"NEW GRUB STREET\n\nBy George Gissing\n\n1891\n\n\n\n\n     Part One\n     Chapter I. A Man of his Day\n     Chapter II. The House of Yule\n     Chapter III. Holiday\n     Chapter IV. An Author and his Wife\n     Chapter V. The Way Hither\n     Chapter VI. The Practical Friend\n     Chapter VII. Marian's Home\n\n     Part Two\n     Chapter VIII. To the Winning Side\n     Chapter IX. Invita Minerva\n     Chapter X. The Friends of the Family\n     Chapter XI. Respite\n     Chapter XII. Work Without Hope\n     Chapter XIII. A Warning\n     Chapter XIV. Recruits\n     Chapter XV. The Last Resource\n\n     Part Three\n     Chapter XVI. Rejection\n     Chapter XVII. The Parting\n     Chapter XVIII. The Old Home\n     Chapter XIX. The Past Revived\n     Chapter XX. The End of Waiting\n     Chapter XXI. Mr Yule leaves Town\n     Chapter XXII. The Legatees\n\n     Part Four\n     Chapter XXIII. A Proposed Investment\n     Chapter XXIV. Jasper's Magnanimity\n     Chapter XXV. A Fruitless Meeting\n     Chapter XXVI. Married Woman's Property\n     Chapter XXVII. The Lonely Man\n     Chapter XXVIII. Interim\n     Chapter XXIX. Catastrophe\n\n     Part Five\n     Chapter XXX. Waiting on Destiny\n     Chapter XXXI. A Rescue and a Summons\n     Chapter XXXII. Reardon becomes Practical\n     Chapter XXXIII. The Sunny Way\n     Chapter XXXIV. A Check\n     Chapter XXXV. Fever and Rest\n     Chapter XXXVI. Jasper's Delicate Case\n     Chapter XXXVII. Rewards\n\n\n\n\nNEW GRUB STREET\n\n\n\n\nPART I.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. A MAN OF HIS DAY\n\nAs the Milvains sat down to breakfast the clock of Wattleborough parish\nchurch struck eight; it was two miles away, but the strokes were borne\nvery distinctly on the west wind this autumn morning. Jasper, listening\nbefore he cracked an egg, remarked with cheerfulness:\n\n'There's a man being hanged in London at this moment.'\n\n'Surely it isn't necessary to let us know that,' said his sister Maud,\ncoldly.\n\n'And in such a tone, too!' protested his sister Dora.\n\n'Who is it?' inquired Mrs Milvain, looking at her son with pained\nforehead.\n\n'I don't know. It happened to catch my eye in the paper yesterday that\nsomeone was to be hanged at Newgate this morning. There's a certain\nsatisfaction in reflecting that it is not oneself.'\n\n'That's your selfish way of looking at things,' said Maud.\n\n'Well,' returned Jasper, 'seeing that the fact came into my head, what\nbetter use could I make of it? I could curse the brutality of an age\nthat sanctioned such things; or I could grow doleful over the misery of\nthe poor--fellow. But those emotions would be as little profitable to\nothers as to myself. It just happened that I saw the thing in a light of\nconsolation. Things are bad with me, but not so bad as THAT. I might be\ngoing out between Jack Ketch and the Chaplain to be hanged; instead of\nthat, I am eating a really fresh egg, and very excellent buttered toast,\nwith coffee as good as can be reasonably expected in this part of the\nworld.--(Do try boiling the milk, mother.)--The tone in which I spoke\nwas spontaneous; being so, it needs no justification.'\n\nHe was a young man of five-and-twenty, well built, though a trifle\nmeagre, and of pale complexion. He had hair that was very nearly black,\nand a clean-shaven face, best described, perhaps, as of bureaucratic\ntype. The clothes he wore were of expensive material, but had seen a\ngood deal of service. His stand-up collar curled over at the corners,\nand his necktie was lilac-sprigged.\n\nOf the two sisters, Dora, aged twenty, was the more like him in visage,\nbut she spoke with a gentleness which seemed to indicate a different\ncharacter. Maud, who was twenty-two, had bold, handsome features, and\nvery beautiful hair of russet tinge; hers was not a face that readily\nsmiled. Their mother had the look and manners of an invalid, though she\nsat at table in the ordinary way. All were dressed as ladies, though\nvery simply. The room, which looked upon a small patch of garden, was\nfurnished with old-fashioned comfort, only one or two objects suggesting\nthe decorative spirit of 1882.\n\n'A man who comes to be hanged,' pursued Jasper, impartially, 'has\nthe satisfaction of knowing that he has brought society to its last\nresource. He is a man of such fatal importance that nothing will serve\nagainst him but the supreme effort of law. In a way, you know, that is\nsuccess.'\n\n'In a way,' repeated Maud, scornfully.\n\n'Suppose we talk of something else,' suggested Dora, who seemed to fear\na conflict between her sister and Jasper.\n\nAlmost at the same moment a diversion was afforded by the arrival of the\npost. There was a letter for Mrs Milvain, a letter and newspaper for\nher son. Whilst the girls and their mother talked of unimportant news\ncommunicated by the one correspondent, Jasper read the missive addressed\nto himself.\n\n'This is from Reardon,' he remarked to the younger girl. 'Things are\ngoing badly with him. He is just the kind of fellow to end by poisoning\nor shooting himself.'\n\n'But why?'\n\n'Can't get anything done; and begins to be sore troubled on his wife's\naccount.'\n\n'Is he ill?'\n\n'Overworked, I suppose. But it's just what I foresaw. He isn't the\nkind of man to keep up literary production as a paying business. In\nfavourable circumstances he might write a fairly good book once every\ntwo or three years. The failure of his last depressed him, and now he\nis struggling hopelessly to get another done before the winter season.\nThose people will come to grief.'\n\n'The enjoyment with which he anticipates it!' murmured Maud, looking at\nher mother.\n\n'Not at all,' said Jasper. 'It's true I envied the fellow, because he\npersuaded a handsome girl to believe in him and share his risks, but I\nshall be very sorry if he goes to the--to the dogs. He's my one serious\nfriend. But it irritates me to see a man making such large demands upon\nfortune. One must be more modest--as I am. Because one book had a sort\nof success he imagined his struggles were over. He got a hundred\npounds for \"On Neutral Ground,\" and at once counted on a continuance\nof payments in geometrical proportion. I hinted to him that he couldn't\nkeep it up, and he smiled with tolerance, no doubt thinking \"He judges\nme by himself.\" But I didn't do anything of the kind.--(Toast, please,\nDora.)--I'm a stronger man than Reardon; I can keep my eyes open, and\nwait.'\n\n'Is his wife the kind of person to grumble?' asked Mrs Milvain.\n\n'Well, yes, I suspect that she is. The girl wasn't content to go into\nmodest rooms--they must furnish a flat. I rather wonder he didn't start\na carriage for her. Well, his next book brought only another hundred,\nand now, even if he finishes this one, it's very doubtful if he'll get\nas much. \"The Optimist\" was practically a failure.'\n\n'Mr Yule may leave them some money,' said Dora.\n\n'Yes. But he may live another ten years, and he would see them both in\nMarylebone Workhouse before he advanced sixpence, or I'm much mistaken\nin him. Her mother has only just enough to live upon; can't possibly\nhelp them. Her brother wouldn't give or lend twopence halfpenny.'\n\n'Has Mr Reardon no relatives!'\n\n'I never heard him make mention of a single one. No, he has done the\nfatal thing. A man in his position, if he marry at all, must take\neither a work-girl or an heiress, and in many ways the work-girl is\npreferable.'\n\n'How can you say that?' asked Dora. 'You never cease talking about the\nadvantages of money.'\n\n'Oh, I don't mean that for ME the work-girl would be preferable; by\nno means; but for a man like Reardon. He is absurd enough to be\nconscientious, likes to be called an \"artist,\" and so on. He might\npossibly earn a hundred and fifty a year if his mind were at rest, and\nthat would be enough if he had married a decent little dressmaker. He\nwouldn't desire superfluities, and the quality of his work would be its\nown reward. As it is, he's ruined.'\n\n'And I repeat,' said Maud, 'that you enjoy the prospect.'\n\n'Nothing of the kind. If I seem to speak exultantly it's only because\nmy intellect enjoys the clear perception of a fact.--A little marmalade,\nDora; the home-made, please.'\n\n'But this is very sad, Jasper,' said Mrs Milvain, in her half-absent\nway. 'I suppose they can't even go for a holiday?'\n\n'Quite out of the question.'\n\n'Not even if you invited them to come here for a week?'\n\n'Now, mother,' urged Maud, 'THAT'S impossible, you know very well.'\n\n'I thought we might make an effort, dear. A holiday might mean\neverything to him.'\n\n'No, no,' fell from Jasper, thoughtfully. 'I don't think you'd get\nalong very well with Mrs Reardon; and then, if her uncle is coming to Mr\nYule's, you know, that would be awkward.'\n\n'I suppose it would; though those people would only stay a day or two,\nMiss Harrow said.'\n\n'Why can't Mr Yule make them friends, those two lots of people?' asked\nDora. 'You say he's on good terms with both.'\n\n'I suppose he thinks it's no business of his.'\n\nJasper mused over the letter from his friend.\n\n'Ten years hence,' he said, 'if Reardon is still alive, I shall be\nlending him five-pound notes.'\n\nA smile of irony rose to Maud's lips. Dora laughed.\n\n'To be sure! To be sure!' exclaimed their brother. 'You have no faith.\nBut just understand the difference between a man like Reardon and a man\nlike me. He is the old type of unpractical artist; I am the literary man\nof 1882. He won't make concessions, or rather, he can't make them;\nhe can't supply the market. I--well, you may say that at present I\ndo nothing; but that's a great mistake, I am learning my business.\nLiterature nowadays is a trade. Putting aside men of genius, who may\nsucceed by mere cosmic force, your successful man of letters is your\nskilful tradesman. He thinks first and foremost of the markets; when one\nkind of goods begins to go off slackly, he is ready with something new\nand appetising. He knows perfectly all the possible sources of income.\nWhatever he has to sell he'll get payment for it from all sorts of\nvarious quarters; none of your unpractical selling for a lump sum to a\nmiddleman who will make six distinct profits. Now, look you: if I had\nbeen in Reardon's place, I'd have made four hundred at least out of\n\"The Optimist\"; I should have gone shrewdly to work with magazines and\nnewspapers and foreign publishers, and--all sorts of people. Reardon\ncan't do that kind of thing, he's behind his age; he sells a manuscript\nas if he lived in Sam Johnson's Grub Street. But our Grub Street of\nto-day is quite a different place: it is supplied with telegraphic\ncommunication, it knows what literary fare is in demand in every part of\nthe world, its inhabitants are men of business, however seedy.'\n\n'It sounds ignoble,' said Maud.\n\n'I have nothing to do with that, my dear girl. Now, as I tell you, I am\nslowly, but surely, learning the business. My line won't be novels;\nI have failed in that direction, I'm not cut out for the work. It's a\npity, of course; there's a great deal of money in it. But I have plenty\nof scope. In ten years, I repeat, I shall be making my thousand a year.'\n\n'I don't remember that you stated the exact sum before,' Maud observed.\n\n'Let it pass. And to those who have shall be given. When I have a decent\nincome of my own, I shall marry a woman with an income somewhat larger,\nso that casualties may be provided for.'\n\nDora exclaimed, laughing:\n\n'It would amuse me very much if the Reardons got a lot of money at Mr\nYule's death--and that can't be ten years off, I'm sure.'\n\n'I don't see that there's any chance of their getting much,' replied\nJasper, meditatively. 'Mrs Reardon is only his niece. The man's brother\nand sister will have the first helping, I suppose. And then, if it comes\nto the second generation, the literary Yule has a daughter, and by her\nbeing invited here I should think she's the favourite niece. No, no;\ndepend upon it they won't get anything at all.'\n\nHaving finished his breakfast, he leaned back and began to unfold the\nLondon paper that had come by post.\n\n'Had Mr Reardon any hopes of that kind at the time of his marriage, do\nyou think?' inquired Mrs Milvain.\n\n'Reardon? Good heavens, no! Would he were capable of such forethought!'\n\nIn a few minutes Jasper was left alone in the room. When the servant\ncame to clear the table he strolled slowly away, humming a tune.\n\nThe house was pleasantly situated by the roadside in a little village\nnamed Finden. Opposite stood the church, a plain, low, square-towered\nbuilding. As it was cattle-market to-day in the town of Wattleborough,\ndroves of beasts and sheep occasionally went by, or the rattle of a\ngrazier's cart sounded for a moment. On ordinary days the road saw few\nvehicles, and pedestrians were rare.\n\nMrs Milvain and her daughters had lived here for the last seven years,\nsince the death of the father, who was a veterinary surgeon. The widow\nenjoyed an annuity of two hundred and forty pounds, terminable with her\nlife; the children had nothing of their own. Maud acted irregularly as\na teacher of music; Dora had an engagement as visiting governess in a\nWattleborough family. Twice a year, as a rule, Jasper came down from\nLondon to spend a fortnight with them; to-day marked the middle of his\nautumn visit, and the strained relations between him and his sisters\nwhich invariably made the second week rather trying for all in the house\nhad already become noticeable.\n\nIn the course of the morning Jasper had half an hour's private talk\nwith his mother, after which he set off to roam in the sunshine. Shortly\nafter he had left the house, Maud, her domestic duties dismissed for the\ntime, came into the parlour where Mrs Milvain was reclining on the sofa.\n\n'Jasper wants more money,' said the mother, when Maud had sat in\nmeditation for a few minutes.\n\n'Of course. I knew that. I hope you told him he couldn't have it.'\n\n'I really didn't know what to say,' returned Mrs Milvain, in a feeble\ntone of worry.\n\n'Then you must leave the matter to me, that's all. There's no money for\nhim, and there's an end of it.'\n\nMaud set her features in sullen determination. There was a brief\nsilence.\n\n'What's he to do, Maud?'\n\n'To do? How do other people do? What do Dora and I do?'\n\n'You don't earn enough for your support, my dear.'\n\n'Oh, well!' broke from the girl. 'Of course, if you grudge us our food\nand lodging--'\n\n'Don't be so quick-tempered. You know very well I am far from grudging\nyou anything, dear. But I only meant to say that Jasper does earn\nsomething, you know.'\n\n'It's a disgraceful thing that he doesn't earn as much as he needs. We\nare sacrificed to him, as we always have been. Why should we be pinching\nand stinting to keep him in idleness?'\n\n'But you really can't call it idleness, Maud. He is studying his\nprofession.'\n\n'Pray call it trade; he prefers it. How do I know that he's studying\nanything? What does he mean by \"studying\"? And to hear him speak\nscornfully of his friend Mr Reardon, who seems to work hard all through\nthe year! It's disgusting, mother. At this rate he will never earn his\nown living. Who hasn't seen or heard of such men? If we had another\nhundred a year, I would say nothing. But we can't live on what he leaves\nus, and I'm not going to let you try. I shall tell Jasper plainly that\nhe's got to work for his own support.'\n\nAnother silence, and a longer one. Mrs Milvain furtively wiped a tear\nfrom her cheek.\n\n'It seems very cruel to refuse,' she said at length, 'when another year\nmay give him the opportunity he's waiting for.'\n\n'Opportunity? What does he mean by his opportunity?'\n\n'He says that it always comes, if a man knows how to wait.'\n\n'And the people who support him may starve meanwhile! Now just think\na bit, mother. Suppose anything were to happen to you, what becomes of\nDora and me? And what becomes of Jasper, too? It's the truest kindness\nto him to compel him to earn a living. He gets more and more incapable\nof it.'\n\n'You can't say that, Maud. He earns a little more each year. But for\nthat, I should have my doubts. He has made thirty pounds already this\nyear, and he only made about twenty-five the whole of last. We must\nbe fair to him, you know. I can't help feeling that he knows what he's\nabout. And if he does succeed, he'll pay us all back.'\n\nMaud began to gnaw her fingers, a disagreeable habit she had in privacy.\n\n'Then why doesn't he live more economically?'\n\n'I really don't see how he can live on less than a hundred and fifty a\nyear. London, you know--'\n\n'The cheapest place in the world.'\n\n'Nonsense, Maud!'\n\n'But I know what I'm saying. I've read quite enough about such things.\nHe might live very well indeed on thirty shillings a week, even buying\nhis clothes out of it.'\n\n'But he has told us so often that it's no use to him to live like that.\nHe is obliged to go to places where he must spend a little, or he makes\nno progress.'\n\n'Well, all I can say is,' exclaimed the girl impatiently, 'it's very\nlucky for him that he's got a mother who willingly sacrifices her\ndaughters to him.'\n\n'That's how you always break out. You don't care what unkindness you\nsay!'\n\n'It's a simple truth.'\n\n'Dora never speaks like that.'\n\n'Because she's afraid to be honest.'\n\n'No, because she has too much love for her mother. I can't bear to talk\nto you, Maud. The older I get, and the weaker I get, the more unfeeling\nyou are to me.'\n\nScenes of this kind were no uncommon thing. The clash of tempers lasted\nfor several minutes, then Maud flung out of the room. An hour later, at\ndinner-time, she was rather more caustic in her remarks than usual, but\nthis was the only sign that remained of the stormy mood.\n\nJasper renewed the breakfast-table conversation.\n\n'Look here,' he began, 'why don't you girls write something? I'm\nconvinced you could make money if you tried. There's a tremendous sale\nfor religious stories; why not patch one together? I am quite serious.'\n\n'Why don't you do it yourself,' retorted Maud.\n\n'I can't manage stories, as I have told you; but I think you could. In\nyour place, I'd make a speciality of Sunday-school prize-books; you\nknow the kind of thing I mean. They sell like hot cakes. And there's so\ndeuced little enterprise in the business. If you'd give your mind to it,\nyou might make hundreds a year.'\n\n'Better say \"abandon your mind to it.\"'\n\n'Why, there you are! You're a sharp enough girl. You can quote as well\nas anyone I know.'\n\n'And please, why am I to take up an inferior kind of work?'\n\n'Inferior? Oh, if you can be a George Eliot, begin at the earliest\nopportunity. I merely suggested what seemed practicable.\n\nBut I don't think you have genius, Maud. People have got that ancient\nprejudice so firmly rooted in their heads--that one mustn't write save\nat the dictation of the Holy Spirit. I tell you, writing is a business.\nGet together half-a-dozen fair specimens of the Sunday-school prize;\nstudy them; discover the essential points of such composition; hit upon\nnew attractions; then go to work methodically, so many pages a day.\nThere's no question of the divine afflatus; that belongs to another\nsphere of life. We talk of literature as a trade, not of Homer, Dante,\nand Shakespeare. If I could only get that into poor Reardon's head. He\nthinks me a gross beast, often enough. What the devil--I mean what on\nearth is there in typography to make everything it deals with sacred?\nI don't advocate the propagation of vicious literature; I speak only of\ngood, coarse, marketable stuff for the world's vulgar. You just give it\na thought, Maud; talk it over with Dora.'\n\nHe resumed presently:\n\n'I maintain that we people of brains are justified in supplying the mob\nwith the food it likes. We are not geniuses, and if we sit down in a\nspirit of long-eared gravity we shall produce only commonplace stuff.\nLet us use our wits to earn money, and make the best we can of our\nlives. If only I had the skill, I would produce novels out-trashing the\ntrashiest that ever sold fifty thousand copies. But it needs skill, mind\nyou: and to deny it is a gross error of the literary pedants. To\nplease the vulgar you must, one way or another, incarnate the genius\nof vulgarity. For my own part, I shan't be able to address the bulkiest\nmultitude; my talent doesn't lend itself to that form. I shall write for\nthe upper middle-class of intellect, the people who like to feel\nthat what they are reading has some special cleverness, but who can't\ndistinguish between stones and paste. That's why I'm so slow in warming\nto the work. Every month I feel surer of myself, however.\n\nThat last thing of mine in The West End distinctly hit the mark; it\nwasn't too flashy, it wasn't too solid. I heard fellows speak of it in\nthe train.'\n\nMrs Milvain kept glancing at Maud, with eyes which desired her attention\nto these utterances. None the less, half an hour after dinner, Jasper\nfound himself encountered by his sister in the garden, on her face a\nlook which warned him of what was coming.\n\n'I want you to tell me something, Jasper. How much longer shall you look\nto mother for support? I mean it literally; let me have an idea of how\nmuch longer it will be.'\n\nHe looked away and reflected.\n\n'To leave a margin,' was his reply, 'let us say twelve months.'\n\n'Better say your favourite \"ten years\" at once.'\n\n'No. I speak by the card. In twelve months' time, if not before, I shall\nbegin to pay my debts. My dear girl, I have the honour to be a tolerably\nlong-headed individual. I know what I'm about.'\n\n'And let us suppose mother were to die within half a year?'\n\n'I should make shift to do very well.'\n\n'You? And please--what of Dora and me?'\n\n'You would write Sunday-school prizes.'\n\nMaud turned away and left him.\n\nHe knocked the dust out of the pipe he had been smoking, and again set\noff for a stroll along the lanes. On his countenance was just a trace\nof solicitude, but for the most part he wore a thoughtful smile. Now\nand then he stroked his smoothly-shaven jaws with thumb and fingers.\nOccasionally he became observant of wayside details--of the colour of a\nmaple leaf, the shape of a tall thistle, the consistency of a fungus. At\nthe few people who passed he looked keenly, surveying them from head to\nfoot.\n\nOn turning, at the limit of his walk, he found himself almost face to\nface with two persons, who were coming along in silent companionship;\ntheir appearance interested him. The one was a man of fifty, grizzled,\nhard featured, slightly bowed in the shoulders; he wore a grey felt hat\nwith a broad brim and a decent suit of broadcloth. With him was a girl\nof perhaps two-and-twenty, in a slate-coloured dress with very little\nornament, and a yellow straw hat of the shape originally appropriated to\nmales; her dark hair was cut short, and lay in innumerable crisp curls.\nFather and daughter, obviously. The girl, to a casual eye, was neither\npretty nor beautiful, but she had a grave and impressive face, with a\ncomplexion of ivory tone; her walk was gracefully modest, and she seemed\nto be enjoying the country air.\n\nJasper mused concerning them. When he had walked a few yards, he looked\nback; at the same moment the unknown man also turned his head.\n\n'Where the deuce have I seen them--him and the girl too?' Milvain asked\nhimself.\n\nAnd before he reached home the recollection he sought flashed upon his\nmind.\n\n'The Museum Reading-room, of course!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. THE HOUSE OF YULE\n\n'I think' said Jasper, as he entered the room where his mother and Maud\nwere busy with plain needlework, 'I must have met Alfred Yule and his\ndaughter.'\n\n'How did you recognise them?' Mrs Milvain inquired.\n\n'I passed an old buffer and a pale-faced girl whom I know by sight at\nthe British Museum. It wasn't near Yule's house, but they were taking a\nwalk.'\n\n'They may have come already. When Miss Harrow was here last, she said\n\"in about a fortnight.\"'\n\n'No mistaking them for people of these parts, even if I hadn't\nremembered their faces. Both of them are obvious dwellers in the valley\nof the shadow of books.'\n\n'Is Miss Yule such a fright then?' asked Maud.\n\n'A fright! Not at all. A good example of the modern literary girl. I\nsuppose you have the oddest old-fashioned ideas of such people. No,\nI rather like the look of her. Simpatica, I should think, as that ass\nWhelpdale would say. A very delicate, pure complexion, though morbid;\nnice eyes; figure not spoilt yet. But of course I may be wrong about\ntheir identity.'\n\nLater in the afternoon Jasper's conjecture was rendered a certainty.\nMaud had walked to Wattleborough, where she would meet Dora on the\nlatter's return from her teaching, and Mrs Milvain sat alone, in a\nmood of depression; there was a ring at the door-bell, and the servant\nadmitted Miss Harrow.\n\nThis lady acted as housekeeper to Mr John Yule, a wealthy resident in\nthis neighbourhood; she was the sister of his deceased wife--a thin,\nsoft-speaking, kindly woman of forty-five. The greater part of her life\nshe had spent as a governess; her position now was more agreeable, and\nthe removal of her anxiety about the future had developed qualities of\ncheerfulness which formerly no one would have suspected her to possess.\nThe acquaintance between Mrs Milvain and her was only of twelve months'\nstanding; prior to that, Mr Yule had inhabited a house at the end of\nWattleborough remote from Finden.\n\n'Our London visitors came yesterday,' she began by saying.\n\nMrs Milvain mentioned her son's encounter an hour or two ago.\n\n'No doubt it was they,' said the visitor. 'Mrs Yule hasn't come; I\nhardly expected she would, you know. So very unfortunate when there are\ndifficulties of that kind, isn't it?'\n\nShe smiled confidentially.\n\n'The poor girl must feel it,' said Mrs Milvain.\n\n'I'm afraid she does. Of course it narrows the circle of her friends at\nhome. She's a sweet girl, and I should so like you to meet her. Do come\nand have tea with us to-morrow afternoon, will you? Or would it be too\nmuch for you just now?'\n\n'Will you let the girls call? And then perhaps Miss Yule will be so good\nas to come and see me?'\n\n'I wonder whether Mr Milvain would like to meet her father? I have\nthought that perhaps it might be some advantage to him. Alfred is so\nclosely connected with literary people, you know.'\n\n'I feel sure he would be glad,' replied Mrs Milvain. 'But--what of\nJasper's friendship with Mrs Edmund Yule and the Reardons? Mightn't it\nbe a little awkward?'\n\n'Oh, I don't think so, unless he himself felt it so. There would be no\nneed to mention that, I should say. And, really, it would be so much\nbetter if those estrangements came to an end. John makes no scruple of\nspeaking freely about everyone, and I don't think Alfred regards Mrs\nEdmund with any serious unkindness. If Mr Milvain would walk over with\nthe young ladies to-morrow, it would be very pleasant.'\n\n'Then I think I may promise that he will. I'm sure I don't know where he\nis at this moment. We don't see very much of him, except at meals.'\n\n'He won't be with you much longer, I suppose?'\n\n'Perhaps a week.'\n\nBefore Miss Harrow's departure Maud and Dora reached home. They were\ncurious to see the young lady from the valley of the shadow of books,\nand gladly accepted the invitation offered them.\n\nThey set out on the following afternoon in their brother's company. It\nwas only a quarter of an hour's walk to Mr Yule's habitation, a small\nhouse in a large garden. Jasper was coming hither for the first time;\nhis sisters now and then visited Miss Harrow, but very rarely saw Mr\nYule himself who made no secret of the fact that he cared little for\nfemale society. In Wattleborough and the neighbourhood opinions varied\ngreatly as to this gentleman's character, but women seldom spoke\nvery favourably of him. Miss Harrow was reticent concerning her\nbrother-in-law; no one, however, had any reason to believe that she\nfound life under his roof disagreeable. That she lived with him at all\nwas of course occasionally matter for comment, certain Wattleborough\nladies having their doubts regarding the position of a deceased wife's\nsister under such circumstances; but no one was seriously exercised\nabout the relations between this sober lady of forty-five and a man of\nsixty-three in broken health.\n\nA word of the family history.\n\nJohn, Alfred, and Edmund Yule were the sons of a Wattleborough\nstationer. Each was well educated, up to the age of seventeen, at the\ntown's grammar school. The eldest, who was a hot-headed lad, but showed\ncapacities for business, worked at first with his father, endeavouring\nto add a bookselling department to the trade in stationery; but the life\nof home was not much to his taste, and at one-and-twenty he obtained a\nclerk's place in the office of a London newspaper. Three years after,\nhis father died, and the small patrimony which fell to him he used\nin making himself practically acquainted with the details of paper\nmanufacture, his aim being to establish himself in partnership with an\nacquaintance who had started a small paper-mill in Hertfordshire.\n\nHis speculation succeeded, and as years went on he became a thriving\nmanufacturer. His brother Alfred, in the meantime, had drifted from work\nat a London bookseller's into the modern Grub Street, his adventures in\nwhich region will concern us hereafter.\n\nEdmund carried on the Wattleborough business, but with small success.\nBetween him and his eldest brother existed a good deal of affection,\nand in the end John offered him a share in his flourishing paper works;\nwhereupon Edmund married, deeming himself well established for life. But\nJohn's temper was a difficult one; Edmund and he quarrelled, parted; and\nwhen the younger died, aged about forty, he left but moderate provision\nfor his widow and two children.\n\nOnly when he had reached middle age did John marry; the experiment\ncould not be called successful, and Mrs Yule died three years later,\nchildless.\n\nAt fifty-four John Yule retired from active business; he came back to\nthe scenes of his early life, and began to take an important part in the\nmunicipal affairs of Wattleborough. He was then a remarkably robust man,\nfond of out-of-door exercise; he made it one of his chief efforts to\nencourage the local Volunteer movement, the cricket and football clubs,\npublic sports of every kind, showing no sympathy whatever with those\npersons who wished to establish free libraries, lectures, and the like.\nAt his own expense he built for the Volunteers a handsome drill-shed;\nhe founded a public gymnasium; and finally he allowed it to be rumoured\nthat he was going to present the town with a park. But by presuming too\nfar upon the bodily vigour which prompted these activities, he passed of\na sudden into the state of a confirmed invalid. On an autumn expedition\nin the Hebrides he slept one night under the open sky, with the result\nthat he had an all but fatal attack of rheumatic fever. After that,\nthough the direction of his interests was unchanged, he could no longer\nset the example to Wattleborough youth of muscular manliness. The\ninfliction did not improve his temper; for the next year or two he was\nconstantly at warfare with one or other of his colleagues and friends,\nill brooking that the familiar control of various local interests should\nfall out of his hands. But before long he appeared to resign himself\nto his fate, and at present Wattleborough saw little of him. It seemed\nlikely that he might still found the park which was to bear his name;\nbut perhaps it would only be done in consequence of directions in his\nwill. It was believed that he could not live much longer.\n\nWith his kinsfolk he held very little communication. Alfred Yule, a\nbattered man of letters, had visited Wattleborough only twice (including\nthe present occasion) since John's return hither. Mrs Edmund Yule, with\nher daughter--now Mrs Reardon--had been only once, three years ago.\nThese two families, as you have heard, were not on terms of amity with\neach other, owing to difficulties between Mrs Alfred and Mrs Edmund; but\nJohn seemed to regard both impartially. Perhaps the only real warmth of\nfeeling he had ever known was bestowed upon Edmund, and Miss Harrow had\nremarked that he spoke with somewhat more interest of Edmund's daughter,\nAmy, than of Alfred's daughter, Marian. But it was doubtful whether the\nsudden disappearance from the earth of all his relatives would greatly\nhave troubled him. He lived a life of curious self-absorption, reading\nnewspapers (little else), and talking with old friends who had stuck to\nhim in spite of his irascibility.\n\nMiss Harrow received her visitors in a small and soberly furnished\ndrawing-room. She was nervous, probably because of Jasper Milvain, whom\nshe had met but once--last spring--and who on that occasion had struck\nher as an alarmingly modern young man. In the shadow of a window-curtain\nsat a slight, simply-dressed girl, whose short curly hair and thoughtful\ncountenance Jasper again recognised. When it was his turn to be\npresented to Miss Yule, he saw that she doubted for an instant whether\nor not to give her hand; yet she decided to do so, and there was\nsomething very pleasant to him in its warm softness. She smiled with a\nslight embarrassment, meeting his look only for a second.\n\n'I have seen you several times, Miss Yule,' he said in a friendly way,\n'though without knowing your name. It was under the great dome.'\n\nShe laughed, readily understanding his phrase.\n\n'I am there very often,' was her reply.\n\n'What great dome?' asked Miss Harrow, with surprise.\n\n'That of the British Museum Reading-room,' explained Jasper; 'known to\nsome of us as the valley of the shadow of books. People who often work\nthere necessarily get to know each other by sight.\n\nIn the same way I knew Miss Yule's father when I happened to pass him in\nthe road yesterday.'\n\nThe three girls began to converse together, perforce of trivialities.\nMarian Yule spoke in rather slow tones, thoughtfully, gently; she had\nlinked her fingers, and laid her hands, palms downwards, upon her lap--a\nnervous action. Her accent was pure, unpretentious; and she used none of\nthe fashionable turns of speech which would have suggested the habit of\nintercourse with distinctly metropolitan society.\n\n'You must wonder how we exist in this out-of-the-way place,' remarked\nMaud.\n\n'Rather, I envy you,' Marian answered, with a slight emphasis.\n\nThe door opened, and Alfred Yule presented himself. He was tall, and his\nhead seemed a disproportionate culmination to his meagre body, it was so\nlarge and massively featured. Intellect and uncertainty of temper were\nequally marked upon his visage; his brows were knitted in a permanent\nexpression of severity. He had thin, smooth hair, grizzled whiskers, a\nshaven chin. In the multitudinous wrinkles of his face lay a history of\nlaborious and stormy life; one readily divined in him a struggling and\nembittered man. Though he looked older than his years, he had by no\nmeans the appearance of being beyond the ripeness of his mental vigour.\n\n'It pleases me to meet you, Mr Milvain,' he said, as he stretched out\nhis bony hand. 'Your name reminds me of a paper in The Wayside a month\nor two ago, which you will perhaps allow a veteran to say was not ill\ndone.'\n\n'I am grateful to you for noticing it,' replied Jasper.\n\nThere was positively a touch of visible warmth upon his cheek. The\nallusion had come so unexpectedly that it caused him keen pleasure.\n\nMr Yule seated himself awkwardly, crossed his legs, and began to stroke\nthe back of his left hand, which lay on his knee. He seemed to have\nnothing more to say at present, and allowed Miss Harrow and the girls to\nsupport conversation. Jasper listened with a smile for a minute or two,\nthen he addressed the veteran.'Have you seen The Study this week, Mr\nYule?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Did you notice that it contains a very favourable review of a novel\nwhich was tremendously abused in the same columns three weeks ago?'\n\nMr Yule started, but Jasper could perceive at once that his emotion was\nnot disagreeable.\n\n'You don't say so.'\n\n'Yes. The novel is Miss Hawk's \"On the Boards.\" How will the editor get\nout of this?'\n\n'H'm! Of course Mr Fadge is not immediately responsible; but it'll be\nunpleasant for him, decidedly unpleasant.' He smiled grimly. 'You hear\nthis, Marian?'\n\n'How is it explained, father?'\n\n'May be accident, of course; but--well, there's no knowing. I think\nit very likely this will be the end of Mr Fadge's tenure of office.\nRackett, the proprietor, only wants a plausible excuse for making a\nchange. The paper has been going downhill for the last year; I know of\ntwo publishing houses who have withdrawn their advertising from it, and\nwho never send their books for review. Everyone foresaw that kind of\nthing from the day Mr Fadge became editor. The tone of his paragraphs\nhas been detestable. Two reviews of the same novel, eh? And\ndiametrically opposed? Ha! Ha!'\n\nGradually he had passed from quiet appreciation of the joke to\nundisguised mirth and pleasure. His utterance of the name 'Mr Fadge'\nsufficiently intimated that he had some cause of personal discontent\nwith the editor of The Study.\n\n'The author,' remarked Milvain, 'ought to make a good thing out of\nthis.'\n\n'Will, no doubt. Ought to write at once to the papers, calling attention\nto this sample of critical impartiality. Ha! ha!'\n\nHe rose and went to the window, where for several minutes he stood\ngazing at vacancy, the same grim smile still on his face. Jasper in the\nmeantime amused the ladies (his sisters had heard him on the subject\nalready) with a description of the two antagonistic notices. But he\ndid not trust himself to express so freely as he had done at home his\nopinion of reviewing in general; it was more than probable that both\nYule and his daughter did a good deal of such work.\n\n'Suppose we go into the garden,' suggested Miss Harrow, presently. 'It\nseems a shame to sit indoors on such a lovely afternoon.'\n\nHitherto there had been no mention of the master of the house. But Mr\nYule now remarked to Jasper:\n\n'My brother would be glad if you would come and have a word with him. He\nisn't quite well enough to leave his room to-day.'\n\nSo, as the ladies went gardenwards, Jasper followed the man of letters\nupstairs to a room on the first floor. Here, in a deep cane chair, which\nwas placed by the open window, sat John Yule. He was completely dressed,\nsave that instead of coat he wore a dressing-gown. The facial\nlikeness between him and his brother was very strong, but John's\nwould universally have been judged the finer countenance; illness\nnotwithstanding, he had a complexion which contrasted in its pure colour\nwith Alfred's parchmenty skin, and there was more finish about his\nfeatures. His abundant hair was reddish, his long moustache and trimmed\nbeard a lighter shade of the same hue.\n\n'So you too are in league with the doctors,' was his bluff greeting,\nas he held a hand to the young man and inspected him with a look of\nslighting good-nature.\n\n'Well, that certainly is one way of regarding the literary profession,'\nadmitted Jasper, who had heard enough of John's way of thinking to\nunderstand the remark.\n\n'A young fellow with all the world before him, too. Hang it, Mr Milvain,\nis there no less pernicious work you can turn your hand to?'\n\n'I'm afraid not, Mr Yule. After all, you know, you must be held in a\nmeasure responsible for my depravity.'\n\n'How's that?'\n\n'I understand that you have devoted most of your life to the making\nof paper. If that article were not so cheap and so abundant, people\nwouldn't have so much temptation to scribble.'\n\nAlfred Yule uttered a short laugh.\n\n'I think you are cornered, John.'\n\n'I wish,' answered John, 'that you were both condemned to write on such\npaper as I chiefly made; it was a special kind of whitey-brown, used by\nshopkeepers.'\n\nHe chuckled inwardly, and at the same time reached out for a box of\ncigarettes on a table near him. His brother and Jasper each took one as\nhe offered them, and began to smoke.\n\n'You would like to see literary production come entirely to an end?'\nsaid Milvain.\n\n'I should like to see the business of literature abolished.'\n\n'There's a distinction, of course. But, on the whole, I should say that\neven the business serves a good purpose.'\n\n'What purpose?'\n\n'It helps to spread civilisation.'\n\n'Civilisation!' exclaimed John, scornfully. 'What do you mean by\ncivilisation? Do you call it civilising men to make them weak, flabby\ncreatures, with ruined eyes and dyspeptic stomachs? Who is it that\nreads most of the stuff that's poured out daily by the ton from the\nprinting-press? Just the men and women who ought to spend their leisure\nhours in open-air exercise; the people who earn their bread by sedentary\npursuits, and who need to live as soon as they are free from the desk\nor the counter, not to moon over small print. Your Board schools, your\npopular press, your spread of education! Machinery for ruining the\ncountry, that's what I call it.'\n\n'You have done a good deal, I think, to counteract those influences in\nWattleborough.'\n\n'I hope so; and if only I had kept the use of my limbs I'd have done a\ngood deal more. I have an idea of offering substantial prizes to men\nand women engaged in sedentary work who take an oath to abstain from all\nreading, and keep it for a certain number of years. There's a good deal\nmore need for that than for abstinence from strong liquor. If I could\nhave had my way I would have revived prize-fighting.'\n\nHis brother laughed with contemptuous impatience.\n\n'You would doubtless like to see military conscription introduced into\nEngland?' said Jasper.\n\n'Of course I should! You talk of civilising; there's no such way of\ncivilising the masses of the people as by fixed military service. Before\nmental training must come training of the body. Go about the Continent,\nand see the effect of military service on loutish peasants and the\nlowest classes of town population. Do you know why it isn't even more\nsuccessful? Because the damnable education movement interferes. If\nGermany would shut up her schools and universities for the next quarter\nof a century and go ahead like blazes with military training there'd be\na nation such as the world has never seen. After that, they might begin\na little book-teaching again--say an hour and a half a day for everyone\nabove nine years old. Do you suppose, Mr Milvain, that society is going\nto be reformed by you people who write for money? Why, you are the very\nfirst class that will be swept from the face of the earth as soon as the\nreformation really begins!'\n\nAlfred puffed at his cigarette. His thoughts were occupied with Mr\nFadge and The Study. He was considering whether he could aid in bringing\npublic contempt upon that literary organ and its editor. Milvain\nlistened to the elder man's diatribe with much amusement.\n\n'You, now,' pursued John, 'what do you write about?'\n\n'Nothing in particular. I make a salable page or two out of whatever\nstrikes my fancy.'\n\n'Exactly! You don't even pretend that you've got anything to say. You\nlive by inducing people to give themselves mental indigestion--and\nbodily, too, for that matter.'\n\n'Do you know, Mr Yule, that you have suggested a capital idea to me? If\nI were to take up your views, I think it isn't at all unlikely that\nI might make a good thing of writing against writing. It should be my\nliterary specialty to rail against literature. The reading public should\npay me for telling them that they oughtn't to read. I must think it\nover.'\n\n'Carlyle has anticipated you,' threw in Alfred.\n\n'Yes, but in an antiquated way. I would base my polemic on the newest\nphilosophy.'\n\nHe developed the idea facetiously, whilst John regarded him as he might\nhave watched a performing monkey.\n\n'There again! your new philosophy!' exclaimed the invalid. 'Why, it\nisn't even wholesome stuff, the kind of reading that most of you\nforce on the public. Now there's the man who has married one of my\nnieces--poor lass! Reardon, his name is. You know him, I dare say.\nJust for curiosity I had a look at one of his books; it was called \"The\nOptimist.\" Of all the morbid trash I ever saw, that beat everything. I\nthought of writing him a letter, advising a couple of anti-bilious pills\nbefore bedtime for a few weeks.'\n\nJasper glanced at Alfred Yule, who wore a look of indifference.\n\n'That man deserves penal servitude in my opinion,' pursued John. 'I'm\nnot sure that it isn't my duty to offer him a couple of hundred a year\non condition that he writes no more.'\n\nMilvain, with a clear vision of his friend in London, burst into\nlaughter. But at that point Alfred rose from his chair.\n\n'Shall we rejoin the ladies?' he said, with a certain pedantry\nof phrase and manner which often characterised him.\n\n'Think over your ways whilst you're still young,' said John as he shook\nhands with his visitor.\n\n'Your brother speaks quite seriously, I suppose?' Jasper remarked when\nhe was in the garden with Alfred.\n\n'I think so. It's amusing now and then, but gets rather tiresome when\nyou hear it often. By-the-bye, you are not personally acquainted with Mr\nFadge?'\n\n'I didn't even know his name until you mentioned it.'\n\n'The most malicious man in the literary world. There's no\nuncharitableness in feeling a certain pleasure when he gets into a\nscrape. I could tell you incredible stories about him; but that kind of\nthing is probably as little to your taste as it is to mine.'\n\nMiss Harrow and her companions, having caught sight of the pair, came\ntowards them. Tea was to be brought out into the garden.\n\n'So you can sit with us and smoke, if you like,' said Miss Harrow to\nAlfred. 'You are never quite at your ease, I think, without a pipe.'\n\nBut the man of letters was too preoccupied for society. In a few minutes\nhe begged that the ladies would excuse his withdrawing; he had two or\nthree letters to write before post-time, which was early at Finden.\n\nJasper, relieved by the veteran's departure, began at once to make\nhimself very agreeable company. When he chose to lay aside the topic of\nhis own difficulties and ambitions, he could converse with a spontaneous\ngaiety which readily won the good-will of listeners. Naturally\nhe addressed himself very often to Marian Yule, whose attention\ncomplimented him. She said little, and evidently was at no time a free\ntalker, but the smile on her face indicated a mood of quiet enjoyment.\nWhen her eyes wandered, it was to rest on the beauties of the garden,\nthe moving patches of golden sunshine, the forms of gleaming cloud.\nJasper liked to observe her as she turned her head: there seemed to him\na particular grace in the movement; her head and neck were admirably\nformed, and the short hair drew attention to this.\n\nIt was agreed that Miss Harrow and Marian should come on the second\nday after to have tea with the Milvains. And when Jasper took leave of\nAlfred Yule, the latter expressed a wish that they might have a walk\ntogether one of these mornings.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. HOLIDAY\n\nJasper's favourite walk led him to a spot distant perhaps a mile and a\nhalf from home. From a tract of common he turned into a short lane which\ncrossed the Great Western railway, and thence by a stile into certain\nmeadows forming a compact little valley. One recommendation of this\nretreat was that it lay sheltered from all winds; to Jasper a wind was\nobjectionable. Along the bottom ran a clear, shallow stream, overhung\nwith elder and hawthorn bushes; and close by the wooden bridge which\nspanned it was a great ash tree, making shadow for cows and sheep when\nthe sun lay hot upon the open field. It was rare for anyone to come\nalong this path, save farm labourers morning and evening.\n\nBut to-day--the afternoon that followed his visit to John Yule's\nhouse--he saw from a distance that his lounging-place on the wooden\nbridge was occupied. Someone else had discovered the pleasure there was\nin watching the sun-flecked sparkle of the water as it flowed over the\nclean sand and stones. A girl in a yellow-straw hat; yes, and precisely\nthe person he had hoped, at the first glance, that it might be. He\nmade no haste as he drew nearer on the descending path. At length his\nfootstep was heard; Marian Yule turned her head and clearly recognised\nhim.\n\nShe assumed an upright position, letting one of her hands rest upon\nthe rail. After the exchange of ordinary greetings, Jasper leaned back\nagainst the same support and showed himself disposed for talk.\n\n'When I was here late in the spring,' he said, 'this ash was only just\nbudding, though everything else seemed in full leaf.'\n\n'An ash, is it?' murmured Marian. 'I didn't know. I think an oak is the\nonly tree I can distinguish. Yet,' she added quickly, 'I knew that the\nash was late; some lines of Tennyson come to my memory.'\n\n'Which are those?'\n\n     'Delaying, as the tender ash delays\n     To clothe herself when all the woods are green,\n\nsomewhere in the \"Idylls.\"'\n\n'I don't remember; so I won't pretend to--though I should do so as a\nrule.'\n\nShe looked at him oddly, and seemed about to laugh, yet did not.\n\n'You have had little experience of the country?' Jasper continued.\n\n'Very little. You, I think, have known it from childhood?'\n\n'In a sort of way. I was born in Wattleborough, and my people have\nalways lived here. But I am not very rural in temperament. I have really\nno friends here; either they have lost interest in me, or I in them.\nWhat do you think of the girls, my sisters?'\n\nThe question, though put with perfect simplicity, was embarrassing.\n\n'They are tolerably intellectual,' Jasper went on, when he saw that it\nwould be difficult for her to answer. 'I want to persuade them to try\ntheir hands at literary work of some kind or other. They give lessons,\nand both hate it.'\n\n'Would literary work be less--burdensome?' said Marian, without looking\nat him.\n\n'Rather more so, you think?'\n\nShe hesitated.\n\n'It depends, of course, on--on several things.'\n\n'To be sure,' Jasper agreed. 'I don't think they have any marked faculty\nfor such work; but as they certainly haven't for teaching, that doesn't\nmatter. It's a question of learning a business. I am going through my\napprenticeship, and find it a long affair. Money would shorten it, and,\nunfortunately, I have none.'\n\n'Yes,' said Marian, turning her eyes upon the stream, 'money is a help\nin everything.'\n\n'Without it, one spends the best part of one's life in toiling for that\nfirst foothold which money could at once purchase. To have money is\nbecoming of more and more importance in a literary career; principally\nbecause to have money is to have friends. Year by year, such influence\ngrows of more account. A lucky man will still occasionally succeed by\ndint of his own honest perseverance, but the chances are dead against\nanyone who can't make private interest with influential people; his work\nis simply overwhelmed by that of the men who have better opportunities.'\n\n'Don't you think that, even to-day, really good work will sooner or\nlater be recognised?'\n\n'Later, rather than sooner; and very likely the man can't wait; he\nstarves in the meantime. You understand that I am not speaking of\ngenius; I mean marketable literary work. The quantity turned out is\nso great that there's no hope for the special attention of the public\nunless one can afford to advertise hugely. Take the instance of a\nsuccessful all-round man of letters; take Ralph Warbury, whose name\nyou'll see in the first magazine you happen to open. But perhaps he is a\nfriend of yours?'\n\n'Oh no!'\n\n'Well, I wasn't going to abuse him. I was only going to ask: Is there\nany quality which distinguishes his work from that of twenty struggling\nwriters one could name? Of course not. He's a clever, prolific man; so\nare they. But he began with money and friends; he came from Oxford into\nthe thick of advertised people; his name was mentioned in print six\ntimes a week before he had written a dozen articles. This kind of thing\nwill become the rule. Men won't succeed in literature that they may\nget into society, but will get into society that they may succeed in\nliterature.'\n\n'Yes, I know it is true,' said Marian, in a low voice.\n\n'There's a friend of mine who writes novels,' Jasper pursued. 'His\nbooks are not works of genius, but they are glaringly distinct from the\nordinary circulating novel. Well, after one or two attempts, he made\nhalf a success; that is to say, the publishers brought out a second\nedition of the book in a few months. There was his opportunity. But he\ncouldn't use it; he had no friends, because he had no money. A book of\nhalf that merit, if written by a man in the position of Warbury when\nhe started, would have established the reputation of a lifetime. His\ninfluential friends would have referred to it in leaders, in magazine\narticles, in speeches, in sermons. It would have run through numerous\neditions, and the author would have had nothing to do but to write\nanother book and demand his price. But the novel I'm speaking of was\npractically forgotten a year after its appearance; it was whelmed\nbeneath the flood of next season's literature.'\n\nMarian urged a hesitating objection.\n\n'But, under the circumstances, wasn't it in the author's power to make\nfriends? Was money really indispensable?'\n\n'Why, yes--because he chose to marry. As a bachelor he might possibly\nhave got into the right circles, though his character would in any case\nhave made it difficult for him to curry favour.\n\nBut as a married man, without means, the situation was hopeless. Once\nmarried you must live up to the standard of the society you frequent;\nyou can't be entertained without entertaining in return. Now if his wife\nhad brought him only a couple of thousand pounds all might have been\nwell. I should have advised him, in sober seriousness, to live for two\nyears at the rate of a thousand a year. At the end of that time he would\nhave been earning enough to continue at pretty much the same rate of\nexpenditure.'\n\n'Perhaps.'\n\n'Well, I ought rather to say that the average man of letters would be\nable to do that. As for Reardon--'\n\nHe stopped. The name had escaped him unawares.\n\n'Reardon?' said Marian, looking up. 'You are speaking of him?'\n\n'I have betrayed myself Miss Yule.'\n\n'But what does it matter? You have only spoken in his favour.'\n\n'I feared the name might affect you disagreeably.'\n\nMarian delayed her reply.\n\n'It is true,' she said, 'we are not on friendly terms with my cousin's\nfamily. I have never met Mr Reardon. But I shouldn't like you to think\nthat the mention of his name is disagreeable to me.'\n\n'It made me slightly uncomfortable yesterday--the fact that I am well\nacquainted with Mrs Edmund Yule, and that Reardon is my friend. Yet\nI didn't see why that should prevent my making your father's\nacquaintance.'\n\n'Surely not. I shall say nothing about it; I mean, as you uttered the\nname unintentionally.'\n\nThere was a pause in the dialogue. They had been speaking almost\nconfidentially, and Marian seemed to become suddenly aware of an oddness\nin the situation. She turned towards the uphill path, as if thinking of\nresuming her walk.\n\n'You are tired of standing still,' said Jasper. 'May I walk back a part\nof the way with you?'\n\n'Thank you; I shall be glad.'\n\nThey went on for a few minutes in silence.\n\n'Have you published anything with your signature, Miss Yule?' Jasper at\nlength inquired.\n\n'Nothing. I only help father a little.'\n\nThe silence that again followed was broken this time by Marian.\n\n'When you chanced to mention Mr Reardon's name,' she said, with a\ndiffident smile in which lay that suggestion of humour so delightful\nupon a woman's face, 'you were going to say something more about him?'\n\n'Only that--' he broke off and laughed. 'Now, how boyish it was, wasn't\nit? I remember doing just the same thing once when I came home\nfrom school and had an exciting story to tell, with preservation of\nanonymities. Of course I blurted out a name in the first minute or two,\nto my father's great amusement. He told me that I hadn't the diplomatic\ncharacter. I have been trying to acquire it ever since.\n\n'But why?'\n\n'It's one of the essentials of success in any kind of public life. And\nI mean to succeed, you know. I feel that I am one of the men who do\nsucceed. But I beg your pardon; you asked me a question. Really, I was\nonly going to say of Reardon what I had said before: that he hasn't the\ntact requisite for acquiring popularity.'\n\n'Then I may hope that it isn't his marriage with my cousin which has\nproved a fatal misfortune?'\n\n'In no case,' replied Milvain, averting his look, 'would he have used\nhis advantages.'\n\n'And now? Do you think he has but poor prospects?'\n\n'I wish I could see any chance of his being estimated at his right\nvalue. It's very hard to say what is before him.'\n\n'I knew my cousin Amy when we were children,' said Marian, presently.\n'She gave promise of beauty.'\n\n'Yes, she is beautiful.'\n\n'And--the kind of woman to be of help to such a husband?'\n\n'I hardly know how to answer, Miss Yule,' said Jasper, looking frankly\nat her. 'Perhaps I had better say that it's unfortunate they are poor.'\n\nMarian cast down her eyes.\n\n'To whom isn't it a misfortune?' pursued her companion. 'Poverty is the\nroot of all social ills; its existence accounts even for the ills that\narise from wealth. The poor man is a man labouring in fetters. I declare\nthere is no word in our language which sounds so hideous to me as\n\"Poverty.\"'\n\nShortly after this they came to the bridge over the railway line. Jasper\nlooked at his watch.\n\n'Will you indulge me in a piece of childishness?' he said. 'In less than\nfive minutes a London express goes by; I have often watched it here, and\nit amuses me. Would it weary you to wait?'\n\n'I should like to,' she replied with a laugh.\n\nThe line ran along a deep cutting, from either side of which grew hazel\nbushes and a few larger trees. Leaning upon the parapet of the bridge,\nJasper kept his eye in the westward direction, where the gleaming rails\nwere visible for more than a mile. Suddenly he raised his finger.\n\n'You hear?'\n\nMarian had just caught the far-off sound of the train. She looked\neagerly, and in a few moments saw it approaching. The front of the\nengine blackened nearer and nearer, coming on with dread force and\nspeed. A blinding rush, and there burst against the bridge a great\nvolley of sunlit steam. Milvain and his companion ran to the opposite\nparapet, but already the whole train had emerged, and in a few seconds\nit had disappeared round a sharp curve. The leafy branches that grew out\nover the line swayed violently backwards and forwards in the perturbed\nair.\n\n'If I were ten years younger,' said Jasper, laughing, 'I should say that\nwas jolly! It enspirits me. It makes me feel eager to go back and plunge\ninto the fight again.'\n\n'Upon me it has just the opposite effect,' fell from Marian, in very low\ntones.\n\n'Oh, don't say that! Well, it only means that you haven't had enough\nholiday yet. I have been in the country more than a week; a few days\nmore and I must be off. How long do you think of staying?'\n\n'Not much more than a week, I think.'\n\n'By-the-bye, you are coming to have tea with us to-morrow,' Jasper\nremarked a propos of nothing. Then he returned to another subject that\nwas in his thoughts.\n\n'It was by a train like that that I first went up to London. Not really\nthe first time; I mean when I went to live there, seven years ago.\nWhat spirits I was in! A boy of eighteen going to live independently in\nLondon; think of it!'\n\n'You went straight from school?'\n\n'I was for two years at Redmayne College after leaving Wattleborough\nGrammar School. Then my father died, and I spent nearly half a year at\nhome. I was meant to be a teacher, but the prospect of entering a school\nby no means appealed to me. A friend of mine was studying in London for\nsome Civil Service exam., so I declared that I would go and do the same\nthing.'\n\n'Did you succeed?'\n\n'Not I! I never worked properly for that kind of thing. I read\nvoraciously, and got to know London. I might have gone to the dogs, you\nknow; but by when I had been in London a year a pretty clear purpose\nbegan to form in me. Strange to think that you were growing up there all\nthe time. I may have passed you in the street now and then.'\n\nMarian laughed.\n\n'And I did at length see you at the British Museum, you know.'\n\nThey turned a corner of the road, and came full upon Marian's father,\nwho was walking in this direction with eyes fixed upon the ground.\n\n'So here you are!' he exclaimed, looking at the girl, and for the moment\npaying no attention to Jasper. 'I wondered whether I should meet you.'\nThen, more dryly, 'How do you do, Mr Milvain?'\n\nIn a tone of easy indifference Jasper explained how he came to be\naccompanying Miss Yule.\n\n'Shall I walk on with you, father?' Marian asked, scrutinising his\nrugged features.\n\n'Just as you please; I don't know that I should have gone much further.\nBut we might take another way back.'\n\nJasper readily adapted himself to the wish he discerned in Mr Yule; at\nonce he offered leave-taking in the most natural way. Nothing was said\non either side about another meeting.\n\nThe young man proceeded homewards, but, on arriving, did not at once\nenter the house. Behind the garden was a field used for the grazing of\nhorses; he entered it by the unfastened gate, and strolled idly hither\nand thither, now and then standing to observe a poor worn-out beast, all\nskin and bone, which had presumably been sent here in the hope that a\nlittle more labour might still be exacted from it if it were suffered\nto repose for a few weeks. There were sores upon its back and legs; it\nstood in a fixed attitude of despondency, just flicking away troublesome\nflies with its grizzled tail.\n\nIt was tea-time when he went in. Maud was not at home, and Mrs Milvain,\ntormented by a familiar headache, kept her room; so Jasper and Dora sat\ndown together. Each had an open book on the table; throughout the meal\nthey exchanged only a few words.\n\n'Going to play a little?' Jasper suggested when they had gone into the\nsitting-room.\n\n'If you like.'\n\nShe sat down at the piano, whilst her brother lay on the sofa, his\nhands clasped beneath his head. Dora did not play badly, but an\nabsentmindedness which was commonly observable in her had its effect\nupon the music. She at length broke off idly in the middle of a passage,\nand began to linger on careless chords. Then, without turning her head,\nshe asked:\n\n'Were you serious in what you said about writing storybooks?'\n\n'Quite. I see no reason why you shouldn't do something in that way. But\nI tell you what; when I get back, I'll inquire into the state of the\nmarket. I know a man who was once engaged at Jolly & Monk's--the chief\npublishers of that kind of thing, you know; I must look him up--what a\nmistake it is to neglect any acquaintance!--and get some information out\nof him. But it's obvious what an immense field there is for anyone who\ncan just hit the taste of the' new generation of Board school children.\nMustn't be too goody-goody; that kind of thing is falling out of date.\nBut you'd have to cultivate a particular kind of vulgarity.\n\nThere's an idea, by-the-bye. I'll write a paper on the characteristics\nof that new generation; it may bring me a few guineas, and it would be a\nhelp to you.'\n\n'But what do you know about the subject?' asked Dora doubtfully.\n\n'What a comical question! It is my business to know something about\nevery subject--or to know where to get the knowledge.'\n\n'Well,' said Dora, after a pause, 'there's no doubt Maud and I ought\nto think very seriously about the future. You are aware, Jasper, that\nmother has not been able to save a penny of her income.'\n\n'I don't see how she could have done. Of course I know what you're\nthinking; but for me, it would have been possible. I don't mind\nconfessing to you that the thought troubles me a little now and then;\nI shouldn't like to see you two going off governessing in strangers'\nhouses. All I can say is, that I am very honestly working for the end\nwhich I am convinced will be most profitable.\n\nI shall not desert you; you needn't fear that. But just put your heads\ntogether, and cultivate your writing faculty. Suppose you could both\ntogether earn about a hundred a year in Grub Street, it would be better\nthan governessing; wouldn't it?'\n\n'You say you don't know what Miss Yule writes?'\n\n'Well, I know a little more about her than I did yesterday. I've had an\nhour's talk with her this afternoon.'\n\n'Indeed?'\n\n'Met her down in the Leggatt fields. I find she doesn't write\nindependently; just helps her father. What the help amounts to I can't\nsay. There's something very attractive about her. She quoted a line or\ntwo of Tennyson; the first time I ever heard a woman speak blank verse\nwith any kind of decency.'\n\n'She was walking alone?'\n\n'Yes. On the way back we met old Yule; he seemed rather grumpy, I\nthought. I don't think she's the kind of girl to make a paying business\nof literature. Her qualities are personal. And it's pretty clear to\nme that the valley of the shadow of books by no means agrees with her\ndisposition. Possibly old Yule is something of a tyrant.'\n\n'He doesn't impress me very favourably. Do you think you will keep up\ntheir acquaintance in London?'\n\n'Can't say. I wonder what sort of a woman that mother really is? Can't\nbe so very gross, I should think.'\n\n'Miss Harrow knows nothing about her, except that she was a quite\nuneducated girl.'\n\n'But, dash it! by this time she must have got decent manners. Of course\nthere may be other objections. Mrs Reardon knows nothing against her.'\n\nMidway in the following morning, as Jasper sat with a book in the\ngarden, he was surprised to see Alfred Yule enter by the gate.\n\n'I thought,' began the visitor, who seemed in high spirits, 'that you\nmight like to see something I received this morning.'\n\nHe unfolded a London evening paper, and indicated a long letter from\na casual correspondent. It was written by the authoress of 'On the\nBoards,' and drew attention, with much expenditure of witticism, to the\nconflicting notices of that book which had appeared in The Study. Jasper\nread the thing with laughing appreciation.\n\n'Just what one expected!'\n\n'And I have private letters on the subject,' added Mr Yule.\n\n'There has been something like a personal conflict between Fadge and the\nman who looks after the minor notices. Fadge, more so, charged the other\nman with a design to damage him and the paper. There's talk of legal\nproceedings. An immense joke!'\n\nHe laughed in his peculiar croaking way.\n\n'Do you feel disposed for a turn along the lanes, Mr Milvain?'\n\n'By all means.--There's my mother at the window; will you come in for a\nmoment?'\n\nWith a step of quite unusual sprightliness Mr Yule entered the house.\nHe could talk of but one subject, and Mrs Milvain had to listen to a\nlaboured account of the blunder just committed by The Study. It was\nAlfred's Yule's characteristic that he could do nothing lighthandedly.\nHe seemed always to converse with effort; he took a seat with stiff\nungainliness; he walked with a stumbling or sprawling gait.\n\nWhen he and Jasper set out for their ramble, his loquacity was in strong\ncontrast with the taciturn mood he had exhibited yesterday and the day\nbefore. He fell upon the general aspects of contemporary literature.\n\n'... The evil of the time is the multiplication of ephemerides. Hence a\ndemand for essays, descriptive articles, fragments of criticism, out of\nall proportion to the supply of even tolerable work. The men who have\nan aptitude for turning out this kind of thing in vast quantities are\nenlisted by every new periodical, with the result that their productions\nare ultimately watered down into worthlessness.... Well now, there's\nFadge. Years ago some of Fadge's work was not without a certain--a\ncertain conditional promise of--of comparative merit; but now his\nwriting, in my opinion, is altogether beneath consideration; how Rackett\ncould be so benighted as to give him The Study--especially after a man\nlike Henry Hawkridge--passes my comprehension. Did you read a paper of\nhis, a few months back, in The Wayside, a preposterous rehabilitation of\nElkanah Settle? Ha! Ha! That's what such men are driven to. Elkanah\nSettle! And he hadn't even a competent acquaintance with his paltry\nsubject. Will you credit that he twice or thrice referred to Settle's\nreply to \"Absalom and Achitophel\" by the title of \"Absalom Transposed,\"\nwhen every schoolgirl knows that the thing was called \"Achitophel\nTransposed\"! This was monstrous enough, but there was something still\nmore contemptible. He positively, I assure you, attributed the play of\n\"Epsom Wells\" to Crowne! I should have presumed that every student of\neven the most trivial primer of literature was aware that \"Epsom Wells\"\nwas written by Shadwell.... Now, if one were to take Shadwell for the\nsubject of a paper, one might very well show how unjustly his name has\nfallen into contempt. It has often occurred to me to do this. \"But\nShadwell never deviates into sense.\" The sneer, in my opinion, is\nentirely unmerited. For my own part, I put Shadwell very high among the\ndramatists of his time, and I think I could show that his absolute worth\nis by no means inconsiderable. Shadwell has distinct vigour of dramatic\nconception; his dialogue....'\n\nAnd as he talked the man kept describing imaginary geometrical figures\nwith the end of his walking-stick; he very seldom raised his eyes\nfrom the ground, and the stoop in his shoulders grew more and more\npronounced, until at a little distance one might have taken him for a\nhunchback. At one point Jasper made a pause to speak of the pleasant\nwooded prospect that lay before them; his companion regarded it\nabsently, and in a moment or two asked:\n\n'Did you ever come across Cottle's poem on the Malvern Hills? No?\n\nIt contains a couple of the richest lines ever put into print:\n\n      It needs the evidence of close deduction\n      To know that I shall ever reach the top.\n\nPerfectly serious poetry, mind you!'\n\nHe barked in laughter. Impossible to interest him in anything apart from\nliterature; yet one saw him to be a man of solid understanding, and\nnot without perception of humour. He had read vastly; his memory was a\nliterary cyclopaedia. His failings, obvious enough, were the results\nof a strong and somewhat pedantic individuality ceaselessly at conflict\nwith unpropitious circumstances.\n\nTowards the young man his demeanour varied between a shy cordiality and\na dignified reserve which was in danger of seeming pretentious. On the\nhomeward part of the walk he made a few discreet inquiries regarding\nMilvain's literary achievements and prospects, and the frank\nself-confidence of the replies appeared to interest him. But he\nexpressed no desire to number Jasper among his acquaintances in town,\nand of his own professional or private concerns he said not a word.\n\n'Whether he could be any use to me or not, I don't exactly know,' Jasper\nremarked to his mother and sisters at dinner. 'I suspect it's as much as\nhe can do to keep a footing among the younger tradesmen. But I think he\nmight have said he was willing to help me if he could.'\n\n'Perhaps,' replied Maud, 'your large way of talking made him think any\nsuch offer superfluous.'\n\n'You have still to learn,' said Jasper, 'that modesty helps a man in no\ndepartment of modern life. People take you at your own valuation. It's\nthe men who declare boldly that they need no help to whom practical\nhelp comes from all sides. As likely as not Yule will mention my name\nto someone. \"A young fellow who seems to see his way pretty clear before\nhim.\" The other man will repeat it to somebody else, \"A young fellow\nwhose way is clear before him,\" and so I come to the ears of a man who\nthinks \"Just the fellow I want; I must look him up and ask him if he'll\ndo such-and-such a thing.\" But I should like to see these Yules at home;\nI must fish for an invitation.'\n\nIn the afternoon, Miss Harrow and Marian came at the expected hour.\nJasper purposely kept out of the way until he was summoned to the\ntea-table.\n\nThe Milvain girls were so far from effusive, even towards old\nacquaintances, that even the people who knew them best spoke of them\nas rather cold and perhaps a trifle condescending; there were people\nin Wattleborough who declared their airs of superiority ridiculous and\ninsufferable. The truth was that nature had endowed them with a larger\nshare of brains than was common in their circle, and had added that\ntouch of pride which harmonised so ill with the restrictions of\npoverty. Their life had a tone of melancholy, the painful reserve which\ncharacterises a certain clearly defined class in the present day. Had\nthey been born twenty years earlier, the children of that veterinary\nsurgeon would have grown up to a very different, and in all probability\na much happier, existence, for their education would have been\nlimited to the strictly needful, and--certainly in the case of the\ngirls--nothing would have encouraged them to look beyond the simple life\npossible to a poor man's offspring. But whilst Maud and Dora were still\nwith their homely schoolmistress, Wattleborough saw fit to establish\na Girls' High School, and the moderateness of the fees enabled these\nsisters to receive an intellectual training wholly incompatible with the\nmaterial conditions of their life. To the relatively poor (who are so\nmuch worse off than the poor absolutely) education is in most cases\na mocking cruelty. The burden of their brother's support made it very\ndifficult for Maud and Dora even to dress as became their intellectual\nstation; amusements, holidays, the purchase of such simple luxuries as\nwere all but indispensable to them, could not be thought of. It resulted\nthat they held apart from the society which would have welcomed them,\nfor they could not bear to receive without offering in turn. The\nnecessity of giving lessons galled them; they felt--and with every\nreason--that it made their position ambiguous. So that, though they\ncould not help knowing many people, they had no intimates; they\nencouraged no one to visit them, and visited other houses as little as\nmight be.\n\nIn Marian Yule they divined a sympathetic nature. She was unlike any\ngirl with whom they had hitherto associated, and it was the impulse of\nboth to receive her with unusual friendliness. The habit of reticence\ncould not be at once overcome, and Marian's own timidity was an obstacle\nin the way of free intercourse, but Jasper's conversation at tea helped\nto smooth the course of things.\n\n'I wish you lived anywhere near us,' Dora said to their visitor, as the\nthree girls walked in the garden afterwards, and Maud echoed the wish.\n\n'It would be very nice,' was Marian's reply. 'I have no friends of my\nown age in London.'\n\n'None?'\n\n'Not one!'\n\nShe was about to add something, but in the end kept silence.\n\n'You seem to get along with Miss Yule pretty well, after all,' said\nJasper, when the family were alone again.\n\n'Did you anticipate anything else?' Maud asked.\n\n'It seemed doubtful, up at Yule's house. Well, get her to come here\nagain before I go. But it's a pity she doesn't play the piano,' he\nadded, musingly.\n\nFor two days nothing was seen of the Yules. Jasper went each afternoon\nto the stream in the valley, but did not again meet Marian. In the\nmeanwhile he was growing restless. A fortnight always exhausted his\ncapacity for enjoying the companionship of his mother and sisters, and\nthis time he seemed anxious to get to the end of his holiday. For all\nthat, there was no continuance of the domestic bickering which had\nbegun. Whatever the reason, Maud behaved with unusual mildness to her\nbrother, and Jasper in turn was gently disposed to both the girls.\n\nOn the morning of the third day--it was Saturday--he kept silence\nthrough breakfast, and just as all were about to rise from the table, he\nmade a sudden announcement:\n\n'I shall go to London this afternoon.'\n\n'This afternoon?' all exclaimed. 'But Monday is your day.'\n\n'No, I shall go this afternoon, by the 2.45.'\n\nAnd he left the room. Mrs Milvain and the girls exchanged looks.\n\n'I suppose he thinks the Sunday will be too wearisome,' said the mother.\n\n'Perhaps so,' Maud agreed, carelessly.\n\nHalf an hour later, just as Dora was ready to leave the house for her\nengagements in Wattleborough, her brother came into the hall and took\nhis hat, saying:\n\n'I'll walk a little way with you, if you don't mind.'\n\nWhen they were in the road, he asked her in an offhand manner:\n\n'Do you think I ought to say good-bye to the Yules? Or won't it\nsignify?'\n\n'I should have thought you would wish to.'\n\n'I don't care about it. And, you see, there's been no hint of a wish on\ntheir part that I should see them in London. No, I'll just leave you to\nsay good-bye for me.'\n\n'But they expect to see us to-day or to-morrow. You told them you were\nnot going till Monday, and you don't know but Mr Yule might mean to say\nsomething yet.'\n\n'Well, I had rather he didn't,' replied Jasper, with a laugh.\n\n'Oh, indeed?'\n\n'I don't mind telling you,' he laughed again. 'I'm afraid of that girl.\nNo, it won't do! You understand that I'm a practical man, and I shall\nkeep clear of dangers. These days of holiday idleness put all sorts of\nnonsense into one's head.'\n\nDora kept her eyes down, and smiled ambiguously.\n\n'You must act as you think fit,' she remarked at length.\n\n'Exactly. Now I'll turn back. You'll be with us at dinner?'\n\nThey parted. But Jasper did not keep to the straight way home. First of\nall, he loitered to watch a reaping-machine at work; then he turned into\na lane which led up the hill on which was John Yule's house. Even if he\nhad purposed making a farewell call, it was still far too early; all he\nwanted to do was to pass an hour of the morning, which threatened to lie\nheavy on his hands. So he rambled on, and went past the house, and took\nthe field-path which would lead him circuitously home again.\n\nHis mother desired to speak to him. She was in the dining-room; in the\nparlour Maud was practising music.\n\n'I think I ought to tell you of something I did yesterday, Jasper,' Mrs\nMilvain began. 'You see, my dear, we have been rather straitened lately,\nand my health, you know, grows so uncertain, and, all things considered,\nI have been feeling very anxious about the girls. So I wrote to your\nuncle William, and told him that I must positively have that money. I\nmust think of my own children before his.'\n\nThe matter referred to was this. The deceased Mr Milvain had a brother\nwho was a struggling shopkeeper in a Midland town. Some ten years ago,\nWilliam Milvain, on the point of bankruptcy, had borrowed a hundred\nand seventy pounds from his brother in Wattleborough, and this debt was\nstill unpaid; for on the death of Jasper's father repayment of the loan\nwas impossible for William, and since then it had seemed hopeless that\nthe sum would ever be recovered. The poor shopkeeper had a large family,\nand Mrs Milvain, notwithstanding her own position, had never felt able\nto press him; her relative, however, often spoke of the business, and\ndeclared his intention of paying whenever he could.\n\n'You can't recover by law now, you know,' said Jasper.\n\n'But we have a right to the money, law or no law. He must pay it.'\n\n'He will simply refuse--and be justified. Poverty doesn't allow of\nhonourable feeling, any more than of compassion. I'm sorry you wrote\nlike that. You won't get anything, and you might as well have enjoyed\nthe reputation of forbearance.'\n\nMrs Milvain was not able to appreciate this characteristic remark.\nAnxiety weighed upon her, and she became irritable.\n\n'I am obliged to say, Jasper, that you seem rather thoughtless. If\nit were only myself. I would make any sacrifice for you; but you must\nremember--'\n\n'Now listen, mother,' he interrupted, laying a hand on her shoulder;\n'I have been thinking about all this, and the fact of the matter is,\nI shall do my best to ask you for no more money. It may or may not be\npracticable, but I'll have a try. So don't worry. If uncle writes that\nhe can't pay, just explain why you wrote, and keep him gently in mind of\nthe thing, that's all. One doesn't like to do brutal things if one can\navoid them, you know.'\n\nThe young man went to the parlour and listened to Maud's music for\nawhile. But restlessness again drove him forth. Towards eleven o'clock\nhe was again ascending in the direction of John Yule's house. Again\nhe had no intention of calling, but when he reached the iron gates he\nlingered.\n\n'I will, by Jove!' he said within himself at last. 'Just to prove I\nhave complete command of myself. It's to be a display of strength, not\nweakness.'\n\nAt the house door he inquired for Mr Alfred Yule. That gentleman had\ngone in the carriage to Wattleborough, half an hour ago, with his\nbrother.\n\n'Miss Yule?'\n\nYes, she was within. Jasper entered the sitting-room, waited a few\nmoments, and Marian appeared. She wore a dress in which Milvain had\nnot yet seen her, and it had the effect of making him regard her\nattentively. The smile with which she had come towards him passed from\nher face, which was perchance a little warmer of hue than commonly.\n\n'I'm sorry your father is away, Miss Yule,' Jasper began, in an animated\nvoice. 'I wanted to say good-bye to him. I return to London in a few\nhours.'\n\n'You are going sooner than you intended?'\n\n'Yes, I feel I mustn't waste any more time. I think the country air is\ndoing you good; you certainly look better than when I passed you that\nfirst day.'\n\n'I feel better, much.'\n\n'My sisters are anxious to see you again. I shouldn't wonder if they\ncome up this afternoon.'\n\nMarian had seated herself on the sofa, and her hands were linked upon\nher lap in the same way as when Jasper spoke with her here before, the\npalms downward. The beautiful outline of her bent head was relieved\nagainst a broad strip of sunlight on the wall behind her.\n\n'They deplore,' he continued in a moment, 'that they should come to know\nyou only to lose you again so soon.\n\n'I have quite as much reason to be sorry,' she answered, looking at him\nwith the slightest possible smile. 'But perhaps they will let me write\nto them, and hear from them now and then.'\n\n'They would think it an honour. Country girls are not often invited to\ncorrespond with literary ladies in London.'\n\nHe said it with as much jocoseness as civility allowed, then at once\nrose.\n\n'Father will be very sorry,' Marian began, with one quick glance towards\nthe window and then another towards the door. 'Perhaps he might possibly\nbe able to see you before you go?'\n\nJasper stood in hesitation. There was a look on the girl's face which,\nunder other circumstances, would have suggested a ready answer.\n\n'I mean,' she added, hastily, 'he might just call, or even see you at\nthe station?'\n\n'Oh, I shouldn't like to give Mr Yule any trouble. It's my own fault,\nfor deciding to go to-day. I shall leave by the 2.45.'\n\nHe offered his hand.\n\n'I shall look for your name in the magazines, Miss Yule.'\n\n'Oh, I don't think you will ever find it there.'\n\nHe laughed incredulously, shook hands with her a second time, and strode\nout of the room, head erect--feeling proud of himself.\n\nWhen Dora came home at dinner-time, he informed her of what he had done.\n\n'A very interesting girl,' he added impartially. 'I advise you to make\na friend of her. Who knows but you may live in London some day, and then\nshe might be valuable--morally, I mean. For myself, I shall do my best\nnot to see her again for a long time; she's dangerous.'\n\nJasper was unaccompanied when he went to the station. Whilst waiting on\nthe platform, he suffered from apprehension lest Alfred Yule's seamed\nvisage should present itself; but no acquaintance approached him. Safe\nin the corner of his third-class carriage, he smiled at the last glimpse\nof the familiar fields, and began to think of something he had decided\nto write for The West End.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. AN AUTHOR AND HIS WIFE\n\nEight flights of stairs, consisting alternately of eight and nine steps.\nAmy had made the calculation, and wondered what was the cause of this\narrangement. The ascent was trying, but then no one could contest the\nrespectability of the abode. In the flat immediately beneath resided a\nsuccessful musician, whose carriage and pair came at a regular hour each\nafternoon to take him and his wife for a most respectable drive. In this\nspecial building no one else seemed at present to keep a carriage, but\nall the tenants were gentlefolk.\n\nAnd as to living up at the very top, why, there were distinct\nadvantages--as so many people of moderate income are nowadays hastening\nto discover. The noise from the street was diminished at this height; no\npossible tramplers could establish themselves above your head; the air\nwas bound to be purer than that of inferior strata; finally, one had\nthe flat roof whereon to sit or expatiate in sunny weather. True that a\ngentle rain of soot was wont to interfere with one's comfort out there\nin the open, but such minutiae are easily forgotten in the fervour of\ndomestic description. It was undeniable that on a fine day one enjoyed\nextensive views. The green ridge from Hampstead to Highgate, with\nPrimrose Hill and the foliage of Regent's Park in the foreground; the\nsuburban spaces of St John's Wood, Maida Vale, Kilburn; Westminster\nAbbey and the Houses of Parliament, lying low by the side of the hidden\nriver, and a glassy gleam on far-off hills which meant the Crystal\nPalace; then the clouded majesty of eastern London, crowned by St Paul's\ndome. These things one's friends were expected to admire. Sunset often\nafforded rich effects, but they were for solitary musing.\n\nA sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen. But the kitchen was called\ndining-room, or even parlour at need; for the cooking-range lent itself\nto concealment behind an ornamental screen, the walls displayed pictures\nand bookcases, and a tiny scullery which lay apart sufficed for the\ncoarser domestic operations. This was Amy's territory during the hours\nwhen her husband was working, or endeavouring to work. Of necessity,\nEdwin Reardon used the front room as his study. His writing-table stood\nagainst the window; each wall had its shelves of serried literature;\nvases, busts, engravings (all of the inexpensive kind) served for\nornaments.\n\nA maid-servant, recently emancipated from the Board school, came at\nhalf-past seven each morning, and remained until two o'clock, by which\ntime the Reardons had dined; on special occasions, her services were\nenlisted for later hours. But it was Reardon's habit to begin the\nserious work of the day at about three o'clock, and to continue with\nbrief interruptions until ten or eleven; in many respects an awkward\narrangement, but enforced by the man's temperament and his poverty.\n\nOne evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper before\nhim. It was the hour of sunset. His outlook was upon the backs of\ncertain large houses skirting Regent's Park, and lights had begun to\nshow here and there in the windows: in one room a man was discoverable\ndressing for dinner, he had not thought it worth while to lower the\nblind; in another, some people were playing billiards. The higher\nwindows reflected a rich glow from the western sky.\n\nFor two or three hours Reardon had been seated in much the same\nattitude. Occasionally he dipped his pen into the ink and seemed about\nto write: but each time the effort was abortive. At the head of the\npaper was inscribed 'Chapter III.,' but that was all.\n\nAnd now the sky was dusking over; darkness would soon fall.\n\nHe looked something older than his years, which were two-and-thirty; on\nhis face was the pallor of mental suffering. Often he fell into a fit\nof absence, and gazed at vacancy with wide, miserable eyes. Returning\nto consciousness, he fidgeted nervously on his chair, dipped his pen\nfor the hundredth time, bent forward in feverish determination to work.\nUseless; he scarcely knew what he wished to put into words, and his\nbrain refused to construct the simplest sentence.\n\nThe colours faded from the sky, and night came quickly. Reardon threw\nhis arms upon the desk, let his head fall forward, and remained so, as\nif asleep.\n\nPresently the door opened, and a young, clear voice made inquiry:\n\n'Don't you want the lamp, Edwin?'\n\nThe man roused himself, turned his chair a little, and looked towards\nthe open door.\n\n'Come here, Amy.'\n\nHis wife approached. It was not quite dark in the room, for a glimmer\ncame from the opposite houses.\n\n'What's the matter? Can't you do anything?'\n\n'I haven't written a word to-day. At this rate, one goes crazy. Come and\nsit by me a minute, dearest.'\n\n'I'll get the lamp.'\n\n'No; come and talk to me; we can understand each other better.'\n\n'Nonsense; you have such morbid ideas. I can't bear to sit in the\ngloom.'\n\nAt once she went away, and quickly reappeared with a reading-lamp, which\nshe placed on the square table in the middle of the room.\n\n'Draw down the blind, Edwin.'\n\nShe was a slender girl, but not very tall; her shoulders seemed rather\nbroad in proportion to her waist and the part of her figure below it.\nThe hue of her hair was ruddy gold; loosely arranged tresses made a\nsuperb crown to the beauty of her small, refined head. Yet the face\nwas not of distinctly feminine type; with short hair and appropriate\nclothing, she would have passed unquestioned as a handsome boy of\nseventeen, a spirited boy too, and one much in the habit of giving\norders to inferiors. Her nose would have been perfect but for ever so\nslight a crook which made it preferable to view her in full face than in\nprofile; her lips curved sharply out, and when she straightened them of\na sudden, the effect was not reassuring to anyone who had counted upon\nher for facile humour. In harmony with the broad shoulders, she had a\nstrong neck; as she bore the lamp into the room a slight turn of\nher head showed splendid muscles from the ear downward. It was a\nmagnificently clear-cut bust; one thought, in looking at her, of the\nnewly-finished head which some honest sculptor has wrought with his own\nhand from the marble block; there was a suggestion of 'planes' and of\nthe chisel. The atmosphere was cold; ruddiness would have been quite\nout of place on her cheeks, and a flush must have been the rarest thing\nthere.\n\nHer age was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly two\nyears, and had a child ten months old.\n\nAs for her dress, it was unpretending in fashion and colour, but\nof admirable fit. Every detail of her appearance denoted scrupulous\npersonal refinement. She walked well; you saw that the foot, however\ngently, was firmly planted. When she seated herself her posture was\ninstantly graceful, and that of one who is indifferent about support for\nthe back.\n\n'What is the matter?' she began. 'Why can't you get on with the story?'\n\nIt was the tone of friendly remonstrance, not exactly of affection, not\nat all of tender solicitude.\n\nReardon had risen and wished to approach her, but could not do so\ndirectly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round to the\nback of her chair, and bent his face upon her shoulder.\n\n'Amy--'\n\n'Well.'\n\n'I think it's all over with me. I don't think I shall write any more.'\n\n'Don't be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your writing?'\n\n'Perhaps I am only out of sorts. But I begin to be horribly afraid.\nMy will seems to be fatally weakened. I can't see my way to the end of\nanything; if I get hold of an idea which seems good, all the sap has\ngone out of it before I have got it into working shape. In these last\nfew months, I must have begun a dozen different books; I have been\nashamed to tell you of each new beginning. I write twenty pages,\nperhaps, and then my courage fails. I am disgusted with the thing, and\ncan't go on with it--can't! My fingers refuse to hold the pen. In mere\nwriting, I have done enough to make much more than three volumes; but\nit's all destroyed.'\n\n'Because of your morbid conscientiousness. There was no need to destroy\nwhat you had written. It was all good enough for the market.'\n\n'Don't use that word, Amy. I hate it!'\n\n'You can't afford to hate it,' was her rejoinder, in very practical\ntones. 'However it was before, you must write for the market now. You\nhave admitted that yourself.'\n\nHe kept silence.\n\n'Where are you?' she went on to ask. 'What have you actually done?'\n\n'Two short chapters of a story I can't go on with. The three volumes lie\nbefore me like an interminable desert. Impossible to get through them.\nThe idea is stupidly artificial, and I haven't a living character in\nit.'\n\n'The public don't care whether the characters are living or not.--Don't\nstand behind me, like that; it's such an awkward way of talking. Come\nand sit down.'\n\nHe drew away, and came to a position whence he could see her face, but\nkept at a distance.\n\n'Yes,' he said, in a different way, 'that's the worst of it.'\n\n'What is?'\n\n'That you--well, it's no use.'\n\n'That I--what?'\n\nShe did not look at him; her lips, after she had spoken, drew in a\nlittle.\n\n'That your disposition towards me is being affected by this miserable\nfailure. You keep saying to yourself that I am not what you thought me.\nPerhaps you even feel that I have been guilty of a sort of deception. I\ndon't blame you; it's natural enough.'\n\n'I'll tell you quite honestly what I do think,' she replied, after a\nshort silence. 'You are much weaker than I imagined. Difficulties crush\nyou, instead of rousing you to struggle.'\n\n'True. It has always been my fault.'\n\n'But don't you feel it's rather unmanly, this state of things? You say\nyou love me, and I try to believe it. But whilst you are saying so, you\nlet me get nearer and nearer to miserable, hateful poverty. What is to\nbecome of me--of us? Shall you sit here day after day until our last\nshilling is spent?'\n\n'No; of course I must do something.'\n\n'When shall you begin in earnest? In a day or two you must pay this\nquarter's rent, and that will leave us just about fifteen pounds in the\nworld. Where is the rent at Christmas to come from?\n\nWhat are we to live upon? There's all sorts of clothing to be bought;\nthere'll be all the extra expenses of winter. Surely it's bad enough\nthat we have had to stay here all the summer; no holiday of any kind. I\nhave done my best not to grumble about it, but I begin to think that it\nwould be very much wiser if I did grumble.'\n\nShe squared her shoulders, and gave her head just a little shake, as if\na fly had troubled her.\n\n'You bear everything very well and kindly,' said Reardon. 'My behaviour\nis contemptible; I know that. Good heavens! if I only had some business\nto go to, something I could work at in any state of mind, and make money\nout of! Given this chance, I would work myself to death rather than you\nshould lack anything you desire. But I am at the mercy of my brain; it\nis dry and powerless. How I envy those clerks who go by to their offices\nin the morning! There's the day's work cut out for them; no question\nof mood and feeling; they have just to work at something, and when the\nevening comes, they have earned their wages, they are free to rest and\nenjoy themselves. What an insane thing it is to make literature one's\nonly means of support! When the most trivial accident may at any time\nprove fatal to one's power of work for weeks or months. No, that is the\nunpardonable sin! To make a trade of an art! I am rightly served for\nattempting such a brutal folly.'\n\nHe turned away in a passion of misery.\n\n'How very silly it is to talk like this!' came in Amy's voice, clearly\ncritical. 'Art must be practised as a trade, at all events in our time.\nThis is the age of trade. Of course if one refuses to be of one's time,\nand yet hasn't the means to live independently, what can result but\nbreakdown and wretchedness? The fact of the matter is, you could do\nfairly good work, and work which would sell, if only you would bring\nyourself to look at things in a more practical way. It's what Mr Milvain\nis always saying, you know.'\n\n'Milvain's temperament is very different from mine. He is naturally\nlight-hearted and hopeful; I am naturally the opposite.\n\nWhat you and he say is true enough; the misfortune is that I can't act\nupon it. I am no uncompromising artistic pedant; I am quite willing to\ntry and do the kind of work that will sell; under the circumstances it\nwould be a kind of insanity if I refused. But power doesn't answer\nto the will. My efforts are utterly vain; I suppose the prospect of\npennilessness is itself a hindrance; the fear haunts me. With such\nterrible real things pressing upon me, my imagination can shape nothing\nsubstantial. When I have laboured out a story, I suddenly see it in\na light of such contemptible triviality that to work at it is an\nimpossible thing.'\n\n'You are ill, that's the fact of the matter. You ought to have had a\nholiday. I think even now you had better go away for a week or two. Do,\nEdwin!'\n\n'Impossible! It would be the merest pretence of holiday. To go away and\nleave you here--no!'\n\n'Shall I ask mother or Jack to lend us some money?'\n\n'That would be intolerable.'\n\n'But this state of things is intolerable!'\n\nReardon walked the length of the room and back again.\n\n'Your mother has no money to lend, dear, and your brother would do it so\nunwillingly that we can't lay ourselves under such an obligation.'\n\n'Yet it will come to that, you know,' remarked Amy, calmly.\n\n'No, it shall not come to that. I must and will get something done long\nbefore Christmas. If only you--'\n\nHe came and took one of her hands.\n\n'If only you will give me more sympathy, dearest. You see, that's one\nside of my weakness. I am utterly dependent upon you. Your kindness is\nthe breath of life to me. Don't refuse it!'\n\n'But I have done nothing of the kind.'\n\n'You begin to speak very coldly. And I understand your feeling of\ndisappointment. The mere fact of your urging me to do anything that will\nsell is a proof of bitter disappointment. You would have looked with\nscorn at anyone who talked to me like that two years ago. You were proud\nof me because my work wasn't altogether common, and because I had never\nwritten a line that was meant to attract the vulgar. All that's over\nnow. If you knew how dreadful it is to see that you have lost your hopes\nof me!'\n\n'Well, but I haven't--altogether,' Amy replied, meditatively. 'I know\nvery well that, if you had a lot of money, you would do better things\nthan ever.'\n\n'Thank you a thousand times for saying that, my dearest.'\n\n'But, you see, we haven't money, and there's little chance of our\ngetting any. That scrubby old uncle won't leave anything to us; I feel\ntoo sure of it. I often feel disposed to go and beg him on my knees to\nthink of us in his will.' She laughed. 'I suppose it's impossible, and\nwould be useless; but I should be capable of it if I knew it would bring\nmoney.'\n\nReardon said nothing.\n\n'I didn't think so much of money when we were married,' Amy\ncontinued. 'I had never seriously felt the want of it, you know. I did\nthink--there's no harm in confessing it--that you were sure to be rich\nsome day; but I should have married you all the same if I had known that\nyou would win only reputation.'\n\n'You are sure of that?'\n\n'Well, I think so. But I know the value of money better now. I know it\nis the most powerful thing in the world. If I had to choose between\na glorious reputation with poverty and a contemptible popularity with\nwealth, I should choose the latter.'\n\n'No!'\n\n'I should.'\n\n'Perhaps you are right.'\n\nHe turned away with a sigh.\n\n'Yes, you are right. What is reputation? If it is deserved, it\noriginates with a few score of people among the many millions who would\nnever have recognised the merit they at last applaud. That's the lot of\na great genius. As for a mediocrity like me--what ludicrous absurdity to\nfret myself in the hope that half-a-dozen folks will say I am \"above the\naverage!\" After all, is there sillier vanity than this? A year after I\nhave published my last book, I shall be practically forgotten; ten years\nlater, I shall be as absolutely forgotten as one of those novelists of\nthe early part of this century, whose names one doesn't even recognise.\nWhat fatuous posing!'\n\nAmy looked askance at him, but replied nothing.\n\n'And yet,' he continued, 'of course it isn't only for the sake of\nreputation that one tries to do uncommon work. There's the shrinking\nfrom conscious insincerity of workmanship--which most of the writers\nnowadays seem never to feel. \"It's good enough for the market\"; that\nsatisfies them. And perhaps they are justified.\n\nI can't pretend that I rule my life by absolute ideals; I admit that\neverything is relative. There is no such thing as goodness or badness,\nin the absolute sense, of course. Perhaps I am absurdly inconsistent\nwhen--though knowing my work can't be first rate--I strive to make it as\ngood as possible. I don't say this in irony, Amy; I really mean it. It\nmay very well be that I am just as foolish as the people I ridicule for\nmoral and religious superstition. This habit of mine is superstitious.\nHow well I can imagine the answer of some popular novelist if he heard\nme speak scornfully of his books. \"My dear fellow,\" he might say, \"do\nyou suppose I am not aware that my books are rubbish? I know it just\nas well as you do. But my vocation is to live comfortably. I have a\nluxurious house, a wife and children who are happy and grateful to me\nfor their happiness. If you choose to live in a garret, and, what's\nworse, make your wife and children share it with you, that's your\nconcern.\" The man would be abundantly right.'\n\n'But,' said Amy, 'why should you assume that his books are rubbish? Good\nwork succeeds--now and then.'\n\n'I speak of the common kind of success, which is never due to\nliterary merit. And if I speak bitterly, well, I am suffering from my\npowerlessness. I am a failure, my poor girl, and it isn't easy for me to\nlook with charity on the success of men who deserved it far less than I\ndid, when I was still able to work.'\n\n'Of course, Edwin, if you make up your mind that you are a failure,\nyou will end by being so. But I'm convinced there's no reason that you\nshould fail to make a living with your pen. Now let me advise you; put\naside all your strict ideas about what is worthy and what is unworthy,\nand just act upon my advice. It's impossible for you to write a\nthree-volume novel; very well, then do a short story of a kind that's\nlikely to be popular. You know Mr Milvain is always saying that the long\nnovel has had its day, and that in future people will write shilling\nbooks. Why not try?\n\nGive yourself a week to invent a sensational plot, and then a fortnight\nfor the writing. Have it ready for the new season at the end of October.\nIf you like, don't put your name to it; your name certainly would have\nno weight with this sort of public. Just make it a matter of business,\nas Mr Milvain says, and see if you can't earn some money.'\n\nHe stood and regarded her. His expression was one of pained perplexity.\n\n'You mustn't forget, Amy, that it needs a particular kind of faculty to\nwrite stories of this sort. The invention of a plot is just the thing I\nfind most difficult.'\n\n'But the plot may be as silly as you like, providing it holds the\nattention of vulgar readers. Think of \"The Hollow Statue\", what could be\nmore idiotic? Yet it sells by thousands.'\n\n'I don't think I can bring myself to that,' Reardon said, in a low\nvoice.\n\n'Very well, then will you tell me what you propose to do?'\n\n'I might perhaps manage a novel in two volumes, instead of three.'\n\nHe seated himself at the writing-table, and stared at the blank sheets\nof paper in an anguish of hopelessness.\n\n'It will take you till Christmas,' said Amy, 'and then you will get\nperhaps fifty pounds for it.'\n\n'I must do my best. I'll go out and try to get some ideas. I--'\n\nHe broke off and looked steadily at his wife.\n\n'What is it?' she asked.\n\n'Suppose I were to propose to you to leave this flat and take cheaper\nrooms?'\n\nHe uttered it in a shamefaced way, his eyes falling. Amy kept silence.\n\n'We might sublet it,' he continued, in the same tone, 'for the last year\nof the lease.'\n\n'And where do you propose to live?' Amy inquired, coldly.\n\n'There's no need to be in such a dear neighbourhood. We could go to one\nof the outer districts. One might find three unfurnished rooms for about\neight-and-sixpence a week--less than half our rent here.'\n\n'You must do as seems good to you.'\n\n'For Heaven's sake, Amy, don't speak to me in that way! I can't stand\nthat! Surely you can see that I am driven to think of every possible\nresource. To speak like that is to abandon me. Say you can't or won't do\nit, but don't treat me as if you had no share in my miseries!'\n\nShe was touched for the moment.\n\n'I didn't mean to speak unkindly, dear. But think what it means, to give\nup our home and position. That is open confession of failure. It would\nbe horrible.'\n\n'I won't think of it. I have three months before Christmas, and I will\nfinish a book!'\n\n'I really can't see why you shouldn't. Just do a certain number of pages\nevery day. Good or bad, never mind; let the pages be finished. Now you\nhave got two chapters--'\n\n'No; that won't do. I must think of a better subject.'\n\nAmy made a gesture of impatience.\n\n'There you are! What does the subject matter? Get this book finished and\nsold, and then do something better next time.'\n\n'Give me to-night, just to think. Perhaps one of the old stories I have\nthrown aside will come back in a clearer light. I'll go out for an hour;\nyou don't mind being left alone?'\n\n'You mustn't think of such trifles as that.'\n\n'But nothing that concerns you in the slightest way is a trifle to\nme--nothing! I can't bear that you should forget that. Have patience\nwith me, darling, a little longer.'\n\nHe knelt by her, and looked up into her face.\n\n'Say only one or two kind words--like you used to!'\n\nShe passed her hand lightly over his hair, and murmured something with a\nfaint smile.\n\nThen Reardon took his hat and stick and descended the eight flights\nof stone steps, and walked in the darkness round the outer circle\nof Regent's Park, racking his fagged brain in a hopeless search for\ncharacters, situations, motives.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. THE WAY HITHER\n\nEven in mid-rapture of his marriage month he had foreseen this\npossibility; but fate had hitherto rescued him in sudden ways when he\nwas on the brink of self-abandonment, and it was hard to imagine that\nthis culmination of triumphant joy could be a preface to base miseries.\n\nHe was the son of a man who had followed many different pursuits, and\nin none had done much more than earn a livelihood. At the age of\nforty--when Edwin, his only child, was ten years old--Mr Reardon\nestablished himself in the town of Hereford as a photographer, and there\nhe abode until his death, nine years after, occasionally risking some\nspeculation not inconsistent with the photographic business, but always\nwith the result of losing the little capital he ventured. Mrs Reardon\ndied when Edwin had reached his fifteenth year. In breeding and\neducation she was superior to her husband, to whom, moreover, she had\nbrought something between four and five hundred pounds; her temper was\npassionate in both senses of the word, and the marriage could hardly be\ncalled a happy one, though it was never disturbed by serious discord.\nThe photographer was a man of whims and idealisms; his wife had a\nstrong vein of worldly ambition. They made few friends, and it was Mrs\nReardon's frequently expressed desire to go and live in London, where\nfortune, she thought, might be kinder to them. Reardon had all but made\nup his mind to try this venture when he suddenly became a widower; after\nthat he never summoned energy to embark on new enterprises.\n\nThe boy was educated at an excellent local school; at eighteen he had\na far better acquaintance with the ancient classics than most lads\nwho have been expressly prepared for a university, and, thanks to an\nanglicised Swiss who acted as an assistant in Mr Reardon's business,\nhe not only read French, but could talk it with a certain haphazard\nfluency. These attainments, however, were not of much practical use; the\nbest that could be done for Edwin was to place him in the office of\nan estate agent. His health was indifferent, and it seemed likely\nthat open-air exercise, of which he would have a good deal under the\nparticular circumstances of the case, might counteract the effects of\nstudy too closely pursued.\n\nAt his father's death he came into possession (practically it was put at\nhis disposal at once, though he was little more than nineteen) of\nabout two hundred pounds--a life-insurance for five hundred had been\nsacrificed to exigencies not very long before. He had no difficulty in\ndeciding how to use this money. His mother's desire to live in London\nhad in him the force of an inherited motive; as soon as possible he\nreleased himself from his uncongenial occupations, converted into money\nall the possessions of which he had not immediate need, and betook\nhimself to the metropolis.\n\nTo become a literary man, of course.\n\nHis capital lasted him nearly four years, for, notwithstanding his age,\nhe lived with painful economy. The strangest life, of almost absolute\nloneliness. From a certain point of Tottenham Court Road there is\nvisible a certain garret window in a certain street which runs parallel\nwith that thoroughfare; for the greater part of these four years the\ngarret in question was Reardon's home. He paid only three-and-sixpence\na week for the privilege of living there; his food cost him about a\nshilling a day; on clothing and other unavoidable expenses he laid\nout some five pounds yearly. Then he bought books--volumes which cost\nanything between twopence and two shillings; further than that he durst\nnot go. A strange time, I assure you.\n\nWhen he had completed his twenty-first year, he desired to procure a\nreader's ticket for the British Museum. Now this was not such a simple\nmatter as you may suppose; it was necessary to obtain the signature of\nsome respectable householder, and Reardon was acquainted with no such\nperson. His landlady was a decent woman enough, and a payer of rates and\ntaxes, but it would look odd, to say the least of it, to present oneself\nin Great Russell Street armed with this person's recommendation. There\nwas nothing for it but to take a bold step, to force himself upon the\nattention of a stranger--the thing from which his pride had always\nshrunk. He wrote to a well-known novelist--a man with whose works he had\nsome sympathy. 'I am trying to prepare myself for a literary career.\nI wish to study in the Reading-room of the British Museum, but have\nno acquaintance to whom I can refer in the ordinary way. Will you help\nme--I mean, in this particular only?' That was the substance of his\nletter. For reply came an invitation to a house in the West-end. With\nfear and trembling Reardon answered the summons. He was so shabbily\nattired; he was so diffident from the habit of living quite alone; he\nwas horribly afraid lest it should be supposed that he looked for other\nassistance than he had requested. Well, the novelist was a rotund and\njovial man; his dwelling and his person smelt of money; he was so happy\nhimself that he could afford to be kind to others.\n\n'Have you published anything?' he inquired, for the young man's letter\nhad left this uncertain.\n\n'Nothing. I have tried the magazines, but as yet without success.'\n\n'But what do you write?'\n\n'Chiefly essays on literary subjects.'\n\n'I can understand that you would find a difficulty in disposing of them.\nThat kind of thing is supplied either by men of established reputation,\nor by anonymous writers who have a regular engagement on papers and\nmagazines. Give me an example of your topics.'\n\n'I have written something lately about Tibullus.'\n\n'Oh, dear! Oh, dear!--Forgive me, Mr Reardon; my feelings were too much\nfor me; those names have been my horror ever since I was a schoolboy.\nFar be it from me to discourage you, if your line is to be solid\nliterary criticism; I will only mention, as a matter of fact, that such\nwork is indifferently paid and in very small demand. It hasn't occurred\nto you to try your hand at fiction?'\n\nIn uttering the word he beamed; to him it meant a thousand or so a year.\n\n'I am afraid I have no talent for that.'\n\nThe novelist could do no more than grant his genial signature for the\nspecified purpose, and add good wishes in abundance. Reardon went home\nwith his brain in a whirl. He had had his first glimpse of what was\nmeant by literary success. That luxurious study, with its shelves of\nhandsomely-bound books, its beautiful pictures, its warm, fragrant\nair--great heavens! what might not a man do who sat at his ease amid\nsuch surroundings!\n\nHe began to work at the Reading-room, but at the same time he thought\noften of the novelist's suggestion, and before long had written two or\nthree short stories. No editor would accept them; but he continued to\npractise himself in that art, and by degrees came to fancy that,\nafter all, perhaps he had some talent for fiction. It was significant,\nhowever, that no native impulse had directed him to novel-writing. His\nintellectual temper was that of the student, the scholar, but strongly\nblended with a love of independence which had always made him think\nwith distaste of a teacher's life. The stories he wrote were scraps\nof immature psychology--the last thing a magazine would accept from an\nunknown man.\n\nHis money dwindled, and there came a winter during which he suffered\nmuch from cold and hunger. What a blessed refuge it was, there under the\ngreat dome, when he must else have sat in his windy garret with the\nmere pretence of a fire! The Reading-room was his true home; its warmth\nenwrapped him kindly; the peculiar odour of its atmosphere--at first a\ncause of headache--grew dear and delightful to him. But he could not sit\nhere until his last penny should be spent. Something practical must be\ndone, and practicality was not his strong point.\n\nFriends in London he had none; but for an occasional conversation with\nhis landlady he would scarcely have spoken a dozen words in a week.\nHis disposition was the reverse of democratic, and he could not make\nacquaintances below his own intellectual level. Solitude fostered\na sensitiveness which to begin with was extreme; the lack of stated\noccupation encouraged his natural tendency to dream and procrastinate\nand hope for the improbable. He was a recluse in the midst of millions,\nand viewed with dread the necessity of going forth to fight for daily\nfood.\n\nLittle by little he had ceased to hold any correspondence with his\nformer friends at Hereford. The only person to whom he still wrote and\nfrom whom he still heard was his mother's father--an old man who lived\nat Derby, retired from the business of a draper, and spending his last\nyears pleasantly enough with a daughter who had remained single. Edwin\nhad always been a favourite with his grandfather, though they had met\nonly once or twice during the past eight years. But in writing he did\nnot allow it to be understood that he was in actual want, and he felt\nthat he must come to dire extremities before he could bring himself to\nbeg assistance.\n\nHe had begun to answer advertisements, but the state of his wardrobe\nforbade his applying for any but humble positions. Once or twice he\npresented himself personally at offices, but his reception was so\nmortifying that death by hunger seemed preferable to a continuance of\nsuch experiences. The injury to his pride made him savagely arrogant;\nfor days after the last rejection he hid himself in his garret, hating\nthe world.\n\nHe sold his little collection of books, and of course they brought only\na trifling sum. That exhausted, he must begin to sell his clothes. And\nthen--?\n\nBut help was at hand. One day he saw it advertised in a newspaper that\nthe secretary of a hospital in the north of London was in need of a\nclerk; application was to be made by letter. He wrote, and two days\nlater, to his astonishment, received a reply asking him to wait upon\nthe secretary at a certain hour. In a fever of agitation he kept the\nappointment, and found that his business was with a young man in the\nvery highest spirits, who walked up and down a little office (the\nhospital was of the 'special' order, a house of no great size), and\ntreated the matter in hand as an excellent joke.\n\n'I thought, you know, of engaging someone much younger--quite a lad, in\nfact. But look there! Those are the replies to my advertisement.'\n\nHe pointed to a heap of five or six hundred letters, and laughed\nconsumedly.\n\n'Impossible to read them all, you know. It seemed to me that the fairest\nthing would be to shake them together, stick my hand in, and take out\none by chance. If it didn't seem very promising, I would try a second\ntime. But the first letter was yours, and I thought the fair thing to do\nwas at all events to see you, you know. The fact is, I am only able to\noffer a pound a week.'\n\n'I shall be very glad indeed to take that,' said Reardon, who was bathed\nin perspiration.\n\n'Then what about references, and so on?' proceeded the young man,\nchuckling and rubbing his hands together.\n\nThe applicant was engaged. He had barely strength to walk home; the\nsudden relief from his miseries made him, for the first time, sensible\nof the extreme physical weakness into which he had sunk. For the next\nweek he was very ill, but he did not allow this to interfere with his\nnew work, which was easily learnt and not burdensome.\n\nHe held this position for three years, and during that time\nimportant things happened. When he had recovered from his state of\nsemi-starvation, and was living in comfort (a pound a week is a very\nlarge sum if you have previously had to live on ten shillings), Reardon\nfound that the impulse to literary production awoke in him more strongly\nthan ever. He generally got home from the hospital about six o'clock,\nand the evening was his own. In this leisure time he wrote a novel in\ntwo volumes; one publisher refused it, but a second offered to bring it\nout on the terms of half profits to the author. The book appeared, and\nwas well spoken of in one or two papers; but profits there were none\nto divide. In the third year of his clerkship he wrote a novel in three\nvolumes; for this his publishers gave him twenty-five pounds, with again\na promise of half the profits after deduction of the sum advanced. Again\nthere was no pecuniary success. He had just got to work upon a third\nbook, when his grandfather at Derby died and left him four hundred\npounds.\n\nHe could not resist the temptation to recover his freedom. Four hundred\npounds, at the rate of eighty pounds a year, meant five years of\nliterary endeavour. In that period he could certainly determine whether\nor not it was his destiny to live by the pen.\n\nIn the meantime his relations with the secretary of the hospital, Carter\nby name, had grown very friendly. When Reardon began to publish books,\nthe high-spirited Mr Carter looked upon him with something of awe; and\nwhen the literary man ceased to be a clerk, there was nothing to prevent\nassociation on equal terms between him and his former employer. They\ncontinued to see a good deal of each other, and Carter made Reardon\nacquainted with certain of his friends, among whom was one John Yule,\nan easy-going, selfish, semi-intellectual young man who had a place in\na Government office. The time of solitude had gone by for Reardon. He\nbegan to develop the power that was in him.\n\nThose two books of his were not of a kind to win popularity. They dealt\nwith no particular class of society (unless one makes a distinct class\nof people who have brains), and they lacked local colour. Their interest\nwas almost purely psychological. It was clear that the author had no\nfaculty for constructing a story, and that pictures of active life were\nnot to be expected of him; he could never appeal to the multitude.\nBut strong characterisation was within his scope, and an intellectual\nfervour, appetising to a small section of refined readers, marked all\nhis best pages.\n\nHe was the kind of man who cannot struggle against adverse conditions,\nbut whom prosperity warms to the exercise of his powers. Anything\nlike the cares of responsibility would sooner or later harass him into\nunproductiveness. That he should produce much was in any case out of the\nquestion; possibly a book every two or three years might not prove too\ngreat a strain upon his delicate mental organism, but for him to attempt\nmore than that would certainly be fatal to the peculiar merit of his\nwork. Of this he was dimly conscious, and, on receiving his legacy, he\nput aside for nearly twelve months the new novel he had begun. To give\nhis mind a rest he wrote several essays, much maturer than those which\nhad formerly failed to find acceptance, and two of these appeared in\nmagazines.\n\nThe money thus earned he spent--at a tailor's. His friend Carter\nventured to suggest this mode of outlay.\n\nHis third book sold for fifty pounds. It was a great improvement on its\npredecessors, and the reviews were generally favourable. For the story\nwhich followed, 'On Neutral Ground,' he received a hundred pounds. On\nthe strength of that he spent six months travelling in the South of\nEurope.\n\nHe returned to London at mid-June, and on the second day after his\narrival befell an incident which was to control the rest of his life.\nBusy with the pictures in the Grosvenor Gallery, he heard himself\naddressed in a familiar voice, and on turning he was aware of Mr Carter,\nresplendent in fashionable summer attire, and accompanied by a young\nlady of some charms. Reardon had formerly feared encounters of this\nkind, too conscious of the defects of his attire; but at present there\nwas no reason why he should shirk social intercourse. He was passably\ndressed, and the half-year of travel had benefited his appearance in\nno slight degree. Carter presented him to the young lady, of whom the\nnovelist had already heard as affianced to his friend.\n\nWhilst they stood conversing, there approached two ladies, evidently\nmother and daughter, whose attendant was another of Reardon's\nacquaintances, Mr John Yule. This gentleman stepped briskly forward and\nwelcomed the returned wanderer.\n\n'Let me introduce you,' he said, 'to my mother and sister. Your fame has\nmade them anxious to know you.'\n\nReardon found himself in a position of which the novelty was\nembarrassing, but scarcely disagreeable. Here were five people\ngrouped around him, all of whom regarded him unaffectedly as a man of\nimportance; for though, strictly speaking, he had no 'fame' at all,\nthese persons had kept up with the progress of his small repute,\nand were all distinctly glad to number among their acquaintances an\nunmistakable author, one, too, who was fresh from Italy and Greece. Mrs\nYule, a lady rather too pretentious in her tone to be attractive to a\nman of Reardon's refinement, hastened to assure him how well his books\nwere known in her house, 'though for the run of ordinary novels we don't\ncare much.' Miss Yule, not at all pretentious in speech, and seemingly\nreserved of disposition, was good enough to show frank interest in the\nauthor. As for the poor author himself, well, he merely fell in love\nwith Miss Yule at first sight, and there was an end of the matter.\n\nA day or two later he made a call at their house, in the region\nof Westbourne Park. It was a small house, and rather showily than\nhandsomely furnished; no one after visiting it would be astonished to\nhear that Mrs Edmund Yule had but a small income, and that she was often\nput to desperate expedients to keep up the gloss of easy circumstances.\nIn the gauzy and fluffy and varnishy little drawing-room Reardon found\na youngish gentleman already in conversation with the widow and her\ndaughter. This proved to be one Mr Jasper Milvain, also a man of\nletters. Mr Milvain was glad to meet Reardon, whose books he had read\nwith decided interest.\n\n'Really,' exclaimed Mrs Yule, 'I don't know how it is that we have had\nto wait so long for the pleasure of knowing you, Mr Reardon. If\nJohn were not so selfish he would have allowed us a share in your\nacquaintance long ago.'\n\nTen weeks thereafter, Miss Yule became Mrs Reardon.\n\nIt was a time of frantic exultation with the poor fellow. He had always\nregarded the winning of a beautiful and intellectual wife as the crown\nof a successful literary career, but he had not dared to hope that such\na triumph would be his. Life had been too hard with him on the whole.\nHe, who hungered for sympathy, who thought of a woman's love as the\nprize of mortals supremely blessed, had spent the fresh years of his\nyouth in monkish solitude. Now of a sudden came friends and flattery,\nay, and love itself. He was rapt to the seventh heaven.\n\nIndeed, it seemed that the girl loved him. She knew that he had but a\nhundred pounds or so left over from that little inheritance, that his\nbooks sold for a trifle, that he had no wealthy relatives from whom he\ncould expect anything; yet she hesitated not a moment when he asked her\nto marry him.\n\n'I have loved you from the first.'\n\n'How is that possible?' he urged. 'What is there lovable in me? I\nam afraid of waking up and finding myself in my old garret, cold and\nhungry.'\n\n'You will be a great man.'\n\n'I implore you not to count on that! In many ways I am wretchedly weak.\nI have no such confidence in myself.'\n\n'Then I will have confidence for both.'\n\n'But can you love me for my own sake--love me as a man?'\n\n'I love you!'\n\nAnd the words sang about him, filled the air with a mad pulsing of\nintolerable joy, made him desire to fling himself in passionate humility\nat her feet, to weep hot tears, to cry to her in insane worship. He\nthought her beautiful beyond anything his heart had imagined; her warm\ngold hair was the rapture of his eyes and of his reverent hand. Though\nslenderly fashioned, she was so gloriously strong. 'Not a day of illness\nin her life,' said Mrs Yule, and one could readily believe it.\n\nShe spoke with such a sweet decision. Her 'I love you!' was a bond with\neternity. In the simplest as in the greatest things she saw his wish\nand acted frankly upon it. No pretty petulance, no affectation of\nsilly-sweet languishing, none of the weaknesses of woman. And so\nexquisitely fresh in her twenty years of maidenhood, with bright young\neyes that seemed to bid defiance to all the years to come.\n\nHe went about like one dazzled with excessive light. He talked as he had\nnever talked before, recklessly, exultantly, insolently--in the nobler\nsense. He made friends on every hand; he welcomed all the world to his\nbosom; he felt the benevolence of a god.\n\n'I love you!' It breathed like music at his ears when he fell asleep\nin weariness of joy; it awakened him on the morrow as with a glorious\nringing summons to renewed life.\n\nDelay? Why should there be delay? Amy wished nothing but to become his\nwife. Idle to think of his doing any more work until he sat down in the\nhome of which she was mistress. His brain burned with visions of the\nbooks he would henceforth write, but his hand was incapable of anything\nbut a love-letter. And what letters! Reardon never published anything\nequal to those. 'I have received your poem,' Amy replied to one of them.\nAnd she was right; not a letter, but a poem he had sent her, with every\nword on fire.\n\nThe hours of talk! It enraptured him to find how much she had read, and\nwith what clearness of understanding. Latin and Greek, no. Ah! but\nshe should learn them both, that there might be nothing wanting in the\ncommunion between his thought and hers. For he loved the old writers\nwith all his heart; they had been such strength to him in his days of\nmisery.\n\nThey would go together to the charmed lands of the South. No, not now\nfor their marriage holiday--Amy said that would be an imprudent\nexpense; but as soon as he had got a good price for a book. Will not the\npublishers be kind? If they knew what happiness lurked in embryo within\ntheir foolish cheque-books!\n\nHe woke of a sudden in the early hours of one morning, a week before the\nwedding-day. You know that kind of awaking, so complete in an instant,\ncaused by the pressure of some troublesome thought upon the dreaming\nbrain. 'Suppose I should not succeed henceforth? Suppose I could never\nget more than this poor hundred pounds for one of the long books which\ncost me so much labour? I shall perhaps have children to support; and\nAmy--how would Amy bear poverty?'\n\nHe knew what poverty means. The chilling of brain and heart, the\nunnerving of the hands, the slow gathering about one of fear and shame\nand impotent wrath, the dread feeling of helplessness, of the world's\nbase indifference. Poverty! Poverty!\n\nAnd for hours he could not sleep. His eyes kept filling with tears, the\nbeating of his heart was low; and in his solitude he called upon Amy\nwith pitiful entreaty: 'Do not forsake me! I love you! I love you!'\n\nBut that went by. Six days, five days, four days--will one's heart burst\nwith happiness? The flat is taken, is furnished, up there towards the\nsky, eight flights of stone steps.