Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1045 page)

The carriage had stopped at the great surgeon’s house: the waiting-room was full of patients. Some of them were trying to read the books and newspapers on the table; and some of them were looking at each other, not only without the slightest sympathy, but occasionally even with downright distrust and dislike. Amelius took up a newspaper, and gave Sally an illustrated book to amuse her, while they waited to see the Surgeon in their turn.

Two long hours passed, before the servant summoned Amelius to the consulting-room. Sally was wearily asleep in her chair. He left her undisturbed, having questions to put relating to the imperfectly developed state of her mind, which could not be asked in her presence. The surgeon listened, with no ordinary interest, to the young stranger’s simple and straightforward narrative of what had happened on the previous night. “You are very unlike other young men,” he said; “may I ask how you have been brought up?” The reply surprised him. “This opens quite a new view of Socialism,” he said. “I thought your conduct highly imprudent at first — it seems to be the natural result of your teaching now. Let me see what I can do to help you.”

He was very grave and very gentle, when Sally was presented to him. His opinion of the injury to her bosom relieved the anxiety of Amelius: there might be pain for some little time to come, but there were no serious consequences to fear. Having written his prescription, and having put several questions to Sally, the surgeon sent her back, with marked kindness of manner, to wait for Amelius in the patients’ room.

“I have young daughters of my own,” he said, when the door was closed; “and I cannot but feel for that unhappy creature, when I contrast her life with theirs. So far as I can see it, the natural growth of her senses — her higher and her lower senses alike — 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. With nourishing food, pure air, and above all kind and careful treatment, I see no reason, at her age, why she should not develop into an intelligent and healthy young woman. Pardon me if I venture on giving you a word of advice. At your time of life, you will do well to place her at once under competent and proper care. You may live to regret it, if you are too confident in your own good motives in such a case as this. Come to me again, if I can be of any use to you. No,” he continued, refusing to take his fee; “my help to that poor lost girl is help given freely.” He shook hands with Amelius — a worthy member of the noble order to which he belonged.

The surgeon’s parting advice, following on the quaint protest of Rufus, had its effect on Amelius. He was silent and thoughtful when he got into the carriage again.

Simple Sally looked at him with a vague sense of alarm. Her heart beat fast, under the perpetually recurring fear that she had done something or said something to offend him. “Was it bad behaviour in me,” she asked, “to fall asleep in the chair?” Reassured, so far, she was still as anxious as ever to get at the truth. After long hesitation, and long previous thought, she ventured to try another question. “The gentleman sent me out of the room — did he say anything to set you against me?”

“The gentleman said everything that was kind of you,” Amelius replied, “and everything to make me hope that you will live to be a happy girl.”

She said nothing to that; vague assurances were no assurances to her — she only looked at him with the dumb fidelity of a dog. Suddenly, she dropped on her knees in the carriage, hid her face in her hands, and cried silently. Surprised and distressed, he attempted to raise her and console her. “No!” she said obstinately. “Something has happened to vex you, and you won’t tell me what it is. Do, do, do tell me what it is!”

“My dear child,” said Amelius, “I was only thinking anxiously about you, in the time to come.”

She looked up at him quickly. “What! have you forgotten already?” she exclaimed. “I’m to be your servant in the time to come.” She dried her eyes, and took her place again joyously by his side. “You did frighten me,” she said, “and all for nothing. But you didn’t mean it, did you?”

An older man might have had the courage to undeceive her: Amelius shrank from it. He tried to lead her back to the melancholy story — so common and so terrible; so pitiable in its utter absence of sentiment or romance — the story of her past life.

“No,” she answered, with that quick insight where her feelings were concerned, which was the only quick insight that she possessed. “I don’t like making you sorry; and you did look sorry — you did — when I talked about it before. The streets, the streets, the streets; little girl, or big girl, it’s only the streets; and always being hungry or cold; and cruel men when it isn’t cruel boys. I want to be happy! I want to enjoy my new clothes! You tell me about your own self. What makes you so kind? I can’t make it out; try as I may, I can’t make it out.”

Some time elapsed before they got back to the hotel. Amelius drove as far as the City, to give the necessary instructions to his bankers.

On returning to the sitting-room at last, he discovered that his American friend was not alone. A gray-haired lady with a bright benevolent face was talking earnestly to Rufus. The instant Sally discovered the stranger, she started back, fled to the shelter of her bedchamber, and locked herself in. Amelius, entering the room after a little hesitation, was presented to Mrs. Payson.

“There was something in my old friend’s note,” said the lady, smiling and turning to Rufus, “which suggested to me that I should do well to answer it personally. I am not too old yet to follow the impulse of the moment, sometimes; and I am very glad that I did so. I have heard what is, to me, a very interesting story. Mr. Goldenheart, I respect you! And I will prove it by helping you, with all my heart and soul, to save that poor little girl who has just run away from me. Pray don’t make excuses for her; I should have run away too, at her age. We have arranged,” she continued, looking again at Rufus, “that I shall take you both to the Home, this afternoon. If we can prevail on Sally to go with us, one serious obstacle in our way will be overcome. Tell me the number of her room. I want to try if I can’t make friends with her. I have had some experience; and I don’t despair of bringing her back here, hand in hand with the terrible person who has frightened her.”

The two men were left together. Amelius attempted to speak.

“Keep it down,” said Rufus; “no premature outbreak of opinion, if you please, yet awhile. Wait till she has fixed Sally, and shown us the Paradise of the poor girls. It’s within the London postal district, and that’s all I know about it. Well, now, and did you go to the doctor? Thunder! what’s come to the boy? Seems as though he had left his complexion in the carriage! He looks, I do declare, as if he wanted medical tinkering himself.”

