NEW GRUB STREET

By George Gissing

1891

 Part One Chapter I. A Man of his Day Chapter II. The House of Yule Chapter III. Holiday Chapter IV. An Author and his Wife Chapter V. The Way Hither Chapter VI. The Practical Friend Chapter VII. Marian's Home

 Part Two Chapter VIII. To the Winning Side Chapter IX. Invita Minerva Chapter X. The Friends of the Family Chapter XI. Respite Chapter XII. Work Without Hope Chapter XIII. A Warning Chapter XIV. Recruits Chapter XV. The Last Resource

 Part Three Chapter XVI. Rejection Chapter XVII. The Parting Chapter XVIII. The Old Home Chapter XIX. The Past Revived Chapter XX. The End of Waiting Chapter XXI. Mr Yule leaves Town Chapter XXII. The Legatees

 Part Four Chapter XXIII. A Proposed Investment Chapter XXIV. Jasper's Magnanimity Chapter XXV. A Fruitless Meeting Chapter XXVI. Married Woman's Property Chapter XXVII. The Lonely Man Chapter XXVIII. Interim Chapter XXIX. Catastrophe

 Part Five Chapter XXX. Waiting on Destiny Chapter XXXI. A Rescue and a Summons Chapter XXXII. Reardon becomes Practical Chapter XXXIII. The Sunny Way Chapter XXXIV. A Check Chapter XXXV. Fever and Rest Chapter XXXVI. Jasper's Delicate Case Chapter XXXVII. Rewards

NEW GRUB STREET

PART I. 

CHAPTER I. A MAN OF HIS DAY

As the Milvains sat down to breakfast the clock of Wattleborough parishchurch struck eight; it was two miles away, but the strokes were bornevery distinctly on the west wind this autumn morning. Jasper, listeningbefore he cracked an egg, remarked with cheerfulness:

'There's a man being hanged in London at this moment. '

'Surely it isn't necessary to let us know that, ' said his sister Maud, coldly. 

'And in such a tone, too!' protested his sister Dora. 

'Who is it?' inquired Mrs Milvain, looking at her son with painedforehead. 

'I don't know. It happened to catch my eye in the paper yesterday thatsomeone was to be hanged at Newgate this morning. There's a certainsatisfaction in reflecting that it is not oneself. '

'That's your selfish way of looking at things, ' said Maud. 

'Well, ' returned Jasper, 'seeing that the fact came into my head, whatbetter use could I make of it? I could curse the brutality of an agethat sanctioned such things; or I could grow doleful over the misery ofthe poor--fellow. But those emotions would be as little profitable toothers as to myself. It just happened that I saw the thing in a light ofconsolation. Things are bad with me, but not so bad as THAT. I might begoing out between Jack Ketch and the Chaplain to be hanged; instead ofthat, I am eating a really fresh egg, and very excellent buttered toast, with coffee as good as can be reasonably expected in this part of theworld. --(Do try boiling the milk, mother. )--The tone in which I spokewas spontaneous; being so, it needs no justification. '

He was a young man of five-and-twenty, well built, though a triflemeagre, and of pale complexion. He had hair that was very nearly black, and a clean-shaven face, best described, perhaps, as of bureaucratictype. The clothes he wore were of expensive material, but had seen agood deal of service. His stand-up collar curled over at the corners, and his necktie was lilac-sprigged. 

Of the two sisters, Dora, aged twenty, was the more like him in visage, but she spoke with a gentleness which seemed to indicate a differentcharacter. Maud, who was twenty-two, had bold, handsome features, andvery beautiful hair of russet tinge; hers was not a face that readilysmiled. Their mother had the look and manners of an invalid, though shesat at table in the ordinary way. All were dressed as ladies, thoughvery simply. The room, which looked upon a small patch of garden, wasfurnished with old-fashioned comfort, only one or two objects suggestingthe decorative spirit of 1882. 

'A man who comes to be hanged, ' pursued Jasper, impartially, 'hasthe satisfaction of knowing that he has brought society to its lastresource. He is a man of such fatal importance that nothing will serveagainst him but the supreme effort of law. In a way, you know, that issuccess. '

'In a way, ' repeated Maud, scornfully. 

'Suppose we talk of something else, ' suggested Dora, who seemed to feara conflict between her sister and Jasper. 

Almost at the same moment a diversion was afforded by the arrival of thepost. There was a letter for Mrs Milvain, a letter and newspaper forher son. Whilst the girls and their mother talked of unimportant newscommunicated by the one correspondent, Jasper read the missive addressedto himself. 

'This is from Reardon, ' he remarked to the younger girl. 'Things aregoing badly with him. He is just the kind of fellow to end by poisoningor shooting himself. '

'But why?'

'Can't get anything done; and begins to be sore troubled on his wife'saccount. '

'Is he ill?'

'Overworked, I suppose. But it's just what I foresaw. He isn't thekind of man to keep up literary production as a paying business. Infavourable circumstances he might write a fairly good book once everytwo or three years. The failure of his last depressed him, and now heis struggling hopelessly to get another done before the winter season. Those people will come to grief. '

'The enjoyment with which he anticipates it!' murmured Maud, looking ather mother. 

'Not at all, ' said Jasper. 'It's true I envied the fellow, because hepersuaded a handsome girl to believe in him and share his risks, but Ishall be very sorry if he goes to the--to the dogs. He's my one seriousfriend. But it irritates me to see a man making such large demands uponfortune. One must be more modest--as I am. Because one book had a sortof success he imagined his struggles were over. He got a hundredpounds for "On Neutral Ground, " and at once counted on a continuanceof payments in geometrical proportion. I hinted to him that he couldn'tkeep it up, and he smiled with tolerance, no doubt thinking "He judgesme by himself. " But I didn't do anything of the kind. --(Toast, please, Dora. )--I'm a stronger man than Reardon; I can keep my eyes open, andwait. '

'Is his wife the kind of person to grumble?' asked Mrs Milvain. 