\n\n'You're a confoundedly lucky fellow, Reardon,' remarked Milvain, who had\nalready become very intimate with his new friend. 'A good fellow, too,\nand you deserve it.'\n\n'But at first I had a horrible suspicion.'\n\n'I guess what you mean. No; I wasn't even in love with her, though I\nadmired her. She would never have cared for me in any case; I am not\nsentimental enough.'\n\n'The deuce!'\n\n'I mean it in an inoffensive sense. She and I are rather too much alike,\nI fancy.'\n\n'How do you mean?' asked Reardon, puzzled, and not very well pleased.\n\n'There's a great deal of pure intellect about Miss Yule, you know. She\nwas sure to choose a man of the passionate kind.'\n\n'I think you are talking nonsense, my dear fellow.'\n\n'Well, perhaps I am. To tell you the truth, I have by no means completed\nmy study of women yet. It is one of the things in which I hope to be a\nspecialist some day, though I don't think I shall ever make use of it in\nnovels--rather, perhaps, in life.'\n\nThree days--two days--one day.\n\nNow let every joyous sound which the great globe can utter ring forth\nin one burst of harmony! Is it not well done to make the village-bells\nchant merrily when a marriage is over? Here in London we can have no\nsuch music; but for us, my dear one, all the roaring life of the great\ncity is wedding-hymn. Sweet, pure face under its bridal-veil! The face\nwhich shall, if fate spare it, be as dear to me many a long year hence\nas now at the culminating moment of my life!\n\nAs he trudged on in the dark, his tortured memory was living through\nthat time again. The images forced themselves upon him, however much he\ntried to think of quite other things--of some fictitious story on which\nhe might set to work. In the case of his earlier books he had waited\nquietly until some suggestive 'situation,' some group of congenial\ncharacters, came with sudden delightfulness before his mind and urged\nhim to write; but nothing so spontaneous could now be hoped for. His\nbrain was too weary with months of fruitless, harassing endeavour;\nmoreover, he was trying to devise a 'plot,' the kind of literary\nJack-in-the-box which might excite interest in the mass of readers, and\nthis was alien to the natural working of his imagination. He suffered\nthe torments of nightmare--an oppression of the brain and heart which\nmust soon be intolerable.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. THE PRACTICAL FRIEND\n\nWhen her husband had set forth, Amy seated herself in the study and took\nup a new library volume as if to read. But she had no real intention of\ndoing so; it was always disagreeable to her to sit in the manner of one\ntotally unoccupied, with hands on lap, and even when she consciously\ngave herself up to musing an open book was generally before her. She did\nnot, in truth, read much nowadays; since the birth of her child she had\nseemed to care less than before for disinterested study. If a new\nnovel that had succeeded came into her hands she perused it in a very\npractical spirit, commenting to Reardon on the features of the work\nwhich had made it popular; formerly, she would have thought much more of\nits purely literary merits, for which her eye was very keen. How often\nshe had given her husband a thrill of exquisite pleasure by pointing\nto some merit or defect of which the common reader would be totally\ninsensible! Now she spoke less frequently on such subjects. Her\ninterests were becoming more personal; she liked to hear details of the\nsuccess of popular authors--about their wives or husbands, as the case\nmight be, their arrangements with publishers, their methods of work.\nThe gossip columns of literary papers--and of some that were not\nliterary--had an attraction for her. She talked of questions such\nas international copyright, was anxious to get an insight into the\npractical conduct of journals and magazines, liked to know who 'read'\nfor the publishing-houses. To an impartial observer it might have\nappeared that her intellect was growing more active and mature.\n\nMore than half an hour passed. It was not a pleasant train of thought\nthat now occupied her. Her lips were drawn together, her brows were\nslightly wrinkled; the self-control which at other times was agreeably\nexpressed upon her features had become rather too cold and decided. At\none moment it seemed to her that she heard a sound in the bedroom--the\ndoors were purposely left ajar--and her head turned quickly to listen,\nthe look in her eyes instantaneously softening; but all remained quiet.\nThe street would have been silent but for a cab that now and then\npassed--the swing of a hansom or the roll of a four-wheeler--and within\nthe buildings nothing whatever was audible.\n\nYes, a footstep, briskly mounting the stone stairs. Not like that of the\npostman. A visitor, perhaps, to the other flat on the topmost landing.\nBut the final pause was in this direction, and then came a sharp rat-tat\nat the door. Amy rose immediately and went to open.\n\nJasper Milvain raised his urban silk hat, then held out his hand with\nthe greeting of frank friendship. His inquiries were in so loud a voice\nthat Amy checked him with a forbidding gesture.\n\n'You'll wake Willie!'\n\n'By Jove! I always forget,' he exclaimed in subdued tones. 'Does the\ninfant flourish?'\n\n'Oh, yes!'\n\n'Reardon out? I got back on Saturday evening, but couldn't come round\nbefore this.' It was Monday. 'How close it is in here! I suppose the\nroof gets so heated during the day. Glorious weather in the country! And\nI've no end of things to tell you. He won't be long, I suppose?'\n\n'I think not.'\n\nHe left his hat and stick in the passage, came into the study, and\nglanced about as if he expected to see some change since he was last\nhere, three weeks ago.\n\n'So you have been enjoying yourself?' said Amy as, after listening for a\nmoment at the door, she took a seat.\n\n'Oh, a little freshening of the faculties. But whose acquaintance do you\nthink I have made?'\n\n'Down there?'\n\n'Yes. Your uncle Alfred and his daughter were staying at John Yule's,\nand I saw something of them. I was invited to the house.'\n\n'Did you speak of us?'\n\n'To Miss Yule only. I happened to meet her on a walk, and in a\nblundering way I mentioned Reardon's name. But of course it didn't\nmatter in the least. She inquired about you with a good deal of\ninterest--asked if you were as beautiful as you promised to be years\nago.'\n\nAmy laughed.\n\n'Doesn't that proceed from your fertile invention, Mr Milvain?'\n\n'Not a bit of it! By-the-bye, what would be your natural question\nconcerning her? Do you think she gave promise of good looks?'\n\n'I'm afraid I can't say that she did. She had a good face, but--rather\nplain.'\n\n'I see.' Jasper threw back his head and seemed to contemplate an object\nin memory. 'Well, I shouldn't wonder if most people called her a trifle\nplain even now; and yet--no, that's hardly possible, after all. She has\nno colour. Wears her hair short.'\n\n'Short?'\n\n'Oh, I don't mean the smooth, boyish hair with a parting--not the\nkind of hair that would be lank if it grew long. Curly all over. Looks\nuncommonly well, I assure you. She has a capital head. Odd girl; very\nodd girl! Quiet, thoughtful--not very happy, I'm afraid. Seems to think\nwith dread of a return to books.'\n\n'Indeed! But I had understood that she was a reader.'\n\n'Reading enough for six people, probably. Perhaps her health is not\nvery robust. Oh, I knew her by sight quite well--had seen her at the\nReading-room. She's the kind of girl that gets into one's head, you\nknow--suggestive; much more in her than comes out until one knows her\nvery well.'\n\n'Well, I should hope so,' remarked Amy, with a peculiar smile.\n\n'But that's by no means a matter of course. They didn't invite me to\ncome and see them in London.'\n\n'I suppose Marian mentioned your acquaintance with this branch of the\nfamily?'\n\n'I think not. At all events, she promised me she wouldn't.'\n\nAmy looked at him inquiringly, in a puzzled way.\n\n'She promised you?'\n\n'Voluntarily. We got rather sympathetic. Your uncle--Alfred, I mean--is\na remarkable man; but I think he regarded me as a youth of no particular\nimportance. Well, how do things go?'\n\nAmy shook her head.\n\n'No progress?'\n\n'None whatever. He can't work; I begin to be afraid that he is really\nill. He must go away before the fine weather is over. Do persuade him\nto-night! I wish you could have had a holiday with him.'\n\n'Out of the question now, I'm sorry to say. I must work savagely. But\ncan't you all manage a fortnight somewhere--Hastings, Eastbourne?'\n\n'It would be simply rash. One goes on saying, \"What does a pound or two\nmatter?\"--but it begins at length to matter a great deal.'\n\n'I know, confound it all! Think how it would amuse some rich grocer's\nson who pitches his half-sovereign to the waiter when he has dined\nhimself into good humour! But I tell you what it is: you must really try\nto influence him towards practicality. Don't you think--?'\n\nHe paused, and Amy sat looking at her hands.\n\n'I have made an attempt,' she said at length, in a distant undertone.\n\n'You really have?'\n\nJasper leaned forward, his clasped hands hanging between his knees. He\nwas scrutinising her face, and Amy, conscious of the too fixed regard,\nat length moved her head uneasily.\n\n'It seems very clear to me,' she said, 'that a long book is out of the\nquestion for him at present. He writes so slowly, and is so fastidious.\nIt would be a fatal thing to hurry through something weaker even than\nthe last.'\n\n'You think \"The Optimist\" weak?' Jasper asked, half absently.\n\n'I don't think it worthy of Edwin; I don't see how anyone can.\n\n'I have wondered what your opinion was. Yes, he ought to try a new tack,\nI think.'\n\nJust then there came the sound of a latch-key opening the outer door.\nJasper lay back in his chair and waited with a smile for his expected\nfriend's appearance; Amy made no movement.\n\n'Oh, there you are!' said Reardon, presenting himself with the dazzled\neyes of one who has been in darkness; he spoke in a voice of genial\nwelcome, though it still had the note of depression. 'When did you get\nback?'\n\nMilvain began to recount what he had told in the first part of his\nconversation with Amy. As he did so, the latter withdrew, and was absent\nfor five minutes; on reappearing she said:\n\n'You'll have some supper with us, Mr Milvain?'\n\n'I think I will, please.'\n\nShortly after, all repaired to the eating-room, where conversation\nhad to be carried on in a low tone because of the proximity of the\nbedchamber in which lay the sleeping child. Jasper began to tell of\ncertain things that had happened to him since his arrival in town.\n\n'It was a curious coincidence--but, by-the-bye, have you heard of what\nThe Study has been doing?'\n\n'I should rather think so,' replied Reardon, his face lighting up. 'With\nno small satisfaction.'\n\n'Delicious, isn't it?' exclaimed his wife. 'I thought it too good to be\ntrue when Edwin heard of it from Mr Biffen.'\n\nAll three laughed in subdued chorus. For the moment, Reardon became a\nnew man in his exultation over the contradictory reviewers.\n\n'Oh, Biffen told you, did he? Well,' continued Jasper, 'it was an odd\nthing, but when I reached my lodgings on Saturday evening there lay\na note from Horace Barlow, inviting me to go and see him on Sunday\nafternoon out at Wimbledon, the special reason being that the editor of\nThe Study would be there, and Barlow thought I might like to meet him.\nNow this letter gave me a fit of laughter; not only because of those\nprecious reviews, but because Alfred Yule had been telling me all about\nthis same editor, who rejoices in the name of Fadge. Your uncle, Mrs\nReardon, declares that Fadge is the most malicious man in the literary\nprofession; though that's saying such a very great deal--well, never\nmind! Of course I was delighted to go and meet Fadge. At Barlow's I\nfound the queerest collection of people, most of them women of the\ninkiest description. The great Fadge himself surprised me; I expected\nto see a gaunt, bilious man, and he was the rosiest and dumpiest little\ndandy you can imagine; a fellow of forty-five, I dare say, with thin\nyellow hair and blue eyes and a manner of extreme innocence. Fadge\nflattered me with confidential chat, and I discovered at length why\nBarlow had asked me to meet him; it's Fadge that is going to edit\nCulpepper's new monthly--you've heard about it?--and he had actually\nthought it worth while to enlist me among contributors! Now, how's that\nfor a piece of news?'\n\nThe speaker looked from Reardon to Amy with a smile of vast\nsignificance.\n\n'I rejoice to hear it!' said Reardon, fervently.\n\n'You see! you see!' cried Jasper, forgetting all about the infant in the\nnext room, 'all things come to the man who knows how to wait. But I'm\nhanged if I expected a thing of this kind to come so soon! Why, I'm a\nman of distinction! My doings have been noted; the admirable qualities\nof my style have drawn attention; I'm looked upon as one of the coming\nmen! Thanks, I confess, in some measure, to old Barlow; he seems to have\namused himself with cracking me up to all and sundry. That last thing\nof mine in The West End has done me a vast amount of good, it seems. And\nAlfred Yule himself had noticed that paper in The Wayside. That's how\nthings work, you know; reputation comes with a burst, just when you're\nnot looking for anything of the kind.'\n\n'What's the new magazine to be called?' asked Amy.\n\n'Why, they propose The Current. Not bad, in a way; though you imagine\na fellow saying \"Have you seen the current Current?\" At all events, the\ntone is to be up to date, and the articles are to be short; no padding,\nmerum sal from cover to cover. What do you think I have undertaken to\ndo, for a start? A paper consisting of sketches of typical readers of\neach of the principal daily and weekly papers. A deuced good idea, you\nknow--my own, of course--but deucedly hard to carry out. I shall rise\nto the occasion, see if I don't. I'll rival Fadge himself in\nmaliciousness--though I must confess I discovered no particular malice\nin the fellow's way of talking. The article shall make a sensation. I'll\nspend a whole month on it, and make it a perfect piece of satire.'\n\n'Now that's the kind of thing that inspires me with awe and envy,'\nsaid Reardon. 'I could no more write such a paper than an article on\nFluxions.'\n\n''Tis my vocation, Hal! You might think I hadn't experience enough,\nto begin with. But my intuition is so strong that I can make a little\nexperience go an immense way. Most people would imagine I had been\nwasting my time these last few years, just sauntering about, reading\nnothing but periodicals, making acquaintance with loafers of every\ndescription. The truth is, I have been collecting ideas, and ideas\nthat are convertible into coin of the realm, my boy; I have the special\nfaculty of an extempore writer. Never in my life shall I do anything of\nsolid literary value; I shall always despise the people I write for. But\nmy path will be that of success. I have always said it, and now I'm sure\nof it.'\n\n'Does Fadge retire from The Study, then?' inquired Reardon, when he had\nreceived this tirade with a friendly laugh.\n\n'Yes, he does. Was going to, it seems, in any case. Of course I heard\nnothing about the two reviews, and I was almost afraid to smile whilst\nFadge was talking with me, lest I should betray my thought. Did you know\nanything about the fellow before?'\n\n'Not I. Didn't know who edited The Study.'\n\n'Nor I either. Remarkable what a number of illustrious obscure are going\nabout. But I have still something else to tell you. I'm going to set my\nsisters afloat in literature.'\n\n'How!'\n\n'Well, I don't see why they shouldn't try their hands at a little\nwriting, instead of giving lessons, which doesn't suit them a bit. Last\nnight, when I got back from Wimbledon, I went to look up Davies. Perhaps\nyou don't remember my mentioning him; a fellow who was at Jolly and\nMonk's, the publishers, up to a year ago. He edits a trade journal now,\nand I see very little of him. However, I found him at home, and had\na long practical talk with him. I wanted to find out the state of the\nmarket as to such wares as Jolly and Monk dispose of. He gave me some\nvery useful hints, and the result was that I went off this morning and\nsaw Monk himself--no Jolly exists at present. \"Mr Monk,\" I began, in my\nblandest tone--you know it--\"I am requested to call upon you by a lady\nwho thinks of preparing a little volume to be called 'A Child's History\nof the English Parliament.' Her idea is, that\"--and so on. Well, I\ngot on admirably with Monk, especially when he learnt that I was to be\nconnected with Culpepper's new venture; he smiled upon the project, and\nsaid he should be very glad to see a specimen chapter; if that pleased\nhim, we could then discuss terms.'\n\n'But has one of your sisters really begun such a book?' inquired Amy.\n\n'Neither of them knows anything of the matter, but they are certainly\ncapable of doing the kind of thing I have in mind, which will consist\nlargely of anecdotes of prominent statesmen. I myself shall write the\nspecimen chapter, and send it to the girls to show them what I propose.\nI shouldn't wonder if they make some fifty pounds out of it. The few\nbooks that will be necessary they can either get at a Wattleborough\nlibrary, or I can send them.'\n\n'Your energy is remarkable, all of a sudden,' said Reardon.\n\n'Yes. The hour has come, I find. \"There is a tide\"--to quote something\nthat has the charm of freshness.'\n\nThe supper--which consisted of bread and butter, cheese, sardines,\ncocoa--was now over, and Jasper, still enlarging on his recent\nexperiences and future prospects, led the way back to the sitting-room.\nNot very long after this, Amy left the two friends to their pipes; she\nwas anxious that her husband should discuss his affairs privately with\nMilvain, and give ear to the practical advice which she knew would be\ntendered him.\n\n'I hear that you are still stuck fast,' began Jasper, when they had\nsmoked awhile in silence.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Getting rather serious, I should fear, isn't it?'\n\n'Yes,' repeated Reardon, in a low voice.\n\n'Come, come, old man, you can't go on in this way. Would it, or wouldn't\nit, be any use if you took a seaside holiday?'\n\n'Not the least. I am incapable of holiday, if the opportunity were\noffered. Do something I must, or I shall fret myself into imbecility.'\n\n'Very well. What is it to be?'\n\n'I shall try to manufacture two volumes. They needn't run to more than\nabout two hundred and seventy pages, and those well spaced out.'\n\n'This is refreshing. This is practical. But look now: let it be\nsomething rather sensational. Couldn't we invent a good title--something\nto catch eye and ear? The title would suggest the story, you know.'\n\nReardon laughed contemptuously, but the scorn was directed rather\nagainst himself than Milvain.\n\n'Let's try,' he muttered.\n\nBoth appeared to exercise their minds on the problem for a few minutes.\nThen Jasper slapped his knee.\n\n'How would this do: \"The Weird Sisters\"? Devilish good, eh? Suggests all\nsorts of things, both to the vulgar and the educated. Nothing brutally\nclap-trap about it, you know.'\n\n'But--what does it suggest to you?'\n\n'Oh, witch-like, mysterious girls or women. Think it over.'\n\nThere was another long silence. Reardon's face was that of a man in\nblank misery.\n\n'I have been trying,' he said at length, after an attempt to speak which\nwas checked by a huskiness in his throat, 'to explain to myself how this\nstate of things has come about. I almost think I can do so.'\n\n'How?'\n\n'That half-year abroad, and the extraordinary shock of happiness which\nfollowed at once upon it, have disturbed the balance of my nature.\nIt was adjusted to circumstances of hardship, privation, struggle.\nA temperament like mine can't pass through such a violent change of\nconditions without being greatly affected; I have never since been the\nman I was before I left England. The stage I had then reached was the\nresult of a slow and elaborate building up; I could look back and see\nthe processes by which I had grown from the boy who was a mere bookworm\nto the man who had all but succeeded as a novelist. It was a perfectly\nnatural, sober development. But in the last two years and a half I can\ndistinguish no order. In living through it, I have imagined from time\nto time that my powers were coming to their ripest; but that was mere\ndelusion. Intellectually, I have fallen back. The probability is that\nthis wouldn't matter, if only I could live on in peace of mind; I should\nrecover my equilibrium, and perhaps once more understand myself. But the\ndue course of things is troubled by my poverty.'\n\nHe spoke in a slow, meditative way, in a monotonous voice, and without\nraising his eyes from the ground.\n\n'I can understand,' put in Jasper, 'that there may be philosophical\ntruth in all this. All the same, it's a great pity that you should\noccupy your mind with such thoughts.'\n\n'A pity--no! I must remain a reasoning creature. Disaster may end by\ndriving me out of my wits, but till then I won't abandon my heritage of\nthought.'\n\n'Let us have it out, then. You think it was a mistake to spend those\nmonths abroad?'\n\n'A mistake from the practical point of view. That vast broadening of my\nhorizon lost me the command of my literary resources. I lived in\nItaly and Greece as a student, concerned especially with the old\ncivilisations; I read little but Greek and Latin. That brought me out of\nthe track I had laboriously made for myself I often thought with disgust\nof the kind of work I had been doing; my novels seemed vapid stuff so\nwretchedly and shallowly modern. If I had had the means, I should have\ndevoted myself to the life of a scholar. That, I quite believe, is my\nnatural life; it's only the influence of recent circumstances that has\nmade me a writer of novels. A man who can't journalise, yet must earn\nhis bread by literature, nowadays inevitably turns to fiction, as the\nElizabethan men turned to the drama. Well, but I should have got back, I\nthink, into the old line of work. It was my marriage that completed what\nthe time abroad had begun.'\n\nHe looked up suddenly, and added:\n\n'I am speaking as if to myself. You, of course, don't misunderstand me,\nand think I am accusing my wife.'\n\n'No, I don't take you to mean that, by any means.'\n\n'No, no; of course not. All that's wrong is my accursed want of money.\nBut that threatens to be such a fearful wrong, that I begin to wish I\nhad died before my marriage-day. Then Amy would have been saved. The\nPhilistines are right: a man has no business to marry unless he has a\nsecured income equal to all natural demands. I behaved with the grossest\nselfishness. I might have known that such happiness was never meant for\nme.'\n\n'Do you mean by all this that you seriously doubt whether you will ever\nbe able to write again?'\n\n'In awful seriousness, I doubt it,' replied Reardon, with haggard face.\n\n'It strikes me as extraordinary. In your position I should work as I\nnever had done before.'\n\n'Because you are the kind of man who is roused by necessity. I am\novercome by it. My nature is feeble and luxurious. I never in my life\nencountered and overcame a practical difficulty.'\n\n'Yes; when you got the work at the hospital.'\n\n'All I did was to write a letter, and chance made it effective.'\n\n'My view of the case, Reardon, is that you are simply ill.'\n\n'Certainly I am; but the ailment is desperately complicated. Tell me: do\nyou think I might possibly get any kind of stated work to do? Should I\nbe fit for any place in a newspaper office, for instance?'\n\n'I fear not. You are the last man to have anything to do with\njournalism.'\n\n'If I appealed to my publishers, could they help me?'\n\n'I don't see how. They would simply say: Write a book and we'll buy it.'\n\n'Yes, there's no help but that.'\n\n'If only you were able to write short stories, Fadge might be useful.'\n\n'But what's the use? I suppose I might get ten guineas, at most, for\nsuch a story. I need a couple of hundred pounds at least. Even if\nI could finish a three-volume book, I doubt if they would give me a\nhundred again, after the failure of \"The Optimist\"; no, they wouldn't.'\n\n'But to sit and look forward in this way is absolutely fatal, my\ndear fellow. Get to work at your two-volume story. Call it \"The Weird\nSisters,\" or anything better that you can devise; but get it done, so\nmany pages a day. If I go ahead as I begin to think I shall, I shall\nsoon be able to assure you good notices in a lot of papers. Your\nmisfortune has been that you had no influential friends. By-the-bye, how\nhas The Study been in the habit of treating you?'\n\n'Scrubbily.'\n\n'I'll make an opportunity of talking about your books to Fadge. I think\nFadge and I shall get on pretty well together. Alfred Yule hates the man\nfiercely, for some reason or other. By the way, I may as well tell you\nthat I broke short off with the Yules on purpose.'\n\n'Oh?'\n\n'I had begun to think far too much about the girl. Wouldn't do, you\nknow. I must marry someone with money, and a good deal of it.\nThat's a settled point with me.'\n\n'Then you are not at all likely to meet them in London?'\n\n'Not at all. And if I get allied with Fadge, no doubt Yule will involve\nme in his savage feeling. You see how wisely I acted. I have a scent for\nthe prudent course.'\n\nThey talked for a long time, but again chiefly of Milvain's affairs.\nReardon, indeed, cared little to say anything more about his own. Talk\nwas mere vanity and vexation of spirit, for the spring of his volition\nseemed to be broken, and, whatever resolve he might utter, he knew that\neverything depended on influences he could not even foresee.\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. MARIAN'S HOME\n\nThree weeks after her return from the country--which took place a week\nlater than that of Jasper Milvain--Marian Yule was working one afternoon\nat her usual place in the Museum Reading-room. It was three o'clock, and\nwith the interval of half an hour at midday, when she went away for a\ncup of tea and a sandwich, she had been closely occupied since half-past\nnine. Her task at present was to collect materials for a paper on\n'French Authoresses of the Seventeenth Century,' the kind of thing\nwhich her father supplied on stipulated terms for anonymous publication.\nMarian was by this time almost able to complete such a piece of\nmanufacture herself and her father's share in it was limited to a few\nhints and corrections. The greater part of the work by which Yule earned\nhis moderate income was anonymous: volumes and articles which bore his\nsignature dealt with much the same subjects as his unsigned matter, but\nthe writing was laboured with a conscientiousness unusual in men of his\nposition. The result, unhappily, was not correspondent with the efforts.\nAlfred Yule had made a recognisable name among the critical writers of\nthe day; seeing him in the title-lists of a periodical, most people knew\nwhat to expect, but not a few forbore the cutting open of the pages he\noccupied. He was learned, copious, occasionally mordant in style; but\ngrace had been denied to him. He had of late begun to perceive the fact\nthat those passages of Marian's writing which were printed just as they\ncame from her pen had merit of a kind quite distinct from anything of\nwhich he himself was capable, and it began to be a question with\nhim whether it would not be advantageous to let the girl sign these\ncompositions. A matter of business, to be sure--at all events in the\nfirst instance.\n\nFor a long time Marian had scarcely looked up from the desk, but at this\nmoment she found it necessary to refer to the invaluable Larousse. As so\noften happened, the particular volume of which she had need was not upon\nthe shelf. She turned away, and looked about her with a gaze of weary\ndisappointment. At a little distance were standing two young men,\nengaged, as their faces showed, in facetious colloquy; as soon as she\nobserved them, Marian's eyes fell, but the next moment she looked again\nin that direction. Her face had wholly changed; she wore a look of timid\nexpectancy.\n\nThe men were moving towards her, still talking and laughing. She turned\nto the shelves, and affected to search for a book. The voices drew near,\nand one of them was well known to her; now she could hear every word;\nnow the speakers were gone by. Was it possible that Mr Milvain had not\nrecognised her? She followed him with her eyes, and saw him take a seat\nnot far off he must have passed without even being aware of her.\n\nShe went back to her place and for some minutes sat trifling with a pen.\nWhen she made a show of resuming work, it was evident that she could no\nlonger apply herself as before. Every now and then she glanced at people\nwho were passing; there were intervals when she wholly lost herself in\nreverie. She was tired, and had even a slight headache. When the hand of\nthe clock pointed to half-past three, she closed the volume from which\nshe had been copying extracts, and began to collect her papers.\n\nA voice spoke close behind her.\n\n'Where's your father, Miss Yule?'\n\nThe speaker was a man of sixty, short, stout, tonsured by the hand of\ntime. He had a broad, flabby face, the colour of an ancient turnip,\nsave where one of the cheeks was marked with a mulberry stain; his\neyes, grey-orbed in a yellow setting, glared with good-humoured\ninquisitiveness, and his mouth was that of the confirmed gossip. For\neyebrows he had two little patches of reddish stubble; for moustache,\nwhat looked like a bit of discoloured tow, and scraps of similar\nmaterial hanging beneath his creasy chin represented a beard. His garb\nmust have seen a great deal of Museum service; it consisted of a jacket,\nsomething between brown and blue, hanging in capacious shapelessness,\na waistcoat half open for lack of buttons and with one of the pockets\ncoming unsewn, a pair of bronze-hued trousers which had all run to\nknee. Necktie he had none, and his linen made distinct appeal to the\nlaundress.\n\nMarian shook hands with him.\n\n'He went away at half-past two,' was her reply to his question.\n\n'How annoying! I wanted particularly to see him. I have been running\nabout all day, and couldn't get here before. Something important--most\nimportant. At all events, I can tell you. But I entreat that you won't\nbreathe a word save to your father.'\n\nMr Quarmby--that was his name--had taken a vacant chair and drawn it\nclose to Marian's. He was in a state of joyous excitement, and talked\nin thick, rather pompous tones, with a pant at the end of a sentence. To\nemphasise the extremely confidential nature of his remarks, he brought\nhis head almost in contact with the girl's, and one of her thin,\ndelicate hands was covered with his red, podgy fingers.\n\n'I've had a talk with Nathaniel Walker,' he continued; 'a long talk--a\ntalk of vast importance. You know Walker? No, no; how should you? He's a\nman of business; close friend of Rackett's--Rackett, you know, the owner\nof The Study.'\n\nUpon this he made a grave pause, and glared more excitedly than ever.\n\n'I have heard of Mr Rackett,' said Marian.\n\n'Of course, of course. And you must also have heard that Fadge leaves\nThe Study at the end of this year, eh?'\n\n'Father told me it was probable.'\n\n'Rackett and he have done nothing but quarrel for months; the paper is\nfalling off seriously. Well, now, when I came across Nat Walker this\nafternoon, the first thing he said to me was, \"You know Alfred Yule\npretty well, I think?\" \"Pretty well,\" I answered; \"why?\" \"I'll tell\nyou,\" he said, \"but it's between you and me, you understand. Rackett is\nthinking about him in connection with The Study.\" \"I'm delighted to hear\nit.\" \"To tell you the truth,\" went on Nat, \"I shouldn't wonder if Yule\ngets the editorship; but you understand that it would be altogether\npremature to talk about it.\" Now what do you think of this, eh?'\n\n'It's very good news,' answered Marian.\n\n'I should think so! Ho, ho!'\n\nMr Quarmby laughed in a peculiar way, which was the result of long years\nof mirth-subdual in the Reading-room.\n\n'But not a breath to anyone but your father. He'll be here to-morrow?\nBreak it gently to him, you know; he's an excitable man; can't take\nthings quietly, like I do. Ho, ho!'\n\nHis suppressed laugh ended in a fit of coughing--the Reading-room cough.\nWhen he had recovered from it, he pressed Marian's hand with paternal\nfervour, and waddled off to chatter with someone else.\n\nMarian replaced several books on the reference-shelves, returned others\nto the central desk, and was just leaving the room, when again a voice\nmade demand upon her attention.\n\n'Miss Yule! One moment, if you please!'\n\nIt was a tall, meagre, dry-featured man, dressed with the painful\nneatness of self-respecting poverty: the edges of his coat-sleeves were\ncarefully darned; his black necktie and a skull-cap which covered\nhis baldness were evidently of home manufacture. He smiled softly and\ntimidly with blue, rheumy eyes. Two or three recent cuts on his chin and\nneck were the result of conscientious shaving with an unsteady hand.\n\n'I have been looking for your father,' he said, as Marian turned. 'Isn't\nhe here?'\n\n'He has gone, Mr Hinks.'\n\n'Ah, then would you do me the kindness to take a book for him? In fact,\nit's my little \"Essay on the Historical Drama,\" just out.'\n\nHe spoke with nervous hesitation, and in a tone which seemed to make\napology for his existence.\n\n'Oh, father will be very glad to have it.'\n\n'If you will kindly wait one minute, Miss Yule. It's at my place over\nthere.'\n\nHe went off with long strides, and speedily came back panting, in his\nhand a thin new volume.\n\n'My kind regards to him, Miss Yule. You are quite well, I hope? I won't\ndetain you.'\n\nAnd he backed into a man who was coming inobservantly this way.\n\nMarian went to the ladies' cloak-room, put on her hat and jacket, and\nleft the Museum. Some one passed out through the swing-door a moment\nbefore her, and as soon as she had issued beneath the portico, she saw\nthat it was Jasper Milvain; she must have followed him through the hall,\nbut her eyes had been cast down. The young man was now alone; as he\ndescended the steps he looked to left and right, but not behind him.\nMarian followed at a distance of two or three yards. Nearing the\ngateway, she quickened her pace a little, so as to pass out into the\nstreet almost at the same moment as Milvain. But he did not turn his\nhead.\n\nHe took to the right. Marian had fallen back again, but she still\nfollowed at a very little distance. His walk was slow, and she might\neasily have passed him in quite a natural way; in that case he could not\nhelp seeing her. But there was an uneasy suspicion in her mind that he\nreally must have noticed her in the Reading-room. This was the first\ntime she had seen him since their parting at Finden. Had he any reason\nfor avoiding her? Did he take it ill that her father had shown no desire\nto keep up his acquaintance?\n\nShe allowed the interval between them to become greater. In a minute or\ntwo Milvain turned up Charlotte Street, and so she lost sight of him.\n\nIn Tottenham Court Road she waited for an omnibus that would take her\nto the remoter part of Camden Town; obtaining a corner seat, she drew as\nfar back as possible, and paid no attention to her fellow-passengers.\nAt a point in Camden Road she at length alighted, and after ten\nminutes' walk reached her destination in a quiet by-way called St Paul's\nCrescent, consisting of small, decent houses. That at which she paused\nhad an exterior promising comfort within; the windows were clean and\nneatly curtained, and the polishable appurtenances of the door gleamed\nto perfection. She admitted herself with a latch-key, and went straight\nupstairs without encountering anyone.\n\nDescending again in a few moments, she entered the front room on the\nground-floor. This served both as parlour and dining-room; it was\ncomfortably furnished, without much attempt at adornment. On the walls\nwere a few autotypes and old engravings. A recess between fireplace and\nwindow was fitted with shelves, which supported hundreds of volumes,\nthe overflow of Yule's library. The table was laid for a meal. It best\nsuited the convenience of the family to dine at five o'clock; a long\nevening, so necessary to most literary people, was thus assured.\nMarian, as always when she had spent a day at the Museum, was faint with\nweariness and hunger; she cut a small piece of bread from a loaf on the\ntable, and sat down in an easy chair.\n\nPresently appeared a short, slight woman of middle age, plainly dressed\nin serviceable grey. Her face could never have been very comely, and it\nexpressed but moderate intelligence; its lines, however, were those of\ngentleness and good feeling. She had the look of one who is making\na painful effort to understand something; this was fixed upon her\nfeatures, and probably resulted from the peculiar conditions of her\nlife.\n\n'Rather early, aren't you, Marian?' she said, as she closed the door and\ncame forward to take a seat.\n\n'Yes; I have a little headache.'\n\n'Oh, dear! Is that beginning again?'\n\nMrs Yule's speech was seldom ungrammatical, and her intonation was not\nflagrantly vulgar, but the accent of the London poor, which brands as\nwith hereditary baseness, still clung to her words, rendering futile\nsuch propriety of phrase as she owed to years of association with\neducated people. In the same degree did her bearing fall short of that\nwhich distinguishes a lady. The London work-girl is rarely capable of\nraising herself or being raised, to a place in life above that to which\nshe was born; she cannot learn how to stand and sit and move like a\nwoman bred to refinement, any more than she can fashion her tongue\nto graceful speech. Mrs Yule's behaviour to Marian was marked with a\nsingular diffidence; she looked and spoke affectionately, but not with a\nmother's freedom; one might have taken her for a trusted servant waiting\nupon her mistress. Whenever opportunity offered, she watched the girl\nin a curiously furtive way, that puzzled look on her face becoming very\nnoticeable. Her consciousness was never able to accept as a familiar and\nunimportant fact the vast difference between herself and her daughter.\nMarian's superiority in native powers, in delicacy of feeling, in the\nresults of education, could never be lost sight of. Under ordinary\ncircumstances she addressed the girl as if tentatively; however sure of\nanything from her own point of view, she knew that Marian, as often\nas not, had quite a different criterion. She understood that the\ngirl frequently expressed an opinion by mere reticence, and hence the\ncarefulness with which, when conversing, she tried to discover the real\neffect of her words in Marian's features.\n\n'Hungry, too,' she said, seeing the crust Marian was nibbling. 'You\nreally must have more lunch, dear. It isn't right to go so long; you'll\nmake yourself ill.'\n\n'Have you been out?' Marian asked.\n\n'Yes; I went to Holloway.'\n\nMrs Yule sighed and looked very unhappy. By 'going to Holloway' was\nalways meant a visit to her own relatives--a married sister with three\nchildren, and a brother who inhabited the same house. To her husband\nshe scarcely ever ventured to speak of these persons; Yule had\nno intercourse with them. But Marian was always willing to listen\nsympathetically, and her mother often exhibited a touching gratitude for\nthis condescension--as she deemed it.\n\n'Are things no better?' the girl inquired.\n\n'Worse, as far as I can see. John has begun his drinking again, and him\nand Tom quarrel every night; there's no peace in the 'ouse.'\n\nIf ever Mrs Yule lapsed into gross errors of pronunciation or phrase, it\nwas when she spoke of her kinsfolk. The subject seemed to throw her back\ninto a former condition.\n\n'He ought to go and live by himself' said Marian, referring to her\nmother's brother, the thirsty John.\n\n'So he ought, to be sure. I'm always telling them so. But there!\nyou don't seem to be able to persuade them, they're that silly and\nobstinate. And Susan, she only gets angry with me, and tells me not to\ntalk in a stuck-up way. I'm sure I never say a word that could offend\nher; I'm too careful for that. And there's Annie; no doing anything with\nher! She's about the streets at all hours, and what'll be the end of\nit no one can say. They're getting that ragged, all of them. It isn't\nSusan's fault; indeed it isn't. She does all that woman can. But Tom\nhasn't brought home ten shillings the last month, and it seems to me as\nif he was getting careless. I gave her half-a-crown; it was all I could\ndo. And the worst of it is, they think I could do so much more if I\nliked. They're always hinting that we are rich people, and it's no good\nmy trying to persuade them. They think I'm telling falsehoods, and it's\nvery hard to be looked at in that way; it is, indeed, Marian.'\n\n'You can't help it, mother. I suppose their suffering makes them unkind\nand unjust.'\n\n'That's just what it does, my dear; you never said anything truer.\nPoverty will make the best people bad, if it gets hard enough. Why\nthere's so much of it in the world, I'm sure I can't see.'\n\n'I suppose father will be back soon?'\n\n'He said dinner-time.'\n\n'Mr Quarmby has been telling me something which is wonderfully good news\nif it's really true; but I can't help feeling doubtful.\n\nHe says that father may perhaps be made editor of The Study at the end\nof this year.'\n\nMrs Yule, of course, understood, in outline, these affairs of the\nliterary world; she thought of them only from the pecuniary point of\nview, but that made no essential distinction between her and the mass of\nliterary people.\n\n'My word!' she exclaimed. 'What a thing that would be for us!'\n\nMarian had begun to explain her reluctance to base any hopes on Mr\nQuarmby's prediction, when the sound of a postman's knock at the\nhouse-door caused her mother to disappear for a moment.\n\n'It's for you,' said Mrs Yule, returning. 'From the country.'\n\nMarian took the letter and examined its address with interest.\n\n'It must be one of the Miss Milvains. Yes; Dora Milvain.'\n\nAfter Jasper's departure from Finden his sisters had seen Marian several\ntimes, and the mutual liking between her and them had been confirmed by\nopportunity of conversation. The promise of correspondence had hitherto\nwaited for fulfilment. It seemed natural to Marian that the younger\nof the two girls should write; Maud was attractive and agreeable, and\nprobably clever, but Dora had more spontaneity in friendship.\n\n'It will amuse you to hear,' wrote Dora, 'that the literary project our\nbrother mentioned in a letter whilst you were still here is really to\ncome to something. He has sent us a specimen chapter, written by himself\nof the \"Child's History of Parliament,\" and Maud thinks she could carry\nit on in that style, if there's no hurry. She and I have both set to\nwork on English histories, and we shall be authorities before long.\nJolly and Monk offer thirty pounds for the little book, if it suits them\nwhen finished, with certain possible profits in the future. Trust Jasper\nfor making a bargain! So perhaps our literary career will be something\nmore than a joke, after all. I hope it may; anything rather than a life\nof teaching. We shall be so glad to hear from you, if you still care to\ntrouble about country girls.'\n\nAnd so on. Marian read with a pleased smile, then acquainted her mother\nwith the contents.\n\n'I am very glad,' said Mrs Yule; 'it's so seldom you get a letter.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nMarian seemed desirous of saying something more, and her mother had a\nthoughtful look, suggestive of sympathetic curiosity.\n\n'Is their brother likely to call here?' Mrs Yule asked, with misgiving.\n\n'No one has invited him to,' was the girl's quiet reply.\n\n'He wouldn't come without that?'\n\n'It's not likely that he even knows the address.'\n\n'Your father won't be seeing him, I suppose?'\n\n'By chance, perhaps. I don't know.'\n\nIt was very rare indeed for these two to touch upon any subject save\nthose of everyday interest. In spite of the affection between them,\ntheir exchange of confidence did not go very far; Mrs Yule, who had\nnever exercised maternal authority since Marian's earliest childhood,\nclaimed no maternal privileges, and Marian's natural reserve had been\nstrengthened by her mother's respectful aloofness. The English fault of\ndomestic reticence could scarcely go further than it did in their case;\nits exaggeration is, of course, one of the characteristics of those\nunhappy families severed by differences of education between the old and\nyoung.\n\n'I think,' said Marian, in a forced tone, 'that father hasn't much\nliking for Mr Milvain.'\n\nShe wished to know if her mother had heard any private remarks on this\nsubject, but she could not bring herself to ask directly.\n\n'I'm sure I don't know,' replied Mrs Yule, smoothing her dress. 'He\nhasn't said anything to me, Marian.'\n\nAn awkward silence. The mother had fixed her eyes on the mantelpiece,\nand was thinking hard.\n\n'Otherwise,' said Marian, 'he would have said something, I should think,\nabout meeting in London.'\n\n'But is there anything in--this gentleman that he wouldn't like?'\n\n'I don't know of anything.'\n\nImpossible to pursue the dialogue; Marian moved uneasily, then rose,\nsaid something about putting the letter away, and left the room.\n\nShortly after, Alfred Yule entered the house. It was no uncommon thing\nfor him to come home in a mood of silent moroseness, and this evening\nthe first glimpse of his face was sufficient warning. He entered the\ndining-room and stood on the hearthrug reading an evening paper. His\nwife made a pretence of straightening things upon the table.\n\n'Well?' he exclaimed irritably. 'It's after five; why isn't dinner\nserved?'\n\n'It's just coming, Alfred.'\n\nEven the average man of a certain age is an alarming creature when\ndinner delays itself; the literary man in such a moment goes beyond all\nparallel. If there be added the fact that he has just returned from a\nvery unsatisfactory interview with a publisher, wife and daughter may\nindeed regard the situation as appalling. Marian came in, and at once\nobserved her mother's frightened face.\n\n'Father,' she said, hoping to make a diversion, 'Mr Hinks has sent you\nhis new book, and wishes--'\n\n'Then take Mr Hinks's new book back to him, and tell him that I have\nquite enough to do without reading tedious trash. He needn't expect\nthat I'm going to write a notice of it. The simpleton pesters me beyond\nendurance. I wish to know, if you please,' he added with savage calm,\n'when dinner will be ready. If there's time to write a few letters, just\ntell me at once, that I mayn't waste half an hour.'\n\nMarian resented this unreasonable anger, but she durst not reply.\n\nAt that moment the servant appeared with a smoking joint, and Mrs\nYule followed carrying dishes of vegetables. The man of letters seated\nhimself and carved angrily. He began his meal by drinking half a glass\nof ale; then he ate a few mouthfuls in a quick, hungry way, his head\nbent closely over the plate. It happened commonly enough that dinner\npassed without a word of conversation, and that seemed likely to be the\ncase this evening.\n\nTo his wife Yule seldom addressed anything but a curt inquiry or caustic\ncomment; if he spoke humanly at table it was to Marian.\n\nTen minutes passed; then Marian resolved to try any means of clearing\nthe atmosphere.\n\n'Mr Quarmby gave me a message for you,' she said. 'A friend of his,\nNathaniel Walker, has told him that Mr Rackett will very likely offer\nyou the editorship of The Study.'\n\nYule stopped in the act of mastication. He fixed his eyes intently on\nthe sirloin for half a minute; then, by way of the beer-jug and the\nsalt-cellar, turned them upon Marian's face.\n\n'Walker told him that? Pooh!'\n\n'It was a great secret. I wasn't to breathe a word to any one but you.'\n\n'Walker's a fool and Quarmby's an ass,' remarked her father.\n\nBut there was a tremulousness in his bushy eyebrows; his forehead half\nunwreathed itself; he continued to eat more slowly, and as if with\nappreciation of the viands.\n\n'What did he say? Repeat it to me in his words.'\n\nMarian did so, as nearly as possible. He listened with a scoffing\nexpression, but still his features relaxed.\n\n'I don't credit Rackett with enough good sense for such a proposal,' he\nsaid deliberately. 'And I'm not very sure that I should accept it if it\nwere made. That fellow Fadge has all but ruined the paper. It will\namuse me to see how long it takes him to make Culpepper's new magazine a\ndistinct failure.'\n\nA silence of five minutes ensued; then Yule said of a sudden.\n\n'Where is Hinks's book?'\n\nMarian reached it from a side table; under this roof, literature was\nregarded almost as a necessary part of table garnishing.\n\n'I thought it would be bigger than this,' Yule muttered, as he opened\nthe volume in a way peculiar to bookish men.\n\nA page was turned down, as if to draw attention to some passage. Yule\nput on his eyeglasses, and soon made a discovery which had the effect of\ncompleting the transformation of his visage. His eyes glinted, his chin\nworked in pleasurable emotion. In a moment he handed the book to Marian,\nindicating the small type of a foot-note; it embodied an effusive\neulogy--introduced a propos of some literary discussion--of 'Mr Alfred\nYule's critical acumen, scholarly research, lucid style,' and sundry\nother distinguished merits.\n\n'That is kind of him,' said Marian.\n\n'Good old Hinks! I suppose I must try to get him half-a-dozen readers.'\n\n'May I see?' asked Mrs Yule, under her breath, bending to Marian.\n\nHer daughter passed on the volume, and Mrs Yule read the footnote with\nthat look of slow apprehension which is so pathetic when it signifies\nthe heart's good-will thwarted by the mind's defect.\n\n'That'll be good for you, Alfred, won't it?' she said, glancing at her\nhusband.\n\n'Certainly,' he replied, with a smile of contemptuous irony. 'If Hinks\ngoes on, he'll establish my reputation.'\n\nAnd he took a draught of ale, like one who is reinvigorated for the\nbattle of life. Marian, regarding him askance, mused on what seemed to\nher a strange anomaly in his character; it had often surprised her that\na man of his temperament and powers should be so dependent upon the\npraise and blame of people whom he justly deemed his inferiors.\n\nYule was glancing over the pages of the work.\n\n'A pity the man can't write English.' What a vocabulary!\nObstruent--reliable--particularization--fabulosity--different to--averse\nto--did one ever come across such a mixture of antique pedantry and\nmodern vulgarism! Surely he has his name from the German hinken--eh,\nMarian?'\n\nWith a laugh he tossed the book away again. His mood was wholly changed.\nHe gave various evidences of enjoying the meal, and began to talk freely\nwith his daughter.\n\n'Finished the authoresses?'\n\n'Not quite.'\n\n'No hurry. When you have time I want you to read Ditchley's new book,\nand jot down a selection of his worst sentences. I'll use them for an\narticle on contemporary style; it occurred to me this afternoon.'\n\nHe smiled grimly. Mrs Yule's face exhibited much contentment, which\nbecame radiant joy when her husband remarked casually that the custard\nwas very well made to-day. Dinner over, he rose without ceremony and\nwent off to his study.\n\nThe man had suffered much and toiled stupendously. It was not\ninexplicable that dyspepsia, and many another ill that literary flesh is\nheir to, racked him sore.\n\nGo back to the days when he was an assistant at a bookseller's in\nHolborn. Already ambition devoured him, and the genuine love of\nknowledge goaded his brain. He allowed himself but three or four hours\nof sleep; he wrought doggedly at languages, ancient and modern; he tried\nhis hand at metrical translations; he planned tragedies. Practically he\nwas living in a past age; his literary ideals were formed on the study\nof Boswell.\n\nThe head assistant in the shop went away to pursue a business which\nhad come into his hands on the death of a relative; it was a small\npublishing concern, housed in an alley off the Strand, and Mr Polo (a\nsingular name, to become well known in the course of time) had his\nideas about its possible extension. Among other instances of activity he\nstarted a penny weekly paper, called All Sorts, and in the pages of\nthis periodical Alfred Yule first appeared as an author. Before long he\nbecame sub-editor of All Sorts, then actual director of the paper. He\nsaid good-bye to the bookseller, and his literary career fairly began.\n\nMr Polo used to say that he never knew a man who could work so many\nconsecutive hours as Alfred Yule. A faithful account of all that\nthe young man learnt and wrote from 1855 to 1860--that is, from his\ntwenty-fifth to his thirtieth year--would have the look of burlesque\nexaggeration. He had set it before him to become a celebrated man, and\nhe was not unaware that the attainment of that end would cost him\nquite exceptional labour, seeing that nature had not favoured him with\nbrilliant parts. No matter; his name should be spoken among men unless\nhe killed himself in the struggle for success.\n\nIn the meantime he married. Living in a garret, and supplying himself\nwith the materials of his scanty meals, he was in the habit of making\npurchases at a little chandler's shop, where he was waited upon by\na young girl of no beauty, but, as it seemed to him, of amiable\ndisposition. One holiday he met this girl as she was walking with a\nyounger sister in the streets; he made her nearer acquaintance, and\nbefore long she consented to be his wife and share his garret. His\nbrothers, John and Edmund, cried out that he had made an unpardonable\nfool of himself in marrying so much beneath him; that he might well have\nwaited until his income improved. This was all very well, but they might\njust as reasonably have bidden him reject plain food because a few years\nhence he would be able to purchase luxuries; he could not do without\nnourishment of some sort, and the time had come when he could not do\nwithout a wife. Many a man with brains but no money has been compelled\nto the same step. Educated girls have a pronounced distaste for\nLondon garrets; not one in fifty thousand would share poverty with\nthe brightest genius ever born. Seeing that marriage is so often\nindispensable to that very success which would enable a man of parts to\nmate equally, there is nothing for it but to look below one's own level,\nand be grateful to the untaught woman who has pity on one's loneliness.\n\nUnfortunately, Alfred Yule was not so grateful as he might have been.\nHis marriage proved far from unsuccessful; he might have found himself\nunited to a vulgar shrew, whereas the girl had the great virtues of\nhumility and kindliness. She endeavoured to learn of him, but her\ndulness and his impatience made this attempt a failure; her human\nqualities had to suffice. And they did, until Yule began to lift his\nhead above the literary mob. Previously, he often lost his temper with\nher, but never expressed or felt repentance of his marriage; now he\nbegan to see only the disadvantages of his position, and, forgetting the\nfacts of the case, to imagine that he might well have waited for a wife\nwho could share his intellectual existence. Mrs Yule had to pass through\na few years of much bitterness. Already a martyr to dyspepsia, and often\nsuffering from bilious headaches of extreme violence, her husband now\nand then lost all control of his temper, all sense of kind feeling,\neven of decency, and reproached the poor woman with her ignorance, her\nstupidity, her low origin. Naturally enough she defended herself with\nsuch weapons as a sense of cruel injustice supplied. More than once\nthe two all but parted. It did not come to an actual rupture, chiefly\nbecause Yule could not do without his wife; her tendance had become\nindispensable. And then there was the child to consider.\n\nFrom the first it was Yule's dread lest Marian should be infected with\nher mother's faults of speech and behaviour. He would scarcely permit\nhis wife to talk to the child. At the earliest possible moment Marian\nwas sent to a day-school, and in her tenth year she went as weekly\nboarder to an establishment at Fulham; any sacrifice of money to insure\nher growing up with the tongue and manners of a lady. It can scarcely\nhave been a light trial to the mother to know that contact with her was\nregarded as her child's greatest danger; but in her humility and her\nlove for Marian she offered no resistance. And so it came to pass\nthat one day the little girl, hearing her mother make some flagrant\ngrammatical error, turned to the other parent and asked gravely: 'Why\ndoesn't mother speak as properly as we do?' Well, that is one of the\nresults of such marriages, one of the myriad miseries that result from\npoverty.\n\nThe end was gained at all hazards. Marian grew up everything that her\nfather desired. Not only had she the bearing of refinement, but it early\nbecame obvious that nature had well endowed her with brains. From the\nnursery her talk was of books, and at the age of twelve she was already\nable to give her father some assistance as an amanuensis.\n\nAt that time Edmund Yule was still living; he had overcome his\nprejudices, and there was intercourse between his household and that of\nthe literary man. Intimacy it could not be called, for Mrs Edmund (who\nwas the daughter of a law-stationer) had much difficulty in behaving to\nMrs Alfred with show of suavity. Still, the cousins Amy and Marian from\ntime to time saw each other, and were not unsuitable companions. It was\nthe death of Amy's father that brought these relations to an end; left\nto the control of her own affairs Mrs Edmund was not long in giving\noffence to Mrs Alfred, and so to Alfred himself. The man of letters\nmight be inconsiderate enough in his behaviour to his wife, but as\nsoon as anyone else treated her with disrespect that was quite another\nmatter. Purely on this account he quarrelled violently with his\nbrother's widow, and from that day the two families kept apart.\n\nThe chapter of quarrels was one of no small importance in Alfred's life;\nhis difficult temper, and an ever-increasing sense of neglected merit,\nfrequently put him at war with publishers, editors, fellow-authors, and\nhe had an unhappy trick of exciting the hostility of men who were most\nlikely to be useful to him. With Mr Polo, for instance, who held him\nin esteem, and whose commercial success made him a valuable connection,\nAlfred ultimately broke on a trifling matter of personal dignity. Later\ncame the great quarrel with Clement Fadge, an affair of considerable\nadvantage in the way of advertisement to both the men concerned. It\nhappened in the year 1873. At that time Yule was editor of a weekly\npaper called The Balance, a literary organ which aimed high, and failed\nto hit the circulation essential to its existence. Fadge, a younger man,\ndid reviewing for The Balance; he was in needy circumstances, and had\nwrought himself into Yule's good opinion by judicious flattery. But with\na clear eye for the main chance Mr Fadge soon perceived that Yule\ncould only be of temporary use to him, and that the editor of a\nwell-established weekly which lost no opportunity of throwing scorn\nupon Yule and all his works would be a much more profitable conquest.\nHe succeeded in transferring his services to the more flourishing\npaper, and struck out a special line of work by the free exercise of\na malicious flippancy which was then without rival in the periodical\npress. When he had thoroughly got his hand in, it fell to Mr Fadge,\nin the mere way of business, to review a volume of his old editor's,\na rather pretentious and longwinded but far from worthless essay 'On\nImagination as a National Characteristic.' The notice was a masterpiece;\nits exquisite virulence set the literary circles chuckling. Concerning\nthe authorship there was no mystery, and Alfred Yule had the\nindiscretion to make a violent reply, a savage assault upon Fadge, in\nthe columns of The Balance. Fadge desired nothing better; the uproar\nwhich arose--chaff, fury, grave comments, sneering spite--could only\nresult in drawing universal attention to his anonymous cleverness, and\nthrowing ridicule upon the heavy, conscientious man. Well, you\nprobably remember all about it. It ended in the disappearance of Yule's\nstruggling paper, and the establishment on a firm basis of Fadge's\nreputation.\n\nIt would be difficult to mention any department of literary endeavour in\nwhich Yule did not, at one time or another, try his fortune. Turn to\nhis name in the Museum Catalogue; the list of works appended to it\nwill amuse you. In his thirtieth year he published a novel; it failed\ncompletely, and the same result awaited a similar experiment five years\nlater. He wrote a drama of modern life, and for some years strove to\nget it acted, but in vain; finally it appeared 'for the closet'--giving\nClement Fadge such an opportunity as he seldom enjoyed. The one\nnoteworthy thing about these productions, and about others of equally\nmistaken direction, was the sincerity of their workmanship. Had Yule\nbeen content to manufacture a novel or a play with due disregard for\nliterary honour, he might perchance have made a mercantile success; but\nthe poor fellow had not pliancy enough for this. He took his efforts\nau grand serieux; thought he was producing works of art; pursued his\nambition in a spirit of fierce conscientiousness. In spite of all, he\nremained only a journeyman. The kind of work he did best was poorly\npaid, and could bring no fame. At the age of fifty he was still living\nin a poor house in an obscure quarter. He earned enough for his actual\nneeds, and was under no pressing fear for the morrow, so long as his\nfaculties remained unimpaired; but there was no disguising from himself\nthat his life had been a failure. And the thought tormented him.\n\nNow there had come unexpectedly a gleam of hope. If indeed, the man\nRackett thought of offering him the editorship of The Study he might\neven yet taste the triumphs for which he had so vehemently longed. The\nStudy was a weekly paper of fair repute. Fadge had harmed it, no doubt\nof that, by giving it a tone which did not suit the majority of its\nreaders--serious people, who thought that the criticism of contemporary\nwriting offered an opportunity for something better than a display of\nmalevolent wit. But a return to the old earnestness would doubtless set\nall right again. And the joy of sitting in that dictatorial chair! The\ndelight of having his own organ once more, of making himself a power in\nthe world of letters, of emphasising to a large audience his developed\nmethods of criticism!\n\nAn embittered man is a man beset by evil temptations. The Study\ncontained each week certain columns of flying gossip, and when he\nthought of this, Yule also thought of Clement Fadge, and sundry other\nof his worst enemies. How the gossip column can be used for hostile\npurposes, yet without the least overt offence, he had learnt only too\nwell. Sometimes the mere omission of a man's name from a list of authors\ncan mortify and injure. In our day the manipulation of such paragraphs\nhas become a fine art; but you recall numerous illustrations. Alfred\nknew well enough how incessantly the tempter would be at his ear;\nhe said to himself that in certain instances yielding would be no\ndishonour. He himself had many a time been mercilessly treated; in the\nvery interest of the public it was good that certain men should suffer a\nsnubbing, and his fingers itched to have hold of the editorial pen. Ha,\nha! Like the war-horse he snuffed the battle afar off.\n\nNo work this evening, though there were tasks which pressed for\ncompletion. His study--the only room on the ground level except the\ndining-room--was small, and even a good deal of the floor was encumbered\nwith books, but he found space for walking nervously hither and thither.\nHe was doing this when, about half-past nine, his wife appeared at the\ndoor, bringing him a cup of coffee and some biscuits, his wonted supper.\nMarian generally waited upon him at this time, and he asked why she had\nnot come.\n\n'She has one of her headaches again, I'm sorry to say,' Mrs Yule\nreplied. 'I persuaded her to go to bed early.'\n\nHaving placed the tray upon the table--books had to be pushed aside--she\ndid not seem disposed to withdraw.\n\n'Are you busy, Alfred?'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'I thought I should like just to speak of something.'\n\nShe was using the opportunity of his good humour. Yule spoke to her with\nthe usual carelessness, but not forbiddingly.\n\n'What is it? Those Holloway people, I'll warrant.'\n\n'No, no! It's about Marian. She had a letter from one of those young\nladies this afternoon.'\n\n'What young ladies?' asked Yule, with impatience of this circuitous\napproach.\n\n'The Miss Milvains.'\n\n'Well, there's no harm that I know of. They're decent people.'\n\n'Yes; so you told me. But she began to speak about their brother, and--'\n\n'What about him? Do say what you want to say, and have done with it!'\n\n'I can't help thinking, Alfred, that she's disappointed you didn't ask\nhim to come here.'\n\nYule stared at her in slight surprise. He was still not angry, and\nseemed quite willing to consider this matter suggested to him so\ntimorously.\n\n'Oh, you think so? Well, I don't know. Why should I have asked him?\nIt was only because Miss Harrow seemed to wish it that I saw him down\nthere. I have no particular interest in him. And as for--'\n\nHe broke off and seated himself. Mrs Yule stood at a distance.\n\n'We must remember her age,' she said.\n\n'Why yes, of course.'\n\nHe mused, and began to nibble a biscuit.\n\n'And you know, Alfred, she never does meet any young men. I've often\nthought it wasn't right to her.'\n\n'H'm! But this lad Milvain is a very doubtful sort of customer. To begin\nwith, he has nothing, and they tell me his mother for the most part\nsupports him. I don't quite approve of that. She isn't well off, and he\nought to have been making a living by now.\n\nHe has a kind of cleverness, may do something; but there's no being sure\nof that.'\n\nThese thoughts were not coming into his mind for the first time. On the\noccasion when he met Milvain and Marian together in the country road he\nhad necessarily reflected upon the possibilities of such intercourse,\nand with the issue that he did not care to give any particular\nencouragement to its continuance. He of course heard of Milvain's\nleave-taking call, and he purposely refrained from seeing the young man\nafter that. The matter took no very clear shape in his meditations; he\nsaw no likelihood that either of the young people would think much of\nthe other after their parting, and time enough to trouble one's head\nwith such subjects when they could no longer be postponed. It would\nnot have been pleasant to him to foresee a life of spinsterhood for his\ndaughter; but she was young, and--she was a valuable assistant.\n\nHow far did that latter consideration weigh with him? He put the\nquestion pretty distinctly to himself now that his wife had broached\nthe matter thus unexpectedly. Was he prepared to behave with deliberate\nselfishness? Never yet had any conflict been manifested between his\ninterests and Marian's; practically he was in the habit of counting upon\nher aid for an indefinite period.\n\nIf indeed he became editor of The Study, why, in that case her\nassistance would be less needful. And indeed it seemed probable that\nyoung Milvain had a future before him.\n\n'But, in any case,' he said aloud, partly continuing his thoughts,\npartly replying to a look of disappointment on his wife's face, 'how do\nyou know that he has any wish to come and see Marian?'\n\n'I don't know anything about it, of course.'\n\n'And you may have made a mistake about her. What made you think she--had\nhim in mind?'\n\n'Well, it was her way of speaking, you know. And then, she asked if you\nhad got a dislike to him.'\n\n'She did? H'm! Well, I don't think Milvain is any good to Marian. He's\njust the kind of man to make himself agreeable to a girl for the fun of\nthe thing.'\n\nMrs Yule looked alarmed.\n\n'Oh, if you really think that, don't let him come. I wouldn't for\nanything.'\n\n'I don't say it for certain.' He took a sip of his coffee. 'I have had\nno opportunity of observing him with much attention. But he's not the\nkind of man I care for.'\n\n'Then no doubt it's better as it is.'\n\n'Yes. I don't see that anything could be done now. We shall see whether\nhe gets on. I advise you not to mention him to her.'\n\n'Oh no, I won't.'\n\nShe moved as if to go away, but her heart had been made uneasy by that\nshort conversation which followed on Marian's reading the letter, and\nthere were still things she wished to put into words.\n\n'If those young ladies go on writing to her, I dare say they'll often\nspeak about their brother.'\n\n'Yes, it's rather unfortunate.'\n\n'And you know, Alfred, he may have asked them to do it.'\n\n'I suppose there's one subject on which all women can be subtle,'\nmuttered Yule, smiling. The remark was not a kind one, but he did not\nmake it worse by his tone.\n\nThe listener failed to understand him, and looked with her familiar\nexpression of mental effort.\n\n'We can't help that,' he added, with reference to her suggestion. 'If\nhe has any serious thoughts, well, let him go on and wait for\nopportunities.'\n\n'It's a great pity, isn't it, that she can't see more people--of the\nright kind?'\n\n'No use talking about it. Things are as they are. I can't see that her\nlife is unhappy.'\n\n'It isn't very happy.'\n\n'You think not?'\n\n'I'm sure it isn't.'\n\n'If I get The Study things may be different. Though--But it's no use\ntalking about what can't be helped. Now don't you go encouraging her\nto think herself lonely, and so on. It's best for her to keep close to\nwork, I'm sure of that.'\n\n'Perhaps it is.'\n\n'I'll think it over.'\n\nMrs Yule silently left the room, and went back to her sewing.\n\nShe had understood that 'Though--' and the 'what can't be helped.' Such\nallusions reminded her of a time unhappier than the present, when she\nhad been wont to hear plainer language. She knew too well that, had she\nbeen a woman of education, her daughter would not now be suffering from\nloneliness.\n\nIt was her own choice that she did not go with her husband and Marian to\nJohn Yule's. She made an excuse that the house could not be left to\none servant; but in any case she would have remained at home, for her\npresence must needs be an embarrassment both to father and daughter.\nAlfred was always ashamed of her before strangers; he could not conceal\nhis feeling, either from her or from other people who had reason for\nobserving him. Marian was not perhaps ashamed, but such companionship\nput restraint upon her freedom. And would it not always be the same?\nSupposing Mr Milvain were to come to this house, would it not repel him\nwhen he found what sort of person Marian's mother was?\n\nShe shed a few tears over her needlework.\n\nAt midnight the study door opened. Yule came to the dining-room to see\nthat all was right, and it surprised him to find his wife still sitting\nthere.\n\n'Why are you so late?'\n\n'I've forgot the time.'\n\n'Forgotten, forgotten. Don't go back to that kind of language again.\nCome, put the light out.'\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. TO THE WINNING SIDE\n\nOf the acquaintances Yule had retained from his earlier years several\nwere in the well-defined category of men with unpresentable wives. There\nwas Hinks, for instance, whom, though in anger he spoke of him as a\nbore, Alfred held in some genuine regard. Hinks made perhaps a hundred a\nyear out of a kind of writing which only certain publishers can get rid\nof and of this income he spent about a third on books. His wife was the\ndaughter of a laundress, in whose house he had lodged thirty years ago,\nwhen new to London but already long-acquainted with hunger; they lived\nin complete harmony, but Mrs Hinks, who was four years the elder, still\nspoke the laundress tongue, unmitigated and immitigable. Another pair\nwere Mr and Mrs Gorbutt. In this case there were no narrow circumstances\nto contend with, for the wife, originally a nursemaid, not long after\nher marriage inherited house property from a relative. Mr Gorbutt deemed\nhimself a poet; since his accession to an income he had published, at\nhis own expense, a yearly volume of verses; the only result being to\nkeep alive rancour in his wife, who was both parsimonious and vain.\nMaking no secret of it, Mrs Gorbutt rued the day on which she had wedded\na man of letters, when by waiting so short a time she would have been\nenabled to aim at a prosperous tradesman, who kept his gig and had\neverything handsome about him. Mrs Yule suspected, not without reason,\nthat this lady had an inclination to strong liquors. Thirdly came Mr\nand Mrs Christopherson, who were poor as church mice. Even in a friend's\nhouse they wrangled incessantly, and made tragi-comical revelations\nof their home life. The husband worked casually at irresponsible\njournalism, but his chosen study was metaphysics; for many years he had\nhad a huge and profound book on hand, which he believed would bring him\nfame, though he was not so unsettled in mind as to hope for anything\nelse. When an article or two had earned enough money for immediate\nnecessities he went off to the British Museum, and then the difficulty\nwas to recall him to profitable exertions. Yet husband and wife had an\naffection for each other. Mrs Christopherson came from Camberwell,\nwhere her father, once upon a time, was the smallest of small butchers.\nDisagreeable stories were whispered concerning her earlier life, and\nprobably the metaphysician did not care to look back in that direction.\nThey had had three children; all were happily buried.\n\nThese men were capable of better things than they had done or would ever\ndo; in each case their failure to fulfil youthful promise was largely\nexplained by the unpresentable wife. They should have waited; they might\nhave married a social equal at something between fifty and sixty.\n\nAnother old friend was Mr Quarmby. Unwedded he, and perpetually exultant\nover men who, as he phrased it, had noosed themselves. He made a fair\nliving, but, like Dr Johnson, had no passion for clean linen.\n\nYule was not disdainful of these old companions, and the fact that\nall had a habit of looking up to him increased his pleasure in their\noccasional society. If, as happened once or twice in half a year,\nseveral of them were gathered together at his house, he tasted a sham\nkind of social and intellectual authority which he could not help\nrelishing. On such occasions he threw off his habitual gloom and talked\nvigorously, making natural display of his learning and critical ability.\nThe topic, sooner or later, was that which is inevitable in such a\ncircle--the demerits, the pretentiousness, the personal weaknesses of\nprominent contemporaries in the world of letters. Then did the room ring\nwith scornful laughter, with boisterous satire, with shouted irony,\nwith fierce invective. After an evening of that kind Yule was unwell and\nmiserable for several days.\n\nIt was not to be expected that Mr Quarmby, inveterate chatterbox of the\nReading-room and other resorts, should keep silence concerning what he\nhad heard of Mr Rackett's intentions. The rumour soon spread that\nAlfred Yule was to succeed Fadge in the direction of The Study, with the\nnecessary consequence that Yule found himself an object of affectionate\ninterest to a great many people of whom he knew little or nothing. At\nthe same time the genuine old friends pressed warmly about him, with\ncongratulations, with hints of their sincere readiness to assist in\nfilling the columns of the paper. All this was not disagreeable, but in\nthe meantime Yule had heard nothing whatever from Mr Rackett himself and\nhis doubts did not diminish as week after week went by.\n\nThe event justified him. At the end of October appeared an authoritative\nannouncement that Fadge's successor would be--not Alfred Yule, but a\ngentleman who till of late had been quietly working as a sub-editor in\nthe provinces, and who had neither friendships nor enmities among the\npeople of the London literary press. A young man, comparatively fresh\nfrom the university, and said to be strong in pure scholarship. The\nchoice, as you are aware, proved a good one, and The Study became an\norgan of more repute than ever.\n\nYule had been secretly conscious that it was not to men such as he that\npositions of this kind are nowadays entrusted. He tried to persuade\nhimself that he was not disappointed. But when Mr Quarmby approached him\nwith blank face, he spoke certain wrathful words which long rankled in\nthat worthy's mind. At home he kept sullen silence.\n\nNo, not to such men as he--poor, and without social recommendations.\nBesides, he was growing too old. In literature, as in most other\npursuits, the press of energetic young men was making it very hard for\na veteran even to hold the little grazing-plot he had won by hard\nfighting. Still, Quarmby's story had not been without foundation; it was\ntrue that the proprietor of The Study had for a moment thought of Alfred\nYule, doubtless as the natural contrast to Clement Fadge, whom he would\nhave liked to mortify if the thing were possible. But counsellors had\nproved to Mr Rackett the disadvantages of such a choice.\n\nMrs Yule and her daughter foresaw but too well the results of this\ndisappointment, notwithstanding that Alfred announced it to them with\ndry indifference. The month that followed was a time of misery for all\nin the house. Day after day Yule sat at his meals in sullen muteness; to\nhis wife he scarcely spoke at all, and his conversation with Marian did\nnot go beyond necessary questions and remarks on topics of business.\nHis face became so strange a colour that one would have thought him\nsuffering from an attack of jaundice; bilious headaches exasperated his\nsavage mood. Mrs Yule knew from long experience how worse than useless\nit was for her to attempt consolation; in silence was her only safety.\nNor did Marian venture to speak directly of what had happened. But\none evening, when she had been engaged in the study and was now saying\n'Good-night,' she laid her cheek against her father's, an unwonted\ncaress which had a strange effect upon him. The expression of sympathy\ncaused his thoughts to reveal themselves as they never yet had done\nbefore his daughter.\n\n'It might have been very different with me,' he exclaimed abruptly, as\nif they had already been conversing on the subject. 'When you think\nof my failures--and you must often do so now you are grown up and\nunderstand things--don't forget the obstacles that have been in my way.\nI don't like you to look upon your father as a thickhead who couldn't\nbe expected to succeed. Look at Fadge. He married a woman of good social\nposition; she brought him friends and influence. But for that he would\nnever have been editor of The Study, a place for which he wasn't in the\nleast fit. But he was able to give dinners; he and his wife went into\nsociety; everybody knew him and talked of him. How has it been with\nme? I live here like an animal in its hole, and go blinking about if\nby chance I find myself among the people with whom I ought naturally to\nassociate. If I had been able to come in direct contact with Rackett and\nother men of that kind, to dine with them, and have them to dine with\nme, to belong to a club, and so on, I shouldn't be what I am at my age.\nMy one opportunity--when I edited The Balance--wasn't worth much; there\nwas no money behind the paper; we couldn't hold out long enough. But\neven then, if I could have assumed my proper social standing, if I could\nhave opened my house freely to the right kind of people--How was it\npossible?'\n\nMarian could not raise her head. She recognised the portion of truth in\nwhat he said, but it shocked her that he should allow himself to speak\nthus. Her silence seemed to remind him how painful it must be to her to\nhear these accusations of her mother, and with a sudden 'Good-night' he\ndismissed her.\n\nShe went up to her room, and wept over the wretchedness of all their\nlives. Her loneliness had seemed harder to bear than ever since that\nlast holiday. For a moment, in the lanes about Finden, there had come to\nher a vision of joy such as fate owed her youth; but it had faded, and\nshe could no longer hope for its return. She was not a woman, but a mere\nmachine for reading and writing. Did her father never think of this? He\nwas not the only one to suffer from the circumstances in which poverty\nhad involved him.\n\nShe had no friends to whom she could utter her thoughts. Dora Milvain\nhad written a second time, and more recently had come a letter from\nMaud; but in replying to them she could not give a true account of\nherself. Impossible, to them. From what she wrote they would imagine her\ncontentedly busy, absorbed in the affairs of literature. To no one could\nshe make known the aching sadness of her heart, the dreariness of life\nas it lay before her.\n\nThat beginning of half-confidence between her and her mother had led to\nnothing. Mrs Yule found no second opportunity of speaking to her husband\nabout Jasper Milvain, and purposely she refrained from any further hint\nor question to Marian. Everything must go on as hitherto.\n\nThe days darkened. Through November rains and fogs Marian went her usual\nway to the Museum, and toiled there among the other toilers. Perhaps\nonce a week she allowed herself to stray about the alleys of the\nReading-room, scanning furtively those who sat at the desks, but the\nface she might perchance have discovered was not there.\n\nOne day at the end of the month she sat with books open before her, but\nby no effort could fix her attention upon them. It was gloomy, and one\ncould scarcely see to read; a taste of fog grew perceptible in the warm,\nheadachy air. Such profound discouragement possessed her that she\ncould not even maintain the pretence of study; heedless whether anyone\nobserved her, she let her hands fall and her head droop. She kept asking\nherself what was the use and purpose of such a life as she was condemned\nto lead. When already there was more good literature in the world than\nany mortal could cope with in his lifetime, here was she exhausting\nherself in the manufacture of printed stuff which no one even pretended\nto be more than a commodity for the day's market. What unspeakable\nfolly! To write--was not that the joy and the privilege of one who had\nan urgent message for the world?\n\nHer father, she knew well, had no such message; he had abandoned all\nthought of original production, and only wrote about writing.\n\nShe herself would throw away her pen with joy but for the need of\nearning money. And all these people about her, what aim had they save to\nmake new books out of those already existing, that yet newer books\nmight in turn be made out of theirs? This huge library, growing into\nunwieldiness, threatening to become a trackless desert of print--how\nintolerably it weighed upon the spirit!\n\nOh, to go forth and labour with one's hands, to do any poorest,\ncommonest work of which the world had truly need! It was ignoble to sit\nhere and support the paltry pretence of intellectual dignity. A few\ndays ago her startled eye had caught an advertisement in the newspaper,\nheaded 'Literary Machine'; had it then been invented at last, some\nautomaton to supply the place of such poor creatures as herself to\nturn out books and articles? Alas! the machine was only one for holding\nvolumes conveniently, that the work of literary manufacture might be\nphysically lightened. But surely before long some Edison would make the\ntrue automaton; the problem must be comparatively such a simple one.\nOnly to throw in a given number of old books, and have them reduced,\nblended, modernised into a single one for to-day's consumption.\n\nThe fog grew thicker; she looked up at the windows beneath the dome and\nsaw that they were a dusky yellow. Then her eye discerned an official\nwalking along the upper gallery, and in pursuance of her grotesque\nhumour, her mocking misery, she likened him to a black, lost soul,\ndoomed to wander in an eternity of vain research along endless shelves.\nOr again, the readers who sat here at these radiating lines of desks,\nwhat were they but hapless flies caught in a huge web, its nucleus the\ngreat circle of the Catalogue? Darker, darker. From the towering wall of\nvolumes seemed to emanate visible motes, intensifying the obscurity;\nin a moment the book-lined circumference of the room would be but a\nfeatureless prison-limit.\n\nBut then flashed forth the sputtering whiteness of the electric light,\nand its ceaseless hum was henceforth a new source of headache. It\nreminded her how little work she had done to-day; she must, she must\nforce herself to think of the task in hand. A machine has no business to\nrefuse its duty. But the pages were blue and green and yellow before her\neyes; the uncertainty of the light was intolerable. Right or wrong she\nwould go home, and hide herself, and let her heart unburden itself of\ntears.\n\nOn her way to return books she encountered Jasper Milvain. Face to face;\nno possibility of his avoiding her.\n\nAnd indeed he seemed to have no such wish. His countenance lighted up\nwith unmistakable pleasure.\n\n'At last we meet, as they say in the melodramas. Oh, do let me help you\nwith those volumes, which won't even let you shake hands. How do you do?\nHow do you like this weather? And how do you like this light?'\n\n'It's very bad.'\n\n'That'll do both for weather and light, but not for yourself. How glad I\nam to see you! Are you just going?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'I have scarcely been here half-a-dozen times since I came back to\nLondon.'\n\n'But you are writing still?'\n\n'Oh yes! But I draw upon my genius, and my stores of observation, and\nthe living world.'\n\nMarian received her vouchers for the volumes, and turned to face Jasper\nagain. There was a smile on her lips.\n\n'The fog is terrible,' Milvain went on. 'How do you get home?'\n\n'By omnibus from Tottenham Court Road.'\n\n'Then do let me go a part of the way with you. I live in Mornington\nRoad--up yonder, you know. I have only just come in to waste half an\nhour, and after all I think I should be better at home. Your father is\nall right, I hope?'\n\n'He is not quite well.'\n\n'I'm sorry to hear that. You are not exactly up to the mark, either.\nWhat weather! What a place to live in, this London, in winter! It would\nbe a little better down at Finden.'\n\n'A good deal better, I should think. If the weather were bad, it would\nbe bad in a natural way; but this is artificial misery.'\n\n'I don't let it affect me much,' said Milvain. 'Just of late I have\nbeen in remarkably good spirits. I'm doing a lot of work. No end of\nwork--more than I've ever done.'\n\n'I am very glad.'\n\n'Where are your out-of-door things? I think there's a ladies' vestry\nsomewhere, isn't there?'\n\n'Oh yes.'\n\n'Then will you go and get ready? I'll wait for you in the hall. But,\nby-the-bye, I am taking it for granted that you were going alone.'\n\n'I was, quite alone.'\n\nThe 'quite' seemed excessive; it made Jasper smile.\n\n'And also,' he added, 'that I shall not annoy you by offering my\ncompany?'\n\n'Why should it annoy me?'\n\n'Good!'\n\nMilvain had only to wait a minute or two. He surveyed Marian from head\nto foot when she appeared--an impertinence as unintentional as that\noccasionally noticeable in his speech--and smiled approval. They went\nout into the fog, which was not one of London's densest, but made\nwalking disagreeable enough.\n\n'You have heard from the girls, I think?' Jasper resumed.\n\n'Your sisters? Yes; they have been so kind as to write to me.'\n\n'Told you all about their great work? I hope it'll be finished by the\nend of the year. The bits they have sent me will do very well indeed. I\nknew they had it in them to put sentences together. Now I want them to\nthink of patching up something or other for The English Girl; you know\nthe paper?'\n\n'I have heard of it.'\n\n'I happen to know Mrs Boston Wright, who edits it. Met her at a house\nthe other day, and told her frankly that she would have to give my\nsisters something to do. It's the only way to get on; one has to take it\nfor granted that people are willing to help you. I have made a host of\nnew acquaintances just lately.'\n\n'I'm glad to hear it,' said Marian.\n\n'Do you know--but how should you? I am going to write for the new\nmagazine, The Current.'\n\n'Indeed!'\n\n'Edited by that man Fadge.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Your father has no affection for him, I know.'\n\n'He has no reason to have, Mr Milvain.'\n\n'No, no. Fadge is an offensive fellow, when he likes; and I fancy he\nvery often does like. Well, I must make what use of him I can.\n\nYou won't think worse of me because I write for him?'\n\n'I know that one can't exercise choice in such things.'\n\n'True. I shouldn't like to think that you regard me as a Fadge-like\nindividual, a natural Fadgeite.'\n\nMarian laughed.\n\n'There's no danger of my thinking that.'\n\nBut the fog was making their eyes water and getting into their throats.\nBy when they reached Tottenham Court Road they were both thoroughly\nuncomfortable. The 'bus had to be waited for, and in the meantime they\ntalked scrappily, coughily. In the vehicle things were a little better,\nbut here one could not converse with freedom.\n\n'What pestilent conditions of life!' exclaimed Jasper, putting his face\nrather near to Marian's. 'I wish to goodness we were back in those quiet\nfields--you remember?--with the September sun warm about us. Shall you\ngo to Finden again before long?'\n\n'I really don't know.'\n\n'I'm sorry to say my mother is far from well. In any case I must go at\nChristmas, but I'm afraid it won't be a cheerful visit.'\n\nArrived in Hampstead Road he offered his hand for good-bye.\n\n'I wanted to talk about all sorts of things. But perhaps I shall find\nyou again some day.'\n\nHe jumped out, and waved his hat in the lurid fog.\n\nShortly before the end of December appeared the first number of The\nCurrent. Yule had once or twice referred to the forthcoming magazine\nwith acrid contempt, and of course he did not purchase a copy.\n\n'So young Milvain has joined Fadge's hopeful standard,' he remarked,\na day or two later, at breakfast. 'They say his paper is remarkably\nclever; I could wish it had appeared anywhere else.\n\nEvil communications, &c.'\n\n'But I shouldn't think there's any personal connection,' said Marian.\n\n'Very likely not. But Milvain has been invited to contribute, you see.\n\n'Do you think he ought to have refused?'\n\n'Oh no. It's nothing to me; nothing whatever.'\n\nMrs Yule glanced at her daughter, but Marian seemed unconcerned. The\nsubject was dismissed. In introducing it Yule had had his purpose;\nthere had always been an unnatural avoidance of Milvain's name in\nconversation, and he wished to have an end of this. Hitherto he had felt\na troublesome uncertainty regarding his position in the matter. From\nwhat his wife had told him it seemed pretty certain that Marian was\ndisappointed by the abrupt closing of her brief acquaintance with the\nyoung man, and Yule's affection for his daughter caused him to feel\nuneasy in the thought that perhaps he had deprived her of a chance of\nhappiness. His conscience readily took hold of an excuse for justifying\nthe course he had followed. Milvain had gone over to the enemy. Whether\nor not the young man understood how relentless the hostility was between\nYule and Fadge mattered little; the probability was that he knew\nall about it. In any case intimate relations with him could not have\nsurvived this alliance with Fadge, so that, after all, there had been\nwisdom in letting the acquaintance lapse. To be sure, nothing could have\ncome of it. Milvain was the kind of man who weighed opportunities; every\nstep he took would be regulated by considerations of advantage; at all\nevents that was the impression his character had made upon Yule. Any\nhopes that Marian might have been induced to form would assuredly have\nended in disappointment. It was kindness to interpose before things had\ngone so far.\n\nHenceforth, if Milvain's name was unavoidable, it should be mentioned\njust like that of any other literary man. It seemed very unlikely indeed\nthat Marian would continue to think of him with any special and personal\ninterest. The fact of her having got into correspondence with his\nsisters was unfortunate, but this kind of thing rarely went on for very\nlong.\n\nYule spoke of the matter with his wife that evening.\n\n'By-the-bye, has Marian heard from those girls at Finden lately?'\n\n'She had a letter one afternoon last week.'\n\n'Do you see these letters?'\n\n'No; she told me what was in them at first, but now she doesn't.'\n\n'She hasn't spoken to you again of Milvain?'\n\n'Not a word.'\n\n'Well, I understood what I was about,' Yule remarked, with the confident\nair of one who doesn't wish to remember that he had ever felt doubtful.\n'There was no good in having the fellow here.\n\nHe has got in with a set that I don't at all care for. If she ever says\nanything--you understand--you can just let me know.'\n\nMarian had already procured a copy of The Current, and read it\nprivately. Of the cleverness of Milvain's contribution there could be\nno two opinions; it drew the attention of the public, and all notices\nof the new magazine made special reference to this article. With keen\ninterest Marian sought after comments of the press; when it was possible\nshe cut them out and put them carefully away.\n\nJanuary passed, and February. She saw nothing of Jasper. A letter from\nDora in the first week of March made announcement that the 'Child's\nHistory of the English Parliament' would be published very shortly; it\ntold her, too, that Mrs Milvain had been very ill indeed, but that she\nseemed to recover a little strength as the weather improved. Of Jasper\nthere was no mention.\n\nA week later came the news that Mrs Milvain had suddenly died.\n\nThis letter was received at breakfast-time. The envelope was an ordinary\none, and so little did Marian anticipate the nature of its contents that\nat the first sight of the words she uttered an exclamation of pain.\nHer father, who had turned from the table to the fireside with his\nnewspaper, looked round and asked what was the matter.\n\n'Mrs Milvain died the day before yesterday.'\n\n'Indeed!'\n\nHe averted his face again and seemed disposed to say no more. But in a\nfew moments he inquired:\n\n'What are her daughters likely to do?'\n\n'I have no idea.'\n\n'Do you know anything of their circumstances?'\n\n'I believe they will have to depend upon themselves.'\n\nNothing more was said. Afterwards Mrs Yule made a few sympathetic\ninquiries, but Marian was very brief in her replies.\n\nTen days after that, on a Sunday afternoon when Marian and her mother\nwere alone in the sitting-room, they heard the knock of a visitor at the\nfront door. Yule was out, and there was no likelihood of the visitor's\nwishing to see anyone but him. They listened; the servant went to the\ndoor, and, after a murmur of voices, came to speak to her mistress.\n\n'It's a gentleman called Mr Milvain,' the girl reported, in a way that\nproved how seldom callers presented themselves. 'He asked for Mr Yule,\nand when I said he was out, then he asked for Miss Yule.' Mother and\ndaughter looked anxiously at each other. Mrs Yule was nervous and\nhelpless.\n\n'Show Mr Milvain into the study,' said Marian, with sudden decision.\n\n'Are you going to see him there?' asked her mother in a hurried whisper.\n\n'I thought you would prefer that to his coming in here.'\n\n'Yes--yes. But suppose father comes back before he's gone?'\n\n'What will it matter? You forget that he asked for father first.'\n\n'Oh yes! Then don't wait.'\n\nMarian, scarcely less agitated than her mother, was just leaving the\nroom, when she turned back again.\n\n'If father comes in, you will tell him before he goes into the study?'\n\n'Yes, I will.'\n\nThe fire in the study was on the point of extinction; this was the first\nthing Marian's eye perceived on entering, and it gave her assurance that\nher father would not be back for some hours. Evidently he had intended\nit to go out; small economies of this kind, unintelligible to people who\nhave always lived at ease, had been the life-long rule with him. With a\nsensation of gladness at having free time before her, Marian turned to\nwhere Milvain was standing, in front of one of the bookcases. He wore no\nsymbol of mourning, but his countenance was far graver than usual, and\nrather paler. They shook hands in silence.\n\n'I am so grieved--' Marian began with broken voice.\n\n'Thank you. I know the girls have told you all about it. We knew for the\nlast month that it must come before long, though there was a deceptive\nimprovement just before the end.'\n\n'Please to sit down, Mr Milvain. Father went out not long ago, and I\ndon't think he will be back very soon.'\n\n'It was not really Mr Yule I wished to see,' said Jasper, frankly. 'If\nhe had been at home I should have spoken with him about what I have\nin mind, but if you will kindly give me a few minutes it will be much\nbetter.'\n\nMarian glanced at the expiring fire. Her curiosity as to what Milvain\nhad to say was mingled with an anxious doubt whether it was not too late\nto put on fresh coals; already the room was growing very chill, and this\nappearance of inhospitality troubled her.\n\n'Do you wish to save it?' Jasper asked, understanding her look and\nmovement.\n\n'I'm afraid it has got too low.'\n\n'I think not. Life in lodgings has made me skilful at this kind of\nthing; let me try my hand.'\n\nHe took the tongs and carefully disposed small pieces of coal upon\nthe glow that remained. Marian stood apart with a feeling of shame\nand annoyance. But it is so seldom that situations in life arrange\nthemselves with dramatic propriety; and, after all, this vulgar\nnecessity made the beginning of the conversation easier.\n\n'That will be all right now,' said Jasper at length, as little tongues\nof flame began to shoot here and there.\n\nMarian said nothing, but seated herself and waited.\n\n'I came up to town yesterday,' Jasper began. 'Of course we have had a\ngreat deal to do and think about. Miss Harrow has been very kind indeed\nto the girls; so have several of our old friends in Wattleborough. It\nwas necessary to decide at once what Maud and Dora are going to do, and\nit is on their account that I have come to see you.\n\nThe listener kept silence, with a face of sympathetic attention.\n\n'We have made up our minds that they may as well come to London. It's a\nbold step; I'm by no means sure that the result will justify it. But I\nthink they are perhaps right in wishing to try it.'\n\n'They will go on with literary work?'\n\n'Well, it's our hope that they may be able to. Of course there's no\nchance of their earning enough to live upon for some time. But the\nmatter stands like this. They have a trifling sum of money, on which,\nat a pinch, they could live in London for perhaps a year and a half. In\nthat time they may find their way to a sort of income; at all events,\nthe chances are that a year and a half hence I shall be able to help\nthem to keep body and soul together.'\n\nThe money of which he spoke was the debt owed to their father by William\nMilvain. In consequence of Mrs Milvain's pressing application, half of\nthis sum had at length been paid and the remainder was promised in a\nyear's time, greatly to Jasper's astonishment. In addition, there would\nbe the trifle realised by the sale of furniture, though most of this\nmight have to go in payment of rent unless the house could be relet\nimmediately.\n\n'They have made a good beginning,' said Marian.\n\nShe spoke mechanically, for it was impossible to keep her thoughts under\ncontrol. If Maud and Dora came to live in London it might bring about\na most important change in her life; she could scarcely imagine the\nhappiness of having two such friends always near. On the other hand, how\nwould it be regarded by her father? She was at a loss amid conflicting\nemotions.\n\n'It's better than if they had done nothing at all,' Jasper replied to\nher remark. 'And the way they knocked that trifle together promises\nwell. They did it very quickly, and in a far more workmanlike way than I\nshould have thought possible.'\n\n'No doubt they share your own talent.'\n\n'Perhaps so. Of course I know that I have talent of a kind, though\nI don't rate it very high. We shall have to see whether they can do\nanything more than mere booksellers' work; they are both very young,\nyou know. I think they may be able to write something that'll do for The\nEnglish Girl, and no doubt I can hit upon a second idea that will appeal\nto Jolly and Monk. At all events, they'll have books within reach, and\nbetter opportunities every way than at Finden.'\n\n'How do their friends in the country think of it?'\n\n'Very dubiously; but then what else was to be expected? Of course, the\nrespectable and intelligible path marked out for both of them points\nto a lifetime of governessing. But the girls have no relish for that;\nthey'd rather do almost anything. We talked over all the aspects of the\nsituation seriously enough--it is desperately serious, no doubt of that.\nI told them fairly all the hardships they would have to face--described\nthe typical London lodgings, and so on. Still, there's an adventurous\nvein in them, and they decided for the risk. If it came to the worst I\nsuppose they could still find governess work.'\n\n'Let us hope better things.'\n\n'Yes. But now, I should have felt far more reluctant to let them come\nhere in this way hadn't it been that they regard you as a friend.\nTo-morrow morning you will probably hear from one or both of them.\nPerhaps it would have been better if I had left them to tell you all\nthis, but I felt I should like to see you and--put it in my own way. I\nthink you'll understand this feeling, Miss Yule. I wanted, in fact, to\nhear from yourself that you would be a friend to the poor girls.'\n\n'Oh, you already know that! I shall be so very glad to see them often.'\n\nMarian's voice lent itself very naturally and sweetly to the expression\nof warm feeling. Emphasis was not her habit; it only needed that she\nshould put off her ordinary reserve, utter quietly the emotional thought\nwhich so seldom might declare itself, and her tones had an exquisite\nwomanliness.\n\nJasper looked full into her face.\n\n'In that case they won't miss the comfort of home so much. Of course\nthey will have to go into very modest lodgings indeed. I have already\nbeen looking about. I should like to find rooms for them somewhere near\nmy own place; it's a decent neighbourhood, and the park is at hand,\nand then they wouldn't be very far from you. They thought it might be\npossible to make a joint establishment with me, but I'm afraid that's\nout of the question.\n\nThe lodgings we should want in that case, everything considered, would\ncost more than the sum of our expenses if we live apart. Besides,\nthere's no harm in saying that I don't think we should get along very\nwell together. We're all of us rather quarrelsome, to tell the truth,\nand we try each other's tempers.'\n\nMarian smiled and looked puzzled.\n\n'Shouldn't you have thought that?'\n\n'I have seen no signs of quarrelsomeness.'\n\n'I'm not sure that the worst fault is on my side. Why should one condemn\noneself against conscience? Maud is perhaps the hardest to get along\nwith. She has a sort of arrogance, an exaggeration of something I am\nquite aware of in myself. You have noticed that trait in me?'\n\n'Arrogance--I think not. You have self-confidence.'\n\n'Which goes into extremes now and then. But, putting myself aside, I\nfeel pretty sure that the girls won't seem quarrelsome to you; they\nwould have to be very fractious indeed before that were possible.'\n\n'We shall continue to be friends, I am sure.'\n\nJasper let his eyes wander about the room.\n\n'This is your father's study?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Perhaps it would have seemed odd to Mr Yule if I had come in and begun\nto talk to him about these purely private affairs. He knows me so very\nslightly. But, in calling here for the first time--'\n\nAn unusual embarrassment checked him.\n\n'I will explain to father your very natural wish to speak of these\nthings,' said Marian, with tact.\n\nShe thought uneasily of her mother in the next room. To her there\nappeared no reason whatever why Jasper should not be introduced to Mrs\nYule, yet she could not venture to propose it. Remembering her father's\nlast remarks about Milvain in connection with Fadge's magazine, she must\nwait for distinct permission before offering the young man encouragement\nto repeat his visit. Perhaps there was complicated trouble in store\nfor her; impossible to say how her father's deep-rooted and rankling\nantipathies might affect her intercourse even with the two girls. But\nshe was of independent years; she must be allowed the choice of her\nown friends. The pleasure she had in seeing Jasper under this roof, in\nhearing him talk with such intimate friendliness, strengthened her to\nresist timid thoughts.\n\n'When will your sisters arrive?' she asked.\n\n'I think in a very few days. When I have fixed upon lodgings for them I\nmust go back to Finden; then they will return with me as soon as we\ncan get the house emptied. It's rather miserable selling things one has\nlived among from childhood. A friend in Wattleborough will house for us\nwhat we really can't bear to part with.'\n\n'It must be very sad,' Marian murmured.\n\n'You know,' said the other suddenly, 'that it's my fault the girls are\nleft in such a hard position?'\n\nMarian looked at him with startled eyes. His tone was quite unfamiliar\nto her.\n\n'Mother had an annuity,' he continued. 'It ended with her life, but if\nit hadn't been for me she could have saved a good deal out of it. Until\nthe last year or two I have earned nothing, and I have spent more\nthan was strictly necessary. Well, I didn't live like that in mere\nrecklessness; I knew I was preparing myself for remunerative work. But\nit seems too bad now. I'm sorry for it. I wish I had found some way of\nsupporting myself. The end of mother's life was made far more unhappy\nthan it need have been. I should like you to understand all this.'\n\nThe listener kept her eyes on the ground.\n\n'Perhaps the girls have hinted it to you?' Jasper added.\n\n'No.'\n\n'Selfishness--that's one of my faults. It isn't a brutal kind of\nselfishness; the thought of it often enough troubles me. If I were rich,\nI should be a generous and good man; I know I should. So would many\nanother poor fellow whose worst features come out under hardship. This\nisn't a heroic type; of course not. I am a civilised man, that's all.'\n\nMarian could say nothing.\n\n'You wonder why I am so impertinent as to talk about myself like this.\nI have gone through a good deal of mental pain these last few weeks,\nand somehow I can't help showing you something of my real thoughts. Just\nbecause you are one of the few people I regard with sincere respect.\nI don't know you very well, but quite well enough to respect you. My\nsisters think of you in the same way. I shall do many a base thing in\nlife, just to get money and reputation; I tell you this that you mayn't\nbe surprised if anything of that kind comes to your ears. I can't afford\nto live as I should like to.'\n\nShe looked up at him with a smile.\n\n'People who are going to live unworthily don't declare it in this way.'\n\n'I oughtn't to; a few minutes ago I had no intention of saying such\nthings. It means I am rather overstrung, I suppose; but it's all true,\nunfortunately.'\n\nHe rose, and began to run his eye along the shelves nearest to him.\n\n'Well, now I will go, Miss Yule.'\n\nMarian stood up as he approached.\n\n'It's all very well,' he said, smiling, 'for me to encourage my sisters\nin the hope that they may earn a living; but suppose I can't even do it\nmyself? It's by no means certain that I shall make ends meet this year.'\n\n'You have every reason to hope, I think.'\n\n'I like to hear people say that, but it'll mean savage work. When we\nwere all at Finden last year, I told the girls that it would be another\ntwelve months before I could support myself. Now I am forced to do\nit. And I don't like work; my nature is lazy. I shall never write for\nwriting's sake, only to make money. All my plans and efforts will have\nmoney in view--all. I shan't allow anything to come in the way of my\nmaterial advancement.'\n\n'I wish you every success,' said Marian, without looking at him, and\nwithout a smile.\n\n'Thank you. But that sounds too much like good-bye. I trust we are to be\nfriends, for all that?'\n\n'Indeed, I hope we may be.'\n\nThey shook hands, and he went towards the door. But before opening it,\nhe asked:\n\n'Did you read that thing of mine in The Current?'\n\n'Yes, I did.'\n\n'It wasn't bad, I think?'\n\n'It seemed to me very clever.'\n\n'Clever--yes, that's the word. It had a success, too. I have as good a\nthing half done for the April number, but I've felt too heavy-hearted to\ngo on with it. The girls shall let you know when they are in town.'\n\nMarian followed him into the passage, and watched him as he opened the\nfront door. When it had closed, she went back into the study for a few\nminutes before rejoining her mother.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. INVITA MINERVA\n\nAfter all, there came a day when Edwin Reardon found himself regularly\nat work once more, ticking off his stipulated quantum of manuscript each\nfour-and-twenty hours. He wrote a very small hand; sixty written slips\nof the kind of paper he habitually used would represent--thanks to the\nastonishing system which prevails in such matters: large type, wide\nspacing, frequency of blank pages--a passable three-hundred-page volume.\nOn an average he could write four such slips a day; so here we have\nfifteen days for the volume, and forty-five for the completed book.\n\nForty-five days; an eternity in the looking forward. Yet the calculation\ngave him a faint-hearted encouragement. At that rate he might have\nhis book sold by Christmas. It would certainly not bring him a hundred\npounds; seventy-five perhaps. But even that small sum would enable him\nto pay the quarter's rent, and then give him a short time, if only two\nor three weeks, of mental rest. If such rest could not be obtained all\nwas at an end with him. He must either find some new means of supporting\nhimself and his family, or--have done with life and its responsibilities\naltogether.\n\nThe latter alternative was often enough before him. He seldom slept for\nmore than two or three consecutive hours in the night, and the time\nof wakefulness was often terrible. The various sounds which marked the\nstages from midnight to dawn had grown miserably familiar to him; worst\ntorture to his mind was the chiming and striking of clocks. Two of these\nwere in general audible, that of Marylebone parish church, and that of\nthe adjoining workhouse; the latter always sounded several minutes after\nits ecclesiastical neighbour, and with a difference of note which seemed\nto Reardon very appropriate--a thin, querulous voice, reminding one of\nthe community it represented. After lying awake for awhile he would hear\nquarters sounding; if they ceased before the fourth he was glad, for\nhe feared to know what time it was. If the hour was complete, he waited\nanxiously for its number. Two, three, even four, were grateful; there\nwas still a long time before he need rise and face the dreaded task, the\nhorrible four blank slips of paper that had to be filled ere he might\nsleep again. But such restfulness was only for a moment; no sooner had\nthe workhouse bell become silent than he began to toil in his weary\nimagination, or else, incapable of that, to vision fearful hazards of\nthe future. The soft breathing of Amy at his side, the contact of her\nwarm limbs, often filled him with intolerable dread. Even now he did not\nbelieve that Amy loved him with the old love, and the suspicion was like\na cold weight at his heart that to retain even her wifely sympathy, her\nwedded tenderness, he must achieve the impossible.\n\nThe impossible; for he could no longer deceive himself with a hope of\ngenuine success. If he earned a bare living, that would be the utmost.\nAnd with bare livelihood Amy would not, could not, be content.\n\nIf he were to die a natural death it would be well for all. His wife and\nthe child would be looked after; they could live with Mrs Edmund Yule,\nand certainly it would not be long before Amy married again, this time a\nman of whose competency to maintain her there would be no doubt. His own\nbehaviour had been cowardly selfishness. Oh yes, she had loved him, had\nbeen eager to believe in him. But there was always that voice of warning\nin his mind; he foresaw--he knew--\n\nAnd if he killed himself? Not here; no lurid horrors for that poor girl\nand her relatives; but somewhere at a distance, under circumstances\nwhich would render the recovery of his body difficult, yet would leave\nno doubt of his death. Would that, again, be cowardly? The opposite,\nwhen once it was certain that to live meant poverty and wretchedness.\nAmy's grief, however sincere, would be but a short trial compared with\nwhat else might lie before her. The burden of supporting her and Willie\nwould be a very slight one if she went to live in her mother's house.\nHe considered the whole matter night after night, until perchance it\nhappened that sleep had pity upon him for an hour before the time of\nrising.\n\nAutumn was passing into winter. Dark days, which were always an\noppression to his mind, began to be frequent, and would soon succeed\neach other remorselessly. Well, if only each of them represented four\nwritten slips.\n\nMilvain's advice to him had of course proved useless. The sensational\ntitle suggested nothing, or only ragged shapes of incomplete humanity\nthat fluttered mockingly when he strove to fix them. But he had decided\nupon a story of the kind natural to him; a 'thin' story, and one which\nit would be difficult to spin into three volumes. His own, at all\nevents. The title was always a matter for head-racking when the book was\nfinished; he had never yet chosen it before beginning.\n\nFor a week he got on at the desired rate; then came once more the crisis\nhe had anticipated.\n\nA familiar symptom of the malady which falls upon outwearied\nimagination. There were floating in his mind five or six possible\nsubjects for a book, all dating back to the time when he first began\nnovel-writing, when ideas came freshly to him. If he grasped desperately\nat one of these, and did his best to develop it, for a day or two he\ncould almost content himself; characters, situations, lines of motive,\nwere laboriously schemed, and he felt ready to begin writing. But\nscarcely had he done a chapter or two when all the structure fell into\nflatness. He had made a mistake. Not this story, but that other one, was\nwhat he should have taken. The other one in question, left out of mind\nfor a time, had come back with a face of new possibility; it invited\nhim, tempted him to throw aside what he had already written. Good;\nnow he was in more hopeful train. But a few days, and the experience\nrepeated itself. No, not this story, but that third one, of which he\nhad not thought for a long time. How could he have rejected so hopeful a\nsubject?\n\nFor months he had been living in this way; endless circling, perpetual\nbeginning, followed by frustration. A sign of exhaustion, it of course\nmade exhaustion more complete. At times he was on the border-land of\nimbecility; his mind looked into a cloudy chaos, a shapeless whirl of\nnothings. He talked aloud to himself, not knowing that he did so. Little\nphrases which indicated dolorously the subject of his preoccupation\noften escaped him in the street: 'What could I make of that, now?'\n'Well, suppose I made him--?' 'But no, that wouldn't do,' and so on.\nIt had happened that he caught the eye of some one passing fixed in\nsurprise upon him; so young a man to be talking to himself in evident\ndistress!\n\nThe expected crisis came, even now that he was savagely determined to\ngo on at any cost, to write, let the result be what it would. His will\nprevailed. A day or two of anguish such as there is no describing to the\ninexperienced, and again he was dismissing slip after slip, a sigh of\nthankfulness at the completion of each one. It was a fraction of the\nwhole, a fraction, a fraction.\n\nThe ordering of his day was thus. At nine, after breakfast, he sat down\nto his desk, and worked till one. Then came dinner, followed by a walk.\nAs a rule he could not allow Amy to walk with him, for he had to think\nover the remainder of the day's toil, and companionship would have been\nfatal. At about half-past three he again seated himself; and wrote until\nhalf-past six, when he had a meal. Then once more to work from half-past\nseven to ten. Numberless were the experiments he had tried for the day's\ndivision. The slightest interruption of the order for the time being put\nhim out of gear; Amy durst not open his door to ask however necessary a\nquestion.\n\nSometimes the three hours' labour of a morning resulted in half-a-dozen\nlines, corrected into illegibility. His brain would not work; he could\nnot recall the simplest synonyms; intolerable faults of composition\ndrove him mad. He would write a sentence beginning thus: 'She took a\nbook with a look of--;' or thus: 'A revision of this decision would\nhave made him an object of derision.' Or, if the period were otherwise\ninoffensive, it ran in a rhythmic gallop which was torment to the ear.\nAll this, in spite of the fact that his former books had been noticeably\ngood in style. He had an appreciation of shapely prose which made him\nscorn himself for the kind of stuff he was now turning out. 'I can't\nhelp it; it must go; the time is passing.'\n\nThings were better, as a rule, in the evening. Occasionally he wrote a\npage with fluency which recalled his fortunate years; and then his heart\ngladdened, his hand trembled with joy.\n\nDescription of locality, deliberate analysis of character or motive,\ndemanded far too great an effort for his present condition. He kept as\nmuch as possible to dialogue; the space is filled so much more quickly,\nand at a pinch one can make people talk about the paltriest incidents of\nlife.\n\nThere came an evening when he opened the door and called to Amy.\n\n'What is it?' she answered from the bedroom. 'I'm busy with Willie.'\n\n'Come as soon as you are free.'\n\nIn ten minutes she appeared. There was apprehension on her face; she\nfeared he was going to lament his inability to work. Instead of that, he\ntold her joyfully that the first volume was finished.\n\n'Thank goodness!' she exclaimed. 'Are you going to do any more\nto-night?'\n\n'I think not--if you will come and sit with me.'\n\n'Willie doesn't seem very well. He can't get to sleep.'\n\n'You would like to stay with him?'\n\n'A little while. I'll come presently.'\n\nShe closed the door. Reardon brought a high-backed chair to the\nfireside, and allowed himself to forget the two volumes that had still\nto be struggled through, in a grateful sense of the portion that\nwas achieved. In a few minutes it occurred to him that it would be\ndelightful to read a scrap of the 'Odyssey'; he went to the shelves on\nwhich were his classical books, took the desired volume, and opened it\nwhere Odysseus speaks to Nausicaa:\n\n'For never yet did I behold one of mortals like to thee, neither man nor\nwoman; I am awed as I look upon thee. In Delos once, hard by the altar\nof Apollo, I saw a young palm-tree shooting up with even such a grace.'\n\nYes, yes; THAT was not written at so many pages a day, with a workhouse\nclock clanging its admonition at the poet's ear. How it freshened the\nsoul! How the eyes grew dim with a rare joy in the sounding of those\nnobly sweet hexameters!\n\nAmy came into the room again.\n\n'Listen,' said Reardon, looking up at her with a bright smile. 'Do you\nremember the first time that I read you this?'\n\nAnd he turned the speech into free prose. Amy laughed.\n\n'I remember it well enough. We were alone in the drawing-room; I had\ntold the others that they must make shift with the dining-room for that\nevening. And you pulled the book out of your pocket unexpectedly. I\nlaughed at your habit of always carrying little books about.'\n\nThe cheerful news had brightened her. If she had been summoned to hear\nlamentations her voice would not have rippled thus soothingly. Reardon\nthought of this, and it made him silent for a minute.\n\n'The habit was ominous,' he said, looking at her with an uncertain\nsmile. 'A practical literary man doesn't do such things.'\n\n'Milvain, for instance. No.'\n\nWith curious frequency she mentioned the name of Milvain. Her\nunconsciousness in doing so prevented Reardon from thinking about the\nfact; still, he had noted it.\n\n'Did you understand the phrase slightingly?' he asked.\n\n'Slightingly? Yes, a little, of course. It always has that sense on your\nlips, I think.'\n\nIn the light of this answer he mused upon her readily-offered instance.\nTrue, he had occasionally spoken of Jasper with something less than\nrespect, but Amy was not in the habit of doing so.\n\n'I hadn't any such meaning just then,' he said. 'I meant quite\nsimply that my bookish habits didn't promise much for my success as a\nnovelist.'\n\n'I see. But you didn't think of it in that way at the time.'\n\nHe sighed.\n\n'No. At least--no.'\n\n'At least what?'\n\n'Well, no; on the whole I had good hope.'\n\nAmy twisted her fingers together impatiently.\n\n'Edwin, let me tell you something. You are getting too fond of speaking\nin a discouraging way. Now, why should you do so? I don't like it. It\nhas one disagreeable effect on me, and that is, when people ask me about\nyou, how you are getting on, I don't quite know how to answer. They\ncan't help seeing that I am uneasy. I speak so differently from what I\nused to.'\n\n'Do you, really?'\n\n'Indeed I can't help it. As I say, it's very much your own fault.'\n\n'Well, but granted that I am not of a very sanguine nature, and that I\neasily fall into gloomy ways of talk, what is Amy here for?'\n\n'Yes, yes. But--'\n\n'But?'\n\n'I am not here only to try and keep you in good spirits, am I?'\n\nShe asked it prettily, with a smile like that of maidenhood.\n\n'Heaven forbid! I oughtn't to have put it in that absolute way. I was\nhalf joking, you know. But unfortunately it's true that I can't be as\nlight-spirited as I could wish. Does that make you impatient with me?'\n\n'A little. I can't help the feeling, and I ought to try to overcome it.\nBut you must try on your side as well. Why should you have said that\nthing just now?'\n\n'You're quite right. It was needless.'\n\n'A few weeks ago I didn't expect you to be cheerful. Things began\nto look about as bad as they could. But now that you've got a volume\nfinished, there's hope once more.'\n\nHope? Of what quality? Reardon durst not say what rose in his thoughts.\n'A very small, poor hope. Hope of money enough to struggle through\nanother half year, if indeed enough for that.' He had learnt that Amy\nwas not to be told the whole truth about anything as he himself saw it.\nIt was a pity. To the ideal wife a man speaks out all that is in him;\nshe had infinitely rather share his full conviction than be treated as\none from whom facts must be disguised. She says: 'Let us face the worst\nand talk of it together, you and I.' No, Amy was not the ideal wife\nfrom that point of view. But the moment after this half-reproach had\ntraversed his consciousness he condemned himself; and looked with the\njoy of love into her clear eyes.\n\n'Yes, there's hope once more, my dearest. No more gloomy talk to-night!\nI have read you something, now you shall read something to me; it is a\nlong time since I delighted myself with listening to you. What shall it\nbe?'\n\n'I feel rather too tired to-night.'\n\n'Do you?'\n\n'I have had to look after Willie so much. But read me some more Homer; I\nshall be very glad to listen.'\n\nReardon reached for the book again, but not readily. His face showed\ndisappointment. Their evenings together had never been the same since\nthe birth of the child; Willie was always an excuse--valid enough--for\nAmy's feeling tired. The little boy had come between him and the mother,\nas must always be the case in poor homes, most of all where the poverty\nis relative. Reardon could not pass the subject without a remark, but he\ntried to speak humorously.\n\n'There ought to be a huge public creche in London. It's monstrous that\nan educated mother should have to be nursemaid.'\n\n'But you know very well I think nothing of that. A creche, indeed! No\nchild of mine should go to any such place.'\n\nThere it was. She grudged no trouble on behalf of the child. That was\nlove; whereas--But then maternal love was a mere matter of course.\n\n'As soon as you get two or three hundred pounds for a book,' she added,\nlaughing, 'there'll be no need for me to give so much time.'\n\n'Two or three hundred pounds!' He repeated it with a shake of the head.\n'Ah, if that were possible!'\n\n'But that's really a paltry sum. What would fifty novelists you could\nname say if they were offered three hundred pounds for a book? How much\ndo you suppose even Markland got for his last?'\n\n'Didn't sell it at all, ten to one. Gets a royalty.'\n\n'Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book ceases\nto be talked of.'\n\n'Never mind. I'm sick of the word \"pounds.\"'\n\n'So am I.'\n\nShe sighed, commenting thus on her acquiescence.\n\n'But look, Amy. If I try to be cheerful in spite of natural dumps,\nwouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of money?'\n\n'Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades, and\nAjax stalking past him. Oh, I like that!'\n\nSo he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming. Amy sat with\nfolded arms, a smile on her lips, her brows knitted to the epic humour.\nIn a few minutes it was as if no difficulties threatened their life.\nEvery now and then Reardon looked up from his translating with a\ndelighted laugh, in which Amy joined.\n\nWhen he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his wife's\nchair, leaned upon it, and put his cheek against hers.\n\n'Amy!'\n\n'Yes, dear?'\n\n'Do you still love me a little?'\n\n'Much more than a little.'\n\n'Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler?'\n\n'Is it so bad as all that?'\n\n'Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the proofs\nwill be a martyrdom.'\n\n'Oh, but why? why?'\n\n'It's the best I can do, dearest. So you don't love me enough to hear\nthat calmly.'\n\n'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin. It's dreadful\nto me to think of what they will say in the reviews.'\n\n'Curse the reviews!'\n\nHis mood had changed on the instant. He stood up with darkened face,\ntrembling angrily.\n\n'I want you to promise me something, Amy. You won't read a single one\nof the notices unless it is forced upon your attention. Now, promise me\nthat. Neglect them absolutely, as I do. They're not worth a glance of\nyour eyes. And I shan't be able to bear it if I know you read all the\ncontempt that will be poured on me.'\n\n'I'm sure I shall be glad enough to avoid it; but other people, our\nfriends, read it. That's the worst.'\n\n'You know that their praise would be valueless, so have strength to\ndisregard the blame. Let our friends read and talk as much as they like.\nCan't you console yourself with the thought that I am not contemptible,\nthough I may have been forced to do poor work?'\n\n'People don't look at it in that way.'\n\n'But, darling,' he took her hands strongly in his own, 'I want you to\ndisregard other people. You and I are surely everything to each other?\nAre you ashamed of me, of me myself?'\n\n'No, not ashamed of you. But I am sensitive to people's talk and\nopinions.'\n\n'But that means they make you feel ashamed of me. What else?'\n\nThere was silence.\n\n'Edwin, if you find you are unable to do good work, you mustn't do bad.\nWe must think of some other way of making a living.'\n\n'Have you forgotten that you urged me to write a trashy sensational\nstory?'\n\nShe coloured and looked annoyed.\n\n'You misunderstood me. A sensational story needn't be trash. And then,\nyou know, if you had tried something entirely unlike your usual work,\nthat would have been excuse enough if people had called it a failure.'\n\n'People! People!'\n\n'We can't live in solitude, Edwin, though really we are not far\nfrom it.' He did not dare to make any reply to this. Amy was so\nexasperatingly womanlike in avoiding the important issue to which he\ntried to confine her; another moment, and his tone would be that of\nirritation. So he turned away and sat down to his desk, as if he had\nsome thought of resuming work.\n\n'Will you come and have some supper?' Amy asked, rising.\n\n'I have been forgetting that to-morrow morning's chapter has still to be\nthought out.'\n\n'Edwin, I can't think this book will really be so poor. You couldn't\npossibly give all this toil for no result.'\n\n'No; not if I were in sound health. But I am far from it.'\n\n'Come and have supper with me, dear, and think afterwards.'\n\nHe turned and smiled at her.