Amelius explained that his past night had been a wakeful one, and that the events of the day had not allowed him any opportunities of repose. “Since the morning,” he said, “things have hurried so, one on the top of the other, that I am beginning to feel a little dazed and weary.” Without a word of remark, Rufus produced the remedy. The materials were ready on the sideboard — he made a cocktail.

“Another?” asked the New Englander, after a reasonable lapse of time.

Amelius declined taking another. He stretched himself on the sofa; his good friend considerately took up a newspaper. For the first time that day, he had now the prospect of a quiet interval for rest and thought. In less than a minute the delusive prospect vanished. He started to his feet again, disturbed by a new anxiety. Having leisure to think, he had thought of Regina. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed; “she’s waiting to see me — and I never remembered it till this moment!” He looked at his watch: it was five o’clock. “What am I to do?” he said helplessly.

Rufus laid down the newspaper, and considered the new difficulty in its various aspects.

“We are bound to go with Mrs. Payson to the Home,” he said; “and, I tell you this, Amelius, the matter of Sally is not a matter to be played with; it’s a thing that’s got to be done. In your place I should write politely to Miss Regina, and put it off till to-morrow.”

In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, a man who took Rufus for his counsellor was a man who acted wisely in every sense of the word. Events, however, of which Amelius and his friend were both ignorant alike, had so ordered it, that the American’s well-meant advice, in this one exceptional case, was the very worst advice that could have been given. In an hour more, Jervy and Mrs. Sowler were to meet at the tavern door. The one last hope of protecting Mrs. Farnaby from the abominable conspiracy of which she was the destined victim, rested solely on the fulfilment by Amelius of his engagement with Regina for that day. Always ready to interfere with the progress of the courtship, Mrs. Farnaby would be especially eager to seize the first opportunity of speaking to her young Socialist friend on the subject of his lecture. In the course of the talk between them, the idea which, in the present disturbed state of his mind, had not struck him yet — the idea that the outcast of the streets might, by the barest conceivable possibility, be identified with the lost daughter — would, in one way or another, be almost infallibly suggested to Amelius; and, at the eleventh hour, the conspiracy would be foiled. If, on the other hand, the American’s fatal advice was followed, the next morning’s post might bring a letter from Jervy to Mrs. Farnaby — with this disastrous result. At the first words spoken by Amelius, she would put an end to all further interest in the subject on his part, by telling him that the lost girl had been found, and found by another person.

Rufus pointed to the writing-materials on a side table, which he had himself used earlier in the day. The needful excuse was, unhappily, quite easy to find. A misunderstanding with his landlady had obliged Amelius to leave his lodgings at an hour’s notice, and had occupied him in trying to find a new residence for the rest of the day. The note was written. Rufus, who was nearest to the bell, stretched out his hand to ring for the messenger. Amelius suddenly stopped him.

“She doesn’t like me to disappoint her,” he said. “I needn’t stay long — I might get there and back in half an hour, in a fast cab.”

His conscience was not quite easy. The sense of having forgotten Regina — no matter how naturally and excusably — oppressed him with a feeling of self-reproach. Rufus raised no objection; the hesitation of Amelius was unquestionably creditable to him. “If you must do it, my son,” he said, “do it right away — and we’ll wait for you.”

Amelius took up his hat. The door opened as he approached it, and Mrs. Payson entered the room, leading Simple Sally by the hand.

“We are all going together,” said the genial old lady, “to see my large family of daughters at the Home. We can have our talk in the carriage. It’s an hour’s drive from this place — and I must be back again to dinner at half-past seven.”

Amelius and Rufus looked at each other. Amelius thought of pleading an engagement, and asking to be excused. Under the circumstances, it was assuredly not a very gracious thing to do. Before he could make up his mind, one way or the other, Sally stole to his side, and put her hand on his arm. Mrs. Payson had done wonders in conquering the girl’s inveterate distrust of strangers, and, to a certain extent at least, winning her confidence. But no early influence could shake Sally’s dog-like devotion to Amelius. Her jealous instinct discovered something suspicious in his sudden silence. “You must go with us,” she said, “I won’t go without you.”

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Payson added; “I promised her that, of course, beforehand.”

Rufus rang the bell, and despatched the messenger to Regina. “That’s the one way out of it, my son,” he whispered to Amelius, as they followed Mrs. Payson and Sally down the stairs of the hotel.

They had just driven up to the gates of the Home, when Jervy and his accomplice met at the tavern, and entered on their consultation in a private room.

In spite of her poverty-stricken appearance, Mrs. Sowler was not absolutely destitute. In various underhand and wicked ways, she contrived to put a few shillings in her pocket from week to week. If she was half starved, it was for the very ordinary reason, among persons of her vicious class, that she preferred spending her money on drink. Stating his business with her, as reservedly and as cunningly as usual, Jervy found, to his astonishment, that even this squalid old creature presumed to bargain with him. The two wretches were on the point of a quarrel which might have delayed the execution of the plot against Mrs. Farnaby, but for the vile self-control which made Jervy one of the most formidable criminals living. He gave way on the question of money — and, from that moment, he had Mrs. Sowler absolutely at his disposal.

“Meet me to-morrow morning, to receive your instructions,” he said. “The time is ten sharp; and the place is the powder-magazine in Hyde Park. And mind this! You must be decently dressed — you know where to hire the things. If I smell you of spirits to-morrow morning, I shall employ somebody else. No; not a farthing now. You will have your money — first instalment only, mind! — to-morrow at ten.”