'Well, yes, I suspect that she is. The girl wasn't content to go intomodest rooms--they must furnish a flat. I rather wonder he didn't starta carriage for her. Well, his next book brought only another hundred, and now, even if he finishes this one, it's very doubtful if he'll getas much. "The Optimist" was practically a failure. '

'Mr Yule may leave them some money, ' said Dora. 

'Yes. But he may live another ten years, and he would see them both inMarylebone Workhouse before he advanced sixpence, or I'm much mistakenin him. Her mother has only just enough to live upon; can't possiblyhelp them. Her brother wouldn't give or lend twopence halfpenny. '

'Has Mr Reardon no relatives!'

'I never heard him make mention of a single one. No, he has done thefatal thing. A man in his position, if he marry at all, must takeeither a work-girl or an heiress, and in many ways the work-girl ispreferable. '

'How can you say that?' asked Dora. 'You never cease talking about theadvantages of money. '

'Oh, I don't mean that for ME the work-girl would be preferable; byno means; but for a man like Reardon. He is absurd enough to beconscientious, likes to be called an "artist, " and so on. He mightpossibly earn a hundred and fifty a year if his mind were at rest, andthat would be enough if he had married a decent little dressmaker. Hewouldn't desire superfluities, and the quality of his work would be itsown reward. As it is, he's ruined. '

'And I repeat, ' said Maud, 'that you enjoy the prospect. '

'Nothing of the kind. If I seem to speak exultantly it's only becausemy intellect enjoys the clear perception of a fact. --A little marmalade, Dora; the home-made, please. '

'But this is very sad, Jasper, ' said Mrs Milvain, in her half-absentway. 'I suppose they can't even go for a holiday?'

'Quite out of the question. '

'Not even if you invited them to come here for a week?'

'Now, mother, ' urged Maud, 'THAT'S impossible, you know very well. '

'I thought we might make an effort, dear. A holiday might meaneverything to him. '

'No, no, ' fell from Jasper, thoughtfully. 'I don't think you'd getalong very well with Mrs Reardon; and then, if her uncle is coming to MrYule's, you know, that would be awkward. '

'I suppose it would; though those people would only stay a day or two, Miss Harrow said. '

'Why can't Mr Yule make them friends, those two lots of people?' askedDora. 'You say he's on good terms with both. '

'I suppose he thinks it's no business of his. '

Jasper mused over the letter from his friend. 

'Ten years hence, ' he said, 'if Reardon is still alive, I shall belending him five-pound notes. '

A smile of irony rose to Maud's lips. Dora laughed. 

'To be sure! To be sure!' exclaimed their brother. 'You have no faith. But just understand the difference between a man like Reardon and a manlike me. He is the old type of unpractical artist; I am the literary manof 1882. He won't make concessions, or rather, he can't make them;he can't supply the market. I--well, you may say that at present Ido nothing; but that's a great mistake, I am learning my business. Literature nowadays is a trade. Putting aside men of genius, who maysucceed by mere cosmic force, your successful man of letters is yourskilful tradesman. He thinks first and foremost of the markets; when onekind of goods begins to go off slackly, he is ready with something newand appetising. He knows perfectly all the possible sources of income. Whatever he has to sell he'll get payment for it from all sorts ofvarious quarters; none of your unpractical selling for a lump sum to amiddleman who will make six distinct profits. Now, look you: if I hadbeen in Reardon's place, I'd have made four hundred at least out of"The Optimist"; I should have gone shrewdly to work with magazines andnewspapers and foreign publishers, and--all sorts of people. Reardoncan't do that kind of thing, he's behind his age; he sells a manuscriptas if he lived in Sam Johnson's Grub Street. But our Grub Street ofto-day is quite a different place: it is supplied with telegraphiccommunication, it knows what literary fare is in demand in every part ofthe world, its inhabitants are men of business, however seedy. '

'It sounds ignoble, ' said Maud. 

'I have nothing to do with that, my dear girl. Now, as I tell you, I amslowly, but surely, learning the business. My line won't be novels;I have failed in that direction, I'm not cut out for the work. It's apity, of course; there's a great deal of money in it. But I have plentyof scope. In ten years, I repeat, I shall be making my thousand a year. '

'I don't remember that you stated the exact sum before, ' Maud observed. 

'Let it pass. And to those who have shall be given. When I have a decentincome of my own, I shall marry a woman with an income somewhat larger, so that casualties may be provided for. '

Dora exclaimed, laughing:

'It would amuse me very much if the Reardons got a lot of money at MrYule's death--and that can't be ten years off, I'm sure. '

'I don't see that there's any chance of their getting much, ' repliedJasper, meditatively. 'Mrs Reardon is only his niece. The man's brotherand sister will have the first helping, I suppose. And then, if it comesto the second generation, the literary Yule has a daughter, and by herbeing invited here I should think she's the favourite niece. No, no;depend upon it they won't get anything at all. '

Having finished his breakfast, he leaned back and began to unfold theLondon paper that had come by post. 

'Had Mr Reardon any hopes of that kind at the time of his marriage, doyou think?' inquired Mrs Milvain. 

'Reardon? Good heavens, no! Would he were capable of such forethought!'

In a few minutes Jasper was left alone in the room. When the servantcame to clear the table he strolled slowly away, humming a tune. 

The house was pleasantly situated by the roadside in a little villagenamed Finden. Opposite stood the church, a plain, low, square-toweredbuilding. As it was cattle-market to-day in the town of Wattleborough, droves of beasts and sheep occasionally went by, or the rattle of agrazier's cart sounded for a moment. On ordinary days the road saw fewvehicles, and pedestrians were rare. 

