mention your name to him, dear Amelius, it seems I cannot think why to make him, oh, so unreasonably angry, I can only submit and pray that he may soon be himself again. Amelius wrote back, always in the same considered and gentle tone, always laying the blame of his dull letters on the studious uniformity of his life. He preserved, with a perfectly easy conscience, the most absolute silence on the subject of Sally. While he was faithful to Regina, what reason had he to reproach himself with the protection that he offered to a poor motherless girl? When he was married, he might mention the circumstances under which he had met with Sally and leave the rest to his wife's sympathy. One morning, the letters with the Paris postmark were varied by a few lines from Rufus. Every morning, my bright boy, I get up and say to myself, well, I reckon it's about time to take the route for London, and every morning, if you'll believe me, I put it off till next day. Whether it's in the good feeding expensive, I admit, but when your cook helps you to digest instead of hindering you, a man of my dispeptic nation is too grateful to complain. Or whether it's in the air, which reminds me, I do assure you, of our native atmosphere at Cool Spring, Massachusetts, is more than I can tell with a hard steel pen on a leaf of flimsy paper. You have heard the saying, when a good American dies, he goes to Paris. Maybe sometimes he's smart enough to discount his own death and rationally enjoy the future time in the present. This, you see, is a poetic light. But mercy be praised, the moral of my residence in Paris is plain. If I can't go to Emilius, Emilius must come to me. Note the address, grand hotel, and pack up like a good boy on receipt of this. Memorandum, the brown miss is here. I saw her taking the air in a carriage and raised my hat. She looked the other way. British, eminently British, but there I bear no malice. I am her most obedient servant, and yours affectionately, rufous. Post script, I want you to see some of our girls at this hotel, the genuine American material, sir, perfected by worth. Another morning brought with it a few sad lines from Phoebe. After what had happened, she was quite unable to face her friends. She had no heart to seek employment in her own country. Her present life was too dreary and too hopeless to be endured. A benevolent lady had made her an offer to accompany a part of emigrants to New Zealand, and she had accepted the proposal. Perhaps among the new people she might recover her self-respect and her spirits, and live to be a better woman. Meanwhile, she bade Mr. Goldenheart farewell and asked his pardon for taking the liberty of wishing him happy with Miss Regina. Amelius wrote a few kind lines to Phoebe and a cordial reply to Rufus, making the pursuit of his studies his excuse for remaining in London. After this, there was no further correspondence. The mornings succeeded each other, and the postmen brought no more news from the world outside. But the lessons went on, and the teacher and pupil were as inconsiderately happy as ever in each other's society, observing with inexhaustible interest the progress of the mental development of Sally. Amelius was slow to perceive the physical development, which was unobtrusively keeping pace with it. He was absolutely ignorant of the part which his own influence was taking in the gradual and delicate process of change. Air Long, the first four warnings of the coming disturbance in their harmless relations toward each other, began to show themselves. Air Long, there were signs of a troubled mind in Sally which were mysteries to Amelius and subjects of wonderment, sometimes even trials of temper to the girl herself. One day, she looked in from the door of her room in her white dressing gown and asked to be forgiven if she kept the lessons of the morning waiting for a little while. Come in, said Amelius, and tell me why. She hesitated, you won't think me lazy if you see me in my dressing gown? Of course not. Your dressing gown, my dear, is as good as any other gown. A young girl like you looks best in white. She came in with her work basket and her indoor dress over her arm. Amelius laughed, why haven't you put it on, he asked. She sat down in a corner and looked at her work basket instead of looking at Amelius. It doesn't fit me so well as it did, she answered, I am obliged to alter it. Amelius looked at her at the charming youthful figure that had filled out at the softly rounded outline of the face with no angles and hollows in it now. Is it the dressmaker's fault, he asked slightly. Her eyes were still on the basket. It's my fault, she said. You remember what a poor little skinny creature I was when you first saw me? I, you won't like me the worst for it, will you? I am getting fat, I don't know why. They say happy people get fat, perhaps that's why. I'm never hungry and never frightened and never miserable now. She stopped, her dress slipped from her lap to