\n\n'I hope I shall never be able to resist an invitation from you, sweet.'\n\nThe result of all this was, of course, that he sat down in anything but\nthe right mood to his work next morning. Amy's anticipation of criticism\nhad made it harder than ever for him to labour at what he knew to be\nbad. And, as ill-luck would have it, in a day or two he caught his\nfirst winter's cold. For several years a succession of influenzas,\nsore-throats, lumbagoes, had tormented him from October to May; in\nplanning his present work, and telling himself that it must be finished\nbefore Christmas, he had not lost sight of these possible interruptions.\nBut he said to himself: 'Other men have worked hard in seasons of\nillness; I must do the same.' All very well, but Reardon did not belong\nto the heroic class. A feverish cold now put his powers and resolution\nto the test. Through one hideous day he nailed himself to the desk--and\nwrote a quarter of a page. The next day Amy would not let him rise from\nbed; he was wretchedly ill. In the night he had talked about his work\ndeliriously, causing her no slight alarm.\n\n'If this goes on,' she said to him in the morning, 'you'll have brain\nfever. You must rest for two or three days.'\n\n'Teach me how to. I wish I could.'\n\nRest had indeed become out of the question. For two days he could not\nwrite, but the result upon his mind was far worse than if he had been at\nthe desk. He looked a haggard creature when he again sat down with the\naccustomed blank slip before him.\n\nThe second volume ought to have been much easier work than the first; it\nproved far harder. Messieurs and mesdames the critics are wont to point\nout the weakness of second volumes; they are generally right, simply\nbecause a story which would have made a tolerable book (the common run\nof stories) refuses to fill three books. Reardon's story was in itself\nweak, and this second volume had to consist almost entirely of laborious\npadding. If he wrote three slips a day he did well.\n\nAnd the money was melting, melting, despite Amy's efforts at economy.\nShe spent as little as she could; not a luxury came into their home;\narticles of clothing all but indispensable were left unpurchased. But\nto what purpose was all this? Impossible, now, that the book should be\nfinished and sold before the money had all run out.\n\nAt the end of November, Reardon said to his wife one morning:\n\n'To-morrow I finish the second volume.'\n\n'And in a week,' she replied, 'we shan't have a shilling left.'\n\nHe had refrained from making inquiries, and Amy had forborne to tell\nhim the state of things, lest it should bring him to a dead stop in his\nwriting. But now they must needs discuss their position.\n\n'In three weeks I can get to the end,' said Reardon, with unnatural\ncalmness. 'Then I will go personally to the publishers, and beg them to\nadvance me something on the manuscript before they have read it.'\n\n'Couldn't you do that with the first two volumes?'\n\n'No, I can't; indeed I can't. The other thing will be bad enough; but to\nbeg on an incomplete book, and such a book--I can't!'\n\nThere were drops on his forehead.\n\n'They would help you if they knew,' said Amy in a low voice.\n\n'Perhaps; I can't say. They can't help every poor devil. No; I will sell\nsome books. I can pick out fifty or sixty that I shan't much miss.'\n\nAmy knew what a wrench this would be. The imminence of distress seemed\nto have softened her.\n\n'Edwin, let me take those two volumes to the publishers, and ask--'\n\n'Heavens! no. That's impossible. Ten to one you will be told that my\nwork is of such doubtful value that they can't offer even a guinea till\nthe whole book has been considered. I can't allow you to go, dearest.\nThis morning I'll choose some books that I can spare, and after dinner\nI'll ask a man to come and look at them. Don't worry yourself; I can\nfinish in three weeks, I'm sure I can. If I can get you three or four\npounds you could make it do, couldn't you?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nShe averted her face as she spoke.\n\n'You shall have that.' He still spoke very quietly. 'If the books won't\nbring enough, there's my watch--oh, lots of things.'\n\nHe turned abruptly away, and Amy went on with her household work.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY\n\nIt was natural that Amy should hint dissatisfaction with the loneliness\nin which her days were mostly spent. She had never lived in a large\ncircle of acquaintances; the narrowness of her mother's means restricted\nthe family to intercourse with a few old friends and such new ones as\nwere content with teacup entertainment; but her tastes were social,\nand the maturing process which followed upon her marriage made her more\nconscious of this than she had been before. Already she had allowed her\nhusband to understand that one of her strongest motives in marrying\nhim was the belief that he would achieve distinction. At the time\nshe doubtless thought of his coming fame only--or principally--as it\nconcerned their relations to each other; her pride in him was to be one\nphase of her love. Now she was well aware that no degree of distinction\nin her husband would be of much value to her unless she had the pleasure\nof witnessing its effect upon others; she must shine with reflected\nlight before an admiring assembly.\n\nThe more conscious she became of this requirement of her nature, the\nmore clearly did she perceive that her hopes had been founded on an\nerror. Reardon would never be a great man; he would never even occupy\na prominent place in the estimation of the public. The two things, Amy\nknew, might be as different as light and darkness; but in the grief of\nher disappointment she would rather have had him flare into a worthless\npopularity than flicker down into total extinction, which it almost\nseemed was to be his fate.\n\nShe knew so well how 'people' were talking of him and her. Even her\nunliterary acquaintances understood that Reardon's last novel had been\nanything but successful, and they must of course ask each other how\nthe Reardons were going to live if the business of novel-writing proved\nunremunerative. Her pride took offence at the mere thought of such\nconversations. Presently she would become an object of pity; there would\nbe talk of 'poor Mrs Reardon.' It was intolerable.\n\nSo during the last half year she had withheld as much as possible from\nthe intercourse which might have been one of her chief pleasures. And to\ndisguise the true cause she made pretences which were a satire upon her\nstate of mind--alleging that she had devoted herself to a serious course\nof studies, that the care of house and child occupied all the time she\ncould spare from her intellectual pursuits. The worst of it was, she\nhad little faith in the efficacy of these fictions; in uttering them she\nfelt an unpleasant warmth upon her cheeks, and it was not difficult to\ndetect a look of doubt in the eyes of the listener. She grew angry\nwith herself for being dishonest, and with her husband for making such\ndishonesty needful.\n\nThe female friend with whom she had most trouble was Mrs Carter. You\nremember that on the occasion of Reardon's first meeting with his future\nwife, at the Grosvenor Gallery, there were present his friend Carter\nand a young lady who was shortly to bear the name of that spirited\nyoung man. The Carters had now been married about a year; they lived\nin Bayswater, and saw much of a certain world which imitates on a lower\nplane the amusements and affectations of society proper. Mr Carter was\nstill secretary to the hospital where Reardon had once earned his twenty\nshillings a week, but by voyaging in the seas of charitable enterprise\nhe had come upon supplementary sources of income; for instance, he held\nthe post of secretary to the Barclay Trust, a charity whose moderate\nfunds were largely devoted to the support of gentlemen engaged in\nadministering it. This young man, with his air of pleasing vivacity, had\nearly ingratiated himself with the kind of people who were likely to be\nof use to him; he had his reward in the shape of offices which are only\nprocured through private influence. His wife was a good-natured, lively,\nand rather clever girl; she had a genuine regard for Amy, and much\nrespect for Reardon. Her ambition was to form a circle of distinctly\nintellectual acquaintances, and she was constantly inviting the Reardons\nto her house; a real live novelist is not easily drawn into the world\nwhere Mrs Carter had her being, and it annoyed her that all attempts to\nsecure Amy and her husband for five-o'clock teas and small parties had\nof late failed.\n\nOn the afternoon when Reardon had visited a second-hand bookseller with\na view of raising money--he was again shut up in his study, dolorously\nat work--Amy was disturbed by the sound of a visitor's rat-tat; the\nlittle servant went to the door, and returned followed by Mrs Carter.\n\nUnder the best of circumstances it was awkward to receive any but\nintimate friends during the hours when Reardon sat at his desk. The\nlittle dining-room (with its screen to conceal the kitchen range)\noffered nothing more than homely comfort; and then the servant had to\nbe disposed of by sending her into the bedroom to take care of Willie.\nPrivacy, in the strict sense, was impossible, for the servant\nmight listen at the door (one room led out of the other) to all the\nconversation that went on; yet Amy could not request her visitors to\nspeak in a low tone. For the first year these difficulties had not\nbeen felt; Reardon made a point of leaving the front room at his wife's\ndisposal from three to six; it was only when dread of the future began\nto press upon him that he sat in the study all day long. You see how\ncomplicated were the miseries of the situation; one torment involved\nanother, and in every quarter subjects of discontent were multiplied.\n\nMrs Carter would have taken it ill had she known that Amy did not\nregard her as strictly an intimate. They addressed each other by their\nChristian names, and conversed without ceremony; but Amy was always\ndissatisfied when the well-dressed young woman burst with laughter and\nanimated talk into this abode of concealed poverty. Edith was not the\nkind of person with whom one can quarrel; she had a kind heart, and was\nnever disagreeably pretentious. Had circumstances allowed it, Amy would\nhave given frank welcome to such friendship; she would have been glad\nto accept as many invitations as Edith chose to offer. But at present\nit did her harm to come in contact with Mrs Carter; it made her envious,\ncold to her husband, resentful against fate.\n\n'Why can't she leave me alone?' was the thought that rose in her mind as\nEdith entered. 'I shall let her see that I don't want her here.'\n\n'Your husband at work?' Edith asked, with a glance in the direction of\nthe study, as soon as they had exchanged kisses and greetings.\n\n'Yes, he is busy.'\n\n'And you are sitting alone, as usual. I feared you might be out; an\nafternoon of sunshine isn't to be neglected at this time of year.'\n\n'Is there sunshine?' Amy inquired coldly.\n\n'Why, look! Do you mean to say you haven't noticed it? What a comical\nperson you are sometimes! I suppose you have been over head and ears in\nbooks all day. How is Willie?'\n\n'Very well, thank you.'\n\n'Mayn't I see him?'\n\n'If you like.'\n\nAmy stepped to the bedroom door and bade the servant bring Willie for\nexhibition. Edith, who as yet had no child of her own, always showed the\nmost flattering admiration of this infant; it was so manifestly sincere\nthat the mother could not but be moved to a grateful friendliness\nwhenever she listened to its expression. Even this afternoon the usual\neffect followed when Edith had made a pretty and tender fool of herself\nfor several minutes. Amy bade the servant make tea.\n\nAt this moment the door from the passage opened, and Reardon looked in.\n\n'Well, if this isn't marvellous!' cried Edith. 'I should as soon have\nexpected the heavens to fall!'\n\n'As what?' asked Reardon, with a pale smile.\n\n'As you to show yourself when I am here.'\n\n'I should like to say that I came on purpose to see you, Mrs Carter,\nbut it wouldn't be true. I'm going out for an hour, so that you can take\npossession of the other room if you like, Amy.'\n\n'Going out?' said Amy, with a look of surprise.\n\n'Nothing--nothing. I mustn't stay.'\n\nHe just inquired of Mrs Carter how her husband was, and withdrew. The\ndoor of the flat was heard to close after him.\n\n'Let us go into the study, then,' said Amy, again in rather a cold\nvoice.\n\nOn Reardon's desk were lying slips of blank paper. Edith, approaching on\ntiptoe with what was partly make believe, partly genuine, awe, looked at\nthe literary apparatus, then turned with a laugh to her friend.\n\n'How delightful it must be to sit down and write about people one has\ninvented! Ever since I have known you and Mr Reardon I have been tempted\nto try if I couldn't write a story.'\n\n'Have you?'\n\n'And I'm sure I don't know how you can resist the temptation. I feel\nsure you could write books almost as clever as your husband's.'\n\n'I have no intention of trying.'\n\n'You don't seem very well to-day, Amy.'\n\n'Oh, I think I am as well as usual.'\n\nShe guessed that her husband was once more brought to a standstill, and\nthis darkened her humour again.\n\n'One of my reasons for coming,' said Edith, 'was to beg and entreat and\nimplore you and Mr Reardon to dine with us next Wednesday. Now, don't\nput on such a severe face! Are you engaged that evening?'\n\n'Yes; in the ordinary way. Edwin can't possibly leave his work.'\n\n'But for one poor evening! It's such ages since we saw you.'\n\n'I'm very sorry. I don't think we shall ever be able to accept\ninvitations in future.'\n\nAmy spoke thus at the prompting of a sudden impulse. A minute ago, no\nsuch definite declaration was in her mind.\n\n'Never?' exclaimed Edith. 'But why? Whatever do you mean?'\n\n'We find that social engagements consume too much time,' Amy replied,\nher explanation just as much of an impromptu as the announcement had\nbeen. 'You see, one must either belong to society or not. Married people\ncan't accept an occasional invitation from friends and never do their\nsocial duty in return.\n\nWe have decided to withdraw altogether--at all events for the present. I\nshall see no one except my relatives.'\n\nEdith listened with a face of astonishment.\n\n'You won't even see ME?' she exclaimed.\n\n'Indeed, I have no wish to lose your friendship. Yet I am ashamed to ask\nyou to come here when I can never return your visits.'\n\n'Oh, please don't put it in that way! But it seems so very strange.'\n\nEdith could not help conjecturing the true significance of this resolve.\nBut, as is commonly the case with people in easy circumstances, she\nfound it hard to believe that her friends were so straitened as to\nhave a difficulty in supporting the ordinary obligations of a civilised\nstate.\n\n'I know how precious your husband's time is,' she added, as if to remove\nthe effect of her last remark. 'Surely, there's no harm in my saying--we\nknow each other well enough--you wouldn't think it necessary to devote\nan evening to entertaining us just because you had given us the pleasure\nof your company. I put it very stupidly, but I'm sure you understand me,\nAmy. Don't refuse just to come to our house now and then.'\n\n'I'm afraid we shall have to be consistent, Edith.'\n\n'But do you think this is a WISE thing to do?'\n\n'Wise?'\n\n'You know what you once told me, about how necessary it was for a\nnovelist to study all sorts of people. How can Mr Reardon do this if he\nshuts himself up in the house? I should have thought he would find it\nnecessary to make new acquaintances.'\n\n'As I said,' returned Amy, 'it won't be always like this. For the\npresent, Edwin has quite enough \"material.\"'\n\nShe spoke distantly; it irritated her to have to invent excuses for the\nsacrifice she had just imposed on herself. Edith sipped the tea which\nhad been offered her, and for a minute kept silence.\n\n'When will Mr Reardon's next book be published?' she asked at length.\n\n'I'm sure I don't know. Not before the spring.'\n\n'I shall look so anxiously for it. Whenever I meet new people I always\nturn the conversation to novels, just for the sake of asking them if\nthey know your husband's books.'\n\nShe laughed merrily.\n\n'Which is seldom the case, I should think,' said Amy, with a smile of\nindifference.\n\n'Well, my dear, you don't expect ordinary novel-readers to know about Mr\nReardon. I wish my acquaintances were a better kind of people; then, of\ncourse, I should hear of his books more often. But one has to make the\nbest of such society as offers. If you and your husband forsake me, I\nshall feel it a sad loss; I shall indeed.'\n\nAmy gave a quick glance at the speaker's face.\n\n'Oh, we must be friends just the same,' she said, more naturally than\nshe had spoken hitherto. 'But don't ask us to come and dine just now.\nAll through this winter we shall be very busy, both of us. Indeed, we\nhave decided not to accept any invitations at all.'\n\n'Then, so long as you let me come here now and then, I must give in. I\npromise not to trouble you with any more complaining. But how you can\nlive such a life I don't know. I consider myself more of a reader than\nwomen generally are, and I should be mortally offended if anyone called\nme frivolous; but I must have a good deal of society. Really and truly,\nI can't live without it.'\n\n'No?' said Amy, with a smile which meant more than Edith could\ninterpret. It seemed slightly condescending.\n\n'There's no knowing; perhaps if I had married a literary man---' She\npaused, smiling and musing. 'But then I haven't, you see.' She laughed.\n'Albert is anything but a bookworm, as you know.'\n\n'You wouldn't wish him to be.'\n\n'Oh no! Not a bookworm. To be sure, we suit each other very well indeed.\nHe likes society just as much as I do. It would be the death of him if\nhe didn't spend three-quarters of every day with lively people.'\n\n'That's rather a large portion. But then you count yourself among the\nlively ones.'\n\nThey exchanged looks, and laughed together.\n\n'Of course you think me rather silly to want to talk so much with silly\npeople,' Edith went on. 'But then there's generally some amusement to\nbe got, you know. I don't take life quite so seriously as you do. People\nare people, after all; it's good fun to see how they live and hear how\nthey talk.'\n\nAmy felt that she was playing a sorry part. She thought of sour grapes,\nand of the fox who had lost his tail. Worst of all, perhaps Edith\nsuspected the truth. She began to make inquiries about common\nacquaintances, and fell into an easier current of gossip.\n\nA quarter of an hour after the visitor's departure Reardon came back.\nAmy had guessed aright; the necessity of selling his books weighed upon\nhim so that for the present he could do nothing. The evening was spent\ngloomily, with very little conversation.\n\nNext day came the bookseller to make his inspection. Reardon had\nchosen out and ranged upon a table nearly a hundred volumes. With a few\nexceptions, they had been purchased second-hand. The tradesman examined\nthem rapidly.\n\n'What do you ask?' he inquired, putting his head aside.\n\n'I prefer that you should make an offer,' Reardon replied, with the\nhelplessness of one who lives remote from traffic.\n\n'I can't say more than two pounds ten.'\n\n'That is at the rate of sixpence a volume---?'\n\n'To me that's about the average value of books like these.'\n\nPerhaps the offer was a fair one; perhaps it was not. Reardon had\nneither time nor spirit to test the possibilities of the market; he was\nashamed to betray his need by higgling.\n\n'I'll take it,' he said, in a matter-of-fact voice.\n\nA messenger was sent for the books that afternoon. He stowed them\nskilfully in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that was\nwaiting.\n\nReardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves. Many of those vanished\nvolumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told you where he\nhad picked them up and when; to open them recalled a past moment of\nintellectual growth, a mood of hope or despondency, a stage of struggle.\nIn most of them his name was written, and there were often pencilled\nnotes in the margin. Of course he had chosen from among the most\nvaluable he possessed; such a multitude must else have been sold to make\nthis sum of two pounds ten. Books are cheap, you know. At need, one can\nbuy a Homer for fourpence, a Sophocles for sixpence. It was not rubbish\nthat he had accumulated at so small expenditure, but the library of a\npoor student--battered bindings, stained pages, supplanted editions.\nHe loved his books, but there was something he loved more, and when Amy\nglanced at him with eyes of sympathy he broke into a cheerful laugh.\n\n'I'm only sorry they have gone for so little. Tell me when the money\nis nearly at an end again, and you shall have more. It's all right; the\nnovel will be done soon.'\n\nAnd that night he worked until twelve o'clock, doggedly, fiercely.\n\nThe next day was Sunday. As a rule he made it a day of rest, and almost\nperforce, for the depressing influence of Sunday in London made work too\ndifficult. Then, it was the day on which he either went to see his own\nparticular friends or was visited by them.\n\n'Do you expect anyone this evening?' Amy inquired.\n\n'Biffen will look in, I dare say. Perhaps Milvain.'\n\n'I think I shall take Willie to mother's. I shall be back before eight.'\n\n'Amy, don't say anything about the books.'\n\n'No, no.'\n\n'I suppose they always ask you when we think of removing over the way?'\n\nHe pointed in a direction that suggested Marylebone Workhouse. Amy tried\nto laugh, but a woman with a child in her arms has no keen relish for\nsuch jokes.\n\n'I don't talk to them about our affairs,' she said.\n\n'That's best.'\n\nShe left home about three o'clock, the servant going with her to carry\nthe child.\n\nAt five a familiar knock sounded through the flat; it was a heavy rap\nfollowed by half-a-dozen light ones, like a reverberating echo, the last\nstroke scarcely audible. Reardon laid down his book, but kept his pipe\nin his mouth, and went to the door. A tall, thin man stood there, with a\nslouch hat and long grey overcoat. He shook hands silently, hung his hat\nin the passage, and came forward into the study.\n\nHis name was Harold Biffen, and, to judge from his appearance, he did\nnot belong to the race of common mortals. His excessive meagreness would\nall but have qualified him to enter an exhibition in the capacity of\nliving skeleton, and the garments which hung upon this framework would\nperhaps have sold for three-and-sixpence at an old-clothes dealer's. But\nthe man was superior to these accidents of flesh and raiment. He had\na fine face: large, gentle eyes, nose slightly aquiline, small and\ndelicate mouth. Thick black hair fell to his coat-collar; he wore a\nheavy moustache and a full beard. In his gait there was a singular\ndignity; only a man of cultivated mind and graceful character could move\nand stand as he did.\n\nHis first act on entering the room was to take from his pocket a pipe,\na pouch, a little tobacco-stopper, and a box of matches, all of which\nhe arranged carefully on a corner of the central table. Then he drew\nforward a chair and seated himself.\n\n'Take your top-coat off;' said Reardon.\n\n'Thanks, not this evening.'\n\n'Why the deuce not?'\n\n'Not this evening, thanks.'\n\nThe reason, as soon as Reardon sought for it, was obvious. Biffen had\nno ordinary coat beneath the other. To have referred to this fact would\nhave been indelicate; the novelist of course understood it, and smiled,\nbut with no mirth.\n\n'Let me have your Sophocles,' were the visitor's next words.\n\nReardon offered him a volume of the Oxford Pocket Classics.\n\n'I prefer the Wunder, please.'\n\n'It's gone, my boy.'\n\n'Gone?'\n\n'Wanted a little cash.'\n\nBiffen uttered a sound in which remonstrance and sympathy were blended.\n\n'I'm sorry to hear that; very sorry. Well, this must do. Now, I want to\nknow how you scan this chorus in the \"Oedipus Rex.\"'\n\nReardon took the volume, considered, and began to read aloud with metric\nemphasis.\n\n'Choriambics, eh?' cried the other. 'Possible, of course; but treat them\nas Ionics a minore with an anacrusis, and see if they don't go better.'\n\nHe involved himself in terms of pedantry, and with such delight that his\neyes gleamed. Having delivered a technical lecture, he began to read in\nillustration, producing quite a different effect from that of the\nrhythm as given by his friend. And the reading was by no means that of a\npedant, rather of a poet.\n\nFor half an hour the two men talked Greek metres as if they lived in a\nworld where the only hunger known could be satisfied by grand or sweet\ncadences.\n\nThey had first met in an amusing way. Not long after the publication of\nhis book 'On Neutral Ground' Reardon was spending a week at Hastings.\nA rainy day drove him to the circulating library, and as he was looking\nalong the shelves for something readable a voice near at hand asked the\nattendant if he had anything 'by Edwin Reardon.' The novelist turned in\nastonishment; that any casual mortal should inquire for his books seemed\nincredible. Of course there was nothing by that author in the library,\nand he who had asked the question walked out again. On the morrow\nReardon encountered this same man at a lonely part of the shore; he\nlooked at him, and spoke a word or two of common civility; they got into\nconversation, with the result that Edwin told the story of yesterday.\nThe stranger introduced himself as Harold Biffen, an author in a small\nway, and a teacher whenever he could get pupils; an abusive review had\ninterested him in Reardon's novels, but as yet he knew nothing of them\nbut the names.\n\nTheir tastes were found to be in many respects sympathetic, and after\nreturning to London they saw each other frequently. Biffen was always in\ndire poverty, and lived in the oddest places; he had seen harder trials\nthan even Reardon himself. The teaching by which he partly lived was of\na kind quite unknown to the respectable tutorial world. In these days\nof examinations, numbers of men in a poor position--clerks\nchiefly--conceive a hope that by 'passing' this, that, or the other\nformal test they may open for themselves a new career. Not a few such\npersons nourish preposterous ambitions; there are warehouse clerks\nprivately preparing (without any means or prospect of them) for a\ncall to the Bar, drapers' assistants who 'go in' for the preliminary\nexamination of the College of Surgeons, and untaught men innumerable who\ndesire to procure enough show of education to be eligible for a curacy.\nCandidates of this stamp frequently advertise in the newspapers for\ncheap tuition, or answer advertisements which are intended to appeal to\nthem; they pay from sixpence to half-a-crown an hour--rarely as much as\nthe latter sum. Occasionally it happened that Harold Biffen had three or\nfour such pupils in hand, and extraordinary stories he could draw from\nhis large experience in this sphere.\n\nThen as to his authorship.--But shortly after the discussion of Greek\nmetres he fell upon the subject of his literary projects, and, by no\nmeans for the first time, developed the theory on which he worked.\n\n'I have thought of a new way of putting it. What I really aim at is an\nabsolute realism in the sphere of the ignobly decent. The field, as I\nunderstand it, is a new one; I don't know any writer who has treated\nordinary vulgar life with fidelity and seriousness. Zola writes\ndeliberate tragedies; his vilest figures become heroic from the\nplace they fill in a strongly imagined drama. I want to deal with the\nessentially unheroic, with the day-to-day life of that vast majority of\npeople who are at the mercy of paltry circumstance. Dickens understood\nthe possibility of such work, but his tendency to melodrama on the one\nhand, and his humour on the other, prevented him from thinking of it. An\ninstance, now. As I came along by Regent's Park half an hour ago a man\nand a girl were walking close in front of me, love-making; I passed them\nslowly and heard a good deal of their talk--it was part of the situation\nthat they should pay no heed to a stranger's proximity. Now, such\na love-scene as that has absolutely never been written down; it was\nentirely decent, yet vulgar to the nth power. Dickens would have made\nit ludicrous--a gross injustice. Other men who deal with low-class life\nwould perhaps have preferred idealising it--an absurdity. For my\nown part, I am going to reproduce it verbatim, without one single\nimpertinent suggestion of any point of view save that of honest\nreporting. The result will be something unutterably tedious. Precisely.\nThat is the stamp of the ignobly decent life. If it were anything but\ntedious it would be untrue. I speak, of course, of its effect upon the\nordinary reader.'\n\n'I couldn't do it,' said Reardon.\n\n'Certainly you couldn't. You--well, you are a psychological realist in\nthe sphere of culture. You are impatient of vulgar circumstances.'\n\n'In a great measure because my life has been martyred by them.'\n\n'And for that very same reason I delight in them,' cried Biffen.\n'You are repelled by what has injured you; I am attracted by it. This\ndivergence is very interesting; but for that, we should have resembled\neach other so closely. You know that by temper we are rabid idealists,\nboth of us.'\n\n'I suppose so.'\n\n'But let me go on. I want, among other things, to insist upon the\nfateful power of trivial incidents. No one has yet dared to do this\nseriously. It has often been done in farce, and that's why farcical\nwriting so often makes one melancholy. You know my stock instances\nof the kind of thing I mean. There was poor Allen, who lost the most\nvaluable opportunity of his life because he hadn't a clean shirt to put\non; and Williamson, who would probably have married that rich girl but\nfor the grain of dust that got into his eye, and made him unable to say\nor do anything at the critical moment.'\n\nReardon burst into a roar of laughter.\n\n'There you are!' cried Biffen, with friendly annoyance. 'You take the\nconventional view. If you wrote of these things you would represent them\nas laughable.'\n\n'They are laughable,' asserted the other, 'however serious to the\npersons concerned. The mere fact of grave issues in life depending on\nsuch paltry things is monstrously ludicrous. Life is a huge farce, and\nthe advantage of possessing a sense of humour is that it enables one to\ndefy fate with mocking laughter.'\n\n'That's all very well, but it isn't an original view. I am not lacking\nin sense of humour, but I prefer to treat these aspects of life from\nan impartial standpoint. The man who laughs takes the side of a cruel\nomnipotence, if one can imagine such a thing.\n\nI want to take no side at all; simply to say, Look, this is the kind of\nthing that happens.'\n\n'I admire your honesty, Biffen,' said Reardon, sighing. 'You will\nnever sell work of this kind, yet you have the courage to go on with it\nbecause you believe in it.'\n\n'I don't know; I may perhaps sell it some day.'\n\n'In the meantime,' said Reardon, laying down his pipe, 'suppose we eat a\nmorsel of something. I'm rather hungry.'\n\nIn the early days of his marriage Reardon was wont to offer the friends\nwho looked in on Sunday evening a substantial supper; by degrees the\nmeal had grown simpler, until now, in the depth of his poverty, he made\nno pretence of hospitable entertainment. It was only because he knew\nthat Biffen as often as not had nothing whatever to eat that he did not\nhesitate to offer him a slice of bread and butter and a cup of tea. They\nwent into the back room, and over the Spartan fare continued to discuss\naspects of fiction.\n\n'I shall never,' said Biffen, 'write anything like a dramatic scene.\nSuch things do happen in life, but so very rarely that they are nothing\nto my purpose. Even when they happen, by-the-bye, it is in a shape that\nwould be useless to the ordinary novelist; he would have to cut away\nthis circumstance, and add that. Why? I should like to know. Such\nconventionalism results from stage necessities. Fiction hasn't yet\noutgrown the influence of the stage on which it originated. Whatever a\nman writes FOR EFFECT is wrong and bad.'\n\n'Only in your view. There may surely exist such a thing as the ART of\nfiction.'\n\n'It is worked out. We must have a rest from it. You, now--the best\nthings you have done are altogether in conflict with novelistic\nconventionalities. It was because that blackguard review of \"On Neutral\nGround\" clumsily hinted this that I first thought of you with interest.\nNo, no; let us copy life. When the man and woman are to meet for a\ngreat scene of passion, let it all be frustrated by one or other of\nthem having a bad cold in the head, and so on. Let the pretty girl get\na disfiguring pimple on her nose just before the ball at which she is\ngoing to shine. Show the numberless repulsive features of common decent\nlife. Seriously, coldly; not a hint of facetiousness, or the thing\nbecomes different.'\n\nAbout eight o'clock Reardon heard his wife's knock at the door. On\nopening he saw not only Amy and the servant, the latter holding Willie\nin her arms, but with them Jasper Milvain.\n\n'I have been at Mrs Yule's,' Jasper explained as he came in. 'Have you\nanyone here?'\n\n'Biffen.'\n\n'Ah, then we'll discuss realism.'\n\n'That's over for the evening. Greek metres also.'\n\n'Thank Heaven!'\n\nThe three men seated themselves with joking and laughter, and the smoke\nof their pipes gathered thickly in the little room. It was half an\nhour before Amy joined them. Tobacco was no disturbance to her, and\nshe enjoyed the kind of talk that was held on these occasions; but\nit annoyed her that she could no longer play the hostess at a merry\nsupper-table.\n\n'Why ever are you sitting in your overcoat, Mr Biffen?' were her first\nwords when she entered.\n\n'Please excuse me, Mrs Reardon. It happens to be more convenient this\nevening.'\n\nShe was puzzled, but a glance from her husband warned her not to pursue\nthe subject.\n\nBiffen always behaved to Amy with a sincerity of respect which had made\nhim a favourite with her. To him, poor fellow, Reardon seemed supremely\nblessed. That a struggling man of letters should have been able to\nmarry, and such a wife, was miraculous in Biffen's eyes. A woman's love\nwas to him the unattainable ideal; already thirty-five years old, he had\nno prospect of ever being rich enough to assure himself a daily dinner;\nmarriage was wildly out of the question. Sitting here, he found it very\ndifficult not to gaze at Amy with uncivil persistency. Seldom in his\nlife had he conversed with educated women, and the sound of this clear\nvoice was always more delightful to him than any music.\n\nAmy took a place near to him, and talked in her most charming way of\nsuch things as she knew interested him. Biffen's deferential attitude\nas he listened and replied was in strong contrast with the careless\nease which marked Jasper Milvain. The realist would never smoke in Amy's\npresence, but Jasper puffed jovial clouds even whilst she was conversing\nwith him.\n\n'Whelpdale came to see me last night,' remarked Milvain, presently.\n'His novel is refused on all hands. He talks of earning a living as a\ncommission agent for some sewing-machine people.'\n\n'I can't understand how his book should be positively refused,' said\nReardon. 'The last wasn't altogether a failure.'\n\n'Very nearly. And this one consists of nothing but a series of\nconversations between two people. It is really a dialogue, not a novel\nat all. He read me some twenty pages, and I no longer wondered that he\ncouldn't sell it.'\n\n'Oh, but it has considerable merit,' put in Biffen. 'The talk is\nremarkably true.'\n\n'But what's the good of talk that leads to nothing?' protested Jasper.\n\n'It's a bit of real life.'\n\n'Yes, but it has no market value. You may write what you like, so long\nas people are willing to read you. Whelpdale's a clever fellow, but he\ncan't hit a practical line.'\n\n'Like some other people I have heard of;' said Reardon, laughing.\n\n'But the odd thing is, that he always strikes one as practical-minded.\nDon't you feel that, Mrs Reardon?'\n\nHe and Amy talked for a few minutes, and Reardon, seemingly lost in\nmeditation, now and then observed them from the corner of his eye.\n\nAt eleven o'clock husband and wife were alone again.\n\n'You don't mean to say,' exclaimed Amy, 'that Biffen has sold his coat?'\n\n'Or pawned it.'\n\n'But why not the overcoat?'\n\n'Partly, I should think, because it's the warmer of the two; partly,\nperhaps, because the other would fetch more.'\n\n'That poor man will die of starvation, some day, Edwin.'\n\n'I think it not impossible.'\n\n'I hope you gave him something to eat?'\n\n'Oh yes. But I could see he didn't like to take as much as he wanted.\nI don't think of him with so much pity as I used that's a result of\nsuffering oneself.'\n\nAmy set her lips and sighed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. RESPITE\n\nThe last volume was written in fourteen days. In this achievement\nReardon rose almost to heroic pitch, for he had much to contend with\nbeyond the mere labour of composition. Scarcely had he begun when a\nsharp attack of lumbago fell upon him; for two or three days it was\ntorture to support himself at the desk, and he moved about like a\ncripple. Upon this ensued headaches, sore-throat, general enfeeblement.\nAnd before the end of the fortnight it was necessary to think of raising\nanother small sum of money; he took his watch to the pawnbroker's (you\ncan imagine that it would not stand as security for much), and sold a\nfew more books. All this notwithstanding, here was the novel at length\nfinished. When he had written 'The End' he lay back, closed his eyes,\nand let time pass in blankness for a quarter of an hour.\n\nIt remained to determine the title. But his brain refused another\neffort; after a few minutes' feeble search he simply took the name of\nthe chief female character, Margaret Home. That must do for the book.\nAlready, with the penning of the last word, all its scenes, personages,\ndialogues had slipped away into oblivion; he knew and cared nothing more\nabout them.\n\n'Amy, you will have to correct the proofs for me. Never as long as I\nlive will I look upon a page of this accursed novel. It has all but\nkilled me.'\n\n'The point is,' replied Amy, 'that here we have it complete. Pack it up\nand take it to the publishers' to-morrow morning.'\n\n'I will.'\n\n'And--you will ask them to advance you a few pounds?'\n\n'I must.'\n\nBut that undertaking was almost as hard to face as a rewriting of\nthe last volume would have been. Reardon had such superfluity of\nsensitiveness that, for his own part, he would far rather have gone\nhungry than ask for money not legally his due. To-day there was no\nchoice. In the ordinary course of business it would be certainly a month\nbefore he heard the publishers' terms, and perhaps the Christmas season\nmight cause yet more delay. Without borrowing, he could not provide for\nthe expenses of more than another week or two.\n\nHis parcel under his arm, he entered the ground-floor office, and\ndesired to see that member of the firm with whom he had previously had\npersonal relations. This gentleman was not in town; he would be away for\na few days. Reardon left the manuscript, and came out into the street\nagain.\n\nHe crossed, and looked up at the publishers' windows from the opposite\npavement. 'Do they suspect in what wretched circumstances I am? Would\nit surprise them to know all that depends upon that budget of paltry\nscribbling? I suppose not; it must be a daily experience with them.\nWell, I must write a begging letter.'\n\nIt was raining and windy. He went slowly homewards, and was on the point\nof entering the public door of the flats when his uneasiness became so\ngreat that he turned and walked past. If he went in, he must at\nonce write his appeal for money, and he felt that he could not. The\ndegradation seemed too great.\n\nWas there no way of getting over the next few weeks? Rent, of course,\nwould be due at Christmas, but that payment might be postponed; it was\nonly a question of buying food and fuel. Amy had offered to ask her\nmother for a few pounds; it would be cowardly to put this task upon her\nnow that he had promised to meet the difficulty himself. What man in\nall London could and would lend him money? He reviewed the list of his\nacquaintances, but there was only one to whom he could appeal with the\nslightest hope--that was Carter.\n\nHalf an hour later he entered that same hospital door through which,\nsome years ago, he had passed as a half-starved applicant for work. The\nmatron met him.\n\n'Is Mr Carter here?'\n\n'No, sir. But we expect him any minute. Will you wait?'\n\nHe entered the familiar office, and sat down. At the table where he had\nbeen wont to work, a young clerk was writing. If only all the events of\nthe last few years could be undone, and he, with no soul dependent upon\nhim, be once more earning his pound a week in this room! What a happy\nman he was in those days!\n\nNearly half an hour passed. It is the common experience of beggars\nto have to wait. Then Carter came in with quick step; he wore a heavy\nulster of the latest fashion, new gloves, a resplendent silk hat; his\ncheeks were rosy from the east wind.\n\n'Ha, Reardon! How do? how do? Delighted to see you!'\n\n'Are you very busy?'\n\n'Well, no, not particularly. A few cheques to sign, and we're just\ngetting out our Christmas appeals. You remember?'\n\nHe laughed gaily. There was a remarkable freedom from snobbishness in\nthis young man; the fact of Reardon's intellectual superiority had long\nago counteracted Carter's social prejudices.\n\n'I should like to have a word with you.'\n\n'Right you are!'\n\nThey went into a small inner room. Reardon's pulse beat at fever-rate;\nhis tongue was cleaving to his palate.\n\n'What is it, old man?' asked the secretary, seating himself and flinging\none of his legs over the other. 'You look rather seedy, do you know. Why\nthe deuce don't you and your wife look us up now and then?'\n\n'I've had a hard pull to finish my novel.'\n\n'Finished, is it? I'm glad to hear that. When'll it be out? I'll send\nscores of people to Mudie's after it.\n\n'Thanks; but I don't think much of it, to tell you the truth.'\n\n'Oh, we know what that means.'\n\nReardon was talking like an automaton. It seemed to him that he turned\nscrews and pressed levers for the utterance of his next words.\n\n'I may as well say at once what I have come for. Could you lend me ten\npounds for a month--in fact, until I get the money for my book?'\n\nThe secretary's countenance fell, though not to that expression of utter\ncoldness which would have come naturally under the circumstances to a\ngreat many vivacious men. He seemed genuinely embarrassed.\n\n'By Jove! I--confound it! To tell you the truth, I haven't ten pounds\nto lend. Upon my word, I haven't, Reardon! These infernal housekeeping\nexpenses! I don't mind telling you, old man, that Edith and I have been\npushing the pace rather.' He laughed, and thrust his hands down into\nhis trousers-pockets. 'We pay such a darned rent, you know--hundred and\ntwenty-five. We've only just been saying we should have to draw it mild\nfor the rest of the winter. But I'm infernally sorry; upon my word I\nam.'\n\n'And I am sorry to have annoyed you by the unseasonable request.'\n\n'Devilish seasonable, Reardon, I assure you!' cried the secretary, and\nroared at his joke. It put him into a better temper than ever, and he\nsaid at length: 'I suppose a fiver wouldn't be much use?--For a month,\nyou say?--I might manage a fiver, I think.'\n\n'It would be very useful. But on no account if----'\n\n'No, no; I could manage a fiver, for a month. Shall I give you a\ncheque?'\n\n'I'm ashamed----'\n\n'Not a bit of it! I'll go and write the cheque.'\n\nReardon's face was burning. Of the conversation that followed when\nCarter again presented himself he never recalled a word. The bit of\npaper was crushed together in his hand. Out in the street again, he all\nbut threw it away, dreaming for the moment that it was a 'bus ticket or\na patent medicine bill.\n\nHe reached home much after the dinner-hour. Amy was surprised at his\nlong absence.\n\n'Got anything?' she asked.\n\n'Yes.'\n\nIt was half his intention to deceive her, to say that the publishers had\nadvanced him five pounds. But that would be his first word of untruth\nto Amy, and why should he be guilty of it? He told her all that had\nhappened. The result of this frankness was something that he had not\nanticipated; Amy exhibited profound vexation.\n\n'Oh, you SHOULDN'T have done that!' she exclaimed. 'Why didn't you come\nhome and tell me? I would have gone to mother at once.'\n\n'But does it matter?'\n\n'Of course it does,' she replied sharply. 'Mr Carter will tell his wife,\nand how pleasant that is?'\n\n'I never thought of that. And perhaps it wouldn't have seemed to me so\nannoying as it does to you.'\n\n'Very likely not.'\n\nShe turned abruptly away, and stood at a distance in gloomy muteness.\n\n'Well,' she said at length, 'there's no helping it now. Come and have\nyour dinner.'\n\n'You have taken away my appetite.'\n\n'Nonsense! I suppose you're dying of hunger.'\n\nThey had a very uncomfortable meal, exchanging few words. On Amy's face\nwas a look more resembling bad temper than anything Reardon had ever\nseen there. After dinner he went and sat alone in the study. Amy did\nnot come near him. He grew stubbornly angry; remembering the pain he had\ngone through, he felt that Amy's behaviour to him was cruel. She must\ncome and speak when she would.\n\nAt six o'clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he would\ncome to tea.\n\n'Thank you,' he replied, 'I had rather stay here.'\n\n'As you please.'\n\nAnd he sat alone until about nine. It was only then he recollected that\nhe must send a note to the publishers, calling their attention to the\nparcel he had left. He wrote it, and closed with a request that they\nwould let him hear as soon as they conveniently could. As he was\nputting on his hat and coat to go out and post the letter Amy opened the\ndining-room door.\n\n'You're going out?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Shall you be long?'\n\n'I think not.'\n\nHe was away only a few minutes. On returning he went first of all into\nthe study, but the thought of Amy alone in the other room would not let\nhim rest. He looked in and saw that she was sitting without a fire.\n\n'You can't stay here in the cold, Amy.'\n\n'I'm afraid I must get used to it,' she replied, affecting to be closely\nengaged upon some sewing.\n\nThat strength of character which it had always delighted him to read in\nher features was become an ominous hardness. He felt his heart sink as\nhe looked at her.\n\n'Is poverty going to have the usual result in our case?' he asked,\ndrawing nearer.\n\n'I never pretended that I could be indifferent to it.'\n\n'Still, don't you care to try and resist it?'\n\nShe gave no answer. As usual in conversation with an aggrieved woman it\nwas necessary to go back from the general to the particular.\n\n'I'm afraid,' he said, 'that the Carters already knew pretty well how\nthings were going with us.'\n\n'That's a very different thing. But when it comes to asking them for\nmoney--'\n\n'I'm very sorry. I would rather have done anything if I had known how it\nwould annoy you.'\n\n'If we have to wait a month, five pounds will be very little use to us.'\n\nShe detailed all manner of expenses that had to be met--outlay there was\nno possibility of avoiding so long as their life was maintained on its\npresent basis.\n\n'However, you needn't trouble any more about it. I'll see to it. Now you\nare free from your book try to rest.'\n\n'Come and sit by the fire. There's small chance of rest for me if we are\nthinking unkindly of each other.'\n\nA doleful Christmas. Week after week went by and Reardon knew that Amy\nmust have exhausted the money he had given her. But she made no more\ndemands upon him, and necessaries were paid for in the usual way. He\nsuffered from a sense of humiliation; sometimes he found it difficult to\nlook in his wife's face.\n\nWhen the publishers' letter came it contained an offer of seventy-five\npounds for the copyright of 'Margaret Home,' twenty-five more to be\npaid if the sale in three-volume form should reach a certain number of\ncopies.\n\nHere was failure put into unmistakable figures. Reardon said to himself\nthat it was all over with his profession of authorship. The book could\nnot possibly succeed even to the point of completing his hundred pounds;\nit would meet with universal contempt, and indeed deserved nothing\nbetter.\n\n'Shall you accept this?' asked Amy, after dreary silence.\n\n'No one else would offer terms as good.'\n\n'Will they pay you at once?'\n\n'I must ask them to.'\n\nWell, it was seventy-five pounds in hand. The cheque came as soon as\nit was requested, and Reardon's face brightened for the moment. Blessed\nmoney! root of all good, until the world invent some saner economy.\n\n'How much do you owe your mother?' he inquired, without looking at Amy.\n\n'Six pounds,' she answered coldly.\n\n'And five to Carter; and rent, twelve pounds ten. We shall have a matter\nof fifty pounds to go on with.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. WORK WITHOUT HOPE\n\nThe prudent course was so obvious that he marvelled at Amy's failing\nto suggest it. For people in their circumstances to be paying a rent\nof fifty pounds when a home could be found for half the money was\nrecklessness; there would be no difficulty in letting the flat for this\nlast year of their lease, and the cost of removal would be trifling. The\nmental relief of such a change might enable him to front with courage\na problem in any case very difficult, and, as things were, desperate.\nThree months ago, in a moment of profoundest misery, he had proposed\nthis step; courage failed him to speak of it again, Amy's look and voice\nwere too vivid in his memory. Was she not capable of such a sacrifice\nfor his sake? Did she prefer to let him bear all the responsibility of\nwhatever might result from a futile struggle to keep up appearances?\n\nBetween him and her there was no longer perfect confidence. Her silence\nmeant reproach, and--whatever might have been the case before--there was\nno doubt that she now discussed him with her mother, possibly with other\npeople. It was not likely that she concealed his own opinion of the book\nhe had just finished; all their acquaintances would be prepared to greet\nits publication with private scoffing or with mournful shaking of the\nhead. His feeling towards Amy entered upon a new phase. The stability of\nhis love was a source of pain; condemning himself, he felt at the same\ntime that he was wronged. A coldness which was far from representing\nthe truth began to affect his manner and speech, and Amy did not seem\nto notice it, at all events she made no kind of protest. They no longer\ntalked of the old subjects, but of those mean concerns of material life\nwhich formerly they had agreed to dismiss as quickly as possible. Their\nrelations to each other--not long ago an inexhaustible topic--would not\nbear spoken comment; both were too conscious of the danger-signal when\nthey looked that way.\n\nIn the time of waiting for the publishers' offer, and now again when he\nwas asking himself how he should use the respite granted him, Reardon\nspent his days at the British Museum. He could not read to much purpose,\nbut it was better to sit here among strangers than seem to be idling\nunder Amy's glance. Sick of imaginative writing, he turned to the\nstudies which had always been most congenial, and tried to shape out a\npaper or two like those he had formerly disposed of to editors. Among\nhis unused material lay a mass of notes he had made in a reading of\nDiogenes Laertius, and it seemed to him now that he might make something\nsalable out of these anecdotes of the philosophers. In a happier mood he\ncould have written delightfully on such a subject--not learnedly, but in\nthe strain of a modern man whose humour and sensibility find free play\namong the classic ghosts; even now he was able to recover something of\nthe light touch which had given value to his published essays.\n\nMeanwhile the first number of The Current had appeared, and Jasper\nMilvain had made a palpable hit. Amy spoke very often of the article\ncalled 'Typical Readers,' and her interest in its author was freely\nmanifested. Whenever a mention of Jasper came under her notice she read\nit out to her husband. Reardon smiled and appeared glad, but he did not\ncare to discuss Milvain with the same frankness as formerly.\n\nOne evening at the end of January he told Amy what he had been writing\nat the Museum, and asked her if she would care to hear it read.\n\n'I began to wonder what you were doing,' she replied.\n\n'Then why didn't you ask me?'\n\n'I was rather afraid to.'\n\n'Why afraid?'\n\n'It would have seemed like reminding you that--you know what I mean.'\n\n'That a month or two more will see us at the same crisis again. Still, I\nhad rather you had shown an interest in my doings.'\n\nAfter a pause Amy asked:\n\n'Do you think you can get a paper of this kind accepted?'\n\n'It isn't impossible. I think it's rather well done. Let me read you a\npage--'\n\n'Where will you send it?' she interrupted.\n\n'To The Wayside.'\n\n'Why not try The Current? Ask Milvain to introduce you to Mr Fadge. They\npay much better, you know.'\n\n'But this isn't so well suited for Fadge. And I much prefer to be\nindependent, as long as it's possible.'\n\n'That's one of your faults, Edwin,' remarked his wife, mildly. 'It's\nonly the strongest men that can make their way independently. You ought\nto use every means that offers.'\n\n'Seeing that I am so weak?'\n\n'I didn't think it would offend you. I only meant---'\n\n'No, no; you are quite right. Certainly, I am one of the men who need\nall the help they can get. But I assure you, this thing won't do for The\nCurrent.'\n\n'What a pity you will go hack to those musty old times! Now think of\nthat article of Milvain's. If only you could do something of that kind!\nWhat do people care about Diogenes and his tub and his lantern?'\n\n'My dear girl, Diogenes Laertius had neither tub nor lantern, that I\nknow of. You are making a mistake; but it doesn't matter.'\n\n'No, I don't think it does.' The caustic note was not very pleasant on\nAmy's lips. 'Whoever he was, the mass of readers will be frightened by\nhis name.'\n\n'Well, we have to recognise that the mass of readers will never care for\nanything I do.'\n\n'You will never convince me that you couldn't write in a popular way if\nyou tried. I'm sure you are quite as clever as Milvain--'\n\nReardon made an impatient gesture.\n\n'Do leave Milvain aside for a little! He and I are as unlike as two\nmen could be. What's the use of constantly comparing us?'\n\nAmy looked at him. He had never spoken to her so brusquely.\n\n'How can you say that I am constantly comparing you?'\n\n'If not in spoken words, then in your thoughts.'\n\n'That's not a very nice thing to say, Edwin.'\n\n'You make it so unmistakable, Amy. What I mean is, that you are always\nregretting the difference between him and me. You lament that I can't\nwrite in that attractive way. Well, I lament it myself--for your sake. I\nwish I had Milvain's peculiar talent, so that I could get reputation and\nmoney. But I haven't, and there's an end of it. It irritates a man to be\nperpetually told of his disadvantages.'\n\n'I will never mention Milvain's name again,' said Amy coldly.\n\n'Now that's ridiculous, and you know it.'\n\n'I feel the same about your irritation. I can't see that I have given\nany cause for it.'\n\n'Then we'll talk no more of the matter.'\n\nReardon threw his manuscript aside and opened a book. Amy never asked\nhim to resume his intention of reading what he had written.\n\nHowever, the paper was accepted. It came out in The Wayside for March,\nand Reardon received seven pounds ten for it. By that time he had\nwritten another thing of the same gossipy kind, suggested by Pliny's\nLetters. The pleasant occupation did him good, but there was no\npossibility of pursuing this course. 'Margaret Home' would be published\nin April; he might get the five-and-twenty pounds contingent upon a\ncertain sale, yet that could in no case be paid until the middle of the\nyear, and long before then he would be penniless. His respite drew to an\nend.\n\nBut now he took counsel of no one; as far as it was possible he lived in\nsolitude, never seeing those of his acquaintances who were outside the\nliterary world, and seldom even his colleagues. Milvain was so busy that\nhe had only been able to look in twice or thrice since Christmas, and\nReardon nowadays never went to Jasper's lodgings.\n\nHe had the conviction that all was over with the happiness of his\nmarried life, though how the events which were to express this ruin\nwould shape themselves he could not foresee. Amy was revealing that\naspect of her character to which he had been blind, though a practical\nman would have perceived it from the first; so far from helping him to\nsupport poverty, she perhaps would even refuse to share it with him.\nHe knew that she was slowly drawing apart; already there was a divorce\nbetween their minds, and he tortured himself in uncertainty as to how\nfar he retained her affections. A word of tenderness, a caress, no\nlonger met with response from her; her softest mood was that of mere\ncomradeship. All the warmth of her nature was expended upon the child;\nReardon learnt how easy it is for a mother to forget that both parents\nhave a share in her offspring.\n\nHe was beginning to dislike the child. But for Willie's existence Amy\nwould still love him with undivided heart; not, perhaps, so passionately\nas once, but still with lover's love. And Amy understood--or, at all\nevents, remarked--this change in him. She was aware that he seldom asked\na question about Willie, and that he listened with indifference when she\nspoke of the little fellow's progress. In part offended, she was also in\npart pleased.\n\nBut for the child, mere poverty, he said to himself, should never have\nsundered them. In the strength of his passion he could have overcome all\nher disappointments; and, indeed, but for that new care, he would\nmost likely never have fallen to this extremity of helplessness. It is\nnatural in a weak and sensitive man to dream of possibilities disturbed\nby the force of circumstance. For one hour which he gave to conflict\nwith his present difficulties, Reardon spent many in contemplation of\nthe happiness that might have been.\n\nEven yet, it needed but a little money to redeem all. Amy had no\nextravagant aspirations; a home of simple refinement and freedom from\nanxiety would restore her to her nobler self. How could he find fault\nwith her? She knew nothing of such sordid life as he had gone through,\nand to lack money for necessities seemed to her degrading beyond\nendurance. Why, even the ordinary artisan's wife does not suffer such\nprivations as hers at the end of the past year. For lack of that little\nmoney his life must be ruined. Of late he had often thought about the\nrich uncle, John Yule, who might perhaps leave something to Amy; but the\nhope was so uncertain. And supposing such a thing were to happen; would\nit be perfectly easy to live upon his wife's bounty--perhaps exhausting\na small capital, so that, some years hence, their position would be\nno better than before? Not long ago, he could have taken anything from\nAmy's hand; would it be so simple since the change that had come between\nthem?\n\nHaving written his second magazine-article (it was rejected by two\neditors, and he had no choice but to hold it over until sufficient time\nhad elapsed to allow of his again trying The Wayside), he saw that he\nmust perforce plan another novel. But this time he was resolute not to\nundertake three volumes. The advertisements informed him that numbers of\nauthors were abandoning that procrustean system; hopeless as he was, he\nmight as well try his chance with a book which could be written in a\nfew weeks. And why not a glaringly artificial story with a sensational\ntitle? It could not be worse than what he had last written.\n\nSo, without a word to Amy, he put aside his purely intellectual work\nand began once more the search for a 'plot.' This was towards the end of\nFebruary. The proofs of 'Margaret Home' were coming in day by day; Amy\nhad offered to correct them, but after all he preferred to keep his\nshame to himself as long as possible, and with a hurried reading he\ndismissed sheet after sheet. His imagination did not work the more\nhappily for this repugnant task; still, he hit at length upon a\nconception which seemed absurd enough for the purpose before him.\nWhether he could persevere with it even to the extent of one volume was\nvery doubtful. But it should not be said of him that he abandoned his\nwife and child to penury without one effort of the kind that Milvain and\nAmy herself had recommended.\n\nWriting a page or two of manuscript daily, and with several holocausts\nto retard him, he had done nearly a quarter of the story when there came\na note from Jasper telling of Mrs Milvain's death. He handed it across\nthe breakfast-table to Amy, and watched her as she read it.\n\n'I suppose it doesn't alter his position,' Amy remarked, without much\ninterest.\n\n'I suppose not appreciably. He told me once his mother had a sufficient\nincome; but whatever she leaves will go to his sisters, I should think.\nHe has never said much to me.'\n\nNearly three weeks passed before they heard anything more from Jasper\nhimself; then he wrote, again from the country, saying that he purposed\nbringing his sisters to live in London. Another week, and one evening he\nappeared at the door.\n\nA want of heartiness in Reardon's reception of him might have been\nexplained as gravity natural under the circumstances. But Jasper had\nbefore this become conscious that he was not welcomed here quite so\ncheerily as in the old days. He remarked it distinctly on that evening\nwhen he accompanied Amy home from Mrs Yule's; since then he had allowed\nhis pressing occupations to be an excuse for the paucity of his visits.\nIt seemed to him perfectly intelligible that Reardon, sinking into\nliterary insignificance, should grow cool to a man entering upon a\nsuccessful career; the vein of cynicism in Jasper enabled him to pardon\na weakness of this kind, which in some measure flattered him. But he\nboth liked and respected Reardon, and at present he was in the mood to\ngive expression to his warmer feelings.\n\n'Your book is announced, I see,' he said with an accent of pleasure, as\nsoon as he had seated himself.\n\n'I didn't know it.'\n\n'Yes. \"New novel by the author of 'On Neutral Ground.'\" Down for the\nsixteenth of April. And I have a proposal to make about it. Will you\nlet me ask Fadge to have it noticed in \"Books of the Month,\" in the May\nCurrent?'\n\n'I strongly advise you to let it take its chance. The book isn't worth\nspecial notice, and whoever undertook to review it for Fadge would\neither have to lie, or stultify the magazine.'\n\nJasper turned to Amy.\n\n'Now what is to be done with a man like this? What is one to say to him,\nMrs Reardon?'\n\n'Edwin dislikes the book,' Amy replied, carelessly.\n\n'That has nothing to do with the matter. We know quite well that in\nanything he writes there'll be something for a well-disposed reviewer\nto make a good deal of. If Fadge will let me, I should do the thing\nmyself.'\n\nNeither Reardon nor his wife spoke.\n\n'Of course,' went on Milvain, looking at the former, 'if you had rather\nI left it alone--'\n\n'I had much rather. Please don't say anything about it.'\n\nThere was an awkward silence. Amy broke it by saying:\n\n'Are your sisters in town, Mr Milvain?'\n\n'Yes. We came up two days ago. I found lodgings for them not far from\nMornington Road. Poor girls! they don't quite know where they are, yet.\nOf course they will keep very quiet for a time, then I must try to get\nfriends for them. Well, they have one already--your cousin, Miss Yule.\nShe has already been to see them.'\n\n'I'm very glad of that.'\n\nAmy took an opportunity of studying his face. There was again a\nsilence as if of constraint. Reardon, glancing at his wife, said with\nhesitation:\n\n'When they care to see other visitors, I'm sure Amy would be very\nglad--'\n\n'Certainly!' his wife added.\n\n'Thank you very much. Of course I knew I could depend on Mrs Reardon to\nshow them kindness in that way. But let me speak frankly of something.\nMy sisters have made quite a friend of Miss Yule, since she was down\nthere last year. Wouldn't that'--he turned to Amy--'cause you a little\nawkwardness?'\n\nAmy had a difficulty in replying. She kept her eyes on the ground.\n\n'You have had no quarrel with your cousin,' remarked Reardon.\n\n'None whatever. It's only my mother and my uncle.'\n\n'I can't imagine Miss Yule having a quarrel with anyone,' said Jasper.\nThen he added quickly: 'Well, things must shape themselves naturally. We\nshall see. For the present they will be fully occupied. Of course it's\nbest that they should be. I shall see them every day, and Miss Yule will\ncome pretty often, I dare say.'\n\nReardon caught Amy's eye, but at once looked away again.\n\n'My word!' exclaimed Milvain, after a moment's meditation. 'It's well\nthis didn't happen a year ago. The girls have no income; only a little\ncash to go on with. We shall have our work set. It's a precious lucky\nthing that I have just got a sort of footing.'\n\nReardon muttered an assent.\n\n'And what are you doing now?' Jasper inquired suddenly.\n\n'Writing a one-volume story.'\n\n'I'm glad to hear that. Any special plan for its publication?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Then why not offer it to Jedwood? He's publishing a series of\none-volume novels. You know of Jedwood, don't you? He was Culpepper's\nmanager; started business about half a year ago, and it looks as if he\nwould do well. He married that woman--what's her name?--Who wrote \"Mr\nHenderson's Wives\"?'\n\n'Never heard of it.'\n\n'Nonsense!--Miss Wilkes, of course. Well, she married this fellow\nJedwood, and there was a great row about something or other between\nhim and her publishers. Mrs Boston Wright told me all about it. An\nastonishing woman that; a cyclopaedia of the day's small talk. I'm quite\na favourite with her; she's promised to help the girls all she can.\nWell, but I was talking about Jedwood. Why not offer him this book of\nyours? He's eager to get hold of the new writers. Advertises hugely; he\nhas the whole back page of The Study about every other week. I suppose\nMiss Wilkes's profits are paying for it. He has just given Markland two\nhundred pounds for a paltry little tale that would scarcely swell out\nto a volume. Markland told me himself. You know that I've scraped an\nacquaintance with him? Oh! I suppose I haven't seen you since then. He's\na dwarfish fellow with only one eye. Mrs Boston Wright cries him up at\nevery opportunity.'\n\n'Who IS Mrs Boston Wright?' asked Reardon, laughing impatiently.\n\n'Edits The English Girl, you know. She's had an extraordinary life.\nWas born in Mauritius--no, Ceylon--I forget; some such place. Married a\nsailor at fifteen. Was shipwrecked somewhere, and only restored to life\nafter terrific efforts;--her story leaves it all rather vague. Then she\nturns up as a newspaper correspondent at the Cape. Gave up that, and\ntook to some kind of farming, I forget where. Married again (first\nhusband lost in aforementioned shipwreck), this time a Baptist minister,\nand began to devote herself to soup-kitchens in Liverpool. Husband\nburned to death, somewhere. She's next discovered in the thick of\nliterary society in London. A wonderful woman, I assure you. Must be\nnearly fifty, but she looks twenty-five.'\n\nHe paused, then added impulsively:\n\n'Let me take you to one of her evenings--nine on Thursday. Do persuade\nhim, Mrs Reardon?'\n\nReardon shook his head.\n\n'No, no. I should be horribly out of my element.'\n\n'I can't see why. You would meet all sorts of well-known people; those\nyou ought to have met long ago. Better still, let me ask her to send\nan invitation for both of you. I'm sure you'd like her, Mrs Reardon.\nThere's a good deal of humbug about her, it's true, but some solid\nqualities as well. No one has a word to say against her. And it's a\nsplendid advertisement to have her for a friend. She'll talk about your\nbooks and articles till all is blue.'\n\nAmy gave a questioning look at her husband. But Reardon moved in an\nuncomfortable way.\n\n'We'll see about it,' he said. 'Some day, perhaps.'\n\n'Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood: I happen to\nknow a man who reads for him.'\n\n'Heavens!' cried Reardon. 'Who don't you know?'\n\n'The simplest thing in the world. At present it's a large part of my\nbusiness to make acquaintances. Why, look you; a man who has to live\nby miscellaneous writing couldn't get on without a vast variety of\nacquaintances. One's own brain would soon run dry; a clever fellow knows\nhow to use the brains of other people.'\n\nAmy listened with an unconscious smile which expressed keen interest.\n\n'Oh,' pursued Jasper, 'when did you see Whelpdale last?'\n\n'Haven't seen him for a long time.'\n\n'You don't know what he's doing? The fellow has set up as a \"literary\nadviser.\" He has an advertisement in The Study every week. \"To Young\nAuthors and Literary Aspirants\"--something of the kind. \"Advice given on\nchoice of subjects, MSS. read, corrected, and recommended to publishers.\nModerate terms.\" A fact! And what's more, he made six guineas in the\nfirst fortnight; so he says, at all events. Now that's one of the finest\njokes I ever heard. A man who can't get anyone to publish his own books\nmakes a living by telling other people how to write!'\n\n'But it's a confounded swindle!'\n\n'Oh, I don't know. He's capable of correcting the grammar of \"literary\naspirants,\" and as for recommending to publishers--well, anyone can\nrecommend, I suppose.'\n\nReardon's indignation yielded to laughter.\n\n'It's not impossible that he may thrive by this kind of thing.'\n\n'Not at all,' assented Jasper.\n\nShortly after this he looked at his watch.\n\n'I must be off, my friends. I have something to write before I can go to\nmy truckle-bed, and it'll take me three hours at least.\nGood-bye, old man. Let me know when your story's finished, and we'll\ntalk about it. And think about Mrs Boston Wright; oh, and about that\nreview in The Current. I wish you'd let me do it. Talk it over with your\nguide, philosopher, and friend.'\n\nHe indicated Amy, who laughed in a forced way.\n\nWhen he was gone, the two sat without speaking for several minutes.\n\n'Do you care to make friends with those girls?' asked Reardon at length.\n\n'I suppose in decency I must call upon them?'\n\n'I suppose so.'\n\n'You may find them very agreeable.'\n\n'Oh yes.'\n\nThey conversed with their own thoughts for a while. Then Reardon burst\nout laughing.\n\n'Well, there's the successful man, you see. Some day he'll live in a\nmansion, and dictate literary opinions to the universe.'\n\n'How has he offended you?'\n\n'Offended me? Not at all. I am glad of his cheerful prospects.'\n\n'Why should you refuse to go among those people? It might be good for\nyou in several ways.'\n\n'If the chance had come when I was publishing my best work, I dare say I\nshouldn't have refused. But I certainly shall not present myself as the\nauthor of \"Margaret Home,\" and the rubbish I'm now writing.'\n\n'Then you must cease to write rubbish.'\n\n'Yes. I must cease to write altogether.'\n\n'And do what?'\n\n'I wish to Heaven I knew!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. A WARNING\n\nIn the spring list of Mr Jedwood's publications, announcement was\nmade of a new work by Alfred Yule. It was called 'English Prose in the\nNineteenth Century,' and consisted of a number of essays (several of\nwhich had already seen the light in periodicals) strung into continuity.\nThe final chapter dealt with contemporary writers, more especially those\nwho served to illustrate the author's theme--that journalism is the\ndestruction of prose style: on certain popular writers of the day there\nwas an outpouring of gall which was not likely to be received as though\nit were sweet ointment. The book met with rather severe treatment in\ncritical columns; it could scarcely be ignored (the safest mode of\nattack when one's author has no expectant public), and only the most\nskilful could write of it in a hostile spirit without betraying that\nsome of its strokes had told. An evening newspaper which piqued itself\non independence indulged in laughing appreciation of the polemical\nchapter, and the next day printed a scornful letter from a\nthinly-disguised correspondent who assailed both book and reviewer. For\nthe moment people talked more of Alfred Yule than they had done since\nhis memorable conflict with Clement Fadge.\n\nThe publisher had hoped for this. Mr Jedwood was an energetic and\nsanguine man, who had entered upon his business with a determination to\nrival in a year or so the houses which had slowly risen into commanding\nstability. He had no great capital, but the stroke of fortune which had\nwedded him to a popular novelist enabled him to count on steady profit\nfrom one source, and boundless faith in his own judgment urged him to an\ninitial outlay which made the prudent shake their heads. He talked much\nof 'the new era,' foresaw revolutions in publishing and book-selling,\nplanned every week a score of untried ventures which should appeal to\nthe democratic generation just maturing; in the meantime, was ready to\npublish anything which seemed likely to get talked about.\n\nThe May number of The Current, in its article headed 'Books of the\nMonth,' devoted about half a page to 'English Prose in the Nineteenth\nCentury.' This notice was a consummate example of the flippant style of\nattack. Flippancy, the most hopeless form of intellectual vice, was a\ncharacterising note of Mr Fadge's periodical; his monthly comments on\npublications were already looked for with eagerness by that growing\nclass of readers who care for nothing but what can be made matter of\nridicule. The hostility of other reviewers was awkward and ineffectual\ncompared with this venomous banter, which entertained by showing that in\nthe book under notice there was neither entertainment nor any other kind\nof interest. To assail an author without increasing the number of his\nreaders is the perfection of journalistic skill, and The Current, had\nit stood alone, would fully have achieved this end. As it was, silence\nmight have been better tactics. But Mr Fadge knew that his enemy would\nsmart under the poisoned pin-points, and that was something gained.\n\nOn the day that The Current appeared, its treatment of Alfred Yule was\ndiscussed in Mr Jedwood's private office. Mr Quarmby, who had intimate\nrelations with the publisher, happened to look in just as a young man\n(one of Mr Jedwood's 'readers') was expressing a doubt whether Fadge\nhimself was the author of the review.\n\n'But there's Fadge's thumb-mark all down the page,' cried Mr Quarmby.\n\n'He inspired the thing, of course; but I rather think it was written by\nthat fellow Milvain.'\n\n'Think so?' asked the publisher.\n\n'Well, I know with certainty that the notice of Markland's novel is his\nwriting, and I have reasons for suspecting that he did Yule's book as\nwell.'\n\n'Smart youngster, that,' remarked Mr Jedwood. 'Who is he, by-the-bye?'\n\n'Somebody's illegitimate son, I believe,' replied the source of\ntrustworthy information, with a laugh. 'Denham says he met him in New\nYork a year or two ago, under another name.\n\n'Excuse me,' interposed Mr Quarmby, 'there's some mistake in all that.'\n\nHe went on to state what he knew, from Yule himself, concerning\nMilvain's history. Though in this instance a corrector, Mr Quarmby took\nan opportunity, a few hours later, of informing Mr Hinks that the attack\non Yule in The Current was almost certainly written by young Milvain,\nwith the result that when the rumour reached Yule's ears it was\ndelivered as an undoubted and well-known fact.\n\nIt was a month prior to this that Milvain made his call upon Marian\nYule, on the Sunday when her father was absent. When told of the visit,\nYule assumed a manner of indifference, but his daughter understood that\nhe was annoyed. With regard to the sisters who would shortly be living\nin London, he merely said that Marian must behave as discretion directed\nher. If she wished to invite the Miss Milvains to St Paul's Crescent,\nhe only begged that the times and seasons of the household might not be\ndisturbed.\n\nAs her habit was, Marian took refuge in silence. Nothing could have been\nmore welcome to her than the proximity of Maud and Dora, but she foresaw\nthat her own home would not be freely open to them; perhaps it might be\nnecessary to behave with simple frankness, and let her friends know the\nembarrassments of the situation. But that could not be done in the first\ninstance; the unkindness would seem too great. A day after the arrival\nof the girls, she received a note from Dora, and almost at once replied\nto it by calling at her friends' lodgings. A week after that, Maud and\nDora came to St Paul's Crescent; it was Sunday, and Mr Yule purposely\nkept away from home. They had only been once to the house since then,\nagain without meeting Mr Yule. Marian, however, visited them at their\nlodgings frequently; now and then she met Jasper there. The latter never\nspoke of her father, and there was no question of inviting him to repeat\nhis call.\n\nIn the end, Marian was obliged to speak on the subject with her mother.\nMrs Yule offered an occasion by asking when the Miss Milvains were\ncoming again.\n\n'I don't think I shall ever ask them again,' Marian replied.\n\nHer mother understood, and looked troubled.\n\n'I must tell them how it is, that's all,' the girl went on. 'They are\nsensible; they won't be offended with me.'\n\n'But your father has never had anything to say against them,' urged Mrs\nYule. 'Not a word to me, Marian. I'd tell you the truth if he had.'\n\n'It's too disagreeable, all the same. I can't invite them here with\npleasure. Father has grown prejudiced against them all, and he won't\nchange. No, I shall just tell them.'\n\n'It's very hard for you,' sighed her mother. 'If I thought I could do\nany good by speaking--but I can't, my dear.'\n\n'I know it, mother. Let us go on as we did before.'\n\nThe day after this, when Yule came home about the hour of dinner, he\ncalled Marian's name from within the study. Marian had not left the\nhouse to-day; her work had been set, in the shape of a long task\nof copying from disorderly manuscript. She left the sitting-room in\nobedience to her father's summons.\n\n'Here's something that will afford you amusement,' he said, holding\nto her the new number of The Current, and indicating the notice of his\nbook.\n\nShe read a few lines, then threw the thing on to the table.\n\n'That kind of writing sickens me,' she exclaimed, with anger in her\neyes. 'Only base and heartless people can write in that way. You surely\nwon't let it trouble you?'\n\n'Oh, not for a moment,' her father answered, with exaggerated show of\ncalm. 'But I am surprised that you don't see the literary merit of the\nwork. I thought it would distinctly appeal to you.'\n\nThere was a strangeness in his voice, as well as in the words, which\ncaused her to look at him inquiringly. She knew him well enough to\nunderstand that such a notice would irritate him profoundly; but why\nshould he go out of his way to show it her, and with this peculiar\nacerbity of manner?\n\n'Why do you say that, father?'\n\n'It doesn't occur to you who may probably have written it?'\n\nShe could not miss his meaning; astonishment held her mute for a moment,\nthen she said:\n\n'Surely Mr Fadge wrote it himself?'\n\n'I am told not. I am informed on very good authority that one of his\nyoung gentlemen has the credit of it.'\n\n'You refer, of course, to Mr Milvain,' she replied quietly. 'But I think\nthat can't be true.'\n\nHe looked keenly at her. He had expected a more decided protest.\n\n'I see no reason for disbelieving it.'\n\n'I see every reason, until I have your evidence.'\n\nThis was not at all Marian's natural tone in argument with him. She was\nwont to be submissive.\n\n'I was told,' he continued, hardening face and voice, 'by someone who\nhad it from Jedwood.'\n\nYule was conscious of untruth in this statement, but his mood would not\nallow him to speak ingenuously, and he wished to note the effect upon\nMarian of what he said. There were two beliefs in him: on the one hand,\nhe recognised Fadge in every line of the writing; on the other, he had a\nperverse satisfaction in convincing himself that it was Milvain who had\ncaught so successfully the master's manner. He was not the kind of man\nwho can resist an opportunity of justifying, to himself and others, a\ncourse into which he has been led by mingled feelings, all more or less\nunjustifiable.\n\n'How should Jedwood know?' asked Marian.\n\nYule shrugged his shoulders.\n\n'As if these things didn't get about among editors and publishers!'\n\n'In this case, there's a mistake.'\n\n'And why, pray?' His voice trembled with choler. 'Why need there be a\nmistake?'\n\n'Because Mr Milvain is quite incapable of reviewing your book in such a\nspirit.'\n\n'There is your mistake, my girl. Milvain will do anything that's asked\nof him, provided he's well enough paid.'\n\nMarian reflected. When she raised her eyes again they were perfectly\ncalm.\n\n'What has led you to think that?'\n\n'Don't I know the type of man? Noscitur ex sociis--have you Latin enough\nfor that?'\n\n'You'll find that you are misinformed,' Marian replied, and therewith\nwent from the room.\n\nShe could not trust herself to converse longer. A resentment such as her\nfather had never yet excited in her--such, indeed, as she had seldom, if\never, conceived--threatened to force utterance for itself in words which\nwould change the current of her whole life. She saw her father in his\nworst aspect, and her heart was shaken by an unnatural revolt from him.\nLet his assurance of what he reported be ever so firm, what right had\nhe to make this use of it? His behaviour was spiteful. Suppose he\nentertained suspicions which seemed to make it his duty to warn her\nagainst Milvain, this was not the way to go about it. A father actuated\nby simple motives of affection would never speak and look thus.\n\nIt was the hateful spirit of literary rancour that ruled him; the spirit\nthat made people eager to believe all evil, that blinded and maddened.\nNever had she felt so strongly the unworthiness of the existence to\nwhich she was condemned. That contemptible review, and now her father's\nignoble passion--such things were enough to make all literature appear a\nmorbid excrescence upon human life.\n\nForgetful of the time, she sat in her bedroom until a knock at the\ndoor, and her mother's voice, admonished her that dinner was waiting. An\nimpulse all but caused her to say that she would rather not go down\nfor the meal, that she wished to be left alone. But this would be weak\npeevishness. She just looked at the glass to see that her face bore no\nunwonted signs, and descended to take her place as usual.\n\nThroughout the dinner there passed no word of conversation. Yule was at\nhis blackest; he gobbled a few mouthfuls, then occupied himself with the\nevening paper. On rising, he said to Marian:\n\n'Have you copied the whole of that?'\n\nThe tone would have been uncivil if addressed to an impertinent servant.\n\n'Not much more than half,' was the cold reply.\n\n'Can you finish it to-night?'\n\n'I'm afraid not. I am going out.'\n\n'Then I must do it myself'\n\nAnd he went to the study.\n\nMrs Yule was in an anguish of nervousness.\n\n'What is it, dear?' she asked of Marian, in a pleading whisper. 'Oh,\ndon't quarrel with your father! Don't!'\n\n'I can't be a slave, mother, and I can't be treated unjustly.'\n\n'What is it? Let me go and speak to him.'\n\n'It's no use. We CAN'T live in terror.'\n\nFor Mrs Yule this was unimaginable disaster. She had never dreamt that\nMarian, the still, gentle Marian, could be driven to revolt. And it had\ncome with the suddenness of a thunderclap. She wished to ask what had\ntaken place between father and daughter in the brief interview before\ndinner; but Marian gave her no chance, quitting the room upon those last\ntrembling words.\n\nThe girl had resolved to visit her friends, the sisters, and tell them\nthat in future they must never come to see her at home. But it was no\neasy thing for her to stifle her conscience, and leave her father to\ntoil over that copying which had need of being finished. Not her will,\nbut her exasperated feeling, had replied to him that she would not do\nthe work; already it astonished her that she had really spoken such\nwords. And as the throbbing of her pulses subsided, she saw more clearly\ninto the motives of this wretched tumult which possessed her. Her\nmind was harassed with a fear lest in defending Milvain she had spoken\nfoolishly. Had he not himself said to her that he might be guilty of\nbase things, just to make his way? Perhaps it was the intolerable pain\nof imagining that he had already made good his words, which robbed her\nof self-control and made her meet her father's rudeness with defiance.\n\nImpossible to carry out her purpose; she could not deliberately leave\nthe house and spend some hours away with the thought of such wrath and\nmisery left behind her. Gradually she was returning to her natural self;\nfear and penitence were chill at her heart.\n\nShe went down to the study, tapped, and entered.\n\n'Father, I said something that I did not really mean. Of course I shall\ngo on with the copying and finish it as soon as possible.'\n\n'You will do nothing of the kind, my girl.' He was in his usual place,\nalready working at Marian's task; he spoke in a low, thick voice. 'Spend\nyour evening as you choose, I have no need of you.'\n\n'I behaved very ill-temperedly. Forgive me, father.'\n\n'Have the goodness to go away. You hear me?'\n\nHis eyes were inflamed, and his discoloured teeth showed themselves\nsavagely. Marian durst not, really durst not approach him. She\nhesitated, but once more a sense of hateful injustice moved within her,\nand she went away as quietly as she had entered.\n\nShe said to herself that now it was her perfect right to go whither\nshe would. But the freedom was only in theory; her submissive and timid\nnature kept her at home--and upstairs in her own room; for, if she\nwent to sit with her mother, of necessity she must talk about what had\nhappened, and that she felt unable to do. Some friend to whom she could\nunbosom all her sufferings would now have been very precious to her, but\nMaud and Dora were her only intimates, and to them she might not make\nthe full confession which gives solace.\n\nMrs Yule did not venture to intrude upon her daughter's privacy. That\nMarian neither went out nor showed herself in the house proved her\ntroubled state, but the mother had no confidence in her power to\ncomfort. At the usual time she presented herself in the study with her\nhusband's coffee; the face which was for an instant turned to her did\nnot invite conversation, but distress obliged her to speak.\n\n'Why are you cross with Marian, Alfred?'\n\n'You had better ask what she means by her extraordinary behaviour.'\n\nA word of harsh rebuff was the most she had expected. Thus encouraged,\nshe timidly put another question.\n\n'How has she behaved?'\n\n'I suppose you have ears?'\n\n'But wasn't there something before that? You spoke so angry to her.'\n\n'Spoke so angry, did I? She is out, I suppose?'\n\n'No, she hasn't gone out.'\n\n'That'll do. Don't disturb me any longer.'\n\nShe did not venture to linger.\n\nThe breakfast next morning seemed likely to pass without any interchange\nof words. But when Yule was pushing back his chair, Marian--who looked\npale and ill--addressed a question to him about the work she would\nordinarily have pursued to-day at the Reading-room. He answered in a\nmatter-of-fact tone, and for a few minutes they talked on the subject\nmuch as at any other time. Half an hour after, Marian set forth for the\nMuseum in the usual way. Her father stayed at home.\n\nIt was the end of the episode for the present. Marian felt that the\nbest thing would be to ignore what had happened, as her father evidently\npurposed doing. She had asked his forgiveness, and it was harsh in him\nto have repelled her; but by now she was able once more to take into\nconsideration all his trials and toils, his embittered temper and the\nnew wound he had received. That he should resume his wonted manner was\nsufficient evidence of regret on his part. Gladly she would have unsaid\nher resentful words; she had been guilty of a childish outburst of\ntemper, and perhaps had prepared worse sufferings for the future.\n\nAnd yet, perhaps it was as well that her father should be warned. She\nwas not all submission, he might try her beyond endurance; there might\ncome a day when perforce she must stand face to face with him, and make\nit known she had her own claims upon life. It was as well he should hold\nthat possibility in view.\n\nThis evening no work was expected of her. Not long after dinner she\nprepared for going out; to her mother she mentioned she should be back\nabout ten o'clock.\n\n'Give my kind regards to them, dear--if you like to,' said Mrs Yule just\nabove her breath.\n\n'Certainly I will.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. RECRUITS\n\nMarian walked to the nearest point of Camden Road, and there waited for\nan omnibus, which conveyed her to within easy reach of the street where\nMaud and Dora Milvain had their lodgings. This was at the north-east of\nRegent's Park, and no great distance from Mornington Road, where Jasper\nstill dwelt.\n\nOn learning that the young ladies were at home and alone, she ascended\nto the second floor and knocked.\n\n'That's right!' exclaimed Dora's pleasant voice, as the door opened and\nthe visitor showed herself. And then came the friendly greeting which\nwarmed Marian's heart, the greeting which until lately no house in\nLondon could afford her.\n\nThe girls looked oddly out of place in this second-floor sitting-room,\nwith its vulgar furniture and paltry ornaments. Maud especially so, for\nher fine figure was well displayed by the dress of mourning, and\nher pale, handsome face had as little congruence as possible with a\nbackground of humble circumstances.\n\nDora impressed one as a simpler nature, but she too had distinctly the\nnote of refinement which was out of harmony with these surroundings.\nThey occupied only two rooms, the sleeping-chamber being double-bedded;\nthey purchased food for themselves and prepared their own meals,\nexcepting dinner. During the first week a good many tears were shed\nby both of them; it was not easy to transfer themselves from the\ncomfortable country home to this bare corner of lodgers' London. Maud,\nas appeared at the first glance, was less disposed than her sister to\nmake the best of things; her countenance wore an expression rather of\ndiscontent than of sorrow, and she did not talk with the same readiness\nas Dora.\n\nOn the round table lay a number of books; when disturbed, the sisters\nhad been engaged in studious reading.\n\n'I'm not sure that I do right in coming again so soon,' said Marian as\nshe took off her things. 'Your time is precious.'\n\n'So are you,' replied Dora, laughing. 'It's only under protest that we\nwork in the evening when we have been hard at it all day.'\n\n'We have news for you, too,' said Maud, who sat languidly on an uneasy\nchair.\n\n'Good, I hope?'\n\n'Someone called to see us yesterday. I dare say you can guess who it\nwas.'\n\n'Amy, perhaps?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'And how did you like her?'\n\nThe sisters seemed to have a difficulty in answering. Dora was the first\nto speak.\n\n'We thought she was sadly out of spirits. Indeed she told us that she\nhasn't been very well lately. But I think we shall like her if we come\nto know her better.'\n\n'It was rather awkward, Marian,' the elder sister explained. 'We felt\nobliged to say something about Mr Reardon's books, but we haven't read\nany of them yet, you know, so I just said that I hoped soon to read his\nnew novel. \"I suppose you have seen reviews of it?\" she asked at once.\nOf course I ought to have had the courage to say no, but I admitted\nthat I had seen one or two--Jasper showed us them. She looked very much\nannoyed, and after that we didn't find much to talk about.'\n\n'The reviews are very disagreeable,' said Marian with a troubled face.\n'I have read the book since I saw you the other day, and I am afraid it\nisn't good, but I have seen many worse novels more kindly reviewed.'\n\n'Jasper says it's because Mr Reardon has no friends among the\njournalists.'\n\n'Still,' replied Marian, 'I'm afraid they couldn't have given the book\nmuch praise, if they wrote honestly. Did Amy ask you to go and see her?'\n\n'Yes, but she said it was uncertain how long they would be living at\ntheir present address. And really, we can't feel sure whether we should\nbe welcome or not just now.'\n\nMarian listened with bent head. She too had to make known to her friends\nthat they were not welcome in her own home; but she knew not how to\nutter words which would sound so unkind.\n\n'Your brother,' she said after a pause, 'will soon find suitable friends\nfor you.'\n\n'Before long,' replied Dora, with a look of amusement, 'he's going to\ntake us to call on Mrs Boston Wright. I hardly thought he was serious at\nfirst, but he says he really means it.'\n\nMarian grew more and more silent. At home she had felt that it would not\nbe difficult to explain her troubles to these sympathetic girls, but now\nthe time had come for speaking, she was oppressed by shame and anxiety.\nTrue, there was no absolute necessity for making the confession this\nevening, and if she chose to resist her father's prejudice, things might\neven go on in a seemingly natural way. But the loneliness of her life\nhad developed in her a sensitiveness which could not endure situations\nsuch as the present; difficulties which are of small account to\npeople who take their part in active social life, harassed her to the\ndestruction of all peace. Dora was not long in noticing the dejected\nmood which had come upon her friend.\n\n'What's troubling you, Marian?'\n\n'Something I can hardly bear to speak of. Perhaps it will be the end of\nyour friendship for me, and I should find it very hard to go back to my\nold solitude.'\n\nThe girls gazed at her, in doubt at first whether she spoke seriously.\n\n'What can you mean?' Dora exclaimed. 'What crime have you been\ncommitting?'\n\nMaud, who leaned with her elbows on the table, searched Marian's face\ncuriously, but said nothing.\n\n'Has Mr Milvain shown you the new number of The Current?' Marian went on\nto ask.\n\nThey replied with a negative, and Maud added:\n\n'He has nothing in it this month, except a review.'\n\n'A review?' repeated Marian in a low voice.\n\n'Yes; of somebody's novel.'\n\n'Markland's,' supplied Dora.\n\nMarian drew a breath, but remained for a moment with her eyes cast down.\n\n'Do go on, dear,' urged Dora. 'Whatever are you going to tell us?'\n\n'There's a notice of father's book,' continued the other, 'a very\nill-natured one; it's written by the editor, Mr Fadge. Father and he\nhave been very unfriendly for a long time. Perhaps Mr Milvain has told\nyou something about it?'\n\nDora replied that he had.\n\n'I don't know how it is in other professions,' Marian resumed, 'but I\nhope there is less envy, hatred and malice than in this of ours. The\nname of literature is often made hateful to me by the things I hear\nand read. My father has never been very fortunate, and many things have\nhappened to make him bitter against the men who succeed; he has often\nquarrelled with people who were at first his friends, but never so\nseriously with anyone as with Mr Fadge. His feeling of enmity goes so\nfar that it includes even those who are in any way associated with Mr\nFadge. I am sorry to say'--she looked with painful anxiety from one to\nthe other of her hearers--'this has turned him against your brother,\nand--'\n\nHer voice was checked by agitation.\n\n'We were afraid of this,' said Dora, in a tone of sympathy.\n\n'Jasper feared it might be the case,' added Maud, more coldly, though\nwith friendliness.\n\n'Why I speak of it at all,' Marian hastened to say, 'is because I am so\nafraid it should make a difference between yourselves and me.'\n\n'Oh! don't think that!' Dora exclaimed.\n\n'I am so ashamed,' Marian went on in an uncertain tone, 'but I think\nit will be better if I don't ask you to come and see me. It sounds\nridiculous; it is ridiculous and shameful. I couldn't complain if you\nrefused to have anything more to do with me.'\n\n'Don't let it trouble you,' urged Maud, with perhaps a trifle more of\nmagnanimity in her voice than was needful. We quite understand. Indeed,\nit shan't make any difference to us.'\n\nBut Marian had averted her face, and could not meet these assurances\nwith any show of pleasure. Now that the step was taken she felt that\nher behaviour had been very weak. Unreasonable harshness such as her\nfather's ought to have been met more steadily; she had no right to make\nit an excuse for such incivility to her friends. Yet only in some\nsuch way as this could she make known to Jasper Milvain how her father\nregarded him, which she felt it necessary to do. Now his sisters would\ntell him, and henceforth there would be a clear understanding on both\nsides. That state of things was painful to her, but it was better than\nambiguous relations.\n\n'Jasper is very sorry about it,' said Dora, glancing rapidly at Marian.\n\n'But his connection with Mr Fadge came about in such a natural way,'\nadded the eldest sister. 'And it was impossible for him to refuse\nopportunities.'\n\n'Impossible; I know,' Marian replied earnestly. 'Don't think that I\nwish to justify my father. But I can understand him, and it must be very\ndifficult for you to do so. You can't know, as I do, how intensely he\nhas suffered in these wretched, ignoble quarrels. If only you will let\nme come here still, in the same way, and still be as friendly to me. My\nhome has never been a place to which I could have invited friends\nwith any comfort, even if I had had any to invite. There were always\nreasons--but I can't speak of them.'\n\n'My dear Marian,' appealed Dora, 'don't distress yourself so! Do believe\nthat nothing whatever has happened to change our feeling to you. Has\nthere, Maud?'\n\n'Nothing whatever. We are not unreasonable girls, Marian.'\n\n'I am more grateful to you than I can say.'\n\nIt had seemed as if Marian must give way to the emotions which all but\nchoked her voice; she overcame them, however, and presently was able\nto talk in pretty much her usual way, though when she smiled it was\nbut faintly. Maud tried to lead her thoughts in another direction by\nspeaking of work in which she and Dora were engaged. Already the sisters\nwere doing a new piece of compilation for Messrs Jolly and Monk; it was\nmore exacting than their initial task for the book market, and would\ntake a much longer time.\n\nA couple of hours went by, and Marian had just spoken of taking her\nleave, when a man's step was heard rapidly ascending the nearest flight\nof stairs.\n\n'Here's Jasper,' remarked Dora, and in a moment there sounded a short,\nsharp summons at the door.\n\nJasper it was; he came in with radiant face, his eyes blinking before\nthe lamplight.\n\n'Well, girls! Ha! how do you do, Miss Yule? I had just the vaguest sort\nof expectation that you might be here. It seemed a likely night; I\ndon't know why. I say, Dora, we really must get two or three decent\neasy-chairs for your room. I've seen some outside a second-hand\nfurniture shop in Hampstead Road, about six shillings apiece. There's no\nsitting on chairs such as these.'\n\nThat on which he tried to dispose himself, when he had flung aside his\ntrappings, creaked and shivered ominously.\n\n'You hear? I shall come plump on to the floor, if I don't mind. My word,\nwhat a day I have had! I've just been trying what I really could do\nin one day if I worked my hardest. Now just listen; it deserves to be\nchronicled for the encouragement of aspiring youth. I got up at 7.30,\nand whilst I breakfasted I read through a volume I had to review. By\n10.30 the review was written--three-quarters of a column of the Evening\nBudget.'\n\n'Who is the unfortunate author?' interrupted Maud, caustically.\n\n'Not unfortunate at all. I had to crack him up; otherwise I couldn't\nhave done the job so quickly. It's the easiest thing in the world to\nwrite laudation; only an inexperienced grumbler would declare it was\neasier to find fault. The book was Billington's \"Vagaries\"; pompous\nidiocy, of course, but he lives in a big house and gives dinners. Well,\nfrom 10.30 to 11, I smoked a cigar and reflected, feeling that the day\nwasn't badly begun. At eleven I was ready to write my Saturday causerie\nfor the Will o' the Wisp; it took me till close upon one o'clock, which\nwas rather too long. I can't afford more than an hour and a half\nfor that job. At one, I rushed out to a dirty little eating-house\nin Hampstead Road. Was back again by a quarter to two, having in the\nmeantime sketched a paper for The West End. Pipe in mouth, I sat down\nto leisurely artistic work; by five, half the paper was done; the\nother half remains for to-morrow. From five to half-past I read four\nnewspapers and two magazines, and from half-past to a quarter to six I\njotted down several ideas that had come to me whilst reading. At six I\nwas again in the dirty eating-house, satisfying a ferocious hunger. Home\nonce more at 6.45, and for two hours wrote steadily at a long affair I\nhave in hand for The Current. Then I came here, thinking hard all the\nway. What say you to this? Have I earned a night's repose?'\n\n'And what's the value of it all?' asked Maud.\n\n'Probably from ten to twelve guineas, if I calculated.'\n\n'I meant, what was the literary value of it?' said his sister, with a\nsmile.\n\n'Equal to that of the contents of a mouldy nut.'\n\n'Pretty much what I thought.'\n\n'Oh, but it answers the purpose,' urged Dora, 'and it does no one any\nharm.'\n\n'Honest journey-work!' cried Jasper. 'There are few men in London\ncapable of such a feat. Many a fellow could write more in quantity, but\nthey couldn't command my market. It's rubbish, but rubbish of a very\nspecial kind, of fine quality.'\n\nMarian had not yet spoken, save a word or two in reply to Jasper's\ngreeting; now and then she just glanced at him, but for the most part\nher eyes were cast down. Now Jasper addressed her.\n\n'A year ago, Miss Yule, I shouldn't have believed myself capable of such\nactivity. In fact I wasn't capable of it then.'\n\n'You think such work won't be too great a strain upon you?' she asked.\n\n'Oh, this isn't a specimen day, you know. To-morrow I shall very likely\ndo nothing but finish my West End article, in an easy two or three\nhours. There's no knowing; I might perhaps keep up the high pressure\nif I tried. But then I couldn't dispose of all the work. Little by\nlittle--or perhaps rather quicker than that--I shall extend my scope.\nFor instance, I should like to do two or three leaders a week for one of\nthe big dailies. I can't attain unto that just yet.'\n\n'Not political leaders?'\n\n'By no means. That's not my line. The kind of thing in which one makes a\ncolumn out of what would fill six lines of respectable prose. You call\na cigar a \"convoluted weed,\" and so on, you know; that passes for\nfacetiousness. I've never really tried my hand at that style yet; I\nshouldn't wonder if I managed it brilliantly. Some day I'll write a few\nexercises; just take two lines of some good prose writer, and expand\nthem into twenty, in half-a-dozen different ways. Excellent mental\ngymnastics!'\n\nMarian listened to his flow of talk for a few minutes longer, then took\nthe opportunity of a brief silence to rise and put on her hat. Jasper\nobserved her, but without rising; he looked at his sisters in a\nhesitating way. At length he stood up, and declared that he too must be\noff. This coincidence had happened once before when he met Marian here\nin the evening.\n\n'At all events, you won't do any more work to-night,' said Dora.\n\n'No; I shall read a page of something or other over a glass of whisky,\nand seek the sleep of a man who has done his duty.'\n\n'Why the whisky?' asked Maud.\n\n'Do you grudge me such poor solace?'\n\n'I don't see the need of it.'\n\n'Nonsense, Maud!' exclaimed her sister. 'He needs a little stimulant\nwhen he works so hard.'\n\nEach of the girls gave Marian's hand a significant pressure as she took\nleave of them, and begged her to come again as soon as she had a free\nevening. There was gratitude in her eyes.\n\nThe evening was clear, and not very cold.\n\n'It's rather late for you to go home,' said Jasper, as they left the\nhouse. 'May I walk part of the way with you?'\n\nMarian replied with a low 'Thank you.'\n\n'I think you get on pretty well with the girls, don't you?'\n\n'I hope they are as glad of my friendship as I am of theirs.'\n\n'Pity to see them in a place like that, isn't it? They ought to have a\ngood house, with plenty of servants. It's bad enough for a civilised\nman to have to rough it, but I hate to see women living in a sordid way.\nDon't you think they could both play their part in a drawing-room, with\na little experience?'\n\n'Surely there's no doubt of it.'\n\n'Maud would look really superb if she were handsomely dressed. She\nhasn't a common face, by any means. And Dora is pretty, I think. Well,\nthey shall go and see some people before long. The difficulty is, one\ndoesn't like it to be known that they live in such a crib; but I daren't\nadvise them to go in for expense. One can't be sure that it would repay\nthem, though--Now, in my own case, if I could get hold of a few thousand\npounds I should know how to use it with the certainty of return; it\nwould save me, probably, a clear ten years of life; I mean, I should go\nat a jump to what I shall be ten years hence without the help of money.\nBut they have such a miserable little bit of capital, and everything is\nstill so uncertain. One daren't speculate under the circumstances.'\n\nMarian made no reply.\n\n'You think I talk of nothing but money?' Jasper said suddenly, looking\ndown into her face.\n\n'I know too well what it means to be without money.'\n\n'Yes, but--you do just a little despise me?'\n\n'Indeed, I don't, Mr Milvain.'\n\n'If that is sincere, I'm very glad. I take it in a friendly sense. I am\nrather despicable, you know; it's part of my business to be so. But\na friend needn't regard that. There is the man apart from his\nnecessities.'\n\nThe silence was then unbroken till they came to the lower end of Park\nStreet, the junction of roads which lead to Hampstead, to Highgate, and\nto Holloway.\n\n'Shall you take an omnibus?' Jasper asked.\n\nShe hesitated.\n\n'Or will you give me the pleasure of walking on with you? You are tired,\nperhaps?'\n\n'Not the least.'\n\nFor the rest of her answer she moved forward, and they crossed into the\nobscurity of Camden Road.\n\n'Shall I be doing wrong, Mr Milvain,' Marian began in a very low\nvoice, 'if I ask you about the authorship of something in this month's\nCurrent?'\n\n'I'm afraid I know what you refer to. There's no reason why I shouldn't\nanswer a question of the kind.'\n\n'It was Mr Fadge himself who reviewed my father's book?'\n\n'It was--confound him! I don't know another man who could have done the\nthing so vilely well.'\n\n'I suppose he was only replying to my father's attack upon him and his\nfriends.'\n\n'Your father's attack is honest and straightforward and justifiable and\nwell put. I read that chapter of his book with huge satisfaction.\nBut has anyone suggested that another than Fadge was capable of that\nmasterpiece?'\n\n'Yes. I am told that Mr Jedwood, the publisher, has somehow made a\nmistake.'\n\n'Jedwood? And what mistake?'\n\n'Father heard that you were the writer.'\n\n'I?' Jasper stopped short. They were in the rays of a street-lamp, and\ncould see each other's faces. 'And he believes that?'\n\n'I'm afraid so.'\n\n'And you believe--believed it?'\n\n'Not for a moment.'\n\n'I shall write a note to Mr Yule.'\n\nMarian was silent a while, then said:\n\n'Wouldn't it be better if you found a way of letting Mr Jedwood know the\ntruth?'\n\n'Perhaps you are right.'\n\nJasper was very grateful for the suggestion. In that moment he had\nreflected how rash it would be to write to Alfred Yule on such a\nsubject, with whatever prudence in expressing himself. Such a letter,\ncoming under the notice of the great Fadge, might do its writer serious\nharm.\n\n'Yes, you are right,' he repeated. 'I'll stop that rumour at its source.\nI can't guess how it started; for aught I know, some enemy hath done\nthis, though I don't quite discern the motive. Thank you very much for\ntelling me, and still more for refusing to believe that I could treat Mr\nYule in that way, even as a matter of business. When I said that I was\ndespicable, I didn't mean that I could sink quite to such a point as\nthat. If only because it was your father--'\n\nHe checked himself and they walked on for several yards without\nspeaking.\n\n'In that case,' Jasper resumed at length, 'your father doesn't think of\nme in a very friendly way?'\n\n'He scarcely could--'\n\n'No, no. And I quite understand that the mere fact of my working for\nFadge would prejudice him against me. But that's no reason, I hope, why\nyou and I shouldn't be friends?'\n\n'I hope not.'\n\n'I don't know that my friendship is worth much,' Jasper continued,\ntalking into the upper air, a habit of his when he discussed his own\ncharacter. 'I shall go on as I have begun, and fight for some of the\ngood things of life. But your friendship is valuable. If I am sure of\nit, I shall be at all events within sight of the better ideals.'\n\nMarian walked on with her eyes upon the ground. To her surprise she\ndiscovered presently that they had all but reached St Paul's Crescent.\n\n'Thank you for having come so far,' she said, pausing.\n\n'Ah, you are nearly home. Why, it seems only a few minutes since we left\nthe girls. Now I'll run back to the whisky of which Maud disapproves.'\n\n'May it do you good!' said Marian with a laugh.\n\nA speech of this kind seemed unusual upon her lips. Jasper smiled as he\nheld her hand and regarded her.\n\n'Then you can speak in a joking way?'\n\n'Do I seem so very dull?'\n\n'Dull, by no means. But sage and sober and reticent--and exactly what\nI like in my friend, because it contrasts with my own habits. All the\nbetter that merriment lies below it. Goodnight, Miss Yule.'\n\nHe strode off and in a minute or two turned his head to look at the\nslight figure passing into darkness.\n\nMarian's hand trembled as she tried to insert her latch-key. When\nshe had closed the door very quietly behind her she went to the\nsitting-room; Mrs Yule was just laying aside the sewing on which she had\noccupied herself throughout the lonely evening.\n\n'I'm rather late,' said the girl, in a voice of subdued joyousness.\n\n'Yes; I was getting a little uneasy, dear.'\n\n'Oh, there's no danger.'\n\n'You have been enjoying yourself, I can see.'\n\n'I have had a pleasant evening.'\n\nIn the retrospect it seemed the pleasantest she had yet spent with her\nfriends, though she had set out in such a different mood. Her mind was\nrelieved of two anxieties; she felt sure that the girls had not\ntaken ill what she told them, and there was no longer the least doubt\nconcerning the authorship of that review in The Current.\n\nShe could confess to herself now that the assurance from Jasper's\nlips was not superfluous. He might have weighed profit against other\nconsiderations, and have written in that way of her father; she had not\nfelt that absolute confidence which defies every argument from human\nfrailty. And now she asked herself if faith of that unassailable kind is\never possible; is it not only the poet's dream, the far ideal?\n\nMarian often went thus far in her speculation. Her candour was allied\nwith clear insight into the possibilities of falsehood; she was not\nreadily the victim of illusion; thinking much, and speaking little, she\nhad not come to her twenty-third year without perceiving what a distance\nlay between a girl's dream of life as it might be and life as it is. Had\nshe invariably disclosed her thoughts, she would have earned the repute\nof a very sceptical and slightly cynical person.\n\nBut with what rapturous tumult of the heart she could abandon herself to\na belief in human virtues when their suggestion seemed to promise her a\nfuture of happiness!\n\nAlone in her room she sat down only to think of Jasper Milvain, and\nextract from the memory of his words, his looks, new sustenance for\nher hungry heart. Jasper was the first man who had ever evinced a\nman's interest in her. Until she met him she had not known a look\nof compliment or a word addressed to her emotions. He was as far as\npossible from representing the lover of her imagination, but from the\nday of that long talk in the fields near Wattleborough the thought of\nhim had supplanted dreams. On that day she said to herself: I could love\nhim if he cared to seek my love. Premature, perhaps; why, yes, but one\nwho is starving is not wont to feel reluctance at the suggestion of\nfood. The first man who had approached her with display of feeling and\nenergy and youthful self-confidence; handsome too, it seemed to her. Her\nwomanhood went eagerly to meet him.\n\nSince then she had made careful study of his faults. Each conversation\nhad revealed to her new weakness and follies. With the result that her\nlove had grown to a reality.\n\nHe was so human, and a youth of all but monastic seclusion had prepared\nher to love the man who aimed with frank energy at the joys of life.\nA taint of pedantry would have repelled her. She did not ask for high\nintellect or great attainments; but vivacity, courage, determination to\nsucceed, were delightful to her senses. Her ideal would not have been\na literary man at all; certainly not a man likely to be prominent\nin journalism; rather a man of action, one who had no restraints of\ncommerce or official routine. But in Jasper she saw the qualities that\nattracted her apart from the accidents of his position. Ideal personages\ndo not descend to girls who have to labour at the British Museum; it\nseemed a marvel to her, and of good augury, that even such a man as\nJasper should have crossed her path.\n\nIt was as though years had passed since their first meeting. Upon her\nreturn to London had followed such long periods of hopelessness. Yet\nwhenever they encountered each other he had look and speech for her with\nwhich surely he did not greet every woman. From the first his way of\nregarding her had shown frank interest. And at length had come the\nconfession of his 'respect,' his desire to be something more to her than\na mere acquaintance. It was scarcely possible that he should speak as he\nseveral times had of late if he did not wish to draw her towards him.\n\nThat was the hopeful side of her thoughts. It was easy to forget for a\ntime those words of his which one might think were spoken as distinct\nwarning; but they crept into the memory, unwelcome, importunate, as soon\nas imagination had built its palace of joy. Why did he always recur to\nthe subject of money? 'I shall allow nothing to come in my way;' he once\nsaid that as if meaning, 'certainly not a love affair with a girl who\nis penniless.' He emphasised the word 'friend,' as if to explain that he\noffered and asked nothing more than friendship.\n\nBut it only meant that he would not be in haste to declare himself. Of\na certainty there was conflict between his ambition and his love, but\nshe recognised her power over him and exulted in it. She had observed\nhis hesitancy this evening, before he rose to accompany her from\nthe house; her heart laughed within her as the desire drew him. And\nhenceforth such meetings would be frequent, with each one her influence\nwould increase. How kindly fate had dealt with her in bringing Maud and\nDora to London!\n\nIt was within his reach to marry a woman who would bring him wealth.\nHe had that in mind; she understood it too well. But not one moment's\nadvantage would she relinquish. He must choose her in her poverty, and\nbe content with what his talents could earn for him. Her love gave her\nthe right to demand this sacrifice; let him ask for her love, and the\nsacrifice would no longer seem one, so passionately would she reward\nhim.\n\nHe would ask it. To-night she was full of a rich confidence, partly, no\ndoubt, the result of reaction from her miseries. He had said at parting\nthat her character was so well suited to his; that he liked her. And\nthen he had pressed her hand so warmly. Before long he would ask her\nlove.\n\nThe unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the valley\nof the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine might at any\nmoment strike into its musty gloom.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. THE LAST RESOURCE\n\nThe past twelve months had added several years to Edwin Reardon's\nseeming age; at thirty-three he would generally have been taken for\nforty. His bearing, his personal habits, were no longer those of a\nyoung man; he walked with a stoop and pressed noticeably on the stick\nhe carried; it was rare for him to show the countenance which tells of\npresent cheerfulness or glad onward-looking; there was no spring in his\nstep; his voice had fallen to a lower key, and often he spoke with\nthat hesitation in choice of words which may be noticed in persons whom\ndefeat has made self-distrustful. Ceaseless perplexity and dread gave a\nwandering, sometimes a wild, expression to his eyes.\n\nHe seldom slept, in the proper sense of the word; as a rule he was\nconscious all through the night of 'a kind of fighting' between physical\nweariness and wakeful toil of the mind. It often happened that some\nwholly imaginary obstacle in the story he was writing kept him under\na sense of effort throughout the dark hours; now and again he woke,\nreasoned with himself, and remembered clearly that the torment was\nwithout cause, but the short relief thus afforded soon passed in the\nrecollection of real distress. In his unsoothing slumber he talked\naloud, frequently wakening Amy; generally he seemed to be holding a\ndialogue with someone who had imposed an intolerable task upon him; he\nprotested passionately, appealed, argued in the strangest way about\nthe injustice of what was demanded. Once Amy heard him begging for\nmoney--positively begging, like some poor wretch in the street; it\nwas horrible, and made her shed tears; when he asked what he had been\nsaying, she could not bring herself to tell him.\n\nWhen the striking clocks summoned him remorselessly to rise and work\nhe often reeled with dizziness. It seemed to him that the greatest\nhappiness attainable would be to creep into some dark, warm corner, out\nof the sight and memory of men, and lie there torpid, with a blessed\nhalf-consciousness that death was slowly overcoming him. Of all the\nsufferings collected into each four-and-twenty hours this of rising to a\nnew day was the worst.\n\nThe one-volume story which he had calculated would take him four or five\nweeks was with difficulty finished in two months. March winds made an\ninvalid of him; at one time he was threatened with bronchitis, and for\nseveral days had to abandon even the effort to work. In previous winters\nhe had been wont to undergo a good deal of martyrdom from the London\nclimate, but never in such a degree as now; mental illness seemed to\nhave enfeebled his body.\n\nIt was strange that he succeeded in doing work of any kind, for he had\nno hope from the result. This one last effort he would make, just to\ncomplete the undeniableness of his failure, and then literature should\nbe thrown behind him; what other pursuit was possible to him he knew\nnot, but perhaps he might discover some mode of earning a livelihood.\nHad it been a question of gaining a pound a week, as in the old days,\nhe might have hoped to obtain some clerkship like that at the hospital,\nwhere no commercial experience or aptitude was demanded; but in his\npresent position such an income would be useless. Could he take Amy\nand the child to live in a garret? On less than a hundred a year it was\nscarcely possible to maintain outward decency. Already his own clothing\nbegan to declare him poverty-stricken, and but for gifts from her\nmother Amy would have reached the like pass. They lived in dread of\nthe pettiest casual expense, for the day of pennilessness was again\napproaching.\n\nAmy was oftener from home than had been her custom.\n\nOccasionally she went away soon after breakfast, and spent the whole day\nat her mother's house. 'It saves food,' she said with a bitter laugh,\nwhen Reardon once expressed surprise that she should be going again so\nsoon.\n\n'And gives you an opportunity of bewailing your hard fate,' he returned\ncoldly.\n\nThe reproach was ignoble, and he could not be surprised that Amy left\nthe house without another word to him. Yet he resented that, as he\nhad resented her sorrowful jest. The feeling of unmanliness in his own\nposition tortured him into a mood of perversity. Through the day he\nwrote only a few lines, and on Amy's return he resolved not to speak\nto her. There was a sense of repose in this change of attitude; he\nencouraged himself in the view that Amy was treating him with cruel\nneglect. She, surprised that her friendly questions elicited no answer,\nlooked into his face and saw a sullen anger of which hitherto Reardon\nhad never seemed capable. Her indignation took fire, and she left him to\nhimself.\n\nFor a day or two he persevered in his muteness, uttering a word only\nwhen it could not be avoided. Amy was at first so resentful that she\ncontemplated leaving him to his ill-temper and dwelling at her mother's\nhouse until he chose to recall her. But his face grew so haggard in\nfixed misery that compassion at length prevailed over her injured\npride. Late in the evening she went to the study, and found him sitting\nunoccupied.\n\n'Edwin--'\n\n'What do you want?' he asked indifferently.\n\n'Why are you behaving to me like this?'\n\n'Surely it makes no difference to you how I behave? You can easily\nforget that I exist, and live your own life.'\n\n'What have I done to make this change in you?'\n\n'Is it a change?'\n\n'You know it is.'\n\n'How did I behave before?' he asked, glancing at her.\n\n'Like yourself--kindly and gently.'\n\n'If I always did so, in spite of things that might have embittered\nanother man's temper, I think it deserved some return of kindness from\nyou.'\n\n'What \"things\" do you mean?'\n\n'Circumstances for which neither of us is to blame.'\n\n'I am not conscious of having failed in kindness,' said Amy, distantly.\n\n'Then that only shows that you have forgotten your old self, and utterly\nchanged in your feeling to me. When we first came to live here could you\nhave imagined yourself leaving me alone for long, miserable days, just\nbecause I was suffering under misfortunes? You have shown too plainly\nthat you don't care to give me the help even of a kind word. You get\naway from me as often as you can, as if to remind me that we have no\nlonger any interests in common. Other people are your confidants; you\nspeak of me to them as if I were purposely dragging you down into a mean\ncondition.'\n\n'How can you know what I say about you?'\n\n'Isn't it true?' he asked, flashing an angry glance at her.\n\n'It is not true. Of course I have talked to mother about our\ndifficulties; how could I help it?'\n\n'And to other people.'\n\n'Not in a way that you could find fault with.'\n\n'In a way that makes me seem contemptible to them. You show them that\nI have made you poor and unhappy, and you are glad to have their\nsympathy.'\n\n'What you mean is, that I oughtn't to see anyone. There's no other way\nof avoiding such a reproach as this. So long as I don't laugh and sing\nbefore people, and assure them that things couldn't be more hopeful, I\nshall be asking for their sympathy, and against you. I can't understand\nyour unreasonableness.'\n\n'I'm afraid there is very little in me that you can understand. So long\nas my prospects seemed bright, you could sympathise readily enough; as\nsoon as ever they darkened, something came between us. Amy, you haven't\ndone your duty. Your love hasn't stood the test as it should have done.\nYou have given me no help; besides the burden of cheerless work I have\nhad to bear that of your growing coldness. I can't remember one instance\nwhen you have spoken to me as a wife might--a wife who was something\nmore than a man's housekeeper.'\n\nThe passion in his voice and the harshness of the accusation made her\nunable to reply.\n\n'You said rightly,' he went on, 'that I have always been kind and\ngentle. I never thought I could speak to you or feel to you in any other\nway. But I have undergone too much, and you have deserted me. Surely it\nwas too soon to do that. So long as I endeavoured my utmost, and loved\nyou the same as ever, you might have remembered all you once said to me.\nYou might have given me help, but you haven't cared to.'\n\nThe impulses which had part in this outbreak were numerous and complex.\nHe felt all that he expressed, but at the same time it seemed to him\nthat he had the choice between two ways of uttering his emotion--the\ntenderly appealing and the sternly reproachful: he took the latter\ncourse because it was less natural to him than the former. His desire\nwas to impress Amy with the bitter intensity of his sufferings; pathos\nand loving words seemed to have lost their power upon her, but perhaps\nif he yielded to that other form of passion she would be shaken out of\nher coldness. The stress of injured love is always tempted to speech\nwhich seems its contradiction. Reardon had the strangest mixture of pain\nand pleasure in flinging out these first words of wrath that he had ever\naddressed to Amy; they consoled him under the humiliating sense of his\nweakness, and yet he watched with dread his wife's countenance as she\nlistened to him. He hoped to cause her pain equal to his own, for then\nit would be in his power at once to throw off this disguise and soothe\nher with every softest word his heart could suggest. That she had really\nceased to love him he could not, durst not, believe; but his nature\ndemanded frequent assurance of affection. Amy had abandoned too soon the\ncaresses of their ardent time; she was absorbed in her maternity, and\nthought it enough to be her husband's friend. Ashamed to make appeal\ndirectly for the tenderness she no longer offered, he accused her of\nutter indifference, of abandoning him and all but betraying him, that in\nself-defence she might show what really was in her heart.\n\nBut Amy made no movement towards him.\n\n'How can you say that I have deserted you?' she returned, with cold\nindignation. 'When did I refuse to share your poverty? When did I\ngrumble at what we have had to go through?'\n\n'Ever since the troubles really began you have let me know what your\nthoughts were, even if you didn't speak them. You have never shared my\nlot willingly. I can't recall one word of encouragement from you, but\nmany, many which made the struggle harder for me.'\n\n'Then it would be better for you if I went away altogether, and left you\nfree to do the best for yourself. If that is what you mean by all this,\nwhy not say it plainly? I won't be a burden to you. Someone will give me\na home.'\n\n'And you would leave me without regret? Your only care would be that you\nwere still bound to me?'\n\n'You must think of me what you like. I don't care to defend myself.'\n\n'You won't admit, then, that I have anything to complain of? I seem to\nyou simply in a bad temper without a cause?'\n\n'To tell you the truth, that's just what I do think. I came here to ask\nwhat I had done that you were angry with me, and you break out furiously\nwith all sorts of vague reproaches. You have much to endure, I know\nthat, but it's no reason why you should turn against me. I have never\nneglected my duty. Is the duty all on my side? I believe there are very\nfew wives who would be as patient as I have been.'\n\nReardon gazed at her for a moment, then turned away. The distance\nbetween them was greater than he had thought, and now he repented of\nhaving given way to an impulse so alien to his true feelings; anger only\nestranged her, whereas by speech of a different kind he might have won\nthe caress for which he hungered.\n\nAmy, seeing that he would say nothing more, left him to himself.\n\nIt grew late in the night. The fire had gone out, but Reardon still sat\nin the cold room. Thoughts of self-destruction were again haunting him,\nas they had done during the black months of last year. If he had lost\nAmy's love, and all through the mental impotence which would make it\nhard for him even to earn bread, why should he still live? Affection for\nhis child had no weight with him; it was Amy's child rather than his,\nand he had more fear than pleasure in the prospect of Willie's growing\nto manhood.\n\nHe had just heard the workhouse clock strike two, when, without the\nwarning of a footstep, the door opened. Amy came in; she wore her\ndressing-gown, and her hair was arranged for the night.\n\n'Why do you stay here?' she asked.\n\nIt was not the same voice as before. He saw that her eyes were red and\nswollen.\n\n'Have you been crying, Amy?'\n\n'Never mind. Do you know what time it is?'