Mrs Milvain and her daughters had lived here for the last seven years, since the death of the father, who was a veterinary surgeon. The widowenjoyed an annuity of two hundred and forty pounds, terminable with herlife; the children had nothing of their own. Maud acted irregularly asa teacher of music; Dora had an engagement as visiting governess in aWattleborough family. Twice a year, as a rule, Jasper came down fromLondon to spend a fortnight with them; to-day marked the middle of hisautumn visit, and the strained relations between him and his sisterswhich invariably made the second week rather trying for all in the househad already become noticeable. 

In the course of the morning Jasper had half an hour's private talkwith his mother, after which he set off to roam in the sunshine. Shortlyafter he had left the house, Maud, her domestic duties dismissed for thetime, came into the parlour where Mrs Milvain was reclining on the sofa. 

'Jasper wants more money, ' said the mother, when Maud had sat inmeditation for a few minutes. 

'Of course. I knew that. I hope you told him he couldn't have it. '

'I really didn't know what to say, ' returned Mrs Milvain, in a feebletone of worry. 

'Then you must leave the matter to me, that's all. There's no money forhim, and there's an end of it. '

Maud set her features in sullen determination. There was a briefsilence. 

'What's he to do, Maud?'

'To do? How do other people do? What do Dora and I do?'

'You don't earn enough for your support, my dear. '

'Oh, well!' broke from the girl. 'Of course, if you grudge us our foodand lodging--'

'Don't be so quick-tempered. You know very well I am far from grudgingyou anything, dear. But I only meant to say that Jasper does earnsomething, you know. '

'It's a disgraceful thing that he doesn't earn as much as he needs. Weare sacrificed to him, as we always have been. Why should we be pinchingand stinting to keep him in idleness?'

'But you really can't call it idleness, Maud. He is studying hisprofession. '

'Pray call it trade; he prefers it. How do I know that he's studyinganything? What does he mean by "studying"? And to hear him speakscornfully of his friend Mr Reardon, who seems to work hard all throughthe year! It's disgusting, mother. At this rate he will never earn hisown living. Who hasn't seen or heard of such men? If we had anotherhundred a year, I would say nothing. But we can't live on what he leavesus, and I'm not going to let you try. I shall tell Jasper plainly thathe's got to work for his own support. '

Another silence, and a longer one. Mrs Milvain furtively wiped a tearfrom her cheek. 

'It seems very cruel to refuse, ' she said at length, 'when another yearmay give him the opportunity he's waiting for. '

'Opportunity? What does he mean by his opportunity?'

'He says that it always comes, if a man knows how to wait. '

'And the people who support him may starve meanwhile! Now just thinka bit, mother. Suppose anything were to happen to you, what becomes ofDora and me? And what becomes of Jasper, too? It's the truest kindnessto him to compel him to earn a living. He gets more and more incapableof it. '

'You can't say that, Maud. He earns a little more each year. But forthat, I should have my doubts. He has made thirty pounds already thisyear, and he only made about twenty-five the whole of last. We mustbe fair to him, you know. I can't help feeling that he knows what he'sabout. And if he does succeed, he'll pay us all back. '

Maud began to gnaw her fingers, a disagreeable habit she had in privacy. 

'Then why doesn't he live more economically?'

'I really don't see how he can live on less than a hundred and fifty ayear. London, you know--'

'The cheapest place in the world. '

'Nonsense, Maud!'

'But I know what I'm saying. I've read quite enough about such things. He might live very well indeed on thirty shillings a week, even buyinghis clothes out of it. '

'But he has told us so often that it's no use to him to live like that. He is obliged to go to places where he must spend a little, or he makesno progress. '

'Well, all I can say is, ' exclaimed the girl impatiently, 'it's verylucky for him that he's got a mother who willingly sacrifices herdaughters to him. '

'That's how you always break out. You don't care what unkindness yousay!'

'It's a simple truth. '

'Dora never speaks like that. '

'Because she's afraid to be honest. '

'No, because she has too much love for her mother. I can't bear to talkto you, Maud. The older I get, and the weaker I get, the more unfeelingyou are to me. '

Scenes of this kind were no uncommon thing. The clash of tempers lastedfor several minutes, then Maud flung out of the room. An hour later, atdinner-time, she was rather more caustic in her remarks than usual, butthis was the only sign that remained of the stormy mood. 

Jasper renewed the breakfast-table conversation. 

'Look here, ' he began, 'why don't you girls write something? I'mconvinced you could make money if you tried. There's a tremendous salefor religious stories; why not patch one together? I am quite serious. '

'Why don't you do it yourself, ' retorted Maud. 

'I can't manage stories, as I have told you; but I think you could. Inyour place, I'd make a speciality of Sunday-school prize-books; youknow the kind of thing I mean. They sell like hot cakes. And there's sodeuced little enterprise in the business. If you'd give your mind to it, you might make hundreds a year. '

'Better say "abandon your mind to it. "'

'Why, there you are! You're a sharp enough girl. You can quote as wellas anyone I know. '

'And please, why am I to take up an inferior kind of work?'

'Inferior? Oh, if you can be a George Eliot, begin at the earliestopportunity. I merely suggested what seemed practicable. 