the floor. Don't look at me, she said, and suddenly put her hands over her face. Amelius saw the tears finding their way through the pretty plump fingers, which he remembered so shapeless and so thin. He crossed the room and touched her gently on the shoulder. My dear child, have I said anything to distress you? Nothing. Then why are you crying? I don't know. She hesitated, looked at him, and made a desperate effort to tell him what was in her mind. I'm afraid you'll get tired of me. There's nothing about me to make you pity me now. You seem to be not quite the same. No, it isn't that. I don't know what's come to me. I'm a greater fool than ever. Give me my lesson, Amelius, please give me my lesson. Amelius produced the books in some little surprise at Sally's extraordinary anxiety to begin her lessons, while the unaltered dress lay neglected on the carpet at her feet. A discreet abstract of the history of England, published for the use of young persons, happened to be at the top of the books. The system of education under Amelius recognized the laws of chance. They began with the history because it turned up first. Sally read aloud, and Sally's master explained obscure passages and corrected occasional errors of pronunciation as she went on. On that particular morning, there was little to explain and nothing to correct. Am I doing it well today? Sally inquired on reaching the end of her task. Very well indeed. She shut the book and looked at her teacher. I wonder how it is she resumed that I get on so much better with my lessons here than I did at the home, and yet it's foolish of me to wonder. I get on better because you are teaching me, of course, but I don't feel satisfied with myself. I'm the same helpless creature. I feel your kindness and can't make any return to you for all my learning I should like. She left the thought in her unexpressed and opened her copy book. I'll do my writing now, she said in a quiet resigned way. Perhaps I may improve enough some day to keep your accounts for you. She chose her pen a little absently and began to write. Amelius looked over her shoulder and laughed. She was writing his name. He pointed to the copper plate copy on the top line, presenting an undeniable moral maxim in characters beyond the reach of criticism. Change is a law of nature. There, my dear, you are to copy that till you're tired of it, said the Easy Master, and then we'll try Overleaf, another copy beginning with letter D. Sally laid down her pen. I don't like change is a law of nature. She said, knitting her pretty eyebrows into a frown. I looked at those words yesterday and they made me miserable at night. I was foolish enough to think that we should always go on together as we go on now till I saw that copy. I hate the copy. It came to my mind when I was awake in the dark and it seemed to tell me that we were going to change someday. That's the worst of learning. One knows too much and then there's an end of one's happiness. Thoughts come to you when you don't want them. I thought of the young lady we saw last week in the park. She spoke gravely and sadly. The bright contentment, which had given a new charm to her eyes since she had been at the cottage, died out of them as Amelius looked at her. What had become of her childish manner and her artless smile? He drew his chair nearer to her. What young lady do you mean? he asked. Sally shook her head and traced lines with her pen on the blotting paper. Oh, you can't have forgotten her. A young lady riding on a grand white horse. All the people were admiring her. I wonder you cared to look at me after that beautiful creature had gone by. She knows all sorts of things that I don't. She doesn't sound a note at a time on the piano and as often as not the wrong one, she can say her multiplication table and knows all the cities of the world. I dare say she's almost as learned as you are. If you had her living here with you, wouldn't you like it better than only having me? She dropped her arms on the table and laid her head on them weirdly. The dreadful streets she murmured in low tones of despair. Why did I think of the dreadful streets on the night I met with you after I had seen the young lady? Oh, Amelia, are you tired of me? Are you ashamed of me? She lifted her head again before he could answer and controlled herself by a sudden effort of resolution. I don't know what's the matter with me this morning. She said, looking at him with a pleading fear in her eyes. Nevermind my nonsense, I'll do the copy. She began to write the unendurable assertion that change is a law of nature with trembling fingers and fast-heaving breath. Amelia's took the pen gently out of her hand. His voice faltered as he spoke to her. We will give up the lessons for today, Sally. You have had a bad night's rest, my dear, and you are feeling it, that's all. Do you think you are well enough to come out with me and try if the air will revive you a little? She rose and took his hand and