Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1049 page)

There was a momentary silence. If Mr. Melton had been present, he would have said a few neatly sympathetic words. Amelius knew no more than a savage of the art of conventional consolation. Tadmor had made him familiar with the social and political questions of the time, and had taught him to speak in public. But Tadmor, rich in books and newspapers, was a powerless training institution in the matter of small talk.

“Suppose Mr. Farnaby is obliged to go abroad,” he suggested, after waiting a little, “what will you do?”

Regina looked at him, with an air of melancholy surprise. “I shall do my duty, of course,” she answered gravely. “I shall accompany my dear uncle, if he wishes it.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It is time he took his medicine,” she resumed; “you will excuse me, I am sure.” She shook hands, not very warmly — and hastened out of the room.

Amelius left the house, with a conviction which disheartened him — the conviction that he had never understood Regina, and that he was not likely to understand her in the future. He turned for relief to the consideration of Mr. Farnaby’s strange conduct, under the domestic disaster which had befallen him.

Recalling what he had observed for himself, and what he had heard from Mrs. Farnaby when she had first taken him into her confidence, he inferred that the subject of the lost child had not only been a subject of estrangement between the husband and wife, but that the husband was, in some way, the person blamable for it. Assuming this theory to be the right one, there would be serious obstacles to the meeting of the mother and child, in the mother’s home. The departure of Mrs. Farnaby was, in that case, no longer unintelligible — and Mr. Farnaby’s otherwise inexplicable conduct had the light of a motive thrown on it, which might not unnaturally influence a hard-hearted man weary alike of his wife and his wife’s troubles. Arriving at this conclusion by a far shorter process than is here indicated, Amelius pursued the subject no further. At the time when he had first visited the Farnabys, Rufus had advised him to withdraw from closer intercourse with them, while he had the chance. In his present mood, he was almost in danger of acknowledging to himself that Rufus had proved to be right.

He lunched with his American friend at the hotel. Before the meal was over Mrs. Payson called, to say a few cheering words about Sally.

It was not to be denied that the girl remained persistently silent and reserved. In other respects the report was highly favourable. She was obedient to the rules of the house; she was always ready with any little services that she could render to her companions; and she was so eager to improve herself, by means of her reading-lessons and writing-lessons, that it was not easy to induce her to lay aside her book and her slate. When the teacher offered her some small reward for her good conduct, and asked what she would like, the sad little face brightened, and the faithful creature’s answer was always the same — ”I should like to know what he is doing now.” (Alas for Sally! — ”he” meant Amelius.)

“You must wait a little longer before you write to her,” Mrs. Payson concluded, “and you must not think of seeing her for some time to come. I know you will help us by consenting to this — for Sally’s sake.”

Amelius bowed in silence. He would not have confessed what he felt, at that moment, to any living soul — it is doubtful if he even confessed it to himself. Mrs. Payson, observing him with a woman’s keen sympathy, relented a little. “I might give her a message,” the good lady suggested — ”just to say you are glad to hear she is behaving so well.”

“Will you give her this?” Amelius asked.

He took from his pocket a little photograph of the cottage, which he had noticed on the house-agent’s desk, and had taken away with him. “It is
my
cottage now,” he explained, in tones that faltered a little; “I am going to live there; Sally might like to see it.”

“Sally
shall
see it,” Mrs. Payson agreed — ”if you will only let me take this away first.” She pointed to the address of the cottage, printed under the photograph. Past experience in the Home made her reluctant to trust Sally with the address in London at which Amelius was to be found.

Rufus produced a huge complex knife, out of the depths of which a pair of scissors burst on touching a spring. Mrs. Payson cut off the address, and placed the photograph in her pocket-book. “Now,” she said, “Sally will be happy, and no harm can come of it.”

“I’ve known you, ma’am, nigh on twenty years,” Rufus remarked. “I do assure you that’s the first rash observation I ever heard from your lips.”