But I don't think you have genius, Maud. People have got that ancientprejudice so firmly rooted in their heads--that one mustn't write saveat the dictation of the Holy Spirit. I tell you, writing is a business. Get together half-a-dozen fair specimens of the Sunday-school prize;study them; discover the essential points of such composition; hit uponnew attractions; then go to work methodically, so many pages a day. There's no question of the divine afflatus; that belongs to anothersphere of life. We talk of literature as a trade, not of Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare. If I could only get that into poor Reardon's head. Hethinks me a gross beast, often enough. What the devil--I mean what onearth is there in typography to make everything it deals with sacred?I don't advocate the propagation of vicious literature; I speak only ofgood, coarse, marketable stuff for the world's vulgar. You just give ita thought, Maud; talk it over with Dora. '

He resumed presently:

'I maintain that we people of brains are justified in supplying the mobwith the food it likes. We are not geniuses, and if we sit down in aspirit of long-eared gravity we shall produce only commonplace stuff. Let us use our wits to earn money, and make the best we can of ourlives. If only I had the skill, I would produce novels out-trashing thetrashiest that ever sold fifty thousand copies. But it needs skill, mindyou: and to deny it is a gross error of the literary pedants. Toplease the vulgar you must, one way or another, incarnate the geniusof vulgarity. For my own part, I shan't be able to address the bulkiestmultitude; my talent doesn't lend itself to that form. I shall write forthe upper middle-class of intellect, the people who like to feelthat what they are reading has some special cleverness, but who can'tdistinguish between stones and paste. That's why I'm so slow in warmingto the work. Every month I feel surer of myself, however. 

That last thing of mine in The West End distinctly hit the mark; itwasn't too flashy, it wasn't too solid. I heard fellows speak of it inthe train. '

Mrs Milvain kept glancing at Maud, with eyes which desired her attentionto these utterances. None the less, half an hour after dinner, Jasperfound himself encountered by his sister in the garden, on her face alook which warned him of what was coming. 

'I want you to tell me something, Jasper. How much longer shall you lookto mother for support? I mean it literally; let me have an idea of howmuch longer it will be. '

He looked away and reflected. 

'To leave a margin, ' was his reply, 'let us say twelve months. '

'Better say your favourite "ten years" at once. '

'No. I speak by the card. In twelve months' time, if not before, I shallbegin to pay my debts. My dear girl, I have the honour to be a tolerablylong-headed individual. I know what I'm about. '

'And let us suppose mother were to die within half a year?'

'I should make shift to do very well. '

'You? And please--what of Dora and me?'

'You would write Sunday-school prizes. '

Maud turned away and left him. 

He knocked the dust out of the pipe he had been smoking, and again setoff for a stroll along the lanes. On his countenance was just a traceof solicitude, but for the most part he wore a thoughtful smile. Nowand then he stroked his smoothly-shaven jaws with thumb and fingers. Occasionally he became observant of wayside details--of the colour of amaple leaf, the shape of a tall thistle, the consistency of a fungus. Atthe few people who passed he looked keenly, surveying them from head tofoot. 

On turning, at the limit of his walk, he found himself almost face toface with two persons, who were coming along in silent companionship;their appearance interested him. The one was a man of fifty, grizzled, hard featured, slightly bowed in the shoulders; he wore a grey felt hatwith a broad brim and a decent suit of broadcloth. With him was a girlof perhaps two-and-twenty, in a slate-coloured dress with very littleornament, and a yellow straw hat of the shape originally appropriated tomales; her dark hair was cut short, and lay in innumerable crisp curls. Father and daughter, obviously. The girl, to a casual eye, was neitherpretty nor beautiful, but she had a grave and impressive face, with acomplexion of ivory tone; her walk was gracefully modest, and she seemedto be enjoying the country air. 

Jasper mused concerning them. When he had walked a few yards, he lookedback; at the same moment the unknown man also turned his head. 

'Where the deuce have I seen them--him and the girl too?' Milvain askedhimself. 

And before he reached home the recollection he sought flashed upon hismind. 

'The Museum Reading-room, of course!'

CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE OF YULE

'I think' said Jasper, as he entered the room where his mother and Maudwere busy with plain needlework, 'I must have met Alfred Yule and hisdaughter. '

'How did you recognise them?' Mrs Milvain inquired. 

'I passed an old buffer and a pale-faced girl whom I know by sight atthe British Museum. It wasn't near Yule's house, but they were taking awalk. '

'They may have come already. When Miss Harrow was here last, she said"in about a fortnight. "'

'No mistaking them for people of these parts, even if I hadn'tremembered their faces. Both of them are obvious dwellers in the valleyof the shadow of books. '

'Is Miss Yule such a fright then?' asked Maud. 

'A fright! Not at all. A good example of the modern literary girl. Isuppose you have the oddest old-fashioned ideas of such people. No, I rather like the look of her. Simpatica, I should think, as that assWhelpdale would say. A very delicate, pure complexion, though morbid;nice eyes; figure not spoilt yet. But of course I may be wrong abouttheir identity. '

Later in the afternoon Jasper's conjecture was rendered a certainty. Maud had walked to Wattleborough, where she would meet Dora on thelatter's return from her teaching, and Mrs Milvain sat alone, in amood of depression; there was a ring at the door-bell, and the servantadmitted Miss Harrow. 

This lady acted as housekeeper to Mr John Yule, a wealthy resident inthis neighbourhood; she was the sister of his deceased wife--a thin, soft-speaking, kindly woman of forty-five. The greater part of her lifeshe had spent as a governess; her position now was more agreeable, andthe removal of her anxiety about the future had developed qualities ofcheerfulness which formerly no one would have suspected her to possess. The acquaintance between Mrs Milvain and her was only of twelve months'standing; prior to that, Mr Yule had inhabited a house at the end ofWattleborough remote from Finden. 

'Our London visitors came yesterday, ' she began by saying. 

Mrs Milvain mentioned her son's encounter an hour or two ago. 

'No doubt it was they, ' said the visitor. 'Mrs Yule hasn't come; Ihardly expected she would, you know. So very unfortunate when there aredifficulties of that kind, isn't it?'

She smiled confidentially. 

'The poor girl must feel it, ' said Mrs Milvain. 

'I'm afraid she does. Of course it narrows the circle of her friends athome. She's a sweet girl, and I should so like you to meet her. Do comeand have tea with us to-morrow afternoon, will you? Or would it be toomuch for you just now?'