\n\nHe went towards her.\n\n'Why have you been crying?'\n\n'There are many things to cry for.'\n\n'Amy, have you any love for me still, or has poverty robbed me of it\nall?'\n\n'I have never said that I didn't love you. Why do you accuse me of such\nthings?'\n\nHe took her in his arms and held her passionately and kissed her face\nagain and again. Amy's tears broke forth anew.\n\n'Why should we come to such utter ruin?' she sobbed. 'Oh, try, try if\nyou can't save us even yet! You know without my saying it that I do love\nyou; it's dreadful to me to think all our happy life should be at an\nend, when we thought of such a future together. Is it impossible? Can't\nyou work as you used to and succeed as we felt confident you would?\nDon't despair yet, Edwin; do, do try, whilst there is still time!'\n\n'Darling, darling--if only I COULD!'\n\n'I have thought of something, dearest. Do as you proposed last year;\nfind a tenant for the flat whilst we still have a little money, and\nthen go away into some quiet country place, where you can get back your\nhealth and live for very little, and write another book--a good book,\nthat'll bring you reputation again. I and Willie can go and live at\nmother's for the summer months. Do this! It would cost you so little,\nliving alone, wouldn't it? You would know that I was well cared for;\nmother would be willing to have me for a few months, and it's easy to\nexplain that your health has failed, that you're obliged to go away for\na time.'\n\n'But why shouldn't you go with me, if we are to let this place?'\n\n'We shouldn't have enough money. I want to free your mind from the\nburden whilst you are writing. And what is before us if we go on in this\nway? You don't think you will get much for what you're writing now, do\nyou?'\n\nReardon shook his head.\n\n'Then how can we live even till the end of the year? Something must be\ndone, you know. If we get into poor lodgings, what hope is there that\nyou'll be able to write anything good?'\n\n'But, Amy, I have no faith in my power of--'\n\n'Oh, it would be different! A few days--a week or a fortnight of real\nholiday in this spring weather. Go to some seaside place. How is it\npossible that all your talent should have left you? It's only that you\nhave been so anxious and in such poor health. You say I don't love you,\nbut I have thought and thought what would be best for you to do, how\nyou could save yourself. How can you sink down to the position of a poor\nclerk in some office? That CAN'T be your fate, Edwin; it's incredible.\nOh, after such bright hopes, make one more effort! Have you forgotten\nthat we were to go to the South together--you were to take me to Italy\nand Greece? How can that ever be if you fail utterly in literature? How\ncan you ever hope to earn more than bare sustenance at any other kind of\nwork?'\n\nHe all but lost consciousness of her words in gazing at the face she\nheld up to his.\n\n'You love me? Say again that you love me!'\n\n'Dear, I love you with all my heart. But I am so afraid of the future.\nI can't bear poverty; I have found that I can't bear it. And I dread to\nthink of your becoming only an ordinary man--'\n\nReardon laughed.\n\n'But I am NOT \"only an ordinary man,\" Amy! If I never write another\nline, that won't undo what I have done. It's little enough, to be sure;\nbut you know what I am. Do you only love the author in me? Don't you\nthink of me apart from all that I may do or not do? If I had to earn my\nliving as a clerk, would that make me a clerk in soul?'\n\n'You shall not fall to that! It would be too bitter a shame to lose all\nyou have gained in these long years of work. Let me plan for you; do as\nI wish. You are to be what we hoped from the first. Take all the summer\nmonths. How long will it be before you can finish this short book?'\n\n'A week or two.'\n\n'Then finish it, and see what you can get for it. And try at once\nto find a tenant to take this place off our hands; that would be\ntwenty-five pounds saved for the rest of the year. You could live on so\nlittle by yourself, couldn't you?'\n\n'Oh, on ten shillings a week, if need be.'\n\n'But not to starve yourself, you know. Don't you feel that my plan is a\ngood one? When I came to you to-night I meant to speak of this, but you\nwere so cruel--'\n\n'Forgive me, dearest love! I was half a madman. You have been so cold to\nme for a long time.'\n\n'I have been distracted. It was as if we were drawing nearer and nearer\nto the edge of a cataract.'\n\n'Have you spoken to your mother about this?' he asked uneasily.\n\n'No--not exactly this. But I know she will help us in this way.'\n\nHe had seated himself and was holding her in his arms, his face laid\nagainst hers.\n\n'I shall dread to part from you, Amy. That's such a dangerous thing to\ndo. It may mean that we are never to live as husband and wife again.'\n\n'But how could it? It's just to prevent that danger. If we go on here\ntill we have no money--what's before us then? Wretched lodgings at the\nbest. And I am afraid to think of that. I can't trust myself if that\nshould come to pass.'\n\n'What do you mean?' he asked anxiously.\n\n'I hate poverty so. It brings out all the worst things in me; you know I\nhave told you that before, Edwin?'\n\n'But you would never forget that you are my wife?'\n\n'I hope not. But--I can't think of it; I can't face it! That would be\nthe very worst that can befall us, and we are going to try our utmost to\nescape from it. Was there ever a man who did as much as you have done in\nliterature and then sank into hopeless poverty?'\n\n'Oh, many!'\n\n'But at your age, I mean. Surely not at your age?'\n\n'I'm afraid there have been such poor fellows. Think how often one hears\nof hopeful beginnings, new reputations, and then--you hear no more. Of\ncourse it generally means that the man has gone into a different career;\nbut sometimes, sometimes--'\n\n'What?'\n\n'The abyss.' He pointed downward. 'Penury and despair and a miserable\ndeath.'\n\n'Oh, but those men haven't a wife and child! They would struggle--'\n\n'Darling, they do struggle. But it's as if an ever-increasing weight\nwere round their necks; it drags them lower and lower. The world has no\npity on a man who can't do or produce something it thinks worth money.\nYou may be a divine poet, and if some good fellow doesn't take pity on\nyou you will starve by the roadside. Society is as blind and brutal as\nfate. I have no right to complain of my own ill-fortune; it's my own\nfault (in a sense) that I can't continue as well as I began; if I could\nwrite books as good as the early ones I should earn money. For all that,\nit's hard that I must be kicked aside as worthless just because I don't\nknow a trade.'\n\n'It shan't be! I have only to look into your face to know that you will\nsucceed after all. Yours is the kind of face that people come to know in\nportraits.'\n\nHe kissed her hair, and her eyes, and her mouth.\n\n'How well I remember your saying that before! Why have you grown so good\nto me all at once, my Amy? Hearing you speak like that I feel there's\nnothing beyond my reach. But I dread to go away from you. If I find that\nit is hopeless; if I am alone somewhere, and know that the effort is all\nin vain--'\n\n'Then?'\n\n'Well, I can leave you free. If I can't support you, it will be only\njust that I should give you back your freedom.'\n\n'I don't understand--'\n\nShe raised herself and looked into his eyes.\n\n'We won't talk of that. If you bid me go on with the struggle, I shall\ndo so.'\n\nAmy had hidden her face, and lay silently in his arms for a minute or\ntwo. Then she murmured:\n\n'It is so cold here, and so late. Come!'\n\n'So early. There goes three o'clock.'\n\nThe next day they talked much of this new project. As there was sunshine\nAmy accompanied her husband for his walk in the afternoon; it was long\nsince they had been out together. An open carriage that passed, followed\nby two young girls on horseback, gave a familiar direction to Reardon's\nthoughts.\n\n'If one were as rich as those people! They pass so close to us; they see\nus, and we see them; but the distance between is infinity. They don't\nbelong to the same world as we poor wretches. They see everything in a\ndifferent light; they have powers which would seem supernatural if we\nwere suddenly endowed with them.'\n\n'Of course,' assented his companion with a sigh.\n\n'Just fancy, if one got up in the morning with the thought that no\nreasonable desire that occurred to one throughout the day need remain\nungratified! And that it would be the same, any day and every day, to\nthe end of one's life! Look at those houses; every detail, within and\nwithout, luxurious. To have such a home as that!'\n\n'And they are empty creatures who live there.'\n\n'They do live, Amy, at all events. Whatever may be their faculties, they\nall have free scope. I have often stood staring at houses like these\nuntil I couldn't believe that the people owning them were mere human\nbeings like myself. The power of money is so hard to realise; one who\nhas never had it marvels at the completeness with which it transforms\nevery detail of life. Compare what we call our home with that of rich\npeople; it moves one to scornful laughter. I have no sympathy with the\nstoical point of view; between wealth and poverty is just the difference\nbetween the whole man and the maimed. If my lower limbs are paralysed\nI may still be able to think, but then there is such a thing in life as\nwalking. As a poor devil I may live nobly; but one happens to be made\nwith faculties of enjoyment, and those have to fall into atrophy. To be\nsure, most rich people don't understand their happiness; if they did,\nthey would move and talk like gods--which indeed they are.'\n\nAmy's brow was shadowed. A wise man, in Reardon's position, would not\nhave chosen this subject to dilate upon.\n\n'The difference,' he went on, 'between the man with money and the man\nwithout is simply this: the one thinks, \"How shall I use my life?\" and\nthe other, \"How shall I keep myself alive?\" A physiologist ought to be\nable to discover some curious distinction between the brain of a person\nwho has never given a thought to the means of subsistence, and that of\none who has never known a day free from such cares. There must be some\nspecial cerebral development representing the mental anguish kept up by\npoverty.'\n\n'I should say,' put in Amy, 'that it affects every function of the\nbrain. It isn't a special point of suffering, but a misery that colours\nevery thought.'\n\n'True. Can I think of a single subject in all the sphere of my\nexperience without the consciousness that I see it through the medium of\npoverty? I have no enjoyment which isn't tainted by that thought, and I\ncan suffer no pain which it doesn't increase. The curse of poverty is to\nthe modern world just what that of slavery was to the ancient. Rich and\ndestitute stand to each other as free man and bond. You remember the\nline of Homer I have often quoted about the demoralising effect of\nenslavement; poverty degrades in the same way.'\n\n'It has had its effect upon me--I know that too well,' said Amy, with\nbitter frankness.\n\nReardon glanced at her, and wished to make some reply, but he could not\nsay what was in his thoughts.\n\nHe worked on at his story. Before he had reached the end of it,\n'Margaret Home' was published, and one day arrived a parcel containing\nthe six copies to which an author is traditionally entitled. Reardon was\nnot so old in authorship that he could open the packet without a slight\nflutter of his pulse. The book was tastefully got up; Amy exclaimed with\npleasure as she caught sight of the cover and lettering:\n\n'It may succeed, Edwin. It doesn't look like a book that fails, does\nit?'\n\nShe laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one of the\nvolumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a chapter.\n\n'Good God!' he cried. 'What hellish torment it was to write that page!\nI did it one morning when the fog was so thick that I had to light the\nlamp. It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read the words. And to\nthink that people will skim over it without a suspicion of what it\ncost the writer!--What execrable style! A potboy could write better\nnarrative.'\n\n'Who are to have copies?'\n\n'No one, if I could help it. But I suppose your mother will expect one?'\n\n'And--Milvain?'\n\n'I suppose so,' he replied indifferently. 'But not unless he asks for\nit. Poor old Biffen, of course; though it'll make him despise me. Then\none for ourselves. That leaves two--to light the fire with. We have\nbeen rather short of fire-paper since we couldn't afford our daily\nnewspaper.'\n\n'Will you let me give one to Mrs Carter?'\n\n'As you please.'\n\nHe took one set and added it to the row of his productions which stood\non a topmost shelf Amy laid her hand upon his shoulder and contemplated\nthe effect of this addition.\n\n'The works of Edwin Reardon,' she said, with a smile.\n\n'The work, at all events--rather a different thing, unfortunately. Amy,\nif only I were back at the time when I wrote \"On Neutral Ground,\" and\nyet had you with me! How full my mind was in those days! Then I had only\nto look, and I saw something; now I strain my eyes, but can make out\nnothing more than nebulous grotesques. I used to sit down knowing\nso well what I had to say; now I strive to invent, and never come at\nanything. Suppose you pick up a needle with warm, supple fingers; try to\ndo it when your hand is stiff and numb with cold; there's the difference\nbetween my manner of work in those days and what it is now.'\n\n'But you are going to get back your health. You will write better than\never.'\n\n'We shall see. Of course there was a great deal of miserable struggle\neven then, but I remember it as insignificant compared with the hours of\ncontented work. I seldom did anything in the mornings except think and\nprepare; towards evening I felt myself getting ready, and at last I sat\ndown with the first lines buzzing in my head. And I used to read a great\ndeal at the same time. Whilst I was writing \"On Neutral Ground\" I went\nsolidly through the \"Divina Commedia,\" a canto each day. Very often I\nwrote till after midnight, but occasionally I got my quantum finished\nmuch earlier, and then I used to treat myself to a ramble about the\nstreets. I can recall exactly the places where some of my best ideas\ncame to me. You remember the scene in Prendergast's lodgings? That\nflashed on me late one night as I was turning out of Leicester Square\ninto the slum that leads to Clare Market; ah, how well I remember! And\nI went home to my garret in a state of delightful fever, and scribbled\nnotes furiously before going to bed.'\n\n'Don't trouble; it'll all come back to you.'\n\n'But in those days I hadn't to think of money. I could look forward and\nsee provision for my needs. I never asked myself what I should get for\nthe book; I assure you, that never came into my head--never. The work\nwas done for its own sake. No hurry to finish it; if I felt that I\nwasn't up to the mark, I just waited till the better mood returned. \"On\nNeutral Ground\" took me seven months; now I have to write three volumes\nin nine weeks, with the lash stinging on my back if I miss a day.'\n\nHe brooded for a little.\n\n'I suppose there must be some rich man somewhere who has read one or two\nof my books with a certain interest. If only I could encounter him and\ntell him plainly what a cursed state I am in, perhaps he would help me\nto some means of earning a couple of pounds a week. One has heard of\nsuch things.'\n\n'In the old days.'\n\n'Yes. I doubt if it ever happens now. Coleridge wouldn't so easily meet\nwith his Gillman nowadays. Well, I am not a Coleridge, and I don't ask\nto be lodged under any man's roof; but if I could earn money enough to\nleave me good long evenings unspoilt by fear of the workhouse--'\n\nAmy turned away, and presently went to look after her little boy.\n\nA few days after this they had a visit from Milvain. He came about ten\no'clock in the evening.\n\n'I'm not going to stay,' he announced. 'But where's my copy of \"Margaret\nHome\"? I am to have one, I suppose?'\n\n'I have no particular desire that you should read it,' returned Reardon.\n\n'But I HAVE read it, my dear fellow. Got it from the library on the day\nof publication; I had a suspicion that you wouldn't send me a copy. But\nI must possess your opera omnia.'\n\n'Here it is. Hide it away somewhere.--You may as well sit down for a few\nminutes.'\n\n'I confess I should like to talk about the book, if you don't mind.\nIt isn't so utterly and damnably bad as you make out, you know. The\nmisfortune was that you had to make three volumes of it. If I had leave\nto cut it down to one, it would do you credit.\n\nThe motive is good enough.'\n\n'Yes. Just good enough to show how badly it's managed.'\n\nMilvain began to expatiate on that well-worn topic, the evils of the\nthree-volume system.\n\n'A triple-headed monster, sucking the blood of English novelists.\nOne might design an allegorical cartoon for a comic literary paper.\nBy-the-bye, why doesn't such a thing exist?--a weekly paper treating of\nthings and people literary in a facetious spirit. It would be caviare\nto the general, but might be supported, I should think. The editor would\nprobably be assassinated, though.'\n\n'For anyone in my position,' said Reardon, 'how is it possible to\nabandon the three volumes? It is a question of payment. An author of\nmoderate repute may live on a yearly three-volume novel--I mean the man\nwho is obliged to sell his book out and out, and who gets from one to\ntwo hundred pounds for it. But he would have to produce four one-volume\nnovels to obtain the same income; and I doubt whether he could get so\nmany published within the twelve months. And here comes in the benefit\nof the libraries; from the commercial point of view the libraries are\nindispensable. Do you suppose the public would support the present\nnumber of novelists if each book had to be purchased? A sudden change to\nthat system would throw three-fourths of the novelists out of work.'\n\n'But there's no reason why the libraries shouldn't circulate novels in\none volume.'\n\n'Profits would be less, I suppose. People would take the minimum\nsubscription.'\n\n'Well, to go to the concrete, what about your own one-volume?'\n\n'All but done.'\n\n'And you'll offer it to Jedwood? Go and see him personally. He's a very\ndecent fellow, I believe.'\n\nMilvain stayed only half an hour. The days when he was wont to sit and\ntalk at large through a whole evening were no more; partly because of\nhis diminished leisure, but also for a less simple reason--the growth of\nsomething like estrangement between him and Reardon.\n\n'You didn't mention your plans,' said Amy, when the visitor had been\ngone some time.\n\n'No.'\n\nReardon was content with the negative, and his wife made no further\nremark.\n\nThe result of advertising the flat was that two or three persons called\nto make inspection. One of them, a man of military appearance, showed\nhimself anxious to come to terms; he was willing to take the tenement\nfrom next quarter-day (June), but wished, if possible, to enter upon\npossession sooner than that.\n\n'Nothing could be better,' said Amy in colloquy with her husband. 'If he\nwill pay for the extra time, we shall be only too glad.'\n\nReardon mused and looked gloomy. He could not bring himself to regard\nthe experiment before him with hopefulness, and his heart sank at the\nthought of parting from Amy.\n\n'You are very anxious to get rid of me,' he answered, trying to smile.\n\n'Yes, I am,' she exclaimed; 'but simply for your own good, as you know\nvery well.'\n\n'Suppose I can't sell this book?'\n\n'You will have a few pounds. Send your \"Pliny\" article to The Wayside.\nIf you come to an end of all your money, mother shall lend you some.'\n\n'I am not very likely to do much work in that case.'\n\n'Oh, but you will sell the book. You'll get twenty pounds for it, and\nthat alone would keep you for three months. Think--three months of the\nbest part of the year at the seaside! Oh, you will do wonders!'\n\nThe furniture was to be housed at Mrs Yule's. Neither of them durst\nspeak of selling it; that would have sounded too ominous. As for the\nlocality of Reardon's retreat, Amy herself had suggested Worthing, which\nshe knew from a visit a few years ago; the advantages were its proximity\nto London, and the likelihood that very cheap lodgings could be found\neither in the town or near it. One room would suffice for the hapless\nauthor, and his expenses, beyond a trifling rent, would be confined to\nmere food.\n\nOh yes, he might manage on considerably less than a pound a week.\n\nAmy was in much better spirits than for a long time; she appeared to\nhave convinced herself that there was no doubt of the issue of this\nperilous scheme; that her husband would write a notable book, receive a\nsatisfactory price for it, and so re-establish their home. Yet her moods\nvaried greatly. After all, there was delay in the letting of the flat,\nand this caused her annoyance. It was whilst the negotiations were still\npending that she made her call upon Maud and Dora Milvain; Reardon did\nnot know of her intention to visit them until it had been carried out.\nShe mentioned what she had done in almost a casual manner.\n\n'I had to get it over,' she said, when Reardon exhibited surprise, 'and\nI don't think I made a very favourable impression.'\n\n'You told them, I suppose, what we are going to do?'\n\n'No; I didn't say a word of it.'\n\n'But why not? It can't be kept a secret. Milvain will have heard of it\nalready, I should think, from your mother.'\n\n'From mother? But it's the rarest thing for him to go there. Do you\nimagine he is a constant visitor? I thought it better to say nothing\nuntil the thing is actually done. Who knows what may happen?'\n\nShe was in a strange, nervous state, and Reardon regarded her uneasily.\nHe talked very little in these days, and passed hours in dark reverie.\nHis book was finished, and he awaited the publisher's decision.\n\n\n\n\nPART THREE\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. REJECTION\n\nOne of Reardon's minor worries at this time was the fear that by chance\nhe might come upon a review of 'Margaret Home.' Since the publication of\nhis first book he had avoided as far as possible all knowledge of what\nthe critics had to say about him; his nervous temperament could not bear\nthe agitation of reading these remarks, which, however inept, define\nan author and his work to so many people incapable of judging for\nthemselves. No man or woman could tell him anything in the way of praise\nor blame which he did not already know quite well; commendation was\npleasant, but it so often aimed amiss, and censure was for the most part\nso unintelligent. In the case of this latest novel he dreaded the\nsight of a review as he would have done a gash from a rusty knife.\nThe judgments could not but be damnatory, and their expression in\njournalistic phrase would disturb his mind with evil rancour. No one\nwould have insight enough to appreciate the nature and cause of his\nbook's demerits; every comment would be wide of the mark; sneer,\nridicule, trite objection, would but madden him with a sense of\ninjustice.\n\nHis position was illogical--one result of the moral weakness which was\nallied with his aesthetic sensibility. Putting aside the worthlessness\nof current reviewing, the critic of an isolated book has of course\nnothing to do with its author's state of mind and body any more than\nwith the condition of his purse. Reardon would have granted this, but he\ncould not command his emotions. He was in passionate revolt against\nthe base necessities which compelled him to put forth work in no way\nrepresenting his healthy powers, his artistic criterion. Not he had\nwritten this book, but his accursed poverty. To assail him as the author\nwas, in his feeling, to be guilty of brutal insult. When by ill-hap a\nnotice in one of the daily papers came under his eyes, it made his blood\nboil with a fierceness of hatred only possible to him in a profoundly\nmorbid condition; he could not steady his hand for half an hour after.\nYet this particular critic only said what was quite true--that the novel\ncontained not a single striking scene and not one living character;\nReardon had expressed himself about it in almost identical terms. But\nhe saw himself in the position of one sickly and all but destitute man\nagainst a relentless world, and every blow directed against him appeared\ndastardly. He could have cried 'Coward!' to the writer who wounded him.\n\nThe would-be sensational story which was now in Mr Jedwood's hands had\nperhaps more merit than 'Margaret Home'; its brevity, and the fact that\nnothing more was aimed at than a concatenation of brisk events, made it\nnot unreadable. But Reardon thought of it with humiliation. If it\nwere published as his next work it would afford final proof to such\nsympathetic readers as he might still retain that he had hopelessly\nwritten himself out, and was now endeavouring to adapt himself to an\ninferior public. In spite of his dire necessities he now and then hoped\nthat Jedwood might refuse the thing.\n\nAt moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or four months\nhe was about to spend in retirement, but such impulses were the mere\noutcome of his nervous disease. He had no faith in himself under\npresent conditions; the permanence of his sufferings would mean the sure\ndestruction of powers he still possessed, though they were not at\nhis command. Yet he believed that his mind was made up as to the\nadvisability of trying this last resource; he was impatient for the day\nof departure, and in the interval merely killed time as best he might.\nHe could not read, and did not attempt to gather ideas for his next\nbook; the delusion that his mind was resting made an excuse to him for\nthe barrenness of day after day. His 'Pliny' article had been despatched\nto The Wayside, and would possibly be accepted. But he did not trouble\nhimself about this or other details; it was as though his mind could do\nnothing more than grasp the bald fact of impending destitution; with the\nsteps towards that final stage he seemed to have little concern.\n\nOne evening he set forth to make a call upon Harold Biffen, whom he had\nnot seen since the realist called to acknowledge the receipt of a copy\nof 'Margaret Home' left at his lodgings when he was out. Biffen resided\nin Clipstone Street, a thoroughfare discoverable in the dim district\nwhich lies between Portland Place and Tottenham Court Road. On knocking\nat the door of the lodging-house, Reardon learnt that his friend was at\nhome. He ascended to the third storey and tapped at a door which allowed\nrays of lamplight to issue from great gaps above and below. A sound of\nvoices came from within, and on entering he perceived that Biffen was\nengaged with a pupil.\n\n'They didn't tell me you had a visitor,' he said. 'I'll call again\nlater.'\n\n'No need to go away,' replied Biffen, coming forward to shake hands.\n'Take a book for a few minutes. Mr Baker won't mind.'\n\nIt was a very small room, with a ceiling so low that the tall lodger\ncould only just stand upright with safety; perhaps three inches\nintervened between his head and the plaster, which was cracked, grimy,\ncobwebby. A small scrap of weedy carpet lay in front of the fireplace;\nelsewhere the chinky boards were unconcealed. The furniture consisted of\na round table, which kept such imperfect balance on its central support\nthat the lamp entrusted to it looked in a dangerous position, of three\nsmall cane-bottomed chairs, a small wash-hand-stand with sundry rude\nappurtenances, and a chair-bedstead which the tenant opened at the hour\nof repose and spread with certain primitive trappings at present kept\nin a cupboard. There was no bookcase, but a few hundred battered volumes\nwere arranged some on the floor and some on a rough chest. The weather\nwas too characteristic of an English spring to make an empty grate\nagreeable to the eye, but Biffen held it an axiom that fires were\nunseasonable after the first of May.\n\nThe individual referred to as Mr Baker, who sat at the table in the\nattitude of a student, was a robust, hard-featured, black-haired young\nman of two-or three-and-twenty; judging from his weather-beaten cheeks\nand huge hands, as well as from the garb he wore, one would have\npresumed that study was not his normal occupation. There was something\nof the riverside about him; he might be a dockman, or even a bargeman.\nHe looked intelligent, however, and bore himself with much modesty.\n\n'Now do endeavour to write in shorter sentences,' said Biffen, who sat\ndown by him and resumed the lesson, Reardon having taken up a volume.\n'This isn't bad--it isn't bad at all, I assure you; but you have put all\nyou had to say into three appalling periods, whereas you ought to have\nmade about a dozen.'\n\n'There it is, sir; there it is!' exclaimed the man, smoothing his wiry\nhair. 'I can't break it up. The thoughts come in a lump, if I may say\nso. To break it up--there's the art of compersition.'\n\nReardon could not refrain from a glance at the speaker, and Biffen,\nwhose manner was very grave and kindly, turned to his friend with an\nexplanation of the difficulties with which the student was struggling.\n\n'Mr Baker is preparing for the examination of the outdoor Customs\nDepartment. One of the subjects is English composition, and really, you\nknow, that isn't quite such a simple matter as some people think.'\n\nBaker beamed upon the visitor with a homely, good-natured smile.\n\n'I can make headway with the other things, sir,' he said, striking the\ntable lightly with his clenched fist. 'There's handwriting, there's\northography, there's arithmetic; I'm not afraid of one of 'em, as Mr\nBiffen'll tell you, sir. But when it comes to compersition, that brings\nout the sweat on my forehead, I do assure you.\n\n'You're not the only man in that case, Mr Baker,' replied Reardon.\n\n'It's thought a tough job in general, is it, sir?'\n\n'It is indeed.'\n\n'Two hundred marks for compersition,' continued the man. 'Now how many\nwould they have given me for this bit of a try, Mr Biffen?'\n\n'Well, well; I can't exactly say. But you improve; you improve,\ndecidedly. Peg away for another week or two.'\n\n'Oh, don't fear me, sir! I'm not easily beaten when I've set my mind on\na thing, and I'll break up the compersition yet, see if I don't!'\n\nAgain his fist descended upon the table in a way that reminded one of\nthe steam-hammer cracking a nut.\n\nThe lesson proceeded for about ten minutes, Reardon, under pretence of\nreading, following it with as much amusement as anything could excite\nin him nowadays. At length Mr Baker stood up, collected his papers and\nbooks, and seemed about to depart; but, after certain uneasy movements\nand glances, he said to Biffen in a subdued voice:\n\n'Perhaps I might speak to you outside the door a minute, sir?'\n\nHe and the teacher went out, the door closed, and Reardon heard sounds\nof muffled conversation. In a minute or two a heavy footstep descended\nthe stairs, and Biffen re-entered the room.\n\n'Now that's a good, honest fellow,' he said, in an amused tone. 'It's\nmy pay-night, but he didn't like to fork out money before you. A very\nunusual delicacy in a man of that standing. He pays me sixpence for an\nhour's lesson; that brings me two shillings a week. I sometimes feel a\nlittle ashamed to take his money, but then the fact is he's a good deal\nbetter off than I am.'\n\n'Will he get a place in the Customs, do you think?'\n\n'Oh, I've no doubt of it. If it seemed unlikely, I should have told him\nso before this. To be sure, that's a point I have often to consider,\nand once or twice my delicacy has asserted itself at the expense of my\npocket. There was a poor consumptive lad came to me not long ago and\nwanted Latin lessons; talked about going in for the London Matric., on\nhis way to the pulpit. I couldn't stand it. After a lesson or two I told\nhim his cough was too bad, and he had no right to study until he got\ninto better health; that was better, I think, than saying plainly he had\nno chance on earth. But the food I bought with his money was choking me.\nOh yes, Baker will make his way right enough. A good, modest fellow.\n\nYou noticed how respectfully he spoke to me? It doesn't make any\ndifference to him that I live in a garret like this; I'm a man of\neducation, and he can separate this fact from my surroundings.'\n\n'Biffen, why don't you get some decent position? Surely you might.'\n\n'What position? No school would take me; I have neither credentials\nnor conventional clothing. For the same reason I couldn't get a private\ntutorship in a rich family. No, no; it's all right. I keep myself alive,\nand I get on with my work.--By-the-bye, I've decided to write a book\ncalled \"Mr Bailey, Grocer.\"'\n\n'What's the idea?'\n\n'An objectionable word, that. Better say: \"What's the reality?\" Well, Mr\nBailey is a grocer in a little street by here. I have dealt with him\nfor a long time, and as he's a talkative fellow I've come to know a good\ndeal about him and his history. He's fond of talking about the struggle\nhe had in his first year of business. He had no money of his own, but\nhe married a woman who had saved forty-five pounds out of a cat's-meat\nbusiness. You should see that woman! A big, coarse, squinting creature;\nat the time of the marriage she was a widow and forty-two years old.\nNow I'm going to tell the true story of Mr Bailey's marriage and of his\nprogress as a grocer. It'll be a great book--a great book!'\n\nHe walked up and down the room, fervid with his conception.\n\n'There'll be nothing bestial in it, you know. The decently ignoble--as\nI've so often said. The thing'll take me a year at least. I shall do\nit slowly, lovingly. One volume, of course; the length of the ordinary\nFrench novel. There's something fine in the title, don't you think? \"Mr\nBailey, Grocer\"!'\n\n'I envy you, old fellow,' said Reardon, sighing. 'You have the right\nfire in you; you have zeal and energy. Well, what do you think I have\ndecided to do?'\n\n'I should like to hear.'\n\nReardon gave an account of his project. The other listened gravely,\nseated across a chair with his arms on the back.\n\n'Your wife is in agreement with this?'\n\n'Oh yes.' He could not bring himself to say that Amy had suggested it.\n'She has great hopes that the change will be just what I need.'\n\n'I should say so too--if you were going to rest. But if you have to set\nto work at once it seems to me very doubtful.'\n\n'Never mind. For Heaven's sake don't discourage me! If this fails I\nthink--upon my soul, I think I shall kill myself.'\n\n'Pooh!' exclaimed Biffen, gently. 'With a wife like yours?'\n\n'Just because of that.'\n\n'No, no; there'll be some way out of it. By-the-bye, I passed Mrs\nReardon this morning, but she didn't see me. It was in Tottenham Court\nRoad, and Milvain was with her. I felt myself too seedy in appearance to\nstop and speak.'\n\n'In Tottenham Court Road?'\n\nThat was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon's\nattention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His mind\ninvoluntarily played this trick.\n\n'I only saw them just as they were passing,' pursued Biffen. 'Oh, I knew\nI had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale is going to\nbe married?'\n\nReardon shook his head in a preoccupied way.\n\n'I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to look him\nup to-night, and he'd let me know all about it. Let's go together, shall\nwe?'\n\n'I don't feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I'll walk with you, and\ngo on home.'\n\n'No, no; come and see him. It'll do you good to talk a little.--But I\nmust positively eat a mouthful before we go. I'm afraid you won't care\nto join?'\n\nHe opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of\ndripping, with salt and pepper.\n\n'Better dripping this than I've had for a long time. I get it at Mr\nBailey's--that isn't his real name, of course. He assures me it comes\nfrom a large hotel where his wife's sister is a kitchen-maid, and that\nit's perfectly pure; they very often mix flour with it, you know, and\nperhaps more obnoxious things that an economical man doesn't care\nto reflect upon. Now, with a little pepper and salt, this bread and\ndripping is as appetising food as I know. I often make a dinner of it.'\n\n'I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-pudding?'\n\n'I should think so! I get magnificent pennyworths at a shop in Cleveland\nStreet, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent faggots they have\nthere, too. I'll give you a supper of them some night before you go.'\n\nBiffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties.\n\nHe ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork; this always made the\nfare seem more substantial.\n\n'Is it very cold out?' he asked, rising from the table. 'Need I put my\novercoat on?'\n\nThis overcoat, purchased second-hand three years ago, hung on a\ndoor-nail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to the\nrealist his ordinary indoor garment--a morning coat of the cloth called\ndiagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation than the\nother articles of his attire.\n\nReardon judging the overcoat necessary, his friend carefully brushed it\nand drew it on with a caution which probably had reference to\nstarting seams. Then he put into the pocket his pipe, his pouch, his\ntobacco-stopper, and his matches, murmuring to himself a Greek iambic\nline which had come into his head a propos of nothing obvious.\n\n'Go out,' he said, 'and then I'll extinguish the lamp. Mind the second\nstep down, as usual.'\n\nThey issued into Clipstone Street, turned northward, crossed Euston\nRoad, and came into Albany Street, where, in a house of decent exterior,\nMr Whelpdale had his present abode. A girl who opened the door requested\nthem to walk up to the topmost storey.\n\nA cheery voice called to them from within the room at which they\nknocked. This lodging spoke more distinctly of civilisation than that\ninhabited by Biffen; it contained the minimum supply of furniture needed\nto give it somewhat the appearance of a study, but the articles were in\ngood condition. One end of the room was concealed by a chintz curtain;\nscrutiny would have discovered behind the draping the essential\nequipments of a bedchamber.\n\nMr Whelpdale sat by the fire, smoking a cigar. He was a plain-featured\nbut graceful and refined-looking man of thirty, with wavy chestnut\nhair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At present he wore a\ndressing-gown and was without collar.\n\n'Welcome, gents both!' he cried facetiously. 'Ages since I saw you,\nReardon. I've been reading your new book. Uncommonly good things in it\nhere and there--uncommonly good.'\n\nWhelpdale had the weakness of being unable to tell a disagreeable\ntruth, and a tendency to flattery which had always made Reardon rather\nuncomfortable in his society. Though there was no need whatever of his\nmentioning 'Margaret Home,' he preferred to frame smooth fictions rather\nthan keep a silence which might be construed as unfavourable criticism.\n\n'In the last volume,' he went on, 'I think there are one or two things\nas good as you ever did; I do indeed.'\n\nReardon made no acknowledgment of these remarks. They irritated him, for\nhe knew their insincerity. Biffen, understanding his friend's silence,\nstruck in on another subject.\n\n'Who is this lady of whom you write to me?'\n\n'Ah, quite a story! I'm going to be married, Reardon. A serious\nmarriage. Light your pipes, and I'll tell you all about it. Startled\nyou, I suppose, Biffen? Unlikely news, eh? Some people would call it a\nrash step, I dare say. We shall just take another room in this house,\nthat's all. I think I can count upon an income of a couple of guineas\na week, and I have plans without end that are pretty sure to bring in\ncoin.'\n\nReardon did not care to smoke, but Biffen lit his pipe and waited with\ngrave interest for the romantic narrative. Whenever he heard of a poor\nman's persuading a woman to share his poverty he was eager of details;\nperchance he himself might yet have that heavenly good fortune.\n\n'Well,' began Whelpdale, crossing his legs and watching a wreath he had\njust puffed from the cigar, 'you know all about my literary advisership.\nThe business goes on reasonably well. I'm going to extend it in ways\nI'll explain to you presently. About six weeks ago I received a letter\nfrom a lady who referred to my advertisements, and said she had the\nmanuscript of a novel which she would like to offer for my opinion. Two\npublishers had refused it, but one with complimentary phrases, and she\nhoped it mightn't be impossible to put the thing into acceptable shape.\nOf course I wrote optimistically, and the manuscript was sent to me.\n\nWell, it wasn't actually bad--by Jove! you should have seen some of\nthe things I have been asked to recommend to publishers! It wasn't\nhopelessly bad by any means, and I gave serious thought to it. After\nexchange of several letters I asked the authoress to come and see me,\nthat we might save postage stamps and talk things over. She hadn't\ngiven me her address: I had to direct to a stationer's in Bayswater. She\nagreed to come, and did come. I had formed a sort of idea, but of course\nI was quite wrong. Imagine my excitement when there came in a\nvery beautiful girl, a tremendously interesting girl, about\none-and-twenty--just the kind of girl that most strongly appeals to\nme; dark, pale, rather consumptive-looking, slender--no, there's no\ndescribing her; there really isn't! You must wait till you see her.'\n\n'I hope the consumption was only a figure of speech,' remarked Biffen in\nhis grave way.\n\n'Oh, there's nothing serious the matter, I think. A slight cough, poor\ngirl.'\n\n'The deuce!' interjected Reardon.\n\n'Oh, nothing, nothing! It'll be all right. Well, now, of course we\ntalked over the story--in good earnest, you know. Little by little I\ninduced her to speak of herself--this, after she'd come two or three\ntimes--and she told me lamentable things. She was absolutely alone in\nLondon, and hadn't had sufficient food for weeks; had sold all she could\nof her clothing; and so on. Her home was in Birmingham; she had been\ndriven away by the brutality of a stepmother; a friend lent her a few\npounds, and she came to London with an unfinished novel. Well, you know,\nthis kind of thing would be enough to make me soft-hearted to any girl,\nlet alone one who, to begin with, was absolutely my ideal. When she\nbegan to express a fear that I was giving too much time to her, that she\nwouldn't be able to pay my fees, and so on, I could restrain myself\nno longer. On the spot I asked her to marry me. I didn't practise any\ndeception, mind. I told her I was a poor devil who had failed as a\nrealistic novelist and was earning bread in haphazard ways; and I\nexplained frankly that I thought we might carry on various kinds of\nbusiness together: she might go on with her novel-writing, and--so on.\nBut she was frightened; I had been too abrupt. That's a fault of mine,\nyou know; but I was so confoundedly afraid of losing her. And I told her\nas much, plainly.'\n\nBiffen smiled.\n\n'This would be exciting,' he said, 'if we didn't know the end of the\nstory.'\n\n'Yes. Pity I didn't keep it a secret. Well, she wouldn't say yes, but\nI could see that she didn't absolutely say no. \"In any case,\" I said,\n\"you'll let me see you often? Fees be hanged! I'll work day and night\nfor you. I'll do my utmost to get your novel accepted.\" And I implored\nher to let me lend her a little money. It was very difficult to persuade\nher, but at last she accepted a few shillings. I could see in her face\nthat she was hungry. Just imagine! A beautiful girl absolutely hungry;\nit drove me frantic!\n\nBut that was a great point gained. After that we saw each other almost\nevery day, and at last--she consented! Did indeed! I can hardly believe\nit yet. We shall be married in a fortnight's time.'\n\n'I congratulate you,' said Reardon.\n\n'So do I,' sighed Biffen.\n\n'The day before yesterday she went to Birmingham to see her father and\ntell him all about the affair. I agreed with her it was as well; the old\nfellow isn't badly off; and he may forgive her for running away, though\nhe's under his wife's thumb, it appears. I had a note yesterday. She had\ngone to a friend's house for the first day. I hoped to have heard again\nthis morning--must to-morrow, in any case. I live, as you may imagine,\nin wild excitement. Of course, if the old man stumps up a wedding\npresent, all the better. But I don't care; we'll make a living somehow.\nWhat do you think I'm writing just now? An author's Guide. You know the\nkind of thing; they sell splendidly. Of course I shall make it a good\nadvertisement of my business. Then I have a splendid idea. I'm going to\nadvertise: \"Novel-writing taught in ten lessons!\" What do you think\nof that? No swindle; not a bit of it. I am quite capable of giving the\nordinary man or woman ten very useful lessons. I've been working out the\nscheme; it would amuse you vastly, Reardon. The first lesson deals with\nthe question of subjects, local colour--that kind of thing. I gravely\nadvise people, if they possibly can, to write of the wealthy middle\nclass; that's the popular subject, you know. Lords and ladies are all\nvery well, but the real thing to take is a story about people who have\nno titles, but live in good Philistine style. I urge study of horsey\nmatters especially; that's very important. You must be well up, too,\nin military grades, know about Sandhurst, and so on. Boating is an\nimportant topic. You see? Oh, I shall make a great thing of this. I\nshall teach my wife carefully, and then let her advertise lessons to\ngirls; they'll prefer coming to a woman, you know.'\n\nBiffen leant back and laughed noisily.\n\n'How much shall you charge for the course?' asked Reardon.\n\n'That'll depend. I shan't refuse a guinea or two; but some people may be\nmade to pay five, perhaps.'\n\nSomeone knocked at the door, and a voice said:\n\n'A letter for you, Mr Whelpdale.'\n\nHe started up, and came back into the room with face illuminated.\n\n'Yes, it's from Birmingham; posted this morning. Look what an exquisite\nhand she writes!'\n\nHe tore open the envelope. In delicacy Reardon and Biffen averted their\neyes. There was silence for a minute, then a strange ejaculation from\nWhelpdale caused his friends to look up at him. He had gone pale, and\nwas frowning at the sheet of paper which trembled in his hand.\n\n'No bad news, I hope?' Biffen ventured to say.\n\nWhelpdale let himself sink into a chair.\n\n'Now if this isn't too bad!' he exclaimed in a thick voice. 'If\nthis isn't monstrously unkind! I never heard anything so gross as\nthis--never!'\n\nThe two waited, trying not to smile.\n\n'She writes--that she has met an old lover--in Birmingham--that it was\nwith him she had quarrelled-not with her father at all--that she ran\naway to annoy him and frighten him--that she has made it up again, and\nthey're going to be married!'\n\nHe let the sheet fall, and looked so utterly woebegone that his friends\nat once exerted themselves to offer such consolation as the case\nadmitted of. Reardon thought better of Whelpdale for this emotion; he\nhad not believed him capable of it.\n\n'It isn't a case of vulgar cheating!' cried the forsaken one presently.\n'Don't go away thinking that. She writes in real distress and\npenitence--she does indeed. Oh, the devil! Why did I let her go to\nBirmingham? A fortnight more, and I should have had her safe. But it's\njust like my luck. Do you know that this is the third time I've been\nengaged to be married?--no, by Jove, the fourth! And every time the girl\nhas got out of it at the last moment. What an unlucky beast I am! A girl\nwho was positively my ideal! I haven't even a photograph of her to show\nyou; but you'd be astonished at her face. Why, in the devil's name, did\nI let her go to Birmingham?'\n\nThe visitors had risen. They felt uncomfortable, for it seemed as if\nWhelpdale might find vent for his distress in tears.\n\n'We had better leave you,' suggested Biffen. 'It's very hard--it is\nindeed.'\n\n'Look here! Read the letter for yourselves! Do!'\n\nThey declined, and begged him not to insist.\n\n'But I want you to see what kind of girl she is. It isn't a case of\nfarcical deceiving--not a bit of it! She implores me to forgive her, and\nblames herself no end. Just my luck! The third--no, the fourth time, by\nJove! Never was such an unlucky fellow with women. It's because I'm so\ndamnably poor; that's it, of course!'\n\nReardon and his companion succeeded at length in getting away, though\nnot till they had heard the virtues and beauty of the vanished girl\ndescribed again and again in much detail. Both were in a state of\ndepression as they left the house.\n\n'What think you of this story?' asked Biffen. 'Is this possible in a\nwoman of any merit?'\n\n'Anything is possible in a woman,' Reardon replied, harshly.\n\nThey walked in silence as far as Portland Road Station. There, with an\nassurance that he would come to a garret-supper before leaving London,\nReardon parted from his friend and turned westward.\n\nAs soon as he had entered, Amy's voice called to him:\n\n'Here's a letter from Jedwood, Edwin!'\n\nHe stepped into the study.\n\n'It came just after you went out, and it has been all I could do to\nresist the temptation to open it.'\n\n'Why shouldn't you have opened it?' said her husband, carelessly.\n\nHe tried to do so himself, but his shaking hand thwarted him at first.\nSucceeding at length, he found a letter in the publisher's own writing,\nand the first word that caught his attention was 'regret.' With an angry\neffort to command himself he ran through the communication, then held it\nout to Amy.\n\nShe read, and her countenance fell. Mr Jedwood regretted that the story\noffered to him did not seem likely to please that particular public to\nwhom his series of one-volume novels made appeal. He hoped it would\nbe understood that, in declining, he by no means expressed an adverse\njudgment on the story itself &c.\n\n'It doesn't surprise me,' said Reardon. 'I believe he is quite right.\nThe thing is too empty to please the better kind of readers, yet not\nvulgar enough to please the worse.'\n\n'But you'll try someone else?'\n\n'I don't think it's much use.'\n\nThey sat opposite each other, and kept silence. Jedwood's letter slipped\nfrom Amy's lap to the ground.\n\n'So,' said Reardon, presently, 'I don't see how our plan is to be\ncarried out.'\n\n'Oh, it must be!'\n\n'But how?'\n\n'You'll get seven or eight pounds from The Wayside. And--hadn't we\nbetter sell the furniture, instead of--'\n\nHis look checked her.\n\n'It seems to me, Amy, that your one desire is to get away from me, on\nwhatever terms.'\n\n'Don't begin that over again!' she exclaimed, fretfully. 'If you don't\nbelieve what I say--'\n\nThey were both in a state of intolerable nervous tension. Their voices\nquivered, and their eyes had an unnatural brightness.\n\n'If we sell the furniture,' pursued Reardon, 'that means you'll never\ncome back to me. You wish to save yourself and the child from the hard\nlife that seems to be before us.'\n\n'Yes, I do; but not by deserting you. I want you to go and work for us\nall, so that we may live more happily before long. Oh, how wretched this\nis!'\n\nShe burst into hysterical weeping. But Reardon, instead of attempting to\nsoothe her, went into the next room, where he sat for a long time in\nthe dark. When he returned Amy was calm again; her face expressed a cold\nmisery.\n\n'Where did you go this morning?' he asked, as if wishing to talk of\ncommon things.\n\n'I told you. I went to buy those things for Willie.'\n\n'Oh yes.'\n\nThere was a silence.\n\n'Biffen passed you in Tottenham Court Road,' he added.\n\n'I didn't see him.'\n\n'No; he said you didn't.'\n\n'Perhaps,' said Amy, 'it was just when I was speaking to Mr Milvain.'\n\n'You met Milvain?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Why didn't you tell me?'\n\n'I'm sure I don't know. I can't mention every trifle that happens.'\n\n'No, of course not.'\n\nAmy closed her eyes, as if in weariness, and for a minute or two Reardon\nobserved her countenance.\n\n'So you think we had better sell the furniture.'\n\n'I shall say nothing more about it. You must do as seems best to you,\nEdwin.'\n\n'Are you going to see your mother to-morrow?'\n\n'Yes. I thought you would like to come too.'\n\n'No; there's no good in my going.'\n\nHe again rose, and that night they talked no more of their difficulties,\nthough on the morrow (Sunday) it would be necessary to decide their\ncourse in every detail.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. THE PARTING\n\nAmy did not go to church. Before her marriage she had done so as a mere\nmatter of course, accompanying her mother, but Reardon's attitude with\nregard to the popular religion speedily became her own; she let the\nsubject lapse from her mind, and cared neither to defend nor to attack\nwhere dogma was concerned. She had no sympathies with mysticism; her\nnature was strongly practical, with something of zeal for intellectual\nattainment superadded.\n\nThis Sunday morning she was very busy with domestic minutiae. Reardon\nnoticed what looked like preparations for packing, and being as little\ndisposed for conversation as his wife, he went out and walked for a\ncouple of hours in the Hampstead region. Dinner over, Amy at once made\nready for her journey to Westbourne Park.\n\n'Then you won't come?' she said to her husband.\n\n'No. I shall see your mother before I go away, but I don't care to till\nyou have settled everything.'\n\nIt was half a year since he had met Mrs Yule. She never came to their\ndwelling, and Reardon could not bring himself to visit her.\n\n'You had very much rather we didn't sell the furniture?' Amy asked.\n\n'Ask your mother's opinion. That shall decide.'\n\n'There'll be the expense of moving it, you know. Unless money comes from\nThe Wayside, you'll only have two or three pounds left.'\n\nReardon made no reply. He was overcome by the bitterness of shame.\n\n'I shall say, then,' pursued Amy, who spoke with averted face, 'that I\nam to go there for good on Tuesday? I mean, of course, for the summer\nmonths.'\n\n'I suppose so.'\n\nThen he turned suddenly upon her.\n\n'Do you really imagine that at the end of the summer I shall be a rich\nman? What do you mean by talking in this way? If the furniture is sold\nto supply me with a few pounds for the present, what prospect is there\nthat I shall be able to buy new?'\n\n'How can we look forward at all?' replied Amy. 'It has come to the\nquestion of how we are to subsist. I thought you would rather get money\nin this way than borrow of mother--when she has the expense of keeping\nme and Willie.'\n\n'You are right,' muttered Reardon. 'Do as you think best.' Amy was in\nher most practical mood, and would not linger for purposeless talk. A\nfew minutes, and Reardon was left alone.\n\nHe stood before his bookshelves and began to pick out the volumes which\nhe would take away with him. Just a few, the indispensable companions of\na bookish man who still clings to life--his Homer, his Shakespeare--\n\nThe rest must be sold. He would get rid of them to-morrow morning. All\ntogether they might bring him a couple of sovereigns.\n\nThen his clothing. Amy had fulfilled all the domestic duties of a wife;\nhis wardrobe was in as good a state as circumstances allowed. But there\nwas no object in burdening himself with winter garments, for, if he\nlived through the summer at all, he would be able to repurchase such few\npoor things as were needful; at present he could only think of how to\nget together a few coins. So he made a heap of such things as might be\nsold.\n\nThe furniture? If it must go, the price could scarcely be more than ten\nor twelve pounds; well, perhaps fifteen. To be sure, in this way his\nsummer's living would be abundantly provided for.\n\nHe thought of Biffen enviously. Biffen, if need be, could support life\non three or four shillings a week, happy in the thought that no mortal\nhad a claim upon him. If he starved to death--well, many another lonely\nman has come to that end. If he preferred to kill himself, who would be\ndistressed? Spoilt child of fortune!\n\nThe bells of St Marylebone began to clang for afternoon service. In\nthe idleness of dull pain his thoughts followed their summons, and he\nmarvelled that there were people who could imagine it a duty or find it\na solace to go and sit in that twilight church and listen to the droning\nof prayers. He thought of the wretched millions of mankind to whom life\nis so barren that they must needs believe in a recompense beyond the\ngrave. For that he neither looked nor longed. The bitterness of his\nlot was that this world might be a sufficing paradise to him if only he\ncould clutch a poor little share of current coin. He had won the world's\ngreatest prize--a woman's love--but could not retain it because his\npockets were empty.\n\nThat he should fail to make a great name, this was grievous\ndisappointment to Amy, but this alone would not have estranged her. It\nwas the dread and shame of penury that made her heart cold to him. And\nhe could not in his conscience scorn her for being thus affected by the\nvulgar circumstances of life; only a few supreme natures stand unshaken\nunder such a trial, and though his love of Amy was still passionate, he\nknew that her place was among a certain class of women, and not on the\nisolated pinnacle where he had at first visioned her. It was entirely\nnatural that she shrank at the test of squalid suffering. A little\nmoney, and he could have rested secure in her love, for then he would\nhave been able to keep ever before her the best qualities of his heart\nand brain. Upon him, too, penury had its debasing effect; as he now\npresented himself he was not a man to be admired or loved. It was all\nsimple and intelligible enough--a situation that would be misread only\nby shallow idealism.\n\nWorst of all, she was attracted by Jasper Milvain's energy and promise\nof success. He had no ignoble suspicions of Amy, but it was impossible\nfor him not to see that she habitually contrasted the young journalist,\nwho laughingly made his way among men, with her grave, dispirited\nhusband, who was not even capable of holding such position as he had\ngained. She enjoyed Milvain's conversation, it put her into a good\nhumour; she liked him personally, and there could be no doubt that she\nhad observed a jealous tendency in Reardon's attitude to his former\nfriend--always a harmful suggestion to a woman. Formerly she had\nappreciated her husband's superiority; she had smiled at Milvain's\ncommoner stamp of mind and character. But tedious repetition of failure\nhad outwearied her, and now she saw Milvain in the sunshine of progress,\ndwelt upon the worldly advantages of gifts and a temperament such as\nhis. Again, simple and intelligible enough.\n\nLiving apart from her husband, she could not be expected to forswear\nsociety, and doubtless she would see Milvain pretty often. He called\noccasionally at Mrs Yule's, and would not do so less often when he knew\nthat Amy was to be met there. There would be chance encounters like that\nof yesterday, of which she had chosen to keep silence.\n\nA dark fear began to shadow him. In yielding thus passively to stress of\ncircumstances, was he not exposing his wife to a danger which outweighed\nall the ills of poverty? As one to whom she was inestimably dear, was\nhe right in allowing her to leave him, if only for a few months? He knew\nvery well that a man of strong character would never have entertained\nthis project. He had got into the way of thinking of himself as too weak\nto struggle against the obstacles on which Amy insisted, and of looking\nfor safety in retreat; but what was to be the end of this weakness if\nthe summer did not at all advance him? He knew better than Amy could how\nunlikely it was that he should recover the energies of his mind in\nso short a time and under such circumstances; only the feeble man's\ntemptation to postpone effort had made him consent to this step, and\nnow that he was all but beyond turning back, the perils of which he had\nthought too little forced themselves upon his mind.\n\nHe rose in anguish, and stood looking about him as if aid might\nsomewhere be visible.\n\nPresently there was a knock at the front door, and on opening he beheld\nthe vivacious Mr Carter. This gentleman had only made two or three calls\nhere since Reardon's marriage; his appearance was a surprise.\n\n'I hear you are leaving town for a time,' he exclaimed. 'Edith told me\nyesterday, so I thought I'd look you up.'\n\nHe was in spring costume, and exhaled fresh odours. The contrast between\nhis prosperous animation and Reardon's broken-spirited quietness could\nnot have been more striking.\n\n'Going away for your health, they tell me. You've been working too hard,\nyou know. You mustn't overdo it. And where do you think of going to?'\n\n'It isn't at all certain that I shall go,' Reardon replied. 'I thought\nof a few weeks--somewhere at the seaside.'\n\n'I advise you to go north,' went on Carter cheerily. 'You want a tonic,\nyou know. Get up into Scotland and do some boating and fishing--that\nkind of thing. You'd come back a new man. Edith and I had a turn up\nthere last year, you know; it did me heaps of good.'\n\n'Oh, I don't think I should go so far as that.'\n\n'But that's just what you want--a regular change, something bracing. You\ndon't look at all well, that's the fact. A winter in London tries any\nman--it does me, I know. I've been seedy myself these last few weeks.\nEdith wants me to take her over to Paris at the end of this month, and\nI think it isn't a bad idea; but I'm so confoundedly busy. In the autumn\nwe shall go to Norway, I think; it seems to be the right thing to do\nnowadays. Why shouldn't you have a run over to Norway? They say it can\nbe done very cheaply; the steamers take you for next to nothing.'\n\nHe talked on with the joyous satisfaction of a man whose income is\nassured, and whose future teems with a succession of lively holidays.\nReardon could make no answer to such suggestions; he sat with a fixed\nsmile on his face.\n\n'Have you heard,' said Carter, presently, 'that we're opening a branch\nof the hospital in the City Road?'\n\n'No; I hadn't heard of it.'\n\n'It'll only be for out-patients. Open three mornings and three evenings\nalternately.'\n\n'Who'll represent you there?''I shall look in now and then, of course;\nthere'll be a clerk, like at the old place.'\n\nHe talked of the matter in detail--of the doctors who would attend, and\nof certain new arrangements to be tried.\n\n'Have you engaged the clerk?' Reardon asked.\n\n'Not yet. I think I know a man who'll suit me, though.'\n\n'You wouldn't be disposed to give me the chance?'\n\nReardon spoke huskily, and ended with a broken laugh.\n\n'You're rather above my figure nowadays, old man!' exclaimed Carter,\njoining in what he considered the jest.\n\n'Shall you pay a pound a week?'\n\n'Twenty-five shillings. It'll have to be a man who can be trusted to\ntake money from the paying patients.'\n\n'Well, I am serious. Will you give me the place?'\n\nCarter gazed at him, and checked another laugh.\n\n'What the deuce do you mean?'\n\n'The fact is,' Reardon replied, 'I want variety of occupation. I can't\nstick at writing for more than a month or two at a time. It's because I\nhave tried to do so that--well, practically, I have broken down. If you\nwill give me this clerkship, it will relieve me from the necessity of\nperpetually writing novels; I shall be better for it in every way. You\nknow that I'm equal to the job; you can trust me; and I dare say I shall\nbe more useful than most clerks you could get.'\n\nIt was done, most happily done, on the first impulse. A minute more of\npause, and he could not have faced the humiliation. His face burned, his\ntongue was parched.\n\n'I'm floored!' cried Carter. 'I shouldn't have thought--but of course,\nif you really want it. I can hardly believe yet that you're serious,\nReardon.'\n\n'Why not? Will you promise me the work?'\n\n'Well, yes.'\n\n'When shall I have to begin?'\n\n'The place'll be opened to-morrow week. But how about your holiday?'\n\n'Oh, let that stand over. It'll be holiday enough to occupy myself in a\nnew way. An old way, too; I shall enjoy it.'\n\nHe laughed merrily, relieved beyond measure at having come to what\nseemed an end of his difficulties. For half an hour they continued to\ntalk over the affair.\n\n'Well, it's a comical idea,' said Carter, as he took his leave, 'but you\nknow your own business best.'\n\nWhen Amy returned, Reardon allowed her to put the child to bed before he\nsought any conversation. She came at length and sat down in the study.\n\n'Mother advises us not to sell the furniture,' were her first words.\n\n'I'm glad of that, as I had quite made up my mind not to.' There was a\nchange in his way of speaking which she at once noticed.\n\n'Have you thought of something?'\n\n'Yes. Carter has been here, and he happened to mention that they're\nopening an out-patient department of the hospital, in the City Road.\nHe'll want someone to help him there. I asked for the post, and he\npromised it me.'\n\nThe last words were hurried, though he had resolved to speak with\ndeliberation. No more feebleness; he had taken a decision, and would act\nupon it as became a responsible man.\n\n'The post?' said Amy. 'What post?'\n\n'In plain English, the clerkship. It'll be the same work as I used to\nhave--registering patients, receiving their \"letters,\" and so on. The\npay is to be five-and-twenty shillings a week.'\n\nAmy sat upright and looked steadily at him.\n\n'Is this a joke?'\n\n'Far from it, dear. It's a blessed deliverance.'\n\n'You have asked Mr Carter to take you back as a clerk?'\n\n'I have.'\n\n'And you propose that we shall live on twenty-five shillings a week?'\n\n'Oh no! I shall be engaged only three mornings in the week and three\nevenings. In my free time I shall do literary work, and no doubt I can\nearn fifty pounds a year by it--if I have your sympathy to help me.\nTo-morrow I shall go and look for rooms some distance from here; in\nIslington, I think. We have been living far beyond our means; that must\ncome to an end. We'll have no more keeping up of sham appearances. If I\ncan make my way in literature, well and good; in that case our position\nand prospects will of course change. But for the present we are poor\npeople, and must live in a poor way. If our friends like to come and see\nus, they must put aside all snobbishness, and take us as we are. If they\nprefer not to come, there'll be an excuse in our remoteness.'\n\nAmy was stroking the back of her hand. After a long silence, she said in\na very quiet, but very resolute tone:\n\n'I shall not consent to this.'\n\n'In that case, Amy, I must do without your consent. The rooms will be\ntaken, and our furniture transferred to them.'\n\n'To me that will make no difference,' returned his wife, in the same\nvoice as before. 'I have decided--as you told me to--to go with Willie\nto mother's next Tuesday. You, of course, must do as you please. I\nshould have thought a summer at the seaside would have been more helpful\nto you; but if you prefer to live in Islington--'\n\nReardon approached her, and laid a hand on her shoulder.\n\n'Amy, are you my wife, or not?'\n\n'I am certainly not the wife of a clerk who is paid so much a week.'\n\nHe had foreseen a struggle, but without certainty of the form Amy's\nopposition would take. For himself he meant to be gently resolute,\ncalmly regardless of protest. But in a man to whom such self-assertion\nis a matter of conscious effort, tremor of the nerves will always\ninterfere with the line of conduct he has conceived in advance.\nAlready Reardon had spoken with far more bluntness than he proposed;\ninvoluntarily, his voice slipped from earnest determination to the\nnote of absolutism, and, as is wont to be the case, the sound of these\nstrange tones instigated him to further utterances of the same kind.\nHe lost control of himself. Amy's last reply went through him like an\nelectric shock, and for the moment he was a mere husband defied by\nhis wife, the male stung to exertion of his brute force against the\nphysically weaker sex.\n\n'However you regard me, you will do what I think fit. I shall not argue\nwith you. If I choose to take lodgings in Whitechapel, there you will\ncome and live.'\n\nHe met Amy's full look, and was conscious of that in it which\ncorresponded to his own brutality. She had become suddenly a much\nolder woman; her cheeks were tight drawn into thinness, her lips were\nbloodlessly hard, there was an unknown furrow along her forehead, and\nshe glared like the animal that defends itself with tooth and claw.\n\n'Do as YOU think fit? Indeed!'\n\nCould Amy's voice sound like that? Great Heaven! With just such accent\nhe had heard a wrangling woman retort upon her husband at the street\ncorner. Is there then no essential difference between a woman of this\nworld and one of that? Does the same nature lie beneath such unlike\nsurfaces?\n\nHe had but to do one thing: to seize her by the arm, drag her up\nfrom the chair, dash her back again with all his force--there, the\ntransformation would be complete, they would stand towards each other\non the natural footing. With an added curse perhaps--Instead of that, he\nchoked, struggled for breath, and shed tears.\n\nAmy turned scornfully away from him. Blows and a curse would have\noverawed her, at all events for the moment; she would have felt: 'Yes,\nhe is a man, and I have put my destiny into his hands.' His tears\nmoved her to a feeling cruelly exultant; they were the sign of her\nsuperiority. It was she who should have wept, and never in her life had\nshe been further from such display of weakness.\n\nThis could not be the end, however, and she had no wish to terminate\nthe scene. They stood for a minute without regarding each other, then\nReardon faced to her.\n\n'You refuse to live with me, then?'\n\n'Yes, if this is the kind of life you offer me.'\n\n'You would be more ashamed to share your husband's misfortunes than to\ndeclare to everyone that you had deserted him?'\n\n'I shall \"declare to everyone\" the simple truth. You have the\nopportunity of making one more effort to save us from degradation. You\nrefuse to take the trouble; you prefer to drag me down into a lower rank\nof life. I can't and won't consent to that. The disgrace is yours; it's\nfortunate for me that I have a decent home to go to.'\n\n'Fortunate for you!--you make yourself unutterably contemptible. I have\ndone nothing that justifies you in leaving me. It is for me to judge\nwhat I can do and what I can't. A good woman would see no degradation in\nwhat I ask of you. But to run away from me just because I am poorer than\nyou ever thought I should be--'\n\nHe was incoherent. A thousand passionate things that he wished to say\nclashed together in his mind and confused his speech. Defeated in\nthe attempt to act like a strong man, he could not yet recover\nstanding-ground, knew not how to tone his utterances.\n\n'Yes, of course, that's how you will put it,' said Amy. 'That's how you\nwill represent me to your friends. My friends will see it in a different\nlight.'\n\n'They will regard you as a martyr?'\n\n'No one shall make a martyr of me, you may be sure. I was unfortunate\nenough to marry a man who had no delicacy, no regard for my feelings.--I\nam not the first woman who has made a mistake of this kind.'\n\n'No delicacy? No regard for your feelings?--Have I always utterly\nmisunderstood you? Or has poverty changed you to a woman I can't\nrecognise?'\n\nHe came nearer, and gazed desperately into her face. Not a muscle of it\nshowed susceptibility to the old influences.\n\n'Do you know, Amy,' he added in a lower voice, 'that if we part now, we\npart for ever?'\n\n'I'm afraid that is only too likely.'\n\nShe moved aside.\n\n'You mean that you wish it. You are weary of me, and care for nothing\nbut how to make yourself free.'\n\n'I shall argue no more. I am tired to death of it.'\n\n'Then say nothing, but listen for the last time to my view of the\nposition we have come to. When I consented to leave you for a time, to\ngo away and try to work in solitude, I was foolish and even insincere,\nboth to you and to myself. I knew that I was undertaking the impossible.\nIt was just putting off the evil day, that was all--putting off the time\nwhen I should have to say plainly: \"I can't live by literature, so I\nmust look out for some other employment.\" I shouldn't have been so weak\nbut that I knew how you would regard such a decision as that. I was\nafraid to tell the truth--afraid. Now, when Carter of a sudden put this\nopportunity before me, I saw all the absurdity of the arrangements we\nhad made. It didn't take me a moment to make up my mind. Anything was\nto be chosen rather than a parting from you on false pretences, a\nridiculous affectation of hope where there was no hope.'\n\nHe paused, and saw that his words had no effect upon her.\n\n'And a grievous share of the fault lies with you, Amy. You remember very\nwell when I first saw how dark the future was. I was driven even to say\nthat we ought to change our mode of living; I asked you if you would be\nwilling to leave this place and go into cheaper rooms. And you know what\nyour answer was. Not a sign in you that you would stand by me if the\nworst came. I knew then what I had to look forward to, but I durst not\nbelieve it. I kept saying to myself: \"She loves me, and as soon as she\nreally understands--\" That was all self-deception. If I had been a wise\nman, I should have spoken to you in a way you couldn't mistake. I should\nhave told you that we were living recklessly, and that I had determined\nto alter it. I have no delicacy? No regard for your feelings? Oh, if\nI had had less! I doubt whether you can even understand some of the\nconsiderations that weighed with me, and made me cowardly--though I once\nthought there was no refinement of sensibility that you couldn't enter\ninto. Yes, I was absurd enough to say to myself: \"It will look as if I\nhad consciously deceived her; she may suffer from the thought that I won\nher at all hazards, knowing that I should soon expose her to poverty and\nall sorts of humiliation.\" Impossible to speak of that again; I had to\nstruggle desperately on, trying to hope. Oh! if you knew--'\n\nHis voice gave way for an instant.\n\n'I don't understand how you could be so thoughtless and heartless. You\nknew that I was almost mad with anxiety at times. Surely, any woman must\nhave had the impulse to give what help was in her power. How could you\nhesitate? Had you no suspicion of what a relief and encouragement it\nwould be to me, if you said: \"Yes, we must go and live in a simpler\nway?\" If only as a proof that you loved me, how I should have welcomed\nthat! You helped me in nothing. You threw all the responsibility upon\nme--always bearing in mind, I suppose, that there was a refuge for you.\nEven now, I despise myself for saying such things of you, though I know\nso bitterly that they are true. It takes a long time to see you as such\na different woman from the one I worshipped. In passion, I can fling out\nviolent words, but they don't yet answer to my actual feeling. It will\nbe long enough yet before I think contemptuously of you. You know that\nwhen a light is suddenly extinguished, the image of it still shows\nbefore your eyes. But at last comes the darkness.'\n\nAmy turned towards him once more.\n\n'Instead of saying all this, you might be proving that I am wrong. Do\nso, and I will gladly confess it.'\n\n'That you are wrong? I don't see your meaning.'\n\n'You might prove that you are willing to do your utmost to save me from\nhumiliation.'\n\n'Amy, I have done my utmost. I have done more than you can imagine.'\n\n'No. You have toiled on in illness and anxiety--I know that. But a\nchance is offered you now of working in a better way. Till that is\ntried, you have no right to give all up and try to drag me down with\nyou.'\n\n'I don't know how to answer. I have told you so often--You can't\nunderstand me!'\n\n'I can! I can!' Her voice trembled for the first time. 'I know that you\nare so ready to give in to difficulties. Listen to me, and do as I bid\nyou.' She spoke in the strangest tone of command.\n\nIt was command, not exhortation, but there was no harshness in her\nvoice. 'Go at once to Mr Carter. Tell him you have made a ludicrous\nmistake--in a fit of low spirits; anything you like to say. Tell him you\nof course couldn't dream of becoming his clerk. To-night; at once! You\nunderstand me, Edwin? Go now, this moment.'\n\n'Have you determined to see how weak I am? Do you wish to be able to\ndespise me more completely still?'\n\n'I am determined to be your friend, and to save you from yourself. Go at\nonce! Leave all the rest to me. If I have let things take their course\ntill now, it shan't be so in future. The responsibility shall be with\nme. Only do as I tell you.'\n\n'You know it's impossible--'\n\n'It is not! I will find money. No one shall be allowed to say that we\nare parting; no one has any such idea yet. You are going away for\nyour health, just three summer months. I have been far more careful of\nappearances than you imagine, but you give me credit for so little. I\nwill find the money you need, until you have written another book. I\npromise; I undertake it. Then I will find another home for us, of the\nproper kind. You shall have no trouble. You shall give yourself entirely\nto intellectual things.\n\nBut Mr Carter must be told at once, before he can spread a report. If he\nhas spoken, he must contradict what he has said.'\n\n'But you amaze me, Amy. Do you mean to say that you look upon it as a\nveritable disgrace, my taking this clerkship?'\n\n'I do. I can't help my nature. I am ashamed through and through that you\nshould sink to this.'\n\n'But everyone knows that I was a clerk once!'\n\n'Very few people know it. And then that isn't the same thing. It\ndoesn't matter what one has been in the past. Especially a literary man;\neveryone expects to hear that he was once poor. But to fall from the\nposition you now have, and to take weekly wages--you surely can't know\nhow people of my world regard that.'\n\n'Of your world? I had thought your world was the same as mine, and knew\nnothing whatever of these imbecilities.'\n\n'It is getting late. Go and see Mr Carter, and afterwards I will talk as\nmuch as you like.'\n\nHe might perhaps have yielded, but the unemphasised contempt in that\nlast sentence was more than he could bear. It demonstrated to him more\ncompletely than set terms could have done what a paltry weakling he\nwould appear in Amy's eyes if he took his hat down from the peg and set\nout to obey her orders.\n\n'You are asking too much,' he said, with unexpected coldness. 'If my\nopinions are so valueless to you that you dismiss them like those of a\ntroublesome child, I wonder you think it worth while to try and keep up\nappearances about me. It is very simple: make known to everyone that you\nare in no way connected with the disgrace I have brought upon myself.\nPut an advertisement in the newspapers to that effect, if you like--as\nmen do about their wives' debts. I have chosen my part. I can't stultify\nmyself to please you.'\n\nShe knew that this was final. His voice had the true ring of shame in\nrevolt.\n\n'Then go your way, and I will go mine!'\n\nAmy left the room.\n\nWhen Reardon went into the bedchamber an hour later, he unfolded a\nchair-bedstead that stood there, threw some rugs upon it, and so lay\ndown to pass the night. He did not close his eyes. Amy slept for an hour\nor two before dawn, and on waking she started up and looked anxiously\nabout the room. But neither spoke.\n\nThere was a pretence of ordinary breakfast; the little servant\nnecessitated that. When she saw her husband preparing to go out, Amy\nasked him to come into the study.\n\n'How long shall you be away?' she asked, curtly.\n\n'It is doubtful. I am going to look for rooms.'\n\n'Then no doubt I shall be gone when you come back. There's no object,\nnow, in my staying here till to-morrow.'\n\n'As you please.'\n\n'Do you wish Lizzie still to come?'\n\n'No. Please to pay her wages and dismiss her. Here is some money.'\n\n'I think you had better let me see to that.'\n\nHe flung the coin on to the table and opened the door. Amy stepped\nquickly forward and closed it again.\n\n'This is our good-bye, is it?' she asked, her eyes on the ground.\n\n'As you wish it--yes.'\n\n'You will remember that I have not wished it.'\n\n'In that case, you have only to go with me to the new home.'\n\n'I can't.'\n\n'Then you have made your choice.'\n\nShe did not prevent his opening the door this time, and he passed out\nwithout looking at her.\n\nHis return was at three in the afternoon. Amy and the child were gone;\nthe servant was gone. The table in the dining-room was spread as if for\none person's meal.\n\nHe went into the bedroom. Amy's trunks had disappeared. The child's cot\nwas covered over. In the study, he saw that the sovereign he had thrown\non to the table still lay in the same place.\n\nAs it was a very cold day he lit a fire. Whilst it burnt up he sat\nreading a torn portion of a newspaper, and became quite interested in\nthe report of a commercial meeting in the City, a thing he would never\nhave glanced at under ordinary circumstances. The fragment fell at\nlength from his hands; his head drooped; he sank into a troubled sleep.\n\nAbout six he had tea, then began the packing of the few books that were\nto go with him, and of such other things as could be enclosed in box\nor portmanteau. After a couple of hours of this occupation he could no\nlonger resist his weariness, so he went to bed. Before falling asleep\nhe heard the two familiar clocks strike eight; this evening they were\nin unusual accord, and the querulous notes from the workhouse sounded\nbetween the deeper ones from St Marylebone. Reardon tried to remember\nwhen he had last observed this; the matter seemed to have a peculiar\ninterest for him, and in dreams he worried himself with a grotesque\nspeculation thence derived.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII. THE OLD HOME\n\nBefore her marriage Mrs Edmund Yule was one of seven motherless sisters\nwho constituted the family of a dentist slenderly provided in the matter\nof income. The pinching and paring which was a chief employment of her\nenergies in those early days had disagreeable effects upon a character\ndisposed rather to generosity than the reverse; during her husband's\nlifetime she had enjoyed rather too eagerly all the good things which he\nput at her command, sometimes forgetting that a wife has duties as\nwell as claims, and in her widowhood she indulged a pretentiousness\nand querulousness which were the natural, but not amiable, results of\nsuddenly restricted circumstances.\n\nLike the majority of London people, she occupied a house of which the\nrent absurdly exceeded the due proportion of her income, a pleasant\nfoible turned to such good account by London landlords. Whereas she\nmight have lived with a good deal of modest comfort, her existence was a\nperpetual effort to conceal the squalid background of what was meant for\nthe eyes of her friends and neighbours. She kept only two servants, who\nwere so ill paid and so relentlessly overworked that it was seldom they\nremained with her for more than three months. In dealings with other\npeople whom she perforce employed, she was often guilty of incredible\nmeanness; as, for instance, when she obliged her half-starved dressmaker\nto purchase material for her, and then postponed payment alike for\nthat and for the work itself to the last possible moment. This was not\nheartlessness in the strict sense of the word; the woman not only knew\nthat her behaviour was shameful, she was in truth ashamed of it and\nsorry for her victims. But life was a battle. She must either crush or\nbe crushed. With sufficient means, she would have defrauded no one, and\nwould have behaved generously to many; with barely enough for her needs,\nshe set her face and defied her feelings, inasmuch as she believed there\nwas no choice.\n\nShe would shed tears over a pitiful story of want, and without shadow of\nhypocrisy. It was hard, it was cruel; such things oughtn't to be allowed\nin a world where there were so many rich people. The next day she would\nargue with her charwoman about halfpence, and end by paying the poor\ncreature what she knew was inadequate and unjust. For the simplest\nreason: she hadn't more to give, without submitting to privations which\nshe considered intolerable.\n\nBut whilst she could be a positive hyena to strangers, to those who were\nakin to her, and those of whom she was fond, her affectionate kindness\nwas remarkable. One observes this peculiarity often enough; it reminds\none how savage the social conflict is, in which those little groups of\npeople stand serried against their common enemies; relentless to all\nothers, among themselves only the more tender and zealous because of\nthe ever-impending danger. No mother was ever more devoted. Her son, a\ngentleman of quite noteworthy selfishness, had board and lodging beneath\nher roof on nominal terms, and under no stress of pecuniary trouble had\nMrs Yule called upon him to make the slightest sacrifice on her behalf.\nHer daughter she loved with profound tenderness, and had no will that\nwas opposed to Amy's. And it was characteristic of her that her children\nwere never allowed to understand of what baseness she often became\nguilty in the determination to support appearances. John Yule naturally\nsuspected what went on behind the scenes; on one occasion--since Amy's\nmarriage--he had involuntarily overheard a dialogue between his mother\nand a servant on the point of departing which made even him feel\nashamed. But from Amy every paltriness and meanness had always been\nconcealed with the utmost care; Mrs Yule did not scruple to lie\nheroically when in danger of being detected by her daughter.\n\nYet this energetic lady had no social ambitions that pointed above her\nown stratum. She did not aim at intimacy with her superiors; merely at\nsuperiority among her intimates. Her circle was not large, but in that\ncircle she must be regarded with the respect due to a woman of refined\ntastes and personal distinction. Her little dinners might be of rare\noccurrence, but to be invited must be felt a privilege. 'Mrs Edmund\nYule' must sound well on people's lips; never be the occasion of those\npeculiar smiles which she herself was rather fond of indulging at the\nmention of other people's names.\n\nThe question of Amy's marriage had been her constant thought from the\ntime when the little girl shot into a woman grown. For Amy no common\nmatch, no acceptance of a husband merely for money or position. Few men\nwho walked the earth were mates for Amy. But years went on, and the man\nof undeniable distinction did not yet present himself. Suitors offered,\nbut Amy smiled coldly at their addresses, in private not seldom\nscornfully, and her mother, though growing anxious, approved. Then of a\nsudden appeared Edwin Reardon.\n\nA literary man? Well, it was one mode of distinction. Happily, a\nnovelist; novelists now and then had considerable social success.\n\nMr Reardon, it was true, did not impress one as a man likely to push\nforward where the battle called for rude vigour, but Amy soon assured\nherself that he would have a reputation far other than that of the\naverage successful storyteller. The best people would regard him; he\nwould be welcomed in the penetralia of culture; superior persons would\nsay: 'Oh, I don't read novels as a rule, but of course Mr Reardon's--'\nIf that really were to be the case, all was well; for Mrs Yule could\nappreciate social and intellectual differences.\n\nAlas! alas! What was the end of those shining anticipations?\n\nFirst of all, Mrs Yule began to make less frequent mention of 'my\nson-in-law, Mr Edwin Reardon.' Next, she never uttered his name save\nwhen inquiries necessitated it. Then, the most intimate of her intimates\nreceived little hints which were not quite easy to interpret.\n'Mr Reardon is growing so very eccentric--has an odd distaste for\nsociety--occupies himself with all sorts of out-of-the-way interests.\nNo, I'm afraid we shan't have another of his novels for some time.\nI think he writes anonymously a good deal. And really, such curious\neccentricities!' Many were the tears she wept after her depressing\ncolloquies with Amy; and, as was to be expected, she thought severely\nof the cause of these sorrows. On the last occasion when he came to\nher house she received him with such extreme civility that Reardon\nthenceforth disliked her, whereas before he had only thought her a\ngood-natured and silly woman.\n\nAlas for Amy's marriage with a man of distinction! From step to step of\ndescent, till here was downright catastrophe. Bitter enough in itself,\nbut most lamentable with reference to the friends of the family. How was\nit to be explained, this return of Amy to her home for several months,\nwhilst her husband was no further away than Worthing? The bald, horrible\ntruth--impossible! Yet Mr Milvain knew it, and the Carters must guess\nit. What colour could be thrown upon such vulgar distress?\n\nThe worst was not yet. It declared itself this May morning, when, quite\nunexpectedly, a cab drove up to the house, bringing Amy and her child,\nand her trunks, and her band-boxes, and her what-nots.\n\nFrom the dining-room window Mrs Yule was aware of this arrival, and in a\nfew moments she learnt the unspeakable cause.\n\nShe burst into tears, genuine as ever woman shed.\n\n'There's no use in that, mother,' said Amy, whose temper was in a\ndangerous state. 'Nothing worse can happen, that's one consolation.'\n\n'Oh, it's disgraceful! disgraceful!' sobbed Mrs Yule. 'What we are to\nsay I can NOT think.'\n\n'I shall say nothing whatever. People can scarcely have the impertinence\nto ask us questions when we have shown that they are unwelcome.'\n\n'But there are some people I can't help giving some explanation to. My\ndear child, he is not in his right mind. I'm convinced of it, there! He\nis not in his right mind.'\n\n'That's nonsense, mother. He is as sane as I am.'\n\n'But you have often said what strange things he says and does; you know\nyou have, Amy. That talking in his sleep; I've thought a great deal of\nit since you told me about that. And--and so many other things. My love,\nI shall give it to be understood that he has become so very odd in his\nways that--'\n\n'I can't have that,' replied Amy with decision. 'Don't you see that in\nthat case I should be behaving very badly?'\n\n'I can't see that at all. There are many reasons, as you know very well,\nwhy one shouldn't live with a husband who is at all suspected of mental\nderangement. You have done your utmost for him. And this would be some\nsort of explanation, you know. I am so convinced that there is truth in\nit, too.'\n\n'Of course I can't prevent you from saying what you like, but I think it\nwould be very wrong to start a rumour of this kind.'\n\nThere was less resolve in this utterance. Amy mused, and looked\nwretched.\n\n'Come up to the drawing-room, dear,' said her mother, for they had held\ntheir conversation in the room nearest to the house-door. 'What a state\nyour mind must be in! Oh dear! Oh dear!'\n\nShe was a slender, well-proportioned woman, still pretty in face, and\ndressed in a way that emphasised her abiding charms. Her voice had\nsomething of plaintiveness, and altogether she was of frailer type than\nher daughter.\n\n'Is my room ready?' Amy inquired on the stairs.\n\n'I'm sorry to say it isn't, dear, as I didn't expect you till tomorrow.\nBut it shall be seen to immediately.'\n\nThis addition to the household was destined to cause grave difficulties\nwith the domestic slaves. But Mrs Yule would prove equal to the\noccasion. On Amy's behalf she would have worked her servants till they\nperished of exhaustion before her eyes.\n\n'Use my room for the present,' she added. 'I think the girl has finished\nup there. But wait here; I'll just go and see to things.'\n\n'Things' were not quite satisfactory, as it proved. You should have\nheard the change that came in that sweetly plaintive voice when it\naddressed the luckless housemaid. It was not brutal; not at all. But\nso sharp, hard, unrelenting--the voice of the goddess Poverty herself\nperhaps sounds like that.\n\nMad? Was he to be spoken of in a low voice, and with finger pointing to\nthe forehead? There was something ridiculous, as well as repugnant, in\nsuch a thought; but it kept possession of Amy's mind. She was brooding\nupon it when her mother came into the drawing-room.\n\n'And he positively refused to carry out the former plan?'\n\n'Refused. Said it was useless.'\n\n'How could it be useless? There's something so unaccountable in his\nbehaviour.'\n\n'I don't think it unaccountable,' replied Amy. 'It's weak and selfish,\nthat's all. He takes the first miserable employment that offers rather\nthan face the hard work of writing another book.'\n\nShe was quite aware that this did not truly represent her husband's\nposition. But an uneasiness of conscience impelled her to harsh speech.\n\n'But just fancy!' exclaimed her mother. 'What can he mean by asking you\nto go and live with him on twenty-five shillings a week? Upon my word.\nif his mind isn't disordered he must have made a deliberate plan to get\nrid of you.'\n\nAmy shook her head.\n\n'You mean,' asked Mrs Yule, 'that he really thinks it possible for all\nof you to be supported on those wages?'\n\nThe last word was chosen to express the utmost scorn.\n\n'He talked of earning fifty pounds a year by writing.'\n\n'Even then it could only make about a hundred a year. My dear child,\nit's one of two things: either he is out of his mind, or he has\npurposely cast you off.'\n\nAmy laughed, thinking of her husband in the light of the latter\nalternative.\n\n'There's no need to seek so far for explanations,' she said. 'He has\nfailed, that's all; just like a man might fail in any other business. He\ncan't write like he used to. It may be all the result of ill-health; I\ndon't know. His last book, you see, is positively refused. He has made\nup his mind that there's nothing but poverty before him, and he can't\nunderstand why I should object to live like the wife of a working-man.'\n\n'Well, I only know that he has placed you in an exceedingly difficult\nposition. If he had gone away to Worthing for the summer we might have\nmade it seem natural; people are always ready to allow literary men to\ndo rather odd things--up to a certain point. We should have behaved as\nif there were nothing that called for explanation. But what are we to do\nnow?'\n\nLike her multitudinous kind, Mrs Yule lived only in the opinions of\nother people. What others would say was her ceaseless preoccupation.\nShe had never conceived of life as something proper to the individual;\nindependence in the directing of one's course seemed to her only\npossible in the case of very eccentric persons, or of such as were\naltogether out of society. Amy had advanced, intellectually, far beyond\nthis standpoint, but lack of courage disabled her from acting upon her\nconvictions.\n\n'People must know the truth, I suppose,' she answered dispiritedly.\n\nNow, confession of the truth was the last thing that would occur to Mrs\nYule when social relations were concerned. Her whole existence was based\non bold denial of actualities. And, as is natural in such persons, she\nhad the ostrich instinct strongly developed; though very acute in\nthe discovery of her friends' shams and lies, she deceived herself\nludicrously in the matter of concealing her own embarrassments.\n\n'But the fact is, my dear,' she answered, 'we don't know the truth\nourselves. You had better let yourself be directed by me. It will be\nbetter, at first, if you see as few people as possible. I suppose you\nmust say something or other to two or three of your own friends; if you\ntake my advice you'll be rather mysterious. Let them think what they\nlike; anything is better than to say plainly. \"My husband can't support\nme, and he has gone to work as a clerk for weekly wages.\" Be mysterious,\ndarling; depend upon it, that's the safest.'\n\nThe conversation was pursued, with brief intervals, all through the\nday. In the afternoon two ladies paid a call, but Amy kept out of\nsight. Between six and seven John Yule returned from his gentlemanly\noccupations. As he was generally in a touchy temper before dinner had\nsoothed him, nothing was said to him of the latest development of his\nsister's affairs until late in the evening; he was allowed to suppose\nthat Reardon's departure for the seaside had taken place a day sooner\nthan had been arranged.\n\nBehind the dining-room was a comfortable little chamber set apart as\nJohn's sanctum; here he smoked and entertained his male friends, and\ncontemplated the portraits of those female ones who would not have been\naltogether at their ease in Mrs Yule's drawing-room. Not long after\ndinner his mother and sister came to talk with him in this retreat.\n\nWith some nervousness Mrs Yule made known to him what had taken place.\nAmy, the while, stood by the table, and glanced over a magazine that she\nhad picked up.\n\n'Well, I see nothing to be surprised at,' was John's first remark. 'It\nwas pretty certain he'd come to this. But what I want to know is, how\nlong are we to be at the expense of supporting Amy and her youngster?'\n\nThis was practical, and just what Mrs Yule had expected from her son.\n\n'We can't consider such things as that,' she replied. 'You don't wish, I\nsuppose, that Amy should go and live in a back street at Islington, and\nbe hungry every other day, and soon have no decent clothes?'\n\n'I don't think Jack would be greatly distressed,' Amy put in quietly.\n\n'This is a woman's way of talking,' replied John. 'I want to know what\nis to be the end of it all? I've no doubt it's uncommonly pleasant for\nReardon to shift his responsibilities on to our shoulders. At this rate\nI think I shall get married, and live beyond my means until I can hold\nout no longer, and then hand my wife over to her relatives, with my\ncompliments. It's about the coolest business that ever came under my\nnotice.'\n\n'But what is to be done?' asked Mrs Yule. 'It's no use talking\nsarcastically, John, or making yourself disagreeable.'\n\n'We are not called upon to find a way out of the difficulty. The fact of\nthe matter is, Reardon must get a decent berth. Somebody or other must\npitch him into the kind of place that suits men who can do nothing in\nparticular. Carter ought to be able to help, I should think.'\n\n'You know very well,' said Amy, 'that places of that kind are not to be\nhad for the asking. It may be years before any such opportunity offers.'\n\n'Confound the fellow! Why the deuce doesn't he go on with his\nnovel-writing? There's plenty of money to be made out of novels.'\n\n'But he can't write, Jack. He has lost his talent.'\n\n'That's all bosh, Amy. If a fellow has once got into the swing of it he\ncan keep it up if he likes. He might write his two novels a year easily\nenough, just like twenty other men and women. Look here, I could do it\nmyself if I weren't too lazy. And that's what's the matter with Reardon.\nHe doesn't care to work.'\n\n'I have thought that myself;' observed Mrs Yule. 'It really is too\nridiculous to say that he couldn't write some kind of novels if he\nchose. Look at Miss Blunt's last book; why, anybody could have written\nthat. I'm sure there isn't a thing in it I couldn't have imagined\nmyself.'\n\n'Well, all I want to know is, what's Amy going to do if things don't\nalter?'\n\n'She shall never want a home as long as I have one to share with her.'\n\nJohn's natural procedure, when beset by difficulties, was to find\nfault with everyone all round, himself maintaining a position of\nirresponsibility.\n\n'It's all very well, mother, but when a girl gets married she takes her\nhusband, I have always understood, for better or worse, just as a man\ntakes his wife. To tell the truth, it seems to me Amy has put herself in\nthe wrong. It's deuced unpleasant to go and live in back streets, and\nto go without dinner now and then, but girls mustn't marry if they're\nafraid to face these things.'\n\n'Don't talk so monstrously, John!' exclaimed his mother. 'How could Amy\npossibly foresee such things? The case is quite an extraordinary one.'\n\n'Not so uncommon, I assure you. Some one was telling me the other day of\na married lady--well educated and blameless--who goes to work at a shop\nsomewhere or other because her husband can't support her.'\n\n'And you wish to see Amy working in a shop?'\n\n'No, I can't say I do. I'm only telling you that her bad luck isn't\nunexampled. It's very fortunate for her that she has good-natured\nrelatives.'\n\nAmy had taken a seat apart. She sat with her head leaning on her hand.\n\n'Why don't you go and see Reardon?' John asked of his mother.\n\n'What would be the use? Perhaps he would tell me to mind my own\nbusiness.'\n\n'By jingo! precisely what you would be doing. I think you ought to see\nhim and give him to understand that he's behaving in a confoundedly\nungentlemanly way. Evidently he's the kind of fellow that wants stirring\nup. I've half a mind to go and see him myself. Where is this slum that\nhe's gone to live in?'\n\n'We don't know his address yet.'\n\n'So long as it's not the kind of place where one would be afraid of\ncatching a fever, I think it wouldn't be amiss for me to look him up.'\n\n'You'll do no good by that,' said Amy, indifferently.\n\n'Confound it! It's just because nobody does anything that things have\ncome to this pass!'\n\nThe conversation was, of course, profitless. John could only return\nagain and again to his assertion that Reardon must get 'a decent berth.'\nAt length Amy left the room in weariness and disgust.\n\n'I suppose they have quarrelled terrifically,' said her brother, as soon\nas she was gone.\n\n'I am afraid so.'\n\n'Well, you must do as you please. But it's confounded hard lines that\nyou should have to keep her and the kid. You know I can't afford to\ncontribute.'\n\n'My dear, I haven't asked you to.'\n\n'No, but you'll have the devil's own job to make ends meet; I know that\nwell enough.'\n\n'I shall manage somehow.'\n\n'All right; you're a plucky woman, but it's too bad. Reardon's a humbug,\nthat's my opinion. I shall have a talk with Carter about him. I suppose\nhe has transferred all their furniture to the slum?'\n\n'He can't have removed yet. It was only this morning that he went to\nsearch for lodgings.'\n\n'Oh, then I tell you what it is: I shall look in there the first thing\nto-morrow morning, and just talk to him in a fatherly way. You needn't\nsay anything to Amy. But I see he's just the kind of fellow that,\nif everyone leaves him alone, he'll be content with Carter's\nfive-and-twenty shillings for the rest of his life, and never trouble\nhis head about how Amy is living.'\n\nTo this proposal Mrs Yule readily assented. On going upstairs she found\nthat Amy had all but fallen asleep upon a settee in the drawing-room.\n\n'You are quite worn out with your troubles,' she said. 'Go to bed, and\nhave a good long sleep.'\n\n'Yes, I will.'\n\nThe neat, fresh bedchamber seemed to Amy a delightful haven of rest. She\nturned the key in the door with an enjoyment of the privacy thus secured\nsuch as she had never known in her life; for in maidenhood safe solitude\nwas a matter of course to her, and since marriage she had not passed a\nnight alone. Willie was fast asleep in a little bed shadowed by her own.\nIn an impulse of maternal love and gladness she bent over the child and\ncovered his face with kisses too gentle to awaken him.\n\nHow clean and sweet everything was! It is often said, by people who are\nexquisitely ignorant of the matter, that cleanliness is a luxury within\nreach even of the poorest. Very far from that; only with the utmost\ndifficulty, with wearisome exertion, with harassing sacrifice, can\npeople who are pinched for money preserve a moderate purity in their\npersons and their surroundings. By painful degrees Amy had accustomed\nherself to compromises in this particular which in the early days of her\nmarried life would have seemed intensely disagreeable, if not revolting.\nA housewife who lives in the country, and has but a patch of back\ngarden, or even a good-sized kitchen, can, if she thinks fit, take her\nplace at the wash-tub and relieve her mind on laundry matters; but to\nthe inhabitant of a miniature flat in the heart of London anything of\nthat kind is out of the question.\n\nWhen Amy began to cut down her laundress's bill, she did it with a\nsense of degradation. One grows accustomed, however, to such unpleasant\nnecessities, and already she had learnt what was the minimum of\nexpenditure for one who is troubled with a lady's instincts.\n\nNo, no; cleanliness is a costly thing, and a troublesome thing when\nappliances and means have to be improvised. It was, in part, the\nunderstanding she had gained of this side of the life of poverty that\nmade Amy shrink in dread from the still narrower lodgings to which\nReardon invited her. She knew how subtly one's self-respect can be\nundermined by sordid conditions. The difference between the life of\nwell-to-do educated people and that of the uneducated poor is not\ngreater in visible details than in the minutiae of privacy, and Amy\nmust have submitted to an extraordinary change before it would have been\npossible for her to live at ease in the circumstances which satisfy a\ndecent working-class woman. She was prepared for final parting from her\nhusband rather than try to effect that change in herself.\n\nShe undressed at leisure, and stretched her limbs in the cold, soft,\nfragrant bed. A sigh of profound relief escaped her. How good it was to\nbe alone!\n\nAnd in a quarter of an hour she was sleeping as peacefully as the child\nwho shared her room.\n\nAt breakfast in the morning she showed a bright, almost a happy face. It\nwas long, long since she had enjoyed such a night's rest, so undisturbed\nwith unwelcome thoughts on the threshold of sleep and on awaking. Her\nlife was perhaps wrecked, but the thought of that did not press upon\nher; for the present she must enjoy her freedom. It was like a recovery\nof girlhood. There are few married women who would not, sooner or later,\naccept with joy the offer of some months of a maidenly liberty. Amy\nwould not allow herself to think that her wedded life was at an end.\nWith a woman's strange faculty of closing her eyes against facts that\ndo not immediately concern her, she tasted the relief of the present and\nlet the future lie unregarded. Reardon would get out of his difficulties\nsooner or later; somebody or other would help him; that was the dim\nbackground of her agreeable sensations.\n\nHe suffered, no doubt. But then it was just as well that he should.\nSuffering would perhaps impel him to effort. When he communicated to her\nhis new address--he could scarcely neglect to do that--she would send a\nnot unfriendly letter, and hint to him that now was his opportunity for\nwriting a book, as good a book as those which formerly issued from his\ngarret-solitude. If he found that literature was in truth a thing of the\npast with him, then he must exert himself to obtain a position worthy of\nan educated man. Yes, in this way she would write to him, without a word\nthat could hurt or offend.\n\nShe ate an excellent breakfast, and made known her enjoyment of it.\n\n'I am so glad!' replied her mother. 'You have been getting quite thin\nand pale.'\n\n'Quite consumptive,' remarked John, looking up from his newspaper.\n'Shall I make arrangements for a daily landau at the livery stables\nround here?'\n\n'You can if you like,' replied his sister; 'it would do both mother and\nme good, and I have no doubt you could afford it quite well.'\n\n'Oh, indeed! You're a remarkable young woman, let me tell you.\nBy-the-bye, I suppose your husband is breakfasting on bread and water?'\n\n'I hope not, and I don't think it very likely.'\n\n'Jack, Jack!' interposed Mrs Yule, softly.\n\nHer son resumed his paper, and at the end of the meal rose with an\nunwonted briskness to make his preparations for departure.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX. THE PAST REVIVED\n\nNor would it be true to represent Edwin Reardon as rising to the new day\nwholly disconsolate. He too had slept unusually well, and with returning\nconsciousness the sense of a burden removed was more instant than that\nof his loss and all the dreary circumstances attaching to it. He had no\nlonger to fear the effects upon Amy of such a grievous change as from\ntheir homelike flat to the couple of rooms he had taken in Islington;\nfor the moment, this relief helped him to bear the pain of all that had\nhappened and the uneasiness which troubled him when he reflected that\nhis wife was henceforth a charge to her mother.\n\nOf course for the moment only. He had no sooner begun to move about, to\nprepare his breakfast (amid the relics of last evening's meal), to think\nof all the detestable work he had to do before to-morrow night, than his\nheart sank again. His position was well-nigh as dolorous as that of any\nman who awoke that morning to the brutal realities of life. If only for\nthe shame of it! How must they be speaking of him, Amy's relatives,\nand her friends? A novelist who couldn't write novels; a husband\nwho couldn't support his wife and child; a literate who made eager\napplication for illiterate work at paltry wages--how interesting it\nwould all sound in humorous gossip! And what hope had he that things\nwould ever be better with him?\n\nHad he done well? Had he done wisely? Would it not have been better to\nhave made that one last effort? There came before him a vision of quiet\nnooks beneath the Sussex cliffs, of the long lines of green breakers\nbursting into foam; he heard the wave-music, and tasted the briny\nfreshness of the sea-breeze. Inspiration, after all, would perchance\nhave come to him.\n\nIf Amy's love had but been of more enduring quality; if she had\nstrengthened him for this last endeavour with the brave tenderness of\nan ideal wife! But he had seen such hateful things in her eyes. Her love\nwas dead, and she regarded him as the man who had spoilt her hopes of\nhappiness. It was only for her own sake that she urged him to strive on;\nlet his be the toil, that hers might be the advantage if he succeeded.\n\n'She would be glad if I were dead. She would be glad.'\n\nHe had the conviction of it. Oh yes, she would shed tears; they come so\neasily to women. But to have him dead and out of her way; to be saved\nfrom her anomalous position; to see once more a chance in life; she\nwould welcome it.\n\nBut there was no time for brooding. To-day he had to sell all the things\nthat were superfluous, and to make arrangements for the removal of his\neffects to-morrow. By Wednesday night, in accordance with his agreement,\nthe flat must be free for the new occupier.\n\nHe had taken only two rooms, and fortunately as things were. Three would\nhave cost more than he was likely to be able to afford for a long time.\nThe rent of the two was to be six-and-sixpence; and how, if Amy had\nconsented to come, could he have met the expenses of their living out\nof his weekly twenty-five shillings? How could he have pretended to do\nliterary work in such cramped quarters, he who had never been able to\nwrite a line save in strict seclusion? In his despair he had faced the\nimpossible. Amy had shown more wisdom, though in a spirit of unkindness.\n\nTowards ten o'clock he was leaving the flat to go and find people who\nwould purchase his books and old clothing and other superfluities; but\nbefore he could close the door behind him, an approaching step on\nthe stairs caught his attention. He saw the shining silk hat of a\nwell-equipped gentleman. It was John Yule.\n\n'Ha! Good-morning!' John exclaimed, looking up. 'A minute or two and I\nshould have been too late, I see.'\n\nHe spoke in quite a friendly way, and, on reaching the landing, shook\nhands.\n\n'Are you obliged to go at once? Or could I have a word with you?'\n\n'Come in.'\n\nThey entered the study, which was in some disorder; Reardon made no\nreference to circumstances, but offered a chair, and seated himself.\n\n'Have a cigarette?' said Yule, holding out a box of them.\n\n'No, thank you; I don't smoke so early.'\n\n'Then I'll light one myself; it always makes talk easier to me. You're\non the point of moving, I suppose?'\n\n'Yes, I am.'\n\nReardon tried to speak in quite a simple way, with no admission of\nembarrassment. He was not successful, and to his visitor the tone seemed\nrather offensive.\n\n'I suppose you'll let Amy know your new address?'\n\n'Certainly. Why should I conceal it?'\n\n'No, no; I didn't mean to suggest that. But you might be taking it for\ngranted that--that the rupture was final, I thought.'\n\nThere had never been any intimacy between these two men. Reardon\nregarded his wife's brother as rather snobbish and disagreeably selfish;\nJohn Yule looked upon the novelist as a prig, and now of late as\na shuffling, untrustworthy fellow. It appeared to John that his\nbrother-in-law was assuming a manner wholly unjustifiable, and he had a\ndifficulty in behaving to him with courtesy. Reardon, on the other hand,\nfelt injured by the turn his visitor's remarks were taking, and began to\nresent the visit altogether.\n\n'I take nothing for granted,' he said coldly. 'But I'm afraid nothing is\nto be gained by a discussion of our difficulties. The time for that is\nover.\n\n'I can't quite see that. It seems to me that the time has just come.'\n\n'Please tell me, to begin with, do you come on Amy's behalf?'\n\n'In a way, yes. She hasn't sent me, but my mother and I are so\nastonished at what is happening that it was necessary for one or other\nof us to see you.'\n\n'I think it is all between Amy and myself.'\n\n'Difficulties between husband and wife are generally best left to\nthe people themselves, I know. But the fact is, there are peculiar\ncircumstances in the present case. It can't be necessary for me to\nexplain further.'\n\nReardon could find no suitable words of reply. He understood what Yule\nreferred to, and began to feel the full extent of his humiliation.\n\n'You mean, of course--' he began; but his tongue failed him.\n\n'Well, we should really like to know how long it is proposed that Amy\nshall remain with her mother.'\n\nJohn was perfectly self-possessed; it took much to disturb his\nequanimity. He smoked his cigarette, which was in an amber mouthpiece,\nand seemed to enjoy its flavour. Reardon found himself observing the\nperfection of the young man's boots and trousers.\n\n'That depends entirely on my wife herself;' he replied mechanically.\n\n'How so?'\n\n'I offer her the best home I can.'\n\nReardon felt himself a poor, pitiful creature, and hated the\nwell-dressed man who made him feel so.\n\n'But really, Reardon,' began the other, uncrossing and recrossing his\nlegs, 'do you tell me in seriousness that you expect Amy to live in such\nlodgings as you can afford on a pound a week?'\n\n'I don't. I said that I had offered her the best home I could. I know\nit's impossible, of course.'\n\nEither he must speak thus, or break into senseless wrath. It was hard to\nhold back the angry words that were on his lips, but he succeeded, and\nhe was glad he had done so.\n\n'Then it doesn't depend on Amy,' said John.\n\n'I suppose not.'\n\n'You see no reason, then, why she shouldn't live as at present for an\nindefinite time?'\n\nTo John, whose perspicacity was not remarkable, Reardon's changed\ntone conveyed simply an impression of bland impudence. He eyed his\nbrother-in-law rather haughtily.\n\n'I can only say,' returned the other, who was become wearily\nindifferent, 'that as soon as I can afford a decent home I shall give my\nwife the opportunity of returning to me.'\n\n'But, pray, when is that likely to be?'\n\nJohn had passed the bounds; his manner was too frankly contemptuous.\n\n'I see no right you have to examine me in this fashion,' Reardon\nexclaimed. 'With Mrs Yule I should have done my best to be patient if\nshe had asked these questions; but you are not justified in putting\nthem, at all events not in this way.'\n\n'I'm very sorry you speak like this, Reardon,' said the other, with calm\ninsolence. 'It confirms unpleasant ideas, you know.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'Why, one can't help thinking that you are rather too much at your ease\nunder the circumstances. It isn't exactly an everyday thing, you know,\nfor a man's wife to be sent back to her own people--'\n\nReardon could not endure the sound of these words. He interrupted hotly.\n\n'I can't discuss it with you. You are utterly unable to comprehend me\nand my position, utterly! It would be useless to defend myself. You must\ntake whatever view seems to you the natural one.'\n\nJohn, having finished his cigarette, rose.\n\n'The natural view is an uncommonly disagreeable one,' he said. 'However,\nI have no intention of quarrelling with you. I'll only just say that,\nas I take a share in the expenses of my mother's house, this question\ndecidedly concerns me; and I'll add that I think it ought to concern you\na good deal more than it seems to.'\n\nReardon, ashamed already of his violence, paused upon these remarks.\n\n'It shall,' he uttered at length, coldly. 'You have put it clearly\nenough to me, and you shan't have spoken in vain. Is there anything else\nyou wish to say?'\n\n'Thank you; I think not.'\n\nThey parted with distant civility, and Reardon closed the door behind\nhis visitor.\n\nHe knew that his character was seen through a distorting medium by Amy's\nrelatives, to some extent by Amy herself; but hitherto the reflection\nthat this must always be the case when a man of his kind is judged by\npeople of the world had strengthened him in defiance. An endeavour\nto explain himself would be maddeningly hopeless; even Amy did not\nunderstand aright the troubles through which his intellectual and moral\nnature was passing, and to speak of such experiences to Mrs Yule or to\nJohn would be equivalent to addressing them in alien tongues; he and\nthey had no common criterion by reference to which he could make\nhimself intelligible. The practical tone in which John had explained the\nopposing view of the situation made it impossible for him to proceed as\nhe had purposed. Amy would never come to him in his poor lodgings; her\nmother, her brother, all her advisers would regard such a thing as out\nof the question. Very well; recognising this, he must also recognise his\nwife's claim upon him for material support. It was not in his power to\nsupply her with means sufficient to live upon, but what he could afford\nshe should have.\n\nWhen he went out, it was with a different purpose from that of half\nan hour ago. After a short search in the direction of Edgware Road, he\nfound a dealer in second-hand furniture, whom he requested to come as\nsoon as possible to the flat on a matter of business. An hour later the\nman kept his appointment. Having brought him into the study, Reardon\nsaid:\n\n'I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions that I'll\npoint out to you'.\n\n'Very good, sir,' was the reply. 'Let's have a look through the rooms.'\n\nThat the price offered would be strictly a minimum Reardon knew well\nenough. The dealer was a rough and rather dirty fellow, with the\ndistrustful glance which distinguishes his class. Men of Reardon's type,\nwhen hapless enough to be forced into vulgar commerce, are doubly at a\ndisadvantage; not only their ignorance, but their sensitiveness, makes\nthem ready victims of even the least subtle man of business. To deal\non equal terms with a person you must be able to assert with calm\nconfidence that you are not to be cheated; Reardon was too well aware\nthat he would certainly be cheated, and shrank scornfully from the\nhiggling of the market. Moreover, he was in a half-frenzied state of\nmind, and cared for little but to be done with the hateful details of\nthis process of ruin.\n\nHe pencilled a list of the articles he must retain for his own use; it\nwould of course be cheaper to take a bare room than furnished\nlodgings, and every penny he could save was of importance to him. The\nchair-bedstead, with necessary linen and blankets, a table, two chairs,\na looking-glass--strictly the indispensable things; no need to complete\nthe list. Then there were a few valuable wedding-presents, which\nbelonged rather to Amy than to him; these he would get packed and send\nto Westbourne Park.\n\nThe dealer made his calculation, with many side-glances at the vendor.\n\n'And what may you ask for the lot?'\n\n'Please to make an offer.'\n\n'Most of the things has had a good deal of wear--'\n\n'I know, I know. Just let me hear what you will give.'\n\n'Well, if you want a valuation, I say eighteen pound ten.'\n\nIt was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a man who\nunderstood such affairs would have obtained.\n\n'That's the most you can give?'\n\n'Wouldn't pay me to give a sixpence more. You see--'\n\nHe began to point out defects, but Reardon cut him short.\n\n'Can you take them away at once?'\n\n'At wunst? Would two o'clock do?'\n\n'Yes, it would.'\n\n'And might you want these other things takin' anywheres?'\n\n'Yes, but not till to-morrow. They have to go to Islington. What would\nyou do it for?'\n\nThis bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way. Thereupon\nReardon set to work to dispose of his books; by half-past one he had\nsold them for a couple of guineas. At two came the cart that was to take\naway the furniture, and at four o'clock nothing remained in the flat\nsave what had to be removed on the morrow.\n\nThe next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a week's rent\nfor the two rooms he had taken, and find a single room at the lowest\npossible cost. On the way, he entered an eating-house and satisfied his\nhunger, for he had had nothing since breakfast. It took him a couple of\nhours to discover the ideal garret; it was found at length in a narrow\nlittle by-way running out of Upper Street. The rent was half-a-crown a\nweek.\n\nAt seven o'clock he sat down in what once was called his study, and\nwrote the following letter:\n\n'Enclosed in this envelope you will find twenty pounds. I have been\nreminded that your relatives will be at the expense of your support;\nit seemed best to me to sell the furniture, and now I send you all\nthe money I can spare at present. You will receive to-morrow a box\ncontaining several things I did not feel justified in selling. As soon\nas I begin to have my payment from Carter, half of it shall be sent\nto you every week. My address is: 5 Manville Street, Upper Street,\nIslington.--EDWIN REARDON.'\n\nHe enclosed the money, in notes and gold, and addressed the envelope to\nhis wife. She must receive it this very night, and he knew not how to\nensure that save by delivering it himself. So he went to Westbourne Park\nby train, and walked to Mrs Yule's house.\n\nAt this hour the family were probably at dinner; yes, the window of the\ndining-room showed lights within, whilst those of the drawing-room were\nin shadow. After a little hesitation he rang the servants' bell. When\nthe door opened, he handed his letter to the girl, and requested that it\nmight be given to Mrs Reardon as soon as possible. With one more hasty\nglance at the window--Amy was perhaps enjoying her unwonted comfort--he\nwalked quickly away.\n\nAs he re-entered what had been his home, its bareness made his heart\nsink. An hour or two had sufficed for this devastation; nothing remained\nupon the uncarpeted floors but the needments he would carry with him\ninto the wilderness, such few evidences of civilisation as the poorest\ncannot well dispense with. Anger, revolt, a sense of outraged love--all\nmanner of confused passions had sustained him throughout this day of\ntoil; now he had leisure to know how faint he was. He threw himself upon\nhis chair-bedstead, and lay for more than an hour in torpor of body and\nmind.\n\nBut before he could sleep he must eat. Though it was cold, he could\nnot exert himself to light a fire; there was some food still in the\ncupboard, and he consumed it in the fashion of a tired labourer, with\nthe plate on his lap, using his fingers and a knife. What had he to do\nwith delicacies?\n\nHe felt utterly alone in the world. Unless it were Biffen, what mortal\nwould give him kindly welcome under any roof? These stripped rooms\nwere symbolical of his life; losing money, he had lost everything. 'Be\nthankful that you exist, that these morsels of food are still granted\nyou. Man has a right to nothing in this world that he cannot pay for.\nDid you imagine that love was an exception? Foolish idealist! Love is\none of the first things to be frightened away by poverty. Go and live\nupon your twelve-and-sixpence a week, and on your memories of the past.'\n\nIn this room he had sat with Amy on their return from the wedding\nholiday. 'Shall you always love me as you do now?'--'For ever! for\never!'--'Even if I disappointed you? If I failed?'--'How could that\naffect my love?' The voices seemed to be lingering still, in a sad,\nfaint echo, so short a time it was since those words were uttered.\n\nHis own fault. A man has no business to fail; least of all can he expect\nothers to have time to look back upon him or pity him if he sink under\nthe stress of conflict. Those behind will trample over his body; they\ncan't help it; they themselves are borne onwards by resistless pressure.\n\nHe slept for a few hours, then lay watching the light of dawn as it\nrevealed his desolation.\n\nThe morning's post brought him a large heavy envelope, the aspect of\nwhich for a moment puzzled him. But he recognised the handwriting, and\nunderstood. The editor of The Wayside, in a pleasantly-written note,\nbegged to return the paper on Pliny's Letters which had recently\nbeen submitted to him; he was sorry it did not strike him as quite so\ninteresting as the other contributions from Reardon's pen.\n\nThis was a trifle. For the first time he received a rejected piece of\nwriting without distress; he even laughed at the artistic completeness\nof the situation. The money would have been welcome, but on that very\naccount he might have known it would not come.\n\nThe cart that was to transfer his property to the room in Islington\narrived about mid-day. By that time he had dismissed the last details of\nbusiness in relation to the flat, and was free to go back to the obscure\nworld whence he had risen. He felt that for two years and a half he had\nbeen a pretender. It was not natural to him to live in the manner of\npeople who enjoy an assured income; he belonged to the class of casual\nwage-earners. Back to obscurity!\n\nCarrying a bag which contained a few things best kept in his own care,\nhe went by train to King's Cross, and thence walked up Pentonville\nHill to Upper Street and his own little by-way. Manville Street was not\nunreasonably squalid; the house in which he had found a home was not\nalarming in its appearance, and the woman who kept it had an honest\nface. Amy would have shrunk in apprehension, but to one who had\nexperience of London garrets this was a rather favourable specimen of\nits kind. The door closed more satisfactorily than poor Biffen's, for\ninstance, and there were not many of those knot-holes in the floor which\ngave admission to piercing little draughts; not a pane of the window\nwas cracked, not one. A man might live here comfortably--could memory be\ndestroyed.\n\n'There's a letter come for you,' said the landlady as she admitted him.\n'You'll find it on your mantel.'\n\nHe ascended hastily. The letter must be from Amy, as no one else knew\nhis address. Yes, and its contents were these:\n\n'As you have really sold the furniture, I shall accept half this money\nthat you send. I must buy clothing for myself and Willie. But the other\nten pounds I shall return to you as soon as possible. As for your\noffer of half what you are to receive from Mr Carter, that seems to me\nridiculous; in any case, I cannot take it. If you seriously abandon\nall further hope from literature, I think it is your duty to make every\neffort to obtain a position suitable to a man of your education.--AMY\nREARDON.'\n\nDoubtless Amy thought it was her duty to write in this way. Not a word\nof sympathy; he must understand that no one was to blame but himself;\nand that her hardships were equal to his own.\n\nIn the bag he had brought with him there were writing materials.\nStanding at the mantelpiece, he forthwith penned a reply to this letter:\n\n'The money is for your support, as far as it will go. If it comes back\nto me I shall send it again. If you refuse to make use of it, you\nwill have the kindness to put it aside and consider it as belonging\nto Willie. The other money of which I spoke will be sent to you once a\nmonth. As our concerns are no longer between us alone, I must protect\nmyself against anyone who would be likely to accuse me of not giving you\nwhat I could afford. For your advice I thank you, but remember that in\nwithdrawing from me your affection you have lost all right to offer me\ncounsel.'\n\nHe went out and posted this at once.\n\nBy three o'clock the furniture of his room was arranged. He had not kept\na carpet; that was luxury, and beyond his due. His score of volumes must\nrank upon the mantelpiece; his clothing must be kept in the trunk. Cups,\nplates, knives, forks, and spoons would lie in the little open cupboard,\nthe lowest section of which was for his supply of coals. When everything\nwas in order he drew water from a tap on the landing and washed himself;\nthen, with his bag, went out to make purchases. A loaf of bread, butter,\nsugar, condensed milk; a remnant of tea he had brought with him. On\nreturning, he lit as small a fire as possible, put on his kettle, and\nsat down to meditate.