“Goodbye for the present, Amelius. I beg you will not think I am always wretched. When I want to be happy, I look to the coming time.”
This melancholy letter added to the depression that weighed on the spirits of Amelius. It inspired him with vague fears for Mrs. Farnaby. In her own interests, he would have felt himself tempted to consult Rufus (without mentioning names), if the American had been in London. As things were, he put the letter back in his pocket with a sigh. Even Mrs. Farnaby, in her sad moments, had a consoling prospect to contemplate. “Everybody but me!” Amelius thought.
His reflections were interrupted by the appearance of an idle young member of the club, with whom he was acquainted. The new-comer remarked that he looked out of spirits, and suggested that they should dine together and amuse themselves somewhere in the evening. Amelius accepted the proposal: any man who offered him a refuge from himself was a friend to him on that day. Departing from his temperate habits, he deliberately drank more than usual. The wine excited him for the time, and then left him more depressed than ever; and the amusements of the evening produced the same result. He returned to his cottage so completely disheartened, that he regretted the day when he had left Tadmor.
But he kept his appointment, the next morning, to take leave of Regina.
The carriage was at the door, with a luggage-laden cab waiting behind it. Mr. Farnaby’s ill-temper vented itself in predictions that they would be too late to catch the train. His harsh voice, alternating with Regina’s meek remonstrances, reached the ears of Amelius from the breakfast-room. “I’m not going to wait for the gentleman-Socialist,” Mr. Farnaby announced, with his hardest sarcasm of tone. “Dear uncle, we have a quarter of an hour to spare!” “We have nothing of the sort; we want all that time to register the luggage.” The servant’s voice was heard next. “Mr. Goldenheart, miss.” Mr. Farnaby instantly stepped into the hall. “Goodbye!” he called to Amelius, through the open door of the dining-room—and passed straight on to the carriage. “I shan’t wait, Regina!” he shouted, from the doorstep. “Let him go by himself!” said Amelius indignantly, as Regina hurried into the room. “Oh, hush, hush, dear! Suppose he heard you? No week shall pass without my writing to you; promise you will write back, Amelius. One more kiss! Oh, my dear!” The servant interposed, keeping discreetly out of sight. “I beg your pardon, miss, my master wishes to know whether you are going with him or not.” Regina waited to hear no more. She gave her lover a farewell look to remember her by, and ran out.
That innate depravity which Amelius had lately discovered in his own nature, let the forbidden thoughts loose in him again as he watched the departing carriage from the door. “If poor little Sally had been in her place—!” He made an effort of virtuous resolution, and stopped there. “What a blackguard a man may be,” he penitently reflected, “without suspecting it himself!”
He descended the house-steps. The discreet servant wished him good morning, with a certain cheery respect—the man was delighted to have seen the last of his hard master for some months to come. Amelius stopped and turned round, smiling grimly. He was in such a reckless humour, that he was even ready to divert his mind by astonishing a footman. “Richard,” he said, “are you engaged to be married?” Richard stared in blank surprise at the strange question—and modestly admitted that he was engaged to marry the housemaid next door. “Soon?” asked Amelius, swinging his stick. “As soon as I have saved a little more money, sir.” “Damn the money!” cried Amelius—and struck his stick on the pavement, and walked away with a last look at the house as if he hated the sight of it. Richard watched the departing young gentleman, and shook his head ominously as he shut the door.
CHAPTER 2
Amelius went straight back to the cottage, with the one desperate purpose of reverting to the old plan, and burying himself in his books. Surveying his well-filled shelves with an impatience unworthy of a scholar, Hume’s “History of England” unhappily caught his eye. He took down the first volume. In less than half an hour he discovered that Hume could do nothing for him. Wisely inspired, he turned to the truer history next, which men call fiction. The writings of the one supreme genius, who soars above all other novelists as Shakespeare soars above all other dramatists—the writings of Walter Scott—had their place of honour in his library. The collection of the Waverley Novels at Tadmor had not been complete. Enviable Amelius had still to read Rob Roy. He opened the book. For the rest of the day he was in love with Diana Vernon; and when he looked out once or twice at the garden to rest his eyes, he saw “Andrew Fairservice” busy over the flowerbeds.