'Will you let the girls call? And then perhaps Miss Yule will be so goodas to come and see me?'

'I wonder whether Mr Milvain would like to meet her father? I havethought that perhaps it might be some advantage to him. Alfred is soclosely connected with literary people, you know. '

'I feel sure he would be glad, ' replied Mrs Milvain. 'But--what ofJasper's friendship with Mrs Edmund Yule and the Reardons? Mightn't itbe a little awkward?'

'Oh, I don't think so, unless he himself felt it so. There would be noneed to mention that, I should say. And, really, it would be so muchbetter if those estrangements came to an end. John makes no scruple ofspeaking freely about everyone, and I don't think Alfred regards MrsEdmund with any serious unkindness. If Mr Milvain would walk over withthe young ladies to-morrow, it would be very pleasant. '

'Then I think I may promise that he will. I'm sure I don't know where heis at this moment. We don't see very much of him, except at meals. '

'He won't be with you much longer, I suppose?'

'Perhaps a week. '

Before Miss Harrow's departure Maud and Dora reached home. They werecurious to see the young lady from the valley of the shadow of books, and gladly accepted the invitation offered them. 

They set out on the following afternoon in their brother's company. Itwas only a quarter of an hour's walk to Mr Yule's habitation, a smallhouse in a large garden. Jasper was coming hither for the first time;his sisters now and then visited Miss Harrow, but very rarely saw MrYule himself who made no secret of the fact that he cared little forfemale society. In Wattleborough and the neighbourhood opinions variedgreatly as to this gentleman's character, but women seldom spokevery favourably of him. Miss Harrow was reticent concerning herbrother-in-law; no one, however, had any reason to believe that shefound life under his roof disagreeable. That she lived with him at allwas of course occasionally matter for comment, certain Wattleboroughladies having their doubts regarding the position of a deceased wife'ssister under such circumstances; but no one was seriously exercisedabout the relations between this sober lady of forty-five and a man ofsixty-three in broken health. 

A word of the family history. 

John, Alfred, and Edmund Yule were the sons of a Wattleboroughstationer. Each was well educated, up to the age of seventeen, at thetown's grammar school. The eldest, who was a hot-headed lad, but showedcapacities for business, worked at first with his father, endeavouringto add a bookselling department to the trade in stationery; but the lifeof home was not much to his taste, and at one-and-twenty he obtained aclerk's place in the office of a London newspaper. Three years after, his father died, and the small patrimony which fell to him he usedin making himself practically acquainted with the details of papermanufacture, his aim being to establish himself in partnership with anacquaintance who had started a small paper-mill in Hertfordshire. 

His speculation succeeded, and as years went on he became a thrivingmanufacturer. His brother Alfred, in the meantime, had drifted from workat a London bookseller's into the modern Grub Street, his adventures inwhich region will concern us hereafter. 

Edmund carried on the Wattleborough business, but with small success. Between him and his eldest brother existed a good deal of affection, and in the end John offered him a share in his flourishing paper works;whereupon Edmund married, deeming himself well established for life. ButJohn's temper was a difficult one; Edmund and he quarrelled, parted; andwhen the younger died, aged about forty, he left but moderate provisionfor his widow and two children. 

Only when he had reached middle age did John marry; the experimentcould not be called successful, and Mrs Yule died three years later, childless. 

At fifty-four John Yule retired from active business; he came back tothe scenes of his early life, and began to take an important part in themunicipal affairs of Wattleborough. He was then a remarkably robust man, fond of out-of-door exercise; he made it one of his chief efforts toencourage the local Volunteer movement, the cricket and football clubs, public sports of every kind, showing no sympathy whatever with thosepersons who wished to establish free libraries, lectures, and the like. At his own expense he built for the Volunteers a handsome drill-shed;he founded a public gymnasium; and finally he allowed it to be rumouredthat he was going to present the town with a park. But by presuming toofar upon the bodily vigour which prompted these activities, he passed ofa sudden into the state of a confirmed invalid. On an autumn expeditionin the Hebrides he slept one night under the open sky, with the resultthat he had an all but fatal attack of rheumatic fever. After that, though the direction of his interests was unchanged, he could no longerset the example to Wattleborough youth of muscular manliness. Theinfliction did not improve his temper; for the next year or two he wasconstantly at warfare with one or other of his colleagues and friends, ill brooking that the familiar control of various local interests shouldfall out of his hands. But before long he appeared to resign himselfto his fate, and at present Wattleborough saw little of him. It seemedlikely that he might still found the park which was to bear his name;but perhaps it would only be done in consequence of directions in hiswill. It was believed that he could not live much longer. 

With his kinsfolk he held very little communication. Alfred Yule, abattered man of letters, had visited Wattleborough only twice (includingthe present occasion) since John's return hither. Mrs Edmund Yule, withher daughter--now Mrs Reardon--had been only once, three years ago. These two families, as you have heard, were not on terms of amity witheach other, owing to difficulties between Mrs Alfred and Mrs Edmund; butJohn seemed to regard both impartially. Perhaps the only real warmth offeeling he had ever known was bestowed upon Edmund, and Miss Harrow hadremarked that he spoke with somewhat more interest of Edmund's daughter, Amy, than of Alfred's daughter, Marian. But it was doubtful whether thesudden disappearance from the earth of all his relatives would greatlyhave troubled him. He lived a life of curious self-absorption, readingnewspapers (little else), and talking with old friends who had stuck tohim in spite of his irascibility. 

Miss Harrow received her visitors in a small and soberly furnisheddrawing-room. She was nervous, probably because of Jasper Milvain, whomshe had met but once--last spring--and who on that occasion had struckher as an alarmingly modern young man. In the shadow of a window-curtainsat a slight, simply-dressed girl, whose short curly hair and thoughtfulcountenance Jasper again recognised. When it was his turn to bepresented to Miss Yule, he saw that she doubted for an instant whetheror not to give her hand; yet she decided to do so, and there wassomething very pleasant to him in its warm softness. She smiled with aslight embarrassment, meeting his look only for a second. 