\n\nHow familiar it all was to him! And not unpleasant, for it brought\nback the days when he had worked to such good purpose. It was like a\nrestoration of youth.\n\nOf Amy he would not think. Knowing his bitter misery, she could write\nto him in cold, hard words, without a touch even of womanly feeling. If\never they were to meet again, the advance must be from her side. He had\nno more tenderness for her until she strove to revive it.\n\nNext morning he called at the hospital to see Carter. The secretary's\npeculiar look and smile seemed to betray a knowledge of what had been\ngoing on since Sunday, and his first words confirmed this impression of\nReardon's.\n\n'You have removed, I hear?'\n\n'Yes; I had better give you my new address.'\n\nReardon's tone was meant to signify that further remark on the subject\nwould be unwelcome. Musingly, Carter made a note of the address.\n\n'You still wish to go on with this affair?'\n\n'Certainly.'\n\n'Come and have some lunch with me, then, and afterwards we'll go to the\nCity Road and talk things over on the spot.'\n\nThe vivacious young man was not quite so genial as of wont, but he\nevidently strove to show that the renewal of their relations as employer\nand clerk would make no difference in the friendly intercourse which\nhad since been established; the invitation to lunch evidently had this\npurpose.\n\n'I suppose,' said Carter, when they were seated in a restaurant, 'you\nwouldn't object to anything better, if a chance turned up?'\n\n'I should take it, to be sure.'\n\n'But you don't want a job that would occupy all your time? You're going\non with writing, of course?'\n\n'Not for the present, I think.'\n\n'Then you would like me to keep a look-out? I haven't anything in\nview--nothing whatever. But one hears of things sometimes.'\n\n'I should be obliged to you if you could help me to anything\nsatisfactory.'\n\nHaving brought himself to this admission, Reardon felt more at ease. To\nwhat purpose should he keep up transparent pretences? It was manifestly\nhis duty to earn as much money as he could, in whatever way. Let the\nman of letters be forgotten; he was seeking for remunerative employment,\njust as if he had never written a line.\n\nAmy did not return the ten pounds, and did not write again. So,\npresumably, she would accept the moiety of his earnings; he was glad\nof it. After paying half-a-crown for rent, there would be left ten\nshillings. Something like three pounds that still remained to him he\nwould not reckon; this must be for casualties.\n\nHalf-a-sovereign was enough for his needs; in the old times he had\ncounted it a competency which put his mind quite at rest.\n\nThe day came, and he entered upon his duties in City Road. It needed but\nan hour or two, and all the intervening time was cancelled; he was\nback once more in the days of no reputation, a harmless clerk, a decent\nwage-earner.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. THE END OF WAITING\n\nIt was more than a fortnight after Reardon's removal to Islington when\nJasper Milvain heard for the first time of what had happened. He was\ncoming down from the office of the Will-o'-the-Wisp one afternoon,\nafter a talk with the editor concerning a paragraph in his last week's\ncauserie which had been complained of as libellous, and which would\nprobably lead to the 'case' so much desired by everyone connected with\nthe paper, when someone descending from a higher storey of the building\novertook him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw\nWhelpdale.\n\n'What brings you on these premises?' he asked, as they shook hands.\n\n'A man I know has just been made sub-editor of Chat, upstairs. He has\nhalf promised to let me do a column of answers to correspondents.'\n\n'Cosmetics? Fashions? Cookery?'\n\n'I'm not so versatile as all that, unfortunately. No, the general\ninformation column. \"Will you be so good as to inform me, through the\nmedium of your invaluable paper, what was the exact area devastated\nby the Great Fire of London?\"--that kind of thing, you know.\nHopburn--that's the fellow's name--tells me that his predecessor always\ncalled the paper Chat-moss, because of the frightful difficulty he had\nin filling it up each week. By-the-bye, what a capital column that is of\nyours in Will-o'-the-Wisp. I know nothing like it in English journalism;\nupon my word I don't!'\n\n'Glad you like it. Some people are less fervent in their admiration.'\n\nJasper recounted the affair which had just been under discussion in the\noffice.\n\n'It may cost a couple of thousands, but the advertisement is worth that,\nPatwin thinks. Barlow is delighted; he wouldn't mind paying double the\nmoney to make those people a laughing-stock for a week or two.'\n\nThey issued into the street, and walked on together; Milvain, with\nhis keen eye and critical smile, unmistakably the modern young man who\ncultivates the art of success; his companion of a less pronounced type,\nbut distinguished by a certain subtlety of countenance, a blending of\nthe sentimental and the shrewd.\n\n'Of course you know all about the Reardons?' said Whelpdale.\n\n'Haven't seen or heard of them lately. What is it?'\n\n'Then you don't know that they have parted?'\n\n'Parted?'\n\n'I only heard about it last night; Biffen told me. Reardon is doing\nclerk's work at a hospital somewhere in the East-end, and his wife has\ngone to live at her mother's house.'\n\n'Ho, ho!' exclaimed Jasper, thoughtfully. 'Then the crash has come. Of\ncourse I knew it must be impending. I'm sorry for Reardon.'\n\n'I'm sorry for his wife.'\n\n'Trust you for thinking of women first, Whelpdale.'\n\n'It's in an honourable way, my dear fellow. I'm a slave to women, true,\nbut all in an honourable way. After that last adventure of mine most\nmen would be savage and cynical, wouldn't they, now? I'm nothing of the\nkind. I think no worse of women--not a bit. I reverence them as much as\never. There must be a good deal of magnanimity in me, don't you think?'\n\nJasper laughed unrestrainedly.\n\n'But it's the simple truth,' pursued the other. 'You should have\nseen the letter I wrote to that girl at Birmingham--all charity and\nforgiveness. I meant it, every word of it. I shouldn't talk to everyone\nlike this, you know; but it's as well to show a friend one's best\nqualities now and then.'\n\n'Is Reardon still living at the old place?'\n\n'No, no. They sold up everything and let the flat. He's in lodgings\nsomewhere or other. I'm not quite intimate enough with him to go and see\nhim under the circumstances. But I'm surprised you know nothing about\nit.'\n\n'I haven't seen much of them this year. Reardon--well, I'm afraid he\nhasn't very much of the virtue you claim for yourself. It rather annoys\nhim to see me going ahead.'\n\n'Really? His character never struck me in that way.'\n\n'You haven't come enough in contact with him. At all events, I can't\nexplain his change of manner in any other way. But I'm sorry for him;\nI am, indeed. At a hospital? I suppose Carter has given him the old job\nagain?'\n\n'Don't know. Biffen doesn't talk very freely about it; there's a good\ndeal of delicacy in Biffen, you know. A thoroughly good-hearted fellow.\nAnd so is Reardon, I believe, though no doubt he has his weaknesses.'\n\n'Oh, an excellent fellow! But weakness isn't the word. Why, I foresaw\nall this from the very beginning. The first hour's talk I ever had\nwith him was enough to convince me that he'd never hold his own. But he\nreally believed that the future was clear before him; he imagined he'd\ngo on getting more and more for his books. An extraordinary thing that\nthat girl had such faith in him!'\n\nThey parted soon after this, and Milvain went homeward, musing upon what\nhe had heard. It was his purpose to spend the whole evening on some\nwork which pressed for completion, but he found an unusual difficulty\nin settling to it. About eight o'clock he gave up the effort, arrayed\nhimself in the costume of black and white, and journeyed to Westbourne\nPark, where his destination was the house of Mrs Edmund Yule. Of the\nservant who opened to him he inquired if Mrs Yule was at home, and\nreceived an answer in the affirmative.\n\n'Any company with her?'\n\n'A lady--Mrs Carter.'\n\n'Then please to give my name, and ask if Mrs Yule can see me.'\n\nHe was speedily conducted to the drawing-room, where he found the lady\nof the house, her son, and Mrs Carter. For Mrs Reardon his eye sought in\nvain.\n\n'I'm so glad you have come,' said Mrs Yule, in a confidential tone. 'I\nhave been wishing to see you. Of course, you know of our sad trouble?'\n\n'I have heard of it only to-day.'\n\n'From Mr Reardon himself?'\n\n'No; I haven't seen him.'\n\n'I do wish you had! We should have been so anxious to know how he\nimpressed you.'\n\n'How he impressed me?'\n\n'My mother has got hold of the notion,' put in John Yule, 'that he's not\nexactly compos mentis. I'll admit that he went on in a queer sort of way\nthe last time I saw him.'\n\n'And my husband thinks he is rather strange,' remarked Mrs Carter.\n\n'He has gone back to the hospital, I understand--'\n\n'To a new branch that has just been opened in the City Road,' replied\nMrs Yule. 'And he's living in a dreadful place--one of the most shocking\nalleys in the worst part of Islington. I should have gone to see him,\nbut I really feel afraid; they give me such an account of the place.\nAnd everyone agrees that he has such a very wild look, and speaks so\nstrangely.'\n\n'Between ourselves,' said John, 'there's no use in exaggerating. He's\nliving in a vile hole, that's true, and Carter says he looks miserably\nill, but of course he may be as sane as we are.\n\nJasper listened to all this with no small astonishment.\n\n'And Mrs Reardon?' he asked.\n\n'I'm sorry to say she is far from well,' replied Mrs Yule. 'To-day she\nhas been obliged to keep her room. You can imagine what a shock it has\nbeen to her. It came with such extraordinary suddenness. Without a word\nof warning, her husband announced that he had taken a clerkship and was\ngoing to remove immediately to the East-end. Fancy! And this when he had\nalready arranged, as you know, to go to the South Coast and write his\nnext book under the influences of the sea air. He was anything but well;\nwe all knew that, and we had all joined in advising him to spend the\nsummer at the seaside. It seemed better that he should go alone; Mrs\nReardon would, of course, have gone down for a few days now and then.\nAnd at a moment's notice everything is changed, and in such a dreadful\nway! I cannot believe that this is the behaviour of a sane man!'\n\nJasper understood that an explanation of the matter might have been\ngiven in much more homely terms; it was natural that Mrs Yule\nshould leave out of sight the sufficient, but ignoble, cause of her\nson-in-law's behaviour.\n\n'You see in what a painful position we are placed,' continued the\neuphemistic lady. 'It is so terrible even to hint that Mr Reardon is not\nresponsible for his actions, yet how are we to explain to our friends\nthis extraordinary state of things?'\n\n'My husband is afraid Mr Reardon may fall seriously ill,' said Mrs\nCarter. 'And how dreadful! In such a place as that!'\n\n'It would be so kind of you to go and see him, Mr Milvain,' urged Mrs\nYule. 'We should be so glad to hear what you think.'\n\n'Certainly, I will go,' replied Jasper. 'Will you give me his address?'\n\nHe remained for an hour, and before his departure the subject was\ndiscussed with rather more frankness than at first; even the word\n'money' was once or twice heard.\n\n'Mr Carter has very kindly promised,' said Mrs Yule, 'to do his best to\nhear of some position that would be suitable. It seems a most shocking\nthing that a successful author should abandon his career in this\ndeliberate way; who could have imagined anything of the kind two\nyears ago? But it is clearly quite impossible for him to go on as\nat present--if there is really no reason for believing his mind\ndisordered.'\n\nA cab was summoned for Mrs Carter, and she took her leave, suppressing\nher native cheerfulness to the tone of the occasion. A minute or two\nafter, Milvain left the house.\n\nHe had walked perhaps twenty yards, almost to the end of the silent\nstreet in which his friends' house was situated, when a man came round\nthe corner and approached him. At once he recognised the figure, and in\na moment he was face to face with Reardon. Both stopped. Jasper held out\nhis hand, but the other did not seem to notice it.\n\n'You are coming from Mrs Yule's?' said Reardon, with a strange smile.\n\nBy the gaslight his face showed pale and sunken, and he met Jasper's\nlook with fixedness.\n\n'Yes, I am. The fact is, I went there to hear of your address. Why\nhaven't you let me know about all this?'\n\n'You went to the flat?'\n\n'No, I was told about you by Whelpdale.'\n\nReardon turned in the direction whence he had come, and began to walk\nslowly; Jasper kept beside him.\n\n'I'm afraid there's something amiss between us, Reardon,' said the\nlatter, just glancing at his companion.\n\n'There's something amiss between me and everyone,' was the reply, in an\nunnatural voice.\n\n'You look at things too gloomily. Am I detaining you, by-the-bye? You\nwere going--'\n\n'Nowhere.'\n\n'Then come to my rooms, and let us see if we can't talk more in the old\nway.'\n\n'Your old way of talk isn't much to my taste, Milvain. It has cost me\ntoo much.'Jasper gazed at him. Was there some foundation for Mrs Yule's\nseeming extravagance? This reply sounded so meaningless, and so unlike\nReardon's manner of speech, that the younger man experienced a sudden\nalarm.\n\n'Cost you too much? I don't understand you.'\n\nThey had turned into a broader thoroughfare, which, however, was little\nfrequented at this hour. Reardon, his hands thrust into the pockets of\na shabby overcoat and his head bent forward, went on at a slow pace,\nobservant of nothing. For a moment or two he delayed reply, then said in\nan unsteady voice:\n\n'Your way of talking has always been to glorify success, to insist upon\nit as the one end a man ought to keep in view. If you had talked so to\nme alone, it wouldn't have mattered. But there was generally someone\nelse present. Your words had their effect; I can see that now. It's very\nmuch owing to you that I am deserted, now that there's no hope of my\never succeeding.'\n\nJasper's first impulse was to meet this accusation with indignant\ndenial, but a sense of compassion prevailed. It was so painful to see\nthe defeated man wandering at night near the house where his wife\nand child were comfortably sheltered; and the tone in which he spoke\nrevealed such profound misery.\n\n'That's a most astonishing thing to say,' Jasper replied. 'Of course I\nknow nothing of what has passed between you and your wife, but I feel\ncertain that I have no more to do with what has happened than any other\nof your acquaintances.'\n\n'You may feel as certain as you will, but your words and your example\nhave influenced my wife against me. You didn't intend that; I don't\nsuppose it for a moment. It's my misfortune, that's all.'\n\n'That I intended nothing of the kind, you need hardly say, I should\nthink. But you are deceiving yourself in the strangest way. I'm afraid\nto speak plainly; I'm afraid of offending you. But can you recall\nsomething that I said about the time of your marriage? You didn't like\nit then, and certainly it won't be pleasant to you to remember it now.\nIf you mean that your wife has grown unkind to you because you are\nunfortunate, there's no need to examine into other people's influence\nfor an explanation of that.'\n\nReardon turned his face towards the speaker.\n\n'Then you have always regarded my wife as a woman likely to fail me in\ntime of need?'\n\n'I don't care to answer a question put in that way. If we are no longer\nto talk with the old friendliness, it's far better we shouldn't discuss\nthings such as this.'\n\n'Well, practically you have answered. Of course I remember those words\nof yours that you refer to. Whether you were right or wrong doesn't\naffect what I say.'\n\nHe spoke with a dull doggedness, as though mental fatigue did not allow\nhim to say more.\n\n'It's impossible to argue against such a charge,' said Milvain. 'I am\nconvinced it isn't true, and that's all I can answer. But perhaps you\nthink this extraordinary influence of mine is still being used against\nyou?'\n\n'I know nothing about it,' Reardon replied, in the same unmodulated\nvoice.\n\n'Well, as I have told you, this was my first visit to Mrs Yule's since\nyour wife has been there, and I didn't see her; she isn't very well,\nand keeps her room. I'm glad it happened so--that I didn't meet her.\nHenceforth I shall keep away from the family altogether, so long, at all\nevents, as your wife remains with them. Of course I shan't tell anyone\nwhy; that would be impossible. But you shan't have to fear that I am\ndecrying you. By Jove! an amiable figure you make of me!'\n\n'I have said what I didn't wish to say, and what I oughtn't to have\nsaid. You must misunderstand me; I can't help it.'\n\nReardon had been walking for hours, and was, in truth, exhausted.\n\nHe became mute. Jasper, whose misrepresentation was wilful, though not\nmaliciously so, also fell into silence; he did not believe that his\nconversations with Amy had seriously affected the course of events,\nbut he knew that he had often said things to her in private which\nwould scarcely have fallen from his lips if her husband had been\npresent--little depreciatory phrases, wrong rather in tone than in\nterms, which came of his irresistible desire to assume superiority\nwhenever it was possible. He, too, was weak, but with quite another\nkind of weakness than Reardon's. His was the weakness of vanity, which\nsometimes leads a man to commit treacheries of which he would believe\nhimself incapable. Self-accused, he took refuge in the pretence of\nmisconception, which again was a betrayal of littleness.\n\nThey drew near to Westbourne Park station.\n\n'You are living a long way from here,' Jasper said, coldly. 'Are you\ngoing by train?'\n\n'No. You said my wife was ill?'\n\n'Oh, not ill. At least, I didn't understand that it was anything\nserious. Why don't you walk back to the house?'\n\n'I must judge of my own affairs.'\n\n'True; I beg your pardon. I take the train here, so I'll say\ngood-night.'\n\nThey nodded to each other, but did not shake hands.\n\nA day or two later, Milvain wrote to Mrs Yule, and told her that he\nhad seen Reardon; he did not describe the circumstances under which the\ninterview had taken place, but gave it as his opinion that Reardon\nwas in a state of nervous illness, and made by suffering quite unlike\nhimself. That he might be on the way to positive mental disease seemed\nlikely enough. 'Unhappily, I myself can be of no use to him; he has\nnot the same friendly feeling for me as he used to have. But it is\nvery certain that those of his friends who have the power should exert\nthemselves to raise him out of this fearful slough of despond. If he\nisn't effectually helped, there's no saying what may happen. One thing\nis certain, I think: he is past helping himself. Sane literary work\ncannot be expected from him. It seems a monstrous thing that so good a\nfellow, and one with such excellent brains too, should perish by the\nway when influential people would have no difficulty in restoring him to\nhealth and usefulness.'\n\nAll the months of summer went by. Jasper kept his word, and never\nvisited Mrs Yule's house; but once in July he met that lady at the\nCarters', and heard then, what he knew from other sources, that the\nposition of things was unchanged. In August, Mrs Yule spent a fortnight\nat the seaside, and Amy accompanied her. Milvain and his sisters\naccepted an invitation to visit friends at Wattleborough, and were out\nof town about three weeks, the last ten days being passed in the Isle of\nWight; it was an extravagant holiday, but Dora had been ailing, and her\nbrother declared that they would all work better for the change. Alfred\nYule, with his wife and daughter, rusticated somewhere in Kent. Dora and\nMarian exchanged letters, and here is a passage from one written by the\nformer:\n\n'Jasper has shown himself in an unusually amiable light since we left\ntown. I looked forward to this holiday with some misgivings, as I know\nby experience that it doesn't do for him and us to be too much together;\nhe gets tired of our company, and then his selfishness--believe me, he\nhas a good deal of it--comes out in a way we don't appreciate. But I\nhave never known him so forbearing. To me he is particularly kind, on\naccount of my headaches and general shakiness. It isn't impossible that\nthis young man, if all goes well with him, may turn out far better than\nMaud and I ever expected. But things will have to go very well, if the\nimprovement is to be permanent. I only hope he may make a lot of money\nbefore long. If this sounds rather gross to you, I can only say that\nJasper's moral nature will never be safe as long as he is exposed to\nthe risks of poverty. There are such people, you know. As a poor man, I\nwouldn't trust him out of my sight; with money, he will be a tolerable\ncreature--as men go.'\n\nDora, no doubt, had her reasons for writing in this strain. She would\nnot have made such remarks in conversation with her friend, but took the\nopportunity of being at a distance to communicate them in writing.\n\nOn their return, the two girls made good progress with the book they\nwere manufacturing for Messrs Jolly and Monk, and early in October it\nwas finished. Dora was now writing little things for The English Girl,\nand Maud had begun to review an occasional novel for an illustrated\npaper. In spite of their poor lodgings, they had been brought into\nsocial relations with Mrs Boston Wright and a few of her friends; their\nposition was understood, and in accepting invitations they had no fear\nlest unwelcome people should pounce down upon them in their shabby\nlittle sitting-room. The younger sister cared little for society such\nas Jasper procured them; with Marian Yule for a companion she would have\nbeen quite content to spend her evenings at home. But Maud relished the\nintroduction to strangers. She was admired, and knew it. Prudence\ncould not restrain her from buying a handsomer dress than those she had\nbrought from her country home, and it irked her sorely that she might\nnot reconstruct all her equipment to rival the appearance of well-to-do\ngirls whom she studied and envied. Her disadvantages, for the present,\nwere insuperable. She had no one to chaperon her; she could not form\nintimacies because of her poverty. A rare invitation to luncheon, a\npermission to call at the sacred hour of small-talk--this was all she\ncould hope for.\n\n'I advise you to possess your soul in patience,' Jasper said to her,\nas they talked one day on the sea-shore. 'You are not to blame that you\nlive without conventional protection, but it necessitates your being\nvery careful. These people you are getting to know are not rigid about\nsocial observances, and they won't exactly despise you for poverty; all\nthe same, their charity mustn't be tested too severely. Be very quiet\nfor the present; let it be seen that you understand that your position\nisn't quite regular--I mean, of course, do so in a modest and nice\nway. As soon as ever it's possible, we'll arrange for you to live with\nsomeone who will preserve appearances. All this is contemptible,\nof course; but we belong to a contemptible society, and can't help\nourselves. For Heaven's sake, don't spoil your chances by rashness; be\ncontent to wait a little, till some more money comes in.'\n\nMidway in October, about half-past eight one evening, Jasper received\nan unexpected visit from Dora. He was in his sitting-room, smoking and\nreading a novel.\n\n'Anything wrong?' he asked, as his sister entered.\n\n'No; but I'm alone this evening, and I thought I would see if you were\nin.\n\n'Where's Maud, then?'\n\n'She went to see the Lanes this afternoon, and Mrs Lane invited her\nto go to the Gaiety to-night; she said a friend whom she had invited\ncouldn't come, and the ticket would be wasted. Maud went back to dine\nwith them. She'll come home in a cab.'\n\n'Why is Mrs Lane so affectionate all at once? Take your things off; I\nhave nothing to do.'\n\n'Miss Radway was going as well.'\n\n'Who's Miss Radway?'\n\n'Don't you know her? She's staying with the Lanes. Maud says she writes\nfor The West End.'\n\n'And will that fellow Lane be with them?'\n\n'I think not.'\n\nJasper mused, contemplating the bowl of his pipe.\n\n'I suppose she was in rare excitement?'\n\n'Pretty well. She has wanted to go to the Gaiety for a long time.\nThere's no harm, is there?'\n\nDora asked the question with that absent air which girls are wont to\nassume when they touch on doubtful subjects.\n\n'Harm, no. Idiocy and lively music, that's all. It's too late, or I'd\nhave taken you, for the joke of the thing. Confound it! she ought to\nhave better dresses.'\n\n'Oh, she looked very nice, in that best.'\n\n'Pooh! But I don't care for her to be running about with the Lanes. Lane\nis too big a blackguard; it reflects upon his wife to a certain extent.'\n\nThey gossiped for half an hour, then a tap at the door interrupted them;\nit was the landlady.\n\n'Mr Whelpdale has called to see you, sir. I mentioned as Miss Milvain\nwas here, so he said he wouldn't come up unless you sent to ask him.'\n\nJasper smiled at Dora, and said in a low voice.\n\n'What do you say? Shall he come up? He can behave himself.'\n\n'Just as you please, Jasper.'\n\n'Ask him to come up, Mrs Thompson, please.'\n\nMr Whelpdale presented himself. He entered with much more ceremony than\nwhen Milvain was alone; on his visage was a grave respectfulness, his\nstep was light, his whole bearing expressed diffidence and pleasurable\nanticipation.\n\n'My younger sister, Whelpdale,' said Jasper, with subdued amusement.\n\nThe dealer in literary advice made a bow which did him no discredit, and\nbegan to speak in a low, reverential tone not at all disagreeable to the\near. His breeding, in truth, had been that of a gentleman, and it was\nonly of late years that he had fallen into the hungry region of New Grub\nStreet.\n\n'How's the \"Manual\" going off?' Milvain inquired.\n\n'Excellently! We have sold nearly six hundred.'\n\n'My sister is one of your readers. I believe she has studied the book\nwith much conscientiousness.'\n\n'Really? You have really read it, Miss Milvain?'\n\nDora assured him that she had, and his delight knew no bounds.\n\n'It isn't all rubbish, by any means,' said Jasper, graciously. 'In the\nchapter on writing for magazines, there are one or two very good hints.\nWhat a pity you can't apply your own advice, Whelpdale!'\n\n'Now that's horribly unkind of you!' protested the other. 'You might\nhave spared me this evening. But unfortunately it's quite true, Miss\nMilvain. I point the way, but I haven't been able to travel it myself.\nYou mustn't think I have never succeeded in getting things published;\nbut I can't keep it up as a profession.\n\nYour brother is the successful man. A marvellous facility! I envy him.\nFew men at present writing have such talent.'\n\n'Please don't make him more conceited than he naturally is,' interposed\nDora.\n\n'What news of Biffen?' asked Jasper, presently.\n\n'He says he shall finish \"Mr Bailey, Grocer,\" in about a month. He read\nme one of the later chapters the other night. It's really very fine;\nmost remarkable writing, it seems to me. It will be scandalous if he\ncan't get it published; it will, indeed.'\n\n'I do hope he may!' said Dora, laughing. 'I have heard so much of \"Mr\nBailey,\" that it will be a great disappointment if I am never to read\nit.'\n\n'I'm afraid it would give you very little pleasure,' Whelpdale replied,\nhesitatingly. 'The matter is so very gross.'\n\n'And the hero grocer!' shouted Jasper, mirthfully. 'Oh, but it's quite\ndecent; only rather depressing. The decently ignoble--or, the ignobly\ndecent? Which is Biffen's formula? I saw him a week ago, and he looked\nhungrier than ever.'\n\n'Ah, but poor Reardon! I passed him at King's Cross not long ago.\n\nHe didn't see me--walks with his eyes on the ground always--and I hadn't\nthe courage to stop him. He's the ghost of his old self He can't live\nlong.'\n\nDora and her brother exchanged a glance. It was a long time since Jasper\nhad spoken to his sisters about the Reardons; nowadays he seldom heard\neither of husband or wife.\n\nThe conversation that went on was so agreeable to Whelpdale, that he\nlost consciousness of time. It was past eleven o'clock when Jasper felt\nobliged to remind him.\n\n'Dora, I think I must be taking you home.'\n\nThe visitor at once made ready for departure, and his leave-taking was\nas respectful as his entrance had been. Though he might not say what\nhe thought, there was very legible upon his countenance a hope that he\nwould again be privileged to meet Miss Dora Milvain.\n\n'Not a bad fellow, in his way,' said Jasper, when Dora and he were alone\nagain.\n\n'Not at all.'\n\nShe had heard the story of Whelpdale's hapless wooing half a year ago,\nand her recollection of it explained the smile with which she spoke.\n\n'Never get on, I'm afraid,' Jasper pursued. 'He has his allowance of\ntwenty pounds a year, and makes perhaps fifty or sixty more. If I were\nin his position, I should go in for some kind of regular business; he\nhas people who could help him. Good-natured fellow; but what's the use\nof that if you've no money?'\n\nThey set out together, and walked to the girls' lodgings. Dora was about\nto use her latch-key, but Jasper checked her. 'No. There's a light in\nthe kitchen still; better knock, as we're so late.'\n\n'But why?'\n\n'Never mind; do as I tell you.'\n\nThe landlady admitted them, and Jasper spoke a word or two with her,\nexplaining that he would wait until his elder sister's return; the\ndarkness of the second-floor windows had shown that Maud was not yet\nback.\n\n'What strange fancies you have!' remarked Dora, when they were upstairs.\n\n'So have people in general, unfortunately.'\n\nA letter lay on the table. It was addressed to Maud, and Dora recognised\nthe handwriting as that of a Wattleborough friend.\n\n'There must be some news here,' she said. 'Mrs Haynes wouldn't write\nunless she had something special to say.\n\nJust upon midnight, a cab drew up before the house. Dora ran down to\nopen the door to her sister, who came in with very bright eyes and more\ncolour than usual on her cheeks.\n\n'How late for you to be here!' she exclaimed, on entering the\nsitting-room and seeing Jasper.\n\n'I shouldn't have felt comfortable till I knew that you were back all\nright.'\n\n'What fear was there?'\n\nShe threw off her wraps, laughing.\n\n'Well, have you enjoyed yourself?'\n\n'Oh yes!' she replied, carelessly. 'This letter for me? What has Mrs\nHaynes got to say, I wonder?'\n\nShe opened the envelope, and began to glance hurriedly over the sheet of\npaper. Then her face changed.\n\n'What do you think? Mr Yule is dead!'\n\nDora uttered an exclamation; Jasper displayed the keenest interest.\n\n'He died yesterday--no, it would be the day before yesterday. He had a\nfit of some kind at a public meeting, was taken to the hospital because\nit was nearest, and died in a few hours. So that has come, at last! Now\nwhat'll be the result of it, I wonder?'\n\n'When shall you be seeing Marian?' asked her brother.\n\n'She might come to-morrow evening.'\n\n'But won't she go to the funeral?' suggested Dora.\n\n'Perhaps; there's no saying. I suppose her father will, at all events.\nThe day before yesterday? Then the funeral will be on Saturday, I should\nthink.'\n\n'Ought I to write to Marian?' asked Dora.\n\n'No; I wouldn't,' was Jasper's reply. 'Better wait till she lets you\nhear. That's sure to be soon. She may have gone to Wattleborough this\nafternoon, or be going to-morrow morning.'\n\nThe letter from Mrs Haynes was passed from hand to hand. 'Everybody\nfeels sure,' it said, 'that a great deal of his money will be left for\npublic purposes. The ground for the park being already purchased, he is\nsure to have made provision for carrying out his plans connected with\nit. But I hope your friends in London may benefit.'\n\nIt was some time before Jasper could put an end to the speculative\nconversation and betake himself homewards. And even on getting back to\nhis lodgings he was little disposed to go to bed. This event of John\nYule's death had been constantly in his mind, but there was always a\nfear that it might not happen for long enough; the sudden announcement\nexcited him almost as much as if he were a relative of the deceased.\n\n'Confound his public purposes!' was the thought upon which he at length\nslept.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI. MR YULE LEAVES TOWN\n\nSince the domestic incidents connected with that unpleasant review in\nThe Current, the relations between Alfred Yule and his daughter had\nsuffered a permanent change, though not in a degree noticeable by any\none but the two concerned. To all appearances, they worked together and\nconversed very much as they had been wont to do; but Marian was made\nto feel in many subtle ways that her father no longer had complete\nconfidence in her, no longer took the same pleasure as formerly in the\nskill and conscientiousness of her work, and Yule on his side perceived\ntoo clearly that the girl was preoccupied with something other than\nher old wish to aid and satisfy him, that she had a new life of her own\nalien to, and in some respects irreconcilable with, the existence\nin which he desired to confirm her. There was no renewal of open\ndisagreement, but their conversations frequently ended by tacit mutual\nconsent, at a point which threatened divergence; and in Yule's case\nevery such warning was a cause of intense irritation. He feared to\nprovoke Marian, and this fear was again a torture to his pride.\n\nBeyond the fact that his daughter was in constant communication with\nthe Miss Milvains, he knew, and could discover, nothing of the terms on\nwhich she stood with the girls' brother, and this ignorance was harder\nto bear than full assurance of a disagreeable fact would have been. That\na man like Jasper Milvain, whose name was every now and then forced\nupon his notice as a rising periodicalist and a faithful henchman of\nthe unspeakable Fadge--that a young fellow of such excellent prospects\nshould seriously attach himself to a girl like Marian seemed to him\nhighly improbable, save, indeed, for the one consideration, that\nMilvain, who assuredly had a very keen eye to chances, might regard the\ngirl as a niece of old John Yule, and therefore worth holding in view\nuntil it was decided whether or not she would benefit by her uncle's\ndecease. Fixed in his antipathy to the young man, he would not allow\nhimself to admit any but a base motive on Milvain's side, if, indeed,\nMarian and Jasper were more to each other than slight acquaintances; and\nhe persuaded himself that anxiety for the girl's welfare was at least\nas strong a motive with him as mere prejudice against the ally of Fadge,\nand, it might be, the reviewer of 'English Prose.' Milvain was quite\ncapable of playing fast and loose with a girl, and Marian, owing to the\npeculiar circumstances of her position, would easily be misled by the\npretence of a clever speculator.\n\nThat she had never spoken again about the review in The Current might\nreceive several explanations. Perhaps she had not been able to convince\nherself either for or against Milvain's authorship; perhaps she had\nreason to suspect that the young man was the author; perhaps she merely\nshrank from reviving a discussion in which she might betray what she\ndesired to keep secret. This last was the truth. Finding that her father\ndid not recur to the subject, Marian concluded that he had found himself\nto be misinformed. But Yule, though he heard the original rumour denied\nby people whom in other matters he would have trusted, would not lay\naside the doubt that flattered his prejudices. If Milvain were not the\nwriter of the review, he very well might have been; and what certainty\ncould be arrived at in matters of literary gossip?\n\nThere was an element of jealousy in the father's feeling. If he did not\nlove Marian with all the warmth of which a parent is capable, at least\nhe had more affection for her than for any other person, and of this he\nbecame strongly aware now that the girl seemed to be turning from him.\nIf he lost Marian, he would indeed be a lonely man, for he considered\nhis wife of no account.\n\nIntellectually again, he demanded an entire allegiance from his\ndaughter; he could not bear to think that her zeal on his behalf was\ndiminishing, that perhaps she was beginning to regard his work as futile\nand antiquated in comparison with that of the new generation. Yet this\nmust needs be the result of frequent intercourse with such a man as\nMilvain. It seemed to him that he remarked it in her speech and manner,\nand at times he with difficulty restrained himself from a reproach or a\nsarcasm which would have led to trouble.\n\nHad he been in the habit of dealing harshly with Marian, as with her\nmother, of course his position would have been simpler. But he had\nalways respected her, and he feared to lose that measure of respect with\nwhich she repaid him. Already he had suffered in her esteem, perhaps\nmore than he liked to think, and the increasing embitterment of his\ntemper kept him always in danger of the conflict he dreaded. Marian was\nnot like her mother; she could not submit to tyrannous usage. Warned\nof that, he did his utmost to avoid an outbreak of discord, constantly\nhoping that he might come to understand his daughter's position, and\nperhaps discover that his greatest fear was unfounded.\n\nTwice in the course of the summer he inquired of his wife whether she\nknew anything about the Milvains. But Mrs Yule was not in Marian's\nconfidence.\n\n'I only know that she goes to see the young ladies, and that they do\nwriting of some kind.'\n\n'She never even mentions their brother to you?'\n\n'Never. I haven't heard his name from her since she told me the Miss\nMilvains weren't coming here again.'\n\nHe was not sorry that Marian had taken the decision to keep her friends\naway from St Paul's Crescent, for it saved him a recurring annoyance;\nbut, on the other hand, if they had continued to come, he would not\nhave been thus completely in the dark as to her intercourse with Jasper;\nscraps of information must now and then have been gathered by his wife\nfrom the girls' talk.\n\nThroughout the month of July he suffered much from his wonted bilious\nattacks, and Mrs Yule had to endure a double share of his ill-temper,\nthat which was naturally directed against her, and that of which Marian\nwas the cause. In August things were slightly better; but with the\nreturn to labour came a renewal of Yule's sullenness and savageness.\nSundry pieces of ill-luck of a professional kind--warnings, as he too\nwell understood, that it was growing more and more difficult for him\nto hold his own against the new writers--exasperated his quarrel with\ndestiny. The gloom of a cold and stormy September was doubly wretched\nin that house on the far borders of Camden Town, but in October the sun\nreappeared and it seemed to mollify the literary man's mood. Just when\nMrs Yule and Marian began to hope that this long distemper must surely\ncome to an end, there befell an incident which, at the best of times,\nwould have occasioned misery, and which in the present juncture proved\ndisastrous.\n\nIt was one morning about eleven. Yule was in his study; Marian was at\nthe Museum; Mrs Yule had gone shopping. There came a sharp knock at\nthe front door, and the servant, on opening, was confronted with a\ndecently-dressed woman, who asked in a peremptory voice if Mrs Yule was\nat home.\n\n'No? Then is Mr Yule?'\n\n'Yes, mum, but I'm afraid he's busy.'\n\n'I don't care, I must see him. Say that Mrs Goby wants to see him at\nonce.'\n\nThe servant, not without apprehensions, delivered this message at the\ndoor of the study.\n\n'Mrs Goby? Who is Mrs Goby?' exclaimed the man of letters, irate at the\ndisturbance.\n\nThere sounded an answer out of the passage, for the visitor had followed\nclose.\n\n'I am Mrs Goby, of the 'Olloway Road, wife of Mr C. O. Goby,\n'aberdasher. I just want to speak to you, Mr Yule, if you please, seeing\nthat Mrs Yule isn't in.'\n\nYule started up in fury, and stared at the woman, to whom the servant\nhad reluctantly given place.\n\n'What business can you have with me? If you wish to see Mrs Yule, come\nagain when she is at home.'\n\n'No, Mr Yule, I will not come again!' cried the woman, red in the face.\n'I thought I might have had respectable treatment here, at all events;\nbut I see you're pretty much like your relations in the way of behaving\nto people, though you do wear better clothes, and--I s'pose--call\nyourself a gentleman. I won't come again, and you shall just hear what\nI've got to say.\n\nShe closed the door violently, and stood in an attitude of robust\ndefiance.\n\n'What's all this about?' asked the enraged author, overcoming an impulse\nto take Mrs Goby by the shoulders and throw her out--though he might\nhave found some difficulty in achieving this feat. 'Who are you? And why\ndo you come here with your brawling?'\n\n'I'm the respectable wife of a respectable man--that's who I am, Mr\nYule, if you want to know. And I always thought Mrs Yule was the same,\nfrom the dealings we've had with her at the shop, though not knowing any\nmore of her, it's true, except that she lived in St Paul's Crezzent.\nAnd so she may be respectable, though I can't say as her husband behaves\nhimself very much like what he pretends to be. But I can't say as much\nfor her relations in Perker Street, 'Olloway, which I s'pose they're\nyour relations as well, at least by marriage. And if they think they're\ngoing to insult me, and use their blackguard tongues--'\n\n'What are you talking about?' shouted Yule, who was driven to frenzy by\nthe mention of his wife's humble family. 'What have I to do with these\npeople?'\n\n'What have you to do with them? I s'pose they're your relations, ain't\nthey? And I s'pose the girl Annie Rudd is your niece, ain't she? At\nleast, she's your wife's niece, and that comes to the same thing, I've\nalways understood, though I dare say a gentleman as has so many books\nabout him can correct me if I've made a mistake.'\n\nShe looked scornfully, though also with some surprise, round the volumed\nwalls.\n\n'And what of this girl? Will you have the goodness to say what your\nbusiness is?'\n\n'Yes, I will have the goodness! I s'pose you know very well that I took\nyour niece Annie Rudd as a domestic servant'--she repeated this precise\ndefinition--'as a domestic servant, because Mrs Yule 'appened to 'arst\nme if I knew of a place for a girl of that kind, as hadn't been out\nbefore, but could be trusted to do her best to give satisfaction to a\ngood mistress? I s'pose you know that?'\n\n'I know nothing of the kind. What have I to do with servants?'\n\n'Well, whether you've much to do with them or little, that's how it\nwas. And nicely she's paid me out, has your niece, Miss Rudd. Of all the\ntrouble I ever had with a girl! And now when she's run away back 'ome,\nand when I take the trouble to go arfter her, I'm to be insulted and\nabused as never was! Oh, they're a nice respectable family, those Rudds!\nMrs Rudd--that's Mrs Yule's sister--what a nice, polite-spoken lady she\nis, to be sure? If I was to repeat the language--but there, I wouldn't\nlower myself. And I've been a brute of a mistress; I ill-use my\nservants, and I don't give 'em enough to eat, and I pay 'em worse than\nany woman in London! That's what I've learnt about myself by going to\nPerker Street, 'Olloway. And when I come here to ask Mrs Yule what she\nmeans by recommending such a creature, from such a 'ome, I get insulted\nby her gentleman husband.'\n\nYule was livid with rage, but the extremity of his scorn withheld him\nfrom utterance of what he felt.\n\n'As I said, all this has nothing to do with me. I will let Mrs Yule know\nthat you have called. I have no more time to spare.'\n\nMrs Goby repeated at still greater length the details of her grievance,\nbut long before she had finished Yule was sitting again at his desk in\nostentatious disregard of her. Finally, the exasperated woman flung open\nthe door, railed in a loud voice along the passage, and left the house\nwith an alarming crash.\n\nIt was not long before Mrs Yule returned. Before taking off her things,\nshe went down into the kitchen with certain purchases, and there she\nlearnt from the servant what had happened during her absence. Fear and\ntrembling possessed her--the sick, faint dread always excited by her\nhusband's wrath--but she felt obliged to go at once to the study. The\nscene that took place there was one of ignoble violence on Yule's part,\nand, on that of his wife, of terrified self-accusation, changing at\nlength to dolorous resentment of the harshness with which she was\ntreated. When it was over, Yule took his hat and went out.\n\nHe did not return for the mid-day meal, and when Marian, late in the\nafternoon, came back from the Museum, he was still absent.\n\nNot finding her mother in the parlour, Marian called at the head of the\nkitchen stairs. The servant answered, saying that Mrs Yule was up in\nher bedroom, and that she didn't seem well. Marian at once went up and\nknocked at the bedroom door. In a moment or two her mother came out,\nshowing a face of tearful misery.\n\n'What is it, mother? What's the matter?'\n\nThey went into Marian's room, where Mrs Yule gave free utterance to her\nlamentations.\n\n'I can't put up with it, Marian! Your father is too hard with me.\n\nI was wrong, I dare say, and I might have known what would have come of\nit, but he couldn't speak to me worse if I did him all the harm I could\non purpose. It's all about Annie, because I found a place for her at Mrs\nGoby's in the 'Olloway Road; and now Mrs Goby's been here and seen your\nfather, and told him she's been insulted by the Rudds, because Annie\nwent off home, and she went after her to make inquiries. And your\nfather's in such a passion about it as never was. That woman Mrs Goby\nrushed into the study when he was working; it was this morning, when I\nhappened to be out. And she throws all the blame on me for recommending\nher such a girl. And I did it for the best, that I did! Annie promised\nme faithfully she'd behave well, and never give me trouble, and she\nseemed thankful to me, because she wasn't happy at home. And now to\nthink of her causing all this disturbance! I oughtn't to have done\nsuch a thing without speaking about it to your father; but you know how\nafraid I am to say a word to him about those people. And my sister's\ntold me so often I ought to be ashamed of myself never helping her and\nher children; she thinks I could do such a lot if I only liked. And now\nthat I did try to do something, see what comes of it!'\n\nMarian listened with a confusion of wretched feelings. But her\nsympathies were strongly with her mother; as well as she could\nunderstand the broken story, her father seemed to have no just cause\nfor his pitiless rage, though such an occasion would be likely enough to\nbring out his worst faults.\n\n'Is he in the study?' she asked.\n\n'No, he went out at twelve o'clock, and he's never been back since. I\nfeel as if I must do something; I can't bear with it, Marian. He tells\nme I'm the curse of his life--yes, he said that. I oughtn't to tell you,\nI know I oughtn't; but it's more than I can bear. I've always tried to\ndo my best, but it gets harder and harder for me. But for me he'd\nnever be in these bad tempers; it's because he can't look at me without\ngetting angry. He says I've kept him back all through his life; but for\nme he might have been far better off than he is. It may be true; I've\noften enough thought it. But I can't bear to have it told me like that,\nand to see it in his face every time he looks at me. I shall have to do\nsomething. He'd be glad if only I was out of his way.'\n\n'Father has no right to make you so unhappy,' said Marian. 'I can't see\nthat you did anything blameworthy; it seems to me that it was your duty\nto try and help Annie, and if it turned out unfortunately, that can't be\nhelped. You oughtn't to think so much of what father says in his anger;\nI believe he hardly knows what he does say. Don't take it so much to\nheart, mother.'\n\n'I've tried my best, Marian,' sobbed the poor woman, who felt that even\nher child's sympathy could not be perfect, owing to the distance put\nbetween them by Marian's education and refined sensibilities. 'I've\nalways thought it wasn't right to talk to you about such things, but\nhe's been too hard with me to-day.'\n\n'I think it was better you should tell me. It can't go on like this; I\nfeel that just as you do. I must tell father that he is making our lives\na burden to us.'\n\n'Oh, you mustn't speak to him like that, Marian! I wouldn't for anything\nmake unkindness between you and your father; that would be the worst\nthing I'd done yet. I'd rather go away and work for my own living than\nmake trouble between you and him.'\n\n'It isn't you who make trouble; it's father. I ought to have spoken\nto him before this; I had no right to stand by and see how much you\nsuffered from his ill-temper.'\n\nThe longer they talked, the firmer grew Marian's resolve to front her\nfather's tyrannous ill-humour, and in one way or another to change the\nintolerable state of things. She had been weak to hold her peace so\nlong; at her age it was a simple duty to interfere when her mother\nwas treated with such flagrant injustice. Her father's behaviour was\nunworthy of a thinking man, and he must be made to feel that.\n\nYule did not return. Dinner was delayed for half an hour, then Marian\ndeclared that they would wait no longer. They two made a sorry meal, and\nafterwards went together into the sitting-room. At eight o'clock they\nheard the front door open, and Yule's footstep in the passage. Marian\nrose.\n\n'Don't speak till to-morrow!' whispered her mother, catching at the\ngirl's arm. 'Let it be till to-morrow, Marian!'\n\n'I must speak! We can't live in this terror.'\n\nShe reached the study just as her father was closing the door behind\nhim. Yule, seeing her enter, glared with bloodshot eyes; shame and\nsullen anger were blended on his countenance.\n\n'Will you tell me what is wrong, father?' Marian asked, in a voice which\nbetrayed her nervous suffering, yet indicated the resolve with which she\nhad come.\n\n'I am not at all disposed to talk of the matter,' he replied, with the\nawkward rotundity of phrase which distinguished him in his worst humour.\n'For information you had better go to Mrs Goby--or a person of some such\nname--in Holloway Road. I have nothing more to do with it.'\n\n'It was very unfortunate that the woman came and troubled you about\nsuch things. But I can't see that mother was to blame; I don't think you\nought to be so angry with her.'\n\nIt cost Marian a terrible effort to address her father in these terms.\nWhen he turned fiercely upon her, she shrank back and felt as if\nstrength must fail her even to stand.\n\n'You can't see that she was to blame? Isn't it entirely against my wish\nthat she keeps up any intercourse with those low people? Am I to be\nexposed to insulting disturbance in my very study, because she chooses\nto introduce girls of bad character as servants to vulgar women?'\n\n'I don't think Annie Rudd can be called a girl of bad character, and\nit was very natural that mother should try to do something for her. You\nhave never actually forbidden her to see her relatives.'\n\n'A thousand times I have given her to understand that I utterly\ndisapproved of such association. She knew perfectly well that this girl\nwas as likely as not to discredit her. If she had consulted me, I should\nat once have forbidden anything of the kind; she was aware of that. She\nkept it secret from me, knowing that it would excite my displeasure. I\nwill not be drawn into such squalid affairs; I won't have my name spoken\nin such connection. Your mother has only herself to blame if I am angry\nwith her.'\n\n'Your anger goes beyond all bounds. At the very worst, mother behaved\nimprudently, and with a very good motive. It is cruel that you should\nmake her suffer as she is doing.'\n\nMarian was being strengthened to resist. Her blood grew hot; the\nsensation which once before had brought her to the verge of conflict\nwith her father possessed her heart and brain.\n\n'You are not a suitable judge of my behaviour,' replied Yule, severely.\n\n'I am driven to speak. We can't go on living in this way, father. For\nmonths our home has been almost ceaselessly wretched, because of the\nill-temper you are always in. Mother and I must defend ourselves; we\ncan't bear it any longer. You must surely feel how ridiculous it is to\nmake such a thing as happened this morning the excuse for violent anger.\nHow can I help judging your behaviour? When mother is brought to the\npoint of saying that she would rather leave home and everything than\nendure her misery any longer, I should be wrong if I didn't speak to\nyou. Why are you so unkind? What serious cause has mother ever given\nyou?'\n\n'I refuse to argue such questions with you.'\n\n'Then you are very unjust. I am not a child, and there's nothing wrong\nin my asking you why home is made a place of misery, instead of being\nwhat home ought to be.'\n\n'You prove that you are a child, in asking for explanations which ought\nto be clear enough to you.'\n\n'You mean that mother is to blame for everything?'\n\n'The subject is no fit one to be discussed between a father and his\ndaughter. If you cannot see the impropriety of it, be so good as to go\naway and reflect, and leave me to my occupations.'\n\nMarian came to a pause. But she knew that his rebuke was mere unworthy\nevasion; she saw that her father could not meet her look, and this\nperception of shame in him impelled her to finish what she had begun.\n\n'I will say nothing of mother, then, but speak only for myself. I suffer\ntoo much from your unkindness; you ask too much endurance.'\n\n'You mean that I exact too much work from you?' asked her father, with a\nlook which might have been directed to a recalcitrant clerk.\n\n'No. But that you make the conditions of my work too hard. I live in\nconstant fear of your anger.'\n\n'Indeed? When did I last ill-use you, or threaten you?'\n\n'I often think that threats, or even ill-usage, would be easier to bear\nthan an unchanging gloom which always seems on the point of breaking\ninto violence.'\n\n'I am obliged to you for your criticism of my disposition and manner,\nbut unhappily I am too old to reform. Life has made me what I am, and I\nshould have thought that your knowledge of what my life has been would\nhave gone far to excuse a lack of cheerfulness in me.'\n\nThe irony of this laborious period was full of self-pity. His voice\nquavered at the close, and a tremor was noticeable in his stiff frame.\n\n'It isn't lack of cheerfulness that I mean, father. That could never\nhave brought me to speak like this.'\n\n'If you wish me to admit that I am bad-tempered, surly, irritable--I\nmake no difficulty about that. The charge is true enough. I can only ask\nyou again: What are the circumstances that have ruined my temper? When\nyou present yourself here with a general accusation of my behaviour, I\nam at a loss to understand what you ask of me, what you wish me to say\nor do. I must beg you to speak plainly. Are you suggesting that I should\nmake provision for the support of you and your mother away from my\nintolerable proximity? My income is not large, as I think you are aware,\nbut of course, if a demand of this kind is seriously made, I must do my\nbest to comply with it.'\n\n'It hurts me very much that you can understand me no better than this.'\n\n'I am sorry. I think we used to understand each other, but that was\nbefore you were subjected to the influence of strangers.'\n\nIn his perverse frame of mind he was ready to give utterance to any\nthought which confused the point at issue. This last allusion was\nsuggested to him by a sudden pang of regret for the pain he was causing\nMarian; he defended himself against self-reproach by hinting at the true\nreason of much of his harshness.\n\n'I am subjected to no influence that is hostile to you,' Marian replied.\n\n'You may think that. But in such a matter it is very easy for you to\ndeceive yourself.'\n\n'Of course I know what you refer to, and I can assure you that I don't\ndeceive myself.'\n\nYule flashed a searching glance at her.\n\n'Can you deny that you are on terms of friendship with a--a person who\nwould at any moment rejoice to injure me?'\n\n'I am friendly with no such person. Will you say whom you are thinking\nof?'\n\n'It would be useless. I have no wish to discuss a subject on which we\nshould only disagree unprofitably.'\n\nMarian kept silence for a moment, then said in a low, unsteady voice:\n\n'It is perhaps because we never speak of that subject that we are so\nfar from understanding each other. If you think that Mr Milvain is\nyour enemy, that he would rejoice to injure you, you are grievously\nmistaken.'\n\n'When I see a man in close alliance with my worst enemy, and looking to\nthat enemy for favour, I am justified in thinking that he would injure\nme if the right kind of opportunity offered. One need not be very deeply\nread in human nature to have assurance of that.'\n\n'But I know Mr Milvain!'\n\n'You know him?'\n\n'Far better than you can, I am sure. You draw conclusions from general\nprinciples; but I know that they don't apply in this case.'\n\n'I have no doubt you sincerely think so. I repeat that nothing can be\ngained by such a discussion as this.'\n\n'One thing I must tell you. There was no truth in your suspicion that Mr\nMilvain wrote that review in The Current. He assured me himself that he\nwas not the writer, that he had nothing to do with it.'\n\nYule looked askance at her, and his face displayed solicitude, which\nsoon passed, however, into a smile of sarcasm.\n\n'The gentleman's word no doubt has weight with you.'\n\n'Father, what do you mean?' broke from Marian, whose eyes of a sudden\nflashed stormily. 'Would Mr Milvain tell me a lie?'\n\n'I shouldn't like to say that it is impossible,' replied her father in\nthe same tone as before.\n\n'But--what right have you to insult him so grossly?'\n\n'I have every right, my dear child, to express an opinion about him\nor any other man, provided I do it honestly. I beg you not to strike\nattitudes and address me in the language of the stage. You insist on my\nspeaking plainly, and I have spoken plainly. I warned you that we were\nnot likely to agree on this topic.'\n\n'Literary quarrels have made you incapable of judging honestly in\nthings such as this. I wish I could have done for ever with the hateful\nprofession that so poisons men's minds.'\n\n'Believe me, my girl,' said her father, incisively, 'the simpler thing\nwould be to hold aloof from such people as use the profession in a\nspirit of unalloyed selfishness, who seek only material advancement, and\nwho, whatever connection they form, have nothing but self-interest in\nview.'\n\nAnd he glared at her with much meaning. Marian--both had remained\nstanding all through the dialogue--cast down her eyes and became lost in\nbrooding.\n\n'I speak with profound conviction,' pursued her father, 'and, however\nlittle you credit me with such a motive, out of desire to guard you\nagainst the dangers to which your inexperience is exposed. It is perhaps\nas well that you have afforded me this--'\n\nThere sounded at the house-door that duplicated double-knock which\ngenerally announces the bearer of a telegram. Yule interrupted himself,\nand stood in an attitude of waiting. The servant was heard to go along\nthe passage, to open the door, and then return towards the study. Yes,\nit was a telegram. Such despatches rarely came to this house; Yule tore\nthe envelope, read its contents, and stood with gaze fixed upon the slip\nof paper until the servant inquired if there was any reply for the boy\nto take with him.\n\n'No reply.'\n\nHe slowly crumpled the envelope, and stepped aside to throw it into the\npaper-basket. The telegram he laid on his desk. Marian stood all\nthe time with bent head; he now looked at her with an expression of\nmeditative displeasure.\n\n'I don't know that there's much good in resuming our conversation,' he\nsaid, in quite a changed tone, as if something of more importance had\ntaken possession of his thoughts and had made him almost indifferent to\nthe past dispute. 'But of course I am quite willing to hear anything you\nwould still like to say.\n\nMarian had lost her vehemence. She was absent and melancholy.\n\n'I can only ask you,' she replied, 'to try and make life less of a\nburden to us.'\n\n'I shall have to leave town to-morrow for a few days; no doubt it will\nbe some satisfaction to you to hear that.'\n\nMarian's eyes turned involuntarily towards the telegram.\n\n'As for your occupation in my absence,' he went on, in a hard tone which\nyet had something tremulous, emotional, making it quite different from\nthe voice he had hitherto used, 'that will be entirely a matter for your\nown judgment. I have felt for some time that you assisted me with less\ngood-will than formerly, and now that you have frankly admitted it, I\nshall of course have very little satisfaction in requesting your aid. I\nmust leave it to you; consult your own inclination.'\n\nIt was resentful, but not savage; between the beginning and the end of\nhis speech he softened to a sort of self-satisfied pathos.\n\n'I can't pretend,' replied Marian, 'that I have as much pleasure in the\nwork as I should have if your mood were gentler.'\n\n'I am sorry. I might perhaps have made greater efforts to appear at ease\nwhen I was suffering.'\n\n'Do you mean physical suffering?'\n\n'Physical and mental. But that can't concern you. During my absence I\nwill think of your reproof. I know that it is deserved, in some degree.\nIf it is possible, you shall have less to complain of in future.'\n\nHe looked about the room, and at length seated himself; his eyes were\nfixed in a direction away from Marian.\n\n'I suppose you had dinner somewhere?' Marian asked, after catching a\nglimpse of his worn, colourless face.\n\n'Oh, I had a mouthful of something. It doesn't matter.'\n\nIt seemed as if he found some special pleasure in assuming this tone of\nmartyrdom just now. At the same time he was becoming more absorbed in\nthought.\n\n'Shall I have something brought up for you, father?'\n\n'Something--? Oh no, no; on no account.'\n\nHe rose again impatiently, then approached his desk, and laid a hand on\nthe telegram. Marian observed this movement, and examined his face; it\nwas set in an expression of eagerness.\n\n'You have nothing more to say, then?' He turned sharply upon her.\n\n'I feel that I haven't made you understand me, but I can say nothing\nmore.'\n\n'I understand you very well--too well. That you should misunderstand and\nmistrust me, I suppose, is natural. You are young, and I am old. You are\nstill full of hope, and I have been so often deceived and defeated that\nI dare not let a ray of hope enter my mind. Judge me; judge me as hardly\nas you like. My life has been one long, bitter struggle, and if now--. I\nsay,' he began a new sentence, 'that only the hard side of life has been\nshown to me; small wonder if I have become hard myself. Desert me;\ngo your own Way, as the young always do. But bear in mind my warning.\nRemember the caution I have given you.'\n\nHe spoke in a strangely sudden agitation. The arm with which he leaned\nupon the table trembled violently. After a moment's pause he added, in a\nthick voice:\n\n'Leave me. I will speak to you again in the morning.'\n\nImpressed in a way she did not understand, Marian at once obeyed, and\nrejoined her mother in the parlour. Mrs Yule gazed anxiously at her as\nshe entered.\n\n'Don't be afraid,' said Marian, with difficulty bringing herself to\nspeak. 'I think it will be better.'\n\n'Was that a telegram that came?' her mother inquired after a silence.\n\n'Yes. I don't know where it was from. But father said he would have to\nleave town for a few days.'\n\nThey exchanged looks.\n\n'Perhaps your uncle is very ill,' said the mother in a low voice.\n\n'Perhaps so.'\n\nThe evening passed drearily. Fatigued with her emotions, Marian went\nearly to bed; she even slept later than usual in the morning, and on\ndescending she found her father already at the breakfast-table. No\ngreeting passed, and there was no conversation during the meal. Marian\nnoticed that her mother kept glancing at her in a peculiarly grave way;\nbut she felt ill and dejected, and could fix her thoughts on no subject.\nAs he left the table Yule said to her:\n\n'I want to speak to you for a moment. I shall be in the study.'\n\nShe joined him there very soon. He looked coldly at her, and said in a\ndistant tone:\n\n'The telegram last night was to tell me that your uncle is dead.'\n\n'Dead!'\n\n'He died of apoplexy, at a meeting in Wattleborough. I shall go down\nthis morning, and of course remain till after the funeral. I see no\nnecessity for your going, unless, of course, it is your desire to do\nso.'\n\n'No; I should do as you wish.'\n\n'I think you had better not go to the Museum whilst I am away. You will\noccupy yourself as you think fit.'\n\n'I shall go on with the Harrington notes.'\n\n'As you please. I don't know what mourning it would be decent for you to\nwear; you must consult with your mother about that. That is all I wished\nto say.'\n\nHis tone was dismissal. Marian had a struggle with herself but she could\nfind nothing to reply to his cold phrases. And an hour or two afterwards\nYule left the house without leave-taking.\n\nSoon after his departure there was a visitor's rat-tat at the door;\nit heralded Mrs Goby. In the interview which then took place Marian\nassisted her mother to bear the vigorous onslaughts of the haberdasher's\nwife. For more than two hours Mrs Goby related her grievances, against\nthe fugitive servant, against Mrs Yule, against Mr Yule; meeting with no\nirritating opposition, she was able in this space of time to cool down\nto the temperature of normal intercourse, and when she went forth from\nthe house again it was in a mood of dignified displeasure which she felt\nto be some recompense for the injuries of yesterday.\n\nA result of this annoyance was to postpone conversation between mother\nand daughter on the subject of John Yule's death until a late hour of\nthe afternoon. Marian was at work in the study, or endeavouring to work,\nfor her thoughts would not fix themselves on the matter in hand for\nmany minutes together, and Mrs Yule came in with more than her customary\ndiffidence.\n\n'Have you nearly done for to-day, dear?'\n\n'Enough for the present, I think.'\n\nShe laid down her pen, and leant back in the chair.\n\n'Marian, do you think your father will be rich?'\n\n'I have no idea, mother. I suppose we shall know very soon.'\n\nHer tone was dreamy. She seemed to herself to be speaking of something\nwhich scarcely at all concerned her, of vague possibilities which did\nnot affect her habits of thought.\n\n'If that happens,' continued Mrs Yule, in a low tone of distress, 'I\ndon't know what I shall do.'\n\nMarian looked at her questioningly.\n\n'I can't wish that it mayn't happen,' her mother went on; 'I can't, for\nhis sake and for yours; but I don't know what I shall do. He'd think me\nmore in his way than ever. He'd wish to have a large house, and live\nin quite a different way; and how could I manage then? I couldn't show\nmyself; he'd be too much ashamed of me. I shouldn't be in my place; even\nyou'd feel ashamed of me.'\n\n'You mustn't say that, mother. I have never given you cause to think\nthat.'\n\n'No, my dear, you haven't; but it would be only natural. I couldn't live\nthe kind of life that you're fit for. I shall be nothing but a hindrance\nand a shame to both of you.'\n\n'To me you would never be either hindrance or shame; be quite sure of\nthat. And as for father, I am all but certain that, if he became rich,\nhe would be a very much kinder man, a better man in every way. It is\npoverty that has made him worse than he naturally is; it has that effect\non almost everybody. Money does harm, too, sometimes; but never, I\nthink, to people who have a good heart and a strong mind. Father is\nnaturally a warm-hearted man; riches would bring out all the best in\nhim. He would be generous again, which he has almost forgotten how to\nbe among all his disappointments and battlings. Don't be afraid of that\nchange, but hope for it.'\n\nMrs Yule gave a troublous sigh, and for a few minutes pondered\nanxiously.\n\n'I wasn't thinking so much about myself' she said at length. 'It's the\nhindrance I should be to father. Just because of me, he mightn't be able\nto use his money as he'd wish. He'd always be feeling that if it wasn't\nfor me things would be so much better for him and for you as well.'\n\n'You must remember,' Marian replied, 'that at father's age people don't\ncare to make such great changes. His home life, I feel sure, wouldn't be\nso very different from what it is now; he would prefer to use his money\nin starting a paper or magazine. I know that would be his first thought.\nIf more acquaintances came to his house, what would that matter? It\nisn't as if he wished for fashionable society. They would be literary\npeople, and why ever shouldn't you meet with them?'\n\n'I've always been the reason why he couldn't have many friends.'\n\n'That's a great mistake. If father ever said that, in his bad temper, he\nknew it wasn't the truth. The chief reason has always been his poverty.\nIt costs money to entertain friends; time as well. Don't think in this\nanxious way, mother. If we are to be rich, it will be better for all of\nus.'\n\nMarian had every reason for seeking to persuade herself that this was\ntrue. In her own heart there was a fear of how wealth might affect her\nfather, but she could not bring herself to face the darker prospect. For\nher so much depended on that hope of a revival of generous feeling under\nsunny influences.\n\nIt was only after this conversation that she began to reflect on all the\npossible consequences of her uncle's death. As yet she had been too much\ndisturbed to grasp as a reality the event to which she had often looked\nforward, though as to something still remote, and of quite uncertain\nresults. Perhaps at this moment, though she could not know it, the\ncourse of her life had undergone the most important change. Perhaps\nthere was no more need for her to labour upon this 'article' she was\nmanufacturing.\n\nShe did not think it probable that she herself would benefit directly by\nJohn Yule's will. There was no certainty that even her father would, for\nhe and his brother had never been on cordial terms. But on the whole it\nseemed likely that he would inherit money enough to free him from the\ntoil of writing for periodicals. He himself anticipated that. What else\ncould be the meaning of those words in which (and it was before\nthe arrival of the news) he had warned her against 'people who made\nconnections only with self-interest in view?' This threw a sudden light\nupon her father's attitude towards Jasper Milvain. Evidently he thought\nthat Jasper regarded her as a possible heiress, sooner or later.\nThat suspicion was rankling in his mind; doubtless it intensified the\nprejudice which originated in literary animosity.\n\nWas there any truth in his suspicion? She did not shrink from admitting\nthat there might be. Jasper had from the first been so frank with her,\nhad so often repeated that money was at present his chief need. If her\nfather inherited substantial property, would it induce Jasper to declare\nhimself more than her friend? She could view the possibility of that,\nand yet not for a moment be shaken in her love. It was plain that\nJasper could not think of marrying until his position and prospects were\ngreatly improved; practically, his sisters depended upon him. What folly\nit would be to draw back if circumstances led him to avow what hitherto\nhe had so slightly disguised! She had the conviction that he valued her\nfor her own sake; if the obstacle between them could only be removed,\nwhat matter how?\n\nWould he be willing to abandon Clement Fadge, and come over to her\nfather's side? If Yule were able to found a magazine?\n\nHad she read or heard of a girl who went so far in concessions, Marian\nwould have turned away, her delicacy offended. In her own case she could\nindulge to the utmost that practicality which colours a woman's thought\neven in mid passion. The cold exhibition of ignoble scheming will repel\nmany a woman who, for her own heart's desire, is capable of that same\ncompromise with her strict sense of honour.\n\nMarian wrote to Dora Milvain, telling her what had happened. But she\nrefrained from visiting her friends.\n\nEach night found her more restless, each morning less able to employ\nherself. She shut herself in the study merely to be alone with her\nthoughts, to be able to walk backwards and forwards, or sit for hours in\nfeverish reverie. From her father came no news. Her mother was suffering\ndreadfully from suspense, and often had eyes red with weeping. Absorbed\nin her own hopes and fears, whilst every hour harassed her more\nintolerably, Marian was unable to play the part of an encourager; she\nhad never known such exclusiveness of self-occupation.\n\nYule's return was unannounced. Early in the afternoon, when he had been\nabsent five days, he entered the house, deposited his travelling-bag in\nthe passage, and went upstairs. Marian had come out of the study just\nin time to see him up on the first landing; at the same moment Mrs Yule\nascended from the kitchen.\n\n'Wasn't that father?'\n\n'Yes, he has gone up.'\n\n'Did he say anything?'\n\nMarian shook her head. They looked at the travelling-bag, then went into\nthe parlour and waited in silence for more than a quarter of an hour.\nYule's foot was heard on the stairs; he came down slowly, paused in the\npassage, entered the parlour with his usual grave, cold countenance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII. THE LEGATEES\n\nEach day Jasper came to inquire of his sisters if they had news from\nWattleborough or from Marian Yule. He exhibited no impatience, spoke of\nthe matter in a disinterested tone; still, he came daily.\n\nOne afternoon he found Dora working alone. Maud, he was told, had gone\nto lunch at Mrs Lane's.\n\n'So soon again? She's getting very thick with those people. And why\ndon't they ask you?'\n\n'Maud has told them that I don't care to go out.'\n\n'It's all very well, but she mustn't neglect her work. Did she write\nanything last night or this morning?'\n\nDora bit the end of her pen and shook her head.\n\n'Why not?'\n\n'The invitation came about five o'clock, and it seemed to unsettle her.'\n\n'Precisely. That's what I'm afraid of. She isn't the kind of girl to\nstick at work if people begin to send her invitations. But I tell you\nwhat it is, you must talk seriously to her; she has to get her living,\nyou know. Mrs Lane and her set are not likely to be much use, that's the\nworst of it; they'll merely waste her time, and make her discontented.'\n\nHis sister executed an elaborate bit of cross-hatching on some waste\npaper. Her lips were drawn together, and her brows wrinkled. At length\nshe broke the silence by saying:\n\n'Marian hasn't been yet.'\n\nJasper seemed to pay no attention; she looked up at him, and saw that he\nwas in thought.\n\n'Did you go to those people last night?' she inquired.\n\n'Yes. By-the-bye, Miss Rupert was there.'\n\nHe spoke as if the name would be familiar to his hearer, but Dora seemed\nat a loss.\n\n'Who is Miss Rupert?'\n\n'Didn't I tell you about her? I thought I did. Oh, I met her first of\nall at Barlow's, just after we got back from the seaside. Rather an\ninteresting girl. She's a daughter of Manton Rupert, the advertising\nagent. I want to get invited to their house; useful people, you know.'\n\n'But is an advertising agent a gentleman?'\n\nJasper laughed.\n\n'Do you think of him as a bill-poster? At all events he is enormously\nwealthy, and has a magnificent house at Chislehurst. The girl goes about\nwith her stepmother. I call her a girl, but she must be nearly thirty,\nand Mrs Rupert looks only two or three years older. I had quite a long\ntalk with her--Miss Rupert, I mean--last night. She told me she was\ngoing to stay next week with the Barlows, so I shall have a run out to\nWimbledon one afternoon.'\n\nDora looked at him inquiringly.\n\n'Just to see Miss Rupert?' she asked, meeting his eyes.\n\n'To be sure. Why not?'\n\n'Oh!' ejaculated his sister, as if the question did not concern her.\n\n'She isn't exactly good-looking,' pursued Jasper, meditatively, with a\nquick glance at the listener, 'but fairly intellectual. Plays very well,\nand has a nice contralto voice; she sang that new thing of Tosti's--what\ndo you call it? I thought her rather masculine when I first saw her, but\nthe impression wears off when one knows her better. She rather takes to\nme, I fancy.'\n\n'But--' began Dora, after a minute's silence.\n\n'But what?' inquired her brother with an air of interest.\n\n'I don't quite understand you.'\n\n'In general, or with reference to some particular?'\n\n'What right have you to go to places just to see this Miss Rupert?'\n\n'What right?' He laughed. 'I am a young man with my way to make. I can't\nafford to lose any opportunity. If Miss Rupert is so good as to take an\ninterest in me, I have no objection. She's old enough to make friends\nfor herself.'\n\n'Oh, then you consider her simply a friend?'\n\n'I shall see how things go on.'\n\n'But, pray, do you consider yourself perfectly free?' asked Dora, with\nsome indignation.\n\n'Why shouldn't I?'\n\n'Then I think you have been behaving very strangely.'\n\nJasper saw that she was in earnest. He stroked the back of his head and\nsmiled at the wall.\n\n'With regard to Marian, you mean?'\n\n'Of course I do.'\n\n'But Marian understands me perfectly. I have never for a moment tried\nto make her think that--well, to put it plainly, that I was in love with\nher. In all our conversations it has been my one object to afford her\ninsight into my character, and to explain my position. She has no excuse\nwhatever for misinterpreting me. And I feel assured that she has done\nnothing of the kind.'\n\n'Very well, if you feel satisfied with yourself--'\n\n'But come now, Dora; what's all this about? You are Marian's friend,\nand, of course, I don't wish you to say a word about her.\n\nBut let me explain myself. I have occasionally walked part of the way\nhome with Marian, when she and I have happened to go from here at the\nsame time; now there was nothing whatever in our talk at such times that\nanyone mightn't have listened to. We are both intellectual people, and\nwe talk in an intellectual way. You seem to have rather old-fashioned\nideas--provincial ideas. A girl like Marian Yule claims the new\nprivileges of woman; she would resent it if you supposed that she\ncouldn't be friendly with a man without attributing \"intentions\" to\nhim--to use the old word. We don't live in Wattleborough, where liberty\nis rendered impossible by the cackling of gossips.'\n\n'No, but--'\n\n'Well?'\n\n'It seems to me rather strange, that's all. We had better not talk about\nit any more.'\n\n'But I have only just begun to talk about it; I must try to make\nmy position intelligible to you. Now, suppose--a quite impossible\nthing--that Marian inherited some twenty or thirty thousand pounds; I\nshould forthwith ask her to be my wife.'\n\n'Oh indeed!'\n\n'I see no reason for sarcasm. It would be a most rational proceeding.\nI like her very much; but to marry her (supposing she would have me)\nwithout money would he a gross absurdity, simply spoiling my career, and\nleading to all sorts of discontents.'\n\n'No one would suggest that you should marry as things are.'\n\n'No; but please to bear in mind that to obtain money somehow or\nother--and I see no other way than by marriage--is necessary to me, and\nthat with as little delay as possible. I am not at all likely to get a\nbig editorship for some years to come, and I don't feel disposed to make\nmyself prematurely old by toiling for a few hundreds per annum in the\nmeantime. Now all this I have frankly and fully explained to Marian. I\ndare say she suspects what I should do if she came into possession of\nmoney; there's no harm in that. But she knows perfectly well that, as\nthings are, we remain intellectual friends.'\n\n'Then listen to me, Jasper. If we hear that Marian gets nothing from her\nuncle, you had better behave honestly, and let her see that you haven't\nas much interest in her as before.'\n\n'That would be brutality.'\n\n'It would be honest.'\n\n'Well, no, it wouldn't. Strictly speaking, my interest in Marian\nwouldn't suffer at all. I should know that we could be nothing but\nfriends, that's all. Hitherto I haven't known what might come to pass;\nI don't know yet. So far from following your advice, I shall let Marian\nunderstand that, if anything, I am more her friend than ever, seeing\nthat henceforth there can be no ambiguities.'\n\n'I can only tell you that Maud would agree with me in what I have been\nsaying.'\n\n'Then both of you have distorted views.'\n\n'I think not. It's you who are unprincipled.'\n\n'My dear girl, haven't I been showing you that no man could be more\nabove-board, more straightforward?'\n\n'You have been talking nonsense, Jasper.'\n\n'Nonsense? Oh, this female lack of logic! Then my argument has been\nutterly thrown away. Now that's one of the things I like in Miss Rupert;\nshe can follow an argument and see consequences. And for that matter so\ncan Marian. I only wish it were possible to refer this question to her.'\n\nThere was a tap at the door. Dora called 'Come in!' and Marian herself\nappeared.\n\n'What an odd thing!' exclaimed Jasper, lowering his voice. 'I was that\nmoment saying I wished it were possible to refer a question to you.'\n\nDora reddened, and stood in an embarrassed attitude.\n\n'It was the old dispute whether women in general are capable of logic.\nBut pardon me, Miss Yule; I forget that you have been occupied with sad\nthings since I last saw you.'\n\nDora led her to a chair, asking if her father had returned.\n\n'Yes, he came back yesterday.'\n\nJasper and his sister could not think it likely that Marian had suffered\nmuch from grief at her uncle's death; practically John Yule was a\nstranger to her. Yet her face bore the signs of acute mental trouble,\nand it seemed as if some agitation made it difficult for her to speak.\nThe awkward silence that fell upon the three was broken by Jasper, who\nexpressed a regret that he was obliged to take his leave.\n\n'Maud is becoming a young lady of society,' he said--just for the sake\nof saying something--as he moved towards the door. 'If she comes back\nwhilst you are here, Miss Yule, warn her that that is the path of\ndestruction for literary people.'\n\n'You should bear that in mind yourself' remarked Dora, with a\nsignificant look.\n\n'Oh, I am cool-headed enough to make society serve my own ends.'\n\nMarian turned her head with a sudden movement which was checked before\nshe had quite looked round to him. The phrase he uttered last appeared\nto have affected her in some way; her eyes fell, and an expression of\npain was on her brows for a moment.\n\n'I can only stay a few minutes,' she said, bending with a faint smile\ntowards Dora, as soon as they were alone. 'I have come on my way from\nthe Museum.'\n\n'Where you have tired yourself to death as usual, I can see.'\n\n'No; I have done scarcely anything. I only pretended to read; my mind is\ntoo much troubled. Have you heard anything about my uncle's will?'\n\n'Nothing whatever.'\n\n'I thought it might have been spoken of in Wattleborough, and some\nfriend might have written to you. But I suppose there has hardly been\ntime for that. I shall surprise you very much. Father receives nothing,\nbut I have a legacy of five thousand pounds.'\n\nDora kept her eyes down.\n\n'Then--what do you think?' continued Marian. 'My cousin Amy has ten\nthousand pounds.'\n\n'Good gracious! What a difference that will make!'\n\n'Yes, indeed. And her brother John has six thousand. But nothing to\ntheir mother. There are a good many other legacies, but most of\nthe property goes to the Wattleborough park--\"Yule Park\" it will be\ncalled--and to the volunteers, and things of that kind. They say he\nwasn't as rich as people thought.'\n\n'Do you know what Miss Harrow gets?'\n\n'She has the house for her life, and fifteen hundred pounds.'\n\n'And your father nothing whatever?'\n\n'Nothing. Not a penny. Oh I am so grieved! I think it so unkind, so\nwrong. Amy and her brother to have sixteen thousand pounds and father\nnothing! I can't understand it. There was no unkind feeling between him\nand father. He knew what a hard life father has had. Doesn't it seem\nheartless?'\n\n'What does your father say?'\n\n'I think he feels the unkindness more than he does the disappointment;\nof course he must have expected something. He came into the room where\nmother and I were, and sat down, and began to tell us about the will\njust as if he were speaking to strangers about something he had read in\nthe newspaper--that's the only way I can describe it. Then he got up and\nwent away into the study. I waited a little, and then went to him there;\nhe was sitting at work, as if he hadn't been away from home at all. I\ntried to tell him how sorry I was, but I couldn't say anything. I began\nto cry foolishly. He spoke kindly to me, far more kindly than he has\ndone for a long time; but he wouldn't talk about the will, and I had to\ngo away and leave him. Poor mother! for all she was afraid that we were\ngoing to be rich, is broken-hearted at his disappointment.'\n\n'Your mother was afraid?' said Dora.\n\n'Because she thought herself unfitted for life in a large house, and\nfeared we should think her in our way.' She smiled sadly. 'Poor mother!\nshe is so humble and so good. I do hope that father will be kinder to\nher. But there's no telling yet what the result of this may be. I feel\nguilty when I stand before him.'\n\n'But he must feel glad that you have five thousand pounds.'\n\nMarian delayed her reply for a moment, her eyes down.\n\n'Yes, perhaps he is glad of that.'\n\n'Perhaps!'\n\n'He can't help thinking, Dora, what use he could have made of it.\n\nIt has always been his greatest wish to have a literary paper of his\nown--like The Study, you know. He would have used the money in that way,\nI am sure.'\n\n'But, all the same, he ought to feel pleasure in your good fortune.'\n\nMarian turned to another subject.\n\n'Think of the Reardons; what a change all at once! What will they do, I\nwonder? Surely they won't continue to live apart?'\n\n'We shall hear from Jasper.'\n\nWhilst they were discussing the affairs of that branch of the family,\nMaud returned. There was ill-humour on her handsome face, and she\ngreeted Marian but coldly. Throwing off her hat and gloves and mantle\nshe listened to the repeated story of John Yule's bequests.\n\n'But why ever has Mrs Reardon so much more than anyone else?' she asked.\n\n'We can only suppose it is because she was the favourite child of the\nbrother he liked best. Yet at her wedding he gave her nothing, and spoke\ncontemptuously of her for marrying a literary man.'\n\n'Fortunate for her poor husband that her uncle was able to forgive her.\nI wonder what's the date of the will? Who knows but he may have rewarded\nher for quarrelling with Mr Reardon.'\n\nThis excited a laugh.\n\n'I don't know when the will was made,' said Marian. 'And I don't know\nwhether uncle had even heard of the Reardons' misfortunes. I suppose he\nmust have done. My cousin John was at the funeral, but not my aunt. I\nthink it most likely father and John didn't speak a word to each other.\nFortunately the relatives were lost sight of in the great crowd of\nWattleborough people; there was an enormous procession, of course.'\n\nMaud kept glancing at her sister. The ill-humour had not altogether\npassed from her face, but it was now blended with reflectiveness.\n\nA few moments more, and Marian had to hasten home. When she was gone the\nsisters looked at each other.\n\n'Five thousand pounds,' murmured the elder. 'I suppose that is\nconsidered nothing.'\n\n'I suppose so.--He was here when Marian came, but didn't stay.'\n\n'Then you'll take him the news this evening?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Dora. Then, after musing, 'He seemed annoyed that you\nwere at the Lanes' again.'\n\nMaud made a movement of indifference.\n\n'What has been putting you out?'\n\n'Things were rather stupid. Some people who were to have come didn't\nturn up. And--well, it doesn't matter.'\n\nShe rose and glanced at herself in the little oblong mirror over the\nmantelpiece.\n\n'Did Jasper ever speak to you of a Miss Rupert?' asked Dora.\n\n'Not that I remember.'\n\n'What do you think? He told me in the calmest way that he didn't see\nwhy Marian should think of him as anything but the most ordinary\nfriend--said he had never given her reason to think anything else.'\n\n'Indeed! And Miss Rupert is someone who has the honour of his\npreference?'\n\n'He says she is about thirty, and rather masculine, but a great heiress.\nJasper is shameful!'\n\n'What do you expect? I consider it is your duty to let Marian know\neverything he says. Otherwise you help to deceive her. He has no sense\nof honour in such things.'\n\nDora was so impatient to let her brother have the news that she left\nthe house as soon as she had had tea on the chance of finding Jasper\nat home. She had not gone a dozen yards before she encountered him in\nperson.\n\n'I was afraid Marian might still be with you,' he said, laughing.\n\n'I should have asked the landlady. Well?'\n\n'We can't stand talking here. You had better come in.'\n\nHe was in too much excitement to wait.\n\n'Just tell me. What has she?'\n\nDora walked quickly towards the house, looking annoyed.\n\n'Nothing at all? Then what has her father?'\n\n'He has nothing,' replied his sister, 'and she has five thousand\npounds.'\n\nJasper walked on with bent head. He said nothing more until he was\nupstairs in the sitting-room, where Maud greeted him carelessly.\n\n'Mrs Reardon anything?'\n\nDora informed him.\n\n'What?' he cried incredulously. 'Ten thousand? You don't say so!'\n\nHe burst into uproarious laughter.\n\n'So Reardon is rescued from the slum and the clerk's desk! Well, I'm\nglad; by Jove, I am. I should have liked it better if Marian had had the\nten thousand and he the five, but it's an excellent joke. Perhaps the\nnext thing will be that he'll refuse to have anything to do with his\nwife's money; that would be just like him.' After amusing himself with\nthis subject for a few minutes more, he turned to the window and stood\nthere in silence.\n\n'Are you going to have tea with us?' Dora inquired.\n\nHe did not seem to hear her. On a repetition of the inquiry, he answered\nabsently:\n\n'Yes, I may as well. Then I can go home and get to work.'\n\nDuring the remainder of his stay he talked very little, and as Maud also\nwas in an abstracted mood, tea passed almost in silence. On the point of\ndeparting he asked:\n\n'When is Marian likely to come here again?'\n\n'I haven't the least idea,' answered Dora.\n\nHe nodded, and went his way.\n\nIt was necessary for him to work at a magazine article which he had\nbegun this morning, and on reaching home he spread out his papers in\nthe usual businesslike fashion. The subject out of which he was\nmanufacturing 'copy' had its difficulties, and was not altogether\ncongenial to him; this morning he had laboured with unwonted effort to\nproduce about a page of manuscript, and now that he tried to resume the\ntask his thoughts would not centre upon it. Jasper was too young to have\nthoroughly mastered the art of somnambulistic composition; to write,\nhe was still obliged to give exclusive attention to the matter under\ntreatment. Dr Johnson's saying, that a man may write at any time if he\nwill set himself doggedly to it, was often upon his lips, and had even\nbeen of help to him, as no doubt it has to many another man obliged to\ncompose amid distracting circumstances; but the formula had no efficacy\nthis evening. Twice or thrice he rose from his chair, paced the room\nwith a determined brow, and sat down again with vigorous clutch of the\npen; still he failed to excogitate a single sentence that would serve\nhis purpose.\n\n'I must have it out with myself before I can do anything,' was his\nthought as he finally abandoned the endeavour. 'I must make up my mind.'\n\nTo this end he settled himself in an easy-chair and began to smoke\ncigarettes. Some dozen of these aids to reflection only made him so\nnervous that he could no longer remain alone. He put on his hat and\novercoat and went out--to find that it was raining heavily. He returned\nfor an umbrella, and before long was walking aimlessly about the Strand,\nunable to make up his mind whether to turn into a theatre or not.\nInstead of doing so, he sought a certain upper room of a familiar\nrestaurant, where the day's papers were to be seen, and perchance an\nacquaintance might be met. Only half-a-dozen men were there, reading and\nsmoking, and all were unknown to him. He drank a glass of lager beer,\nskimmed the news of the evening, and again went out into the bad\nweather.\n\nAfter all it was better to go home. Everything he encountered had an\nunsettling effect upon him, so that he was further than ever from the\ndecision at which he wished to arrive. In Mornington Road he came upon\nWhelpdale, who was walking slowly under an umbrella.\n\n'I've just called at your place.'\n\n'All right; come back if you like.'\n\n'But perhaps I shall waste your time?' said Whelpdale, with unusual\ndiffidence.\n\nReassured, he gladly returned to the house. Milvain acquainted him\nwith the fact of John Yule's death, and with its result so far as it\nconcerned the Reardons. They talked of how the couple would probably\nbehave under this decisive change of circumstances.\n\n'Biffen professes to know nothing about Mrs Reardon,' said Whelpdale. 'I\nsuspect he keeps his knowledge to himself, out of regard for Reardon. It\nwouldn't surprise me if they live apart for a long time yet.'\n\n'Not very likely. It was only want of money.'\n\n'They're not at all suited to each other. Mrs Reardon, no doubt, repents\nher marriage bitterly, and I doubt whether Reardon cares much for his\nwife.'\n\n'As there's no way of getting divorced they'll make the best of it. Ten\nthousand pounds produce about four hundred a year; it's enough to live\non.'\n\n'And be miserable on--if they no longer love each other.'\n\n'You're such a sentimental fellow!' cried Jasper. 'I believe you\nseriously think that love--the sort of frenzy you understand by\nit--ought to endure throughout married life. How has a man come to your\nage with such primitive ideas?'\n\n'Well, I don't know. Perhaps you err a little in the opposite\ndirection.'\n\n'I haven't much faith in marrying for love, as you know. What's more,\nI believe it's the very rarest thing for people to be in love with each\nother. Reardon and his wife perhaps were an instance; perhaps--I'm\nnot quite sure about her. As a rule, marriage is the result of a mild\npreference, encouraged by circumstances, and deliberately heightened\ninto strong sexual feeling. You, of all men, know well enough that the\nsame kind of feeling could be produced for almost any woman who wasn't\nrepulsive.'\n\n'The same kind of feeling; but there's vast difference of degree.'\n\n'To be sure. I think it's only a matter of degree. When it rises to the\npoint of frenzy people may strictly be said to be in love; and, as I\ntell you, I think that comes to pass very rarely indeed. For my own\npart, I have no experience of it, and think I never shall have.'\n\n'I can't say the same.'\n\nThey laughed.\n\n'I dare say you have imagined yourself in love--or really been so for\naught I know--a dozen times. How the deuce you can attach any importance\nto such feeling where marriage is concerned I don't understand.'\n\n'Well, now,' said Whelpdale, 'I have never upheld the theory--at least\nnot since I was sixteen--that a man can be in love only once, or that\nthere is one particular woman if he misses whom he can never be happy.\nThere may be thousands of women whom I could love with equal sincerity.'\n\n'I object to the word \"love\" altogether. It has been vulgarised. Let us\ntalk about compatibility. Now, I should say that, no doubt, and speaking\nscientifically, there is one particular woman supremely fitted to\neach man. I put aside consideration of circumstances; we know that\ncircumstances will disturb any degree of abstract fitness. But in the\nnature of things there must be one woman whose nature is specially well\nadapted to harmonise with mine, or with yours. If there were any means\nof discovering this woman in each case, then I have no doubt it would\nbe worth a man's utmost effort to do so, and any amount of erotic\njubilation would be reasonable when the discovery was made. But\nthe thing is impossible, and, what's more, we know what ridiculous\nfallibility people display when they imagine they have found the best\nsubstitute for that indiscoverable. This is what makes me impatient with\nsentimental talk about marriage. An educated man mustn't play so into\nthe hands of ironic destiny. Let him think he wants to marry a woman;\nbut don't let him exaggerate his feelings or idealise their nature.'\n\n'There's a good deal in all that,' admitted Whelpdale, though\ndiscontentedly.\n\n'There's more than a good deal; there's the last word on the subject.\nThe days of romantic love are gone by. The scientific spirit has put\nan end to that kind of self-deception. Romantic love was inextricably\nblended with all sorts of superstitions--belief in personal immortality,\nin superior beings, in--all the rest of it. What we think of now is\nmoral and intellectual and physical compatibility; I mean, if we are\nreasonable people.'\n\n'And if we are not so unfortunate as to fall in love with an\nincompatible,' added Whelpdale, laughing.\n\n'Well, that is a form of unreason--a blind desire which science could\nexplain in each case. I rejoice that I am not subject to that form of\nepilepsy.'\n\n'You positively never were in love!'\n\n'As you understand it, never. But I have felt a very distinct\npreference.'\n\n'Based on what you think compatibility?'\n\n'Yes. Not strong enough to make me lose sight of prudence and advantage.\nNo, not strong enough for that.'\n\nHe seemed to be reassuring himself.\n\n'Then of course that can't be called love,' said Whelpdale.\n\n'Perhaps not. But, as I told you, a preference of this kind can be\nheightened into emotion, if one chooses. In the case of which I am\nthinking it easily might be. And I think it very improbable indeed that\nI should repent it if anything led me to indulge such an impulse.'\n\nWhelpdale smiled.\n\n'This is very interesting. I hope it may lead to something.'\n\n'I don't think it will. I am far more likely to marry some woman for\nwhom I have no preference, but who can serve me materially.'\n\n'I confess that amazes me. I know the value of money as well as you do,\nbut I wouldn't marry a rich woman for whom I had no preference. By Jove,\nno!'\n\n'Yes, yes. You are a consistent sentimentalist.'\n\n'Doomed to perpetual disappointment,' said the other, looking\ndisconsolately about the room.\n\n'Courage, my boy! I have every hope that I shall see you marry and\nrepent.'\n\n'I admit the danger of that. But shall I tell you something I have\nobserved? Each woman I fall in love with is of a higher type than the\none before.'\n\nJasper roared irreverently, and his companion looked hurt.\n\n'But I am perfectly serious, I assure you. To go back only three or four\nyears. There was the daughter of my landlady in Barham Street; well, a\nnice girl enough, but limited, decidedly limited.\n\nNext came that girl at the stationer's--you remember? She was distinctly\nan advance, both in mind and person. Then there was Miss Embleton; yes,\nI think she made again an advance. She had been at Bedford College,\nyou know, and was really a girl of considerable attainments; morally,\nadmirable. Afterwards--'\n\nHe paused.\n\n'The maiden from Birmingham, wasn't it?' said Jasper, again exploding.\n\n'Yes, it was. Well, I can't be quite sure. But in many respects that\ngirl was my ideal; she really was.'\n\n'As you once or twice told me at the time.'\n\n'I really believe she would rank above Miss Embleton--at all events from\nmy point of view. And that's everything, you know. It's the effect a\nwoman produces on one that has to be considered.'\n\n'The next should be a paragon,' said Jasper.\n\n'The next?'\n\nWhelpdale again looked about the room, but added nothing, and fell into\na long silence.\n\nWhen left to himself Jasper walked about a little, then sat down at his\nwriting-table, for he felt easier in mind, and fancied that he might\nstill do a couple of hours' work before going to bed. He did in fact\nwrite half-a-dozen lines, but with the effort came back his former mood.\nVery soon the pen dropped, and he was once more in the throes of anxious\nmental debate.\n\nHe sat till after midnight, and when he went to his bedroom it was with\na lingering step, which proved him still a prey to indecision.\n\n\n\n\nPART FOUR\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII. A PROPOSED INVESTMENT\n\nAlfred Yule's behaviour under his disappointment seemed to prove that\neven for him the uses of adversity could be sweet. On the day after his\nreturn home he displayed a most unwonted mildness in such remarks as\nhe addressed to his wife, and his bearing towards Marian was gravely\ngentle. At meals he conversed, or rather monologised, on literary\ntopics, with occasionally one of his grim jokes, pointed for Marian's\nappreciation. He became aware that the girl had been overtaxing her\nstrength of late, and suggested a few weeks of recreation among new\nnovels. The coldness and gloom which had possessed him when he made a\nformal announcement of the news appeared to have given way before the\nsympathy manifested by his wife and daughter; he was now sorrowful, but\nresigned.\n\nHe explained to Marian the exact nature of her legacy. It was to be paid\nout of her uncle's share in a wholesale stationery business, with which\nJohn Yule had been connected for the last twenty years, but from which\nhe had not long ago withdrawn a large portion of his invested capital.\nThis house was known as 'Turberville & Co.,' a name which Marian now\nheard for the first time.\n\n'I knew nothing of his association with them,' said her father. 'They\ntell me that seven or eight thousand pounds will be realised from that\nsource; it seems a pity that the investment was not left to you intact.\nWhether there will be any delay in withdrawing the money I can't say.'\n\nThe executors were two old friends of the deceased, one of them a former\npartner in his paper-making concern.\n\nOn the evening of the second day, about an hour after dinner was over,\nMr Hinks called at the house; as usual, he went into the study. Before\nlong came a second visitor, Mr Quarmby, who joined Yule and Hinks. The\nthree had all sat together for some time, when Marian, who happened to\nbe coming down stairs, saw her father at the study door.\n\n'Ask your mother to let us have some supper at a quarter to ten,' he\nsaid urbanely. 'And come in, won't you? We are only gossiping.'\n\nIt had not often happened that Marian was invited to join parties of\nthis kind.\n\n'Do you wish me to come?' she asked.\n\n'Yes, I should like you to, if you have nothing particular to do.'\n\nMarian informed Mrs Yule that the visitors would have supper, and then\nwent to the study. Mr Quarmby was smoking a pipe; Mr Hinks, who on\ngrounds of economy had long since given up tobacco, sat with his hands\nin his trouser pockets, and his long, thin legs tucked beneath the\nchair; both rose and greeted Marian with more than ordinary warmth.\n\n'Will you allow me five or six more puffs?' asked Mr Quarmby, laying one\nhand on his ample stomach and elevating his pipe as if it were a glass\nof beaded liquor. 'I shall then have done.'\n\n'As many more as you like,' Marian replied.\n\nThe easiest chair was placed for her, Mr Hinks hastening to perform this\ncourtesy, and her father apprised her of the topic they were discussing.\n\n'What's your view, Marian? Is there anything to be said for the\nestablishment of a literary academy in England?'\n\nMr Quarmby beamed benevolently upon her, and Mr Hinks, his scraggy neck\nat full length, awaited her reply with a look of the most respectful\nattention.\n\n'I really think we have quite enough literary quarrelling as it is,' the\ngirl replied, casting down her eyes and smiling.\n\nMr Quarmby uttered a hollow chuckle, Mr Hinks laughed thinly and\nexclaimed, 'Very good indeed! Very good!' Yule affected to applaud with\nimpartial smile.\n\n'It wouldn't harmonise with the Anglo-Saxon spirit,' remarked Mr Hinks,\nwith an air of diffident profundity.\n\nYule held forth on the subject for a few minutes in laboured phrases.\nPresently the conversation turned to periodicals, and the three men were\nunanimous in an opinion that no existing monthly or quarterly could be\nconsidered as representing the best literary opinion.\n\n'We want,' remarked Mr Quarmby, 'we want a monthly review which\nshall deal exclusively with literature. The Fortnightly, the\nContemporary--they are very well in their way, but then they are mere\nmiscellanies. You will find one solid literary article amid a confused\nmass of politics and economics and general clap-trap.'\n\n'Articles on the currency and railway statistics and views of\nevolution,' said Mr Hinks, with a look as if something were grating\nbetween his teeth.\n\n'The quarterlies?' put in Yule. 'Well, the original idea of the\nquarterlies was that there are not enough important books published to\noccupy solid reviewers more than four times a year. That may be true,\nbut then a literary monthly would include much more than professed\nreviews. Hinks's essays on the historical drama would have come out in\nit very well; or your \"Spanish Poets,\" Quarmby.'\n\n'I threw out the idea to Jedwood the other day,' said Mr Quarmby, 'and\nhe seemed to nibble at it.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' came from Yule; 'but Jedwood has so many irons in the fire.\nI doubt if he has the necessary capital at command just now. No doubt\nhe's the man, if some capitalist would join him.'\n\n'No enormous capital needed,' opined Mr Quarmby. 'The thing would\npay its way almost from the first. It would take a place between the\nliterary weeklies and the quarterlies. The former are too academic,\nthe latter too massive, for multitudes of people who yet have strong\nliterary tastes. Foreign publications should be liberally dealt with.\nBut, as Hinks says, no meddling with the books that are no books--biblia\nabiblia; nothing about essays on bimetallism and treatises for or\nagainst vaccination.'\n\nEven here, in the freedom of a friend's study, he laughed his\nReading-room laugh, folding both hands upon his expansive waistcoat.\n\n'Fiction? I presume a serial of the better kind might be admitted?' said\nYule.\n\n'That would be advisable, no doubt. But strictly of the better kind.'\n\n'Oh, strictly of the better kind,' chimed in Mr Hinks.\n\nThey pursued the discussion as if they were an editorial committee\nplanning a review of which the first number was shortly to appear.\nIt occupied them until Mrs Yule announced at the door that supper was\nready.\n\nDuring the meal Marian found herself the object of unusual attention;\nher father troubled to inquire if the cut of cold beef he sent her was\nto her taste, and kept an eye on her progress. Mr Hinks talked to her in\na tone of respectful sympathy, and Mr Quarmby was paternally jovial when\nhe addressed her. Mrs Yule would have kept silence, in her ordinary way,\nbut this evening her husband made several remarks which he had adapted\nto her intellect, and even showed that a reply would be graciously\nreceived.\n\nMother and daughter remained together when the men withdrew to their\ntobacco and toddy. Neither made allusion to the wonderful change, but\nthey talked more light-heartedly than for a long time.\n\nOn the morrow Yule began by consulting Marian with regard to the\ndisposition of matter in an essay he was writing. What she said he\nweighed carefully, and seemed to think that she had set his doubts at\nrest.\n\n'Poor old Hinks!' he said presently, with a sigh. 'Breaking up, isn't\nhe? He positively totters in his walk. I'm afraid he's the kind of\nman to have a paralytic stroke; it wouldn't astonish me to hear at any\nmoment that he was lying helpless.'\n\n'What ever would become of him in that case?'\n\n'Goodness knows! One might ask the same of so many of us. What would\nbecome of me, for instance, if I were incapable of work?'\n\nMarian could make no reply.\n\n'There's something I'll just mention to you,' he went on in a lowered\ntone, 'though I don't wish you to take it too seriously. I'm beginning\nto have a little trouble with my eyes.'\n\nShe looked at him, startled.\n\n'With your eyes?'\n\n'Nothing, I hope; but--well, I think I shall see an oculist. One doesn't\ncare to face a prospect of failing sight, perhaps of cataract, or\nsomething of that kind; still, it's better to know the facts, I should\nsay.'\n\n'By all means go to an oculist,' said Marian, earnestly.\n\n'Don't disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all. But in any\ncase I must change my glasses.'\n\nHe rustled over some slips of manuscript, whilst Marian regarded him\nanxiously.\n\n'Now, I appeal to you, Marian,' he continued: 'could I possibly save\nmoney out of an income that has never exceeded two hundred and fifty\npounds, and often--I mean even in latter years--has been much less?'\n\n'I don't see how you could.'\n\n'In one way, of course, I have managed it. My life is insured for five\nhundred pounds. But that is no provision for possible disablement. If I\ncould no longer earn money with my pen, what would become of me?'\n\nMarian could have made an encouraging reply, but did not venture to\nutter her thoughts.\n\n'Sit down,' said her father. 'You are not to work for a few days, and I\nmyself shall be none the worse for a morning's rest. Poor old Hinks!\nI suppose we shall help him among us, somehow. Quarmby, of course, is\ncomparatively flourishing. Well, we have been companions for a quarter\nof a century, we three. When I first met Quarmby I was a Grub Street\ngazetteer, and I think he was even poorer than I. A life of toil! A life\nof toil!'\n\n'That it has been, indeed.'\n\n'By-the-bye'--he threw an arm over the back of his chair--'what did\nyou think of our imaginary review, the thing we were talking about last\nnight?'\n\n'There are so many periodicals,' replied Marian, doubtfully.\n\n'So many? My dear child, if we live another ten years we shall see the\nnumber trebled.'\n\n'Is it desirable?'\n\n'That there should be such growth of periodicals? Well, from one point\nof view, no. No doubt they take up the time which some people would\ngive to solid literature. But, on the other hand, there's a far greater\nnumber of people who would probably not read at all, but for the\ntemptations of these short and new articles; and they may be induced to\npass on to substantial works. Of course it all depends on the quality of\nthe periodical matter you offer. Now, magazines like'--he named two or\nthree of popular stamp--'might very well be dispensed with, unless one\nregards them as an alternative to the talking of scandal or any other\nvicious result of total idleness. But such a monthly as we projected\nwould be of distinct literary value. There can be no doubt that someone\nor other will shortly establish it.'\n\n'I am afraid,' said Marian, 'I haven't so much sympathy with literary\nundertakings as you would like me to have.'\n\nMoney is a great fortifier of self-respect. Since she had become really\nconscious of her position as the owner of five thousand pounds, Marian\nspoke with a steadier voice, walked with firmer step; mentally she felt\nherself altogether a less dependent being. She might have confessed this\nlukewarmness towards literary enterprise in the anger which her father\nexcited eight or nine days ago, but at that time she could not have\nuttered her opinion calmly, deliberately, as now. The smile which\naccompanied the words was also new; it signified deliverance from\npupilage.\n\n'I have felt that,' returned her father, after a slight pause to command\nhis voice, that it might be suave instead of scornful. 'I greatly fear\nthat I have made your life something of a martyrdom----'\n\n'Don't think I meant that, father. I am speaking only of the general\nquestion. I can't be quite so zealous as you are, that's all. I love\nbooks, but I could wish people were content for a while with those we\nalready have.'\n\n'My dear Marian, don't suppose that I am out of sympathy with you here.\nAlas! how much of my work has been mere drudgery, mere labouring for a\nlivelihood! How gladly I would have spent much more of my time among\nthe great authors, with no thought of making money of them! If I speak\napprovingly of a scheme for a new periodical, it is greatly because of\nmy necessities.'\n\nHe paused and looked at her. Marian returned the look.\n\n'You would of course write for it,' she said.\n\n'Marian, why shouldn't I edit it? Why shouldn't it be your property?'\n\n'My property--?'\n\nShe checked a laugh. There came into her mind a more disagreeable\nsuspicion than she had ever entertained of her father. Was this\nthe meaning of his softened behaviour? Was he capable of calculated\nhypocrisy? That did not seem consistent with his character, as she knew\nit.\n\n'Let us talk it over,' said Yule. He was in visible agitation and his\nvoice shook. 'The idea may well startle you at first. It will seem to\nyou that I propose to make away with your property before you have even\ncome into possession of it.' He laughed. 'But, in fact, what I have in\nmind is merely an investment for your capital, and that an admirable\none. Five thousand pounds at three per cent.--one doesn't care to reckon\non more--represents a hundred and fifty a year. Now, there can be very\nlittle doubt that, if it were invested in literary property such as I\nhave in mind, it would bring you five times that interest, and before\nlong perhaps much more. Of course I am now speaking in the roughest\noutline. I should have to get trustworthy advice; complete and detailed\nestimates would be submitted to you. At present I merely suggest to you\nthis form of investment.'\n\nHe watched her face eagerly, greedily. When Marian's eyes rose to his he\nlooked away.\n\n'Then, of course,' she said, 'you don't expect me to give any decided\nanswer.'\n\n'Of course not--of course not. I merely put before you the chief\nadvantages of such an investment. As I am a selfish old fellow, I'll\ntalk about the benefit to myself first of all. I should be editor of the\nnew review; I should draw a stipend sufficient to all my needs--quite\ncontent, at first, to take far less than another man would ask, and to\nprogress with the advance of the periodical. This position would enable\nme to have done with mere drudgery; I should only write when I felt\ncalled to do so--when the spirit moved me.' Again he laughed, as though\ndesirous of keeping his listener in good humour. 'My eyes would be\ngreatly spared henceforth.'\n\nHe dwelt on that point, waiting its effect on Marian. As she said\nnothing he proceeded:\n\n'And suppose I really were doomed to lose my sight in the course of a\nfew years, am I wrong in thinking that the proprietor of this periodical\nwould willingly grant a small annuity to the man who had firmly\nestablished it?'\n\n'I see the force of all that,' said Marian; 'but it takes for granted\nthat the periodical will be successful.'\n\n'It does. In the hands of a publisher like Jedwood--a vigorous man of\nthe new school--its success could scarcely be doubtful.'\n\n'Do you think five thousand pounds would be enough to start such a\nreview?'\n\n'Well, I can say nothing definite on that point. For one thing, the\ncoat must be made according to the cloth; expenditure can be largely\ncontrolled without endangering success. Then again, I think Jedwood\nwould take a share in the venture. These are details. At present I only\nwant to familiarise you with the thought that an investment of this sort\nwill very probably offer itself to you.'\n\n'It would be better if we called it a speculation,' said Marian, smiling\nuneasily.\n\nHer one object at present was to oblige her father to understand that\nthe suggestion by no means lured her. She could not tell him that what\nhe proposed was out of the question, though as yet that was the light in\nwhich she saw it. His subtlety of approach had made her feel justified\nin dealing with him in a matter-of-fact way. He must see that she was\nnot to be cajoled. Obviously, and in the nature of the case, he was\nurging a proposal in which he himself had all faith; but Marian knew\nhis judgment was far from infallible. It mitigated her sense of behaving\nunkindly to reflect that in all likelihood this disposal of her money\nwould be the worst possible for her own interests, and therefore for\nhis. If, indeed, his dark forebodings were warranted, then upon her\nwould fall the care of him, and the steadiness with which she faced that\nresponsibility came from a hope of which she could not speak.\n\n'Name it as you will,' returned her father, hardly suppressing a note of\nirritation. 'True, every commercial enterprise is a speculation. But let\nme ask you one question, and beg you to reply frankly. Do you distrust\nmy ability to conduct this periodical?'\n\nShe did. She knew that he was not in touch with the interests of the\nday, and that all manner of considerations akin to the prime end of\nselling his review would make him an untrustworthy editor.\n\nBut how could she tell him this?\n\n'My opinion would be worthless,' she replied.\n\n'If Jedwood were disposed to put confidence in me, you also would?'\n\n'There's no need to talk of that now, father. Indeed, I can't say\nanything that would sound like a promise.'\n\nHe flashed a glance at her. Then she was more than doubtful?\n\n'But you have no objection, Marian, to talk in a friendly way of a\nproject that would mean so much to me?'\n\n'But I am afraid to encourage you,' she replied, frankly. 'It is\nimpossible for me to say whether I can do as you wish, or not.'\n\n'Yes, yes; I perfectly understand that. Heaven forbid that I should\nregard you as a child to be led independently of your own views and\nwishes! With so large a sum of money at stake, it would be monstrous\nif I acted rashly, and tried to persuade you to do the same. The matter\nwill have to be most gravely considered.'\n\n'Yes.' She spoke mechanically.\n\n'But if only it should come to something! You don't know what it would\nmean to me, Marian.'\n\n'Yes, father; I know very well how you think and feel about it.'\n\n'Do you?' He leaned forward, his features working under stress of\nemotion. 'If I could see myself the editor of an influential review, all\nmy bygone toils and sufferings would be as nothing; I should rejoice in\nthem as the steps to this triumph. Meminisse juvabit! My dear, I am not\na man fitted for subordinate places. My nature is framed for authority.\nThe failure of all my undertakings rankles so in my heart that sometimes\nI feel capable of every brutality, every meanness, every hateful\ncruelty. To you I have behaved shamefully. Don't interrupt me, Marian.\nI have treated you abominably, my child, my dear daughter--and all the\ntime with a full sense of what I was doing. That's the punishment of\nfaults such as mine. I hate myself for every harsh word and angry look I\nhave given you; at the time, I hated myself!'\n\n'Father--'\n\n'No, no; let me speak, Marian. You have forgiven me; I know it. You were\nalways ready to forgive, dear. Can I ever forget that evening when I\nspoke like a brute, and you came afterwards and addressed me as if the\nwrong had been on your side? It burns in my memory. It wasn't I who\nspoke; it was the demon of failure, of humiliation. My enemies sit\nin triumph, and scorn at me; the thought of it is infuriating. Have I\ndeserved this? Am I the inferior of--of those men who have succeeded\nand now try to trample on me? No! I am not! I have a better brain and a\nbetter heart!'\n\nListening to this strange outpouring, Marian more than forgave the\nhypocrisy of the last day or two. Nay, could it be called hypocrisy? It\nwas only his better self declared at the impulse of a passionate hope.\n\n'Why should you think so much of these troubles, father? Is it such a\ngreat matter that narrow-minded people triumph over you?'\n\n'Narrow-minded?' He clutched at the word. 'You admit they are that?'\n\n'I feel very sure that Mr Fadge is.'\n\n'Then you are not on his side against me?'\n\n'How could you suppose such a thing?'\n\n'Well, well; we won't talk of that. Perhaps it isn't a great matter.\nNo--from a philosophical point of view, such things are unspeakably\npetty. But I am not much of a philosopher.' He laughed, with a break in\nhis voice. 'Defeat in life is defeat, after all; and unmerited failure\nis a bitter curse. You see, I am not too old to do something yet. My\nsight is failing, but I can take care of it. If I had my own review, I\nwould write every now and then a critical paper in my very best style.\nYou remember poor old Hinks's note about me in his book? We laughed at\nit, but he wasn't so far wrong. I have many of those qualities. A man is\nconscious of his own merits as well as of his defects. I have done a few\nadmirable things. You remember my paper on Lord Herbert of Cherbury? No\none ever wrote a more subtle piece of criticism; but it was swept aside\namong the rubbish of the magazines. And it's just because of my pungent\nphrases that I have excited so much enmity. Wait! Wait! Let me have my\nown review, and leisure, and satisfaction of mind--heavens! what I will\nwrite! How I will scarify!'\n\n'That is unworthy of you. How much better to ignore your enemies!\n\nIn such a position, I should carefully avoid every word that betrayed\npersonal feeling.'\n\n'Well, well; you are of course right, my good girl. And I believe I\nshould do injustice to myself if I made you think that those ignoble\nmotives are the strongest in me. No; it isn't so. From my boyhood I\nhave had a passionate desire of literary fame, deep down below all the\nsurface faults of my character. The best of my life has gone by, and it\ndrives me to despair when I feel that I have not gained the position due\nto me. There is only one way of doing this now, and that is by becoming\nthe editor of an important periodical. Only in that way shall I succeed\nin forcing people to pay attention to my claims. Many a man goes to\nhis grave unrecognised, just because he has never had a fair judgment.\nNowadays it is the unscrupulous men of business who hold the attention\nof the public; they blow their trumpets so loudly that the voices of\nhonest men have no chance of being heard.'\n\nMarian was pained by the humility of his pleading with her--for what was\nall this but an endeavour to move her sympathies?--and by the necessity\nshe was under of seeming to turn a deaf ear. She believed that there\nwas some truth in his estimate of his own powers; though as an editor\nhe would almost certainly fail, as a man of letters he had probably\ndone far better work than some who had passed him by on their way to\npopularity. Circumstances might enable her to assist him, though not in\nthe way he proposed. The worst of it was that she could not let him see\nwhat was in her mind. He must think that she was simply balancing\nher own satisfaction against his, when in truth she suffered from the\nconviction that to yield would be as unwise in regard to her father's\nfuture as it would be perilous to her own prospect of happiness.\n\n'Shall we leave this to be talked of when the money has been paid over\nto me?' she said, after a silence.\n\n'Yes. Don't suppose I wish to influence you by dwelling on my\nown hardships. That would be contemptible. I have only taken this\nopportunity of making myself better known to you. I don't readily talk\nof myself and in general my real feelings are hidden by the faults of\nmy temper. In suggesting how you could do me a great service, and at the\nsame time reap advantage for yourself I couldn't but remember how little\nreason you have to think kindly of me. But we will postpone further\ntalk. You will think over what I have said?'\n\nMarian promised that she would, and was glad to bring the conversation\nto an end.\n\nWhen Sunday came, Yule inquired of his daughter if she had any\nengagement for the afternoon.\n\n'Yes, I have,' she replied, with an effort to disguise her\nembarrassment.\n\n'I'm sorry. I thought of asking you to come with me to Quarmby's. Shall\nyou be away through the evening?'\n\n'Till about nine o'clock, I think.'\n\n'Ah! Never mind, never mind.'\n\nHe tried to dismiss the matter as if it were of no moment, but Marian\nsaw the shadow that passed over his countenance. This was just after\nbreakfast. For the remainder of the morning she did not meet him, and at\nthe mid-day dinner he was silent, though he brought no book to the table\nwith him, as he was wont to do when in his dark moods. Marian\ntalked with her mother, doing her best to preserve the appearance of\ncheerfulness which was natural since the change in Yule's demeanour.\n\nShe chanced to meet her father in the passage just as she was going\nout. He smiled (it was more like a grin of pain) and nodded, but said\nnothing.\n\nWhen the front door closed, he went into the parlour. Mrs Yule was\nreading, or, at all events, turning over a volume of an illustrated\nmagazine.\n\n'Where do you suppose she has gone?' he asked, in a voice which was only\ndistant, not offensive.\n\n'To the Miss Milvains, I believe,' Mrs Yule answered, looking aside.\n\n'Did she tell you so?'\n\n'No. We don't talk about it.'\n\nHe seated himself on the corner of a chair and bent forward, his chin in\nhis hand.\n\n'Has she said anything to you about the review?'\n\n'Not a word.'\n\nShe glanced at him timidly, and turned a few pages of her book.\n\n'I wanted her to come to Quarmby's, because there'll be a man there who\nis anxious that Jedwood should start a magazine, and it would be useful\nfor her to hear practical opinions. There'd be no harm if you just spoke\nto her about it now and then. Of course if she has made up her mind\nto refuse me it's no use troubling myself any more. I should think you\nmight find out what's really going on.'\n\nOnly dire stress of circumstances could have brought Alfred Yule to make\ndistinct appeal for his wife's help. There was no underhand plotting\nbetween them to influence their daughter; Mrs Yule had as much desire\nfor the happiness of her husband as for that of Marian, but she felt\npowerless to effect anything on either side.\n\n'If ever she says anything, I'll let you know.'\n\n'But it seems to me that you have a right to question her.'\n\n'I can't do that, Alfred.'\n\n'Unfortunately, there are a good many things you can't do.' With that\nremark, familiar to his wife in substance, though the tone of it was\nless caustic than usual, he rose and sauntered from the room. He spent\na gloomy hour in the study, then went off to join the literary circle at\nMr Quarmby's.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV. JASPER'S MAGNANIMITY\n\nOccasionally Milvain met his sisters as they came out of church on\nSunday morning, and walked home to have dinner with them. He did so\nto-day, though the sky was cheerless and a strong north-west wind made\nit anything but agreeable to wait about in open spaces.\n\n'Are you going to Mrs Wright's this afternoon?' he asked, as they went\non together.\n\n'I thought of going,' replied Maud. 'Marian will be with Dora.'\n\n'You ought both to go. You mustn't neglect that woman.'\n\nHe said nothing more just then, but when presently he was alone with\nDora in the sitting-room for a few minutes, he turned with a peculiar\nsmile and remarked quietly:\n\n'I think you had better go with Maud this afternoon.'\n\n'But I can't. I expect Marian at three.'\n\n'That's just why I want you to go.'\n\nShe looked her surprise.\n\n'I want to have a talk with Marian. We'll manage it in this way. At a\nquarter to three you two shall start, and as you go out you can tell the\nlandlady that if Miss Yule comes she is to wait for you, as you won't be\nlong. She'll come upstairs, and I shall be there. You see?'\n\nDora turned half away, disturbed a little, but not displeased.\n\n'And what about Miss Rupert?' she asked.\n\n'Oh, Miss Rupert may go to Jericho for all I care. I'm in a magnanimous\nmood.'\n\n'Very, I've no doubt.'\n\n'Well, you'll do this? One of the results of poverty, you see; one can't\neven have a private conversation with a friend without plotting to get\nthe use of a room. But there shall be an end of this state of things.'\n\nHe nodded significantly. Thereupon Dora left the room to speak with her\nsister.\n\nThe device was put into execution, and Jasper saw his sisters depart\nknowing that they were not likely to return for some three hours. He\nseated himself comfortably by the fire and mused. Five minutes had\nhardly gone by when he looked at his watch, thinking Marian must be\nunpunctual. He was nervous, though he had believed himself secure\nagainst such weakness. His presence here with the purpose he had in his\nmind seemed to him distinctly a concession to impulses he ought to have\ncontrolled; but to this resolve he had come, and it was now too late to\nrecommence the arguments with himself. Too late? Well, not strictly so;\nhe had committed himself to nothing; up to the last moment of freedom he\ncould always--\n\nThat was doubtless Marian's knock at the front door. He jumped up,\nwalked the length of the room, sat down on another chair, returned to\nhis former seat. Then the door opened and Marian came in.