kissed it. I believe if I was dying, I should get well enough to go out with you. May I ask one little favor? Do you mind if we don't go into the park today? What has made you take a dislike to the park, Sally? We might meet the beautiful young lady again, she answered with her head down. I don't want to do that. We will go wherever you like, my child. You shall decide, not I. She gathered up her dress from the floor and hurried away to her room without looking back at him as usual when she opened the door. Left by himself, Amelia sat at the table, mechanically turning over the lesson books. Sally had perplexed and even distressed him. His capacity to preserve the harmless relations between them depended mainly on the mute appeal which the girl's ignorant innocence unconsciously addressed to him. He felt this vaguely without absolutely realizing it. By some mysterious process of association which he was unable to follow, a saying of the wise elder brother at Tadmore revived in his memory while he was trying to see his way through the difficulties that beset him. You will meet with many temptations, Amelia, when you leave our community, the old man had said at parting, and most of them will come to you through women. Be especially on your guard, my son, if you meet with a woman who makes you feel truly sorry for her. She is on the high road to your passions through the open door of your sympathies and all the more certainly if she is not aware of it herself. Amelia's felt the truth expressed in those words as he had never felt it yet. There had been signs of a changing nature in Sally for some little time past but they had expressed themselves too delicately to attract the attention of a man unprepared to be on the watch. Only on that morning they had been marked enough to force themselves on his notice. Only on that morning she had looked at him and spoken to him as she had never looked or spoken before. He began dimly to see the danger for both of them to which he had shut his eyes thus far. Where was the remedy? What ought he to do? Those questions came naturally into his mind and yet his mind shrank from pursuing them. He got up impatiently and busied himself in putting away the lesson books. A small duty hitherto always left to toff. It was useless. His mind dwelt persistently on Sally. While he moved about the room he still saw the look in her eyes. He still heard the tone of her voice when she spoke of the young lady in the park. The words of the good physician whom he had consulted about her recurred to his memory now. The natural growth of her senses has been stunted like the natural growth of her body by starvation, terror, exposure to cold and other influences inherent in the life that she has led. And then the doctor had spoken of nourishing food, pure air and careful treatment, all the life in short which she had led at the cottage and had predicted that she would develop into an intelligent and healthy young woman. Again he asked himself, what ought I to do? He turned aside to the window and looked out. An idea occurred to him. How would it be if he summoned courage enough to tell her that he was engaged to be married? No, setting aside his natural dread of the shock that he might inflict on the poor, grateful girl who had only known happiness under his care, the detestable obstacle of Mr. Farnaby stood immovably in his way. Sally would be sure to ask questions about his engagement and would never rest until they were answered. It had been necessarily impossible to conceal her mother's name from her. The discovery of her father, if she heard of Regina and Regina's uncle would be simply a question of time. What might such a man be not capable of doing? What new act of treachery might he not commit if he found himself claimed by the daughter whom he had deserted? Even if the expression of Mrs. Farnaby's last wishes had not been sacred to Emilius, this consideration alone would have kept him silent for Sally's sake. He now doubted for the first time if he had calculated wisely in planning to trust Sally's sad story after his marriage to the sympathies of his wife. The jealousy that she might naturally feel of a young girl who was an object of interest to her husband did not present the worst difficulty to contend with. She believed in her uncle's integrity as she believed in her religion. What would she say, what would she do if the innocent witness to Farnaby's infamy was presented to her? If Emilius asked the protection for Sally which her own father had refused to her in her infancy and if he said, as he must say, your uncle is the man? And yet, what prospect could he see but the prospect of making the disclosure when he looked to his own interest next and thought of his wedding day? Again, the sinister figure of Farnaby confronted him. How could he receive the wretch whom Regina would innocently welcome to the house? There would be no longer a choice left. It would be his duty to himself to tell