'I have seen you several times, Miss Yule, ' he said in a friendly way, 'though without knowing your name. It was under the great dome. '

She laughed, readily understanding his phrase. 

'I am there very often, ' was her reply. 

'What great dome?' asked Miss Harrow, with surprise. 

'That of the British Museum Reading-room, ' explained Jasper; 'known tosome of us as the valley of the shadow of books. People who often workthere necessarily get to know each other by sight. 

In the same way I knew Miss Yule's father when I happened to pass him inthe road yesterday. '

The three girls began to converse together, perforce of trivialities. Marian Yule spoke in rather slow tones, thoughtfully, gently; she hadlinked her fingers, and laid her hands, palms downwards, upon her lap--anervous action. Her accent was pure, unpretentious; and she used none ofthe fashionable turns of speech which would have suggested the habit ofintercourse with distinctly metropolitan society. 

'You must wonder how we exist in this out-of-the-way place, ' remarkedMaud. 

'Rather, I envy you, ' Marian answered, with a slight emphasis. 

The door opened, and Alfred Yule presented himself. He was tall, and hishead seemed a disproportionate culmination to his meagre body, it was solarge and massively featured. Intellect and uncertainty of temper wereequally marked upon his visage; his brows were knitted in a permanentexpression of severity. He had thin, smooth hair, grizzled whiskers, ashaven chin. In the multitudinous wrinkles of his face lay a history oflaborious and stormy life; one readily divined in him a struggling andembittered man. Though he looked older than his years, he had by nomeans the appearance of being beyond the ripeness of his mental vigour. 

'It pleases me to meet you, Mr Milvain, ' he said, as he stretched outhis bony hand. 'Your name reminds me of a paper in The Wayside a monthor two ago, which you will perhaps allow a veteran to say was not illdone. '

'I am grateful to you for noticing it, ' replied Jasper. 

There was positively a touch of visible warmth upon his cheek. Theallusion had come so unexpectedly that it caused him keen pleasure. 

Mr Yule seated himself awkwardly, crossed his legs, and began to strokethe back of his left hand, which lay on his knee. He seemed to havenothing more to say at present, and allowed Miss Harrow and the girls tosupport conversation. Jasper listened with a smile for a minute or two, then he addressed the veteran. 'Have you seen The Study this week, MrYule?'

'Yes. '

'Did you notice that it contains a very favourable review of a novelwhich was tremendously abused in the same columns three weeks ago?'

Mr Yule started, but Jasper could perceive at once that his emotion wasnot disagreeable. 

'You don't say so. '

'Yes. The novel is Miss Hawk's "On the Boards. " How will the editor getout of this?'

'H'm! Of course Mr Fadge is not immediately responsible; but it'll beunpleasant for him, decidedly unpleasant. ' He smiled grimly. 'You hearthis, Marian?'

'How is it explained, father?'

'May be accident, of course; but--well, there's no knowing. I thinkit very likely this will be the end of Mr Fadge's tenure of office. Rackett, the proprietor, only wants a plausible excuse for making achange. The paper has been going downhill for the last year; I know oftwo publishing houses who have withdrawn their advertising from it, andwho never send their books for review. Everyone foresaw that kind ofthing from the day Mr Fadge became editor. The tone of his paragraphshas been detestable. Two reviews of the same novel, eh? Anddiametrically opposed? Ha! Ha!'

Gradually he had passed from quiet appreciation of the joke toundisguised mirth and pleasure. His utterance of the name 'Mr Fadge'sufficiently intimated that he had some cause of personal discontentwith the editor of The Study. 

'The author, ' remarked Milvain, 'ought to make a good thing out ofthis. '

'Will, no doubt. Ought to write at once to the papers, calling attentionto this sample of critical impartiality. Ha! ha!'

He rose and went to the window, where for several minutes he stoodgazing at vacancy, the same grim smile still on his face. Jasper in themeantime amused the ladies (his sisters had heard him on the subjectalready) with a description of the two antagonistic notices. But hedid not trust himself to express so freely as he had done at home hisopinion of reviewing in general; it was more than probable that bothYule and his daughter did a good deal of such work. 

'Suppose we go into the garden, ' suggested Miss Harrow, presently. 'Itseems a shame to sit indoors on such a lovely afternoon. '

Hitherto there had been no mention of the master of the house. But MrYule now remarked to Jasper:

'My brother would be glad if you would come and have a word with him. Heisn't quite well enough to leave his room to-day. '

So, as the ladies went gardenwards, Jasper followed the man of lettersupstairs to a room on the first floor. Here, in a deep cane chair, whichwas placed by the open window, sat John Yule. He was completely dressed, save that instead of coat he wore a dressing-gown. The faciallikeness between him and his brother was very strong, but John'swould universally have been judged the finer countenance; illnessnotwithstanding, he had a complexion which contrasted in its pure colourwith Alfred's parchmenty skin, and there was more finish about hisfeatures. His abundant hair was reddish, his long moustache and trimmedbeard a lighter shade of the same hue. 

'So you too are in league with the doctors, ' was his bluff greeting, as he held a hand to the young man and inspected him with a look ofslighting good-nature. 

'Well, that certainly is one way of regarding the literary profession, 'admitted Jasper, who had heard enough of John's way of thinking tounderstand the remark. 

'A young fellow with all the world before him, too. Hang it, Mr Milvain, is there no less pernicious work you can turn your hand to?'

'I'm afraid not, Mr Yule. After all, you know, you must be held in ameasure responsible for my depravity. '

'How's that?'