\n\nShe was not surprised; the landlady had mentioned to her that Mr Milvain\nwas upstairs, waiting the return of his sisters.\n\n'I am to make 'Dora's excuses,' Jasper said. 'She begged you would\nforgive her--that you would wait.'\n\n'Oh yes.'\n\n'And you were to be sure to take off your hat,' he added in a laughing\ntone; 'and to let me put your umbrella in the corner--like that.'\n\nHe had always admired the shape of Marian's head, and the beauty of her\nshort, soft, curly hair. As he watched her uncovering it, he was pleased\nwith the grace of her arms and the pliancy of her slight figure.\n\n'Which is usually your chair?'\n\n'I'm sure I don't know.'\n\n'When one goes to see a friend frequently, one gets into regular\nhabits in these matters. In Biffen's garret I used to have the most\nuncomfortable chair it was ever my lot to sit upon; still, I came to\nfeel an affection for it. At Reardon's I always had what was supposed to\nbe the most luxurious seat, but it was too small for me, and I eyed it\nresentfully on sitting down and rising.'\n\n'Have you any news about the Reardons?'\n\n'Yes. I am told that Reardon has had the offer of a secretaryship to a\nboys' home, or something of the kind, at Croydon. But I suppose there'll\nbe no need for him to think of that now.'\n\n'Surely not!'\n\n'Oh there's no saying.'\n\n'Why should he do work of that kind now?'\n\n'Perhaps his wife will tell him that she wants her money all for\nherself.'\n\nMarian laughed. It was very rarely that Jasper had heard her laugh at\nall, and never so spontaneously as this. He liked the music.\n\n'You haven't a very good opinion of Mrs Reardon,' she said.\n\n'She is a difficult person to judge. I never disliked her, by any means;\nbut she was decidedly out of place as the wife of a struggling author.\nPerhaps I have been a little prejudiced against her since Reardon\nquarrelled with me on her account.'\n\nMarian was astonished at this unlooked-for explanation of the rupture\nbetween Milvain and his friend. That they had not seen each other for\nsome months she knew from Jasper himself but no definite cause had been\nassigned.\n\n'I may as well let you know all about it,' Milvain continued, seeing\nthat he had disconcerted the girl, as he meant to. 'I met Reardon not\nlong after they had parted, and he charged me with being in great part\nthe cause of his troubles.'\n\nThe listener did not raise her eyes.\n\n'You would never imagine what my fault was. Reardon declared that the\ntone of my conversation had been morally injurious to his wife. He said\nI was always glorifying worldly success, and that this had made her\ndiscontented with her lot. Sounds rather ludicrous, don't you think?'\n\n'It was very strange.'\n\n'Reardon was in desperate earnest, poor fellow. And, to tell you the\ntruth, I fear there may have been something in his complaint.\n\nI told him at once that I should henceforth keep away from Mrs Edmund\nYule's; and so I have done, with the result, of course, that they\nsuppose I condemn Mrs Reardon's behaviour. The affair was a nuisance,\nbut I had no choice, I think.'\n\n'You say that perhaps your talk really was harmful to her.'\n\n'It may have been, though such a danger never occurred to me.'\n\n'Then Amy must be very weak-minded.'\n\n'To be influenced by such a paltry fellow?'\n\n'To be influenced by anyone in such a way.'\n\n'You think the worse of me for this story?' Jasper asked.\n\n'I don't quite understand it. How did you talk to her?'\n\n'As I talk to everyone. You have heard me say the same things many a\ntime. I simply declare my opinion that the end of literary work--unless\none is a man of genius--is to secure comfort and repute. This doesn't\nseem to me very scandalous. But Mrs Reardon was perhaps too urgent in\nrepeating such views to her husband. She saw that in my case they were\nlikely to have solid results, and it was a misery to her that Reardon\ncouldn't or wouldn't work in the same practical way.\n\n'It was very unfortunate.'\n\n'And you are inclined to blame me?'\n\n'No; because I am so sure that you only spoke in the way natural to you,\nwithout a thought of such consequences.'\n\nJasper smiled.\n\n'That's precisely the truth. Nearly all men who have their way to make\nthink as I do, but most feel obliged to adopt a false tone, to talk\nabout literary conscientiousness, and so on. I simply say what I think,\nwith no pretences. I should like to be conscientious, but it's a luxury\nI can't afford. I've told you all this often enough, you know.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'But it hasn't been morally injurious to you,' he said with a laugh.\n\n'Not at all. Still I don't like it.'\n\nJasper was startled. He gazed at her. Ought he, then, to have dealt\nwith her less frankly? Had he been mistaken in thinking that the\nunusual openness of his talk was attractive to her? She spoke with quite\nunaccustomed decision; indeed, he had noticed from her entrance that\nthere was something unfamiliar in her way of conversing. She was so much\nmore self-possessed than of wont, and did not seem to treat him with the\nsame deference, the same subdual of her own personality.\n\n'You don't like it?' he repeated calmly. 'It has become rather tiresome\nto you?'\n\n'I feel sorry that you should always represent yourself in an\nunfavourable light.'\n\nHe was an acute man, but the self-confidence with which he had entered\nupon this dialogue, his conviction that he had but to speak when he\nwished to receive assurance of Marian's devotion, prevented him from\nunderstanding the tone of independence she had suddenly adopted. With\nmore modesty he would have felt more subtly at this juncture, would have\ndivined that the girl had an exquisite pleasure in drawing back now that\nshe saw him approaching her with unmistakable purpose, that she wished\nto be wooed in less off-hand fashion before confessing what was in her\nheart. For the moment he was disconcerted. Those last words of hers had\na slight tone of superiority, the last thing he would have expected upon\nher lips.\n\n'Yet I surely haven't always appeared so--to you?' he said.\n\n'No, not always.'\n\n'But you are in doubt concerning the real man?'\n\n'I'm not sure that I understand you. You say that you do really think as\nyou speak.'\n\n'So I do. I think that there is no choice for a man who can't bear\npoverty. I have never said, though, that I had pleasure in mean\nnecessities; I accept them because I can't help it.'\n\nIt was a delight to Marian to observe the anxiety with which he turned\nto self-defence. Never in her life had she felt this joy of holding a\nposition of command. It was nothing to her that Jasper valued her more\nbecause of her money; impossible for it to be otherwise. Satisfied that\nhe did value her, to begin with, for her own sake, she was very willing\nto accept money as her ally in the winning of his love. He scarcely\nloved her yet, as she understood the feeling, but she perceived her\npower over him, and passion taught her how to exert it.\n\n'But you resign yourself very cheerfully to the necessity,' she said,\nlooking at him with merely intellectual eyes.\n\n'You had rather I lamented my fate in not being able to devote myself to\nnobly unremunerative work?'\n\nThere was a note of irony here. It caused her a tremor, but she held her\nposition.\n\n'That you never do so would make one think--but I won't speak unkindly.'\n\n'That I neither care for good work nor am capable of it,' Jasper\nfinished her sentence. 'I shouldn't have thought it would make you think\nso.'\n\nInstead of replying she turned her look towards the door. There was a\nfootstep on the stairs, but it passed.\n\n'I thought it might be Dora,' she said.\n\n'She won't be here for another couple of hours at least,' replied Jasper\nwith a slight smile.\n\n'But you said--?'\n\n'I sent her to Mrs Boston Wright's that I might have an opportunity of\ntalking to you. Will you forgive the stratagem?'\n\nMarian resumed her former attitude, the faintest smile hovering about\nher lips.\n\n'I'm glad there's plenty of time,' he continued. 'I begin to suspect\nthat you have been misunderstanding me of late. I must set that right.'\n\n'I don't think I have misunderstood you.'\n\n'That may mean something very disagreeable. I know that some people whom\nI esteem have a very poor opinion of me, but I can't allow you to be one\nof them. What do I seem to you? What is the result on your mind of all\nour conversations?'\n\n'I have already told you.'\n\n'Not seriously. Do you believe I am capable of generous feeling?'\n\n'To say no, would be to put you in the lowest class of men, and that a\nvery small one.''Good! Then I am not among the basest. But that doesn't\ngive me very distinguished claims upon your consideration. Whatever I\nam, I am high in some of my ambitions.'\n\n'Which of them?'\n\n'For instance, I have been daring enough to hope that you might love\nme.'\n\nMarian delayed for a moment, then said quietly:\n\n'Why do you call that daring?'\n\n'Because I have enough of old-fashioned thought to believe that a woman\nwho is worthy of a man's love is higher than he, and condescends in\ngiving herself to him.'\n\nHis voice was not convincing; the phrase did not sound natural on his\nlips. It was not thus that she had hoped to hear him speak. Whilst he\nexpressed himself thus conventionally he did not love her as she desired\nto be loved.\n\n'I don't hold that view,' she said.\n\n'It doesn't surprise me. You are very reserved on all subjects, and we\nhave never spoken of this, but of course I know that your thought is\nnever commonplace. Hold what view you like of woman's position, that\ndoesn't affect mine.'\n\n'Is yours commonplace, then?'\n\n'Desperately. Love is a very old and common thing, and I believe I love\nyou in the old and common way. I think you beautiful, you seem to me\nwomanly in the best sense, full of charm and sweetness. I know myself a\ncoarse being in comparison. All this has been felt and said in the same\nway by men infinite in variety. Must I find some new expression before\nyou can believe me?'\n\nMarian kept silence.\n\n'I know what you are thinking,' he said. 'The thought is as inevitable\nas my consciousness of it.'\n\nFor an instant she looked at him.\n\n'Yes, you look the thought. Why have I not spoken to you in this\nway before? Why have I waited until you are obliged to suspect my\nsincerity?'\n\n'My thought is not so easily read, then,' said Marian.\n\n'To be sure it hasn't a gross form, but I know you wish--whatever your\nreal feeling towards me--that I had spoken a fortnight ago. You would\nwish that of any man in my position, merely because it is painful to you\nto see a possible insincerity. Well, I am not insincere. I have thought\nof you as of no other woman for some time. But--yes, you shall have the\nplain, coarse truth, which is good in its way, no doubt. I was afraid to\nsay that I loved you. You don't flinch; so far, so good. Now what harm\nis there in this confession? In the common course of things I shouldn't\nbe in a position to marry for perhaps three or four years, and even then\nmarriage would mean difficulties, restraints, obstacles. I have always\ndreaded the thought of marriage with a poor income. You remember?\n\nLove in a hut, with water and a crust, Is--Love forgive us!--cinders,\nashes, dust.\n\nYou know that is true.'\n\n'Not always, I dare say.'\n\n'But for the vast majority of mortals. There's the instance of the\nReardons. They were in love with each other, if ever two people were;\nbut poverty ruined everything. I am not in the confidence of either of\nthem, but I feel sure each has wished the other dead. What else was\nto be expected? Should I have dared to take a wife in my present\ncircumstances--a wife as poor as myself?'\n\n'You will be in a much better position before long,' said Marian.\n'If you loved me, why should you have been afraid to ask me to have\nconfidence in your future?'\n\n'It's all so uncertain. It may be another ten years before I can count\non an income of five or six hundred pounds--if I have to struggle on in\nthe common way.'\n\n'But tell me, what is your aim in life? What do you understand by\nsuccess?'\n\n'Yes, I will tell you. My aim is to have easy command of all the\npleasures desired by a cultivated man. I want to live among beautiful\nthings, and never to be troubled by a thought of vulgar difficulties.\nI want to travel and enrich my mind in foreign countries. I want to\nassociate on equal terms with refined and interesting people. I want to\nbe known, to be familiarly referred to, to feel when I enter a room that\npeople regard me with some curiosity.'\n\nHe looked steadily at her with bright eyes.\n\n'And that's all?' asked Marian.\n\n'That is very much. Perhaps you don't know how I suffer in feeling\nmyself at a disadvantage. My instincts are strongly social, yet I can't\nbe at my ease in society, simply because I can't do justice to myself.\nWant of money makes me the inferior of the people I talk with, though\nI might be superior to them in most things. I am ignorant in many\nways, and merely because I am poor. Imagine my never having been out of\nEngland! It shames me when people talk familiarly of the Continent. So\nwith regard to all manner of amusements and pursuits at home. Impossible\nfor me to appear among my acquaintances at the theatre, at concerts.\nI am perpetually at a disadvantage; I haven't fair play. Suppose me\npossessed of money enough to live a full and active life for the next\nfive years; why, at the end of that time my position would be secure. To\nhim that hath shall be given--you know how universally true that is.'\n\n'And yet,' came in a low voice from Marian, 'you say that you love me.'\n\n'You mean that I speak as if no such thing as love existed. But you\nasked me what I understood by success. I am speaking of worldly things.\nNow suppose I had said to you:\n\nMy one aim and desire in life is to win your love. Could you have\nbelieved me? Such phrases are always untrue; I don't know how it\ncan give anyone pleasure to hear them. But if I say to you: All the\nsatisfactions I have described would be immensely heightened if they\nwere shared with a woman who loved me--there is the simple truth.'\n\nMarian's heart sank. She did not want truth such as this; she would have\npreferred that he should utter the poor, common falsehoods. Hungry for\npassionate love, she heard with a sense of desolation all this calm\nreasoning. That Jasper was of cold temperament she had often feared; yet\nthere was always the consoling thought that she did not see with perfect\nclearness into his nature. Now and then had come a flash, a hint of\npossibilities. She had looked forward with trembling eagerness to some\nsudden revelation; but it seemed as if he knew no word of the language\nwhich would have called such joyous response from her expectant soul.\n\n'We have talked for a long time,' she said, turning her head as if his\nlast words were of no significance. 'As Dora is not coming, I think I\nwill go now.'\n\nShe rose, and went towards the chair on which lay her out-of-door\nthings. At once Jasper stepped to her side.\n\n'You will go without giving me any answer?'\n\n'Answer? To what?'\n\n'Will you be my wife?'\n\n'It is too soon to ask me that.'\n\n'Too soon? Haven't you known for months that I thought of you with far\nmore than friendliness?'\n\n'How was it possible I should know that? You have explained to me why\nyou would not let your real feelings be understood.'\n\nThe reproach was merited, and not easy to be outfaced. He turned away\nfor an instant, then with a sudden movement caught both her hands.\n\n'Whatever I have done or said or thought in the past, that is of no\naccount now. I love you, Marian. I want you to be my wife. I have never\nseen any other girl who impressed me as you did from the first. If I had\nbeen weak enough to try to win anyone but you, I should have known that\nI had turned aside from the path of my true happiness. Let us forget for\na moment all our circumstances. I hold your hands, and look into your\nface, and say that I love you. Whatever answer you give, I love you!'\n\nTill now her heart had only fluttered a little; it was a great part of\nher distress that the love she had so long nurtured seemed shrinking\ntogether into some far corner of her being whilst she listened to\nthe discourses which prefaced Jasper's declaration. She was nervous,\npainfully self-conscious, touched with maidenly shame, but could not\nabandon herself to that delicious emotion which ought to have been the\nfulfilment of all her secret imaginings. Now at length there began a\nthrobbing in her bosom. Keeping her face averted, her eyes cast down,\nshe waited for a repetition of the note that was in that last 'I love\nyou.' She felt a change in the hands that held hers--a warmth, a moist\nsoftness; it caused a shock through her veins.\n\nHe was trying to draw her nearer, but she kept at full arm's length and\nlooked irresponsive.\n\n'Marian?'\n\nShe wished to answer, but a spirit of perversity held her tongue.\n\n'Marian, don't you love me? Or have I offended you by my way of\nspeaking?'\n\nPersisting, she at length withdrew her hands. Jasper's face expressed\nsomething like dismay.\n\n'You have not offended me,' she said. 'But I am not sure that you don't\ndeceive yourself in thinking, for the moment, that I am necessary to\nyour happiness.'\n\nThe emotional current which had passed from her flesh to his whilst\ntheir hands were linked, made him incapable of standing aloof from her.\nHe saw that her face and neck were warmer hued, and her beauty became\nmore desirable to him than ever yet.\n\n'You are more to me than anything else in the compass of life!' he\nexclaimed, again pressing forward. 'I think of nothing but you--you\nyourself--my beautiful, gentle, thoughtful Marian!'\n\nHis arm captured her, and she did not resist. A sob, then a strange\nlittle laugh, betrayed the passion that was at length unfolded in her.\n\n'You do love me, Marian?'\n\n'I love you.'\n\nAnd there followed the antiphony of ardour that finds its first\nutterance--a subdued music, often interrupted, ever returning upon the\nsame rich note.\n\nMarian closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the luxury of the dream.\nIt was her first complete escape from the world of intellectual routine,\nher first taste of life. All the pedantry of her daily toil slipped away\nlike a cumbrous garment; she was clad only in her womanhood. Once or\ntwice a shudder of strange self-consciousness went through her, and\nshe felt guilty, immodest; but upon that sensation followed a surge of\npassionate joy, obliterating memory and forethought.\n\n'How shall I see you?' Jasper asked at length. 'Where can we meet?'\n\nIt was a difficulty. The season no longer allowed lingerings under\nthe open sky, but Marian could not go to his lodgings, and it seemed\nimpossible for him to visit her at her home.\n\n'Will your father persist in unfriendliness to me?'\n\nShe was only just beginning to reflect on all that was involved in this\nnew relation.\n\n'I have no hope that he will change,' she said sadly.\n\n'He will refuse to countenance your marriage?'\n\n'I shall disappoint him and grieve him bitterly. He has asked me to use\nmy money in starting a new review.'\n\n'Which he is to edit?'\n\n'Yes. Do you think there would be any hope of its success?'\n\nJasper shook his head.\n\n'Your father is not the man for that, Marian. I don't say it\ndisrespectfully; I mean that he doesn't seem to me to have that kind of\naptitude. It would be a disastrous speculation.'\n\n'I felt that. Of course I can't think of it now.'\n\nShe smiled, raising her face to his.\n\n'Don't trouble,' said Jasper. 'Wait a little, till I have made myself\nindependent of Fadge and a few other men, and your father shall see\nhow heartily I wish to be of use to him. He will miss your help, I'm\nafraid?'\n\n'Yes. I shall feel it a cruelty when I have to leave him. He has only\njust told me that his sight is beginning to fail. Oh, why didn't his\nbrother leave him a little money? It was such unkindness! Surely he had\na much better right than Amy, or than myself either. But literature has\nbeen a curse to father all his life. My uncle hated it, and I suppose\nthat was why he left father nothing.'\n\n'But how am I to see you often? That's the first question. I know what I\nshall do. I must take new lodgings, for the girls and myself, all in\nthe same house. We must have two sitting-rooms; then you will come to my\nroom without any difficulty. These astonishing proprieties are so easily\nsatisfied after all.'\n\n'You will really do that?'\n\n'Yes. I shall go and look for rooms to-morrow. Then when you come you\ncan always ask for Maud or Dora, you know. They will be very glad of a\nchange to more respectable quarters.'\n\n'I won't stay to see them now, Jasper,' said Marian, her thoughts\nturning to the girls.\n\n'Very well. You are safe for another hour, but to make certain you shall\ngo at a quarter to five. Your mother won't be against us?'\n\n'Poor mother--no. But she won't dare to justify me before father.'\n\n'I feel as if I should play a mean part in leaving it to you to tell\nyour father. Marian, I will brave it out and go and see him.'\n\n'Oh, it would be better not to.'\n\n'Then I will write to him--such a letter as he can't possibly take in\nill part.'\n\nMarian pondered this proposal.\n\n'You shall do that, Jasper, if you are willing. But not yet; presently.'\n\n'You don't wish him to know at once?'\n\n'We had better wait a little. You know,' she added laughing, 'that my\nlegacy is only in name mine as yet. The will hasn't been proved. And\nthen the money will have to be realised.'\n\nShe informed him of the details; Jasper listened with his eyes on the\nground.\n\nThey were now sitting on chairs drawn close to each other. It was with\na sense of relief that Jasper had passed from dithyrambs to conversation\non practical points; Marian's excited sensitiveness could not but\nobserve this, and she kept watching the motions of his countenance. At\nlength he even let go her hand.\n\n'You would prefer,' he said reflectively, 'that nothing should be said\nto your father until that business is finished?'\n\n'If you consent to it.'\n\n'Oh, I have no doubt it's as well.'\n\nHer little phrase of self-subjection, and its tremulous tone, called for\nanother answer than this. Jasper fell again into thought, and clearly it\nwas thought of practical things.\n\n'I think I must go now, Jasper,' she said.\n\n'Must you? Well, if you had rather.'\n\nHe rose, though she was still seated. Marian moved a few steps away, but\nturned and approached him again.\n\n'Do you really love me?' she asked, taking one of his hands and folding\nit between her own.\n\n'I do indeed love you, Marian. Are you still doubtful?'\n\n'You're not sorry that I must go?'\n\n'But I am, dearest. I wish we could sit here undisturbed all through the\nevening.'\n\nHer touch had the same effect as before. His blood warmed again, and he\npressed her to his side, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead.\n\n'Are you sorry I wear my hair short?' she asked, longing for more praise\nthan he had bestowed on her.\n\n'Sorry? It is perfect. Everything else seems vulgar compared with this\nway of yours. How strange you would look with plaits and that kind of\nthing!'\n\n'I am so glad it pleases you.'\n\n'There is nothing in you that doesn't please me, my thoughtful girl.'\n\n'You called me that before. Do I seem so very thoughtful?'\n\n'So grave, and sweetly reserved, and with eyes so full of meaning.'\n\nShe quivered with delight, her face hidden against his breast.\n\n'I seem to be new-born, Jasper. Everything in the world is new to me,\nand I am strange to myself. I have never known an hour of happiness till\nnow, and I can't believe yet that it has come to me.'\n\nShe at length attired herself, and they left the house together, of\ncourse not unobserved by the landlady. Jasper walked about half the way\nto St Paul's Crescent. It was arranged that he should address a letter\nfor her to the care of his sisters; but in a day or two the change of\nlodgings would be effected.\n\nWhen they had parted, Marian looked back. But Jasper was walking quickly\naway, his head bent, in profound meditation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV. A FRUITLESS MEETING\n\nRefuge from despair is often found in the passion of self-pity and that\nspirit of obstinate resistance which it engenders. In certain natures\nthe extreme of self-pity is intolerable, and leads to self-destruction;\nbut there are less fortunate beings whom the vehemence of their revolt\nagainst fate strengthens to endure in suffering. These latter are rather\nimaginative than passionate; the stages of their woe impress them as\nthe acts of a drama, which they cannot bring themselves to cut short, so\nvarious are the possibilities of its dark motive. The intellectual man\nwho kills himself is most often brought to that decision by conviction\nof his insignificance; self-pity merges in self-scorn, and the\nhumiliated soul is intolerant of existence. He who survives under like\nconditions does so because misery magnifies him in his own estimate.\n\nIt was by force of commiserating his own lot that Edwin Reardon\ncontinued to live through the first month after his parting from Amy.\nOnce or twice a week, sometimes early in the evening, sometimes at\nmidnight or later, he haunted the street at Westbourne Park where his\nwife was dwelling, and on each occasion he returned to his garret with\na fortified sense of the injustice to which he was submitted, of revolt\nagainst the circumstances which had driven him into outer darkness, of\nbitterness against his wife for saving her own comfort rather than\nshare his downfall. At times he was not far from that state of sheer\ndistraction which Mrs Edmund Yule preferred to suppose that he had\nreached. An extraordinary arrogance now and then possessed him; he stood\namid his poor surroundings with the sensations of an outraged exile, and\nlaughed aloud in furious contempt of all who censured or pitied him.\n\nOn hearing from Jasper Milvain that Amy had fallen ill, or at all\nevents was suffering in health from what she had gone through, he felt\na momentary pang which all but determined him to hasten to her side. The\nreaction was a feeling of distinct pleasure that she had her share of\npain, and even a hope that her illness might become grave; he pictured\nhimself summoned to her sick chamber, imagined her begging his\nforgiveness. But it was not merely, nor in great part, a malicious\nsatisfaction; he succeeded in believing that Amy suffered because she\nstill had a remnant of love for him. As the days went by and he heard\nnothing, disappointment and resentment occupied him. At length he ceased\nto haunt the neighbourhood. His desires grew sullen; he became fixed in\nthe resolve to hold entirely apart and doggedly await the issue.\n\nAt the end of each month he sent half the money he had received from\nCarter, simply enclosing postal orders in an envelope addressed to his\nwife. The first two remittances were in no way acknowledged; the third\nbrought a short note from Amy:\n\n'As you continue to send these sums of money, I had perhaps better let\nyou know that I cannot use them for any purposes of my own. Perhaps a\nsense of duty leads you to make this sacrifice, but I am afraid it\nis more likely that you wish to remind me every month that you are\nundergoing privations, and to pain me in this way. What you have sent I\nhave deposited in the Post Office Savings' Bank in Willie's name, and I\nshall continue to do so.--A.R.'\n\nFor a day or two Reardon persevered in an intention of not replying, but\nthe desire to utter his turbid feelings became in the end too strong. He\nwrote:\n\n'I regard it as quite natural that you should put the worst\ninterpretation on whatever I do. As for my privations, I think very\nlittle of them; they are a trifle in comparison with the thought that\nI am forsaken just because my pocket is empty. And I am far indeed from\nthinking that you can be pained by whatever I may undergo; that would\nsuppose some generosity in your nature.'\n\nThis was no sooner posted than he would gladly have recalled it. He knew\nthat it was undignified, that it contained as many falsehoods as lines,\nand he was ashamed of himself for having written so. But he could not\npen a letter of retractation, and there remained with him a new cause of\nexasperated wretchedness.\n\nExcepting the people with whom he came in contact at the hospital, he\nhad no society but that of Biffen. The realist visited him once a\nweek, and this friendship grew closer than it had been in the time of\nReardon's prosperity. Biffen was a man of so much natural delicacy, that\nthere was a pleasure in imparting to him the details of private sorrow;\nthough profoundly sympathetic, he did his best to oppose Reardon's\nharsher judgments of Amy, and herein he gave his friend a satisfaction\nwhich might not be avowed.\n\n'I really do not see,' he exclaimed, as they sat in the garret one night\nof midsummer, 'how your wife could have acted otherwise. Of course I\nam quite unable to judge the attitude of her mind, but I think, I can't\nhelp thinking, from what I knew of her, that there has been strictly a\nmisunderstanding between you.\n\nIt was a hard and miserable thing that she should have to leave you for\na time, and you couldn't face the necessity in a just spirit. Don't you\nthink there's some truth in this way of looking at it?'\n\n'As a woman, it was her part to soften the hateful necessity; she made\nit worse.'\n\n'I'm not sure that you don't demand too much of her. Unhappily, I know\nlittle or nothing of delicately-bred women, but I have a suspicion that\none oughtn't to expect heroism in them, any more than in the women of\nthe lower classes. I think of women as creatures to be protected. Is a\nman justified in asking them to be stronger than himself?'\n\n'Of course,' replied Reardon, 'there's no use in demanding more than\na character is capable of. But I believed her of finer stuff. My\nbitterness comes of the disappointment.'\n\n'I suppose there were faults of temper on both sides, and you saw at\nlast only each other's weaknesses.'\n\n'I saw the truth, which had always been disguised from me.' Biffen\npersisted in looking doubtful, and in secret Reardon thanked him for it.\n\nAs the realist progressed with his novel, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' he read\nthe chapters to Reardon, not only for his own satisfaction, but in great\npart because he hoped that this example of productivity might in the end\nencourage the listener to resume his own literary tasks. Reardon found\nmuch to criticise in his friend's work; it was noteworthy that he\nobjected and condemned with much less hesitation than in his better\ndays, for sensitive reticence is one of the virtues wont to be assailed\nby suffering, at all events in the weaker natures. Biffen purposely\nurged these discussions as far as possible, and doubtless they benefited\nReardon for the time; but the defeated novelist could not be induced to\nundertake another practical illustration of his own views. Occasionally\nhe had an impulse to plan a story, but an hour's turning it over in his\nmind sufficed to disgust him. His ideas seemed barren, vapid; it would\nhave been impossible for him to write half a dozen pages, and the mere\nthought of a whole book overcame him with the dread of insurmountable\ndifficulties, immeasurable toil.\n\nIn time, however, he was able to read. He had a pleasure in\ncontemplating the little collection of sterling books that alone\nremained to him from his library; the sight of many volumes would have\nbeen a weariness, but these few--when he was again able to think\nof books at all--were as friendly countenances. He could not read\ncontinuously, but sometimes he opened his Shakespeare, for instance,\nand dreamed over a page or two. From such glimpses there remained in\nhis head a line or a short passage, which he kept repeating to himself\nwherever he went; generally some example of sweet or sonorous metre\nwhich had a soothing effect upon him.\n\nWith odd result on one occasion. He was walking in one of the back\nstreets of Islington, and stopped idly to gaze into the window of some\nsmall shop. Standing thus, he forgot himself and presently recited\naloud:\n\n'Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster: An argument that he is pluck'd, when\nhither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, Which had superfluous\nkings for messengers Not many moons gone by.'\n\nThe last two lines he uttered a second time, enjoying their magnificent\nsound, and then was brought back to consciousness by the loud mocking\nlaugh of two men standing close by, who evidently looked upon him as a\nstrayed lunatic.\n\nHe kept one suit of clothes for his hours of attendance at the hospital;\nit was still decent, and with much care would remain so for a long time.\nThat which he wore at home and in his street wanderings declared poverty\nat every point; it had been discarded before he left the old abode. In\nhis present state of mind he cared nothing how disreputable he looked to\npassers-by. These seedy habiliments were the token of his degradation,\nand at times he regarded them (happening to see himself in a shop\nmirror) with pleasurable contempt. The same spirit often led him for a\nmeal to the poorest of eating-houses, places where he rubbed elbows with\nragged creatures who had somehow obtained the price of a cup of coffee\nand a slice of bread and butter. He liked to contrast himself with these\ncomrades in misfortune. 'This is the rate at which the world esteems\nme; I am worth no better provision than this.' Or else, instead of\nemphasising the contrast, he defiantly took a place among the miserables\nof the nether world, and nursed hatred of all who were well-to-do.\n\nOne of these he desired to regard with gratitude, but found it difficult\nto support that feeling. Carter, the vivacious, though at first\nperfectly unembarrassed in his relations with the City Road clerk,\ngradually exhibited a change of demeanour. Reardon occasionally found\nthe young man's eye fixed upon him with a singular expression, and the\nsecretary's talk, though still as a rule genial, was wont to suffer\ncurious interruptions, during which he seemed to be musing on something\nReardon had said, or on some point of his behaviour. The explanation of\nthis was that Carter had begun to think there might be a foundation for\nMrs Yule's hypothesis--that the novelist was not altogether in his sound\nsenses. At first he scouted the idea, but as time went on it seemed\nto him that Reardon's countenance certainly had a gaunt wildness which\nsuggested disagreeable things. Especially did he remark this after his\nreturn from an August holiday in Norway. On coming for the first time\nto the City Road branch he sat down and began to favour Reardon with\na lively description of how he had enjoyed himself abroad; it never\noccurred to him that such talk was not likely to inspirit the man\nwho had passed his August between the garret and the hospital, but he\nobserved before long that his listener was glancing hither and thither\nin rather a strange way.\n\n'You haven't been ill since I saw you?' he inquired.\n\n'Oh no!'\n\n'But you look as if you might have been. I say, we must manage for you\nto have a fortnight off, you know, this month.'\n\n'I have no wish for it,' said Reardon. 'I'll imagine I have been to\nNorway. It has done me good to hear of your holiday.'\n\n'I'm glad of that; but it isn't quite the same thing, you know, as\nhaving a run somewhere yourself.'\n\n'Oh, much better! To enjoy myself may be mere selfishness, but to enjoy\nanother's enjoyment is the purest satisfaction, good for body and soul.\nI am cultivating altruism.'\n\n'What's that?'\n\n'A highly rarefied form of happiness. The curious thing about it is\nthat it won't grow unless you have just twice as much faith in it as is\nrequired for assent to the Athanasian Creed.'\n\n'Oh!'\n\nCarter went away more than puzzled. He told his wife that evening that\nReardon had been talking to him in the most extraordinary fashion--no\nunderstanding a word he said.\n\nAll this time he was on the look-out for employment that would be more\nsuitable to his unfortunate clerk. Whether slightly demented or not,\nReardon gave no sign of inability to discharge his duties; he was\nconscientious as ever, and might, unless he changed greatly, be relied\nupon in positions of more responsibility than his present one. And at\nlength, early in October, there came to the secretary's knowledge an\nopportunity with which he lost no time in acquainting Reardon. The\nlatter repaired that evening to Clipstone Street, and climbed to\nBiffen's chamber. He entered with a cheerful look, and exclaimed:\n\n'I have just invented a riddle; see if you can guess it. Why is a London\nlodging-house like the human body?'\n\nBiffen looked with some concern at his friend, so unwonted was a sally\nof this kind.\n\n'Why is a London lodging-house--? Haven't the least idea.'\n\n'Because the brains are always at the top. Not bad, I think, eh?'\n\n'Well, no; it'll pass. Distinctly professional though. The general\npublic would fail to see the point, I'm afraid. But what has come to\nyou?'\n\n'Good tidings. Carter has offered me a place which will be a decided\nimprovement. A house found--or rooms, at all events--and salary a\nhundred and fifty a year.\n\n'By Plutus! That's good hearing. Some duties attached, I suppose?'\n\n'I'm afraid that was inevitable, as things go. It's the secretaryship of\na home for destitute boys at Croydon. The post is far from a sinecure,\nCarter assures me. There's a great deal of purely secretarial work,\nand there's a great deal of practical work, some of it rather rough,\nI fancy. It seems doubtful whether I am exactly the man. The present\nholder is a burly fellow over six feet high, delighting in gymnastics,\nand rather fond of a fight now and then when opportunity offers. But he\nis departing at Christmas--going somewhere as a missionary; and I can\nhave the place if I choose.'\n\n'As I suppose you do?'\n\n'Yes. I shall try it, decidedly.'\n\nBiffen waited a little, then asked:\n\n'I suppose your wife will go with you?'\n\n'There's no saying.'\n\nReardon tried to answer indifferently, but it could be seen that he was\nagitated between hopes and fears.\n\n'You'll ask her, at all events?'\n\n'Oh yes,' was the half-absent reply.\n\n'But surely there can be no doubt that she'll come. A hundred and fifty\na year, without rent to pay. Why, that's affluence!'\n\n'The rooms I might occupy are in the home itself. Amy won't take very\nreadily to a dwelling of that kind. And Croydon isn't the most inviting\nlocality.'\n\n'Close to delightful country.'\n\n'Yes, yes; but Amy doesn't care about that.'\n\n'You misjudge her, Reardon. You are too harsh. I implore you not to lose\nthe chance of setting all right again! If only you could be put into my\nposition for a moment, and then be offered the companionship of such a\nwife as yours!'\n\nReardon listened with a face of lowering excitement.\n\n'I should be perfectly within my rights,' he said sternly, 'if I merely\ntold her when I have taken the position, and let her ask me to take her\nback--if she wishes.'\n\n'You have changed a great deal this last year,' replied Biffen, shaking\nhis head, 'a great deal. I hope to see you your old self again before\nlong. I should have declared it impossible for you to become so rugged.\nGo and see your wife, there's a good fellow.'\n\n'No; I shall write to her.'\n\n'Go and see her, I beg you! No good ever came of letter-writing between\ntwo people who have misunderstood each other. Go to Westbourne Park\nto-morrow. And be reasonable; be more than reasonable. The happiness\nof your life depends on what you do now. Be content to forget whatever\nwrong has been done you. To think that a man should need persuading to\nwin back such a wife!'\n\nIn truth, there needed little persuasion. Perverseness, one of the forms\nor issues of self-pity, made him strive against his desire, and caused\nhim to adopt a tone of acerbity in excess of what he felt; but already\nhe had made up his mind to see Amy. Even if this excuse had not\npresented itself he must very soon have yielded to the longing for\na sight of his wife's face which day by day increased among all the\nconflicting passions of which he was the victim. A month or two ago,\nwhen the summer sunshine made his confinement to the streets a daily\ntorture, he convinced himself that there remained in him no trace of his\nlove for Amy; there were moments when he thought of her with repugnance,\nas a cold, selfish woman, who had feigned affection when it seemed her\ninterest to do so, but brutally declared her true self when there was\nno longer anything to be hoped from him. That was the self-deception of\nmisery. Love, even passion, was still alive in the depths of his being;\nthe animation with which he sped to his friend as soon as a new hope had\nrisen was the best proof of his feeling.\n\nHe went home and wrote to Amy.\n\n'I have a reason for wishing to see you. Will you have the kindness to\nappoint an hour on Sunday morning when I can speak with you in private?\nIt must be understood that I shall see no one else.'\n\nShe would receive this by the first post to-morrow, Saturday, and\ndoubtless would let him hear in reply some time in the afternoon.\nImpatience allowed him little sleep, and the next day was a long\nweariness of waiting. The evening he would have to spend at the\nhospital; if there came no reply before the time of his leaving home, he\nknew not how he should compel himself to the ordinary routine of work.\nYet the hour came, and he had heard nothing. He was tempted to go at\nonce to Westbourne Park, but reason prevailed with him. When he again\nentered the house, having walked at his utmost speed from the City Road,\nthe letter lay waiting for him; it had been pushed beneath his door, and\nwhen he struck a match he found that one of his feet was upon the white\nenvelope.\n\nAmy wrote that she would be at home at eleven to-morrow morning. Not\nanother word.\n\nIn all probability she knew of the offer that had been made to him; Mrs\nCarter would have told her. Was it of good or of ill omen that she wrote\nonly these half-dozen words? Half through the night he plagued himself\nwith suppositions, now thinking that her brevity promised a welcome,\nnow that she wished to warn him against expecting anything but a cold,\noffended demeanour. At seven he was dressed; two hours and a half had\nto be killed before he could start on his walk westward. He would have\nwandered about the streets, but it rained.\n\nHe had made himself as decent as possible in appearance, but he must\nnecessarily seem an odd Sunday visitor at a house such as Mrs Yule's.\nHis soft felt hat, never brushed for months, was a greyish green, and\nstained round the band with perspiration. His necktie was discoloured\nand worn. Coat and waistcoat might pass muster, but of the trousers the\nless said the better. One of his boots was patched, and both were all\nbut heelless.\n\nVery well; let her see him thus. Let her understand what it meant to\nlive on twelve and sixpence a week.\n\nThough it was cold and wet he could not put on his overcoat. Three\nyears ago it had been a fairly good ulster; at present, the edges of the\nsleeves were frayed, two buttons were missing, and the original hue of\nthe cloth was indeterminable.\n\nAt half-past nine he set out and struggled with his shabby umbrella\nagainst wind and rain. Down Pentonville Hill, up Euston Road, all\nalong Marylebone Road, then north-westwards towards the point of his\ndestination. It was a good six miles from the one house to the other,\nbut he arrived before the appointed time, and had to stray about until\nthe cessation of bell-clanging and the striking of clocks told him it\nwas eleven. Then he presented himself at the familiar door.\n\nOn his asking for Mrs Reardon, he was at once admitted and led up to the\ndrawing-room; the servant did not ask his name.\n\nThen he waited for a minute or two, feeling himself a squalid wretch\namid the dainty furniture. The door opened. Amy, in a simple but very\nbecoming dress, approached to within a yard of him; after the first\nglance she had averted her eyes, and she did not offer to shake hands.\nHe saw that his muddy and shapeless boots drew her attention.\n\n'Do you know why I have come?' he asked.\n\nHe meant the tone to be conciliatory, but he could not command his\nvoice, and it sounded rough, hostile.\n\n'I think so,' Amy answered, seating herself gracefully. She would have\nspoken with less dignity but for that accent of his.\n\n'The Carters have told you?'\n\n'Yes; I have heard about it.'\n\nThere was no promise in her manner. She kept her face turned away, and\nReardon saw its beautiful profile, hard and cold as though in marble.\n\n'It doesn't interest you at all?'\n\n'I am glad to hear that a better prospect offers for you.'\n\nHe did not sit down, and was holding his rusty hat behind his back.\n\n'You speak as if it in no way concerned yourself. Is that what you wish\nme to understand?'\n\n'Won't it be better if you tell me why you have come here? As you are\nresolved to find offence in whatever I say, I prefer to keep silence.\nPlease to let me know why you have asked to see me.'\n\nReardon turned abruptly as if to leave her, but checked himself at a\nlittle distance.\n\nBoth had come to this meeting prepared for a renewal of amity, but in\nthese first few moments each was so disagreeably impressed by the look\nand language of the other that a revulsion of feeling undid all the more\nhopeful effects of their long severance. On entering, Amy had meant to\noffer her hand, but the unexpected meanness of Reardon's aspect shocked\nand restrained her. All but every woman would have experienced that\nshrinking from the livery of poverty. Amy had but to reflect, and she\nunderstood that her husband could in no wise help this shabbiness;\nwhen he parted from her his wardrobe was already in a long-suffering\ncondition, and how was he to have purchased new garments since then?\nNone the less such attire degraded him in her eyes; it symbolised the\nmelancholy decline which he had suffered intellectually. On Reardon his\nwife's elegance had the same repellent effect, though this would not\nhave been the case but for the expression of her countenance. Had it\nbeen possible for them to remain together during the first five minutes\nwithout exchange of words, sympathies might have prevailed on both\nsides; the first speech uttered would most likely have harmonised with\ntheir gentler thoughts. But the mischief was done so speedily.\n\nA man must indeed be graciously endowed if his personal appearance can\ndefy the disadvantage of cheap modern clothing worn into shapelessness.\nReardon had no such remarkable physique, and it was not wonderful that\nhis wife felt ashamed of him. Strictly ashamed; he seemed to her a\nsocial inferior; the impression was so strong that it resisted all\nmemory of his spiritual qualities. She might have anticipated this state\nof things, and have armed herself to encounter it, but somehow she had\nnot done so. For more than five months she had been living among people\nwho dressed well; the contrast was too suddenly forced upon her. She was\nespecially susceptible in such matters, and had become none the less\nso under the demoralising influence of her misfortunes. True, she soon\nbegan to feel ashamed of her shame, but that could not annihilate the\nnatural feeling and its results.\n\n'I don't love him. I can't love him.' Thus she spoke to herself, with\nimmutable decision. She had been doubtful till now, but all doubt was at\nan end. Had Reardon been practical man enough to procure by hook or\nby crook a decent suit of clothes for this interview, that ridiculous\ntrifle might have made all the difference in what was to result.\n\nHe turned again, and spoke with the harshness of a man who feels that he\nis despised, and is determined to show an equal contempt.\n\n'I came to ask you what you propose to do in case I go to Croydon.'\n\n'I have no proposal to make whatever.'\n\n'That means, then, that you are content to go on living here?'\n\n'If I have no choice, I must make myself content.'\n\n'But you have a choice.'\n\n'None has yet been offered me.'\n\n'Then I offer it now,' said Reardon, speaking less aggressively. 'I\nshall have a dwelling rent free, and a hundred and fifty pounds a\nyear--perhaps it would be more in keeping with my station if I say that\nI shall have something less than three pounds a week. You can either\naccept from me half this money, as up to now, or come and take your\nplace again as my wife. Please to decide what you will do.'\n\n'I will let you know by letter in a few days.'\n\nIt seemed impossible to her to say she would return, yet a refusal to\ndo so involved nothing less than separation for the rest of their lives.\nPostponement of decision was her only resource.\n\n'I must know at once,' said Reardon.\n\n'I can't answer at once.'\n\n'If you don't, I shall understand you to mean that you refuse to come\nto me. You know the circumstances; there is no reason why you should\nconsult with anyone else. You can answer me immediately if you will.'\n\n'I don't wish to answer you immediately,' Amy replied, paling slightly.\n\n'Then that decides it. When I leave you we are strangers to each other.'\n\nAmy made a rapid study of his countenance. She had never entertained for\na moment the supposition that his wits were unsettled, but none the less\nthe constant recurrence of that idea in her mother's talk had subtly\ninfluenced her against her husband. It had confirmed her in thinking\nthat his behaviour was inexcusable. And now it seemed to her that\nanyone might be justified in holding him demented, so reckless was his\nutterance.\n\nIt was difficult to know him as the man who had loved her so devotedly,\nwho was incapable of an unkind word or look.\n\n'If that is what you prefer,' she said, 'there must be a formal\nseparation. I can't trust my future to your caprice.'\n\n'You mean it must be put into the hands of a lawyer?'\n\n'Yes, I do.'\n\n'That will be the best, no doubt.'\n\n'Very well; I will speak with my friends about it.'\n\n'Your friends!' he exclaimed bitterly. 'But for those friends of yours,\nthis would never have happened. I wish you had been alone in the world\nand penniless.'\n\n'A kind wish, all things considered.'\n\n'Yes, it is a kind wish. Then your marriage with me would have been\nbinding; you would have known that my lot was yours, and the knowledge\nwould have helped your weakness. I begin to see how much right there is\non the side of those people who would keep women in subjection. You have\nbeen allowed to act with independence, and the result is that you have\nruined my life and debased your own. If I had been strong enough to\ntreat you as a child, and bid you follow me wherever my own fortunes\nled, it would have been as much better for you as for me. I was weak,\nand I suffer as all weak people do.'\n\n'You think it was my duty to share such a home as you have at present?'\n\n'You know it was. And if the choice had lain between that and earning\nyour own livelihood you would have thought that even such a poor home\nmight be made tolerable. There were possibilities in you of better\nthings than will ever come out now.'\n\nThere followed a silence. Amy sat with her eyes gloomily fixed on the\ncarpet; Reardon looked about the room, but saw nothing. He had thrown\nhis hat into a chair, and his fingers worked nervously together behind\nhis back.\n\n'Will you tell me,' he said at length, 'how your position is regarded\nby these friends of yours? I don't mean your mother and brother, but the\npeople who come to this house.'\n\n'I have not asked such people for their opinion.'\n\n'Still, I suppose some sort of explanation has been necessary in your\nintercourse with them. How have you represented your relations with me?'\n\n'I can't see that that concerns you.'\n\n'In a manner it does. Certainly it matters very little to me how I am\nthought of by people of this kind, but one doesn't like to be reviled\nwithout cause. Have you allowed it to be supposed that I have made life\nwith me intolerable for you?'\n\n'No, I have not. You insult me by asking the question, but as you\ndon't seem to understand feelings of that kind I may as well answer you\nsimply.'\n\n'Then have you told them the truth? That I became so poor you couldn't\nlive with me?'\n\n'I have never said that in so many words, but no doubt it is understood.\nIt must be known also that you refused to take the step which might have\nhelped you out of your difficulties.'\n\n'What step?'\n\nShe reminded him of his intention to spend half a year in working at the\nseaside.\n\n'I had utterly forgotten it,' he returned with a mocking laugh. 'That\nshows how ridiculous such a thing would have been.'\n\n'You are doing no literary work at all?' Amy asked.\n\n'Do you imagine that I have the peace of mind necessary for anything of\nthat sort?'\n\nThis was in a changed voice. It reminded her so strongly of her husband\nbefore his disasters that she could not frame a reply.\n\n'Do you think I am able to occupy myself with the affairs of imaginary\npeople?'\n\n'I didn't necessarily mean fiction.'\n\n'That I can forget myself, then, in the study of literature?--I wonder\nwhether you really think of me like that. How, in Heaven's name, do you\nsuppose I spend my leisure time?'\n\nShe made no answer.\n\n'Do you think I take this calamity as light-heartedly as you do, Amy?'\n\n'I am far from taking it light-heartedly.'\n\n'Yet you are in good health. I see no sign that you have suffered.'\n\nShe kept silence. Her suffering had been slight enough, and chiefly due\nto considerations of social propriety; but she would not avow this, and\ndid not like to make admission of it to herself. Before her friends she\nfrequently affected to conceal a profound sorrow; but so long as her\nchild was left to her she was in no danger of falling a victim to\nsentimental troubles.\n\n'And certainly I can't believe it,' he continued, 'now you declare your\nwish to be formally separated from me.'\n\n'I have declared no such wish.'\n\n'Indeed you have. If you can hesitate a moment about returning to me\nwhen difficulties are at an end, that tells me you would prefer final\nseparation.'\n\n'I hesitate for this reason,' Amy said after reflecting. 'You are so\nvery greatly changed from what you used to be, that I think it doubtful\nif I could live with you.'\n\n'Changed?--Yes, that is true, I am afraid. But how do you think this\nchange will affect my behaviour to you?'\n\n'Remember how you have been speaking to me.'\n\n'And you think I should treat you brutally if you came into my power?'\n\n'Not brutally, in the ordinary sense of the word. But with faults of\ntemper which I couldn't bear. I have my own faults. I can't behave as\nmeekly as some women can.'\n\nIt was a small concession, but Reardon made much of it.\n\n'Did my faults of temper give you any trouble during the first year of\nour married life?' he asked gently.\n\n'No,' she admitted.\n\n'They began to afflict you when I was so hard driven by difficulties\nthat I needed all your sympathy, all your forbearance. Did I receive\nmuch of either from you, Amy?'\n\n'I think you did--until you demanded impossible things of me.'\n\n'It was always in your power to rule me. What pained me worst, and\nhardened me against you, was that I saw you didn't care to exert your\ninfluence. There was never a time when I could have resisted a word of\nyours spoken out of your love for me. But even then, I am afraid, you no\nlonger loved me, and now--'\n\nHe broke off, and stood watching her face.\n\n'Have you any love for me left?' burst from his lips, as if the words\nall but choked him in the utterance.\n\nAmy tried to shape some evasive answer, but could say nothing.\n\n'Is there ever so small a hope that I might win some love from you\nagain?'\n\n'If you wish me to come and live with you when you go to Croydon I will\ndo so.'\n\n'But that is not answering me, Amy.'\n\n'It's all I can say.'\n\n'Then you mean that you would sacrifice yourself out of--what? Out of\npity for me, let us say.'\n\n'Do you wish to see Willie?' asked Amy, instead of replying.\n\n'No. It is you I have come to see. The child is nothing to me, compared\nwith you. It is you, who loved me, who became my wife--you only I care\nabout. Tell me you will try to be as you used to be. Give me only that\nhope, Amy; I will ask nothing except that, now.'\n\n'I can't say anything except that I will come to Croydon if you wish\nit.'\n\n'And reproach me always because you have to live in such a place, away\nfrom your friends, without a hope of the social success which was your\ndearest ambition?'\n\nHer practical denial that she loved him wrung this taunt from his\nanguished heart. He repented the words as soon as they were spoken.\n\n'What is the good?' exclaimed Amy in irritation, rising and moving away\nfrom him. 'How can I pretend that I look forward to such a life with any\nhope?'\n\nHe stood in mute misery, inwardly cursing himself and his fate.\n\n'I have said I will come,' she continued, her voice shaken with nervous\ntension. 'Ask me or not, as you please, when you are ready to go there.\nI can't talk about it.'\n\n'I shall not ask you,' he replied. 'I will have no woman slave dragging\nout a weary life with me. Either you are my willing wife, or you are\nnothing to me.'\n\n'I am married to you, and that can't be undone. I repeat that I shan't\nrefuse to obey you. I shall say no more.'\n\nShe moved to a distance, and there seated herself, half turned from him.\n\n'I shall never ask you to come,' said Reardon, breaking a short silence.\n'If our married life is ever to begin again it must be of your seeking.\nCome to me of your own will, and I shall never reject you. But I will\ndie in utter loneliness rather than ask you again.'\n\nHe lingered a few moments, watching her; she did not move. Then he took\nhis hat, went in silence from the room, and left the house.\n\nIt rained harder than before. As no trains were running at this hour,\nhe walked in the direction where he would be likely to meet with an\nomnibus. But it was a long time before one passed which was any use to\nhim. When he reached home he was in cheerless plight enough; to make\nthings pleasanter, one of his boots had let in water abundantly.\n\n'The first sore throat of the season, no doubt,' he muttered to himself.\n\nNor was he disappointed. By Tuesday the cold had firm grip of him. A\nday or two of influenza or sore throat always made him so weak that with\ndifficulty he supported the least physical exertion; but at present he\nmust go to his work at the hospital. Why stay at home? To what purpose\nspare himself? It was not as if life had any promise for him. He was\na machine for earning so much money a week, and would at least give\nfaithful work for his wages until the day of final breakdown.\n\nBut, midway in the week, Carter discovered how ill his clerk was.\n\n'You ought to be in bed, my dear fellow, with gruel and mustard plasters\nand all the rest of it. Go home and take care of yourself--I insist upon\nit.'\n\nBefore leaving the office, Reardon wrote a few lines to Biffen, whom he\nhad visited on the Monday. 'Come and see me if you can. I am down with a\nbad cold, and have to keep in for the rest of the week. All the same,\nI feel far more cheerful. Bring a new chapter of your exhilarating\nromance.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI. MARRIED WOMAN'S PROPERTY\n\nOn her return from church that Sunday Mrs Edmund Yule was anxious to\nlearn the result of the meeting between Amy and her husband. She hoped\nfervently that Amy's anomalous position would come to an end now that\nReardon had the offer of something better than a mere clerkship. John\nYule never ceased to grumble at his sister's permanence in the house,\nespecially since he had learnt that the money sent by Reardon each month\nwas not made use of; why it should not be applied for household expenses\npassed his understanding.\n\n'It seems to me,' he remarked several times, 'that the fellow only does\nhis bare duty in sending it. What is it to anyone else whether he\nlives on twelve shillings a week or twelve pence? It is his business\nto support his wife; if he can't do that, to contribute as much to her\nsupport as possible. Amy's scruples are all very fine, if she could\nafford them; it's very nice to pay for your delicacies of feeling out of\nother people's pockets.'\n\n'There'll have to be a formal separation,' was the startling\nannouncement with which Amy answered her mother's inquiry as to what had\npassed.\n\n'A separation? But, my dear--!'\n\nMrs Yule could not express her disappointment and dismay.\n\n'We couldn't live together; it's no use trying.'\n\n'But at your age, Amy! How can you think of anything so shocking? And\nthen, you know it will be impossible for him to make you a sufficient\nallowance.'\n\n'I shall have to live as well as I can on the seventy-five pounds a\nyear. If you can't afford to let me stay with you for that, I must go\ninto cheap lodgings in the country, like poor Mrs Butcher did.'\n\nThis was wild talking for Amy. The interview had upset her, and for the\nrest of the day she kept apart in her own room. On the morrow Mrs Yule\nsucceeded in eliciting a clear account of the conversation which had\nended so hopelessly.\n\n'I would rather spend the rest of my days in the workhouse than beg him\nto take me back,' was Amy's final comment, uttered with the earnestness\nwhich her mother understood but too well.\n\n'But you are willing to go back, dear?'\n\n'I told him so.'\n\n'Then you must leave this to me. The Carters will let us know how things\ngo on, and when it seems to be time I must see Edwin myself.'\n\n'I can't allow that. Anything you could say on your own account would be\nuseless, and there is nothing to say from me.'\n\nMrs Yule kept her own counsel. She had a full month before her during\nwhich to consider the situation, but it was clear to her that these\nyoung people must be brought together again. Her estimate of Reardon's\nmental condition had undergone a sudden change from the moment when she\nheard that a respectable post was within his reach; she decided that\nhe was 'strange,' but then all men of literary talent had marked\nsingularities, and doubtless she had been too hasty in interpreting the\npeculiar features natural to a character such as his.\n\nA few days later arrived the news of their relative's death at\nWattleborough.\n\nThis threw Mrs Yule into a commotion. At first she decided to accompany\nher son and be present at the funeral; after changing her mind twenty\ntimes, she determined not to go. John must send or bring back the news\nas soon as possible. That it would be of a nature sensibly to affect\nher own position, if not that of her children, she had little doubt;\nher husband had been the favourite brother of the deceased, and on that\naccount there was no saying how handsome a legacy she might receive. She\ndreamt of houses in South Kensington, of social ambitions gratified even\nthus late.\n\nOn the morning after the funeral came a postcard announcing John's\nreturn by a certain train, but no scrap of news was added.\n\n'Just like that irritating boy! We must go to the station to meet him.\nYou'll come, won't you, Amy?'\n\nAmy readily consented, for she too had hopes, though circumstances\nblurred them. Mother and daughter were walking about the platform\nhalf an hour before the train was due; their agitation would have been\nmanifest to anyone observing them. When at length the train rolled in\nand John was discovered, they pressed eagerly upon him.\n\n'Don't you excite yourself,' he said gruffly to his mother. 'There's no\nreason whatever.'\n\nMrs Yule glanced in dismay at Amy. They followed John to a cab, and took\nplaces with him.\n\n'Now don't be provoking, Jack. Just tell us at once.'\n\n'By all means. You haven't a penny.'\n\n'I haven't? You are joking, ridiculous boy!'\n\n'Never felt less disposed to, I assure you.'\n\nAfter staring out of the window for a minute or two, he at length\ninformed Amy of the extent to which she profited by her uncle's decease,\nthen made known what was bequeathed to himself. His temper grew worse\nevery moment, and he replied savagely to each successive question\nconcerning the other items of the will.\n\n'What have you to grumble about?' asked Amy, whose face was exultant\nnotwithstanding the drawbacks attaching to her good fortune. 'If Uncle\nAlfred receives nothing at all, and mother has nothing, you ought to\nthink yourself very lucky.'\n\n'It's very easy for you to say that, with your ten thousand.'\n\n'But is it her own?' asked Mrs Yule. 'Is it for her separate use?'\n\n'Of course it is. She gets the benefit of last year's Married Woman's\nProperty Act. The will was executed in January this year, and I dare say\nthe old curmudgeon destroyed a former one.\n\n'What a splendid Act of Parliament that is!' cried Amy. 'The only one\nworth anything that I ever heard of.'\n\n'But my dear--' began her mother, in a tone of protest. However, she\nreserved her comment for a more fitting time and place, and merely said:\n'I wonder whether he had heard what has been going on?'\n\n'Do you think he would have altered his will if he had?' asked Amy with\na smile of security.\n\n'Why the deuce he should have left you so much in any case is more\nthan I can understand,' growled her brother. 'What's the use to me of\na paltry thousand or two? It isn't enough to invest; isn't enough to do\nanything with.'\n\n'You may depend upon it your cousin Marian thinks her five thousand\ngood for something,' said Mrs Yule. 'Who was at the funeral? Don't be\nso surly, Jack; tell us all about it. I'm sure if anyone has cause to be\nill-tempered it's poor me.'\n\nThus they talked, amid the rattle of the cab-wheels. By when they\nreached home silence had fallen upon them, and each one was sufficiently\noccupied with private thoughts.\n\nMrs Yule's servants had a terrible time of it for the next few days. Too\naffectionate to turn her ill-temper against John and Amy, she relieved\nherself by severity to the domestic slaves, as an English matron is of\ncourse justified in doing. Her daughter's position caused her even more\nconcern than before; she constantly lamented to herself: 'Oh, why didn't\nhe die before she was married!'--in which case Amy would never have\ndreamt of wedding a penniless author. Amy declined to discuss the new\naspect of things until twenty-four hours after John's return; then she\nsaid:\n\n'I shall do nothing whatever until the money is paid to me. And what I\nshall do then I don't know.'\n\n'You are sure to hear from Edwin,' opined Mrs Yule.\n\n'I think not. He isn't the kind of man to behave in that way.'\n\n'Then I suppose you are bound to take the first step?'\n\n'That I shall never do.'\n\nShe said so, but the sudden happiness of finding herself wealthy was\nnot without its softening effect on Amy's feelings. Generous impulses\nalternated with moods of discontent. The thought of her husband in his\nsqualid lodgings tempted her to forget injuries and disillusions, and to\nplay the part of a generous wife. It would be possible now for them to\ngo abroad and spend a year or two in healthful travel; the result in\nReardon's case might be wonderful. He might recover all the energy of\nhis imagination, and resume his literary career from the point he had\nreached at the time of his marriage.\n\nOn the other hand, was it not more likely that he would lapse into a\nlife of scholarly self-indulgence, such as he had often told her was\nhis ideal? In that event, what tedium and regret lay before her! Ten\nthousand pounds sounded well, but what did it represent in reality? A\npoor four hundred a year, perhaps; mere decency of obscure existence,\nunless her husband could glorify it by winning fame. If he did nothing,\nshe would be the wife of a man who had failed in literature. She would\nnot be able to take a place in society. Life would be supported without\nstruggle; nothing more to be hoped.\n\nThis view of the future possessed her strongly when, on the second day,\nshe went to communicate her news to Mrs Carter. This amiable lady had\nnow become what she always desired to be, Amy's intimate friend; they\nsaw each other very frequently, and conversed of most things with much\nfrankness. It was between eleven and twelve in the morning when Amy paid\nher visit, and she found Mrs Carter on the point of going out.\n\n'I was coming to see you,' cried Edith. 'Why haven't you let me know of\nwhat has happened?'\n\n'You have heard, I suppose?'\n\n'Albert heard from your brother.'\n\n'I supposed he would. And I haven't felt in the mood for talking about\nit, even with you.'\n\nThey went into Mrs Carter's boudoir, a tiny room full of such pretty\nthings as can be purchased nowadays by anyone who has a few shillings\nto spare, and tolerable taste either of their own or at second-hand. Had\nshe been left to her instincts, Edith would have surrounded herself with\nobjects representing a much earlier stage of artistic development; but\nshe was quick to imitate what fashion declared becoming. Her husband\nregarded her as a remarkable authority in all matters of personal or\ndomestic ornamentation.\n\n'And what are you going to do?' she inquired, examining Amy from head\nto foot, as if she thought that the inheritance of so substantial a sum\nmust have produced visible changes in her friend.\n\n'I am going to do nothing.'\n\n'But surely you're not in low spirits?'\n\n'What have I to rejoice about?'\n\nThey talked for a while before Amy brought herself to utter what she was\nthinking.\n\n'Isn't it a most ridiculous thing that married people who both wish to\nseparate can't do so and be quite free again?'\n\n'I suppose it would lead to all sorts of troubles--don't you think?'\n\n'So people say about every new step in civilisation. What would have\nbeen thought twenty years ago of a proposal to make all married women\nindependent of their husbands in money matters? All sorts of absurd\ndangers were foreseen, no doubt. And it's the same now about divorce.\nIn America people can get divorced if they don't suit each other--at\nall events in some of the States--and does any harm come of it? Just the\nopposite I should think.'\n\nEdith mused. Such speculations were daring, but she had grown accustomed\nto think of Amy as an 'advanced' woman, and liked to imitate her in this\nrespect.\n\n'It does seem reasonable,' she murmured.\n\n'The law ought to encourage such separations, instead of forbidding\nthem,' Amy pursued. 'If a husband and wife find that they have made\na mistake, what useless cruelty it is to condemn them to suffer the\nconsequences for the whole of their lives!'\n\n'I suppose it's to make people careful,' said Edith, with a laugh.\n\n'If so, we know that it has always failed, and always will fail; so the\nsooner such a profitless law is altered the better. Isn't there some\nsociety for getting that kind of reform? I would subscribe fifty pounds\na year to help it. Wouldn't you?'\n\n'Yes, if I had it to spare,' replied the other.\n\nThen they both laughed, but Edith the more naturally.\n\n'Not on my own account, you know,' she added.\n\n'It's because women who are happily married can't and won't understand\nthe position of those who are not that there's so much difficulty in\nreforming marriage laws.'\n\n'But I understand you, Amy, and I grieve about you. What you are to do I\ncan't think.'\n\n'Oh, it's easy to see what I shall do. Of course I have no choice\nreally. And I ought to have a choice; that's the hardship and the wrong\nof it. Perhaps if I had, I should find a sort of pleasure in sacrificing\nmyself.'\n\nThere were some new novels on the table; Amy took up a volume presently,\nand glanced over a page or two.\n\n'I don't know how you can go on reading that sort of stuff, book after\nbook,' she exclaimed.\n\n'Oh, but people say this last novel of Markland's is one of his best.'\n\n'Best or worst, novels are all the same. Nothing but love, love, love;\nwhat silly nonsense it is! Why don't people write about the really\nimportant things of life? Some of the French novelists do; several of\nBalzac's, for instance. I have just been reading his \"Cousin Pons,\" a\nterrible book, but I enjoyed it ever so much because it was nothing like\na love story. What rubbish is printed about love!'\n\n'I get rather tired of it sometimes,' admitted Edith with amusement.\n\n'I should hope you do, indeed. What downright lies are accepted as\nindisputable! That about love being a woman's whole life; who believes\nit really? Love is the most insignificant thing in most women's lives.\nIt occupies a few months, possibly a year or two, and even then I doubt\nif it is often the first consideration.'\n\nEdith held her head aside, and pondered smilingly.\n\n'I'm sure there's a great opportunity for some clever novelist who will\nnever write about love at all.'\n\n'But then it does come into life.'\n\n'Yes, for a month or two, as I say. Think of the biographies of men and\nwomen; how many pages are devoted to their love affairs? Compare those\nbooks with novels which profess to be biographies, and you see how false\nsuch pictures are. Think of the very words \"novel,\" \"romance\"--what do\nthey mean but exaggeration of one bit of life?'\n\n'That may be true. But why do people find the subject so interesting?'\n\n'Because there is so little love in real life. That's the truth of\nit. Why do poor people care only for stories about the rich? The same\nprinciple.'\n\n'How clever you are, Amy!'\n\n'Am I? It's very nice to be told so. Perhaps I have some cleverness of a\nkind; but what use is it to me? My life is being wasted. I ought to\nhave a place in the society of clever people. I was never meant to live\nquietly in the background. Oh, if I hadn't been in such a hurry, and so\ninexperienced!'\n\n'Oh, I wanted to ask you,' said Edith, soon after this. 'Do you wish\nAlbert to say anything about you--at the hospital?'\n\n'There's no reason why he shouldn't.'\n\n'You won't even write to say--?'\n\n'I shall do nothing.'\n\nSince the parting from her husband, there had proceeded in Amy\na noticeable maturing of intellect. Probably the one thing was a\nconsequence of the other. During that last year in the flat her mind\nwas held captive by material cares, and this arrest of her natural\ndevelopment doubtless had much to do with the appearance of acerbity\nin a character which had displayed so much sweetness, so much womanly\ngrace. Moreover, it was arrest at a critical point. When she fell in\nlove with Edwin Reardon her mind had still to undergo the culture of\ncircumstances; though a woman in years she had seen nothing of life but\na few phases of artificial society, and her education had not progressed\nbeyond the final schoolgirl stage. Submitting herself to Reardon's\ninfluence, she passed through what was a highly useful training of the\nintellect; but with the result that she became clearly conscious of the\ndivergence between herself and her husband. In endeavouring to imbue her\nwith his own literary tastes, Reardon instructed Amy as to the natural\ntendencies of her mind, which till then she had not clearly understood.\nWhen she ceased to read with the eyes of passion, most of the things\nwhich were Reardon's supreme interests lost their value for her. A sound\nintelligence enabled her to think and feel in many directions, but the\nspecial line of her growth lay apart from that in which the novelist and\nclassical scholar had directed her.\n\nWhen she found herself alone and independent, her mind acted like a\nspring when pressure is removed. After a few weeks of desoeuvrement she\nobeyed the impulse to occupy herself with a kind of reading alien\nto Reardon's sympathies. The solid periodicals attracted her, and\nespecially those articles which dealt with themes of social science.\nAnything that savoured of newness and boldness in philosophic thought\nhad a charm for her palate. She read a good deal of that kind of\nliterature which may be defined as specialism popularised; writing which\naddresses itself to educated, but not strictly studious, persons, and\nwhich forms the reservoir of conversation for society above the sphere\nof turf and west-endism. Thus, for instance, though she could not\nundertake the volumes of Herbert Spencer, she was intelligently\nacquainted with the tenor of their contents; and though she had never\nopened one of Darwin's books, her knowledge of his main theories and\nillustrations was respectable. She was becoming a typical woman of the\nnew time, the woman who has developed concurrently with journalistic\nenterprise.\n\nNot many days after that conversation with Edith Carter, she had\noccasion to visit Mudie's, for the new number of some periodical which\ncontained an appetising title. As it was a sunny and warm day she walked\nto New Oxford Street from the nearest Metropolitan station. Whilst\nwaiting at the library counter, she heard a familiar voice in her\nproximity; it was that of Jasper Milvain, who stood talking with a\nmiddle-aged lady. As Amy turned to look at him his eye met hers; clearly\nhe had been aware of her. The review she desired was handed to her; she\nmoved aside, and turned over the pages. Then Milvain walked up.\n\nHe was armed cap-a-pie in the fashions of suave society; no Bohemianism\nof garb or person, for Jasper knew he could not afford that kind of\neconomy. On her part, Amy was much better dressed than usual, a costume\nsuited to her position of bereaved heiress.\n\n'What a time since we met!' said Jasper, taking her delicately gloved\nhand and looking into her face with his most effective smile.\n\n'And why?' asked Amy.\n\n'Indeed, I hardly know. I hope Mrs Yule is well?'\n\n'Quite, thank you.'\n\nIt seemed as if he would draw back to let her pass, and so make an end\nof the colloquy. But Amy, though she moved forward, added a remark:\n\n'I don't see your name in any of this month's magazines.'\n\n'I have nothing signed this month. A short review in The Current, that's\nall.'\n\n'But I suppose you write as much as ever?'\n\n'Yes; but chiefly in weekly papers just now. You don't see the\nWill-o'-the-Wisp?'\n\n'Oh yes. And I think I can generally recognise your hand.'\n\nThey issued from the library.\n\n'Which way are you going?' Jasper inquired, with something more of the\nold freedom.\n\n'I walked from Gower Street station, and I think, as it's so fine, I\nshall walk back again.'\n\nHe accompanied her. They turned up Museum Street, and Amy, after a short\nsilence, made inquiry concerning his sisters.\n\n'I am sorry I saw them only once, but no doubt you thought it better to\nlet the acquaintance end there.'\n\n'I really didn't think of it in that way at all,' Jasper replied.'We\nnaturally understood it so, when you even ceased to call, yourself.'\n\n'But don't you feel that there would have been a good deal of\nawkwardness in my coming to Mrs Yule's?'\n\n'Seeing that you looked at things from my husband's point of view?'\n\n'Oh, that's a mistake! I have only seen your husband once since he went\nto Islington.'\n\nAmy gave him a look of surprise.\n\n'You are not on friendly terms with him?'\n\n'Well, we have drifted apart. For some reason he seemed to think that my\ncompanionship was not very profitable. So it was better, on the whole,\nthat I should see neither you nor him.'\n\nAmy was wondering whether he had heard of her legacy. He might have been\ninformed by a Wattleborough correspondent, even if no one in London had\ntold him.\n\n'Do your sisters keep up their friendship with my cousin Marian?' she\nasked, quitting the previous difficult topic.\n\n'Oh yes!' He smiled. 'They see a great deal of each other.'\n\n'Then of course you have heard of my uncle's death?'\n\n'Yes. I hope all your difficulties are now at an end.'\n\nAmy delayed a moment, then said: 'I hope so,' without any emphasis.\n\n'Do you think of spending this winter abroad?'\n\nIt was the nearest he could come to a question concerning the future of\nAmy and her husband.\n\n'Everything is still quite uncertain. But tell me something about our\nold acquaintances. How does Mr Biffen get on?'\n\n'I scarcely ever see him, but I think he pegs away at an interminable\nnovel, which no one will publish when it's done. Whelpdale I meet\noccasionally.'\n\nHe talked of the latter's projects and achievements in a lively strain.\n\n'Your own prospects continue to brighten, no doubt,' said Amy.\n\n'I really think they do. Things go fairly well. And I have lately\nreceived a promise of very valuable help.'\n\n'From whom?'\n\n'A relative of yours.'\n\nAmy turned to interrogate him with a look.\n\n'A relative? You mean--?'\n\n'Yes; Marian.'\n\nThey were passing Bedford Square. Amy glanced at the trees, now\nalmost bare of foliage; then her eyes met Jasper's, and she smiled\nsignificantly.\n\n'I should have thought your aim would have been far more ambitious,' she\nsaid, with distinct utterance.\n\n'Marian and I have been engaged for some time--practically.'\n\n'Indeed? I remember now how you once spoke of her. And you will be\nmarried soon?'\n\n'Probably before the end of the year. I see that you are criticising my\nmotives. I am quite prepared for that in everyone who knows me and the\ncircumstances. But you must remember that I couldn't foresee anything of\nthis kind. It enables us to marry sooner, that's all.'\n\n'I am sure your motives are unassailable,' replied Amy, still with a\nsmile. 'I imagined that you wouldn't marry for years, and then some\ndistinguished person. This throws new light upon your character.'\n\n'You thought me so desperately scheming and cold-blooded?'\n\n'Oh dear no! But--well, to be sure, I can't say that I know Marian. I\nhaven't seen her for years and years. She may be admirably suited to\nyou.'\n\n'Depend upon it, I think so.'\n\n'She's likely to shine in society? She is a brilliant girl, full of tact\nand insight?'\n\n'Scarcely all that, perhaps.'\n\nHe looked dubiously at his companion.\n\n'Then you have abandoned your old ambitions?' Amy pursued.\n\n'Not a bit of it. I am on the way to achieve them.'\n\n'And Marian is the ideal wife to assist you?'\n\n'From one point of view, yes. Pray, why all this ironic questioning?'\n\n'Not ironic at all.'\n\n'It sounded very much like it, and I know from of old that you have a\ntendency that way.'\n\n'The news surprised me a little, I confess. But I see that I am in\ndanger of offending you.'\n\n'Let us wait another five years, and then I will ask your opinion as\nto the success of my marriage. I don't take a step of this kind without\nmaturely considering it. Have I made many blunders as yet?'\n\n'As yet, not that I know of.'\n\n'Do I impress you as one likely to commit follies?'\n\n'I had rather wait a little before answering that.'\n\n'That is to say, you prefer to prophesy after the event. Very well, we\nshall see.'\n\nIn the length of Gower Street they talked of several other things less\npersonal. By degrees the tone of their conversation had become what it\nwas used to be, now and then almost confidential.\n\n'You are still at the same lodgings?' asked Amy, as they drew near to\nthe railway station.\n\n'I moved yesterday, so that the girls and I could be under the same\nroof--until the next change.'\n\n'You will let us know when that takes place?'\n\nHe promised, and with exchange of smiles which were something like a\nchallenge they took leave of each other.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII. THE LONELY MAN\n\nA touch of congestion in the right lung was a warning to Reardon that\nhis half-year of insufficient food and general waste of strength would\nmake the coming winter a hard time for him, worse probably than the\nlast. Biffen, responding in person to the summons, found him in bed,\nwaited upon by a gaunt, dry, sententious woman of sixty--not the\nlandlady, but a lodger who was glad to earn one meal a day by any means\nthat offered.\n\n'It wouldn't be very nice to die here, would it?' said the sufferer,\nwith a laugh which was cut short by a cough. 'One would like a\ncomfortable room, at least. Why, I don't know. I dreamt last night that\nI was in a ship that had struck something and was going down; and it\nwasn't the thought of death that most disturbed me, but a horror of\nbeing plunged in the icy water. In fact, I have had just the same\nfeeling on shipboard. I remember waking up midway between Corfu and\nBrindisi, on that shaky tub of a Greek boat; we were rolling a good\ndeal, and I heard a sort of alarmed rush and shouting up on deck. It\nwas so warm and comfortable in the berth, and I thought with intolerable\nhorror of the possibility of sousing into the black depths.'\n\n'Don't talk, my boy,' advised Biffen. 'Let me read you the new chapter\nof \"Mr Bailey.\" It may induce a refreshing slumber.'\n\nReardon was away from his duties for a week; he returned to them with a\nfeeling of extreme shakiness, an indisposition to exert himself, and\na complete disregard of the course that events were taking. It was\nfortunate that he had kept aside that small store of money designed\nfor emergencies; he was able to draw on it now to pay his doctor, and\nprovide himself with better nourishment than usual. He purchased new\nboots, too, and some articles of warm clothing of which he stood in\nneed--an alarming outlay.\n\nA change had come over him; he was no longer rendered miserable by\nthoughts of Amy--seldom, indeed, turned his mind to her at all.\nHis secretaryship at Croydon was a haven within view; the income of\nseventy-five pounds (the other half to go to his wife) would support him\nluxuriously, and for anything beyond that he seemed to care little. Next\nSunday he was to go over to Croydon and see the institution.\n\nOne evening of calm weather he made his way to Clipstone Street and\ngreeted his friend with more show of light-heartedness than he had been\ncapable of for at least two years.\n\n'I have been as nearly as possible a happy man all to-day,' he said,\nwhen his pipe was well lit. 'Partly the sunshine, I suppose. There's\nno saying if the mood will last, but if it does all is well with me. I\nregret nothing and wish for nothing.'\n\n'A morbid state of mind,' was Biffen's opinion.\n\n'No doubt of that, but I am content to be indebted to morbidness. One\nmust have a rest from misery somehow. Another kind of man would have\ntaken to drinking; that has tempted me now and then, I assure you. But\nI couldn't afford it. Did you ever feel tempted to drink merely for the\nsake of forgetting trouble?'\n\n'Often enough. I have done it. I have deliberately spent a certain\nproportion of the money that ought to have gone for food in the cheapest\nkind of strong liquor.'\n\n'Ha! that's interesting. But it never got the force of a habit you had\nto break?'\n\n'No. Partly, I dare say, because I had the warning of poor Sykes before\nmy eyes.'\n\n'You never see that poor fellow?'\n\n'Never. He must be dead, I think. He would die either in the hospital or\nthe workhouse.'\n\n'Well,' said Reardon, musing cheerfully, 'I shall never become a\ndrunkard; I haven't that diathesis, to use your expression. Doesn't it\nstrike you that you and I are very respectable persons? We really have\nno vices. Put us on a social pedestal, and we should be shining lights\nof morality. I sometimes wonder at our inoffensiveness. Why don't we run\namuck against law and order? Why, at the least, don't we become savage\nrevolutionists, and harangue in Regent's Park of a Sunday?'\n\n'Because we are passive beings, and were meant to enjoy life very\nquietly. As we can't enjoy, we just suffer quietly, that's all.\nBy-the-bye, I want to talk about a difficulty in one of the Fragments of\nEuripides. Did you ever go through the Fragments?'\n\nThis made a diversion for half an hour. Then Reardon returned to his\nformer line of thought.\n\n'As I was entering patients yesterday, there came up to the table a\ntall, good-looking, very quiet girl, poorly dressed, but as neat as\ncould be. She gave me her name, then I asked \"Occupation?\" She said\nat once, \"I'm unfortunate, sir.\" I couldn't help looking up at her in\nsurprise; I had taken it for granted she was a dressmaker or something\nof the kind. And, do you know, I never felt so strong an impulse to\nshake hands, to show sympathy, and even respect, in some way. I should\nhave liked to say, \"Why, I am unfortunate, too!\" such a good, patient\nface she had.'\n\n'I distrust such appearances,' said Biffen in his quality of realist.\n\n'Well, so do I, as a rule. But in this case they were convincing. And\nthere was no need whatever for her to make such a declaration; she might\njust as well have said anything else; it's the merest form. I shall\nalways hear her voice saying, \"I'm unfortunate, sir.\" She made me feel\nwhat a mistake it was for me to marry such a girl as Amy. I ought to\nhave looked about for some simple, kind-hearted work-girl; that was\nthe kind of wife indicated for me by circumstances. If I had earned a\nhundred a year she would have thought we were well-to-do. I should have\nbeen an authority to her on everything under the sun--and above it. No\nambition would have unsettled her. We should have lived in a couple of\npoor rooms somewhere, and--we should have loved each other.'\n\n'What a shameless idealist you are!' said Biffen, shaking his head. 'Let\nme sketch the true issue of such a marriage. To begin with, the girl\nwould have married you in firm persuasion that you were a \"gentleman\"\nin temporary difficulties, and that before long you would have plenty\nof money to dispose of. Disappointed in this hope, she would have grown\nsharp-tempered, querulous, selfish. All your endeavours to make her\nunderstand you would only have resulted in widening the impassable\ngulf. She would have misconstrued your every sentence, found food for\nsuspicion in every harmless joke, tormented you with the vulgarest forms\nof jealousy. The effect upon your nature would have been degrading. In\nthe end, you must have abandoned every effort to raise her to your own\nlevel, and either have sunk to hers or made a rupture. Who doesn't know\nthe story of such attempts? I myself ten years ago, was on the point of\ncommitting such a folly, but, Heaven be praised! an accident saved me.'\n\n'You never told me that story.'\n\n'And don't care to now. I prefer to forget it.'\n\n'Well, you can judge for yourself but not for me. Of course I might have\nchosen the wrong girl, but I am supposing that I had been fortunate. In\nany case there would have been a much better chance than in the marriage\nthat I made.'\n\n'Your marriage was sensible enough, and a few years hence you will be a\nhappy man again.'\n\n'You seriously think Amy will come back to me?'\n\n'Of course I do.'\n\n'Upon my word, I don't know that I desire it.'\n\n'Because you are in a strangely unhealthy state.'\n\n'I rather think I regard the matter more sanely than ever yet. I\nam quite free from sexual bias. I can see that Amy was not my fit\nintellectual companion, and all emotion at the thought of her has gone\nfrom me. The word \"love\" is a weariness to me. If only our idiotic laws\npermitted us to break the legal bond, how glad both of us would be!'\n\n'You are depressed and anaemic. Get yourself in flesh, and view things\nlike a man of this world.'\n\n'But don't you think it the best thing that can happen to a man if he\noutgrows passion?'\n\n'In certain circumstances, no doubt.'\n\n'In all and any. The best moments of life are those when we contemplate\nbeauty in the purely artistic spirit--objectively. I have had such\nmoments in Greece and Italy; times when I was a free spirit, utterly\nremote from the temptations and harassings of sexual emotion. What we\ncall love is mere turmoil. Who wouldn't release himself from it for\never, if the possibility offered?'\n\n'Oh, there's a good deal to be said for that, of course.'\n\nReardon's face was illumined with the glow of an exquisite memory.\n\n'Haven't I told you,' he said, 'of that marvellous sunset at Athens? I\nwas on the Pnyx; had been rambling about there the whole afternoon. For\nI dare say a couple of hours I had noticed a growing rift of light in\nthe clouds to the west; it looked as if the dull day might have a rich\nending. That rift grew broader and brighter--the only bit of light in\nthe sky. On Parnes there were white strips of ragged mist, hanging very\nlow; the same on Hymettus, and even the peak of Lycabettus was just\nhidden. Of a sudden, the sun's rays broke out. They showed themselves\nfirst in a strangely beautiful way, striking from behind the seaward\nhills through the pass that leads to Eleusis, and so gleaming on the\nnearer slopes of Aigaleos, making the clefts black and the rounded parts\nof the mountain wonderfully brilliant with golden colour. All the rest\nof the landscape, remember, was untouched with a ray of light. This\nlasted only a minute or two, then the sun itself sank into the open\npatch of sky and shot glory in every direction; broadening beams smote\nupwards over the dark clouds, and made them a lurid yellow. To the left\nof the sun, the gulf of Aegina was all golden mist, the islands floating\nin it vaguely. To the right, over black Salamis, lay delicate strips of\npale blue--indescribably pale and delicate.'\n\n'You remember it very clearly.'\n\n'As if I saw it now! But wait. I turned eastward, and there to my\nastonishment was a magnificent rainbow, a perfect semicircle, stretching\nfrom the foot of Parnes to that of Hymettus, framing Athens and its\nhills, which grew brighter and brighter--the brightness for which\nthere is no name among colours. Hymettus was of a soft misty warmth, a\nsomething tending to purple, its ridges marked by exquisitely soft\nand indefinite shadows, the rainbow coming right down in front. The\nAcropolis simply glowed and blazed. As the sun descended all these\ncolours grew richer and warmer; for a moment the landscape was nearly\ncrimson. Then suddenly the sun passed into the lower stratum of cloud,\nand the splendour died almost at once, except that there remained the\nnorthern half of the rainbow, which had become double. In the west, the\nclouds were still glorious for a time; there were two shaped like great\nexpanded wings, edged with refulgence.'\n\n'Stop!' cried Biffen, 'or I shall clutch you by the throat. I warned you\nbefore that I can't stand those reminiscences.'\n\n'Live in hope. Scrape together twenty pounds, and go there, if you die\nof hunger afterwards.'\n\n'I shall never have twenty shillings,' was the despondent answer.\n\n'I feel sure you will sell \"Mr Bailey.\"'\n\n'It's kind of you to encourage me; but if \"Mr Bailey\" is ever sold I\ndon't mind undertaking to eat my duplicate of the proofs.'\n\n'But now, you remember what led me to that. What does a man care for any\nwoman on earth when he is absorbed in contemplation of that kind?'\n\n'But it is only one of life's satisfactions.'\n\n'I am only maintaining that it is the best, and infinitely preferable to\nsexual emotion. It leaves, no doubt, no bitterness of any kind. Poverty\ncan't rob me of those memories. I have lived in an ideal world that was\nnot deceitful, a world which seems to me, when I recall it, beyond the\nhuman sphere, bathed in diviner light.'\n\nIt was four or five days after this that Reardon, on going to his work\nin City Road, found a note from Carter. It requested him to call at\nthe main hospital at half-past eleven the next morning. He supposed the\nappointment had something to do with his business at Croydon, whither\nhe had been in the mean time. Some unfavourable news, perhaps; any\nmisfortune was likely.\n\nHe answered the summons punctually, and on entering the general office\nwas requested by the clerk to wait in Mr Carter's private room; the\nsecretary had not yet arrived. His waiting lasted some ten minutes, then\nthe door opened and admitted, not Carter, but Mrs Edmund Yule.\n\nReardon stood up in perturbation. He was anything but prepared, or\ndisposed, for an interview with this lady. She came towards him with\nhand extended and a countenance of suave friendliness.\n\n'I doubted whether you would see me if I let you know,' she said.\n'Forgive me this little bit of scheming, will you? I have something so\nvery important to speak to you about.'\n\nHe said nothing, but kept a demeanour of courtesy.\n\n'I think you haven't heard from Amy?' Mrs Yule asked.\n\n'Not since I saw her.'\n\n'And you don't know what has come to pass?'\n\n'I have heard of nothing.'\n\n'I am come to see you quite on my own responsibility, quite. I took Mr\nCarter into my confidence, but begged him not to let Mrs Carter know,\nlest she should tell Amy; I think he will keep his promise. It seemed to\nme that it was really my duty to do whatever I could in these sad, sad\ncircumstances.'\n\nReardon listened respectfully, but without sign of feeling.\n\n'I had better tell you at once that Amy's uncle at Wattleborough is\ndead, and that in his will he has bequeathed her ten thousand pounds.'\n\nMrs Yule watched the effect of this. For a moment none was visible,\nbut she saw at length that Reardon's lips trembled and his eyebrows\ntwitched.\n\n'I am glad to hear of her good fortune,' he said distantly and in even\ntones.\n\n'You will feel, I am sure,' continued his mother-in-law, 'that this must\nput an end to your most unhappy differences.'\n\n'How can it have that result?'\n\n'It puts you both in a very different position, does it not? But for\nyour distressing circumstances, I am sure there would never have been\nsuch unpleasantness--never. Neither you nor Amy is the kind of person to\ntake a pleasure in disagreement. Let me beg you to go and see her again.\nEverything is so different now. Amy has not the faintest idea that I\nhave come to see you, and she mustn't on any account be told, for her\nworst fault is that sensitive pride of hers. And I'm sure you won't\nbe offended, Edwin, if I say that you have very much the same failing.\nBetween two such sensitive people differences might last a lifetime,\nunless one could be persuaded to take the first step. Do be generous!\nA woman is privileged to be a little obstinate, it is always said.\nOverlook the fault, and persuade her to let bygones be bygones.'\n\nThere was an involuntary affectedness in Mrs Yule's speech which\nrepelled Reardon. He could not even put faith in her assurance that\nAmy knew nothing of this intercession. In any case it was extremely\ndistasteful to him to discuss such matters with Mrs Yule.\n\n'Under no circumstances could I do more than I already have done,' he\nreplied. 'And after what you have told me, it is impossible for me to go\nand see her unless she expressly invites me.'\n\n'Oh, if only you would overcome this sensitiveness!'\n\n'It is not in my power to do so. My poverty, as you justly say, was the\ncause of our parting; but if Amy is no longer poor, that is very far\nfrom a reason why I should go to her as a suppliant for forgiveness.'\n\n'But do consider the facts of the case, independently of feeling.\n\nI really think I don't go too far in saying that at least some--some\nprovocation was given by you first of all. I am so very, very far from\nwishing to say anything disagreeable--I am sure you feel that--but\nwasn't there some little ground for complaint on Amy's part? Wasn't\nthere, now?'\n\nReardon was tortured with nervousness. He wished to be alone, to think\nover what had happened, and Mrs Yule's urgent voice rasped upon his\nears. Its very smoothness made it worse.\n\n'There may have been ground for grief and concern,' he answered, 'but\nfor complaint, no, I think not.'\n\n'But I understand'--the voice sounded rather irritable now--'that you\npositively reproached and upbraided her because she was reluctant to go\nand live in some very shocking place.'\n\n'I may have lost my temper after Amy had shown--But I can't review our\ntroubles in this way.'\n\n'Am I to plead in vain?'\n\n'I regret very much that I can't possibly do as you wish. It is all\nbetween Amy and myself. Interference by other people cannot do any\ngood.'\n\n'I am sorry you should use such a word as \"interference,\"' replied Mrs\nYule, bridling a little. 'Very sorry, indeed. I confess it didn't occur\nto me that my good-will to you could be seen in that light.'\n\n'Believe me that I didn't use the word offensively.'\n\n'Then you refuse to take any step towards a restoration of good\nfeeling?'\n\n'I am obliged to, and Amy would understand perfectly why I say so.'\n\nHis earnestness was so unmistakable that Mrs Yule had no choice but\nto rise and bring the interview to an end. She commanded herself\nsufficiently to offer a regretful hand.\n\n'I can only say that my daughter is very, very unfortunate.'\n\nReardon lingered a little after her departure, then left the hospital\nand walked at a rapid pace in no particular direction.\n\nAh! if this had happened in the first year of his marriage, what more\nblessed man than he would have walked the earth! But it came after\nirreparable harm. No amount of wealth could undo the ruin caused by\npoverty.\n\nIt was natural for him, as soon as he could think with deliberation, to\nturn towards his only friend. But on calling at the house in Clipstone\nStreet he found the garret empty, and no one could tell him when its\noccupant was likely to be back. He left a note, and made his way back\nto Islington. The evening had to be spent at the hospital, but on his\nreturn Biffen sat waiting for him.\n\n'You called about twelve, didn't you?' the visitor inquired.\n\n'Half-past.'\n\n'I was at the police-court. Odd thing--but it always happens so--that\nI should have spoken of Sykes the other night. Last night I came upon\na crowd in Oxford Street, and the nucleus of it was no other than Sykes\nhimself very drunk and disorderly, in the grip of two policemen. Nothing\ncould be done for him; I was useless as bail; he e'en had to sleep in\nthe cell. But I went this morning to see what would become of him. Such\na spectacle when they brought him forward! It was only five shillings\nfine, and to my astonishment he produced the money. I joined him\noutside--it required a little courage--and had a long talk with him.\nHe's writing a London Letter for some provincial daily, and the first\npayment had thrown him off his balance.'\n\nReardon laughed gaily, and made inquiries about the eccentric gentleman.\nOnly when the subject was exhausted did he speak of his own concerns,\nrelating quietly what he had learnt from Mrs Yule. Biffen's eyes\nwidened.\n\n'So,' Reardon cried with exultation, 'there is the last burden off my\nmind! Henceforth I haven't a care! The only thing that still troubled\nme was my inability to give Amy enough to live upon. Now she is provided\nfor in secula seculorum. Isn't this grand news?'\n\n'Decidedly. But if she is provided for, so are you.'\n\n'Biffen, you know me better. Could I accept a farthing of her\nmoney? This has made our coming together again for ever impossible,\nunless--unless dead things can come to life. I know the value of money,\nbut I can't take it from Amy.'\n\nThe other kept silence.\n\n'No! But now everything is well. She has her child, and can devote\nherself to bringing the boy up. And I--but I shall be rich on my own\naccount. A hundred and fifty a year; it would be a farce to offer\nAmy her share of it. By all the gods of Olympus, we will go to Greece\ntogether, you and I!'\n\n'Pooh!'\n\n'I swear it! Let me save for a couple of years, and then get a good\nmonth's holiday, or more if possible, and, as Pallas Athene liveth!\nwe shall find ourselves at Marseilles, going aboard some boat of the\nMessageries. I can't believe yet that this is true. Come, we will have a\nsupper to-night. Come out into Upper Street, and let us eat, drink, and\nbe merry!'\n\n'You are beside yourself. But never mind; let us rejoice by all means.\nThere's every reason.'\n\n'That poor girl! Now, at last, she'll be at ease.'\n\n'Who?'\n\n'Amy, of course! I'm delighted on her account. Ah! but if it had come\na long time ago, in the happy days! Then she, too, would have gone to\nGreece, wouldn't she? Everything in life comes too soon or too late.\nWhat it would have meant for her and for me! She would never have hated\nme then, never. Biffen, am I base or contemptible? She thinks so. That's\nhow poverty has served me. If you had seen her, how she looked at\nme, when we met the other day, you would understand well enough why I\ncouldn't live with her now, not if she entreated me to. That would make\nme base if you like. Gods! how ashamed I should be if I yielded to such\na temptation! And once--'\n\nHe had worked himself to such intensity of feeling that at length his\nvoice choked and tears burst from his eyes.\n\n'Come out, and let us have a walk,' said Biffen.\n\nOn leaving the house they found themselves in a thick fog, through which\ntrickled drops of warm rain. Nevertheless, they pursued their purpose,\nand presently were seated in one of the boxes of a small coffee-shop.\nTheir only companion in the place was a cab-driver, who had just\nfinished a meal, and was now nodding into slumber over his plate and\ncup. Reardon ordered fried ham and eggs, the luxury of the poor, and\nwhen the attendant woman was gone away to execute the order, he burst\ninto excited laughter.\n\n'Here we sit, two literary men! How should we be regarded by--'\n\nHe named two or three of the successful novelists of the day.\n\n'With what magnificent scorn they would turn from us and our squalid\nfeast! They have never known struggle; not they. They are public-school\nmen, University men, club men, society men. An income of less than three\nor four hundred a year is inconceivable to them; that seems the minimum\nfor an educated man's support. It would be small-minded to think of them\nwith rancour, but, by Apollo! I know that we should change places with\nthem if the work we have done were justly weighed against theirs.'\n\n'What does it matter? We are different types of intellectual workers. I\nthink of them savagely now and then, but only when hunger gets a\ntrifle too keen. Their work answers a demand; ours--or mine at all\nevents--doesn't. They are in touch with the reading multitude; they have\nthe sentiments of the respectable; they write for their class. Well, you\nhad your circle of readers, and, if things hadn't gone against you, by\nthis time you certainly could have counted on your three or four hundred\na year.'\n\n'It's unlikely that I should ever have got more than two hundred pounds\nfor a book; and, to have kept at my best, I must have been content to\npublish once every two or three years. The position was untenable with\nno private income. And I must needs marry a wife of dainty instincts!\nWhat astounding impudence! No wonder Fate pitched me aside into the\ngutter.'\n\nThey ate their ham and eggs, and exhilarated themselves with a cup\nof chicory--called coffee. Then Biffen drew from the pocket of his\nvenerable overcoat the volume of Euripides he had brought, and their\ntalk turned once more to the land of the sun. Only when the coffee-shop\nwas closed did they go forth again into the foggy street, and at the\ntop of Pentonville Hill they stood for ten minutes debating a metrical\neffect in one of the Fragments.\n\nDay after day Reardon went about with a fever upon him. By evening his\npulse was always rapid, and no extremity of weariness brought him a\nrefreshing sleep. In conversation he seemed either depressed or\nexcited, more often the latter. Save when attending to his duties at the\nhospital, he made no pretence of employing himself; if at home, he sat\nfor hours without opening a book, and his walks, excepting when they led\nhim to Clipstone Street, were aimless.\n\nThe hours of postal delivery found him waiting in an anguish of\nsuspense. At eight o'clock each morning he stood by his window,\nlistening for the postman's knock in the street. As it approached he\nwent out to the head of the stairs, and if the knock sounded at the door\nof his house, he leaned over the banisters, trembling in expectation.\nBut the letter was never for him. When his agitation had subsided he\nfelt glad of the disappointment, and laughed and sang.\n\nOne day Carter appeared at the City Road establishment, and made an\nopportunity of speaking to his clerk in private.\n\n'I suppose,' he said with a smile, 'they'll have to look out for someone\nelse at Croydon?'\n\n'By no means! The thing is settled. I go at Christmas.'\n\n'You really mean that?'\n\n'Undoubtedly.'\n\nSeeing that Reardon was not disposed even to allude to private\ncircumstances, the secretary said no more, and went away convinced that\nmisfortunes had turned the poor fellow's brain.\n\nWandering in the city, about this time, Reardon encountered his friend\nthe realist.\n\n'Would you like to meet Sykes?' asked Biffen. 'I am just going to see\nhim.'\n\n'Where does he live?'\n\n'In some indiscoverable hole. To save fuel, he spends his mornings at\nsome reading-rooms; the admission is only a penny, and there he can see\nall the papers and do his writing and enjoy a grateful temperature.'\n\nThey repaired to the haunt in question. A flight of stairs brought them\nto a small room in which were exposed the daily newspapers; another\nascent, and they were in a room devoted to magazines, chess, and\nrefreshments; yet another, and they reached the department of weekly\npublications; lastly, at the top of the house, they found a lavatory,\nand a chamber for the use of those who desired to write. The walls\nof this last retreat were of blue plaster and sloped inwards from the\nfloor; along them stood school desks with benches, and in one place was\nsuspended a ragged and dirty card announcing that paper and envelopes\ncould be purchased downstairs. An enormous basket full of waste-paper,\nand a small stove, occupied two corners; ink blotches, satirical\ndesigns, and much scribbling in pen and pencil served for mural\nadornment. From the adjacent lavatory came sounds of splashing and\nspluttering, and the busy street far below sent up its confused noises.\n\nTwo persons only sat at the desks. One was a hunger-bitten, out-of-work\nclerk, evidently engaged in replying to advertisements; in front of him\nlay two or three finished letters, and on the ground at his feet were\nseveral crumpled sheets of note-paper, representing abortive essays in\ncomposition. The other man, also occupied with the pen, looked about\nforty years old, and was clad in a very rusty suit of tweeds; on the\nbench beside him lay a grey overcoat and a silk hat which had for\nsome time been moulting. His face declared the habit to which he was a\nvictim, but it had nothing repulsive in its lineaments and expression;\non the contrary, it was pleasing, amiable, and rather quaint. At this\nmoment no one would have doubted his sobriety. With coat-sleeve turned\nback, so as to give free play to his right hand and wrist, revealing\nmeanwhile a flannel shirt of singular colour, and with his collar\nunbuttoned (he wore no tie) to leave his throat at ease as he bent\nmyopically over the paper, he was writing at express speed, evidently\nin the full rush of the ardour of composition. The veins of his forehead\nwere dilated, and his chin pushed forward in a way that made one think\nof a racing horse.\n\n'Are you too busy to talk?' asked Biffen, going to his side.\n\n'I am! Upon my soul I am!' exclaimed the other looking up in alarm. 'For\nthe love of Heaven don't put me out! A quarter of an hour!'\n\n'All right. I'll come up again.'\n\nThe friends went downstairs and turned over the papers.\n\n'Now let's try him again,' said Biffen, when considerably more than\nthe requested time had elapsed. They went up, and found Mr Sykes in an\nattitude of melancholy meditation. He had turned back his coat\nsleeve, had buttoned his collar, and was eyeing the slips of completed\nmanuscript. Biffen presented his companion, and Mr Sykes greeted the\nnovelist with much geniality.\n\n'What do you think this is?' he exclaimed, pointing to his work. 'The\nfirst instalment of my autobiography for the \"Shropshire Weekly Herald.\"\nAnonymous, of course, but strictly veracious, with the omission of\nsundry little personal failings which are nothing to the point. I call\nit \"Through the Wilds of Literary London.\" An old friend of mine edits\nthe \"Herald,\" and I'm indebted to him for the suggestion.'\n\nHis voice was a trifle husky, but he spoke like a man of education.\n\n'Most people will take it for fiction. I wish I had inventive power\nenough to write fiction anything like it. I have published novels, Mr\nReardon, but my experience in that branch of literature was peculiar--as\nI may say it has been in most others to which I have applied myself. My\nfirst stories were written for \"The Young Lady's Favourite,\" and most\nremarkable productions they were, I promise you. That was fifteen years\nago, in the days of my versatility. I could throw off my supplemental\nnovelette of fifteen thousand words without turning a hair, and\nimmediately after it fall to, fresh as a daisy, on the \"Illustrated\nHistory of the United States,\" which I was then doing for Edward\nCoghlan. But presently I thought myself too good for the \"Favourite\"; in\nan evil day I began to write three-volume novels, aiming at reputation.\nIt wouldn't do. I persevered for five years, and made about five\nfailures. Then I went back to Bowring. \"Take me on again, old man, will\nyou?\" Bowring was a man of few words; he said, \"Blaze away, my boy.\" And\nI tried to. But it was no use; I had got out of the style; my writing\nwas too literary by a long chalk. For a whole year I deliberately strove\nto write badly, but Bowring was so pained with the feebleness of my\nefforts that at last he sternly bade me avoid his sight. \"What the\ndevil,\" he roared one day, \"do you mean by sending me stories about\nmen and women? You ought to know better than that, a fellow of your\nexperience!\" So I had to give it up, and there was an end of my career\nas a writer of fiction.'\n\nHe shook his head sadly.\n\n'Biffen,' he continued, 'when I first made his acquaintance, had an idea\nof writing for the working classes; and what do you think he was going\nto offer them? Stories about the working classes! Nay, never hang your\nhead for it, old boy; it was excusable in the days of your youth. Why,\nMr Reardon, as no doubt you know well enough, nothing can induce working\nmen or women to read stories that treat of their own world. They are\nthe most consumed idealists in creation, especially the women. Again\nand again work-girls have said to me: \"Oh, I don't like that book; it's\nnothing but real life.\"'\n\n'It's the fault of women in general,' remarked Reardon.\n\n'So it is, but it comes out with delicious naivete in the working\nclasses. Now, educated people like to read of scenes that are familiar\nto them, though I grant you that the picture must be idealised if you're\nto appeal to more than one in a thousand. The working classes detest\nanything that tries to represent their daily life. It isn't because that\nlife is too painful; no, no; it's downright snobbishness. Dickens goes\ndown only with the best of them, and then solely because of his strength\nin farce and his melodrama.'\n\nPresently the three went out together, and had dinner at an a la mode\nbeef shop. Mr Sykes ate little, but took copious libations of porter at\ntwopence a pint. When the meal was over he grew taciturn.\n\n'Can you walk westwards?' Biffen asked.\n\n'I'm afraid not, afraid not. In fact I have an appointment at two--at\nAldgate station.'\n\nThey parted from him.\n\n'Now he'll go and soak till he's unconscious,' said Biffen. 'Poor\nfellow! Pity he ever earns anything at all. The workhouse would be\nbetter, I should think.'\n\n'No, no! Let a man drink himself to death rather. I have a horror of the\nworkhouse. Remember the clock at Marylebone I used to tell you about.'\n\n'Unphilosophic. I don't think I should be unhappy in the workhouse.\nI should have a certain satisfaction in the thought that I had forced\nsociety to support me. And then the absolute freedom from care! Why,\nit's very much the same as being a man of independent fortune.'\n\nIt was about a week after this, midway in November, that there at length\ncame to Manville Street a letter addressed in Amy's hand. It arrived\nat three one afternoon; Reardon heard the postman, but he had ceased to\nrush out on every such occasion, and to-day he was feeling ill. Lying\nupon the bed, he had just raised his head wearily when he became aware\nthat someone was mounting to his room. He sprang up, his face and neck\nflushing.\n\nThis time Amy began 'Dear Edwin'; the sight of those words made his\nbrain swim.\n\n'You must, of course, have heard [she wrote] that my uncle John has left\nme ten thousand pounds. It has not yet come into my possession, and\nI had decided that I would not write to you till that happened, but\nperhaps you may altogether misunderstand my silence.\n\n'If this money had come to me when you were struggling so hard to earn\na living for us, we should never have spoken the words and thought the\nthoughts which now make it so difficult for me to write to you. What I\nwish to say is that, although the property is legally my own, I quite\nrecognise that you have a right to share in it. Since we have lived\napart you have sent me far more than you could really afford, believing\nit your duty to do so; now that things are so different I wish you, as\nwell as myself, to benefit by the change.\n\n'I said at our last meeting that I should be quite prepared to return to\nyou if you took that position at Croydon. There is now no need for you\nto pursue a kind of work for which you are quite unfitted, and I repeat\nthat I am willing to live with you as before. If you will tell me where\nyou would like to make a new home I shall gladly agree. I do not think\nyou would care to leave London permanently, and certainly I should not.\n\n'Please to let me hear from you as soon as possible. In writing like\nthis I feel that I have done what you expressed a wish that I should\ndo. I have asked you to put an end to our separation, and I trust that I\nhave not asked in vain.\n\n'Yours always,\n\n'AMY REARDON.'\n\nThe letter fell from his hand. It was such a letter as he might have\nexpected, but the beginning misled him, and as his agitation throbbed\nitself away he suffered an encroachment of despair which made him for a\ntime unable to move or even think.\n\nHis reply, written by the dreary twilight which represented sunset, ran\nthus.\n\n'Dear Amy,--I thank you for your letter, and I appreciate your motive in\nwriting it. But if you feel that you have \"done what I expressed a wish\nthat you should do,\" you must have strangely misunderstood me.\n\n'The only one thing that I wished was, that by some miracle your love\nfor me might be revived. Can I persuade myself that this is the letter\nof a wife who desires to return to me because in her heart she loves me?\nIf that is the truth you have been most unfortunate in trying to express\nyourself.\n\n'You have written because it seemed your duty to do so. But, indeed, a\nsense of duty such as this is a mistaken one. You have no love for me,\nand where there is no love there is no mutual obligation in marriage.\nPerhaps you think that regard for social conventions will necessitate\nyour living with me again. But have more courage; refuse to act\nfalsehoods; tell society it is base and brutal, and that you prefer to\nlive an honest life.\n\n'I cannot share your wealth, dear. But as you have no longer need of my\nhelp--as we are now quite independent of each other--I shall cease to\nsend the money which hitherto I have considered yours. In this way I\nshall have enough, and more than enough, for my necessities, so that you\nwill never have to trouble yourself with the thought that I am suffering\nprivations. At Christmas I go to Croydon, and I will then write to you\nagain.\n\n'For we may at all events be friendly. My mind is relieved from\nceaseless anxiety on your account. I know now that you are safe from\nthat accursed poverty which is to blame for all our sufferings. You I do\nnot blame, though I have sometimes done so. My own experience teaches\nme how kindness can be embittered by misfortune. Some great and noble\nsorrow may have the effect of drawing hearts together, but to struggle\nagainst destitution, to be crushed by care about shillings and\nsixpences--that must always degrade.\n\n'No other reply than this is possible, so I beg you not to write in this\nway again. Let me know if you go to live elsewhere. I hope Willie is\nwell, and that his growth is still a delight and happiness to you.\n\n'EDWIN REARDON.'\n\nThat one word 'dear,' occurring in the middle of the letter, gave him\npause as he read the lines over. Should he not obliterate it, and even\nin such a way that Amy might see what he had done? His pen was dipped in\nthe ink for that purpose, but after all he held his hand. Amy was\nstill dear to him, say what he might, and if she noted the word--if she\npondered over it--\n\nA street gas lamp prevented the room from becoming absolutely dark. When\nhe had closed the envelope he lay down on his bed again, and watched the\nflickering yellowness upon the ceiling. He ought to have some tea before\ngoing to the hospital, but he cared so little for it that the trouble of\nboiling water was too great.\n\nThe flickering light grew fainter; he understood at length that this was\ncaused by fog that had begun to descend. The fog was his enemy; it would\nbe wise to purchase a respirator if this hideous weather continued, for\nsometimes his throat burned, and there was a rasping in his chest which\ngave disagreeable admonition.\n\nHe fell asleep for half an hour, and on awaking he was feverish, as\nusual at this time of day. Well, it was time to go to his work. Ugh!\nThat first mouthful of fog!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII. INTERIM\n\nThe rooms which Milvain had taken for himself and his sisters were\nmodest, but more expensive than their old quarters. As the change was\non his account he held himself responsible for the extra outlay. But for\nhis immediate prospects this step would have been unwarrantable, as\nhis earnings were only just sufficient for his needs on the previous\nfooting. He had resolved that his marriage must take place before\nChristmas; till that event he would draw when necessary upon the girls'\nlittle store, and then repay them out of Marian's dowry.\n\n'And what are we to do when you are married?' asked Dora.\n\nThe question was put on the first evening of their being all under the\nsame roof. The trio had had supper in the girls' sitting-room, and\nit was a moment for frank conversation. Dora rejoiced in the coming\nmarriage; her brother had behaved honourably, and Marian, she trusted,\nwould be very happy, notwithstanding disagreement with her father, which\nseemed inevitable. Maud was by no means so well pleased, though she\nendeavoured to wear smiles. It looked to her as if Jasper had been\nguilty of a kind of weakness not to be expected in him. Marian, as an\nindividual, could not be considered an appropriate wife for such a\nman with such a future; and as for her five thousand pounds, that was\nridiculous. Had it been ten--something can be made of ten thousand; but\na paltry five! Maud's ideas on such subjects had notably expanded of\nlate, and one of the results was that she did not live so harmoniously\nwith her sister as for the first few months of their London career.\n\n'I have been thinking a good deal about that,' replied Jasper to the\nyounger girl's question. He stood with his back to the fire and smoked a\ncigarette. 'I thought at first of taking a flat; but then a flat of the\nkind I should want would be twice the rent of a large house. If we have\na house with plenty of room in it you might come and live with us after\na time. At first I must find you decent lodgings in our neighbourhood.'\n\n'You show a good deal of generosity, Jasper,' said Maud, 'but pray\nremember that Marian isn't bringing you five thousand a year.'\n\n'I regret to say that she isn't. What she brings me is five hundred a\nyear for ten years--that's how I look at it. My own income will make\nit something between six or seven hundred at first, and before long\nprobably more like a thousand. I am quite cool and collected. I\nunderstand exactly where I am, and where I am likely to be ten years\nhence. Marian's money is to be spent in obtaining a position for myself.\nAt present I am spoken of as a \"smart young fellow,\" and that kind of\nthing; but no one would offer me an editorship, or any other serious\nhelp. Wait till I show that I have helped myself and hands will be\nstretched to me from every side. 'Tis the way of the world. I shall\nbelong to a club; I shall give nice, quiet little dinners to selected\npeople; I shall let it be understood by all and sundry that I have a\nsocial position. Thenceforth I am quite a different man, a man to be\ntaken into account. And what will you bet me that I don't stand in the\nforemost rank of literary reputabilities ten years hence?'\n\n'I doubt whether six or seven hundred a year will be enough for this.'\n\n'If not, I am prepared to spend a thousand. Bless my soul! As if two or\nthree years wouldn't suffice to draw out the mean qualities in the kind\nof people I am thinking of! I say ten, to leave myself a great margin.'\n\n'Marian approves this?'\n\n'I haven't distinctly spoken of it. But she approves whatever I think\ngood.'\n\nThe girls laughed at his way of pronouncing this.\n\n'And let us just suppose that you are so unfortunate as to fail?'\n\n'There's no supposing it, unless, of course, I lose my health. I am not\npresuming on any wonderful development of powers. Such as I am now, I\nneed only to be put on the little pedestal of a decent independence and\nplenty of people will point fingers of admiration at me. You don't fully\nappreciate this. Mind, it wouldn't do if I had no qualities. I have the\nqualities; they only need bringing into prominence. If I am an unknown\nman, and publish a wonderful book, it will make its way very slowly, or\nnot at all. If I, become a known man, publish that very same book, its\npraise will echo over both hemispheres. I should be within the truth\nif I had said \"a vastly inferior book,\" But I am in a bland mood at\npresent. Suppose poor Reardon's novels had been published in the full\nlight of reputation instead of in the struggling dawn which was never to\nbecome day, wouldn't they have been magnified by every critic? You have\nto become famous before you can secure the attention which would give\nfame.'\n\nHe delivered this apophthegm with emphasis, and repeated it in another\nform.\n\n'You have to obtain reputation before you can get a fair hearing for\nthat which would justify your repute. It's the old story of the French\npublisher who said to Dumas: \"Make a name, and I'll publish anything you\nwrite.\" \"But how the diable,\" cries the author, \"am I to make a name\nif I can't get published?\" If a man can't hit upon any other way of\nattracting attention, let him dance on his head in the middle of the\nstreet; after that he may hope to get consideration for his volume of\npoems. I am speaking of men who wish to win reputation before they are\ntoothless. Of course if your work is strong, and you can afford to wait,\nthe probability is that half a dozen people will at last begin to shout\nthat you have been monstrously neglected, as you have. But that happens\nwhen you are hoary and sapless, and when nothing under the sun delights\nyou.'\n\nHe lit a new cigarette.\n\n'Now I, my dear girls, am not a man who can afford to wait. First of\nall, my qualities are not of the kind which demand the recognition of\nposterity. My writing is for to-day, most distinctly hodiernal. It has\nno value save in reference to to-day. The question is: How can I get\nthe eyes of men fixed upon me? The answer: By pretending I am quite\nindependent of their gaze. I shall succeed, without any kind of doubt;\nand then I'll have a medal struck to celebrate the day of my marriage.'\n\nBut Jasper was not quite so well assured of the prudence of what he was\nabout to do as he wished his sisters to believe. The impulse to which he\nhad finally yielded still kept its force; indeed, was stronger than\never since the intimacy of lovers' dialogue had revealed to him more of\nMarian's heart and mind. Undeniably he was in love. Not passionately,\nnot with the consuming desire which makes every motive seem paltry\ncompared with its own satisfaction; but still quite sufficiently in love\nto have a great difficulty in pursuing his daily tasks. This did not\nstill the voice which bade him remember all the opportunities and hopes\nhe was throwing aside. Since the plighting of troth with Marian he had\nbeen over to Wimbledon, to the house of his friend and patron Mr Horace\nBarlow, and there he had again met with Miss Rupert. This lady had no\npower whatever over his emotions, but he felt assured that she\nregarded him with strong interest. When he imagined the possibility of\ncontracting a marriage with Miss Rupert, who would make him at once\na man of solid means, his head drooped, and he wondered at his\nprecipitation. It had to be confessed that he was the victim of a vulgar\nweakness. He had declared himself not of the first order of progressive\nmen.\n\nThe conversation with Amy Reardon did not tend to put his mind at rest.\nAmy was astonished at so indiscreet a step in a man of his calibre. Ah!\nif only Amy herself were free, with her ten thousand pounds to dispose\nof! She, he felt sure, did not view him with indifference. Was there not\na touch of pique in the elaborate irony with which she had spoken of his\nchoice?--But it was idle to look in that direction.