BOOK THE SEVENTH. THE VANISHING HOPES

CHAPTER 1

Two days later, Amelius moved into his cottage.

He had provided himself with a new servant, as easily as he had provided himself with a new abode. A foreign waiter at the hotel — a gray-haired Frenchman of the old school, reputed to be the most ill-tempered servant in the house — had felt the genial influence of Amelius with the receptive readiness of his race. Here was a young Englishman, who spoke to him as easily and pleasantly as if he was speaking to a friend — who heard him relate his little grievances, and never took advantage of that circumstance to turn him into ridicule — who said kindly, “I hope you don’t mind my calling you by your nickname,” when he ventured to explain that his Christian name was “Theophile,” and that his English fellow servants had facetiously altered and shortened it to “Toff,” to suit their insular convenience. “For the first time, sir,” he had hastened to add, “I feel it an honour to be Toff, when
you
speak to me.” Asking everybody whom he met if they could recommend a servant to him, Amelius had put the question, when Toff came in one morning with the hot water. The old Frenchman made a low bow, expressive of devotion. “I know of but one man, sir, whom I can safely recommend,” he answered — ”take me.” Amelius was delighted; he had only one objection to make. “I don’t want to keep two servants,” he said, while Toff was helping him on with his dressing-gown. “Why should you keep two servants, sir?” the Frenchman inquired. Amelius answered, “I can’t ask you to make the beds.” “Why not?” said Toff — and made the bed, then and there, in five minutes. He ran out of the room, and came back with one of the chambermaid’s brooms. “Judge for yourself, sir — can I sweep a carpet?” He placed a chair for Amelius. “Permit me to save you the trouble of shaving yourself. Are you satisfied? Very good. I am equally capable of cutting your hair, and attending to your corns (if you suffer, sir, from that inconvenience). Will you allow me to propose something which you have not had yet for your breakfast?” In half an hour more, he brought in the new dish. “Oeufs a la Tripe. An elementary specimen, sir, of what I can do for you as a cook. Be pleased to taste it.” Amelius ate it all up on the spot; and Toff applied the moral, with the neatest choice of language. “Thank you, sir, for a gratifying expression of approval. One more specimen of my poor capabilities, and I have done. It is barely possible — God forbid! — that you may fall ill. Honour me by reading that document.” He handed a written paper to Amelius, dated some years since in Paris, and signed in an English name. “I testify with gratitude and pleasure that Theophile Leblond has nursed me through a long illness, with an intelligence and devotion which I cannot too highly praise.” “May you never employ me, sir, in that capacity,” said Toff. “I have only to add that I am not so old as I look, and that my political opinions have changed, in later life, from red-republican to moderate-liberal. I also confess, if necessary, that I still have an ardent admiration for the fair sex.” He laid his hand on his heart, and waited to be engaged.

So the household at the cottage was modestly limited to Amelius and Toff.

Rufus remained for another week in London, to watch the new experiment. He had made careful inquiries into the Frenchman’s character, and had found that the complaints of his temper really amounted to this — that “he gave himself the airs of a gentleman, and didn’t understand a joke.” On the question of honesty and sobriety, the testimony of the proprietor of the hotel left Rufus nothing to desire. Greatly to his surprise, Amelius showed no disposition to grow weary of his quiet life, or to take refuge in perilous amusements from the sober society of his books. He was regular in his inquiries at Mr. Farnaby’s house; he took long walks by himself; he never mentioned Sally’s name; he lost his interest in going to the theatre, and he never appeared in the smoking-room of the club. Some men, observing the remarkable change which had passed over his excitable temperament, would have hailed it as a good sign for the future. The New Englander looked below the surface, and was not so easily deceived. “My bright boy’s soul is discouraged and cast down,” was the conclusion that he drew. “There’s darkness in him where there once was light; and, what’s worse than all, he caves in, and keeps it to himself.” After vainly trying to induce Amelius to open his heart, Rufus at last went to Paris, with a mind that was ill at ease.