his wife the terrible truth and what would be the result? He recalled the whole course of his courtship and saw Farnaby always on a level with himself in Regina's estimation. In spite of his natural cheerfulness, in spite of his inbred courage, his heart failed him when he thought of the time to come. As he turned away from the window, Sally's door opened. She joined him ready for the walk. Her spirits had rallied, assisted by the cheering influence of dressing to go out. Her charming smile brightened her face. In sheer desperation, reckless of what he did or said, Emilius held out both hands to welcome her. That's right, Sally, he cried. Look pleased and pretty, my dear. Let's be happy while we can and let the future take care of itself. End of book eight, Dame Nature decides chapter five. Book eight, chapter six of The Fallen Leaves. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Boutros. The Fallen Leaves by Wilkie Collins. Book eight, Dame Nature decides chapter six. The capricious influences which combine to make us happy are never so certain to be absent influences as when we are foolish enough to talk about them. Emilius had talked about them. When he and Sally left the cottage, the road which led them away from the park was also the road which led them past a church. The influences of happiness left them at the church door. Rows of carriages were in waiting. Hundreds of idle people were assembled about the church steps. The thunderous music of the organ rolled out through the open doors. A grand wedding with choral service was in course of celebration. Sally begged Emilius to take her in to see it. They tried the front entrance and found it impossible to get through the crowd. A side entrance and a fee to a verger succeeded better. They obtained space enough to stand on with a view of the altar. The bride was a tall, buxom girl, splendidly dressed. She performed her part in the ceremony with the most unruffled composure. The bridegroom exhibited an instructive spectacle of aged nature sustained by art. His hair, his complexion, his teeth, his breast, his shoulders, and his legs showed what the wigmaker, the valet, the dentist, the tailor, and the hosier can do for a rich old man who wishes to present a juvenile appearance while he is buying a young wife. No less than three clergymen were present conducting the sale. The demeanor of the rich congregation was worthy of the glorious bygone days of the golden calf. So far as could be judged by appearances, one old lady in a pew close to the place at which Amelia Sansali were standing seemed to be the only person present who was not favorably impressed by the ceremony. I call it disgraceful, the old lady remarked, to a charming young person seated next to her. But the charming young person being the legitimate product of the present time had no more sympathy with questions of sentiment than a hot and taut. How can you talk, sell, grandmama? She rejoined. He has 20,000 a year, and that lucky girl will be mistress of the most splendid house in London. I don't care, the old lady persisted. It's not the less a disgrace to everybody concerned in it. There is many a poor friendless creature driven by hunger to the streets who has a better claim to our sympathy than that shameless girl selling herself in the house of God. I'll wait for you in the carriage. I won't see any more of it. Sally touched Amelia's. Take me out, she whispered faintly. He supposed that the heat in the church had been too much for her. Are you better now? He asked when they got into the open air. She held fast by his arm. Let's get farther away. She said, that lady is coming after us. I don't want her to see me again. I am one of the creatures she talked about. Is the mark of the streets on me after all you have done to rub it out? The wild misery in her words presented another development in her character which was entirely new to Amelia's. My dear child, he remonstrated, you just stress me when you talk in that way. God knows the life you are leading now. But Sally's mind was still full of her own acutely painful sense of what the lady had said. I saw her. She burst out. I saw her look at me while she spoke. And she thought you better worth looking at than the bride and quite right too. Amelia's rejoined, come, come, Sally, be like yourself. You don't want to make me unhappy about you, I am sure. He had taken the right way with her. She felt that simple appeal and asked his pardon with all the old charm in her manner and her voice. For the moment, she was simple Sally again. They walked on in silence. When they had lost sight of the church, Amelia's felt her hand beginning to tremble on his arm. A mingled expression of tenderness and anxiety showed itself in her blue eyes as they looked up at him. I am thinking of something else now. She said, I am thinking of you. May I ask you something? Amelia smiled. The smile was not reflected as usual in Sally's face. It's nothing particular, she