\n\nHe was anxious on his sisters' account. They were clever girls, and with\nenergy might before long earn a bare subsistence; but it began to be\ndoubtful whether they would persevere in literary work. Maud, it was\nclear, had conceived hopes of quite another kind. Her intimacy with Mrs\nLane was effecting a change in her habits, her dress, even her modes of\nspeech. A few days after their establishment in the new lodgings, Jasper\nspoke seriously on this subject with the younger girl.\n\n'I wonder whether you could satisfy my curiosity in a certain matter,'\nhe said. 'Do you, by chance, know how much Maud gave for that new jacket\nin which I saw her yesterday?'\n\nDora was reluctant to answer.\n\n'I don't think it was very much.'\n\n'That is to say, it didn't cost twenty guineas. Well, I hope not.\n\nI notice, too, that she has been purchasing a new hat.'\n\n'Oh, that was very inexpensive. She trimmed it herself.'\n\n'Did she? Is there any particular, any quite special, reason for this\nexpenditure?'\n\n'I really can't say, Jasper.'\n\n'That's ambiguous, you know. Perhaps it means you won't allow yourself\nto say?'\n\n'No, Maud doesn't tell me about things of that kind.'\n\nHe took opportunities of investigating the matter, with the result that\nsome ten days after he sought private colloquy with Maud herself. She\nhad asked his opinion of a little paper she was going to send to a\nladies' illustrated weekly, and he summoned her to his own room.\n\n'I think this will do pretty well,' he said. 'There's rather too much\nthought in it, perhaps. Suppose you knock out one or two of the less\nobvious reflections, and substitute a wholesome commonplace? You'll have\na better chance, I assure you.'\n\n'But I shall make it worthless.'\n\n'No; you'll probably make it worth a guinea or so. You must remember\nthat the people who read women's papers are irritated, simply irritated,\nby anything that isn't glaringly obvious. They hate an unusual\nthought. The art of writing for such papers--indeed, for the public in\ngeneral--is to express vulgar thought and feeling in a way that flatters\nthe vulgar thinkers and feelers. Just abandon your mind to it, and then\nlet me see it again.'\n\nMaud took up the manuscript and glanced over it with a contemptuous\nsmile. Having observed her for a moment, Jasper threw himself back in\nthe chair and said, as if casually:\n\n'I am told that Mr Dolomore is becoming a great friend of yours.'\n\nThe girl's face changed. She drew herself up, and looked away towards\nthe window.\n\n'I don't know that he is a \"great\" friend.'\n\n'Still, he pays enough attention to you to excite remark.'\n\n'Whose remark?'\n\n'That of several people who go to Mrs Lane's.'\n\n'I don't know any reason for it,' said Maud coldly.\n\n'Look here, Maud, you don't mind if I give you a friendly warning?'\n\nShe kept silence, with a look of superiority to all monition.\n\n'Dolomore,' pursued her brother, 'is all very well in his way, but\nthat way isn't yours. I believe he has a good deal of money, but he\nhas neither brains nor principle. There's no harm in your observing\nthe nature and habits of such individuals, but don't allow yourself to\nforget that they are altogether beneath you.'\n\n'There's no need whatever for you to teach me self-respect,' replied the\ngirl.\n\n'I'm quite sure of that; but you are inexperienced. On the whole, I do\nrather wish that you would go less frequently to Mrs Lane's.\n\nIt was rather an unfortunate choice of yours. Very much better if you\ncould have got on a good footing with the Barnabys. If you are generally\nlooked upon as belonging to the Lanes' set it will make it difficult for\nyou to get in with the better people.'\n\nMaud was not to be drawn into argument, and Jasper could only hope that\nhis words would have some weight with her. The Mr Dolomore in question\nwas a young man of rather offensive type--athletic, dandiacal, and\nhalf-educated. It astonished Jasper that his sister could tolerate such\nan empty creature for a moment; who has not felt the like surprise with\nregard to women's inclinations? He talked with Dora about it, but she\nwas not in her sister's confidence.\n\n'I think you ought to have some influence with her,' Jasper said.\n\n'Maud won't allow anyone to interfere in--her private affairs.''It would\nbe unfortunate if she made me quarrel with her.'\n\n'Oh, surely there isn't any danger of that?'\n\n'I don't know, she mustn't be obstinate.'\n\nJasper himself saw a good deal of miscellaneous society at this time. He\ncould not work so persistently as usual, and with wise tactics he used\nthe seasons of enforced leisure to extend his acquaintance. Marian and\nhe were together twice a week, in the evening.\n\nOf his old Bohemian associates he kept up intimate relations with one\nonly, and that was Whelpdale. This was in a measure obligatory, for\nWhelpdale frequently came to see him, and it would have been difficult\nto repel a man who was always making known how highly he esteemed the\nprivilege of Milvain's friendship, and whose company on the whole was\nagreeable enough. At the present juncture Whelpdale's cheery flattery\nwas a distinct assistance; it helped to support Jasper in his\nself-confidence, and to keep the brightest complexion on the prospect to\nwhich he had committed himself.\n\n'Whelpdale is anxious to make Marian's acquaintance,' Jasper said to his\nsisters one day. 'Shall we have him here tomorrow evening?'\n\n'Just as you like,' Maud replied.\n\n'You won't object, Dora?'\n\n'Oh no! I rather like Mr Whelpdale.'\n\n'If I were to repeat that to him he'd go wild with delight. But don't\nbe afraid; I shan't. I'll ask him to come for an hour, and trust to his\ndiscretion not to bore us by staying too long.'\n\nA note was posted to Whelpdale; he was invited to present himself at\neight o'clock, by which time Marian would have arrived. Jasper's room\nwas to be the scene of the assembly, and punctual to the minute the\nliterary adviser appeared. He was dressed with all the finish his\nwardrobe allowed, and his face beamed with gratification; it was rapture\nto him to enter the presence of these three girls, one of whom he had,\nmore suo, held in romantic remembrance since his one meeting with her at\nJasper's old lodgings. His eyes melted with tenderness as he approached\nDora and saw her smile of gracious recognition. By Maud he was\nprofoundly impressed. Marian inspired him with no awe, but he fully\nappreciated the charm of her features and her modest gravity. After all,\nit was to Dora that his eyes turned again most naturally. He thought\nher exquisite, and, rather than be long without a glimpse of her, he\ncontented himself with fixing his eyes on the hem of her dress and the\nboot-toe that occasionally peeped from beneath it.\n\nAs was to be expected in such a circle, conversation soon turned to the\nsubject of literary struggles.\n\n'I always feel it rather humiliating,' said Jasper, 'that I have gone\nthrough no very serious hardships. It must be so gratifying to say to\nyoung fellows who are just beginning:\n\n\"Ah, I remember when I was within an ace of starving to death,\" and\nthen come out with Grub Street reminiscences of the most appalling kind.\nUnfortunately, I have always had enough to eat.'\n\n'I haven't,' exclaimed Whelpdale. 'I have lived for five days on a few\ncents' worth of pea-nuts in the States.'\n\n'What are pea-nuts, Mr Whelpdale?' asked Dora.\n\nDelighted with the question, Whelpdale described that undesirable\nspecies of food.\n\n'It was in Troy,' he went on, 'Troy, N.Y. To think that a man should\nlive on pea-nuts in a town called Troy!'\n\n'Tell us those adventures,' cried Jasper. 'It's a long time since I\nheard them, and the girls will enjoy it vastly.'\n\nDora looked at him with such good-humoured interest that the traveller\nneeded no further persuasion.\n\n'It came to pass in those days,' he began, 'that I inherited from my\ngodfather a small, a very small, sum of money. I was making strenuous\nefforts to write for magazines, with absolutely no encouragement.\nAs everybody was talking just then of the Centennial Exhibition at\nPhiladelphia, I conceived the brilliant idea of crossing the Atlantic,\nin the hope that I might find valuable literary material at the\nExhibition--or Exposition, as they called it--and elsewhere. I won't\ntrouble you with an account of how I lived whilst I still had money;\nsufficient that no one would accept the articles I sent to England,\nand that at last I got into perilous straits. I went to New York, and\nthought of returning home, but the spirit of adventure was strong in me.\n\"I'll go West,\" I said to myself. \"There I am bound to find material.\"\nAnd go I did, taking an emigrant ticket to Chicago. It was December, and\nI should like you to imagine what a journey of a thousand miles by an\nemigrant train meant at that season. The cars were deadly cold, and what\nwith that and the hardness of the seats I found it impossible to sleep;\nit reminded me of tortures I had read about; I thought my brain would\nhave burst with the need of sleeping. At Cleveland, in Ohio, we had to\nwait several hours in the night; I left the station and wandered about\ntill I found myself on the edge of a great cliff that looked over Lake\nErie. A magnificent picture! Brilliant moonlight, and all the lake away\nto the horizon frozen and covered with snow. The clocks struck two as I\nstood there.'\n\nHe was interrupted by the entrance of a servant who brought coffee.\n\n'Nothing could be more welcome,' cried Dora. 'Mr Whelpdale makes one\nfeel quite chilly.'\n\nThere was laughter and chatting whilst Maud poured out the beverage.\nThen Whelpdale pursued his narrative.\n\n'I reached Chicago with not quite five dollars in my pockets, and, with\na courage which I now marvel at, I paid immediately four dollars and a\nhalf for a week's board and lodging. \"Well,\" I said to myself, \"for a\nweek I am safe. If I earn nothing in that time, at least I shall owe\nnothing when I have to turn out into the streets.\" It was a rather dirty\nlittle boarding-house, in Wabash Avenue, and occupied, as I soon found,\nalmost entirely by actors. There was no fireplace in my bedroom, and\nif there had been I couldn't have afforded a fire. But that mattered\nlittle; what I had to do was to set forth and discover some way of\nmaking money. Don't suppose that I was in a desperate state of mind;\nhow it was, I don't quite know, but I felt decidedly cheerful. It was\npleasant to be in this new region of the earth, and I went about the\ntown like a tourist who has abundant resources.'\n\nHe sipped his coffee.\n\n'I saw nothing for it but to apply at the office of some newspaper, and\nas I happened to light upon the biggest of them first of all, I put on\na bold face, marched in, asked if I could see the editor. There was no\ndifficulty whatever about this; I was told to ascend by means of the\n\"elevator\" to an upper storey, and there I walked into a comfortable\nlittle room where a youngish man sat smoking a cigar at a table covered\nwith print and manuscript. I introduced myself, stated my business. \"Can\nyou give me work of any kind on your paper?\" \"Well, what experience have\nyou had?\" \"None whatever.\" The editor smiled. \"I'm very much afraid you\nwould be no use to us. But what do you think you could do?\" Well now,\nthere was but one thing that by any possibility I could do. I asked him:\n\"Do you publish any fiction--short stories?\" \"Yes, we're always glad\nof a short story, if it's good.\" This was a big daily paper; they have\nweekly supplements of all conceivable kinds of matter. \"Well,\" I said,\n\"if I write a story of English life, will you consider it?\" \"With\npleasure.\" I left him, and went out as if my existence were henceforth\nprovided for.'\n\nHe laughed heartily, and was joined by his hearers.\n\n'It was a great thing to be permitted to write a story, but then--what\nstory? I went down to the shore of Lake Michigan; walked there for half\nan hour in an icy wind. Then I looked for a stationer's shop, and\nlaid out a few of my remaining cents in the purchase of pen, ink, and\npaper--my stock of all these things was at an end when I left New York.\nThen back to the boarding-house. Impossible to write in my bedroom, the\ntemperature was below zero; there was no choice but to sit down in the\ncommon room, a place like the smoke-room of a poor commercial hotel in\nEngland. A dozen men were gathered about the fire, smoking, talking,\nquarrelling. Favourable conditions, you see, for literary effort. But\nthe story had to be written, and write it I did, sitting there at the\nend of a deal table; I finished it in less than a couple of days, a\ngood long story, enough to fill three columns of the huge paper. I stand\namazed at my power of concentration as often as I think of it!'\n\n'And was it accepted?' asked Dora.\n\n'You shall hear. I took my manuscript to the editor, and he told me to\ncome and see him again next morning. I didn't forget the appointment.\nAs I entered he smiled in a very promising way, and said, \"I think\nyour story will do. I'll put it into the Saturday supplement. Call on\nSaturday morning and I'll remunerate you.\" How well I remember that\nword \"remunerate\"! I have had an affection for the word ever since. And\nremunerate me he did; scribbled something on a scrap of paper, which\nI presented to the cashier. The sum was eighteen dollars. Behold me\nsaved!'\n\nHe sipped his coffee again.\n\n'I have never come across an English editor who treated me with anything\nlike that consideration and general kindliness. How the man had time, in\nhis position, to see me so often, and do things in such a human way,\nI can't understand. Imagine anyone trying the same at the office of a\nLondon newspaper! To begin with, one couldn't see the editor at all. I\nshall always think with profound gratitude of that man with the peaked\nbrown beard and pleasant smile.'\n\n'But did the pea-nuts come after that!' inquired Dora.\n\n'Alas! they did. For some months I supported myself in Chicago, writing\nfor that same paper, and for others. But at length the flow of my\ninspiration was checked; I had written myself out. And I began to grow\nhome-sick, wanted to get back to England. The result was that I found\nmyself one day in New York again, but without money enough to pay for a\npassage home. I tried to write one more story. But it happened, as I was\nlooking over newspapers in a reading-room, that I saw one of my Chicago\ntales copied into a paper published at Troy. Now Troy was not very far\noff; and it occurred to me that, if I went there, the editor of this\npaper might be disposed to employ me, seeing he had a taste for my\nfiction. And I went, up the Hudson by steamboat. On landing at Troy I\nwas as badly off as when I reached Chicago; I had less than a dollar.\nAnd the worst of it was I had come on a vain errand; the editor treated\nme with scant courtesy, and no work was to be got. I took a little room,\npaying for it day by day, and in the meantime I fed on those loathsome\npea-nuts, buying a handful in the street now and then. And I assure you\nI looked starvation in the face.'\n\n'What sort of a town is Troy?' asked Marian, speaking for the first\ntime.\n\n'Don't ask me. They make straw hats there principally, and they sell\npea-nuts. More I remember not.'\n\n'But you didn't starve to death,' said Maud.\n\n'No, I just didn't. I went one afternoon into a lawyer's office,\nthinking I might get some copying work, and there I found an odd-looking\nold man, sitting with an open Bible on his knees. He explained to me\nthat he wasn't the lawyer; that the lawyer was away on business,\nand that he was just guarding the office. Well, could he help me?\nHe meditated, and a thought occurred to him. \"Go,\" he said, \"to\nsuch-and-such a boarding-house, and ask for Mr Freeman Sterling. He is\njust starting on a business tour, and wants a young man to accompany\nhim.\" I didn't dream of asking what the business was, but sped, as fast\nas my trembling limbs would carry me, to the address he had mentioned. I\nasked for Mr Freeman Sterling, and found him. He was a photographer,\nand his business at present was to go about getting orders for the\nreproducing of old portraits. A good-natured young fellow. He said he\nliked the look of me, and on the spot engaged me to assist him in a\nhouse-to-house visitation. He would pay for my board and lodging, and\ngive me a commission on all the orders I obtained. Forthwith I sat down\nto a \"square meal,\" and ate--my conscience, how I ate!'\n\n'You were not eminently successful in that pursuit, I think?' said\nJasper.\n\n'I don't think I got half-a-dozen orders. Yet that good Samaritan\nsupported me for five or six weeks, whilst we travelled from Troy to\nBoston. It couldn't go on; I was ashamed of myself; at last I told\nhim that we must part. Upon my word, I believe he would have paid my\nexpenses for another month; why, I can't understand. But he had a vast\nrespect for me because I had written in newspapers, and I do seriously\nthink that he didn't like to tell me I was a useless fellow. We parted\non the very best of terms in Boston.'\n\n'And you again had recourse to pea-nuts?' asked Dora.\n\n'Well, no. In the meantime I had written to someone in England, begging\nthe loan of just enough money to enable me to get home. The money came a\nday after I had seen Sterling off by train.'\n\nAn hour and a half quickly passed, and Jasper, who wished to have a few\nminutes of Marian's company before it was time for her to go, cast a\nsignificant glance at his sisters. Dora said innocently:\n\n'You wished me to tell you when it was half-past nine, Marian.'\n\nAnd Marian rose. This was a signal Whelpdale could not disregard.\nImmediately he made ready for his own departure, and in less than five\nminutes was gone, his face at the last moment expressing blended delight\nand pain.\n\n'Too good of you to have asked me to come,' he said with gratitude to\nJasper, who went to the door with him. 'You are a happy man, by Jove! A\nhappy man!'\n\nWhen Jasper returned to the room his sisters had vanished. Marian\nstood by the fire. He drew near to her, took her hands, and repeated\nlaughingly Whelpdale's last words.\n\n'Is it true?' she asked.\n\n'Tolerably true, I think.'\n\n'Then I am as happy as you are.'\n\nHe released her hands, and moved a little apart.\n\n'Marian, I have been thinking about that letter to your father. I had\nbetter get it written, don't you think?'\n\nShe gazed at him with troubled eyes.\n\n'Perhaps you had. Though we said it might be delayed until--'\n\n'Yes, I know. But I suspect you had rather I didn't wait any longer.\nIsn't that the truth?'\n\n'Partly. Do just as you wish, Jasper.'\n\n'I'll go and see him, if you like.'\n\n'I am so afraid--No, writing will be better.'\n\n'Very well. Then he shall have the letter to-morrow afternoon.'\n\n'Don't let it come before the last post. I had so much rather not.\nManage it, if you can.'\n\n'Very well. Now go and say good-night to the girls. It's a vile night,\nand you must get home as soon as possible.'\n\nShe turned away, but again came towards him, murmuring:\n\n'Just a word or two more.'\n\n'About the letter?'\n\n'No. You haven't said--'\n\nHe laughed.\n\n'And you couldn't go away contentedly unless I repeated for the\nhundredth time that I love you?'\n\nMarian searched his countenance.\n\n'Do you think it foolish? I live only on those words.'\n\n'Well, they are better than pea-nuts.'\n\n'Oh don't! I can't bear to--'\n\nJasper was unable to understand that such a jest sounded to her like\nprofanity. She hid her face against him, and whispered the words that\nwould have enraptured her had they but come from his lips. The young man\nfound it pleasant enough to be worshipped, but he could not reply as\nshe desired. A few phrases of tenderness, and his love-vocabulary\nwas exhausted; he even grew weary when something more--the indefinite\nsomething--was vaguely required of him.\n\n'You are a dear, good, tender-hearted girl,' he said, stroking her\nshort, soft hair, which was exquisite to the hand. 'Now go and get\nready.'\n\nShe left him, but stood for a few moments on the landing before going to\nthe girls' room.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX. CATASTROPHE\n\nMarian had finished the rough draft of a paper on James Harrington,\nauthor of 'Oceana.' Her father went through it by the midnight lamp,\nand the next morning made his comments. A black sky and sooty rain\nstrengthened his inclination to sit by the study fire and talk at large\nin a tone of flattering benignity.\n\n'Those paragraphs on the Rota Club strike me as singularly happy,' he\nsaid, tapping the manuscript with the mouthpiece of his pipe. 'Perhaps\nyou might say a word or two more about Cyriac Skinner; one mustn't be\ntoo allusive with general readers, their ignorance is incredible. But\nthere is so little to add to this paper--so little to alter--that I\ncouldn't feel justified in sending it as my own work. I think it is\naltogether too good to appear anonymously. You must sign it, Marian, and\nhave the credit that is due to you.'\n\n'Oh, do you think it's worth while?' answered the girl, who was far from\neasy under this praise. Of late there had been too much of it; it made\nher regard her father with suspicions which increased her sense of\ntrouble in keeping a momentous secret from him.\n\n'Yes, yes; you had better sign it. I'll undertake there's no other girl\nof your age who could turn out such a piece of work. I think we may\nfairly say that your apprenticeship is at an end. Before long,' he\nsmiled anxiously, 'I may be counting upon you as a valued contributor.\nAnd that reminds me; would you be disposed to call with me on the\nJedwoods at their house next Sunday?'\n\nMarian understood the intention that lay beneath this proposal. She\nsaw that her father would not allow himself to seem discouraged by the\nsilence she maintained on the great subject which awaited her decision.\nHe was endeavouring gradually to involve her in his ambitions, to carry\nher forward by insensible steps. It pained her to observe the suppressed\neagerness with which he looked for her reply.\n\n'I will go if you wish, father, but I had rather not.'\n\n'I feel sure you would like Mrs Jedwood. One has no great opinion of her\nnovels, but she is a woman of some intellect. Let me book you for next\nSunday; surely I have a claim to your companionship now and then.'\n\nMarian kept silence. Yule puffed at his pipe, then said with a\nspeculative air:\n\n'I suppose it has never even occurred to you to try your hand at\nfiction?'\n\n'I haven't the least inclination that way.'\n\n'You would probably do something rather good if you tried. But I don't\nurge it. My own efforts in that line were a mistake, I'm disposed to\nthink. Not that the things were worse than multitudes of books which\nnowadays go down with the many-headed. But I never quite knew what I\nwished to be at in fiction. I wasn't content to write a mere narrative\nof the exciting kind, yet I couldn't hit upon subjects of intellectual\ncast that altogether satisfied me. Well, well; I have tried my hand\nat most kinds of literature. Assuredly I merit the title of man of\nletters.'\n\n'You certainly do.'\n\n'By-the-by, what should you think of that title for a review--Letters?\nIt has never been used, so far as I know. I like the word \"letters.\"\nHow much better \"a man of letters\" than \"a literary man\"! And apropos of\nthat, when was the word \"literature\" first used in our modern sense\nto signify a body of writing? In Johnson's day it was pretty much the\nequivalent of our \"culture.\" You remember his saying, \"It is surprising\nhow little literature people have.\" His dictionary, I believe, defines\nthe word as \"learning, skill in letters\"--nothing else.'\n\nIt was characteristic of Yule to dwell with gusto on little points such\nas this; he prosed for a quarter of an hour, with a pause every now and\nthen whilst he kept his pipe alight.\n\n'I think Letters wouldn't be amiss,' he said at length, returning to\nthe suggestion which he wished to keep before Marian's mind. 'It would\nclearly indicate our scope. No articles on bimetallism, as Quarmby\nsaid--wasn't it Quarmby?'\n\nHe laughed idly.\n\n'Yes, I must ask Jedwood how he likes the name.'\n\nThough Marian feared the result, she was glad when Jasper made up his\nmind to write to her father. Since it was determined that her money\ncould not be devoted to establishing a review, the truth ought to be\nconfessed before Yule had gone too far in nursing his dangerous hope.\nWithout the support of her love and all the prospects connected with it,\nshe would hardly have been capable of giving a distinct refusal when her\nreply could no longer be postponed; to hold the money merely for her own\nbenefit would have seemed to her too selfish, however slight her faith\nin the project on which her father built so exultantly. When it was\ndeclared that she had accepted an offer of marriage, a sacrifice of that\nkind could no longer be expected of her. Opposition must direct itself\nagainst the choice she had made. It would be stern, perhaps relentless;\nbut she felt able to face any extremity of wrath. Her nerves quivered,\nbut in her heart was an exhaustless source of courage.\n\nThat a change had somehow come about in the girl Yule was aware. He\nobserved her with the closest study day after day. Her health seemed\nto have improved; after a long spell of work she had not the air of\ndespondent weariness which had sometimes irritated him, sometimes\nmade him uneasy. She was more womanly in her bearing and speech, and\nexercised an independence, appropriate indeed to her years, but such\nas had not formerly declared itself The question with her father\nwas whether these things resulted simply from her consciousness of\npossessing what to her seemed wealth, or something else had happened\nof the nature that he dreaded. An alarming symptom was the increased\nattention she paid to her personal appearance; its indications were\nnot at all prominent, but Yule, on the watch for such things, did not\noverlook them. True, this also might mean nothing but a sense of relief\nfrom narrow means; a girl would naturally adorn herself a little under\nthe circumstances.\n\nHis doubts came to an end two days after that proposal of a title for\nthe new review. As he sat in his study the servant brought him a letter\ndelivered by the last evening post. The handwriting was unknown to him;\nthe contents were these:\n\n'DEAR MR YULE,--It is my desire to write to you with perfect frankness\nand as simply as I can on a subject which has the deepest interest for\nme, and which I trust you will consider in that spirit of kindness with\nwhich you received me when we first met at Finden.\n\n'On the occasion of that meeting I had the happiness of being presented\nto Miss Yule. She was not totally a stranger to me; at that time I used\nto work pretty regularly in the Museum Reading-room, and there I had\nseen Miss Yule, had ventured to observe her at moments with a young\nman's attention, and had felt my interest aroused, though I did not\nknow her name. To find her at Finden seemed to me a very unusual and\ndelightful piece of good fortune.\n\nWhen I came back from my holiday I was conscious of a new purpose in\nlife, a new desire and a new motive to help me on in my chosen career.\n\n'My mother's death led to my sisters' coming to live in London. Already\nthere had been friendly correspondence between Miss Yule and the two\ngirls, and now that the opportunity offered they began to see each other\nfrequently. As I was often at my sisters' lodgings it came about that\nI met Miss Yule there from time to time. In this way was confirmed my\nattachment to your daughter. The better I knew her, the more worthy I\nfound her of reverence and love.\n\n'Would it not have been natural for me to seek a renewal of the\nacquaintance with yourself which had been begun in the country? Gladly I\nshould have done so. Before my sisters' coming to London I did call one\nday at your house with the desire of seeing you, but unfortunately you\nwere not at home. Very soon after that I learnt to my extreme regret\nthat my connection with The Current and its editor would make any\nrepetition of my visit very distasteful to you. I was conscious of\nnothing in my literary life that could justly offend you--and at this\nday I can say the same--but I shrank from the appearance of importunity,\nand for some months I was deeply distressed by the fear that what I most\ndesired in life had become unattainable. My means were very slight; I\nhad no choice but to take such work as offered, and mere chance had put\nme into a position which threatened ruin to the hope that you would some\nday regard me as a not unworthy suitor for your daughter's hand.\n\n'Circumstances have led me to a step which at that time seemed\nimpossible. Having discovered that Miss Yule returned the feeling\nI entertained for her, I have asked her to be my wife, and she has\nconsented. It is now my hope that you will permit me to call upon you.\nMiss Yule is aware that I am writing this letter; will you not let her\nplead for me, seeing that only by an unhappy chance have I been kept\naloof from you? Marian and I are equally desirous that you should\napprove our union; without that approval, indeed, something will be\nlacking to the happiness for which we hope.\n\n'Believe me to be sincerely yours,\n\n'JASPER MILVAIN.'\n\nHalf an hour after reading this Yule was roused from a fit of the\ngloomiest brooding by Marian's entrance. She came towards him timidly,\nwith pale countenance. He had glanced round to see who it was, but at\nonce turned his head again.\n\n'Will you forgive me for keeping this secret from you, father?'\n\n'Forgive you?' he replied in a hard, deliberate voice. 'I assure you it\nis a matter of perfect indifference to me. You are long since of age,\nand I have no power whatever to prevent your falling a victim to any\nschemer who takes your fancy. It would be folly in me to discuss the\nquestion. I recognise your right to have as many secrets as may seem\ngood to you. To talk of forgiveness is the merest affectation.'\n\n'No, I spoke sincerely. If it had seemed possible I should gladly have\nlet you know about this from the first. That would have been natural and\nright. But you know what prevented me.'\n\n'I do. I will try to hope that even a sense of shame had something to do\nwith it.'\n\n'That had nothing to do with it,' said Marian, coldly. 'I have never had\nreason to feel ashamed.'\n\n'Be it so. I trust you may never have reason to feel repentance. May I\nask when you propose to be married?'\n\n'I don't know when it will take place.'\n\n'As soon, I suppose, as your uncle's executors have discharged a piece\nof business which is distinctly germane to the matter?'\n\n'Perhaps.'\n\n'Does your mother know?'\n\n'I have just told her.'\n\n'Very well, then it seems to me that there's nothing more to be said.'\n\n'Do you refuse to see Mr Milvain?'\n\n'Most decidedly I do. You will have the goodness to inform him that that\nis my reply to his letter.'\n\n'I don't think that is the behaviour of a gentleman,' said Marian, her\neyes beginning to gleam with resentment.\n\n'I am obliged to you for your instruction.'\n\n'Will you tell me, father, in plain words, why you dislike Mr Milvain?'\n\n'I am not inclined to repeat what I have already fruitlessly told you.\nFor the sake of a clear understanding, however, I will let you know the\npractical result of my dislike. From the day of your marriage with that\nman you are nothing to me. I shall distinctly forbid you to enter my\nhouse. You make your choice, and go your own way. I shall hope never to\nsee your face again.'\n\nTheir eyes met, and the look of each seemed to fascinate the other.\n\n'If you have made up your mind to that,' said Marian in a shaking\nvoice, 'I can remain here no longer. Such words are senselessly cruel.\nTo-morrow I shall leave the house.'\n\n'I repeat that you are of age, and perfectly independent. It can be\nnothing to me how soon you go. You have given proof that I am of less\nthan no account to you, and doubtless the sooner we cease to afflict\neach other the better.'\n\nIt seemed as if the effect of these conflicts with her father were to\ndevelop in Marian a vehemence of temper which at length matched that\nof which Yule was the victim. Her face, outlined to express a gentle\ngravity, was now haughtily passionate; nostrils and lips thrilled with\nwrath, and her eyes were magnificent in their dark fieriness.\n\n'You shall not need to tell me that again,' she answered, and\nimmediately left him.\n\nShe went into the sitting-room, where Mrs Yule was awaiting the result\nof the interview.\n\n'Mother,' she said, with stern gentleness, 'this house can no longer be\na home for me. I shall go away to-morrow, and live in lodgings until the\ntime of my marriage.'\n\nMrs Yule uttered a cry of pain, and started up.\n\n'Oh, don't do that, Marian! What has he said to you? Come and talk to\nme, darling--tell me what he's said--don't look like that!'\n\nShe clung to the girl despairingly, terrified by a transformation she\nwould have thought impossible.\n\n'He says that if I marry Mr Milvain he hopes never to see my face again.\nI can't stay here. You shall come and see me, and we will be the same\nto each other as always. But father has treated me too unjustly. I can't\nlive near him after this.'\n\n'He doesn't mean it,' sobbed her mother. 'He says what he's sorry for\nas soon as the words are spoken. He loves you too much, my darling, to\ndrive you away like that. It's his disappointment, Marian; that's all it\nis. He counted on it so much. I've heard him talk of it in his sleep;\nhe made so sure that he was going to have that new magazine, and the\ndisappointment makes him that he doesn't know what he's saying. Only\nwait and see; he'll tell you he didn't mean it, I know he will. Only\nleave him alone till he's had time to get over it. Do forgive him this\nonce.'\n\n'It's like a madman to talk in that way,' said the girl, releasing\nherself. 'Whatever his disappointment, I can't endure it. I have worked\nhard for him, very hard, ever since I was old enough, and he owes me\nsome kindness, some respect. It would be different if he had the least\nreason for his hatred of Jasper. It is nothing but insensate prejudice,\nthe result of his quarrels with other people. What right has he to\ninsult me by representing my future husband as a scheming hypocrite?'\n\n'My love, he has had so much to bear--it's made him so quick-tempered.'\n\n'Then I am quick-tempered too, and the sooner we are apart the better,\nas he said himself.'\n\n'Oh, but you have always been such a patient girl.'\n\n'My patience is at an end when I am treated as if I had neither rights\nnor feelings. However wrong the choice I had made, this was not the way\nto behave to me. His disappointment? Is there a natural law, then, that\na daughter must be sacrificed to her father? My husband will have as\nmuch need of that money as my father has, and he will be able to make\nfar better use of it. It was wrong even to ask me to give my money away\nlike that. I have a right to happiness, as well as other women.'\n\nShe was shaken with hysterical passion, the natural consequence of this\noutbreak in a nature such as hers. Her mother, in the meantime,\ngrew stronger by force of profound love that at length had found its\nopportunity of expression. Presently she persuaded Marian to come\nupstairs with her, and before long the overburdened breast was relieved\nby a flow of tears. But Marian's purpose remained unshaken.\n\n'It is impossible for us to see each other day after day,' she said when\ncalmer. 'He can't control his anger against me, and I suffer too much\nwhen I am made to feel like this. I shall take a lodging not far off\nwhere you can see me often.'\n\n'But you have no money, Marian,' replied Mrs Yule, miserably.\n\n'No money? As if I couldn't borrow a few pounds until all my own comes\nto me! Dora Milvain can lend me all I shall want; it won't make the\nleast difference to her. I must have my money very soon now.'\n\nAt about half-past eleven Mrs Yule went downstairs, and entered the\nstudy.\n\n'If you are coming to speak about Marian,' said her husband, turning\nupon her with savage eyes, 'you can save your breath. I won't hear her\nname mentioned.'\n\nShe faltered, but overcame her weakness.\n\n'You are driving her away from us, Alfred. It isn't right! Oh, it isn't\nright!'\n\n'If she didn't go I should, so understand that! And if I go, you have\nseen the last of me. Make your choice, make your choice!'\n\nHe had yielded himself to that perverse frenzy which impels a man to\nacts and utterances most wildly at conflict with reason. His sense of\nthe monstrous irrationality to which he was committed completed what was\nbegun in him by the bitterness of a great frustration.\n\n'If I wasn't a poor, helpless woman,' replied his wife, sinking upon a\nchair and crying without raising her hands to her face, 'I'd go and live\nwith her till she was married, and then make a home for myself. But I\nhaven't a penny, and I'm too old to earn my own living; I should only be\na burden to her.'\n\n'That shall be no hindrance,' cried Yule. 'Go, by all means; you shall\nhave a sufficient allowance as long as I can continue to work, and when\nI'm past that, your lot will be no harder than mine. Your daughter had\nthe chance of making provision for my old age, at no expense to herself.\nBut that was asking too much of her. Go, by all means, and leave me to\nmake what I can of the rest of my life; perhaps I may save a few years\nstill from the curse brought upon me by my own folly.'\n\nIt was idle to address him. Mrs Yule went into the sitting-room, and\nthere sat weeping for an hour. Then she extinguished the lights, and\ncrept upstairs in silence.\n\nYule passed the night in the study. Towards morning he slept for an hour\nor two, just long enough to let the fire go out and to get thoroughly\nchilled. When he opened his eyes a muddy twilight had begun to show at\nthe window; the sounds of a clapping door within the house, which had\nprobably awakened him, made him aware that the servant was already up.\n\nHe drew up the blind. There seemed to be a frost, for the moisture\nof last night had all disappeared, and the yard upon which the window\nlooked was unusually clean. With a glance at the black grate he\nextinguished his lamp, and went out into the passage. A few minutes'\ngroping for his overcoat and hat, and he left the house.\n\nHis purpose was to warm himself with a vigorous walk, and at the\nsame time to shake off if possible, the nightmare of his rage and\nhopelessness. He had no distinct feeling with regard to his behaviour of\nthe past evening; he neither justified nor condemned himself; he did not\nask himself whether Marian would to-day leave her home, or if her mother\nwould take him at his word and also depart. These seemed to be details\nwhich his brain was too weary to consider. But he wished to be away from\nthe wretchedness of his house, and to let things go as they would\nwhilst he was absent. As he closed the front door he felt as if he were\nescaping from an atmosphere that threatened to stifle him.\n\nHis steps directing themselves more by habit than with any deliberate\nchoice, he walked towards Camden Road. When he had reached Camden Town\nrailway-station he was attracted by a coffee-stall; a draught of\nthe steaming liquid, no matter its quality, would help his blood to\ncirculate. He laid down his penny, and first warmed his hands by holding\nthem round the cup. Whilst standing thus he noticed that the objects at\nwhich he looked had a blurred appearance; his eyesight seemed to have\nbecome worse this morning. Only a result of his insufficient sleep\nperhaps. He took up a scrap of newspaper that lay on the stall; he could\nread it, but one of his eyes was certainly weaker than the other; trying\nto see with that one alone, he found that everything became misty.\n\nHe laughed, as if the threat of new calamity were an amusement in his\npresent state of mind. And at the same moment his look encountered that\nof a man who had drawn near to him, a shabbily-dressed man of middle\nage, whose face did not correspond with his attire.\n\n'Will you give me a cup of coffee?' asked the stranger, in a low voice\nand with shamefaced manner. 'It would be a great kindness.'\n\nThe accent was that of good breeding. Yule hesitated in surprise for a\nmoment, then said:\n\n'Have one by all means. Would you care for anything to eat?'\n\n'I am much obliged to you. I think I should be none the worse for one of\nthose solid slices of bread and butter.'\n\nThe stall-keeper was just extinguishing his lights; the frosty sky\nshowed a pale gleam of sunrise.\n\n'Hard times, I'm afraid,' remarked Yule, as his beneficiary began to eat\nthe luncheon with much appearance of grateful appetite.\n\n'Very hard times.' He had a small, thin, colourless countenance, with\nlarge, pathetic eyes; a slight moustache and curly beard. His clothes\nwere such as would be worn by some very poor clerk. 'I came here an\nhour ago,' he continued, 'with the hope of meeting an acquaintance who\ngenerally goes from this station at a certain time. I have missed\nhim, and in doing so I missed what I had thought my one chance of a\nbreakfast. When one has neither dined nor supped on the previous day,\nbreakfast becomes a meal of some importance.'\n\n'True. Take another slice.'\n\n'I am greatly obliged to you.'\n\n'Not at all. I have known hard times myself, and am likely to know\nworse.'\n\n'I trust not. This is the first time that I have positively begged.\nI should have been too much ashamed to beg of the kind of men who are\nusually at these places; they certainly have no money to spare. I was\nthinking of making an appeal at a baker's shop, but it is very likely I\nshould have been handed over to a policeman. Indeed I don't know what I\nshould have done; the last point of endurance was almost reached. I have\nno clothes but these I wear, and they are few enough for the season.\nStill, I suppose the waistcoat must have gone.'\n\nHe did not talk like a beggar who is trying to excite compassion, but\nwith a sort of detached curiosity concerning the difficulties of his\nposition.\n\n'You can find nothing to do?' said the man of letters.\n\n'Positively nothing. By profession I am a surgeon, but it's a long time\nsince I practised. Fifteen years ago I was comfortably established at\nWakefield; I was married and had one child. But my capital ran out, and\nmy practice, never anything to boast of, fell to nothing. I succeeded\nin getting a place as an assistant to a man at Chester. We sold up, and\nstarted on the journey.'\n\nHe paused, looking at Yule in a strange way.\n\n'What happened then?'\n\n'You probably don't remember a railway accident that took place near\nCrewe in that year--it was 1869? I and my wife and child were alone in\na carriage that was splintered. One moment I was talking with them, in\nfairly good spirits, and my wife was laughing at something I had said;\nthe next, there were two crushed, bleeding bodies at my feet. I had a\nbroken arm, that was all. Well, they were killed on the instant; they\ndidn't suffer. That has been my one consolation.'\n\nYule kept the silence of sympathy.\n\n'I was in a lunatic asylum for more than a year after that,' continued\nthe man. 'Unhappily, I didn't lose my senses at the moment; it took two\nor three weeks to bring me to that pass. But I recovered, and there has\nbeen no return of the disease. Don't suppose that I am still of unsound\nmind. There can be little doubt that poverty will bring me to that again\nin the end; but as yet I am perfectly sane. I have supported myself in\nvarious ways.\n\nNo, I don't drink; I see the question in your face. But I am physically\nweak, and, to quote Mrs Gummidge, \"things go contrary with me.\" There's\nno use lamenting; this breakfast has helped me on, and I feel in much\nbetter spirits.'\n\n'Your surgical knowledge is no use to you?'\n\nThe other shook his head and sighed.\n\n'Did you ever give any special attention to diseases of the eyes?'\n\n'Special, no. But of course I had some acquaintance with the subject.'\n\n'Could you tell by examination whether a man was threatened with\ncataract, or anything of that kind?'\n\n'I think I could.'\n\n'I am speaking of myself.'\n\nThe stranger made a close scrutiny of Yule's face, and asked certain\nquestions with reference to his visual sensations.\n\n'I hardly like to propose it,' he said at length, 'but if you were\nwilling to accompany me to a very poor room that I have not far from\nhere, I could make the examination formally.'\n\n'I will go with you.'\n\nThey turned away from the stall, and the ex-surgeon led into a\nby-street. Yule wondered at himself for caring to seek such a singular\nconsultation, but he had a pressing desire to hear some opinion as to\nthe state of his eyes. Whatever the stranger might tell him, he would\nafterwards have recourse to a man of recognised standing; but just now\ncompanionship of any kind was welcome, and the poor hungry fellow, with\nhis dolorous life-story, had made appeal to his sympathies. To give\nmoney under guise of a fee would be better than merely offering alms.\n\n'This is the house,' said his guide, pausing at a dirty door. 'It isn't\ninviting, but the people are honest, so far as I know. My room is at the\ntop.'\n\n'Lead on,' answered Yule.\n\nIn the room they entered was nothing noticeable; it was only the poorest\npossible kind of bed-chamber, or all but the poorest possible. Daylight\nhad now succeeded to dawn, yet the first thing the stranger did was to\nstrike a match and light a candle.\n\n'Will you kindly place yourself with your back to the window?' he\nsaid. 'I am going to apply what is called the catoptric test. You have\nprobably heard of it?'\n\n'My ignorance of scientific matters is fathomless.'\n\nThe other smiled, and at once offered a simple explanation of the term.\nBy the appearance of the candle as it reflected itself in the patient's\neye it was possible, he said, to decide whether cataract had taken hold\nupon the organ.\n\nFor a minute or two he conducted his experiment carefully, and Yule was\nat no loss to read the result upon his face.\n\n'How long have you suspected that something was wrong?' the surgeon\nasked, as he put down the candle.\n\n'For several months.'\n\n'You haven't consulted anyone?'\n\n'No one. I have kept putting it off. Just tell me what you have\ndiscovered.'\n\n'The back of the right lens is affected beyond a doubt.'\n\n'That means, I take it, that before very long I shall be practically\nblind?'\n\n'I don't like to speak with an air of authority. After all, I am only a\nsurgeon who has bungled himself into pauperdom. You must see a competent\nman; that much I can tell you in all earnestness.\n\nDo you use your eyes much?'\n\n'Fourteen hours a day, that's all.'\n\n'H'm! You are a literary man, I think?'\n\n'I am. My name is Alfred Yule.'\n\nHe had some faint hope that the name might be recognised; that would\nhave gone far, for the moment, to counteract his trouble. But not even\nthis poor satisfaction was to be granted him; to his hearer the name\nevidently conveyed nothing.\n\n'See a competent man, Mr Yule. Science has advanced rapidly since the\ndays when I was a student; I am only able to assure you of the existence\nof disease.'\n\nThey talked for half an hour, until both were shaking with cold. Then\nYule thrust his hand into his pocket.\n\n'You will of course allow me to offer such return as I am able,' he\nsaid. 'The information isn't pleasant, but I am glad to have it.'\n\nHe laid five shillings on the chest of drawers--there was no table. The\nstranger expressed his gratitude.\n\n'My name is Duke,' he said, 'and I was christened Victor--possibly\nbecause I was doomed to defeat in life. I wish you could have associated\nthe memory of me with happier circumstances.'\n\nThey shook hands, and Yule quitted the house.\n\nHe came out again by Camden Town station. The coffee-stall had\ndisappeared; the traffic of the great highway was growing uproarious.\nAmong all the strugglers for existence who rushed this way and that,\nAlfred Yule felt himself a man chosen for fate's heaviest infliction. He\nnever questioned the accuracy of the stranger's judgment, and he hoped\nfor no mitigation of the doom it threatened. His life was over--and\nwasted.\n\nHe might as well go home, and take his place meekly by the fireside.\nHe was beaten. Soon to be a useless old man, a burden and annoyance to\nwhosoever had pity on him.\n\nIt was a curious effect of the imagination that since coming into the\nopen air again his eyesight seemed to be far worse than before. He\nirritated his nerves of vision by incessant tests, closing first one eye\nthen the other, comparing his view of nearer objects with the appearance\nof others more remote, fancying an occasional pain--which could have had\nno connection with his disease. The literary projects which had stirred\nso actively in his mind twelve hours ago were become an insubstantial\nmemory; to the one crushing blow had succeeded a second, which was\nfatal. He could hardly recall what special piece of work he had been\nengaged upon last night. His thoughts were such as if actual blindness\nhad really fallen upon him.\n\nAt half-past eight he entered the house. Mrs Yule was standing at the\nfoot of the stairs; she looked at him, then turned away towards the\nkitchen. He went upstairs. On coming down again he found breakfast ready\nas usual, and seated himself at the table. Two letters waited for him\nthere; he opened them.\n\nWhen Mrs Yule came into the room a few moments later she was astonished\nby a burst of loud, mocking laughter from her husband, excited, as it\nappeared, by something he was reading.\n\n'Is Marian up?' he asked, turning to her.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'She is not coming to breakfast?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Then just take that letter to her, and ask her to read it.'\n\nMrs Yule ascended to her daughter's bedroom. She knocked, was bidden\nenter, and found Marian packing clothes in a trunk. The girl looked as\nif she had been up all night; her eyes bore the traces of much weeping.\n\n'He has come back, dear,' said Mrs Yule, in the low voice of\napprehension, 'and he says you are to read this letter.'\n\nMarian took the sheet, unfolded it, and read. As soon as she had reached\nthe end she looked wildly at her mother, seemed to endeavour vainly to\nspeak, then fell to the floor in unconsciousness. The mother was only\njust able to break the violence of her fall. Having snatched a pillow\nand placed it beneath Marian's head, she rushed to the door and called\nloudly for her husband, who in a moment appeared.\n\n'What is it?' she cried to him. 'Look, she has fallen down in a faint.\nWhy are you treating her like this?'\n\n'Attend to her,' Yule replied roughly. 'I suppose you know better than I\ndo what to do when a person faints.'\n\nThe swoon lasted for several minutes.\n\n'What's in the letter?' asked Mrs Yule whilst chafing the lifeless\nhands.\n\n'Her money's lost. The people who were to pay it have just failed.'\n\n'She won't get anything?'\n\n'Most likely nothing at all.'\n\nThe letter was a private communication from one of John Yule's\nexecutors. It seemed likely that the demand upon Turberville & Co. for\nan account of the deceased partner's share in their business had helped\nto bring about a crisis in affairs that were already unstable. Something\nmight be recovered in the legal proceedings that would result, but there\nwere circumstances which made the outlook very doubtful.\n\nAs Marian came to herself her father left the room. An hour afterwards\nMrs Yule summoned him again to the girl's chamber; he went, and found\nMarian lying on the bed, looking like one who had been long ill.\n\n'I wish to ask you a few questions,' she said, without raising herself.\n'Must my legacy necessarily be paid out of that investment?'\n\n'It must. Those are the terms of the will.'\n\n'If nothing can be recovered from those people, I have no remedy?'\n\n'None whatever that I can see.'\n\n'But when a firm is bankrupt they generally pay some portion of their\ndebts?'\n\n'Sometimes. I know nothing of the case.'\n\n'This of course happens to me,' Marian said, with intense bitterness.\n'None of the other legatees will suffer, I suppose?'\n\n'Someone must, but to a very small extent.'\n\n'Of course. When shall I have direct information?'\n\n'You can write to Mr Holden; you have his address.'\n\n'Thank you. That's all.'\n\nHe was dismissed, and went quietly away.\n\n\n\n\nPART FIVE\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX. WAITING ON DESTINY\n\nThroughout the day Marian kept her room. Her intention to leave the\nhouse was, of course, abandoned; she was the prisoner of fate. Mrs Yule\nwould have tended her with unremitting devotion, but the girl desired to\nbe alone. At times she lay in silent anguish; frequently her tears broke\nforth, and she sobbed until weariness overcame her. In the afternoon she\nwrote a letter to Mr Holden, begging that she might be kept constantly\nacquainted with the progress of things.\n\nAt five her mother brought tea.\n\n'Wouldn't it be better if you went to bed now, Marian?' she suggested.\n\n'To bed? But I am going out in an hour or two.'\n\n'Oh, you can't, dear! It's so bitterly cold. It wouldn't be good for\nyou.'\n\n'I have to go out, mother, so we won't speak of it.'\n\nIt was not safe to reply. Mrs Yule sat down, and watched the girl raise\nthe cup to her mouth with trembling hand.\n\n'This won't make any difference to you--in the end, my darling,' the\nmother ventured to say at length, alluding for the first time to the\neffect of the catastrophe on Marian's immediate prospects.\n\n'Of course not,' was the reply, in a tone of self-persuasion.\n\n'Mr Milvain is sure to have plenty of money before long.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'You feel much better now, don't you?'\n\n'Much. I am quite well again.'\n\nAt seven, Marian went out. Finding herself weaker than she had thought,\nshe stopped an empty cab that presently passed her, and so drove to\nthe Milvains' lodgings. In her agitation she inquired for Mr Milvain,\ninstead of for Dora, as was her habit; it mattered very little, for\nthe landlady and her servants were of course under no misconception\nregarding this young lady's visits.\n\nJasper was at home, and working. He had but to look at Marian to see\nthat something wretched had been going on at her home; naturally he\nsupposed it the result of his letter to Mr Yule.\n\n'Your father has been behaving brutally,' he said, holding her hands and\ngazing anxiously at her.\n\n'There is something far worse than that, Jasper.'\n\n'Worse?'\n\nShe threw off her outdoor things, then took the fatal letter from her\npocket and handed it to him. Jasper gave a whistle of consternation, and\nlooked vacantly from the paper to Marian's countenance.\n\n'How the deuce comes this about?' he exclaimed. 'Why, wasn't your uncle\naware of the state of things?'\n\n'Perhaps he was. He may have known that the legacy was a mere form.'\n\n'You are the only one affected?'\n\n'So father says. It's sure to be the case.'\n\n'This has upset you horribly, I can see. Sit down, Marian. When did the\nletter come?'\n\n'This morning.'\n\n'And you have been fretting over it all day. But come, we must keep up\nour courage; you may get something substantial out of the scoundrels\nstill.'\n\nEven whilst he spoke his eyes wandered absently. On the last word his\nvoice failed, and he fell into abstraction. Marian's look was fixed upon\nhim, and he became conscious of it. He tried to smile.\n\n'What were you writing?' she asked, making involuntary diversion from\nthe calamitous theme.\n\n'Rubbish for the Will-o'-the-Wisp. Listen to this paragraph about\nEnglish concert audiences.'\n\nIt was as necessary to him as to her to have a respite before the graver\ndiscussion began. He seized gladly the opportunity she offered, and read\nseveral pages of manuscript, slipping from one topic to another. To hear\nhim one would have supposed that he was in his ordinary mood; he laughed\nat his own jokes and points.\n\n'They'll have to pay me more,' was the remark with which he closed. 'I\nonly wanted to make myself indispensable to them, and at the end of\nthis year I shall feel pretty sure of that. They'll have to give me two\nguineas a column; by Jove! they will.'\n\n'And you may hope for much more than that, mayn't you, before long?'\n\n'Oh, I shall transfer myself to a better paper presently. It seems to me\nI must be stirring to some purpose.'\n\nHe gave her a significant look.\n\n'What shall we do, Jasper?'\n\n'Work and wait, I suppose.'\n\n'There's something I must tell you. Father said I had better sign that\nHarrington article myself. If I do that, I shall have a right to the\nmoney, I think. It will at least be eight guineas. And why shouldn't I\ngo on writing for myself--for us? You can help me to think of subjects.'\n\n'First of all, what about my letter to your father? We are forgetting\nall about it.'\n\n'He refused to answer.'\n\nMarian avoided closer description of what had happened. It was partly\nthat she felt ashamed of her father's unreasoning wrath, and feared\nlest Jasper's pride might receive an injury from which she in turn\nwould suffer; partly that she was unwilling to pain her lover by making\ndisplay of all she had undergone.\n\n'Oh, he refused to reply! Surely that is extreme behaviour.'\n\nWhat she dreaded seemed to be coming to pass. Jasper stood rather\nstiffly, and threw his head back.\n\n'You know the reason, dear. That prejudice has entered into his very\nlife. It is not you he dislikes; that is impossible. He thinks of you\nonly as he would of anyone connected with Mr Fadge.'\n\n'Well, well; it isn't a matter of much moment. But what I have in mind\nis this. Will it be possible for you, whilst living at home, to take a\nposition of independence, and say that you are going to work for your\nown profit?'\n\n'At least I might claim half the money I can earn. And I was thinking\nmore of--'\n\n'Of what?'\n\n'When I am your wife, I may be able to help. I could earn thirty or\nforty pounds a year, I think. That would pay the rent of a small house.'\n\nShe spoke with shaken voice, her eyes fixed upon his face.\n\n'But, my dear Marian, we surely oughtn't to think of marrying so long as\nexpenses are so nicely fitted as all that?'\n\n'No. I only meant--'\n\nShe faltered, and her tongue became silent as her heart sank.\n\n'It simply means,' pursued Jasper, seating himself and crossing his\nlegs, 'that I must move heaven and earth to improve my position. You\nknow that my faith in myself is not small; there's no knowing what I\nmight do if I used every effort. But, upon my word, I don't see much\nhope of our being able to marry for a year or two under the most\nfavourable circumstances.'\n\n'No; I quite understand that.'\n\n'Can you promise to keep a little love for me all that time?' he asked\nwith a constrained smile.\n\n'You know me too well to fear.'\n\n'I thought you seemed a little doubtful.'\n\nHis tone was not altogether that which makes banter pleasant between\nlovers. Marian looked at him fearfully. Was it possible for him in truth\nso to misunderstand her? He had never satisfied her heart's desire of\ninfinite love; she never spoke with him but she was oppressed with the\nsuspicion that his love was not as great as hers, and, worse still, that\nhe did not wholly comprehend the self-surrender which she strove to make\nplain in every word.\n\n'You don't say that seriously, Jasper?'\n\n'But answer seriously.'\n\n'How can you doubt that I would wait faithfully for you for years if it\nwere necessary?'\n\n'It mustn't be years, that's very certain. I think it preposterous for a\nman to hold a woman bound in that hopeless way.'\n\n'But what question is there of holding me bound? Is love dependent on\nfixed engagements? Do you feel that, if we agreed to part, your love\nwould be at once a thing of the past?'\n\n'Why no, of course not.'\n\n'Oh, but how coldly you speak, Jasper!'\n\nShe could not breathe a word which might be interpreted as fear lest\nthe change of her circumstances should make a change in his feeling.\nYet that was in her mind. The existence of such a fear meant, of\ncourse, that she did not entirely trust him, and viewed his character as\nsomething less than noble. Very seldom indeed is a woman free from such\ndoubts, however absolute her love; and perhaps it is just as rare for\na man to credit in his heart all the praises he speaks of his beloved.\nPassion is compatible with a great many of these imperfections of\nintellectual esteem. To see more clearly into Jasper's personality was,\nfor Marian, to suffer the more intolerable dread lest she should lose\nhim.\n\nShe went to his side. Her heart ached because, in her great misery, he\nhad not fondled her, and intoxicated her senses with loving words.\n\n'How can I make you feel how much I love you?' she murmured.\n\n'You mustn't be so literal, dearest. Women are so desperately\nmatter-of-fact; it comes out even in their love-talk.'\n\nMarian was not without perception of the irony of such an opinion on\nJasper's lips.\n\n'I am content for you to think so,' she said. 'There is only one fact in\nmy life of any importance, and I can never lose sight of it.'\n\n'Well now, we are quite sure of each other. Tell me plainly, do you\nthink me capable of forsaking you because you have perhaps lost your\nmoney?'\n\nThe question made her wince. If delicacy had held her tongue, it had no\ncontrol of HIS.\n\n'How can I answer that better,' she said, 'than by saying I love you?'\n\nIt was no answer, and Jasper, though obtuse compared with her,\nunderstood that it was none. But the emotion which had prompted his\nwords was genuine enough. Her touch, the perfume of her passion, had\ntheir exalting effect upon him. He felt in all sincerity that to forsake\nher would be a baseness, revenged by the loss of such a wife.\n\n'There's an uphill fight before me, that's all,' he said, 'instead of\nthe pretty smooth course I have been looking forward to. But I don't\nfear it, Marian. I'm not the fellow to be beaten.\n\nYou shall be my wife, and you shall have as many luxuries as if you had\nbrought me a fortune.'\n\n'Luxuries! Oh, how childish you seem to think me!'\n\n'Not a bit of it. Luxuries are a most important part of life. I had\nrather not live at all than never possess them. Let me give you a useful\nhint; if ever I seem to you to flag, just remind me of the difference\nbetween these lodgings and a richly furnished house. Just hint to me\nthat So-and-so, the journalist, goes about in his carriage, and can give\nhis wife a box at the theatre. Just ask me, casually, how I should\nlike to run over to the Riviera when London fogs are thickest. You\nunderstand? That's the way to keep me at it like a steam-engine.'\n\n'You are right. All those things enable one to live a better and fuller\nlife. Oh, how cruel that I--that we are robbed in this way! You can have\nno idea how terrible a blow it was to me when I read that letter this\nmorning.'\n\nShe was on the point of confessing that she had swooned, but something\nrestrained her.\n\n'Your father can hardly be sorry,' said Jasper.\n\n'I think he speaks more harshly than he feels. The worst was, that until\nhe got your letter he had kept hoping that I would let him have the\nmoney for a new review.'\n\n'Well, for the present I prefer to believe that the money isn't all\nlost. If the blackguards pay ten shillings in the pound you will get two\nthousand five hundred out of them, and that's something. But how do you\nstand? Will your position be that of an ordinary creditor?'\n\n'I am so ignorant. I know nothing of such things.'\n\n'But of course your interests will be properly looked after. Put\nyourself in communication with this Mr Holden. I'll have a look into the\nlaw on the subject. Let us hope as long as we can. By Jove! There's no\nother way of facing it.'\n\n'No, indeed.'\n\n'Mrs Reardon and the rest of them are safe enough, I suppose?'\n\n'Oh, no doubt.'\n\n'Confound them!--It grows upon one. One doesn't take in the whole of\nsuch a misfortune at once. We must hold on to the last rag of hope, and\nin the meantime I'll half work myself to death. Are you going to see the\ngirls?'\n\n'Not to-night. You must tell them.'\n\n'Dora will cry her eyes out. Upon my word, Maud'll have to draw in her\nhorns. I must frighten her into economy and hard work.'\n\nHe again lost himself in anxious reverie.\n\n'Marian, couldn't you try your hand at fiction?'\n\nShe started, remembering that her father had put the same question so\nrecently.\n\n'I'm afraid I could do nothing worth doing.'\n\n'That isn't exactly the question. Could you do anything that would sell?\nWith very moderate success in fiction you might make three times as much\nas you ever will by magazine pot-boilers. A girl like you. Oh, you might\nmanage, I should think.'\n\n'A girl like me?'\n\n'Well, I mean that love-scenes, and that kind of thing, would be very\nmuch in your line.'Marian was not given to blushing; very few girls are,\neven on strong provocation. For the first time Jasper saw her cheeks\ncolour deeply, and it was with anything but pleasure. His words were\ncoarsely inconsiderate, and wounded her.\n\n'I think that is not my work,' she said coldly, looking away.\n\n'But surely there's no harm in my saying--' he paused in astonishment.\n'I meant nothing that could offend you.'\n\n'I know you didn't, Jasper. But you make me think that--'\n\n'Don't be so literal again, my dear girl. Come here and forgive me.'\n\nShe did not approach, but only because the painful thought he had\nexcited kept her to that spot.\n\n'Come, Marian! Then I must come to you.'\n\nHe did so and held her in his arms.\n\n'Try your hand at a novel, dear, if you can possibly make time. Put me\nin it, if you like, and make me an insensible masculine. The experiment\nis worth a try I'm certain. At all events do a few chapters, and let\nme see them. A chapter needn't take you more than a couple of hours I\nshould think.'\n\nMarian refrained from giving any promise. She seemed irresponsive to\nhis caresses. That thought which at times gives trouble to all women of\nstrong emotions was working in her: had she been too demonstrative, and\nmade her love too cheap? Now that Jasper's love might be endangered, it\nbehoved her to use any arts which nature prompted. And so, for once, he\nwas not wholly satisfied with her, and at their parting he wondered what\nsubtle change had affected her manner to him.\n\n'Why didn't Marian come to speak a word?' said Dora, when her brother\nentered the girls' sitting-room about ten o'clock.\n\n'You knew she was with me, then?'\n\n'We heard her voice as she was going away.'\n\n'She brought me some enspiriting news, and thought it better I should\nhave the reporting of it to you.'\n\nWith brevity he made known what had befallen.\n\n'Cheerful, isn't it? The kind of thing that strengthens one's trust in\nProvidence.'\n\nThe girls were appalled. Maud, who was reading by the fireside, let her\nbook fall to her lap, and knit her brows darkly.\n\n'Then your marriage must be put off, of course?' said Dora.\n\n'Well, I shouldn't be surprised if that were found necessary,' replied\nher brother caustically. He was able now to give vent to the feeling\nwhich in Marian's presence was suppressed, partly out of consideration\nfor her, and partly owing to her influence.\n\n'And shall we have to go back to our old lodgings again?' inquired Maud.\n\nJasper gave no answer, but kicked a footstool savagely out of his way\nand paced the room.\n\n'Oh, do you think we need?' said Dora, with unusual protest against\neconomy.\n\n'Remember that it's a matter for your own consideration,' Jasper replied\nat length. 'You are living on your own resources, you know.'\n\nMaud glanced at her sister, but Dora was preoccupied.\n\n'Why do you prefer to stay here?' Jasper asked abruptly of the younger\ngirl.\n\n'It is so very much nicer,' she replied with some embarrassment.\n\nHe bit the ends of his moustache, and his eyes glared at the impalpable\nthwarting force that to imagination seemed to fill the air about him.\n\n'A lesson against being over-hasty,' he muttered, again kicking the\nfootstool.\n\n'Did you make that considerate remark to Marian?' asked Maud.\n\n'There would have been no harm if I had done. She knows that I shouldn't\nhave been such an ass as to talk of marriage without the prospect of\nsomething to live upon.'\n\n'I suppose she's wretched?' said Dora.\n\n'What else can you expect?'\n\n'And did you propose to release her from the burden of her engagement?'\nMaud inquired.\n\n'It's a confounded pity that you're not rich, Maud,' replied her brother\nwith an involuntary laugh. 'You would have a brilliant reputation for\nwit.'\n\nHe walked about and ejaculated splenetic phrases on the subject of his\nill-luck.\n\n'We are here, and here we must stay,' was the final expression of his\nmood. 'I have only one superstition that I know of and that forbids me\nto take a step backward. If I went into poorer lodgings again I should\nfeel it was inviting defeat. I shall stay as long as the position is\ntenable. Let us get on to Christmas, and then see how things look.\nHeavens! Suppose we had married, and after that lost the money!'\n\n'You would have been no worse off than plenty of literary men,' said\nDora.\n\n'Perhaps not. But as I have made up my mind to be considerably better\noff than most literary men that reflection wouldn't console me much.\nThings are in statu quo, that's all. I have to rely upon my own efforts.\nWhat's the time? Half-past ten; I can get two hours' work before going\nto bed.'\n\nAnd nodding a good-night he left them.\n\nWhen Marian entered the house and went upstairs, she was followed by her\nmother. On Mrs Yule's countenance there was a new distress, she had been\ncrying recently.\n\n'Have you seen him?' the mother asked.\n\n'Yes. We have talked about it.'\n\n'What does he wish you to do, dear?'\n\n'There's nothing to be done except wait.'\n\n'Father has been telling me something, Marian,' said Mrs Yule after a\nlong silence. 'He says he is going to be blind. There's something\nthe matter with his eyes, and he went to see someone about it this\nafternoon. He'll get worse and worse, until there has been an operation;\nand perhaps he'll never be able to use his eyes properly again.'\n\nThe girl listened in an attitude of despair.\n\n'He has seen an oculist?--a really good doctor?'\n\n'He says he went to one of the best.'\n\n'And how did he speak to you?'\n\n'He doesn't seem to care much what happens. He talked of going to the\nworkhouse, and things like that. But it couldn't ever come to that,\ncould it, Marian? Wouldn't somebody help him?'\n\n'There's not much help to be expected in this world,' answered the girl.\n\nPhysical weariness brought her a few hours of oblivion as soon as she\nhad lain down, but her sleep came to an end in the early morning, when\nthe pressure of evil dreams forced her back to consciousness of real\nsorrows and cares. A fog-veiled sky added its weight to crush her\nspirit; at the hour when she usually rose it was still all but as dark\nas midnight. Her mother's voice at the door begged her to lie and\nrest until it grew lighter, and she willingly complied, feeling indeed\nscarcely capable of leaving her bed.\n\nThe thick black fog penetrated every corner of the house. It could be\nsmelt and tasted. Such an atmosphere produces low-spirited languor even\nin the vigorous and hopeful; to those wasted by suffering it is the very\nreek of the bottomless pit, poisoning the soul. Her face colourless as\nthe pillow, Marian lay neither sleeping nor awake, in blank extremity of\nwoe; tears now and then ran down her cheeks, and at times her body was\nshaken with a throe such as might result from anguish of the torture\nchamber.\n\nMidway in the morning, when it was still necessary to use artificial\nlight, she went down to the sitting-room. The course of household life\nhad been thrown into confusion by the disasters of the last day or two;\nMrs Yule, who occupied herself almost exclusively with questions of\neconomy, cleanliness, and routine, had not the heart to pursue her round\nof duties, and this morning, though under normal circumstances she would\nhave been busy in 'turning out' the dining-room, she moved aimlessly and\ndespondently about the house, giving the servant contradictory orders\nand then blaming herself for her absent-mindedness. In the troubles of\nher husband and her daughter she had scarcely greater share--so far\nas active participation went--than if she had been only a faithful old\nhousekeeper; she could only grieve and lament that such discord had come\nbetween the two whom she loved, and that in herself was no power even to\nsolace their distresses. Marian found her standing in the passage, with\na duster in one hand and a hearth-brush in the other.\n\n'Your father has asked to see you when you come down,' Mrs Yule\nwhispered.\n\n'I'll go to him.'\n\nMarian entered the study. Her father was not in his place at the\nwriting-table, nor yet seated in the chair which he used when he had\nleisure to draw up to the fireside; he sat in front of one of the\nbookcases, bent forward as if seeking a volume, but his chin was propped\nupon his hand, and he had maintained this position for a long time. He\ndid not immediately move. When he raised his head Marian saw that he\nlooked older, and she noticed--or fancied she did--that there was some\nunfamiliar peculiarity about his eyes.\n\n'I am obliged to you for coming,' he began with distant formality.\n'Since I saw you last I have learnt something which makes a change in my\nposition and prospects, and it is necessary to speak on the subject. I\nwon't detain you more than a few minutes.'\n\nHe coughed, and seemed to consider his next words.\n\n'Perhaps I needn't repeat what I have told your mother. You have learnt\nit from her, I dare say.'\n\n'Yes, with much grief.'\n\n'Thank you, but we will leave aside that aspect of the matter. For a few\nmore months I may be able to pursue my ordinary work, but before long\nI shall certainly be disabled from earning my livelihood by literature.\nWhether this will in any way affect your own position I don't know. Will\nyou have the goodness to tell me whether you still purpose leaving this\nhouse?'\n\n'I have no means of doing so.'\n\n'Is there any likelihood of your marriage taking place, let us say,\nwithin four months?'\n\n'Only if the executors recover my money, or a large portion of it.'\n\n'I understand. My reason for asking is this. My lease of this house\nterminates at the end of next March, and I shall certainly not be\njustified in renewing it. If you are able to provide for yourself in\nany way it will be sufficient for me to rent two rooms after that. This\ndisease which affects my eyes may be only temporary; in due time an\noperation may render it possible for me to work again. In hope of that I\nshall probably have to borrow a sum of money on the security of my life\ninsurance, though in the first instance I shall make the most of what I\ncan get for the furniture of the house and a large part of my library;\nyour mother and I could live at very slight expense in lodgings. If the\ndisease prove irremediable, I must prepare myself for the worst. What\nI wish to say is, that it will be better if from to-day you consider\nyourself as working for your own subsistence. So long as I remain here\nthis house is of course your home; there can be no question between us\nof trivial expenses. But it is right that you should understand what my\nprospects are. I shall soon have no home to offer you; you must look to\nyour own efforts for support.'\n\n'I am prepared to do that, father.'\n\n'I think you will have no great difficulty in earning enough for\nyourself. I have done my best to train you in writing for the\nperiodicals, and your natural abilities are considerable. If you\nmarry, I wish you a happy life. The end of mine, of many long years of\nunremitting toil, is failure and destitution.'\n\nMarian sobbed.\n\n'That's all I had to say,' concluded her father, his voice tremulous\nwith self-compassion. 'I will only beg that there may be no further\nprofitless discussion between us. This room is open to you, as always,\nand I see no reason why we should not converse on subjects disconnected\nwith our personal differences.'\n\n'Is there no remedy for cataract in its early stages?' asked Marian.\n\n'None. You can read up the subject for yourself at the British Museum. I\nprefer not to speak of it.'\n\n'Will you let me be what help to you I can?'\n\n'For the present the best you can do is to establish a connection for\nyourself with editors. Your name will be an assistance to you. My advice\nis, that you send your \"Harrington\" article forthwith to Trenchard,\nwriting him a note. If you desire my help in the suggestion of new\nsubjects, I will do my best to be of use.'\n\nMarian withdrew. She went to the sitting-room, where an ochreous\ndaylight was beginning to diffuse itself and to render the lamp\nsuperfluous. With the dissipation of the fog rain had set in; its\nsplashing upon the muddy pavement was audible.\n\nMrs Yule, still with a duster in her hand, sat on the sofa. Marian took\na place beside her. They talked in low, broken tones, and wept together\nover their miseries.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI. A RESCUE AND A SUMMONS\n\nThe chances are that you have neither understanding nor sympathy for men\nsuch as Edwin Reardon and Harold Biffen. They merely provoke you.\nThey seem to you inert, flabby, weakly envious, foolishly obstinate,\nimpiously mutinous, and many other things. You are made angrily\ncontemptuous by their failure to get on; why don't they bestir\nthemselves, push and bustle, welcome kicks so long as halfpence follow,\nmake place in the world's eye--in short, take a leaf from the book of Mr\nJasper Milvain?\n\nBut try to imagine a personality wholly unfitted for the rough and\ntumble of the world's labour-market. From the familiar point of view\nthese men were worthless; view them in possible relation to a humane\norder of Society, and they are admirable citizens. Nothing is easier\nthan to condemn a type of character which is unequal to the coarse\ndemands of life as it suits the average man. These two were richly\nendowed with the kindly and the imaginative virtues; if fate threw them\namid incongruous circumstances, is their endowment of less value? You\nscorn their passivity; but it was their nature and their merit to be\npassive.\n\nGifted with independent means, each of them would have taken quite\na different aspect in your eyes. The sum of their faults was their\ninability to earn money; but, indeed, that inability does not call for\nunmingled disdain.\n\nIt was very weak of Harold Biffen to come so near perishing of hunger as\nhe did in the days when he was completing his novel. But he would have\nvastly preferred to eat and be satisfied had any method of obtaining\nfood presented itself to him. He did not starve for the pleasure of the\nthing, I assure you. Pupils were difficult to get just now, and writing\nthat he had sent to magazines had returned upon his hands. He pawned\nsuch of his possessions as he could spare, and he reduced his meals to\nthe minimum. Nor was he uncheerful in his cold garret and with his empty\nstomach, for 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' drew steadily to an end.\n\nHe worked very slowly. The book would make perhaps two volumes of\nordinary novel size, but he had laboured over it for many months,\npatiently, affectionately, scrupulously. Each sentence was as good as\nhe could make it, harmonious to the ear, with words of precious meaning\nskilfully set. Before sitting down to a chapter he planned it minutely\nin his mind; then he wrote a rough draft of it; then he elaborated the\nthing phrase by phrase. He had no thought of whether such toil would be\nrecompensed in coin of the realm; nay, it was his conviction that, if\nwith difficulty published, it could scarcely bring him money. The work\nmust be significant, that was all he cared for. And he had no society of\nadmiring friends to encourage him. Reardon understood the merit of the\nworkmanship, but frankly owned that the book was repulsive to him.\nTo the public it would be worse than repulsive--tedious, utterly\nuninteresting. No matter; it drew to its end.\n\nThe day of its completion was made memorable by an event decidedly more\nexciting, even to the author.\n\nAt eight o'clock in the evening there remained half a page to be\nwritten. Biffen had already worked about nine hours, and on breaking\noff to appease his hunger he doubted whether to finish to-night or to\npostpone the last lines till tomorrow. The discovery that only a small\ncrust of bread lay in the cupboard decided him to write no more; he\nwould have to go out to purchase a loaf and that was disturbance.\n\nBut stay; had he enough money? He searched his pockets. Two pence and\ntwo farthings; no more.\n\nYou are probably not aware that at bakers' shops in the poor quarters\nthe price of the half-quartern loaf varies sometimes from week to week.\nAt present, as Biffen knew, it was twopence three-farthings, a\ncommon figure. But Harold did not possess three farthings, only two.\nReflecting, he remembered to have passed yesterday a shop where the\nbread was marked twopence halfpenny; it was a shop in a very obscure\nlittle street off Hampstead Road, some distance from Clipstone Street.\nThither he must repair. He had only his hat and a muffler to put on, for\nagain he was wearing his overcoat in default of the under one, and his\nragged umbrella to take from the corner; so he went forth.\n\nTo his delight the twopence halfpenny announcement was still in the\nbaker's window. He obtained a loaf wrapped it in the piece of paper he\nhad brought--small bakers decline to supply paper for this purpose--and\nstrode joyously homeward again.\n\nHaving eaten, he looked longingly at his manuscript. But half a page\nmore. Should he not finish it to-night? The temptation was irresistible.\nHe sat down, wrought with unusual speed, and at half-past ten wrote with\nmagnificent flourish 'The End.'\n\nHis fire was out and he had neither coals nor wood. But his feet were\nfrozen into lifelessness. Impossible to go to bed like this; he must\ntake another turn in the streets. It would suit his humour to ramble a\nwhile. Had it not been so late he would have gone to see Reardon, who\nexpected the communication of this glorious news.\n\nSo again he locked his door. Half-way downstairs he stumbled over\nsomething or somebody in the dark.\n\n'Who is that?' he cried.\n\nThe answer was a loud snore. Biffen went to the bottom of the house and\ncalled to the landlady.\n\n'Mrs Willoughby! Who is asleep on the stairs?'\n\n'Why, I 'spect it's Mr Briggs,' replied the woman, indulgently. 'Don't\nyou mind him, Mr Biffen. There's no 'arm: he's only had a little too\nmuch. I'll go up an' make him go to bed as soon as I've got my 'ands\nclean.'\n\n'The necessity for waiting till then isn't obvious,' remarked the\nrealist with a chuckle, and went his way.\n\nHe walked at a sharp pace for more than an hour, and about midnight drew\nnear to his own quarter again. He had just turned up by the Middlesex\nHospital, and was at no great distance from Clipstone Street, when a\nyell and scamper caught his attention; a group of loafing blackguards on\nthe opposite side of the way had suddenly broken up, and as they rushed\noff he heard the word 'Fire!' This was too common an occurrence to\ndisturb his equanimity; he wondered absently in which street the fire\nmight be, but trudged on without a thought of making investigation.\nRepeated yells and rushes, however, assailed his apathy. Two women came\ntearing by him, and he shouted to them: 'Where is it?'\n\n'In Clipstone Street, they say,' one screamed back.\n\nHe could no longer be unconcerned. If in his own street the\nconflagration might be in the very house he inhabited, and in that\ncase---- He set off at a run. Ahead of him was a thickening throng, its\nposition indicating the entrance to Clipstone Street. Soon he found his\nprogress retarded; he had to dodge this way and that, to force progress,\nto guard himself against overthrows by the torrent of ruffiandom which\nalways breaks forth at the cry of fire. He could now smell the smoke,\nand all at once a black volume of it, bursting from upper windows,\nalarmed his sight. At once he was aware that, if not his own dwelling,\nit must be one of those on either side that was in flames. As yet no\nengine had arrived, and straggling policemen were only just beginning to\nmake their way to the scene of uproar. By dint of violent effort Biffen\nmoved forward yard by yard. A tongue of flame which suddenly illumined\nthe fronts of the houses put an end to his doubt.\n\n'Let me get past!' he shouted to the gaping and swaying mass of people\nin front of him. 'I live there! I must go upstairs to save something!'\n\nHis educated accent moved attention. Repeating the demand again and\nagain he succeeded in getting forward, and at length was near enough\nto see that people were dragging articles of furniture out on to the\npavement.\n\n'That you, Mr Biffen?' cried someone to him.\n\nHe recognised the face of a fellow-lodger.\n\n'Is it possible to get up to my room?' broke frantically from his lips.\n\n'You'll never get up there. It's that--Briggs'--the epithet was\nalliterative--''as upset his lamp, and I 'ope he'll--well get roasted to\ndeath.'\n\nBiffen leaped on to the threshold, and crashed against Mrs Willoughby,\nthe landlady, who was carrying a huge bundle of household linen.\n\n'I told you to look after that drunken brute;' he said to her. 'Can I\nget upstairs?'\n\n'What do I care whether you can or not!' the woman shrieked. 'My God!\nAnd all them new chairs as I bought--!'\n\nHe heard no more, but bounded over a confusion of obstacles, and in a\nmoment was on the landing of the first storey. Here he encountered a\nman who had not lost his head, a stalwart mechanic engaged in slipping\nclothes on to two little children.\n\n'If somebody don't drag that fellow Briggs down he'll be dead,' observed\nthe man. 'He's layin' outside his door. I pulled him out, but I can't do\nno more for him.'\n\nSmoke grew thick on the staircase. Burning was as yet confined to that\nfront room on the second floor tenanted by Briggs the disastrous, but\nin all likelihood the ceiling was ablaze, and if so it would be all but\nimpossible for Biffen to gain his own chamber, which was at the back on\nthe floor above. No one was making an attempt to extinguish the fire;\npersonal safety and the rescue of their possessions alone occupied the\nthoughts of such people as were still in the house. Desperate with the\ndread of losing his manuscript, his toil, his one hope, the realist\nscarcely stayed to listen to a warning that the fumes were impassable;\nwith head bent he rushed up to the next landing. There lay Briggs,\nperchance already stifled, and through the open door Biffen had a\nhorrible vision of furnace fury. To go yet higher would have been\nmadness but for one encouragement: he knew that on his own storey was a\nladder giving access to a trap-door, by which he might issue on to the\nroof, whence escape to the adjacent houses would be practicable. Again a\nleap forward!\n\nIn fact, not two minutes elapsed from his commencing the ascent of the\nstairs to the moment when, all but fainting, he thrust the key into his\ndoor and fell forward into purer air. Fell, for he was on his knees, and\nhad begun to suffer from a sense of failing power, a sick whirling of\nthe brain, a terror of hideous death. His manuscript was on the table,\nwhere he had left it after regarding and handling it with joyful\nself-congratulation; though it was pitch dark in the room, he could at\nonce lay his hand on the heap of paper. Now he had it; now it was jammed\ntight under his left arm; now he was out again on the landing, in smoke\nmore deadly than ever.\n\nHe said to himself: 'If I cannot instantly break out by the trap-door\nit's all over with me.' That the exit would open to a vigorous thrust\nhe knew, having amused himself not long ago by going on to the roof. He\ntouched the ladder, sprang upwards, and felt the trap above him. But he\ncould not push it back. 'I'm a dead man,' flashed across his mind, 'and\nall for the sake of \"Mr Bailey, Grocer.\"' A frenzied effort, the last of\nwhich his muscles were capable, and the door yielded. His head was now\nthrough the aperture, and though the smoke swept up about him, that gasp\nof cold air gave him strength to throw himself on the flat portion of\nthe roof that he had reached.\n\nSo for a minute or two he lay. Then he was able to stand, to survey\nhis position, and to walk along by the parapet. He looked down upon the\nsurging and shouting crowd in Clipstone Street, but could see it only at\nintervals, owing to the smoke that rolled from the front windows below\nhim.\n\nWhat he had now to do he understood perfectly. This roof was divided\nfrom those on either hand by a stack of chimneys; to get round the end\nof these stacks was impossible, or at all events too dangerous a feat\nunless it were the last resource, but by climbing to the apex of the\nslates he would be able to reach the chimney-pots, to drag himself up\nto them, and somehow to tumble over on to the safer side. To this\nundertaking he forthwith addressed himself. Without difficulty he\nreached the ridge; standing on it he found that only by stretching his\narm to the utmost could he grip the top of a chimney-pot. Had he the\nstrength necessary to raise himself by such a hold? And suppose the pot\nbroke?\n\nHis life was still in danger; the increasing volumes of smoke warned him\nthat in a few minutes the uppermost storey might be in flames. He\ntook off his overcoat to allow himself more freedom of action; the\nmanuscript, now an encumbrance, must precede him over the chimney-stack,\nand there was only one way of effecting that. With care he stowed\nthe papers into the pockets of the coat; then he rolled the garment\ntogether, tied it up in its own sleeves, took a deliberate aim--and the\nbundle was for the present in safety.\n\nNow for the gymnastic endeavour. Standing on tiptoe, he clutched the\nrim of the chimney-pot, and strove to raise himself. The hold was firm\nenough, but his arms were far too puny to perform such work, even\nwhen death would be the penalty of failure. Too long he had lived on\ninsufficient food and sat over the debilitating desk. He swung this way\nand that, trying to throw one of his knees as high as the top of the\nbrickwork, but there was no chance of his succeeding. Dropping on to the\nslates, he sat there in perturbation.\n\nHe must cry for help. In front it was scarcely possible to stand by the\nparapet, owing to the black clouds of smoke, now mingled with sparks;\nperchance he might attract the notice of some person either in the yards\nbehind or at the back windows of other houses. The night was so obscure\nthat he could not hope to be seen; voice alone must be depended upon,\nand there was no certainty that it would be heard far enough. Though he\nstood in his shirt-sleeves in a bitter wind no sense of cold affected\nhim; his face was beaded with perspiration drawn forth by his futile\nstruggle to climb. He let himself slide down the rear slope, and,\nholding by the end of the chimney brickwork, looked into the yards. At\nthe same instant a face appeared to him--that of a man who was trying to\nobtain a glimpse of this roof from that of the next house by thrusting\nout his head beyond the block of chimneys.\n\n'Hollo!' cried the stranger. 'What are you doing there?'\n\n'Trying to escape, of course. Help me to get on to your roof.'\n\n'By God! I expected to see the fire coming through already. Are you\nthe--as upset his lamp an' fired the bloomin' 'ouse?'\n\n'Not I! He's lying drunk on the stairs; dead by this time.'\n\n'By God! I wouldn't have helped you if you'd been him. How are you\ncoming round? Blest if I see! You'll break your bloomin' neck if you try\nthis corner. You'll have to come over the chimneys; wait till I get a\nladder.'\n\n'And a rope,' shouted Biffen.\n\nThe man disappeared for five minutes. To Biffen it seemed half an hour;\nhe felt, or imagined he felt, the slates getting hot beneath him, and\nthe smoke was again catching his breath. But at length there was a shout\nfrom the top of the chimney-stack. The rescuer had seated himself on one\nof the pots, and was about to lower on Biffen's side a ladder which had\nenabled him to ascend from the other. Biffen planted the lowest rung\nvery carefully on the ridge of the roof, climbed as lightly as possible,\ngot a footing between two pots; the ladder was then pulled over, and\nboth men descended in safety.\n\n'Have you seen a coat lying about here?' was Biffen's first question. 'I\nthrew mine over.'\n\n'What did you do that for?'\n\n'There are some valuable papers in the pockets.'\n\nThey searched in vain; on neither side of the roof was the coat\ndiscoverable.\n\n'You must have pitched it into the street,' said the man.\n\nThis was a terrible blow; Biffen forgot his rescue from destruction\nin lament for the loss of his manuscript. He would have pursued the\nfruitless search, but his companion, who feared that the fire might\nspread to adjoining houses, insisted on his passing through the\ntrap-door and descending the stairs.'If the coat fell into the street,'\nBiffen said, when they were down on the ground floor, 'of course it's\nlost; it would be stolen at once. But may not it have fallen into your\nback yard?'\n\nHe was standing in the midst of a cluster of alarmed people, who stared\nat him in astonishment, for the reek through which he had fought his way\nhad given him the aspect of a sweep. His suggestion prompted someone to\nrun into the yard, with the result that a muddy bundle was brought in\nand exhibited to him.\n\n'Is this your coat, Mister?'\n\n'Heaven be thanked! That's it! There are valuable papers in the\npockets.'\n\nHe unrolled the garment, felt to make sure that 'Mr Bailey' was safe,\nand finally put it on.\n\n'Will anyone here let me sit down in a room and give me a drink of\nwater?' he asked, feeling now as if he must drop with exhaustion.\n\nThe man who had rescued him performed this further kindness, and for\nhalf an hour, whilst tumult indescribable raged about him, Biffen sat\nrecovering his strength. By that time the firemen were hard at work, but\none floor of the burning house had already fallen through, and it was\nprobable that nothing but the shell would be saved. After giving a full\naccount of himself to the people among whom he had come, Harold declared\nhis intention of departing; his need of repose was imperative, and he\ncould not hope for it in this proximity to the fire. As he had no money,\nhis only course was to inquire for a room at some house in the immediate\nneighbourhood, where the people would receive him in a charitable\nspirit.\n\nWith the aid of the police he passed to where the crowd was thinner, and\ncame out into Cleveland Street. Here most of the house-doors were open,\nand he made several applications for hospitality, but either his story\nwas doubted or his grimy appearance predisposed people against him. At\nlength, when again his strength was all but at an end, he made appeal to\na policeman.\n\n'Surely you can tell,' he protested, after explaining his position,\n'that I don't want to cheat anybody. I shall have money to-morrow. If\nno one will take me in you must haul me on some charge to the\npolice-station; I shall have to lie down on the pavement in a minute.'\n\nThe officer recognised a man who was standing half-dressed on a\nthreshold close by; he stepped up to him and made representations\nwhich were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of an\nunderground room furnished as a bedchamber, which he agreed to rent for\na week. His landlord was not ungracious, and went so far as to supply\nhim with warm water, that he might in a measure cleanse himself. This\noperation rapidly performed, the hapless author flung himself into bed,\nand before long was fast asleep.\n\nWhen he went upstairs about nine o'clock in the morning he discovered\nthat his host kept an oil-shop.\n\n'Lost everything, have you?' asked the man sympathetically.\n\n'Everything, except the clothes I wear and some papers that I managed to\nsave. All my books burnt!'\n\nBiffen shook his head dolorously.\n\n'Your account-books!' cried the dealer in oil. 'Dear, dear!--and what\nmight your business be?'\n\nThe author corrected this misapprehension. In the end he was invited to\nbreak his fast, which he did right willingly. Then, with assurances\nthat he would return before nightfall, he left the house. His steps were\nnaturally first directed to Clipstone Street; the familiar abode was a\ngruesome ruin, still smoking. Neighbours informed him that Mr Briggs's\nbody had been brought forth in a horrible condition; but this was the\nonly loss of life that had happened.\n\nThence he struck eastward, and at eleven came to Manville Street,\nIslington. He found Reardon by the fireside, looking very ill, and\nspeaking with hoarseness.\n\n'Another cold?'\n\n'It looks like it. I wish you would take the trouble to go and buy me\nsome vermin-killer. That would suit my case.'\n\n'Then what would suit mine? Behold me, undeniably a philosopher; in the\nliteral sense of the words omnia mea mecum porto.'\n\nHe recounted his adventures, and with such humorous vivacity that when\nhe ceased the two laughed together as if nothing more amusing had ever\nbeen heard.\n\n'Ah, but my books, my books!' exclaimed Biffen, with a genuine groan.\n'And all my notes! At one fell swoop! If I didn't laugh, old friend, I\nshould sit down and cry; indeed I should. All my classics, with years of\nscribbling in the margins! How am I to buy them again?'\n\n'You rescued \"Mr Bailey.\" He must repay you.'\n\nBiffen had already laid the manuscript on the table; it was dirty and\ncrumpled, but not to such an extent as to render copying necessary.\nLovingly he smoothed the pages and set them in order, then he wrapped\nthe whole in a piece of brown paper which Reardon supplied, and wrote\nupon it the address of a firm of publishers.\n\n'Have you note-paper? I'll write to them; impossible to call in my\npresent guise.'\n\nIndeed his attire was more like that of a bankrupt costermonger than of\na man of letters. Collar he had none, for the griminess of that he wore\nlast night had necessitated its being thrown aside; round his throat\nwas a dirty handkerchief. His coat had been brushed, but its recent\nexperiences had brought it one stage nearer to that dissolution which\nmust very soon be its fate. His grey trousers were now black, and his\nboots looked as if they had not been cleaned for weeks.\n\n'Shall I say anything about the character of the book?' he asked,\nseating himself with pen and paper. 'Shall I hint that it deals with the\nignobly decent?'\n\n'Better let them form their own judgment,' replied Reardon, in his\nhoarse voice.\n\n'Then I'll just say that I submit to them a novel of modern life, the\nscope of which is in some degree indicated by its title. Pity they can't\nknow how nearly it became a holocaust, and that I risked my life to save\nit. If they're good enough to accept it I'll tell them the story. And\nnow, Reardon, I'm ashamed of myself, but can you without inconvenience\nlend me ten shillings?'\n\n'Easily.'\n\n'I must write to two pupils, to inform them of my change of\naddress--from garret to cellar. And I must ask help from my prosperous\nbrother. He gives it me unreluctantly, I know, but I am always loth to\napply to him. May I use your paper for these purposes?'\n\nThe brother of whom he spoke was employed in a house of business at\nLiverpool; the two had not met for years, but they corresponded,\nand were on terms such as Harold indicated. When he had finished his\nletters, and had received the half-sovereign from Reardon, he went his\nway to deposit the brown-paper parcel at the publishers'. The clerk who\nreceived it from his hands probably thought that the author might have\nchosen a more respectable messenger.\n\nTwo days later, early in the evening, the friends were again enjoying\neach other's company in Reardon's room. Both were invalids, for Biffen\nhad of course caught a cold from his exposure in shirt-sleeves on the\nroof, and he was suffering from the shock to his nerves; but the thought\nthat his novel was safe in the hands of publishers gave him energy to\nresist these influences. The absence of the pipe, for neither had any\npalate for tobacco at present, was the only external peculiarity of\nthis meeting. There seemed no reason why they should not meet frequently\nbefore the parting which would come at Christmas; but Reardon was in a\nmood of profound sadness, and several times spoke as if already he were\nbidding his friend farewell.\n\n'I find it difficult to think,' he said, 'that you will always struggle\non in such an existence as this. To every man of mettle there does come\nan opportunity, and it surely is time for yours to present itself. I\nhave a superstitious faith in \"Mr Bailey.\" If he leads you to triumph,\ndon't altogether forget me.'\n\n'Don't talk nonsense.'\n\n'What ages it seems since that day when I saw you in the library at\nHastings, and heard you ask in vain for my book! And how grateful I was\nto you! I wonder whether any mortal ever asks for my books nowadays?\nSome day, when I am well established at Croydon, you shall go to\nMudie's, and make inquiry if my novels ever by any chance leave the\nshelves, and then you shall give me a true and faithful report of the\nanswer you get. \"He is quite forgotten,\" the attendant will say; be sure\nof it.'\n\n'I think not.'\n\n'To have had even a small reputation, and to have outlived it, is a\nsort of anticipation of death. The man Edwin Reardon, whose name was\nsometimes spoken in a tone of interest, is really and actually dead. And\nwhat remains of me is resigned to that. I have an odd fancy that it will\nmake death itself easier; it is as if only half of me had now to die.'\n\nBiffen tried to give a lighter turn to the gloomy subject.\n\n'Thinking of my fiery adventure,' he said, in his tone of dry\ndeliberation, 'I find it vastly amusing to picture you as a witness at\nthe inquest if I had been choked and consumed. No doubt it would have\nbeen made known that I rushed upstairs to save some particular piece of\nproperty--several people heard me say so--and you alone would be able to\nconjecture what this was. Imagine the gaping wonderment of the coroner's\njury! The Daily Telegraph would have made a leader out of me. \"This poor\nman was so strangely deluded as to the value of a novel in manuscript,\nwhich it appears he had just completed, that he positively sacrificed\nhis life in the endeavour to rescue it from the flames.\" And\nthe Saturday would have had a column of sneering jocosity on the\nirrepressibly sanguine temperament of authors. At all events, I should\nhave had my day of fame.'\n\n'But what an ignoble death it would have been!' he pursued. 'Perishing\nin the garret of a lodging-house which caught fire by the overturning of\na drunkard's lamp! One would like to end otherwise.'\n\n'Where would you wish to die?' asked Reardon, musingly.\n\n'At home,' replied the other, with pathetic emphasis. 'I have never had\na home since I was a boy, and am never likely to have one. But to die at\nhome is an unreasoning hope I still cherish.'\n\n'If you had never come to London, what would you have now been?'\n\n'Almost certainly a schoolmaster in some small town. And one might be\nworse off than that, you know.'\n\n'Yes, one might live peaceably enough in such a position. And I--I\nshould be in an estate-agent's office, earning a sufficient salary, and\nmost likely married to some unambitious country girl.\n\nI should have lived an intelligible life, instead of only trying to\nlive, aiming at modes of life beyond my reach. My mistake was that of\nnumberless men nowadays. Because I was conscious of brains, I thought\nthat the only place for me was London. It's easy enough to understand\nthis common delusion. We form our ideas of London from old literature;\nwe think of London as if it were still the one centre of intellectual\nlife; we think and talk like Chatterton. But the truth is that\nintellectual men in our day do their best to keep away from London--when\nonce they know the place. There are libraries everywhere; papers and\nmagazines reach the north of Scotland as soon as they reach Brompton;\nit's only on rare occasions, for special kinds of work, that one is\nbound to live in London. And as for recreation, why, now that no English\ntheatre exists, what is there in London that you can't enjoy in almost\nany part of England? At all events, a yearly visit of a week would be\nquite sufficient for all the special features of the town. London is\nonly a huge shop, with an hotel on the upper storeys. To be sure, if you\nmake it your artistic subject, that's a different thing. But neither you\nnor I would do that by deliberate choice.'\n\n'I think not.'\n\n'It's a huge misfortune, this will-o'-the-wisp attraction exercised\nby London on young men of brains. They come here to be degraded, or to\nperish, when their true sphere is a life of peaceful remoteness. The\ntype of man capable of success in London is more or less callous and\ncynical. If I had the training of boys, I would teach them to think of\nLondon as the last place where life can be lived worthily.'\n\n'And the place where you are most likely to die in squalid\nwretchedness.'\n\n'The one happy result of my experiences,' said Reardon, is that they\nhave cured me of ambition. What a miserable fellow I should be if I were\nstill possessed with the desire to make a name! I can't even recall\nvery clearly that state of mind. My strongest desire now is for peaceful\nobscurity. I am tired out; I want to rest for the remainder of my life.'\n\n'You won't have much rest at Croydon.'\n\n'Oh, it isn't impossible. My time will be wholly occupied in a round of\nall but mechanical duties, and I think that will be the best medicine\nfor my mind. I shall read very little, and that only in the classics.\nI don't say that I shall always be content in such a position; in a few\nyears perhaps something pleasanter will offer. But in the meantime\nit will do very well. Then there is our expedition to Greece to look\nforward to. I am quite in earnest about that. The year after next, if we\nare both alive, assuredly we go.'\n\n'The year after next.' Biffen smiled dubiously.\n\n'I have demonstrated to you mathematically that it is possible.'\n\n'You have; but so are a great many other things that one does not dare\nto hope for.'\n\nSomeone knocked at the door, opened it, and said:\n\n'Here's a telegram for you, Mr Reardon.'\n\nThe friends looked at each other, as if some fear had entered the minds\nof both. Reardon opened the despatch. It was from his wife, and ran\nthus:\n\n'Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am staying\nwith Mrs Carter, at her mother's, at Brighton.'\n\nThe full address was given.\n\n'You hadn't heard of her going there?' said Biffen, when he had read the\nlines.\n\n'No. I haven't seen Carter for several days, or perhaps he would\nhave told me. Brighton, at this time of year? But I believe there's\na fashionable \"season\" about now, isn't there? I suppose that would\naccount for it.'\n\nHe spoke in a slighting tone, but showed increasing agitation.\n\n'Of course you will go?'\n\n'I must. Though I'm in no condition for making a journey.'\n\nHis friend examined him anxiously.\n\n'Are you feverish at all this evening?'\n\nReardon held out a hand that the other might feel his pulse. The beat\nwas rapid to begin with, and had been heightened since the arrival of\nthe telegram.\n\n'But go I must. The poor little fellow has no great place in my heart,\nbut, when Amy sends for me, I must go. Perhaps things are at the worst.'\n\n'When is there a train? Have you a time table?'\n\nBiffen was despatched to the nearest shop to purchase one, and in the\nmeanwhile Reardon packed a few necessaries in a small travelling-bag,\nancient and worn, but the object of his affection because it had\naccompanied him on his wanderings in the South. When Harold returned,\nhis appearance excited Reardon's astonishment--he was white from head to\nfoot.\n\n'Snow?'\n\n'It must have been falling heavily for an hour or more.'\n\n'Can't be helped; I must go.'\n\nThe nearest station for departure was London Bridge, and the next train\nleft at 7.20. By Reardon's watch it was now about five minutes to seven.\n\n'I don't know whether it's possible,' he said, in confused hurry, 'but I\nmust try. There isn't another train till ten past nine. Come with me to\nthe station, Biffen.'\n\nBoth were ready. They rushed from the house, and sped through the soft,\nsteady fall of snowflakes into Upper Street. Here they were several\nminutes before they found a disengaged cab. Questioning the driver,\nthey learnt what they would have known very well already but for their\nexcitement: impossible to get to London Bridge Station in a quarter of\nan hour.\n\n'Better to go on, all the same,' was Reardon's opinion. 'If the snow\ngets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all. But you had\nbetter not come; I forgot that you are as much out of sorts as I am.'\n\n'How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you!'\n\n'Diphtheria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age, isn't\nit?' Reardon asked when they were speeding along City Road.\n\n'I'm afraid there's much danger.'\n\n'Why did she send?'\n\n'What an absurd question! You seem to have got into a thoroughly morbid\nstate of mind about her. Do be human, and put away your obstinate\nfolly.'\n\n'In my position you would have acted precisely as I have done. I have\nhad no choice.'\n\n'I might; but we have both of us too little practicality. The art\nof living is the art of compromise. We have no right to foster\nsensibilities, and conduct ourselves as if the world allowed of ideal\nrelations; it leads to misery for others as well as ourselves. Genial\ncoarseness is what it behoves men like you and me to cultivate. Your\nreply to your wife's last letter was preposterous. You ought to have\ngone to her of your own accord as soon as ever you heard she was\nrich; she would have thanked you for such common-sense disregard of\ndelicacies. Let there be an end of this nonsense, I implore you!'\n\nReardon stared through the glass at the snow that fell thicker and\nthicker.\n\n'What are we--you and I?' pursued the other. 'We have no belief in\nimmortality; we are convinced that this life is all; we know that human\nhappiness is the origin and end of all moral considerations. What\nright have we to make ourselves and others miserable for the sake of an\nobstinate idealism? It is our duty to make the best of circumstances.\nWhy will you go cutting your loaf with a razor when you have a\nserviceable bread-knife?'\n\nStill Reardon did not speak. The cab rolled on almost silently.\n\n'You love your wife, and this summons she sends is proof that her\nthought turns to you as soon as she is in distress.'\n\n'Perhaps she only thought it her duty to let the child's father know--'\n\n'Perhaps--perhaps--perhaps!' cried Biffen, contemptuously. 'There goes\nthe razor again! Take the plain, human construction of what happens. Ask\nyourself what the vulgar man would do, and do likewise; that's the only\nsafe rule for you.'\n\nThey were both hoarse with too much talking, and for the last half of\nthe drive neither spoke.\n\nAt the railway-station they ate and drank together, but with poor\npretence of appetite. As long as possible they kept within the warmed\nrooms. Reardon was pale, and had anxious, restless eyes; he could not\nremain seated, though when he had walked about for a few minutes the\ntrembling of his limbs obliged him to sink down. It was an unutterable\nrelief to both when the moment of the train's starting approached.\n\nThey clasped hands warmly, and exchanged a few last requests and\npromises.\n\n'Forgive my plain speech, old fellow,' said Biffen. 'Go and be happy!'\n\nThen he stood alone on the platform, watching the red light on the last\ncarriage as the train whirled away into darkness and storm.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII. REARDON BECOMES PRACTICAL\n\nReardon had never been to Brighton, and of his own accord never would\nhave gone; he was prejudiced against the place because its name has\nbecome suggestive of fashionable imbecility and the snobbishness which\ntries to model itself thereon; he knew that the town was a mere portion\nof London transferred to the sea-shore, and as he loved the strand and\nthe breakers for their own sake, to think of them in such connection\ncould be nothing but a trial of his temper. Something of this species of\nirritation affected him in the first part of his journey, and disturbed\nthe mood of kindliness with which he was approaching Amy; but towards\nthe end he forgot this in a growing desire to be beside his wife in her\ntrouble. His impatience made the hour and a half seem interminable.\n\nThe fever which was upon him had increased. He coughed frequently; his\nbreathing was difficult; though constantly moving, he felt as if, in\nthe absence of excitement, his one wish would have been to lie down and\nabandon himself to lethargy. Two men who sat with him in the third-class\ncarriage had spread a rug over their knees and amused themselves with\nplaying cards for trifling sums of money; the sight of their foolish\nfaces, the sound of their laughs, the talk they interchanged,\nexasperated him to the last point of endurance; but for all that he\ncould not draw his attention from them. He seemed condemned by some\nspiritual tormentor to take an interest in their endless games, and to\nobserve their visages until he knew every line with a hateful intimacy.\nOne of the men had a moustache of unusual form; the ends curved upward\nwith peculiar suddenness, and Reardon was constrained to speculate as\nto the mode of training by which this singularity had been produced. He\ncould have shed tears of nervous distraction in his inability to turn\nhis thoughts upon other things.\n\nOn alighting at his journey's end he was seized with a fit of shivering,\nan intense and sudden chill which made his teeth chatter. In an\nendeavour to overcome this he began to run towards the row of cabs, but\nhis legs refused such exercise, and coughing compelled him to pause for\nbreath. Still shaking, he threw himself into a vehicle and was driven to\nthe address Amy had mentioned. The snow on the ground lay thick, but no\nmore was falling.\n\nHeedless of the direction which the cab took, he suffered his physical\nand mental unrest for another quarter of an hour, then a stoppage told\nhim that the house was reached. On his way he had heard a clock strike\neleven.\n\nThe door opened almost as soon as he had rung the bell. He mentioned\nhis name, and the maid-servant conducted him to a drawing-room on the\nground-floor. The house was quite a small one, but seemed to be well\nfurnished. One lamp burned on the table, and the fire had sunk to a red\nglow. Saying that she would inform Mrs Reardon at once, the servant left\nhim alone.\n\nHe placed his bag on the floor, took off his muffler, threw back his\novercoat, and sat waiting. The overcoat was new, but the garments\nbeneath it were his poorest, those he wore when sitting in his garret,\nfor he had neither had time to change them, nor thought of doing so.\n\nHe heard no approaching footstep but Amy came into the room in a way\nwhich showed that she had hastened downstairs. She looked at him, then\ndrew near with both hands extended, and laid them on his shoulders, and\nkissed him. Reardon shook so violently that it was all he could do to\nremain standing; he seized one of her hands, and pressed it against his\nlips.\n\n'How hot your breath is!' she said. 'And how you tremble! Are you ill?'\n\n'A bad cold, that's all,' he answered thickly, and coughed. 'How is\nWillie?'\n\n'In great danger. The doctor is coming again to-night; we thought that\nwas his ring.'\n\n'You didn't expect me to-night?'\n\n'I couldn't feel sure whether you would come.'\n\n'Why did you send for me, Amy? Because Willie was in danger, and you\nfelt I ought to know about it?'\n\n'Yes--and because I--'\n\nShe burst into tears. The display of emotion came very suddenly; her\nwords had been spoken in a firm voice, and only the pained knitting of\nher brows had told what she was suffering.\n\n'If Willie dies, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?' broke forth\nbetween her sobs.\n\nReardon took her in his arms, and laid his hand upon her head in the old\nloving way.\n\n'Do you wish me to go up and see him, Amy?'\n\n'Of course. But first, let me tell you why we are here. Edith--Mrs\nCarter--was coming to spend a week with her mother, and she pressed\nme to join her. I didn't really wish to; I was unhappy, and felt how\nimpossible it was to go on always living away from you. Oh, that I had\nnever come! Then Willie would have been as well as ever.'\n\n'Tell me when and how it began.'\n\nShe explained briefly, then went on to tell of other circumstances.\n\n'I have a nurse with me in the room. It's my own bedroom, and this house\nis so small it will be impossible to give you a bed here, Edwin. But\nthere's an hotel only a few yards away.'\n\n'Yes, yes; don't trouble about that.'\n\n'But you look so ill--you are shaking so. Is it a cold you have had\nlong?'\n\n'Oh, my old habit; you remember. One cold after another, all through the\naccursed winter. What does that matter when you speak kindly to me once\nmore? I had rather die now at your feet and see the old gentleness when\nyou look at me, than live on estranged from you. No, don't kiss me, I\nbelieve these vile sore-throats are contagious.'\n\n'But your lips are so hot and parched! And to think of your coming this\njourney, on such a night!'\n\n'Good old Biffen came to the station with me. He was angry because I had\nkept away from you so long. Have you given me your heart again, Amy?'\n\n'Oh, it has all been a wretched mistake! But we were so poor. Now all\nthat is over; if only Willie can be saved to me! I am so anxious for\nthe doctor's coming; the poor little child can hardly draw a breath. How\ncruel it is that such suffering should come upon a little creature who\nhas never done or thought ill!'\n\n'You are not the first, dearest, who has revolted against nature's\ncruelty.'\n\n'Let us go up at once, Edwin. Leave your coat and things here. Mrs\nWinter--Edith's mother--is a very old lady; she has gone to bed. And I\ndare say you wouldn't care to see Mrs Carter to-night?'\n\n'No, no! only you and Willie.'\n\n'When the doctor comes hadn't you better ask his advice for yourself?'\n\n'We shall see. Don't trouble about me.'\n\nThey went softly up to the first floor, and entered a bedroom.\nFortunately the light here was very dim, or the nurse who sat by the\nchild's bed must have wondered at the eccentricity with which her\npatient's father attired himself. Bending over the little sufferer,\nReardon felt for the first time since Willie's birth a strong fatherly\nemotion; tears rushed to his eyes, and he almost crushed Amy's hand as\nhe held it during the spasm of his intense feeling.\n\nHe sat here for a long time without speaking. The warmth of the chamber\nhad the reverse of an assuaging effect upon his difficult breathing and\nhis frequent short cough--it seemed to oppress and confuse his brain. He\nbegan to feel a pain in his right side, and could not sit upright on the\nchair.\n\nAmy kept regarding him, without his being aware of it.\n\n'Does your head ache?' she whispered.\n\nHe nodded, but did not speak.\n\n'Oh, why doesn't the doctor come? I must send in a few minutes.'\n\nBut as soon as she had spoken a bell rang in the lower part of the\nhouse. Amy had no doubt that it announced the promised visit.\n\nShe left the room, and in a minute or two returned with the medical\nman. When the examination of the child was over, Reardon requested a few\nwords with the doctor in the room downstairs.\n\n'I'll come back to you,' he whispered to Amy.\n\nThe two descended together, and entered the drawing-room.\n\n'Is there any hope for the little fellow?' Reardon asked.\n\nYes, there was hope; a favourable turn might be expected.\n\n'Now I wish to trouble you for a moment on my own account. I shouldn't\nbe surprised if you tell me that I have congestion of the lungs.'\n\nThe doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his interlocutor\nwith curiosity. He now asked the necessary questions, and made an\nexamination.\n\n'Have you had any lung trouble before this?' he inquired gravely.\n\n'Slight congestion of the right lung not many weeks ago.'\n\n'I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your symptoms\nto go so far without--'\n\n'I have just come down from London,' interrupted Reardon.\n\n'Tut, tut, tut! To bed this moment, my dear sir! There is inflammation,\nand--'\n\n'I can't have a bed in this house; there is no spare room. I must go to\nthe nearest hotel.'\n\n'Positively? Then let me take you. My carriage is at the door.'\n\n'One thing--I beg you won't tell my wife that this is serious. Wait till\nshe is out of her anxiety about the child.'\n\n'You will need the services of a nurse. A most unfortunate thing that\nyou are obliged to go to the hotel.'\n\n'It can't be helped. If a nurse is necessary, I must engage one.'\n\nHe had the strange sensation of knowing that whatever was needful could\nbe paid for; it relieved his mind immensely. To the rich, illness has\nnone of the worst horrors only understood by the poor.\n\n'Don't speak a word more than you can help,' said the doctor as he\nwatched Reardon withdraw.\n\nAmy stood on the lower stairs, and came down as soon as her husband\nshowed himself.\n\n'The doctor is good enough to take me in his carriage,' he whispered.\n'It is better that I should go to bed, and get a good night's rest. I\nwish I could have sat with you, Amy.'\n\n'Is it anything? You look worse than when you came, Edwin.'\n\n'A feverish cold. Don't give it a thought, dearest. Go to Willie.\nGood-night!'\n\nShe threw her arms about him.\n\n'I shall come to see you if you are not able to be here by nine in the\nmorning,' she said, and added the name of the hotel to which he was to\ngo.\n\nAt this establishment the doctor was well known. By midnight Reardon\nlay in a comfortable room, a huge cataplasm fixed upon him, and other\nneedful arrangements made. A waiter had undertaken to visit him at\nintervals through the night, and the man of medicine promised to return\nas soon as possible after daybreak.\n\nWhat sound was that, soft and continuous, remote, now clearer, now\nconfusedly murmuring? He must have slept, but now he lay in sudden\nperfect consciousness, and that music fell upon his ears. Ah! of course\nit was the rising tide; he was near the divine sea.\n\nThe night-light enabled him to discern the principal objects in the\nroom, and he let his eyes stray idly hither and thither. But this moment\nof peacefulness was brought to an end by a fit of coughing, and he\nbecame troubled, profoundly troubled, in mind. Was his illness really\ndangerous? He tried to draw a deep breath, but could not. He found that\nhe could only lie on his right side with any ease. And with the effort\nof turning he exhausted himself; in the course of an hour or two all\nhis strength had left him. Vague fears flitted harassingly through his\nthoughts. If he had inflammation of the lungs--that was a disease of\nwhich one might die, and speedily. Death? No, no, no; impossible at such\na time as this, when Amy, his own dear wife, had come back to him, and\nhad brought him that which would insure their happiness through all the\nyears of a long life.\n\nHe was still quite a young man; there must be great reserves of strength\nin him. And he had the will to live, the prevailing will, the passionate\nall-conquering desire of happiness.\n\nHow he had alarmed himself! Why, now he was calmer again, and again\ncould listen to the music of the breakers. Not all the folly and\nbaseness that paraded along this strip of the shore could change the\nsea's eternal melody. In a day or two he would walk on the sands with\nAmy, somewhere quite out of sight of the repulsive town. But Willie was\nill; he had forgotten that. Poor little boy! In future the child should\nbe more to him; though never what the mother was, his own love, won\nagain and for ever.\n\nAgain an interval of unconsciousness, brought to an end by that aching\nin his side. He breathed very quickly; could not help doing so. He had\nnever felt so ill as this, never. Was it not near morning?\n\nThen he dreamt. He was at Patras, was stepping into a boat to be rowed\nout to the steamer which would bear him away from Greece. A magnificent\nnight, though at the end of December; a sky of deep blue, thick set with\nstars. No sound but the steady splash of the oars, or perhaps a voice\nfrom one of the many vessels that lay anchored in the harbour, each\nshowing its lantern-gleams. The water was as deep a blue as the sky, and\nsparkled with reflected radiance.\n\nAnd now he stood on deck in the light of early morning. Southward lay\nthe Ionian Islands; he looked for Ithaca, and grieved that it had been\npassed in the hours of darkness. But the nearest point of the main shore\nwas a rocky promontory; it reminded him that in these waters was fought\nthe battle of Actium.\n\nThe glory vanished. He lay once more a sick man in a hired chamber,\nlonging for the dull English dawn.\n\nAt eight o'clock came the doctor. He would allow only a word or two to\nbe uttered, and his visit was brief. Reardon was chiefly anxious to have\nnews of the child, but for this he would have to wait.\n\nAt ten Amy entered the bedroom. Reardon could not raise himself, but he\nstretched out his hand and took hers, and gazed eagerly at her. She must\nhave been weeping, he felt sure of that, and there was an expression on\nher face such as he had never seen there.\n\n'How is Willie?'\n\n'Better, dear; much better.'\n\nHe still searched her face.\n\n'Ought you to leave him?'\n\n'Hush! You mustn't speak.'\n\nTears broke from her eyes, and Reardon had the conviction that the child\nwas dead.\n\n'The truth, Amy!'\n\nShe threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and pressed her wet cheek\nagainst his hand.\n\n'I am come to nurse you, dear husband,' she said a moment after,\nstanding up again and kissing his forehead. 'I have only you now.'\n\nHis heart sank, and for a moment so great a terror was upon him that he\nclosed his eyes and seemed to pass into utter darkness. But those\nlast words of hers repeated themselves in his mind, and at length they\nbrought a deep solace. Poor little Willie had been the cause of the\nfirst coldness between him and Amy; her love for him had given place to\na mother's love for the child. Now it would be as in the first days of\ntheir marriage; they would again be all in all to each other.\n\n'You oughtn't to have come, feeling so ill,' she said to him. 'You\nshould have let me know, dear.'\n\nHe smiled and kissed her hand.\n\n'And you kept the truth from me last night, in kindness.'\n\nShe checked herself, knowing that agitation must be harmful to him. She\nhad hoped to conceal the child's death, but the effort was too much for\nher overstrung nerves. And indeed it was only possible for her to remain\nan hour or two by this sick-bed, for she was exhausted by her night\nof watching, and the sudden agony with which it had concluded. Shortly\nafter Amy's departure, a professional nurse came to attend upon what the\ndoctor had privately characterised as a very grave case.\n\nBy the evening its gravity was in no respect diminished. The sufferer\nhad ceased to cough and to make restless movements, and had become\nlethargic; later, he spoke deliriously, or rather muttered, for his\nwords were seldom intelligible. Amy had returned to the room at four\no'clock, and remained till far into the night; she was physically\nexhausted, and could do little but sit in a chair by the bedside\nand shed silent tears, or gaze at vacancy in the woe of her sudden\ndesolation. Telegrams had been exchanged with her mother, who was to\narrive in Brighton to-morrow morning; the child's funeral would probably\nbe on the third day from this.\n\nWhen she rose to go away for the night, leaving the nurse in attendance,\nReardon seemed to lie in a state of unconsciousness, but just as she was\nturning from the bed, he opened his eyes and pronounced her name.\n\n'I am here, Edwin,' she answered, bending over him.\n\n'Will you let Biffen know?' he said in low but very clear tones.\n\n'That you are ill dear? I will write at once, or telegraph, if you like.\nWhat is his address?'\n\nHe had closed his eyes again, and there came no reply. Amy repeated her\nquestion twice; she was turning from him in hopelessness when his voice\nbecame audible.\n\n'I can't remember his new address. I know it, but I can't remember.'\n\nShe had to leave him thus.\n\nThe next day his breathing was so harassed that he had to be raised\nagainst pillows. But throughout the hours of daylight his mind was\nclear, and from time to time he whispered words of tenderness in reply\nto Amy's look. He never willingly relinquished her hand, and repeatedly\nhe pressed it against his cheek or lips. Vainly he still endeavoured to\nrecall his friend's address.\n\n'Couldn't Mr Carter discover it for you?' Amy asked.\n\n'Perhaps. You might try.'\n\nShe would have suggested applying to Jasper Milvain, but that name must\nnot be mentioned. Whelpdale, also, would perchance know where Biffen\nlived, but Whelpdale's address he had also forgotten.\n\nAt night there were long periods of delirium; not mere confused\nmuttering, but continuous talk which the listeners could follow\nperfectly.