On the day of the American’s departure, the march of events was resumed; and the unnaturally quiet life of Amelius began to be disturbed again.

Making his customary inquiries in the forenoon at Mr. Farnaby’s door, he found the household in a state of agitation. A second council of physicians had been held, in consequence of the appearance of some alarming symptoms in the case of the patient. On this occasion, the medical men told him plainly that he would sacrifice his life to his obstinacy, if he persisted in remaining in London and returning to his business. By good fortune, the affairs of the bank had greatly benefited, through the powerful interposition of Mr. Melton. With the improved prospects, Mr. Farnaby (at his niece’s entreaty) submitted to the doctor’s advice. He was to start on the first stage of his journey the next morning; and, at his own earnest desire, Regina was to go with him. “I hate strangers and foreigners; and I don’t like being alone. If you don’t go with me, I shall stay where I am — and die.” So Mr. Farnaby put it to his adopted daughter, in his rasping voice and with his hard frown.

“I am grieved, dear Amelius, to go away from you,” Regina said; “but what can I do? It would have been so nice if you could have gone with us. I did hint something of the sort; but — ”

Her downcast face finished the sentence. Amelius felt the bare idea of being Mr. Farnaby’s travelling companion make his blood run cold. And Mr. Farnaby, on his side, reciprocated the sentiment. “I will write constantly, dear,” Regina resumed; “and you will write back, won’t you? Say you love me; and promise to come tomorrow morning, before we go.”

She kissed him affectionately — and, the instant after, checked the responsive outburst of tenderness in Amelius, by that utter want of tact which (in spite of the popular delusion to the contrary) is so much more common in women than in men, “My uncle is so particular about packing his linen,” she said; “nobody can please him but me; I must ask you to let me run upstairs again.”

Amelius went out into the street, with his head down and his lips fast closed. He was not far from Mrs. Payson’s house. “Why shouldn’t I call?” he thought to himself. His conscience added, “And hear some news of Sally.”

There was good news. The girl was brightening mentally and physically — she was in a fair way, if she only remained in the Home, to be “Simple” Sally no longer. Amelius asked if she had got the photograph of the cottage. Mrs. Payson laughed. “Sleeps with it under her pillow, poor child,” she said, “and looks at it fifty times a day.” Thirty years since, with infinitely less experience to guide her, the worthy matron would have followed her instincts, and would have hesitated to tell Amelius quite so much about the photograph. But some of a woman’s finer sensibilities do get blunted with the advance of age and the accumulation of wisdom.

Instead of pursuing the subject of Sally’s progress, Amelius, to Mrs. Payson’s surprise, made a clumsy excuse, and abruptly took his leave.

He felt the need of being alone; he was conscious of a vague distrust of himself, which degraded him in his own estimation. Was he, like characters he had read of in books, the victim of a fatality? The slightest circumstances conspired to heighten his interest in Sally — just at the time when Regina had once more disappointed him. He was as firmly convinced, as if he had been the strictest moralist living, that it was an insult to Regina, and an insult to his own self-respect, to set the lost creature whom he had rescued in any light of comparison with the young lady who was one day to be his wife. And yet, try as he might to drive her out, Sally kept her place in his thoughts. There was, apparently, some innate depravity in him. If a looking-glass had been handed to him at that moment, he would have been ashamed to look himself in the face.

After walking until he was weary, he went to his club.

The porter gave him a letter as he crossed the hall. Mrs. Farnaby had kept her promise, and had written to him. The smoking-room was deserted at that time of day. He opened his letter in solitude, looked at it, crumpled it up impatiently, and put it into his pocket. Not even Mrs. Farnaby could interest him at that critical moment. His own affairs absorbed him. The one idea in his mind, after what he had heard about Sally, was the idea of making a last effort to hasten the date of his marriage before Mr. Farnaby left England. “If I can only feel sure of Regina — ”