explained in an odd hurried way. The church put it into my head. You, she hesitated and tried it under another form. Will you be married yourself, Amelia's, one of these days? He did his best to evade the question. I am not rich, Sally, like the old gentleman we have just seen. Her eyes turned away from him. She sighed softly to herself. You will be married someday, she said. Will you do one kind thing more for me, Amelia's, when I die? You remember my reading in the newspaper of the new invention for burning the dead and my asking you about it? You said you thought it was better than burying, and you had a good mind to leave directions to be burnt instead of buried when your time came. When my time has come, will you leave other directions about yourself if I ask you? My dear, you are talking in a very strange way. If you will have it that I am to be married someday, what has that to do with your death? It doesn't matter, Amelia's. When I have nothing left to live for, I suppose it's as likely as not I may die. Will you tell them to bury me in some quiet place, away from London, where there are very few graves? And when you leave your directions, don't say you are to be burnt. Say when you have lived a long, long life and enjoyed all the happiness you have deserved so well, say you are to be buried and your grave is to be near mine. I should like to think of the same trees shading us and the same flowers growing over us. No, don't tell me I'm talking strangely again. I can't bear it. I want you to humor me and be kind to me about this. Do you mind going home? I'm feeling a little tired and I know I'm poor company for you today. The talk flagged at dinnertime, though Toph did his best to keep it going. In the evening, the excellent Frenchman made an effort to cheer the two dull young people. He came in confidentially with his fiddle and said he had a favor to ask. I possess some knowledge, sir, of the delightful act of dancing. Might I teach young miss to dance? You see, if I may venture to say so, the other lessons are most useful, most important, the other lessons, but they are just a little serious. Something to relieve her mind, sir, if you would forgive me for mentioning it. I plead for innocent gaiety, let us dance. He played a few notes on the fiddle and placed his right foot in position and waited amably to begin. Sally thanked him and made the excuse that she was tired. She wished Amelia's good night without waiting until they were alone together and for the first time without giving him the customary kiss. Tough waited until she had gone and approached his master on tiptoe with a low bow. May I take the liberty of expressing an opinion, sir? A young girl who rejects the remedy of the fiddle presents a case of extreme gravity. Don't despair, sir. It is my pride and pleasure to be never at a loss where your interests are concerned. This is, I think, a matter for the ministrations of a woman. If you have confidence in my wife, I venture to suggest a visit from Madame Tov. He discreetly retired and left his master to think about it. The time passed and Amelia's was still thinking and still as far as ever from arriving at a conclusion when he heard a door opened behind him. Sally crossed the room before he could rise from his chair. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright, her hair fell loose over her shoulders. She dropped at his feet and hid her face on his knees. I'm an ungrateful wretch, she burst out. I never kissed you when I said good night. With the best intentions, Amelia's took the worst possible way of composing her. He treated her trouble lightly. Perhaps you forgot it, he said. She lifted her head and looked at him with the tears in her eyes. I'm bad enough, she answered, but not so bad as that. Oh, don't laugh, there's nothing to laugh at. Have you done with liking me? Are you angry with me for behaving so badly all day and bidding you good night as if you were tough? You shan't be angry with me. She jumped up and sat on his knee and put her arms around his neck. I haven't been too bad, she whispered. I was too miserable to go to sleep. I don't know what's been the matter with me today. I seem to be losing the little sense I ever had. Oh, if I could only make you understand how fond I am of you. And yet I've had bitter thoughts as if I was a burden to you and I had done a wrong thing in coming here. And you would have told me so. Only you pitied the poor wretch who had nowhere else to go. She tightened her hold around his neck and laid her burning cheek against his face. Oh, Amelia's, my heart is sore. Kiss me and say good night, Sally. He was young, he was a man. For a moment he lost his self-control. He kissed her as he had never kissed her yet. Then he remembered, he recovered himself. He put her gently away from him and led her to the door of her room and closed it on her in silence. For a little while he waited alone. The interval over, he rang for tough. Do you