'I understand that you have devoted most of your life to the makingof paper. If that article were not so cheap and so abundant, peoplewouldn't have so much temptation to scribble. '

Alfred Yule uttered a short laugh. 

'I think you are cornered, John. '

'I wish, ' answered John, 'that you were both condemned to write on suchpaper as I chiefly made; it was a special kind of whitey-brown, used byshopkeepers. '

He chuckled inwardly, and at the same time reached out for a box ofcigarettes on a table near him. His brother and Jasper each took one ashe offered them, and began to smoke. 

'You would like to see literary production come entirely to an end?'said Milvain. 

'I should like to see the business of literature abolished. '

'There's a distinction, of course. But, on the whole, I should say thateven the business serves a good purpose. '

'What purpose?'

'It helps to spread civilisation. '

'Civilisation!' exclaimed John, scornfully. 'What do you mean bycivilisation? Do you call it civilising men to make them weak, flabbycreatures, with ruined eyes and dyspeptic stomachs? Who is it thatreads most of the stuff that's poured out daily by the ton from theprinting-press? Just the men and women who ought to spend their leisurehours in open-air exercise; the people who earn their bread by sedentarypursuits, and who need to live as soon as they are free from the deskor the counter, not to moon over small print. Your Board schools, yourpopular press, your spread of education! Machinery for ruining thecountry, that's what I call it. '

'You have done a good deal, I think, to counteract those influences inWattleborough. '

'I hope so; and if only I had kept the use of my limbs I'd have done agood deal more. I have an idea of offering substantial prizes to menand women engaged in sedentary work who take an oath to abstain from allreading, and keep it for a certain number of years. There's a good dealmore need for that than for abstinence from strong liquor. If I couldhave had my way I would have revived prize-fighting. '

His brother laughed with contemptuous impatience. 

'You would doubtless like to see military conscription introduced intoEngland?' said Jasper. 

'Of course I should! You talk of civilising; there's no such way ofcivilising the masses of the people as by fixed military service. Beforemental training must come training of the body. Go about the Continent, and see the effect of military service on loutish peasants and thelowest classes of town population. Do you know why it isn't even moresuccessful? Because the damnable education movement interferes. IfGermany would shut up her schools and universities for the next quarterof a century and go ahead like blazes with military training there'd bea nation such as the world has never seen. After that, they might begina little book-teaching again--say an hour and a half a day for everyoneabove nine years old. Do you suppose, Mr Milvain, that society is goingto be reformed by you people who write for money? Why, you are the veryfirst class that will be swept from the face of the earth as soon as thereformation really begins!'

Alfred puffed at his cigarette. His thoughts were occupied with MrFadge and The Study. He was considering whether he could aid in bringingpublic contempt upon that literary organ and its editor. Milvainlistened to the elder man's diatribe with much amusement. 

'You, now, ' pursued John, 'what do you write about?'

'Nothing in particular. I make a salable page or two out of whateverstrikes my fancy. '

'Exactly! You don't even pretend that you've got anything to say. Youlive by inducing people to give themselves mental indigestion--andbodily, too, for that matter. '

'Do you know, Mr Yule, that you have suggested a capital idea to me? IfI were to take up your views, I think it isn't at all unlikely thatI might make a good thing of writing against writing. It should be myliterary specialty to rail against literature. The reading public shouldpay me for telling them that they oughtn't to read. I must think itover. '

'Carlyle has anticipated you, ' threw in Alfred. 

'Yes, but in an antiquated way. I would base my polemic on the newestphilosophy. '

He developed the idea facetiously, whilst John regarded him as he mighthave watched a performing monkey. 

'There again! your new philosophy!' exclaimed the invalid. 'Why, itisn't even wholesome stuff, the kind of reading that most of youforce on the public. Now there's the man who has married one of mynieces--poor lass! Reardon, his name is. You know him, I dare say. Just for curiosity I had a look at one of his books; it was called "TheOptimist. " Of all the morbid trash I ever saw, that beat everything. Ithought of writing him a letter, advising a couple of anti-bilious pillsbefore bedtime for a few weeks. '

Jasper glanced at Alfred Yule, who wore a look of indifference. 

'That man deserves penal servitude in my opinion, ' pursued John. 'I'mnot sure that it isn't my duty to offer him a couple of hundred a yearon condition that he writes no more. '

Milvain, with a clear vision of his friend in London, burst intolaughter. But at that point Alfred rose from his chair. 

'Shall we rejoin the ladies?' he said, with a certain pedantryof phrase and manner which often characterised him. 

'Think over your ways whilst you're still young, ' said John as he shookhands with his visitor. 

'Your brother speaks quite seriously, I suppose?' Jasper remarked whenhe was in the garden with Alfred. 

'I think so. It's amusing now and then, but gets rather tiresome whenyou hear it often. By-the-bye, you are not personally acquainted with MrFadge?'

'I didn't even know his name until you mentioned it. '

'The most malicious man in the literary world. There's nouncharitableness in feeling a certain pleasure when he gets into ascrape. I could tell you incredible stories about him; but that kind ofthing is probably as little to your taste as it is to mine. '

Miss Harrow and her companions, having caught sight of the pair, cametowards them. Tea was to be brought out into the garden. 

'So you can sit with us and smoke, if you like, ' said Miss Harrow toAlfred. 'You are never quite at your ease, I think, without a pipe. '

But the man of letters was too preoccupied for society. In a few minuteshe begged that the ladies would excuse his withdrawing; he had two orthree letters to write before post-time, which was early at Finden. 

Jasper, relieved by the veteran's departure, began at once to makehimself very agreeable company. When he chose to lay aside the topic ofhis own difficulties and ambitions, he could converse with a spontaneousgaiety which readily won the good-will of listeners. Naturallyhe addressed himself very often to Marian Yule, whose attentioncomplimented him. She said little, and evidently was at no time a freetalker, but the smile on her face indicated a mood of quiet enjoyment. When her eyes wandered, it was to rest on the beauties of the garden, the moving patches of golden sunshine, the forms of gleaming cloud. Jasper liked to observe her as she turned her head: there seemed to hima particular grace in the movement; her head and neck were admirablyformed, and the short hair drew attention to this. 

