Уилки Коллинз - The Fallen Leaves

“It’s not my habit,” Rufus coolly rejoined, “to bear malice. I beg to apologise sincerely, sir, for treating you like a teetotum; and I offer you my hand.”

Toff had got as far as the door. He instantly returned, with the dignity which a Frenchman can always command in the serious emergencies of his life. “You appeal to my heart and my honour, sir,” he said. “I bury the events of the morning in oblivion; and I do myself the honour of taking your hand.”

As the door closed on him, Rufus smiled grimly. “You’re not in the habit of intruding yourself into your master’s secrets,” he repeated. “If Amelius reads your face as I read it, he’ll look over his shoulder when he goes out tomorrow—and, ten to one, he’ll see you behind him in the distance!”

Late on the next day, Amelius presented himself at the hotel. In speaking of Sally, he was unusually reserved, merely saying that she was ill, and under medical care, and then changing the subject. Struck by the depressed and anxious expression of his face, Rufus asked if he had heard from Regina. No: a longer time than usual had passed since Regina had written to him. “I don’t understand it,” he said sadly. “I suppose you didn’t see anything of her in Paris?”

Rufus had kept his promise not to mention Regina’s name in Sally’s presence. But it was impossible for him to look at Amelius, without plainly answering the question put to him, for the sake of the friend whom he loved. “I’m afraid there’s trouble coming to you, my son, from that quarter.” With those warning words, he described all that had passed between Regina and himself. “Some unknown enemy of yours has spoken against you to her uncle,” he concluded. “I suppose you have made enemies, my poor old boy, since you have been in London?”

“I know the man,” Amelius answered. “He wanted to marry Regina before I met with her. His name is Melton.”

Rufus started. “I heard only yesterday, he was in Paris with Farnaby. And that’s not the worst of it, Amelius. There’s another of them making mischief—a good friend of mine who has shown a twist in her temper, that has taken me by surprise after twenty years’ experience of her. I reckon there’s a drop of malice in the composition of the best woman that ever lived—and the men only discover it when another woman steps in, and stirs it up. Wait a bit!” he went on, when he had related the result of his visit to Mrs. Payson. “I have telegraphed to Miss Regina to be patient, and to trust you. Don’t you write to defend yourself, till you hear how you stand in her estimation, after my message. Tomorrow’s post may tell.”

Tomorrow’s post did tell.

Two letters reached Amelius from Paris. One from Mr. Farnaby, curt and insolent, breaking off the marriage-engagement. The other, from Regina, expressed with great severity of language. Her weak nature, like all weak natures, ran easily into extremes, and, once roused into asserting itself, took refuge in violence as a shy person takes refuge in audacity. Only a woman of larger and firmer mind would have written of her wrongs in a more just and more moderate tone.

Regina began without any preliminary form of address. She had no heart to upbraid Amelius, and no wish to speak of what she was suffering, to a man who had but too plainly shown that he had no respect for himself, and neither love, nor pity even, for her. In justice to herself, she released him from his promise, and returned his letters and his presents. Her own letters might be sent in a sealed packet, addressed to her at her uncle’s place of business in London. She would pray that he might be brought to a sense of the sin that he had committed, and that he might yet live to be a worthy and a happy man. For the rest, her decision was irrevocable. His own letter to Mrs. Payson condemned him—and the testimony of an old and honoured friend of her uncle proved that his wickedness was no mere act of impulse, but a deliberate course of infamy and falsehood, continued over many weeks. From the moment when she made that discovery, he was a stranger to her—and she now bade him farewell.

“Have you written to her?” Rufus asked, when he had seen the letters.

Amelius reddened with indignation. He was not aware of it himself—but his look and manner plainly revealed that Regina had lost her last hold on him. Her letter had inflicted an insult—not a wound: he was outraged and revolted; the deeper and gentler feelings, the emotions of a grieved and humiliated lover, had been killed in him by her stern words of dismissal and farewell.

“Do you think I would allow myself to be treated in that way, without a word of protest?” he said to Rufus. “I have written, refusing to take back my promise. ‘I declare, on my word of honour, that I have been faithful to you and to my engagement’—that was how I put it—‘and I scorn the vile construction which your uncle and his friend have placed upon an act of Christian mercy on my part.’ I wrote more tenderly, before I finished my letter; feeling for her distress, and being anxious above all things not to add to it. We shall see if she has love enough left for me to trust my faith and honour, instead of trusting false appearances. I will give her time.”

Rufus considerately abstained from expressing any opinion. He waited until the morning when a reply might be expected from Paris; and then he called at the cottage.

Without a word of comment, Amelius put a letter into his friend’s hand. It was his own letter to Regina returned to him. On the back of it, there was a line in Mr. Farnaby’s handwriting:—“If you send any more letters they will be burnt unopened.” In those insolent terms the wretch wrote with bankruptcy and exposure hanging over his head.

Rufus spoke plainly upon this. “There’s an end of it now,” he said. “That girl would never have made the right wife for you, Amelius: you’re well out of it. Forget that you ever knew these people; and let us talk of something else. How is Sally?”

At that ill-timed inquiry, Amelius showed his temper again. He was in a state of nervous irritability which made him apt to take offence, where no offence was intended. “Oh, you needn’t be alarmed!” he answered petulantly; “there’s no fear of the poor child coming back to live with me. She is still under the doctor’s care.”

Rufus passed over the angry reply without notice, and patted him on the shoulder. “I spoke of the girl,” he said, “because I wanted to help her; and I can help her, if you will let me. Before long, my son, I shall be going back to the United States. I wish you would go with me!”

“And desert Sally!” cried Amelius.

“Nothing of the sort! Before we go, I’ll see that Sally is provided for to your satisfaction. Will you think of it, to please me?”

Amelius relented. “Anything, to please you,” he said.

Rufus noticed his hat and gloves on the table, and left him without saying more. “The trouble with Amelius,” he thought, as he closed the cottage gate, “is not over yet.”

The day on which worthy old Surgeon Pinfold had predicted that Sally would be in a fair way of recovery had come and gone; and still the medical report to Amelius was the same:—“You must be patient, sir; she is not well enough to see you yet.”

Toff, watching his young master anxiously, was alarmed by the steadily progressive change in him for the worse, which showed itself at this time. Now sad and silent, and now again bitter and irritable, he had deteriorated physically as well as morally, until he really looked like the shadow of his former self. He never exchanged a word with his faithful old servant, except when he said mechanically, “good morning” or “good night.” Toff could endure it no longer. At the risk of being roughly misinterpreted, he followed his own kindly impulse, and spoke. “May I own to you, sir,” he said, with perfect gentleness and respect, “that I am indeed heartily sorry to see you so ill?”