think your wife would take Miss Sally as an apprentice, he asked. Tough looked astonished. Whatever you wish, sir, my wife will do. Her knowledge of the art of dressmaking is. Words failed him to express his wife's immense capacity as a dressmaker. He kissed his hand in mute enthusiasm and blew the kiss in the direction of Madame Tough's establishment. However he proceeded, I ought to tell you one thing, sir. The business is small, small, very small, but we are all in the hands of Providence. The business will improve one day. He lifted his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows and looked perfectly satisfied with his wife's prospects. I will go and speak to Madame Tough myself tomorrow morning, Emilius resumed. It's quite possible that I may be obliged to leave London for a little while and I must provide in some way for Miss Sally. Don't say a word about it to her yet. Tough, and don't look miserable. If I go away, I shall take you with me. Good night. Tough, with his handkerchief halfway to his eyes, recovered his native cheerfulness. I am invariably sick at sea, sir, he said, but no matter, I will attend you to the uttermost ends of the earth. So honest Emilius planned his way of escape from the critical position in which he found himself. He went to his bed, troubled by anxieties which kept him waking for many weary hours. Where was he to go to when he left Sally? If he could have known what had happened on that very day on the other side of the channel, he might have decided, in spite of the obstacle of Mr. Farnaby on surprising Regina by a visit to Paris. End of book the eighth, chapter six. Book eight, chapter seven of The Fallen Leaves. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. The Fallen Leaves by Wilkie Collins. Book eight, Dame Nature Decides, chapter seven. On the morning when Emilius and Sally in London entered the church to look at the wedding, Rufus in Paris went to the Champs-Elysées to take a walk. He had advanced halfway up the Magnificent Avenue when he saw Regina for the second time taking her daily drive with an elderly woman in attendance on her. Rufus took off his hat again, perfectly impenetrable to the cold reception which he had already experienced. Greatly to his surprise, Regina not only returned his salute, but stopped the carriage and beckoned to him to speak to her. Looking at her more closely, he perceived signs of suffering in her face which completely altered her expression as he remembered it. Her magnificent eyes were dim and red. She had lost her rich color, her voice trembled as she spoke to him. Have you a few minutes to spare? She asked. The whole day if you like miss, Rufus answered. She turned to the woman who accompanied her. Wait here for me, Elizabeth. I have something to say to this gentleman. With those words she got out of the carriage. Rufus offered her his arm. She put her hand in it as readily as if they had been old friends. Let us take one of the side paths. She said they are almost deserted at this time of day. I am afraid I surprise you very much. I can only trust to your kindness to forgive me for passing you without notice the last time we met. Perhaps it may be some excuse for me that I am in great trouble. It is just possible you may be able to relieve my mind. I believe you know I am engaged to be married. Rufus looked at her with a sudden expression of interest. Is this about Amelia's he asked? She answered him almost inaudibly. Yes. Rufus still kept his eyes fixed on her. I don't wish to say anything, Miss, he explained, but if you have any complaint to make of Amelia's, I should take it as a favor if you would look me straight in the face and mention it plainly. In the embarrassment which troubled Regina at that moment, he had preferred the two requests of all others with which it was most impossible for her to comply. She still looked obstinately on the ground and instead of speaking of Amelia's, she diverged to the subject of Mr. Farnaby's illness. I am staying in Paris with my uncle, she said. He has had a long illness, but he is strong enough now to speak to me of things that have been on his mind for some time past. He has so surprised me. He has made me so miserable about Amelia's. She paused and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Rufus said nothing to console her. He waited doggedly until she was ready to go on. You know Amelia's well, she resumed. You are fond of him. You believe in him, don't you? Do you think he is capable of behaving basely to any person who trusts him? Is it likely? Is it possible he could be false and cruel to me? The mere question roused the indignation of Rufus. Whoever said that of him, Miss, told you a lie. I answer for my boy as I answer for myself. She looked at him at last with a sudden expression of relief. I said so too, she rejoined. I said some enemy had slandered him. My uncle won't tell me who he is. He positively forbids me to write to Amelia's. He tells me