\n\nFor the most part the sufferer's mind was occupied with revival of the\ndistress he had undergone whilst making those last efforts to write\nsomething worthy of himself. Amy's heart was wrung as she heard him\nliving through that time of supreme misery--misery which she might have\ndone so much to alleviate, had not selfish fears and irritated pride\ncaused her to draw further and further from him. Hers was the kind of\npenitence which is forced by sheer stress of circumstances on a nature\nwhich resents any form of humiliation; she could not abandon herself to\nunreserved grief for what she had done or omitted, and the sense of this\ndefect made a great part of her affliction. When her husband lay in mute\nlethargy, she thought only of her dead child, and mourned the loss; but\nhis delirious utterances constrained her to break from that bittersweet\npreoccupation, to confuse her mourning with self-reproach and with\nfears.\n\nThough unconsciously, he was addressing her: 'I can do no more, Amy. My\nbrain seems to be worn out; I can't compose, I can't even think. Look! I\nhave been sitting here for hours, and I have done only that little bit,\nhalf a dozen lines. Such poor stuff too! I should burn it, only I can't\nafford. I must do my regular quantity every day, no matter what it is.'\n\nThe nurse, who was present when he talked in this way, looked to Amy for\nan explanation.\n\n'My husband is an author,' Amy answered. 'Not long ago he was obliged to\nwrite when he was ill and ought to have been resting.'\n\n'I always thought it must be hard work writing books,' said the nurse\nwith a shake of her head.\n\n'You don't understand me,' the voice pursued, dreadful as a voice always\nis when speaking independently of the will. 'You think I am only a poor\ncreature, because I can do nothing better than this. If only I had money\nenough to rest for a year or two, you should see. Just because I have no\nmoney I must sink to this degradation. And I am losing you as well; you\ndon't love me!'\n\nHe began to moan in anguish.\n\nBut a happy change presently came over his dreaming. He fell into\nanimated description of his experiences in Greece and Italy, and after\ntalking for a long time, he turned his head and said in a perfectly\nnatural tone:\n\n'Amy, do you know that Biffen and I are going to Greece?'\n\nShe believed he spoke consciously, and replied:\n\n'You must take me with you, Edwin.'\n\nHe paid no attention to this remark, but went on with the same deceptive\naccent.\n\n'He deserves a holiday after nearly getting burnt to death to save\nhis novel. Imagine the old fellow plunging headlong into the flames to\nrescue his manuscript! Don't say that authors can't be heroic!'\n\nAnd he laughed gaily.\n\nAnother morning broke. It was possible, said the doctors (a second had\nbeen summoned), that a crisis which drew near might bring the favourable\nturn; but Amy formed her own opinion from the way in which the\nnurse expressed herself. She felt sure that the gravest fears were\nentertained. Before noon Reardon awoke from what had seemed natural\nsleep--save for the rapid breathing--and of a sudden recollected the\nnumber of the house in Cleveland Street at which Biffen was now living.\nHe uttered it without explanation. Amy at once conjectured his meaning,\nand as soon as her surmise was confirmed she despatched a telegram to\nher husband's friend.\n\nThat evening, as Amy was on the point of returning to the sick-room\nafter having dined at her friend's house, it was announced that\na gentleman named Biffen wished to see her. She found him in the\ndining-room, and, even amid her distress, it was a satisfaction to her\nthat he presented a far more conventional appearance than in the old\ndays. All the garments he wore, even his hat, gloves, and boots,\nwere new; a surprising state of things, explained by the fact of his\ncommercial brother having sent him a present of ten pounds, a practical\nexpression of sympathy with him in his recent calamity. Biffen could\nnot speak; he looked with alarm at Amy's pallid face. In a few words she\ntold him of Reardon's condition.\n\n'I feared this,' he replied under his breath. 'He was ill when I saw him\noff at London Bridge. But Willie is better, I trust?'\n\nAmy tried to answer, but tears filled her eyes and her head drooped.\nHarold was overcome with a sense of fatality; grief and dread held him\nmotionless.\n\nThey conversed brokenly for a few minutes, then left the house, Biffen\ncarrying the hand-bag with which he had travelled hither. When they\nreached the hotel he waited apart until it was ascertained whether he\ncould enter the sick-room. Amy rejoined him and said with a faint smile:\n\n'He is conscious, and was very glad to hear that you had come. But don't\nlet him try to speak much.'\n\nThe change that had come over his friend's countenance was to Harold, of\ncourse, far more gravely impressive than to those who had watched at the\nbedside. In the drawn features, large sunken eyes, thin and discoloured\nlips, it seemed to him that he read too surely the presage of doom.\nAfter holding the shrunken hand for a moment he was convulsed with an\nagonising sob, and had to turn away.\n\nAmy saw that her husband wished to speak to her; she bent over him.\n\n'Ask him to stay, dear. Give him a room in the hotel.'\n\n'I will.'\n\nBiffen sat down by the bedside, and remained for half an hour. His\nfriend inquired whether he had yet heard about the novel; the answer was\na shake of the head. When he rose, Reardon signed to him to bend down,\nand whispered:\n\n'It doesn't matter what happens; she is mine again.'\n\nThe next day was very cold, but a blue sky gleamed over land and sea.\nThe drives and promenades were thronged with people in exuberant health\nand spirits. Biffen regarded this spectacle with resentful scorn; at\nanother time it would have moved him merely to mirth, but not even the\nsound of the breakers when he had wandered as far as possible from human\ncontact could help him to think with resignation of the injustice which\ntriumphs so flagrantly in the destinies of men. Towards Amy he had no\nshadow of unkindness; the sight of her in tears had impressed him as\nprofoundly, in another way, as that of his friend's wasted features. She\nand Reardon were again one, and his love for them both was stronger than\nany emotion of tenderness he had ever known.\n\nIn the afternoon he again sat by the bedside. Every symptom of the\nsufferer's condition pointed to an approaching end: a face that had\ngrown cadaverous, livid lips, breath drawn in hurrying gasps. Harold\ndespaired of another look of recognition. But as he sat with his\nforehead resting on his hand Amy touched him; Reardon had turned his\nface in their direction, and with a conscious gaze.\n\n'I shall never go with you to Greece,' he said distinctly.\n\nThere was silence again. Biffen did not move his eyes from the deathly\nmask; in a minute or two he saw a smile soften its lineaments, and\nReardon again spoke:\n\n'How often you and I have quoted it!--\"We are such stuff as dreams are\nmade on, and our--\"'\n\nThe remaining words were indistinguishable, and, as if the effort of\nutterance had exhausted him, his eyes closed, and he sank into lethargy.\n\nWhen he came down from his bedroom on the following morning, Biffen was\ninformed that his friend had died between two and three o'clock. At the\nsame time he received a note in which Amy requested him to come and see\nher late in the afternoon. He spent the day in a long walk along the\neastward cliffs; again the sun shone brilliantly, and the sea was\nflecked with foam upon its changing green and azure. It seemed to him\nthat he had never before known solitude, even through all the years of\nhis lonely and sad existence.\n\nAt sunset he obeyed Amy's summons. He found her calm, but with the signs\nof long weeping.\n\n'At the last moment,' she said, 'he was able to speak to me, and you\nwere mentioned. He wished you to have all that he has left in his room\nat Islington. When I come back to London, will you take me there and let\nme see the room just as when he lived in it? Let the people in the house\nknow what has happened, and that I am responsible for whatever will be\nowing.'\n\nHer resolve to behave composedly gave way as soon as Harold's broken\nvoice had replied. Hysterical sobbing made further speech from her\nimpossible, and Biffen, after holding her hand reverently for a moment,\nleft her alone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII. THE SUNNY WAY\n\nOn an evening of early summer, six months after the death of Edwin\nReardon, Jasper of the facile pen was bending over his desk, writing\nrapidly by the warm western light which told that sunset was near. Not\nfar from him sat his younger sister; she was reading, and the book in\nher hand bore the title, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer.'\n\n'How will this do?' Jasper exclaimed, suddenly throwing down his pen.\n\nAnd he read aloud a critical notice of the book with which Dora was\noccupied; a notice of the frankly eulogistic species, beginning with:\n'It is seldom nowadays that the luckless reviewer of novels can draw\nthe attention of the public to a new work which is at once powerful and\noriginal;' and ending: 'The word is a bold one, but we do not hesitate\nto pronounce this book a masterpiece.'\n\n'Is that for The Current?' asked Dora, when he had finished.\n\n'No, for The West End. Fadge won't allow anyone but himself to be lauded\nin that style. I may as well do the notice for The Current now, as I've\ngot my hand in.'\n\nHe turned to his desk again, and before daylight failed him had produced\na piece of more cautious writing, very favourable on the whole, but with\nreserves and slight censures. This also he read to Dora.\n\n'You wouldn't suspect they were written by the same man, eh?'\n\n'No. You have changed the style very skilfully.'\n\n'I doubt if they'll be much use. Most people will fling the book down\nwith yawns before they're half through the first volume. If I knew a\ndoctor who had many cases of insomnia in hand, I would recommend \"Mr\nBailey\" to him as a specific.'\n\n'Oh, but it is really clever, Jasper!'\n\n'Not a doubt of it. I half believe what I have written. And if only we\ncould get it mentioned in a leader or two, and so on, old Biffen's fame\nwould be established with the better sort of readers. But he won't\nsell three hundred copies. I wonder whether Robertson would let me do a\nnotice for his paper?'\n\n'Biffen ought to be grateful to you, if he knew,' said Dora, laughing.\n\n'Yet, now, there are people who would cry out that this kind of thing is\ndisgraceful. It's nothing of the kind. Speaking seriously, we know that\na really good book will more likely than not receive fair treatment from\ntwo or three reviewers; yes, but also more likely than not it will be\nswamped in the flood of literature that pours forth week after week, and\nwon't have attention fixed long enough upon it to establish its repute.\nThe struggle for existence among books is nowadays as severe as among\nmen. If a writer has friends connected with the press, it is the plain\nduty of those friends to do their utmost to help him. What matter if\nthey exaggerate, or even lie? The simple, sober truth has no chance\nwhatever of being listened to, and it's only by volume of shouting that\nthe ear of the public is held. What use is it to Biffen if his work\nstruggles to slow recognition ten years hence? Besides, as I say, the\ngrowing flood of literature swamps everything but works of primary\ngenius. If a clever and conscientious book does not spring to success\nat once, there's precious small chance that it will survive. Suppose it\nwere possible for me to write a round dozen reviews of this book, in as\nmany different papers, I would do it with satisfaction. Depend upon\nit, this kind of thing will be done on that scale before long. And\nit's quite natural. A man's friends must be helped, by whatever means,\nquocunque modo, as Biffen himself would say.'\n\n'I dare say he doesn't even think of you as a friend now.'\n\n'Very likely not. It's ages since I saw him. But there's much\nmagnanimity in my character, as I have often told you. It delights me to\nbe generous, whenever I can afford it.'\n\nDusk was gathering about them. As they sat talking, there came a tap at\nthe door, and the summons to enter was obeyed by Mr Whelpdale.\n\n'I was passing,' he said in his respectful voice, 'and couldn't resist\nthe temptation.'\n\nJasper struck a match and lit the lamp. In this clearer light Whelpdale\nwas exhibited as a young man of greatly improved exterior; he wore a\ncream-coloured waistcoat, a necktie of subtle hue, and delicate gloves;\nprosperity breathed from his whole person. It was, in fact, only a\nmoderate prosperity to which he had as yet attained, but the future\nbeckoned to him flatteringly.\n\nEarly in this year, his enterprise as 'literary adviser' had brought\nhim in contact with a man of some pecuniary resources, who proposed to\nestablish an agency for the convenience of authors who were not skilled\nin disposing of their productions to the best advantage. Under the name\nof Fleet & Co., this business was shortly set on foot, and Whelpdale's\nservices were retained on satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicate\nsystem had given new scope to literary agencies, and Mr Fleet was a man\nof keen eye for commercial opportunities.\n\n'Well, have you read Biffen's book?' asked Jasper.\n\n'Wonderful, isn't it! A work of genius, I am convinced. Ha! you have it\nthere, Miss Dora. But I'm afraid it is hardly for you.'\n\n'And why not, Mr Whelpdale?'\n\n'You should only read of beautiful things, of happy lives. This book\nmust depress you.'\n\n'But why will you imagine me such a feeble-minded person?' asked Dora.\n'You have so often spoken like this. I have really no ambition to be a\ndoll of such superfine wax.'\n\nThe habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned.\n\n'Pray forgive me!' he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards the girl\nwith eyes which deprecated her displeasure. 'I am very far indeed from\nattributing weakness to you. It was only the natural, unreflecting\nimpulse; one finds it so difficult to associate you, even as merely a\nreader, with such squalid scenes.\n\nThe ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from that\nsphere in which you are naturally at home.'\n\nThere was some slight affectation in his language, but the tone attested\nsincere feeling. Jasper was watching him with half an eye, and glancing\noccasionally at Dora.\n\n'No doubt,' said the latter, 'it's my story in The English Girl that\ninclines you to think me a goody-goody sort of young woman.'\n\n'So far from that, Miss Dora, I was only waiting for an opportunity to\ntell you how exceedingly delighted I have been with the last two weeks'\ninstalments. In all seriousness, I consider that story of yours the best\nthing of the kind that ever came under my notice. You seem to me to\nhave discovered a new genre; such writing as this has surely never been\noffered to girls, and all the readers of the paper must be immensely\ngrateful to you. I run eagerly to buy the paper each week; I assure you\nI do. The stationer thinks I purchase it for a sister, I suppose. But\neach section of the story seems to be better than the last. Mark the\nprophecy which I now make: when this tale is published in a volume its\nsuccess will be great. You will be recognised, Miss Dora, as the new\nwriter for modern English girls.'\n\nThe subject of this panegyric coloured a little and laughed.\nUnmistakably she was pleased.\n\n'Look here, Whelpdale,' said Jasper, 'I can't have this; Dora's conceit,\nplease to remember, is, to begin with, only a little less than my own,\nand you will make her unendurable. Her tale is well enough in its way,\nbut then its way is a very humble one.'\n\n'I deny it!' cried the other, excitedly. 'How can it be called a humble\nline of work to provide reading, which is at once intellectual and\nmoving and exquisitely pure, for the most important part of the\npopulation--the educated and refined young people who are just passing\nfrom girlhood to womanhood?'\n\n'The most important fiddlestick!'\n\n'You are grossly irreverent, my dear Milvain. I cannot appeal to your\nsister, for she's too modest to rate her own sex at its true value, but\nthe vast majority of thoughtful men would support me. You yourself do,\nthough you affect this profane way of speaking. And we know,' he looked\nat Dora, 'that he wouldn't talk like this if Miss Yule were present.'\n\nJasper changed the topic of conversation, and presently Whelpdale was\nable to talk with more calmness. The young man, since his association\nwith Fleet & Co., had become fertile in suggestions of literary\nenterprise, and at present he was occupied with a project of special\nhopefulness.\n\n'I want to find a capitalist,' he said, 'who will get possession of that\npaper Chat, and transform it according to an idea I have in my head. The\nthing is doing very indifferently, but I am convinced it might be made\nsplendid property, with a few changes in the way of conducting it.'\n\n'The paper is rubbish,' remarked Jasper, 'and the kind of rubbish--oddly\nenough--which doesn't attract people.'\n\n'Precisely, but the rubbish is capable of being made a very valuable\narticle, if it were only handled properly. I have talked to the people\nabout it again and again, but I can't get them to believe what I say.\nNow just listen to my notion. In the first place, I should slightly\nalter the name; only slightly, but that little alteration would in\nitself have an enormous effect. Instead of Chat I should call it\nChit-Chat!'\n\nJasper exploded with mirth.\n\n'That's brilliant!' he cried. 'A stroke of genius!'\n\n'Are you serious? Or are you making fun of me? I believe it is a stroke\nof genius. Chat doesn't attract anyone, but Chit-Chat would sell like\nhot cakes, as they say in America. I know I am right; laugh as you\nwill.'\n\n'On the same principle,' cried Jasper, 'if The Tatler were changed to\nTittle-Tattle, its circulation would be trebled.'\n\nWhelpdale smote his knee in delight.\n\n'An admirable idea! Many a true word uttered in joke, and this is an\ninstance! Tittle-Tattle--a magnificent title; the very thing to catch\nthe multitude.'\n\nDora was joining in the merriment, and for a minute or two nothing but\nbursts of laughter could be heard.\n\n'Now do let me go on,' implored the man of projects, when the noise\nsubsided. 'That's only one change, though a most important one. What\nI next propose is this:--I know you will laugh again, but I will\ndemonstrate to you that I am right. No article in the paper is to\nmeasure more than two inches in length, and every inch must be broken\ninto at least two paragraphs.'\n\n'Superb!'\n\n'But you are joking, Mr Whelpdale!' exclaimed Dora.\n\n'No, I am perfectly serious. Let me explain my principle. I would have\nthe paper address itself to the quarter-educated; that is to say, the\ngreat new generation that is being turned out by the Board schools, the\nyoung men and women who can just read, but are incapable of sustained\nattention. People of this kind want something to occupy them in trains\nand on 'buses and trams. As a rule they care for no newspapers except\nthe Sunday ones; what they want is the lightest and frothiest of\nchit-chatty information--bits of stories, bits of description, bits of\nscandal, bits of jokes, bits of statistics, bits of foolery. Am I not\nright? Everything must be very short, two inches at the utmost; their\nattention can't sustain itself beyond two inches. Even chat is too solid\nfor them: they want chit-chat.'\n\nJasper had begun to listen seriously.\n\n'There's something in this, Whelpdale,' he remarked.\n\n'Ha! I have caught you?' cried the other delightedly. 'Of course there's\nsomething in it?'\n\n'But--' began Dora, and checked herself.\n\n'You were going to say--' Whelpdale bent towards her with deference.\n\n'Surely these poor, silly people oughtn't to be encouraged in their\nweakness.'\n\nWhelpdale's countenance fell. He looked ashamed of himself. But Jasper\ncame speedily to the rescue.\n\n'That's twaddle, Dora. Fools will be fools to the world's end. Answer\na fool according to his folly; supply a simpleton with the reading he\ncraves, if it will put money in your pocket. You have discouraged poor\nWhelpdale in one of the most notable projects of modern times.'\n\n'I shall think no more of it,' said Whelpdale, gravely. 'You are right,\nMiss Dora.'\n\nAgain Jasper burst into merriment. His sister reddened, and looked\nuncomfortable. She began to speak timidly:\n\n'You said this was for reading in trains and 'buses?'\n\nWhelpdale caught at hope.\n\n'Yes. And really, you know, it may be better at such times to read\nchit-chat than to be altogether vacant, or to talk unprofitably. I am\nnot sure; I bow to your opinion unreservedly.'\n\n'So long as they only read the paper at such times,' said Dora, still\nhesitating. 'One knows by experience that one really can't fix one's\nattention in travelling; even an article in a newspaper is often too\nlong.'\n\n'Exactly! And if you find it so, what must be the case with the mass\nof untaught people, the quarter-educated? It might encourage in some of\nthem a taste for reading--don't you think?'\n\n'It might,' assented Dora, musingly. 'And in that case you would be\ndoing good!'\n\n'Distinct good!'\n\nThey smiled joyfully at each other. Then Whelpdale turned to Jasper:\n\n'You are convinced that there is something in this?'\n\n'Seriously, I think there is. It would all depend on the skill of the\nfellows who put the thing together every week. There ought always to be\none strongly sensational item--we won't call it article. For instance,\nyou might display on a placard: \"What the Queen eats!\" or \"How\nGladstone's collars are made!\"--things of that kind.'\n\n'To be sure, to be sure. And then, you know,' added Whelpdale, glancing\nanxiously at Dora, 'when people had been attracted by these devices,\nthey would find a few things that were really profitable. We would give\nnicely written little accounts of exemplary careers, of heroic\ndeeds, and so on. Of course nothing whatever that could be really\ndemoralising--cela va sans dire. Well, what I was going to say was this:\nwould you come with me to the office of Chat, and have a talk with my\nfriend Lake, the sub-editor? I know your time is very valuable, but\nthen you're often running into the Will-o'-the-Wisp, and Chat is just\nupstairs, you know.'\n\n'What use should I be?'\n\n'Oh, all the use in the world. Lake would pay most respectful attention\nto your opinion, though he thinks so little of mine. You are a man of\nnote, I am nobody. I feel convinced that you could persuade the\nChat people to adopt my idea, and they might be willing to give me a\ncontingent share of contingent profits, if I had really shown them the\nway to a good thing.'\n\nJasper promised to think the matter over. Whilst their talk still ran on\nthis subject, a packet that had come by post was brought into the room.\nOpening it, Milvain exclaimed:\n\n'Ha! this is lucky. There's something here that may interest you,\nWhelpdale.'\n\n'Proofs?'\n\n'Yes. A paper I have written for The Wayside.' He looked at Dora, who\nsmiled. 'How do you like the title?--\"The Novels of Edwin Reardon!\"'\n\n'You don't say so!' cried the other. 'What a good-hearted fellow you\nare, Milvain! Now that's really a kind thing to have done. By Jove!\nI must shake hands with you; I must indeed! Poor Reardon! Poor old\nfellow!'\n\nHis eyes gleamed with moisture. Dora, observing this, looked at him so\ngently and sweetly that it was perhaps well he did not meet her eyes;\nthe experience would have been altogether too much for him.\n\n'It has been written for three months,' said Jasper, 'but we have held\nit over for a practical reason. When I was engaged upon it, I went to\nsee Mortimer, and asked him if there was any chance of a new edition of\nReardon's books. He had no idea the poor fellow was dead, and the news\nseemed really to affect him. He promised to consider whether it would be\nworth while trying a new issue, and before long I heard from him that\nhe would bring out the two best books with a decent cover and so on,\nprovided I could get my article on Reardon into one of the monthlies.\nThis was soon settled. The editor of The Wayside answered at once, when\nI wrote to him, that he should be very glad to print what I proposed,\nas he had a real respect for Reardon. Next month the books will be\nout--\"Neutral Ground,\" and \"Hubert Reed.\" Mortimer said he was sure\nthese were the only ones that would pay for themselves. But we shall\nsee. He may alter his opinion when my article has been read.'\n\n'Read it to us now, Jasper, will you?' asked Dora.\n\nThe request was supported by Whelpdale, and Jasper needed no pressing.\nHe seated himself so that the lamplight fell upon the pages, and read\nthe article through. It was an excellent piece of writing (see The\nWayside, June 1884), and in places touched with true emotion. Any\nintelligent reader would divine that the author had been personally\nacquainted with the man of whom he wrote, though the fact was nowhere\nstated. The praise was not exaggerated, yet all the best points of\nReardon's work were admirably brought out. One who knew Jasper might\nreasonably have doubted, before reading this, whether he was capable of\nso worthily appreciating the nobler man.\n\n'I never understood Reardon so well before,' declared Whelpdale, at the\nclose. 'This is a good thing well done. It's something to be proud of,\nMiss Dora.'\n\n'Yes, I feel that it is,' she replied.\n\n'Mrs Reardon ought to be very grateful to you, Milvain. By-the-by, do\nyou ever see her?'\n\n'I have met her only once since his death--by chance.'\n\n'Of course she will marry again. I wonder who'll be the fortunate man?'\n\n'Fortunate, do you think?' asked Dora quietly, without looking at him.\n\n'Oh, I spoke rather cynically, I'm afraid,' Whelpdale hastened to reply.\n'I was thinking of her money. Indeed, I knew Mrs Reardon only very\nslightly.'\n\n'I don't think you need regret it,' Dora remarked.\n\n'Oh, well, come, come!' put in her brother. 'We know very well that\nthere was little enough blame on her side.'\n\n'There was great blame!' Dora exclaimed. 'She behaved shamefully!\n\nI wouldn't speak to her; I wouldn't sit down in her company!'\n\n'Bosh! What do you know about it? Wait till you are married to a man\nlike Reardon, and reduced to utter penury.'\n\n'Whoever my husband was, I would stand by him, if I starved to death.'\n\n'If he ill-used you?'\n\n'I am not talking of such cases. Mrs Reardon had never anything of the\nkind to fear. It was impossible for a man such as her husband to behave\nharshly. Her conduct was cowardly, faithless, unwomanly!'\n\n'Trust one woman for thinking the worst of another,' observed Jasper\nwith something like a sneer.\n\nDora gave him a look of strong disapproval; one might have suspected\nthat brother and sister had before this fallen into disagreement on the\ndelicate topic. Whelpdale felt obliged to interpose, and had of course\nno choice but to support the girl.\n\n'I can only say,' he remarked with a smile, 'that Miss Dora takes a very\nnoble point of view. One feels that a wife ought to be staunch. But\nit's so very unsafe to discuss matters in which one cannot know all the\nfacts.'\n\n'We know quite enough of the facts,' said Dora, with delightful\npertinacity.\n\n'Indeed, perhaps we do,' assented her slave. Then, turning to her\nbrother, 'Well, once more I congratulate you. I shall talk of your\narticle incessantly, as soon as it appears. And I shall pester every one\nof my acquaintances to buy Reardon's books--though it's no use to him,\npoor fellow. Still, he would have died more contentedly if he could have\nforeseen this. By-the-by, Biffen will be profoundly grateful to you, I'm\nsure.'\n\n'I'm doing what I can for him, too. Run your eye over these slips.'\n\nWhelpdale exhausted himself in terms of satisfaction.\n\n'You deserve to get on, my dear fellow. In a few years you will be the\nAristarchus of our literary world.'\n\nWhen the visitor rose to depart, Jasper said he would walk a short\ndistance with him. As soon as they had left the house, the future\nAristarchus made a confidential communication.\n\n'It may interest you to know that my sister Maud is shortly to be\nmarried.'\n\n'Indeed! May I ask to whom?'\n\n'A man you don't know. His name is Dolomore--a fellow in society.'\n\n'Rich, then, I hope?'\n\n'Tolerably well-to-do. I dare say he has three or four thousand a year!'\n\n'Gracious heavens! Why, that's magnificent.'\n\nBut Whelpdale did not look quite so much satisfaction as his words\nexpressed.\n\n'Is it to be soon?' he inquired.\n\n'At the end of the season. Make no difference to Dora and me, of\ncourse.'\n\n'Oh? Really? No difference at all? You will let me come and see\nyou--both--just in the old way, Milvain?'\n\n'Why the deuce shouldn't you?'\n\n'To be sure, to be sure. By Jove! I really don't know how I should get\non if I couldn't look in of an evening now and then. I have got so much\ninto the habit of it. And--I'm a lonely beggar, you know. I don't go\ninto society, and really--'\n\nHe broke off, and Jasper began to speak of other things.\n\nWhen Milvain re-entered the house, Dora had gone to her own\nsitting-room. It was not quite ten o'clock. Taking one set of the proofs\nof his 'Reardon' article, he put it into a large envelope; then he\nwrote a short letter, which began 'Dear Mrs Reardon,' and ended 'Very\nsincerely yours,' the communication itself being as follows:\n\n'I venture to send you the proofs of a paper which is to appear in next\nmonth's Wayside, in the hope that it may seem to you not badly done, and\nthat the reading of it may give you pleasure. If anything occurs to you\nwhich you would like me to add, or if you desire any omission, will you\ndo me the kindness to let me know of it as soon as possible, and your\nsuggestion shall at once be adopted. I am informed that the new edition\nof \"On Neutral Ground\" and \"Hubert Reed\" will be ready next month. Need\nI say how glad I am that my friend's work is not to be forgotten?'\n\nThis note he also put into the envelope, which he made ready for\nposting. Then he sat for a long time in profound thought.\n\nShortly after eleven his door opened, and Maud came in. She had been\ndining at Mrs Lane's. Her attire was still simple, but of quality which\nwould have signified recklessness, but for the outlook whereof Jasper\nspoke to Whelpdale. The girl looked very beautiful. There was a flush of\nhealth and happiness on her cheek, and when she spoke it was in a voice\nthat rang quite differently from her tones of a year ago; the pride\nwhich was natural to her had now a firm support; she moved and uttered\nherself in queenly fashion.\n\n'Has anyone been?' she asked.\n\n'Whelpdale.'\n\n'Oh! I wanted to ask you, Jasper: do you think it wise to let him come\nquite so often?'\n\n'There's a difficulty, you see. I can hardly tell him to sheer off. And\nhe's really a decent fellow.'\n\n'That may be. But--I think it's rather unwise. Things are changed. In a\nfew months, Dora will be a good deal at my house, and will see all sorts\nof people.'\n\n'Yes; but what if they are the kind of people she doesn't care anything\nabout? You must remember, old girl, that her tastes are quite different\nfrom yours. I say nothing, but--perhaps it's as well they should be.'\n\n'You say nothing, but you add an insult,' returned Maud, with a smile of\nsuperb disregard. 'We won't reopen the question.'\n\n'Oh dear no! And, by-the-by, I have a letter from Dolomore. It came just\nafter you left.'\n\n'Well?'\n\n'He is quite willing to settle upon you a third of his income from\nthe collieries; he tells me it will represent between seven and eight\nhundred a year. I think it rather little, you know; but I congratulate\nmyself on having got this out of him.'\n\n'Don't speak in that unpleasant way! It was only your abruptness that\nmade any kind of difficulty.'\n\n'I have my own opinion on that point, and I shall beg leave to keep it.\nProbably he will think me still more abrupt when I request, as I am now\ngoing to do, an interview with his solicitors.'\n\n'Is that allowable?' asked Maud, anxiously. 'Can you do that with any\ndecency?'\n\n'If not, then I must do it with indecency. You will have the goodness\nto remember that if I don't look after your interests, no one else will.\nIt's perhaps fortunate for you that I have a good deal of the man of\nbusiness about me. Dolomore thought I was a dreamy, literary fellow.\nI don't say that he isn't entirely honest, but he shows something of a\ndisposition to play the autocrat, and I by no means intend to let\nhim. If you had a father, Dolomore would have to submit his affairs to\nexamination.\n\nI stand to you in loco parentis, and I shall bate no jot of my rights.'\n\n'But you can't say that his behaviour hasn't been perfectly\nstraightforward.'\n\n'I don't wish to. I think, on the whole, he has behaved more honourably\nthan was to be expected of a man of his kind. But he must treat me with\nrespect. My position in the world is greatly superior to his. And, by\nthe gods! I will be treated respectfully! It wouldn't be amiss, Maud, if\nyou just gave him a hint to that effect.'\n\n'All I have to say is, Jasper, don't do me an irreparable injury. You\nmight, without meaning it.'\n\n'No fear whatever of it. I can behave as a gentleman, and I only expect\nDolomore to do the same.'\n\nTheir conversation lasted for a long time, and when he was again left\nalone Jasper again fell into a mood of thoughtfulness.\n\nBy a late post on the following day he received this letter:\n\n'DEAR MR MILVAIN,--I have received the proofs, and have just read them;\nI hasten to thank you with all my heart. No suggestion of mine could\npossibly improve this article; it seems to me perfect in taste, in\nstyle, in matter. No one but you could have written this, for no one\nelse understood Edwin so well, or had given such thought to his work. If\nhe could but have known that such justice would be done to his memory!\nBut he died believing that already he was utterly forgotten, that his\nbooks would never again be publicly spoken of. This was a cruel fate. I\nhave shed tears over what you have written, but they were not only tears\nof bitterness; it cannot but be a consolation to me to think that, when\nthe magazine appears, so many people will talk of Edwin and his books.\nI am deeply grateful to Mr Mortimer for having undertaken to republish\nthose two novels; if you have an opportunity, will you do me the great\nkindness to thank him on my behalf? At the same time, I must remember\nthat it was you who first spoke to him on this subject. You say that it\ngladdens you to think Edwin will not be forgotten, and I am very sure\nthat the friendly office you have so admirably performed will in itself\nreward you more than any poor expression of gratitude from me. I write\nhurriedly, anxious to let you hear as soon as possible.\n\n'Believe me, dear Mr Milvain,\n\n'Yours sincerely,\n\n'AMY REARDON.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV. A CHECK\n\nMarian was at work as usual in the Reading-room. She did her best,\nduring the hours spent here, to convert herself into the literary\nmachine which it was her hope would some day be invented for\nconstruction in a less sensitive material than human tissue. Her eyes\nseldom strayed beyond the limits of the desk; and if she had occasion to\nrise and go to the reference shelves, she looked at no one on the way.\nYet she herself was occasionally an object of interested regard. Several\nreaders were acquainted with the chief facts of her position; they knew\nthat her father was now incapable of work, and was waiting till his\ndiseased eyes should be ready for the operator; it was surmised,\nmoreover, that a good deal depended upon the girl's literary exertions.\nMr Quarmby and his gossips naturally took the darkest view of things;\nthey were convinced that Alfred Yule could never recover his sight,\nand they had a dolorous satisfaction in relating the story of Marian's\nlegacy. Of her relations with Jasper Milvain none of these persons had\nheard; Yule had never spoken of that matter to any one of his friends.\n\nJasper had to look in this morning for a hurried consultation of certain\nencyclopaedic volumes, and it chanced that Marian was standing before\nthe shelves to which his business led him. He saw her from a little\ndistance, and paused; it seemed as if he would turn back; for a moment\nhe wore a look of doubt and worry. But after all he proceeded. At the\nsound of his 'Good-morning,' Marian started--she was standing with an\nopen book in hand--and looked up with a gleam of joy on her face.\n\n'I wanted to see you to-day,' she said, subduing her voice to the tone\nof ordinary conversation. 'I should have come this evening.'\n\n'You wouldn't have found me at home. From five to seven I shall be\nfrantically busy, and then I have to rush off to dine with some people.'\n\n'I couldn't see you before five?'\n\n'Is it something important?'\n\n'Yes, it is.'\n\n'I tell you what. If you could meet me at Gloucester Gate at four, then\nI shall be glad of half an hour in the park. But I mustn't talk now; I'm\ndriven to my wits' end. Gloucester Gate, at four sharp. I don't think\nit'll rain.'\n\nHe dragged out a tome of the 'Britannica.' Marian nodded, and returned\nto her seat.\n\nAt the appointed hour she was waiting near the entrance of Regent's\nPark which Jasper had mentioned. Not long ago there had fallen a light\nshower, but the sky was clear again. At five minutes past four she\nstill waited, and had begun to fear that the passing rain might have\nled Jasper to think she would not come. Another five minutes, and from a\nhansom that rattled hither at full speed, the familiar figure alighted.\n\n'Do forgive me!' he exclaimed. 'I couldn't possibly get here before. Let\nus go to the right.'\n\nThey betook themselves to that tree-shadowed strip of the park which\nskirts the canal.\n\n'I'm so afraid that you haven't really time,' said Marian, who was\nchilled and confused by this show of hurry. She regretted having made\nthe appointment; it would have been much better to postpone what she had\nto say until Jasper was at leisure. Yet nowadays the hours of leisure\nseemed to come so rarely.\n\n'If I get home at five, it'll be all right,' he replied. 'What have you\nto tell me, Marian?'\n\n'We have heard about the money, at last.'\n\n'Oh?' He avoided looking at her. 'And what's the upshot?'\n\n'I shall have nearly fifteen hundred pounds.'\n\n'So much as that? Well, that's better than nothing, isn't it?'\n\n'Very much better.'\n\nThey walked on in silence. Marian stole a glance at her companion.\n\n'I should have thought it a great deal,' she said presently, 'before I\nhad begun to think of thousands.'\n\n'Fifteen hundred. Well, it means fifty pounds a year, I suppose.'\n\nHe chewed the end of his moustache.\n\n'Let us sit down on this bench. Fifteen hundred--h'm! And nothing more\nis to be hoped for?'\n\n'Nothing. I should have thought men would wish to pay their debts, even\nafter they had been bankrupt; but they tell us we can't expect anything\nmore from these people.'\n\n'You are thinking of Walter Scott, and that kind of thing'--Jasper\nlaughed. 'Oh, that's quite unbusinesslike; it would be setting a\npernicious example nowadays. Well, and what's to be done?'\n\nMarian had no answer for such a question. The tone of it was a new stab\nto her heart, which had suffered so many during the past half-year.\n\n'Now, I'll ask you frankly,' Jasper went on, 'and I know you will reply\nin the same spirit: would it be wise for us to marry on this money?'\n\n'On this money?'\n\nShe looked into his face with painful earnestness.\n\n'You mean,' he said, 'that it can't be spared for that purpose?'\n\nWhat she really meant was uncertain even to herself. She had wished to\nhear how Jasper would receive the news, and thereby to direct her own\ncourse. Had he welcomed it as offering a possibility of their marriage,\nthat would have gladdened her, though it would then have been necessary\nto show him all the difficulties by which she was beset; for some time\nthey had not spoken of her father's position, and Jasper seemed willing\nto forget all about that complication of their troubles. But marriage\ndid not occur to him, and he was evidently quite prepared to hear that\nshe could no longer regard this money as her own to be freely disposed\nof. This was on one side a relief but on the other it confirmed her\nfears. She would rather have heard him plead with her to neglect her\nparents for the sake of being his wife. Love excuses everything, and his\nselfishness would have been easily lost sight of in the assurance that\nhe still desired her.\n\n'You say,' she replied, with bent head, 'that it would bring us fifty\npounds a year. If another fifty were added to that, my father and mother\nwould be supported in case the worst comes. I might earn fifty pounds.'\n\n'You wish me to understand, Marian, that I mustn't expect that you will\nbring me anything when we are married.'\n\nHis tone was that of acquiescence; not by any means of displeasure. He\nspoke as if desirous of saying for her something she found a difficulty\nin saying for herself.\n\n'Jasper, it is so hard for me! So hard for me! How could I help\nremembering what you told me when I promised to be your wife?'\n\n'I spoke the truth rather brutally,' he replied, in a kind voice. 'Let\nall that be unsaid, forgotten. We are in quite a different position now.\nBe open with me, Marian; surely you can trust my common sense and good\nfeeling. Put aside all thought of things I have said, and don't be\nrestrained by any fear lest you should seem to me unwomanly--you can't\nbe that. What is your own wish? What do you really wish to do, now that\nthere is no uncertainty calling for postponements?'\n\nMarian raised her eyes, and was about to speak as she regarded him; but\nwith the first accent her look fell.\n\n'I wish to be your wife.'\n\nHe waited, thinking and struggling with himself.\n\n'Yet you feel that it would be heartless to take and use this money for\nour own purposes?'\n\n'What is to become of my parents, Jasper?'\n\n'But then you admit that the fifteen hundred pounds won't support them.\nYou talk of earning fifty pounds a year for them.'\n\n'Need I cease to write, dear, if we were married? Wouldn't you let me\nhelp them?'\n\n'But, my dear girl, you are taking for granted that we shall have enough\nfor ourselves.'\n\n'I didn't mean at once,' she explained hurriedly. 'In a short time--in\na year. You are getting on so well. You will soon have a sufficient\nincome, I am sure.'\n\nJasper rose.\n\n'Let us walk as far as the next seat. Don't speak. I have something to\nthink about.'\n\nMoving on beside him, she slipped her hand softly within his arm; but\nJasper did not put the arm into position to support hers, and her hand\nfell again, dropped suddenly. They reached another bench, and again\nbecame seated.\n\n'It comes to this, Marian,' he said, with portentous gravity. 'Support\nyou, I could--I have little doubt of that. Maud is provided for, and\nDora can make a living for herself. I could support you and leave you\nfree to give your parents whatever you can earn by your own work. But--'\n\nHe paused significantly. It was his wish that Marian should supply the\nconsequence, but she did not speak.\n\n'Very well,' he exclaimed. 'Then when are we to be married?'\n\nThe tone of resignation was too marked. Jasper was not good as a\ncomedian; he lacked subtlety.\n\n'We must wait,' fell from Marian's lips, in the whisper of despair.\n\n'Wait? But how long?' he inquired, dispassionately.\n\n'Do you wish to be freed from your engagement, Jasper?'\n\nHe was not strong enough to reply with a plain 'Yes,' and so have done\nwith his perplexities. He feared the girl's face, and he feared his own\nsubsequent emotions.\n\n'Don't talk in that way, Marian. The question is simply this: Are we\nto wait a year, or are we to wait five years? In a year's time, I shall\nprobably be able to have a small house somewhere out in the suburbs. If\nwe are married then, I shall be happy enough with so good a wife, but my\ncareer will take a different shape. I shall just throw overboard certain\nof my ambitions, and work steadily on at earning a livelihood. If we\nwait five years, I may perhaps have obtained an editorship, and in that\ncase I should of course have all sorts of better things to offer you.'\n\n'But, dear, why shouldn't you get an editorship all the same if you are\nmarried?'\n\n'I have explained to you several times that success of that kind is\nnot compatible with a small house in the suburbs and all the ties of a\nnarrow income. As a bachelor, I can go about freely, make acquaintances,\ndine at people's houses, perhaps entertain a useful friend now and\nthen--and so on. It is not merit that succeeds in my line; it is merit\nplus opportunity. Marrying now, I cut myself off from opportunity,\nthat's all.'\n\nShe kept silence.\n\n'Decide my fate for me, Marian,' he pursued, magnanimously. 'Let us make\nup our minds and do what we decide to do. Indeed, it doesn't concern me\nso much as yourself. Are you content to lead a simple, unambitious life?\nOr should you prefer your husband to be a man of some distinction?'\n\n'I know so well what your own wish is. But to wait for years--you will\ncease to love me, and will only think of me as a hindrance in your way.'\n\n'Well now, when I said five years, of course I took a round number.\nThree--two might make all the difference to me.'\n\n'Let it be just as you wish. I can bear anything rather than lose your\nlove.'\n\n'You feel, then, that it will decidedly be wise not to marry whilst we\nare still so poor?'\n\n'Yes; whatever you are convinced of is right.'\n\nHe again rose, and looked at his watch.\n\n'Jasper, you don't think that I have behaved selfishly in wishing to let\nmy father have the money?'\n\n'I should have been greatly surprised if you hadn't wished it. I\ncertainly can't imagine you saying: \"Oh, let them do as best they can!\"\nThat would have been selfish with a vengeance.'\n\n'Now you are speaking kindly! Must you go, Jasper?'\n\n'I must indeed. Two hours' work I am bound to get before seven o'clock.'\n\n'And I have been making it harder for you, by disturbing your mind.'\n\n'No, no; it's all right now. I shall go at it with all the more energy,\nnow we have come to a decision.'\n\n'Dora has asked me to go to Kew on Sunday. Shall you be able to come,\ndear?'\n\n'By Jove, no! I have three engagements on Sunday afternoon. I'll try and\nkeep the Sunday after; I will indeed.'\n\n'What are the engagements?' she asked timidly.\n\nAs they walked back towards Gloucester Gate, he answered her question,\nshowing how unpardonable it would be to neglect the people concerned.\nThen they parted, Jasper going off at a smart pace homewards.\n\nMarian turned down Park Street, and proceeded for some distance along\nCamden Road. The house in which she and her parents now lived was not\nquite so far away as St Paul's Crescent; they rented four rooms, one\nof which had to serve both as Alfred Yule's sitting-room and for\nthe gatherings of the family at meals. Mrs Yule generally sat in\nthe kitchen, and Marian used her bedroom as a study. About half the\ncollection of books had been sold; those that remained were still a\nrespectable library, almost covering the walls of the room where their\ndisconsolate possessor passed his mournful days.\n\nHe could read for a few hours a day, but only large type, and fear of\nconsequences kept him well within the limit of such indulgence laid down\nby his advisers. Though he inwardly spoke as if his case were hopeless,\nYule was very far from having resigned himself to this conviction;\nindeed, the prospect of spending his latter years in darkness and\nidleness was too dreadful to him to be accepted so long as a glimmer of\nhope remained. He saw no reason why the customary operation should not\nrestore him to his old pursuits, and he would have borne it ill if his\nwife or daughter had ever ceased to oppose the despair which it pleased\nhim to affect.\n\nOn the whole, he was noticeably patient. At the time of their removal to\nthese lodgings, seeing that Marian prepared herself to share the change\nas a matter of course, he let her do as she would without comment; nor\nhad he since spoken to her on the subject which had proved so dangerous.\nConfidence between them there was none; Yule addressed his daughter in\na grave, cold, civil tone, and Marian replied gently, but without\ntenderness. For Mrs Yule the disaster to the family was distinctly a\ngain; she could not but mourn her husband's affliction, yet he no longer\nvisited her with the fury or contemptuous impatience of former days.\nDoubtless the fact of needing so much tendance had its softening\ninfluence on the man; he could not turn brutally upon his wife when\nevery hour of the day afforded him some proof of her absolute devotion.\nOf course his open-air exercise was still unhindered, and in this season\nof the returning sun he walked a great deal, decidedly to the advantage\nof his general health--which again must have been a source of benefit\nto his temper. Of evenings, Marian sometimes read to him. He never\nrequested this, but he did not reject the kindness.\n\nThis afternoon Marian found her father examining a volume of prints\nwhich had been lent him by Mr Quarmby. The table was laid for dinner\n(owing to Marian's frequent absence at the Museum, no change had been\nmade in the order of meals), and Yule sat by the window, his book\npropped on a second chair. A whiteness in his eyes showed how the\ndisease was progressing, but his face had a more wholesome colour than a\nyear ago.\n\n'Mr Hinks and Mr Gorbutt inquired very kindly after you to-day,' said\nthe girl, as she seated herself.\n\n'Oh, is Hinks out again?'\n\n'Yes, but he looks very ill.'\n\nThey conversed of such matters until Mrs Yule--now her own\nservant--brought in the dinner. After the meal, Marian was in her\nbedroom for about an hour; then she went to her father, who sat in\nidleness, smoking.\n\n'What is your mother doing?' he asked, as she entered.\n\n'Some needlework.'\n\n'I had perhaps better say'--he spoke rather stiffly, and with averted\nface--'that I make no exclusive claim to the use of this room. As I\ncan no longer pretend to study, it would be idle to keep up the show\nof privacy that mustn't be disturbed. Perhaps you will mention to your\nmother that she is quite at liberty to sit here whenever she chooses.'\n\nIt was characteristic of him that he should wish to deliver this\npermission by proxy. But Marian understood how much was implied in such\nan announcement.\n\n'I will tell mother,' she said. 'But at this moment I wished to speak to\nyou privately. How would you advise me to invest my money?'\n\nYule looked surprised, and answered with cold dignity.\n\n'It is strange that you should put such a question to me. I should have\nsupposed your interests were in the hands of--of some competent person.'\n\n'This will be my private affair, father. I wish to get as high a rate of\ninterest as I safely can.'\n\n'I really must decline to advise, or interfere in any way. But, as you\nhave introduced this subject, I may as well put a question which is\nconnected with it. Could you give me any idea as to how long you are\nlikely to remain with us?'\n\n'At least a year,' was the answer, 'and very likely much longer.'\n\n'Am I to understand, then, that your marriage is indefinitely\npostponed?'\n\n'Yes, father.'\n\n'And will you tell me why?'\n\n'I can only say that it has seemed better--to both of us.'\n\nYule detected the sorrowful emotion she was endeavouring to suppress.\nHis conception of Milvain's character made it easy for him to form a\njust surmise as to the reasons for this postponement; he was gratified\nto think that Marian might learn how rightly he had judged her wooer,\nand an involuntary pity for the girl did not prevent his hoping that\nthe detestable alliance was doomed. With difficulty he refrained from\nsmiling.\n\n'I will make no comment on that,' he remarked, with a certain emphasis.\n'But do you imply that this investment of which you speak is to be\nsolely for your own advantage?'\n\n'For mine, and for yours and mother's.'\n\nThere was a silence of a minute or two. As yet it had not been necessary\nto take any steps for raising money, but a few months more would see the\nfamily without resources, save those provided by Marian, who, without\ndiscussion, had been simply setting aside what she received for her\nwork.\n\n'You must be well aware,' said Yule at length, 'that I cannot consent to\nbenefit by any such offer. When it is necessary, I shall borrow on the\nsecurity of--'\n\n'Why should you do that, father?' Marian interrupted. 'My money is\nyours. If you refuse it as a gift, then why may not I lend to you\nas well as a stranger? Repay me when your eyes are restored. For the\npresent, all our anxieties are at an end. We can live very well until\nyou are able to write again.'\n\nFor his sake she put it in his way. Supposing him never able to earn\nanything, then indeed would come a time of hardship; but she could\nnot contemplate that. The worst would only befall them in case she was\nforsaken by Jasper, and if that happened all else would be of little\naccount.\n\n'This has come upon me as a surprise,' said Yule, in his most reserved\ntone. 'I can give no definite reply; I must think of it.'\n\n'Should you like me to ask mother to bring her sewing here now?' asked\nMarian, rising.\n\n'Yes, you may do so.'\n\nIn this way the awkwardness of the situation was overcome, and when\nMarian next had occasion to speak of money matters no serious objection\nwas offered to her proposal.\n\nDora Milvain of course learnt what had come to pass; to anticipate\ncriticism, her brother imparted to her the decision at which Marian and\nhe had arrived. She reflected with an air of discontent.\n\n'So you are quite satisfied,' was her question at length, 'that Marian\nshould toil to support her parents as well as herself?'\n\n'Can I help it?'\n\n'I shall think very ill of you if you don't marry her in a year at\nlatest.'\n\n'I tell you, Marian has made a deliberate choice. She understands me\nperfectly, and is quite satisfied with my projects. You will have the\nkindness, Dora, not to disturb her faith in me.'\n\n'I agree to that; and in return I shall let you know when she begins to\nsuffer from hunger. It won't be very long till then, you may be sure.\nHow do you suppose three people are going to live on a hundred a year?\nAnd it's very doubtful indeed whether Marian can earn as much as fifty\npounds. Never mind; I shall let you know when she is beginning to\nstarve, and doubtless that will amuse you.'\n\nAt the end of July Maud was married. Between Mr Dolomore and\nJasper existed no superfluous kindness, each resenting the other's\nself-sufficiency; but Jasper, when once satisfied of his proposed\nbrother-in-law's straightforwardness, was careful not to give offence to\na man who might some day serve him. Provided this marriage resulted in\nmoderate happiness to Maud, it was undoubtedly a magnificent stroke of\nluck. Mrs Lane, the lady who has so often been casually mentioned, took\nupon herself those offices in connection with the ceremony which\nthe bride's mother is wont to perform; at her house was held the\nwedding-breakfast, and such other absurdities of usage as recommend\nthemselves to Society. Dora of course played the part of a bridesmaid,\nand Jasper went through his duties with the suave seriousness of a man\nwho has convinced himself that he cannot afford to despise anything that\nthe world sanctions.\n\nAbout the same time occurred another event which was to have more\nimportance for this aspiring little family than could as yet be\nforeseen. Whelpdale's noteworthy idea triumphed; the weekly paper called\nChat was thoroughly transformed, and appeared as Chit-Chat. From the\nfirst number, the success of the enterprise was beyond doubt; in a\nmonth's time all England was ringing with the fame of this noble\nnew development of journalism; the proprietor saw his way to a solid\nfortune, and other men who had money to embark began to scheme imitative\npublications. It was clear that the quarter-educated would soon be\nabundantly provided with literature to their taste.\n\nWhelpdale's exultation was unbounded, but in the fifth week of the life\nof Chit-Chat something happened which threatened to overturn his sober\nreason. Jasper was walking along the Strand one afternoon, when he\nsaw his ingenious friend approaching him in a manner scarcely to be\naccounted for, unless Whelpdale's abstemiousness had for once given way\nbefore convivial invitation. The young man's hat was on the back of his\nhead, and his coat flew wildly as he rushed forwards with perspiring\nface and glaring eyes. He would have passed without observing Jasper,\nhad not the latter called to him; then he turned round, laughed\ninsanely, grasped his acquaintance by the wrists, and drew him aside\ninto a court.\n\n'What do you think?' he panted. 'What do you think has happened?'\n\n'Not what one would suppose, I hope. You seem to have gone mad.'\n\n'I've got Lake's place on Chit-Chat!' cried the other hoarsely. 'Two\nhundred and fifty a year! Lake and the editor quarrelled--pummelled each\nother--neither know nor care what it was about. My fortune's made!'\n\n'You're a modest man,' remarked Jasper, smiling.\n\n'Certainly I am. I have always admitted it. But remember that there's\nmy connection with Fleet as well; no need to give that up. Presently I\nshall be making a clear six hundred, my dear sir!\n\nA clear six hundred, if a penny!'\n\n'Satisfactory, so far.'\n\n'But you must remember that I'm not a big gun, like you! Why, my dear\nMilvain, a year ago I should have thought an income of two hundred a\nglorious competence. I don't aim at such things as are fit for you. You\nwon't be content till you have thousands; of course I know that. But I'm\na humble fellow. Yet no; by Jingo, I'm not! In one way I'm not--I must\nconfess it.'\n\n'In what instance are you arrogant?'\n\n'I can't tell you--not yet; this is neither time nor place. I say,\nwhen will you dine with me? I shall give a dinner to half a dozen of my\nacquaintances somewhere or other. Poor old Biffen must come. When can\nyou dine?'\n\n'Give me a week's notice, and I'll fit it in.'\n\nThat dinner came duly off. On the day that followed, Jasper and Dora\nleft town for their holiday; they went to the Channel Islands, and spent\nmore than half of the three weeks they had allowed themselves in Sark.\nPassing over from Guernsey to that island, they were amused to see a\ncopy of Chit-Chat in the hands of an obese and well-dressed man.\n\n'Is he one of the quarter-educated?' asked Dora, laughing.\n\n'Not in Whelpdale's sense of the word. But, strictly speaking, no doubt\nhe is. The quarter-educated constitute a very large class indeed; how\nlarge, the huge success of that paper is demonstrating. I'll write to\nWhelpdale, and let him know that his benefaction has extended even to\nSark.'\n\nThis letter was written, and in a few days there came a reply.\n\n'Why, the fellow has written to you as well!' exclaimed Jasper, taking\nup a second letter; both were on the table of their sitting-room when\nthey came to their lodgings for lunch. 'That's his hand.'\n\n'It looks like it.'\n\nDora hummed an air as she regarded the envelope, then she took it away\nwith her to her room upstairs.\n\n'What had he to say?' Jasper inquired, when she came down again and\nseated herself at the table.\n\n'Oh, a friendly letter. What does he say to you?'\n\nDora had never looked so animated and fresh of colour since leaving\nLondon; her brother remarked this, and was glad to think that the air of\nthe Channel should be doing her so much good. He read Whelpdale's letter\naloud; it was facetious, but oddly respectful.\n\n'The reverence that fellow has for me is astonishing,' he observed with\na laugh. 'The queer thing is, it increases the better he knows me.'\n\nDora laughed for five minutes.\n\n'Oh, what a splendid epigram!' she exclaimed. 'It is indeed a queer\nthing, Jasper! Did you mean that to be a good joke, or was it better\nstill by coming out unintentionally?'\n\n'You are in remarkable spirits, old girl. By-the-by, would you mind\nletting me see that letter of yours?'\n\nHe held out his hand.\n\n'I left it upstairs,' Dora replied carelessly.\n\n'Rather presumptuous in him, it seems to me.'\n\n'Oh, he writes quite as respectfully to me as he does to you,' she\nreturned, with a peculiar smile.\n\n'But what business has he to write at all? It's confounded impertinence,\nnow I come to think of it. I shall give him a hint to remember his\nposition.'\n\nDora could not be quite sure whether he spoke seriously or not. As both\nof them had begun to eat with an excellent appetite, a few moments were\nallowed to pass before the girl again spoke.\n\n'His position is as good as ours,' she said at length.\n\n'As good as ours? The \"sub.\" of a paltry rag like Chit-Chat, and\nassistant to a literary agency!'\n\n'He makes considerably more money than we do.'\n\n'Money! What's money?'\n\nDora was again mirthful.\n\n'Oh, of course money is nothing! We write for honour and glory. Don't\nforget to insist on that when you reprove Mr Whelpdale; no doubt it will\nimpress him.'\n\nLate in the evening of that day, when the brother and sister had\nstrolled by moonlight up to the windmill which occupies the highest\npoint of Sark, and as they stood looking upon the pale expanse of sea,\ndotted with the gleam of light-houses near and far, Dora broke the\nsilence to say quietly:\n\n'I may as well tell you that Mr Whelpdale wants to know if I will marry\nhim.'\n\n'The deuce he does!' cried Jasper, with a start. 'If I didn't half\nsuspect something of that kind! What astounding impudence!'\n\n'You seriously think so?'\n\n'Well, don't you? You hardly know him, to begin with. And then--oh,\nconfound it!'\n\n'Very well, I'll tell him that his impudence astonishes me.'\n\n'You will?'\n\n'Certainly. Of course in civil terms. But don't let this make any\ndifference between you and him. Just pretend to know nothing about it;\nno harm is done.'\n\n'You are speaking in earnest?'\n\n'Quite. He has written in a very proper way, and there's no reason\nwhatever to disturb our friendliness with him. I have a right to give\ndirections in a matter like this, and you'll please to obey them.'\n\nBefore going to bed Dora wrote a letter to Mr Whelpdale, not,\nindeed, accepting his offer forthwith, but conveying to him with much\ngracefulness an unmistakable encouragement to persevere. This was posted\non the morrow, and its writer continued to benefit most remarkably by\nthe sun and breezes and rock-scrambling of Sark.\n\nSoon after their return to London, Dora had the satisfaction of paying\nthe first visit to her sister at the Dolomores' house in Ovington\nSquare. Maud was established in the midst of luxuries, and talked with\nlaughing scorn of the days when she inhabited Grub Street; her literary\ntastes were henceforth to serve as merely a note of distinction, an\nadded grace which made evident her superiority to the well-attired and\nsmooth-tongued people among whom she was content to shine. On the one\nhand, she had contact with the world of fashionable literature, on\nthe other with that of fashionable ignorance. Mrs Lane's house was a\nmeeting-point of the two spheres.\n\n'I shan't be there very often,' remarked Jasper, as Dora and he\ndiscussed their sister's magnificence. 'That's all very well in its way,\nbut I aim at something higher.'\n\n'So do I,' Dora replied.\n\n'I'm very glad to hear that. I confess it seemed to me that you were\nrather too cordial with Whelpdale yesterday.'\n\n'One must behave civilly. Mr Whelpdale quite understands me.'\n\n'You are sure of that? He didn't seem quite so gloomy as he ought to\nhave been.'\n\n'The success of Chit-Chat keeps him in good spirits.'\n\nIt was perhaps a week after this that Mrs Dolomore came quite\nunexpectedly to the house by Regent's Park, as early as eleven o'clock\nin the morning. She had a long talk in private with Dora. Jasper was not\nat home; when he returned towards evening, Dora came to his room with a\ncountenance which disconcerted him.\n\n'Is it true,' she asked abruptly, standing before him with her hands\nstrained together, 'that you have been representing yourself as no\nlonger engaged to Marian?'\n\n'Who has told you so?'\n\n'That doesn't matter. I have heard it, and I want to know from you that\nit is false.'\n\nJasper thrust his hands into his pockets and walked apart.\n\n'I can take no notice,' he said with indifference, 'of anonymous\ngossip.'\n\n'Well, then, I will tell you how I have heard. Maud came this morning,\nand told me that Mrs Betterton had been asking her about it. Mrs\nBetterton had heard from Mrs Lane.'\n\n'From Mrs Lane? And from whom did she hear, pray?'\n\n'That I don't know. Is it true or not?'\n\n'I have never told anyone that my engagement was at an end,' replied\nJasper, deliberately.\n\nThe girl met his eyes.\n\n'Then I was right,' she said. 'Of course I told Maud that it was\nimpossible to believe this for a moment. But how has it come to be\nsaid?'\n\n'You might as well ask me how any lie gets into circulation among people\nof that sort. I have told you the truth, and there's an end of it.'\n\nDora lingered for a while, but left the room without saying anything\nmore.\n\nShe sat up late, mostly engaged in thinking, though at times an open\nbook was in her hand. It was nearly half-past twelve when a very light\nrap at the door caused her to start. She called, and Jasper came in.\n\n'Why are you still up?' he asked, avoiding her look as he moved forward\nand took a leaning attitude behind an easy-chair.\n\n'Oh, I don't know. Do you want anything?'\n\nThere was a pause; then Jasper said in an unsteady voice:\n\n'I am not given to lying, Dora, and I feel confoundedly uncomfortable\nabout what I said to you early this evening. I didn't lie in the\nordinary sense; it's true enough that I have never told anyone that\nmy engagement was at an end. But I have acted as if it were, and it's\nbetter I should tell you.'\n\nHis sister gazed at him with indignation.\n\n'You have acted as if you were free?'\n\n'Yes. I have proposed to Miss Rupert. How Mrs Lane and that lot have\ncome to know anything about this I don't understand. I am not aware of\nany connecting link between them and the Ruperts, or the Barlows either.\nPerhaps there are none; most likely the rumour has no foundation in\ntheir knowledge. Still, it is better that I should have told you. Miss\nRupert has never heard that I was engaged, nor have her friends the\nBarlows--at least I don't see how they could have done. She may have\ntold Mrs Barlow of my proposal--probably would; and this may somehow\nhave got round to those other people. But Maud didn't make any mention\nof Miss Rupert, did she?'\n\nDora replied with a cold negative.\n\n'Well, there's the state of things. It isn't pleasant, but that's what I\nhave done.'\n\n'Do you mean that Miss Rupert has accepted you?'\n\n'No. I wrote to her. She answered that she was going to Germany for a\nfew weeks, and that I should have her reply whilst she was away. I am\nwaiting.'\n\n'But what name is to be given to behaviour such as this?'\n\n'Listen: didn't you know perfectly well that this must be the end of\nit?'\n\n'Do you suppose I thought you utterly shameless and cruel beyond words?'\n\n'I suppose I am both. It was a moment of desperate temptation, though.\nI had dined at the Ruperts'--you remember--and it seemed to me there was\nno mistaking the girl's manner.'\n\n'Don't call her a girl!' broke in Dora, scornfully. 'You say she is\nseveral years older than yourself.'\n\n'Well, at all events, she's intellectual, and very rich. I yielded to\nthe temptation.'\n\n'And deserted Marian just when she has most need of help and\nconsolation? It's frightful!'\n\nJasper moved to another chair and sat down. He was much perturbed.\n\n'Look here, Dora, I regret it; I do, indeed. And, what's more, if that\nwoman refuses me--as it's more than likely she will--I will go to Marian\nand ask her to marry me at once. I promise that.'\n\nHis sister made a movement of contemptuous impatience.\n\n'And if the woman doesn't refuse you?'\n\n'Then I can't help it. But there's one thing more I will say. Whether I\nmarry Marian or Miss Rupert, I sacrifice my strongest feelings--in the\none case to a sense of duty, in the other to worldly advantage. I was\nan idiot to write that letter, for I knew at the time that there was a\nwoman who is far more to me than Miss Rupert and all her money--a woman\nI might, perhaps, marry. Don't ask any questions; I shall not answer\nthem. As I have said so much, I wished you to understand my position\nfully. You know the promise I have made. Don't say anything to Marian;\nif I am left free I shall marry her as soon as possible.'\n\nAnd so he left the room.\n\nFor a fortnight and more he remained in uncertainty. His life was very\nuncomfortable, for Dora would only speak to him when necessity compelled\nher; and there were two meetings with Marian, at which he had to act\nhis part as well as he could. At length came the expected letter. Very\nnicely expressed, very friendly, very complimentary, but--a refusal.\n\nHe handed it to Dora across the breakfast-table, saying with a pinched\nsmile:\n\n'Now you can look cheerful again. I am doomed.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV. FEVER AND REST\n\nMilvain's skilful efforts notwithstanding, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' had no\nsuccess. By two publishers the book had been declined; the firm which\nbrought it out offered the author half profits and fifteen pounds on\naccount, greatly to Harold Biffen's satisfaction. But reviewers in\ngeneral were either angry or coldly contemptuous. 'Let Mr Biffen bear in\nmind,' said one of these sages, 'that a novelist's first duty is to tell\na story.' 'Mr Biffen,' wrote another, 'seems not to understand that\na work of art must before everything else afford amusement.' 'A\npretentious book of the genre ennuyant,' was the brief comment of a\nSociety journal. A weekly of high standing began its short notice in a\nrage: 'Here is another of those intolerable productions for which we\nare indebted to the spirit of grovelling realism. This author, let it be\nsaid, is never offensive, but then one must go on to describe his work\nby a succession of negatives; it is never interesting, never profitable,\nnever--' and the rest. The eulogy in The West End had a few timid\nechoes. That in The Current would have secured more imitators, but\nunfortunately it appeared when most of the reviewing had already\nbeen done. And, as Jasper truly said, only a concurrence of powerful\ntestimonials could have compelled any number of people to affect an\ninterest in this book. 'The first duty of a novelist is to tell a\nstory:' the perpetual repetition of this phrase is a warning to all\nmen who propose drawing from the life. Biffen only offered a slice of\nbiography, and it was found to lack flavour.\n\nHe wrote to Mrs Reardon: 'I cannot thank you enough for this very kind\nletter about my book; I value it more than I should the praises of all\nthe reviewers in existence. You have understood my aim. Few people\nwill do that, and very few indeed could express it with such clear\nconciseness.'\n\nIf Amy had but contented herself with a civil acknowledgment of the\nvolumes he sent her! She thought it a kindness to write to him so\nappreciatively, to exaggerate her approval. The poor fellow was so\nlonely. Yes, but his loneliness only became intolerable when a beautiful\nwoman had smiled upon him, and so forced him to dream perpetually of\nthat supreme joy of life which to him was forbidden.\n\nIt was a fatal day, that on which Amy put herself under his guidance\nto visit Reardon's poor room at Islington. In the old times, Harold had\nbeen wont to regard his friend's wife as the perfect woman; seldom in\nhis life had he enjoyed female society, and when he first met Amy it\nwas years since he had spoken with any woman above the rank of a\nlodging-house keeper or a needle-plier. Her beauty seemed to him of a\nvery high order, and her mental endowments filled him with an exquisite\ndelight, not to be appreciated by men who have never been in his\nposition. When the rupture came between Amy and her husband, Harold\ncould not believe that she was in any way to blame; held to Reardon by\nstrong friendship, he yet accused him of injustice to Amy. And what\nhe saw of her at Brighton confirmed him in this judgment. When he\naccompanied her to Manville Street, he allowed her, of course, to remain\nalone in the room where Reardon had lived; but Amy presently summoned\nhim, and asked him questions. Every tear she shed watered a growth of\npassionate tenderness in the solitary man's heart. Parting from her at\nlength, he went to hide his face in darkness and think of her--think of\nher.\n\nA fatal day. There was an end of all his peace, all his capacity\nfor labour, his patient endurance of penury. Once, when he was about\nthree-and-twenty, he had been in love with a girl of gentle nature and\nfair intelligence; on account of his poverty, he could not even hope\nthat his love might be returned, and he went away to bear the misery as\nbest he might. Since then the life he had led precluded the forming of\nsuch attachments; it would never have been possible for him to support\na wife of however humble origin. At intervals he felt the full weight\nof his loneliness, but there were happily long periods during which his\nGreek studies and his efforts in realistic fiction made him indifferent\nto the curse laid upon him. But after that hour of intimate speech with\nAmy, he never again knew rest of mind or heart.\n\nAccepting what Reardon had bequeathed to him, he removed the books and\nfurniture to a room in that part of the town which he had found most\nconvenient for his singular tutorial pursuits. The winter did not pass\nwithout days of all but starvation, but in March he received his fifteen\npounds for 'Mr Bailey,' and this was a fortune, putting him beyond the\nreach of hunger for full six months. Not long after that he yielded to\na temptation that haunted him day and night, and went to call upon Amy,\nwho was still living with her mother at Westbourne Park. When he\nentered the drawing-room Amy was sitting there alone; she rose with an\nexclamation of frank pleasure.\n\n'I have often thought of you lately, Mr Biffen. How kind to come and see\nme!'\n\nHe could scarcely speak; her beauty, as she stood before him in the\ngraceful black dress, was anguish to his excited nerves, and her voice\nwas so cruel in its conventional warmth. When he looked at her eyes,\nhe remembered how their brightness had been dimmed with tears, and the\nsorrow he had shared with her seemed to make him more than an ordinary\nfriend. When he told her of his success with the publishers, she was\ndelighted.\n\n'Oh, when is it to come out? I shall watch the advertisements so\nanxiously.'\n\n'Will you allow me to send you a copy, Mrs Reardon?'\n\n'Can you really spare one?'\n\nOf the half-dozen he would receive, he scarcely knew how to dispose of\nthree. And Amy expressed her gratitude in the most charming way. She had\ngained much in point of manner during the past twelve months; her ten\nthousand pounds inspired her with the confidence necessary to a perfect\ndemeanour. That slight hardness which was wont to be perceptible in\nher tone had altogether passed away; she seemed to be cultivating\nflexibility of voice.\n\nMrs Yule came in, and was all graciousness. Then two callers presented\nthemselves. Biffen's pleasure was at an end as soon as he had to adapt\nhimself to polite dialogue; he escaped as speedily as possible.\n\nHe was not the kind of man that deceives himself as to his own aspect\nin the eyes of others. Be as kind as she might, Amy could not set him\nstrutting Malvolio-wise; she viewed him as a poor devil who often had\nto pawn his coat--a man of parts who would never get on in the world--a\nfriend to be thought of kindly because her dead husband had valued\nhim. Nothing more than that; he understood perfectly the limits of her\nfeeling. But this could not put restraint upon the emotion with which\nhe received any most trifling utterance of kindness from her. He did not\nthink of what was, but of what, under changed circumstances, might be.\nTo encourage such fantasy was the idlest self-torment, but he had gone\ntoo far in this form of indulgence. He became the slave of his inflamed\nimagination.\n\nIn that letter with which he replied to her praises of his book,\nperchance he had allowed himself to speak too much as he thought.\n\nHe wrote in reckless delight, and did not wait for the prudence of a\nlater hour. When it was past recall, he would gladly have softened\nmany of the expressions the letter contained. 'I value it more than the\npraises of all the reviewers in existence'--would Amy be offended at\nthat? 'Yours in gratitude and reverence,' he had signed himself--the\nkind of phrase that comes naturally to a passionate man, when he would\nfain say more than he dares. To what purpose this half-revelation?\nUnless, indeed, he wished to learn once and for ever, by the gentlest\nof repulses, that his homage was only welcome so long as it kept well\nwithin conventional terms.\n\nHe passed a month of distracted idleness, until there came a day\nwhen the need to see Amy was so imperative that it mastered every\nconsideration. He donned his best clothes, and about four o'clock\npresented himself at Mrs Yule's house. By ill luck there happened to be\nat least half a dozen callers in the drawing-room; the strappado would\nhave been preferable, in his eyes, to such an ordeal as this. Moreover,\nhe was convinced that both Amy and her mother received him with far less\ncordiality than on the last occasion. He had expected it, but he bit\nhis lips till the blood came. What business had he among people of this\nkind? No doubt the visitors wondered at his comparative shabbiness, and\nasked themselves how he ventured to make a call without the regulation\nchimney-pot hat. It was a wretched and foolish mistake.\n\nTen minutes saw him in the street again, vowing that he would never\napproach Amy more. Not that he found fault with her; the blame was\nentirely his own.\n\nHe lived on the third floor of a house in Goodge Street, above a baker's\nshop. The bequest of Reardon's furniture was a great advantage to him,\nas he had only to pay rent for a bare room; the books, too, came as a\ngodsend, since the destruction of his own. He had now only one pupil,\nand was not exerting himself to find others; his old energy had forsaken\nhim.\n\nFor the failure of his book he cared nothing. It was no more than he\nanticipated. The work was done--the best he was capable of--and this\nsatisfied him.\n\nIt was doubtful whether he loved Amy, in the true sense of exclusive\ndesire. She represented for him all that is lovely in womanhood; to his\nstarved soul and senses she was woman, the complement of his frustrate\nbeing. Circumstance had made her the means of exciting in him that\nnatural force which had hitherto either been dormant or had yielded to\nthe resolute will.\n\nCompanionless, inert, he suffered the tortures which are so ludicrous\nand contemptible to the happily married. Life was barren to him, and\nwould soon grow hateful; only in sleep could he cast off the unchanging\nthoughts and desires which made all else meaningless. And rightly\nmeaningless: he revolted against the unnatural constraints forbidding\nhim to complete his manhood.\n\nBy what fatality was he alone of men withheld from the winning of a\nwoman's love?\n\nHe could not bear to walk the streets where the faces of beautiful women\nwould encounter him. When he must needs leave the house, he went about\nin the poor, narrow ways, where only spectacles of coarseness, and\nwant, and toil would be presented to him. Yet even here he was too often\nreminded that the poverty-stricken of the class to which poverty is\nnatural were not condemned to endure in solitude. Only he who belonged\nto no class, who was rejected alike by his fellows in privation and by\nhis equals in intellect, must die without having known the touch of a\nloving woman's hand.\n\nThe summer went by, and he was unconscious of its warmth and light. How\nhis days passed he could not have said.\n\nOne evening in early autumn, as he stood before the book-stall at the\nend of Goodge Street, a familiar voice accosted him. It was Whelpdale's.\nA month or two ago he had stubbornly refused an invitation to dine\nwith Whelpdale and other acquaintances--you remember what the occasion\nwas--and since then the prosperous young man had not crossed his path.\n\n'I've something to tell you,' said the assailer, taking hold of his\narm. 'I'm in a tremendous state of mind, and want someone to share my\ndelight. You can walk a short way, I hope? Not too busy with some new\nbook?'\n\nBiffen gave no answer, but went whither he was led.\n\n'You are writing a new book, I suppose? Don't be discouraged, old\nfellow. \"Mr Bailey\" will have his day yet; I know men who consider it an\nundoubted work of genius. What's the next to deal with?'\n\n'I haven't decided yet,' replied Harold, merely to avoid argument. He\nspoke so seldom that the sound of his own voice was strange to him.\n\n'Thinking over it, I suppose, in your usual solid way. Don't be hurried.\nBut I must tell you of this affair of mine. You know Dora Milvain? I\nhave asked her to marry me, and, by the Powers! she has given me an\nencouraging answer. Not an actual yes, but encouraging! She's away in\nthe Channel Islands, and I wrote--'\n\nHe talked on for a quarter of an hour. Then, with a sudden movement, the\nlistener freed himself.\n\n'I can't go any farther,' he said hoarsely. 'Good-bye!'\n\nWhelpdale was disconcerted.\n\n'I have been boring you. That's a confounded fault of mine; I know it.'\n\nBiffen had waved his hand, and was gone.\n\nA week or two more would see him at the end of his money. He had no\nlessons now, and could not write; from his novel nothing was to be\nexpected. He might apply again to his brother, but such dependence was\nunjust and unworthy. And why should he struggle to preserve a life which\nhad no prospect but of misery?\n\nIt was in the hours following his encounter with Whelpdale that he first\nknew the actual desire of death, the simple longing for extinction. One\nmust go far in suffering before the innate will-to-live is thus truly\novercome; weariness of bodily anguish may induce this perversion of\nthe instincts; less often, that despair of suppressed emotion which\nhad fallen upon Harold. Through the night he kept his thoughts fixed on\ndeath in its aspect of repose, of eternal oblivion. And herein he had\nfound solace.\n\nThe next night it was the same. Moving about among common needs and\noccupations, he knew not a moment's cessation of heart-ache, but when\nhe lay down in the darkness a hopeful summons whispered to him. Night,\nwhich had been the worst season of his pain, had now grown friendly; it\ncame as an anticipation of the sleep that is everlasting.\n\nA few more days, and he was possessed by a calm of spirit such as he had\nnever known. His resolve was taken, not in a moment of supreme conflict,\nbut as the result of a subtle process by which his imagination had\nbecome in love with death. Turning from contemplation of life's one\nrapture, he looked with the same intensity of desire to a state that had\nneither fear nor hope.\n\nOne afternoon he went to the Museum Reading-room, and was busy for a few\nminutes in consultation of a volume which he took from the shelves\nof medical literature. On his way homeward he entered two or three\nchemists' shops. Something of which he had need could be procured only\nin very small quantities; but repetition of his demand in different\nplaces supplied him sufficiently. When he reached his room, he emptied\nthe contents of sundry little bottles into one larger, and put this in\nhis pocket. Then he wrote rather a long letter, addressed to his brother\nat Liverpool.\n\nIt had been a beautiful day, and there wanted still a couple of hours\nbefore the warm, golden sunlight would disappear. Harold stood and\nlooked round his room. As always, it presented a neat, orderly aspect,\nbut his eye caught sight of a volume which stood upside down, and this\nfault--particularly hateful to a bookish man--he rectified. He put\nhis blotting-pad square on the table, closed the lid of the inkstand,\narranged his pens. Then he took his hat and stick, locked the door\nbehind him, and went downstairs. At the foot he spoke to his landlady,\nand told her that he should not return that night. As soon as possible\nafter leaving the house he posted his letter.\n\nHis direction was westward; walking at a steady, purposeful pace, with\ncheery countenance and eyes that gave sign of pleasure as often as they\nturned to the sun-smitten clouds, he struck across Kensington Gardens,\nand then on towards Fulham, where he crossed the Thames to Putney. The\nsun was just setting; he paused a few moments on the bridge, watching\nthe river with a quiet smile, and enjoying the splendour of the sky.\nUp Putney Hill he walked slowly; when he reached the top it was growing\ndark, but an unwonted effect in the atmosphere caused him to turn and\nlook to the east. An exclamation escaped his lips, for there before him\nwas the new-risen moon, a perfect globe, vast and red. He gazed at it\nfor a long time.\n\nWhen the daylight had entirely passed, he went forward on to the heath,\nand rambled, as if idly, to a secluded part, where trees and bushes made\na deep shadow under the full moon. It was still quite warm, and scarcely\na breath of air moved among the reddening leaves.\n\nSure at length that he was remote from all observation, he pressed into\na little copse, and there reclined on the grass, leaning against the\nstem of a tree. The moon was now hidden from him, but by looking upward\nhe could see its light upon a long, faint cloud, and the blue of the\nplacid sky. His mood was one of ineffable peace. Only thoughts of\nbeautiful things came into his mind; he had reverted to an earlier\nperiod of life, when as yet no mission of literary realism had been\nimposed upon him, and when his passions were still soothed by natural\nhope. The memory of his friend Reardon was strongly present with him,\nbut of Amy he thought only as of that star which had just come into his\nvision above the edge of dark foliage--beautiful, but infinitely remote.\n\nRecalling Reardon's voice, it brought to him those last words whispered\nby his dying companion. He remembered them now:\n\nWe are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded\nwith a sleep.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI. JASPER'S DELICATE CASE\n\nOnly when he received Miss Rupert's amiably-worded refusal to become his\nwife was Jasper aware how firmly he had counted on her accepting him. He\ntold Dora with sincerity that his proposal was a piece of foolishness;\nso far from having any regard for Miss Rupert, he felt towards her with\nsomething of antipathy, and at the same time he was conscious of ardent\nemotions, if not love, for another woman who would be no bad match even\nfrom the commercial point of view. Yet so strong was the effect upon him\nof contemplating a large fortune, that, in despite of reason and desire,\nhe lived in eager expectation of the word which should make him rich.\nAnd for several hours after his disappointment he could not overcome the\nimpression of calamity.\n\nA part of that impression was due to the engagement which he must now\nfulfil. He had pledged his word to ask Marian to marry him without\nfurther delay. To shuffle out of this duty would make him too ignoble\neven in his own eyes. Its discharge meant, as he had expressed it, that\nhe was 'doomed'; he would deliberately be committing the very error\nalways so flagrant to him in the case of other men who had crippled\nthemselves by early marriage with a penniless woman. But events had\nenmeshed him; circumstances had proved fatal. Because, in his salad\ndays, he dallied with a girl who had indeed many charms, step by step\nhe had come to the necessity of sacrificing his prospects to that raw\nattachment. And, to make it more irritating, this happened just when the\nway began to be much clearer before him.\n\nUnable to think of work, he left the house and wandered gloomily about\nRegent's Park. For the first time in his recollection the confidence\nwhich was wont to inspirit him gave way to an attack of sullen\ndiscontent. He felt himself ill-used by destiny, and therefore by\nMarian, who was fate's instrument. It was not in his nature that this\nmood should last long, but it revealed to him those darker possibilities\nwhich his egoism would develop if it came seriously into conflict with\novermastering misfortune. A hope, a craven hope, insinuated itself into\nthe cracks of his infirm resolve. He would not examine it, but conscious\nof its existence he was able to go home in somewhat better spirits.\n\nHe wrote to Marian. If possible she was to meet him at half-past\nnine next morning at Gloucester Gate. He had reasons for wishing this\ninterview to take place on neutral ground.\n\nEarly in the afternoon, when he was trying to do some work, there\narrived a letter which he opened with impatient hand; the writing was\nMrs Reardon's, and he could not guess what she had to communicate.\n\n'DEAR MR MILVAIN,--I am distressed beyond measure to read in this\nmorning's newspaper that poor Mr Biffen has put an end to his life.\nDoubtless you can obtain more details than are given in this bare report\nof the discovery of his body. Will you let me hear, or come and see me?'\n\nHe read and was astonished. Absorbed in his own affairs, he had not\nopened the newspaper to-day; it lay folded on a chair. Hastily he ran\nhis eye over the columns, and found at length a short paragraph which\nstated that the body of a man who had evidently committed suicide by\ntaking poison had been found on Putney Heath; that papers in his pockets\nidentified him as one Harold Biffen, lately resident in Goodge Street,\nTottenham Court Road; and that an inquest would be held, &c. He went\nto Dora's room, and told her of the event, but without mentioning the\nletter which had brought it under his notice.\n\n'I suppose there was no alternative between that and starvation. I\nscarcely thought of Biffen as likely to kill himself. If Reardon had\ndone it, I shouldn't have felt the least surprise.'\n\n'Mr Whelpdale will be bringing us information, no doubt,' said Dora,\nwho, as she spoke, thought more of that gentleman's visit than of the\nevent that was to occasion it.\n\n'Really, one can't grieve. There seemed no possibility of his ever\nearning enough to live decently upon. But why the deuce did he go all\nthe way out there? Consideration for the people in whose house he lived,\nI dare say; Biffen had a good deal of native delicacy.'\n\nDora felt a secret wish that someone else possessed more of that\ndesirable quality.\n\nLeaving her, Jasper made a rapid, though careful, toilet, and was\npresently on his way to Westbourne Park. It was his hope that he should\nreach Mrs Yule's house before any ordinary afternoon caller could\narrive; and so he did. He had not been here since that evening when he\nencountered Reardon on the road and heard his reproaches. To his great\nsatisfaction, Amy was alone in the drawing-room; he held her hand a\ntrifle longer than was necessary, and returned more earnestly the look\nof interest with which she regarded him.\n\n'I was ignorant of this affair when your letter came,' he began, 'and I\nset out immediately to see you.'\n\n'I hoped you would bring me some news. What can have driven the poor man\nto such extremity?'\n\n'Poverty, I can only suppose. But I will see Whelpdale. I hadn't come\nacross Biffen for a long time.'\n\n'Was he still so very poor?' asked Amy, compassionately.\n\n'I'm afraid so. His book failed utterly.'\n\n'Oh, if I had imagined him still in such distress, surely I might have\ndone something to help him!'--So often the regretful remark of one's\nfriends, when one has been permitted to perish.\n\nWith Amy's sorrow was mingled a suggestion of tenderness which came of\nher knowledge that the dead man had worshipped her. Perchance his death\nwas in part attributable to that hopeless love.\n\n'He sent me a copy of his novel,' she said, 'and I saw him once or twice\nafter that. But he was much better dressed than in former days, and I\nthought--'\n\nHaving this subject to converse upon put the two more quickly at ease\nthan could otherwise have been the case. Jasper was closely observant\nof the young widow; her finished graces made a strong appeal to his\nadmiration, and even in some degree awed him. He saw that her beauty had\nmatured, and it was more distinctly than ever of the type to which he\npaid reverence. Amy might take a foremost place among brilliant women.\nAt a dinner-table, in grand toilet, she would be superb; at polite\nreceptions people would whisper: 'Who is that?'\n\nBiffen fell out of the dialogue.\n\n'It grieved me very much,' said Amy, 'to hear of the misfortune that\nbefell my cousin.'\n\n'The legacy affair? Why, yes, it was a pity. Especially now that her\nfather is threatened with blindness.'\n\n'Is it so serious? I heard indirectly that he had something the matter\nwith his eyes, but I didn't know--'\n\n'They may be able to operate before long, and perhaps it will be\nsuccessful. But in the meantime Marian has to do his work.'\n\n'This explains the--the delay?' fell from Amy's lips, as she smiled.\n\nJasper moved uncomfortably. It was a voluntary gesture.\n\n'The whole situation explains it,' he replied, with some show of\nimpulsiveness. 'I am very much afraid Marian is tied during her father's\nlife.'\n\n'Indeed? But there is her mother.'\n\n'No companion for her father, as I think you know. Even if Mr Yule\nrecovers his sight, it is not at all likely that he will be able to work\nas before. Our difficulties are so grave that--'\n\nHe paused, and let his hand fail despondently.\n\n'I hope it isn't affecting your work--your progress?'\n\n'To some extent, necessarily. I have a good deal of will, you remember,\nand what I have set my mind upon, no doubt, I shall some day achieve.\nBut--one makes mistakes.'\n\nThere was silence.\n\n'The last three years,' he continued, 'have made no slight difference\nin my position. Recall where I stood when you first knew me. I have done\nsomething since then, I think, and by my own steady effort.'\n\n'Indeed, you have.'\n\n'Just now I am in need of a little encouragement. You don't notice any\nfalling off in my work recently?'\n\n'No, indeed.'\n\n'Do you see my things in The Current and so on, generally?'\n\n'I don't think I miss many of your articles. Sometimes I believe I have\ndetected you when there was no signature.'\n\n'And Dora has been doing well. Her story in that girls' paper has\nattracted attention. It's a great deal to have my mind at rest about\nboth the girls. But I can't pretend to be in very good spirits.' He\nrose. 'Well, I must try to find out something more about poor Biffen.'\n\n'Oh, you are not going yet, Mr Milvain?'\n\n'Not, assuredly, because I wish to. But I have work to do.' He stepped\naside, but came back as if on an impulse. 'May I ask you for your advice\nin a very delicate matter?'\n\nAmy was a little disturbed, but she collected herself and smiled in a\nway that reminded Jasper of his walk with her along Gower Street.\n\n'Let me hear what it is.'\n\nHe sat down again, and bent forward.\n\n'If Marian insists that it is her duty to remain with her father, am I\njustified or not in freely consenting to that?'\n\n'I scarcely understand. Has Marian expressed a wish to devote herself in\nthat way?'\n\n'Not distinctly. But I suspect that her conscience points to it. I am in\nserious doubt. On the one hand,' he explained in a tone of candour, 'who\nwill not blame me if our engagement terminates in circumstances such as\nthese? On the other--you are aware, by-the-by, that her father objects\nin the strongest way to this marriage?'\n\n'No, I didn't know that.'\n\n'He will neither see me nor hear of me. Merely because of my connection\nwith Fadge. Think of that poor girl thus situated. And I could so easily\nput her at rest by renouncing all claim upon her.'\n\n'I surmise that--that you yourself would also be put at rest by such a\ndecision?'\n\n'Don't look at me with that ironical smile,' he pleaded. 'What you have\nsaid is true. And really, why should I not be glad of it? I couldn't go\nabout declaring that I was heartbroken, in any event; I must be content\nfor people to judge me according to their disposition, and judgments are\npretty sure to be unfavourable. What can I do? In either case I must to\na certain extent be in the wrong. To tell the truth, I was wrong from\nthe first.'\n\nThere was a slight movement about Amy's lips as these words were\nuttered: she kept her eyes down, and waited before replying.\n\n'The case is too delicate, I fear, for my advice.'\n\n'Yes, I feel it; and perhaps I oughtn't to have spoken of it at all.\nWell, I'll go back to my scribbling. I am so very glad to have seen you\nagain.'\n\n'It was good of you to take the trouble to come--whilst you have so much\non your mind.'\n\nAgain Jasper held the white, soft hand for a superfluous moment.\n\nThe next morning it was he who had to wait at the rendezvous; he was\npacing the pathway at least ten minutes before the appointed time.\nWhen Marian joined him, she was panting from a hurried walk, and this\naffected Jasper disagreeably; he thought of Amy Reardon's air of repose,\nand how impossible it would be for that refined person to fall into such\ndisorder. He observed, too, with more disgust than usual, the signs in\nMarian's attire of encroaching poverty--her unsatisfactory gloves, her\nmantle out of fashion. Yet for such feelings he reproached himself, and\nthe reproach made him angry.\n\nThey walked together in the same direction as when they met here before.\nMarian could not mistake the air of restless trouble on her companion's\nsmooth countenance. She had divined that there was some grave reason\nfor this summons, and the panting with which she had approached was half\ncaused by the anxious beats of her heart. Jasper's long silence again\nwas ominous. He began abruptly:\n\n'You've heard that Harold Biffen has committed suicide?'\n\n'No!' she replied, looking shocked.\n\n'Poisoned himself. You'll find something about it in today's Telegraph.'\n\nHe gave her such details as he had obtained, then added:\n\n'There are two of my companions fallen in the battle. I ought to think\nmyself a lucky fellow, Marian. What?'\n\n'You are better fitted to fight your way, Jasper.'\n\n'More of a brute, you mean.'\n\n'You know very well I don't. You have more energy and more intellect.'\n\n'Well, it remains to be seen how I shall come out when I am weighted\nwith graver cares than I have yet known.'\n\nShe looked at him inquiringly, but said nothing.\n\n'I have made up my mind about our affairs,' he went on presently.\n'Marian, if ever we are to be married, it must be now.'\n\nThe words were so unexpected that they brought a flush to her cheeks and\nneck.\n\n'Now?'\n\n'Yes. Will you marry me, and let us take our chance?'\n\nHer heart throbbed violently.\n\n'You don't mean at once, Jasper? You would wait until I know what\nfather's fate is to be?'\n\n'Well, now, there's the point. You feel yourself indispensable to your\nfather at present?'\n\n'Not indispensable, but--wouldn't it seem very unkind? I should be so\nafraid of the effect upon his health, Jasper. So much depends, we are\ntold, upon his general state of mind and body. It would be dreadful if I\nwere the cause of--'\n\nShe paused, and looked up at him touchingly.\n\n'I understand that. But let us face our position. Suppose the operation\nis successful; your father will certainly not be able to use his eyes\nmuch for a long time, if ever; and perhaps he would miss you as much\nthen as now. Suppose he does not regain his sight; could you then leave\nhim?'\n\n'Dear, I can't feel it would be my duty to renounce you because my\nfather had become blind. And if he can see pretty well, I don't think I\nneed remain with him.'\n\n'Has one thing occurred to you? Will he consent to receive an allowance\nfrom a person whose name is Mrs Milvain?'\n\n'I can't be sure,' she replied, much troubled.\n\n'And if he obstinately refuses--what then? What is before him?'\n\nMarian's head sank, and she stood still.\n\n'Why have you changed your mind so, Jasper?' she inquired at length.\n\n'Because I have decided that the indefinitely long engagement would be\nunjust to you--and to myself. Such engagements are always dangerous;\nsometimes they deprave the character of the man or woman.'\n\nShe listened anxiously and reflected.\n\n'Everything,' he went on, 'would be simple enough but for your domestic\ndifficulties. As I have said, there is the very serious doubt whether\nyour father would accept money from you when you are my wife. Then\nagain, shall we be able to afford such an allowance?'\n\n'I thought you felt sure of that?'\n\n'I'm not very sure of anything, to tell the truth. I am harassed.\n\nI can't get on with my work.'\n\n'I am very, very sorry.'\n\n'It isn't your fault, Marian, and--Well, then, there's only one thing\nto do. Let us wait, at all events, till your father has undergone the\noperation. Whichever the result, you say your own position will be the\nsame.'\n\n'Except, Jasper, that if father is helpless, I must find means of\nassuring his support.'\n\n'In other words, if you can't do that as my wife, you must remain Marian\nYule.'\n\nAfter a silence, Marian regarded him steadily.\n\n'You see only the difficulties in our way,' she said, in a colder voice.\n'They are many, I know. Do you think them insurmountable?'\n\n'Upon my word, they almost seem so,' Jasper exclaimed, distractedly.\n\n'They were not so great when we spoke of marriage a few years hence.'\n\n'A few years!' he echoed, in a cheerless voice. 'That is just what I\nhave decided is impossible. Marian, you shall have the plain truth. I\ncan trust your faith, but I can't trust my own. I will marry you now,\nbut--years hence--how can I tell what may happen? I don't trust myself.'\n\n'You say you \"will\" marry me now; that sounds as if you had made up your\nmind to a sacrifice.'\n\n'I didn't mean that. To face difficulties, yes.'\n\nWhilst they spoke, the sky had grown dark with a heavy cloud, and now\nspots of rain began to fall. Jasper looked about him in annoyance as he\nfelt the moisture, but Marian did not seem aware of it.\n\n'But shall you face them willingly?'\n\n'I am not a man to repine and grumble. Put up your umbrella, Marian.'\n\n'What do I care for a drop of rain,' she exclaimed with passionate\nsadness, 'when all my life is at stake! How am I to understand you?\nEvery word you speak seems intended to dishearten me. Do you no longer\nlove me? Why need you conceal it, if that is the truth? Is that what you\nmean by saying you distrust yourself?\n\nIf you do so, there must be reason for it in the present. Could I\ndistrust myself? Can I force myself in any manner to believe that I\nshall ever cease to love you?'\n\nJasper opened his umbrella.\n\n'We must see each other again, Marian. We can't stand and talk in the\nrain--confound it! Cursed climate, where you can never be sure of a\nclear sky for five minutes!'\n\n'I can't go till you have spoken more plainly, Jasper! How am I to live\nan hour in such uncertainty as this? Do you love me or not? Do you wish\nme to be your wife, or are you sacrificing yourself?'\n\n'I do wish it!' Her emotion had an effect upon him, and his voice\ntrembled. 'But I can't answer for myself--no, not for a year. And how\nare we to marry now, in face of all these--'\n\n'What can I do? What can I do?' she sobbed. 'Oh, if I were but heartless\nto everyone but to you! If I could give you my money, and leave my\nfather and mother to their fate! Perhaps some could do that. There is\nno natural law that a child should surrender everything for her parents.\nYou know so much more of the world than I do; can't you advise me? Is\nthere no way of providing for my father?'\n\n'Good God! This is frightful, Marian. I can't stand it. Live as you are\ndoing. Let us wait and see.'\n\n'At the cost of losing you?'\n\n'I will be faithful to you!'\n\n'And your voice says you promise it out of pity.'\n\nHe had made a pretence of holding his umbrella over her, but Marian\nturned away and walked to a little distance, and stood beneath the\nshelter of a great tree, her face averted from him. Moving to follow, he\nsaw that her frame was shaken by soundless sobbing. When his footsteps\ncame close to her, she again looked at him.\n\n'I know now,' she said, 'how foolish it is when they talk of love being\nunselfish. In what can there be more selfishness? I feel as if I could\nhold you to your promise at any cost, though you have made me understand\nthat you regard our engagement as your great misfortune. I have felt it\nfor weeks--oh, for months! But I couldn't say a word that would seem to\ninvite such misery as this. You don't love me, Jasper, and that's an end\nof everything.\n\nI should be shamed if I married you.'\n\n'Whether I love you or not, I feel as if no sacrifice would be too great\nthat would bring you the happiness you deserve.'\n\n'Deserve!' she repeated bitterly. 'Why do I deserve it? Because I long\nfor it with all my heart and soul? There's no such thing as deserving.\nHappiness or misery come to us by fate.'\n\n'Is it in my power to make you happy?'\n\n'No; because it isn't in your power to call dead love to life again. I\nthink perhaps you never loved me. Jasper, I could give my right hand if\nyou had said you loved me before--I can't put it into words; it sounds\ntoo base, and I don't wish to imply that you behaved basely. But if you\nhad said you loved me before that, I should have it always to remember.'\n\n'You will do me no wrong if you charge me with baseness,' he replied\ngloomily. 'If I believe anything, I believe that I did love you. But I\nknew myself and I should never have betrayed what I felt, if for once in\nmy life I could have been honourable.'\n\nThe rain pattered on the leaves and the grass, and still the sky\ndarkened.\n\n'This is wretchedness to both of us,' Jasper added. 'Let us part now,\nMarian. Let me see you again.'\n\n'I can't see you again. What can you say to me more than you have said\nnow? I should feel like a beggar coming to you. I must try and keep some\nlittle self-respect, if I am to live at all.'\n\n'Then let me help you to think of me with indifference. Remember me as a\nman who disregarded priceless love such as yours to go and make himself\na proud position among fools and knaves--indeed that's what it comes to.\nIt is you who reject me, and rightly. One who is so much at the mercy\nof a vulgar ambition as I am, is no fit husband for you. Soon enough you\nwould thoroughly despise me, and though I should know it was merited,\nmy perverse pride would revolt against it. Many a time I have tried to\nregard life practically as I am able to do theoretically, but it always\nends in hypocrisy. It is men of my kind who succeed; the conscientious,\nand those who really have a high ideal, either perish or struggle on in\nneglect.'\n\nMarian had overcome her excess of emotion.\n\n'There is no need to disparage yourself' she said. 'What can be simpler\nthan the truth? You loved me, or thought you did, and now you love me\nno longer. It is a thing that happens every day, either in man or woman,\nand all that honour demands is the courage to confess the truth. Why\ndidn't you tell me as soon as you knew that I was burdensome to you?'\n\n'Marian, will you do this?--will you let our engagement last for another\nsix months, but without our meeting during that time?'\n\n'But to what purpose?'\n\n'Then we would see each other again, and both would be able to speak\ncalmly, and we should both know with certainty what course we ought to\npursue.'\n\n'That seems to me childish. It is easy for you to contemplate months of\npostponement. There must be an end now; I can bear it no longer.'\n\nThe rain fell unceasingly, and with it began to mingle an autumnal mist.\nJasper delayed a moment, then asked calmly:\n\n'Are you going to the Museum?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Go home again for this morning, Marian. You can't work--'\n\n'I must; and I have no time to lose. Good-bye!'\n\nShe gave him her hand. They looked at each other for an instant, then\nMarian left the shelter of the tree, opened her umbrella, and walked\nquickly away. Jasper did not watch her; he had the face of a man who is\nsuffering a severe humiliation.\n\nA few hours later he told Dora what had come to pass, and without\nextenuation of his own conduct. His sister said very little, for she\nrecognised genuine suffering in his tones and aspect. But when it was\nover, she sat down and wrote to Marian.\n\n'I feel far more disposed to congratulate you than to regret what has\nhappened. Now that there is no necessity for silence, I will tell you\nsomething which will help you to see Jasper in his true light. A few\nweeks ago he actually proposed to a woman for whom he does not pretend\nto have the slightest affection, but who is very rich, and who seemed\nlikely to be foolish enough to marry him. Yesterday morning he received\nher final answer--a refusal. I am not sure that I was right in keeping\nthis a secret from you, but I might have done harm by interfering. You\nwill understand (though surely you need no fresh proof) how utterly\nunworthy he is of you. You cannot, I am sure you cannot, regard it as a\nmisfortune that all is over between you. Dearest Marian, do not cease to\nthink of me as your friend because my brother has disgraced himself. If\nyou can't see me, at least let us write to each other. You are the only\nfriend I have of my own sex, and I could not bear to lose you.'\n\nAnd much more of the same tenor.\n\nSeveral days passed before there came a reply. It was written with\nundisturbed kindness of feeling, but in few words.\n\n'For the present we cannot see each other, but I am very far from\nwishing that our friendship should come to an end. I must only ask that\nyou will write to me without the least reference to these troubles; tell\nme always about yourself, and be sure that you cannot tell me too much.\nI hope you may soon be able to send me the news which was foreshadowed\nin our last talk--though \"foreshadowed\" is a wrong word to use of coming\nhappiness, isn't it? That paper I sent to Mr Trenchard is accepted, and\nI shall be glad to have your criticism when it comes out; don't spare\nmy style, which needs a great deal of chastening. I have been thinking:\ncouldn't you use your holiday in Sark for a story? To judge from your\nletters, you could make an excellent background of word-painting.'\n\nDora sighed, and shook her little head, and thought of her brother with\nunspeakable disdain.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII. REWARDS\n\nWhen the fitting moment arrived, Alfred Yule underwent an operation\nfor cataract, and it was believed at first that the result would be\nfavourable. This hope had but short duration; though the utmost prudence\nwas exercised, evil symptoms declared themselves, and in a few months'\ntime all prospect of restoring his vision was at an end. Anxiety, and\nthen the fatal assurance, undermined his health; with blindness, there\nfell upon him the debility of premature old age.\n\nThe position of the family was desperate. Marian had suffered much all\nthe winter from attacks of nervous disorder, and by no effort of will\ncould she produce enough literary work to supplement adequately the\nincome derived from her fifteen hundred pounds. In the summer of 1885\nthings were at the worst; Marian saw no alternative but to draw upon her\ncapital, and so relieve the present at the expense of the future. She\nhad a mournful warning before her eyes in the case of poor Hinks and his\nwife, who were now kept from the workhouse only by charity. But at this\njuncture the rescuer appeared. Mr Quarmby and certain of his friends\nwere already making a subscription for the Yules' benefit, when one of\ntheir number--Mr Jedwood, the publisher--came forward with a proposal\nwhich relieved the minds of all concerned. Mr Jedwood had a brother who\nwas the director of a public library in a provincial town, and by this\nmeans he was enabled to offer Marian Yule a place as assistant in that\ninstitution; she would receive seventy-five pounds a year, and thus,\nadding her own income, would be able to put her parents beyond the reach\nof want. The family at once removed from London, and the name of Yule\nwas no longer met with in periodical literature.\n\nBy an interesting coincidence, it was on the day of this departure that\nthere appeared a number of The West End in which the place of honour,\nthat of the week's Celebrity, was occupied by Clement Fadge. A coloured\nportrait of this illustrious man challenged the admiration of all who\nhad literary tastes, and two columns of panegyric recorded his career\nfor the encouragement of aspiring youth. This article, of course\nunsigned, came from the pen of Jasper Milvain.\n\nIt was only by indirect channels that Jasper learnt how Marian and her\nparents had been provided for. Dora's correspondence with her friend\nsoon languished; in the nature of things this could not but happen; and\nabout the time when Alfred Yule became totally blind the girls ceased to\nhear anything of each other. An event which came to pass in the spring\nsorely tempted Dora to write, but out of good feeling she refrained.\n\nFor it was then that she at length decided to change her name for\nthat of Whelpdale. Jasper could not quite reconcile himself to this\ncondescension; in various discourses he pointed out to his sister how\nmuch higher she might look if she would only have a little patience.\n\n'Whelpdale will never be a man of any note. A good fellow, I admit, but\nborne in all senses. Let me impress upon you, my dear girl, that I have\na future before me, and that there is no reason--with your charm of\nperson and mind--why you should not marry brilliantly. Whelpdale can\ngive you a decent home, I admit, but as regards society he will be a\ndrag upon you.'\n\n'It happens, Jasper, that I have promised to marry him,' replied Dora,\nin a significant tone.\n\n'Well, I regret it, but--you are of course your own mistress. I shall\nmake no unpleasantness. I don't dislike Whelpdale, and I shall remain on\nfriendly terms with him.'\n\n'That is very kind of you,' said his sister suavely.\n\nWhelpdale was frantic with exultation. When the day of the wedding had\nbeen settled, he rushed into Jasper's study and fairly shed tears before\nhe could command his voice.\n\n'There is no mortal on the surface of the globe one-tenth so happy as\nI am!' he gasped. 'I can't believe it! Why in the name of sense and\njustice have I been suffered to attain this blessedness? Think of the\ndays when I all but starved in my Albany Street garret, scarcely better\noff than poor, dear old Biffen! Why should I have come to this, and\nBiffen have poisoned himself in despair? He was a thousand times a\nbetter and cleverer fellow than I. And poor old Reardon, dead in misery!\nCould I for a moment compare with him?'\n\n'My dear fellow,' said Jasper, calmly, 'compose yourself and be logical.\nIn the first place, success has nothing whatever to do with moral\ndeserts; and then, both Reardon and Biffen were hopelessly unpractical.\nIn such an admirable social order as ours, they were bound to go to the\ndogs. Let us be sorry for them, but let us recognise causas rerum, as\nBiffen would have said. You have exercised ingenuity and perseverance;\nyou have your reward.'\n\n'And when I think that I might have married fatally on thirteen or\nfourteen different occasions. By-the-by, I implore you never to tell\nDora those stories about me. I should lose all her respect. Do you\nremember the girl from Birmingham?' He laughed wildly. 'Heaven be\npraised that she threw me over! Eternal gratitude to all and sundry of\nthe girls who have plunged me into wretchedness!'\n\n'I admit that you have run the gauntlet, and that you have had\nmarvellous escapes. But be good enough to leave me alone for the\npresent. I must finish this review by midday.'\n\n'Only one word. I don't know how to thank Dora, how to express my\ninfinite sense of her goodness. Will you try to do so for me? You can\nspeak to her with calmness. Will you tell her what I have said to you?'\n\n'Oh, certainly.--I should recommend a cooling draught of some kind. Look\nin at a chemist's as you walk on.'\n\nThe heavens did not fall before the marriage-day, and the wedded pair\nbetook themselves for a few weeks to the Continent. They had been back\nagain and established in their house at Earl's Court for a month, when\none morning about twelve o'clock Jasper dropped in, as though casually.\nDora was writing; she had no thought of entirely abandoning literature,\nand had in hand at present a very pretty tale which would probably\nappear in The English Girl. Her boudoir, in which she sat, could\nnot well have been daintier and more appropriate to the charming\ncharacteristics of its mistress.\n\nMrs Whelpdale affected no literary slovenliness; she was dressed in\nlight colours, and looked so lovely that even Jasper paused on the\nthreshold with a smile of admiration.\n\n'Upon my word,' he exclaimed, 'I am proud of my sisters! What did you\nthink of Maud last night? Wasn't she superb?'\n\n'She certainly did look very well. But I doubt if she's very happy.'\n\n'That is her own look out; I told her plainly enough my opinion of\nDolomore. But she was in such a tremendous hurry.'\n\n'You are detestable, Jasper! Is it inconceivable to you that a man or\nwoman should be disinterested when they marry?'\n\n'By no means.'\n\n'Maud didn't marry for money any more than I did.'\n\n'You remember the Northern Farmer: \"Doan't thou marry for money, but\ngo where money is.\" An admirable piece of advice. Well, Maud made a\nmistake, let us say. Dolomore is a clown, and now she knows it. Why,\nif she had waited, she might have married one of the leading men of the\nday. She is fit to be a duchess, as far as appearance goes; but I was\nnever snobbish. I care very little about titles; what I look to is\nintellectual distinction.'\n\n'Combined with financial success.'\n\n'Why, that is what distinction means.' He looked round the room with a\nsmile. 'You are not uncomfortable here, old girl. I wish mother could\nhave lived till now.'\n\n'I wish it very, very often,' Dora replied in a moved voice.\n\n'We haven't done badly, drawbacks considered. Now, you may speak of\nmoney as scornfully as you like; but suppose you had married a man who\ncould only keep you in lodgings! How would life look to you?'\n\n'Who ever disputed the value of money? But there are things one mustn't\nsacrifice to gain it.'\n\n'I suppose so. Well, I have some news for you, Dora. I am thinking of\nfollowing your example.'\n\nDora's face changed to grave anticipation.\n\n'And who is it?'\n\n'Amy Reardon.'\n\nHis sister turned away, with a look of intense annoyance.\n\n'You see, I am disinterested myself,' he went on. 'I might find a wife\nwho had wealth and social standing. But I choose Amy deliberately.'\n\n'An abominable choice!'\n\n'No; an excellent choice. I have never yet met a woman so well fitted\nto aid me in my career. She has a trifling sum of money, which will be\nuseful for the next year or two--'\n\n'What has she done with the rest of it, then?'\n\n'Oh, the ten thousand is intact, but it can't be seriously spoken of. It\nwill keep up appearances till I get my editorship and so on. We shall be\nmarried early in August, I think. I want to ask you if you will go and\nsee her.'\n\n'On no account! I couldn't be civil to her.'\n\nJasper's brows blackened.\n\n'This is idiotic prejudice, Dora. I think I have some claim upon you; I\nhave shown some kindness--'\n\n'You have, and I am not ungrateful. But I dislike Mrs Reardon, and I\ncouldn't bring myself to be friendly with her.'\n\n'You don't know her.'\n\n'Too well. You yourself have taught me to know her. Don't compel me to\nsay what I think of her.'\n\n'She is beautiful, and high-minded, and warm-hearted. I don't know\na womanly quality that she doesn't possess. You will offend me most\nseriously if you speak a word against her.'\n\n'Then I will be silent. But you must never ask me to meet her.'\n\n'Never?'\n\n'Never!'\n\n'Then we shall quarrel. I haven't deserved this, Dora. If you refuse\nto meet my wife on terms of decent friendliness, there's no more\nintercourse between your house and mine. You have to choose. Persist in\nthis fatuous obstinacy, and I have done with you!'\n\n'So be it!'\n\n'That is your final answer?'\n\nDora, who was now as angry as he, gave a short affirmative, and Jasper\nat once left her.\n\nBut it was very unlikely that things should rest at this pass. The\nbrother and sister were bound by a strong mutual affection, and\nWhelpdale was not long in effecting a compromise.\n\n'My dear wife,' he exclaimed, in despair at the threatened calamity,\n'you are right, a thousand times, but it's impossible for you to be\non ill terms with Jasper. There's no need for you to see much of Mrs\nReardon--'\n\n'I hate her! She killed her husband; I am sure of it.'\n\n'My darling!'\n\n'I mean by her base conduct. She is a cold, cruel, unprincipled\ncreature! Jasper makes himself more than ever contemptible by marrying\nher.'\n\nAll the same, in less than three weeks Mrs Whelpdale had called upon\nAmy, and the call was returned. The two women were perfectly conscious\nof reciprocal dislike, but they smothered the feeling beneath\nconventional suavities. Jasper was not backward in making known his\ngratitude for Dora's concession, and indeed it became clear to all his\nintimates that this marriage would be by no means one of mere interest;\nthe man was in love at last, if he had never been before.\n\nLet lapse the ensuing twelve months, and come to an evening at the end\nof July, 1886. Mr and Mrs Milvain are entertaining a small and select\nparty of friends at dinner. Their house in Bayswater is neither large\nnor internally magnificent, but it will do very well for the temporary\nsojourn of a young man of letters who has much greater things in\nconfident expectation, who is a good deal talked of, who can gather\nclever and worthy people at his table, and whose matchless wife would\nattract men of taste to a very much poorer abode.\n\nJasper had changed considerably in appearance since that last holiday\nthat he spent in his mother's house at Finden. At present he would have\nbeen taken for five-and-thirty, though only in his twenty-ninth year;\nhis hair was noticeably thinning; his moustache had grown heavier;\na wrinkle or two showed beneath his eyes; his voice was softer, yet\nfirmer. It goes without saying that his evening uniform lacked no point\nof perfection, and somehow it suggested a more elaborate care than that\nof other men in the room. He laughed frequently, and with a throwing\nback of the head which seemed to express a spirit of triumph.\n\nAmy looked her years to the full, but her type of beauty, as you\nknow, was independent of youthfulness. That suspicion of masculinity\nobservable in her when she became Reardon's wife impressed one now only\nas the consummate grace of a perfectly-built woman. You saw that at\nforty, at fifty, she would be one of the stateliest of dames. When she\nbent her head towards the person with whom she spoke, it was an act of\nqueenly favour. Her words were uttered with just enough deliberation to\ngive them the value of an opinion; she smiled with a delicious shade\nof irony; her glance intimated that nothing could be too subtle for her\nunderstanding.\n\nThe guests numbered six, and no one of them was insignificant. Two of\nthe men were about Jasper's age, and they had already made their mark\nin literature; the third was a novelist of circulating fame, spirally\ncrescent. The three of the stronger sex were excellent modern types,\nwith sweet lips attuned to epigram, and good broad brows.\n\nThe novelist at one point put an interesting question to Amy.\n\n'Is it true that Fadge is leaving The Current?'\n\n'It is rumoured, I believe.'\n\n'Going to one of the quarterlies, they say,' remarked a lady. 'He is\ngetting terribly autocratic. Have you heard the delightful story of\nhis telling Mr Rowland to persevere, as his last work was one of\nconsiderable promise?'\n\nMr Rowland was a man who had made a merited reputation when Fadge was\nstill on the lower rungs of journalism. Amy smiled and told another\nanecdote of the great editor. Whilst speaking, she caught her husband's\neye, and perhaps this was the reason why her story, at the close, seemed\nrather amiably pointless--not a common fault when she narrated.\n\nWhen the ladies had withdrawn, one of the younger men, in a conversation\nabout a certain magazine, remarked:\n\n'Thomas always maintains that it was killed by that solemn old stager,\nAlfred Yule. By the way, he is dead himself, I hear.'\n\nJasper bent forward.\n\n'Alfred Yule is dead?'\n\n'So Jedwood told me this morning. He died in the country somewhere,\nblind and fallen on evil days, poor old fellow.'\n\nAll the guests were ignorant of any tie of kindred between their host\nand the man spoken of.\n\n'I believe,' said the novelist, 'that he had a clever daughter who used\nto do all the work he signed. That used to be a current bit of scandal\nin Fadge's circle.'\n\n'Oh, there was much exaggeration in that,' remarked Jasper, blandly.\n'His daughter assisted him, doubtless, but in quite a legitimate way.\nOne used to see her at the Museum.'\n\nThe subject was dropped.\n\nAn hour and a half later, when the last stranger had taken his leave,\nJasper examined two or three letters which had arrived since dinner-time\nand were lying on the hall table. With one of them open in his hand, he\nsuddenly sprang up the stairs and leaped, rather than stepped, into the\ndrawing-room. Amy was reading an evening paper.\n\n'Look at this!' he cried, holding the letter to her.\n\nIt was a communication from the publishers who owned The Current; they\nstated that the editorship of that review would shortly be resigned\nby Mr Fadge, and they inquired whether Milvain would feel disposed to\nassume the vacant chair.\n\nAmy sprang up and threw her arms about her husband's neck, uttering a\ncry of delight.\n\n'So soon! Oh, this is great! this is glorious!'\n\n'Do you think this would have been offered to me but for the spacious\nlife we have led of late? Never! Was I right in my calculations, Amy?'\n\n'Did I ever doubt it?'\n\nHe returned her embrace ardently, and gazed into her eyes with profound\ntenderness.\n\n'Doesn't the future brighten?'\n\n'It has been very bright to me, Jasper, since I became your wife.'\n\n'And I owe my fortune to you, dear girl. Now the way is smooth!'\n\nThey placed themselves on a settee, Jasper with an arm about his wife's\nwaist, as if they were newly plighted lovers. When they had talked for a\nlong time, Milvain said in a changed tone:\n\n'I am told that your uncle is dead.'\n\nHe mentioned how the news had reached him.\n\n'I must make inquiries to-morrow. I suppose there will be a notice in\nThe Study and some of the other papers. I hope somebody will make it an\nopportunity to have a hit at that ruffian Fadge. By-the-by, it doesn't\nmuch matter now how you speak of Fadge; but I was a trifle anxious when\nI heard your story at dinner.'\n\n'Oh, you can afford to be more independent.--What are you thinking\nabout?'\n\n'Nothing.'\n\n'Why do you look sad?--Yes, I know, I know. I'll try to forgive you.'\n\n'I can't help thinking at times of the poor girl, Amy. Life will be\neasier for her now, with only her mother to support. Someone spoke of\nher this evening, and repeated Fadge's lie that she used to do all her\nfather's writing.'\n\n'She was capable of doing it. I must seem to you rather a poor-brained\nwoman in comparison. Isn't it true?'\n\n'My dearest, you are a perfect woman, and poor Marian was only a clever\nschool-girl. Do you know, I never could help imagining that she had\nink-stains on her fingers. Heaven forbid that I should say it unkindly!\nIt was touching to me at the time, for I knew how fearfully hard she\nworked.'\n\n'She nearly ruined your life; remember that.'\n\nJasper was silent.\n\n'You will never confess it, and that is a fault in you.'\n\n'She loved me, Amy.'\n\n'Perhaps! as a school-girl loves. But you never loved her.'\n\n'No.'\n\nAmy examined his face as he spoke.\n\n'Her image is very faint before me,' Jasper pursued, 'and soon I shall\nscarcely be able to recall it. Yes, you are right; she nearly ruined\nme. And in more senses than one. Poverty and struggle, under such\ncircumstances, would have made me a detestable creature. As it is, I am\nnot such a bad fellow, Amy.'\n\nShe laughed, and caressed his cheek.\n\n'No, I am far from a bad fellow. I feel kindly to everyone who deserves\nit. I like to be generous, in word and deed. Trust me, there's many\na man who would like to be generous, but is made despicably mean by\nnecessity. What a true sentence that is of Landor's: \"It has been\nrepeated often enough that vice leads to misery; will no man declare\nthat misery leads to vice?\" I have much of the weakness that might\nbecome viciousness, but I am now far from the possibility of being\nvicious. Of course there are men, like Fadge, who seem only to grow\nmeaner the more prosperous they are; but these are exceptions. Happiness\nis the nurse of virtue.'\n\n'And independence the root of happiness.'\n\n'True. \"The glorious privilege of being independent\"--yes, Burns\nunderstood the matter. Go to the piano, dear, and play me something.\nIf I don't mind, I shall fall into Whelpdale's vein, and talk about my\n\"blessedness\". Ha! isn't the world a glorious place?'\n\n'For rich people.'\n\n'Yes, for rich people. How I pity the poor devils!--Play anything.\nBetter still if you will sing, my nightingale!'\n\nSo Amy first played and then sang, and Jasper lay back in dreamy bliss."