I must never see Amelia's again. He is going to write and break off the engagement. Oh, it's too cruel, too cruel. Thus far they had been walking on slowly. But now Rufus stopped, determined to make her speak plainly. Take a word of advice from me, Miss. He said, never trust anybody by halves. There's nothing I'm not ready to do to set this matter right. But I must know what I'm about first. What said against Amelia's? Out with it, no matter what is. I'm old enough to be your father and I feel for you accordingly, I do. The thorough sincerity of tone and manner which accompanied those words had its effect. Regina blushed and trembled, but she spoke out. My uncle says Amelia's has disgraced himself and insulted me. My uncle says there is a person, a girl living with him. She stopped with a faint cry of alarm. Her hand, still resting on the arm of Rufus, felt him start as the illusion to the girl passed her lips. You have heard of it, she cried. Oh, God, help me, it's true. True? Rufus repeated with stern contempt. What's come to you? Haven't I told you already it's a lie? I'll answer to it. Amelia's is true to you. Will that do? No? You're an obstinate one, Miss, that you are? Well, it's due to the boy that I should set him right with you if words will do it. You know how he's been brought up at Tadmore. Bear that in mind and now you shall have the truth of it on the word of an honest man. Without further preface, he told her how Amelia's had met with Sally, insisting strongly on the motives of pure humanity by which his friend had been actuated. Regina listened with an obstinate expression of distrust which would have discouraged most men. Rufus persisted nevertheless and to some extent at least succeeded in producing the right impression. When he reached the close of the narrative, when he asserted that he had himself seen Amelia's confide the girl unreservedly to the care of a lady who was a dear and valued friend of his own and when he declared that there had been no after meeting between them and no written correspondence, then at last Regina owned that he had not encouraged her to trust in the honor of Amelia's without reason to justify him. But even under these circumstances there was a residue of suspicion still left in her mind. She asked for the name of the lady to whose benevolent assistance Amelia's had been indebted. Rufus took out one of his cards and wrote Mrs. Payson's name and address on it. Your nature, my dear, is not quite so confiding as I could have wished to see it, he said, quietly handing her the card, but we can't change our natures, can we? And you're not bound to believe a man like me without witnesses to back him. Write to Mrs. Payson and make your mind easy, and while we are about it, tell me where I can telegraph to you tomorrow. I'm off to London by the night mail. Do you mean you are going to see Amelia's? That is so. I'm too fond of Amelia's to let this trouble rest where it is now. I've been away from him here in Paris for some little time and you may tell me, and quite right to, I can't answer for what may have been going on in my absence. No, now we are about it, we'll have it out. I mean to see Amelia's and see Mrs. Payson tomorrow morning. Just tell your uncle to hold his hand before he breaks off your marriage and wait for a telegram from me. Well, and this is your address, is it? I know the hotel. A nice lookout on the twillery gardens but a bad cellar of wine as I hear. I'm at the Grand Hotel myself if there's anything else that troubles you before evening. Now, I look at you again. I reckon there's something more to be said. If you'll only let it find its way to your tongue. No, it ain't thanks. We'll take the gratitude for granted and get to what's behind it. There's your carriage and the good lady looks tired of waiting. Well, now? It's only one thing Regina acknowledged with her eyes on the ground again. Perhaps when you go to London, you may see the girl? Yes, it's not likely. Say I do see her, what then? Regina's color began to show itself again. If you do see her, she said, I beg and entreat you, won't speak of me in her hearing. I should die of the shame of it if she thought herself asked to give him up out of pity for me. Promise I am not to be brought forward. Promise you won't even mention my having spoken to you about it. On your word of honor. Rufus gave her his promise without showing any hesitation or making any remark. But when she shook hands with him on returning to the carriage, he held her hand for a moment. Please to excuse me, miss. If I ask one question, he said, in tones too low to be heard by any other person. Are you really fond of Emilius? I am surprised you should doubt it, she answered. I am more, much more than fond of him. Rufus handed her silently into the carriage. Fond of him are you he thought as he walked away by himself? I reckon it's a sort of fondness that don't wear well and won't stand washing. End of book eight, chapter seven.