It was agreed that Miss Harrow and Marian should come on the secondday after to have tea with the Milvains. And when Jasper took leave ofAlfred Yule, the latter expressed a wish that they might have a walktogether one of these mornings. 

CHAPTER III. HOLIDAY

Jasper's favourite walk led him to a spot distant perhaps a mile and ahalf from home. From a tract of common he turned into a short lane whichcrossed the Great Western railway, and thence by a stile into certainmeadows forming a compact little valley. One recommendation of thisretreat was that it lay sheltered from all winds; to Jasper a wind wasobjectionable. Along the bottom ran a clear, shallow stream, overhungwith elder and hawthorn bushes; and close by the wooden bridge whichspanned it was a great ash tree, making shadow for cows and sheep whenthe sun lay hot upon the open field. It was rare for anyone to comealong this path, save farm labourers morning and evening. 

But to-day--the afternoon that followed his visit to John Yule'shouse--he saw from a distance that his lounging-place on the woodenbridge was occupied. Someone else had discovered the pleasure there wasin watching the sun-flecked sparkle of the water as it flowed over theclean sand and stones. A girl in a yellow-straw hat; yes, and preciselythe person he had hoped, at the first glance, that it might be. Hemade no haste as he drew nearer on the descending path. At length hisfootstep was heard; Marian Yule turned her head and clearly recognisedhim. 

She assumed an upright position, letting one of her hands rest uponthe rail. After the exchange of ordinary greetings, Jasper leaned backagainst the same support and showed himself disposed for talk. 

'When I was here late in the spring, ' he said, 'this ash was only justbudding, though everything else seemed in full leaf. '

'An ash, is it?' murmured Marian. 'I didn't know. I think an oak is theonly tree I can distinguish. Yet, ' she added quickly, 'I knew that theash was late; some lines of Tennyson come to my memory. '

'Which are those?'

 'Delaying, as the tender ash delays To clothe herself when all the woods are green, somewhere in the "Idylls. "'

'I don't remember; so I won't pretend to--though I should do so as arule. '

She looked at him oddly, and seemed about to laugh, yet did not. 

'You have had little experience of the country?' Jasper continued. 

'Very little. You, I think, have known it from childhood?'

'In a sort of way. I was born in Wattleborough, and my people havealways lived here. But I am not very rural in temperament. I have reallyno friends here; either they have lost interest in me, or I in them. What do you think of the girls, my sisters?'

The question, though put with perfect simplicity, was embarrassing. 

'They are tolerably intellectual, ' Jasper went on, when he saw that itwould be difficult for her to answer. 'I want to persuade them to trytheir hands at literary work of some kind or other. They give lessons, and both hate it. '

'Would literary work be less--burdensome?' said Marian, without lookingat him. 

'Rather more so, you think?'

She hesitated. 

'It depends, of course, on--on several things. '

'To be sure, ' Jasper agreed. 'I don't think they have any marked facultyfor such work; but as they certainly haven't for teaching, that doesn'tmatter. It's a question of learning a business. I am going through myapprenticeship, and find it a long affair. Money would shorten it, and, unfortunately, I have none. '

'Yes, ' said Marian, turning her eyes upon the stream, 'money is a helpin everything. '

'Without it, one spends the best part of one's life in toiling for thatfirst foothold which money could at once purchase. To have money isbecoming of more and more importance in a literary career; principallybecause to have money is to have friends. Year by year, such influencegrows of more account. A lucky man will still occasionally succeed bydint of his own honest perseverance, but the chances are dead againstanyone who can't make private interest with influential people; his workis simply overwhelmed by that of the men who have better opportunities. '

'Don't you think that, even to-day, really good work will sooner orlater be recognised?'

'Later, rather than sooner; and very likely the man can't wait; hestarves in the meantime. You understand that I am not speaking ofgenius; I mean marketable literary work. The quantity turned out isso great that there's no hope for the special attention of the publicunless one can afford to advertise hugely. Take the instance of asuccessful all-round man of letters; take Ralph Warbury, whose nameyou'll see in the first magazine you happen to open. But perhaps he is afriend of yours?'

'Oh no!'

'Well, I wasn't going to abuse him. I was only going to ask: Is thereany quality which distinguishes his work from that of twenty strugglingwriters one could name? Of course not. He's a clever, prolific man; soare they. But he began with money and friends; he came from Oxford intothe thick of advertised people; his name was mentioned in print sixtimes a week before he had written a dozen articles. This kind of thingwill become the rule. Men won't succeed in literature that they mayget into society, but will get into society that they may succeed inliterature. '

'Yes, I know it is true, ' said Marian, in a low voice. 

'There's a friend of mine who writes novels, ' Jasper pursued. 'Hisbooks are not works of genius, but they are glaringly distinct from theordinary circulating novel. Well, after one or two attempts, he madehalf a success; that is to say, the publishers brought out a secondedition of the book in a few months. There was his opportunity. But hecouldn't use it; he had no friends, because he had no money. A book ofhalf that merit, if written by a man in the position of Warbury whenhe started, would have established the reputation of a lifetime. Hisinfluential friends would have referred to it in leaders, in magazinearticles, in speeches, in sermons. It would have run through numerouseditions, and the author would have had nothing to do but to writeanother book and demand his price. But the novel I'm speaking of waspractically forgotten a year after its appearance; it was whelmedbeneath the flood of next season's literature. '

Marian urged a hesitating objection. 

'But, under the circumstances, wasn't it in the author's power to makefriends? Was money really indispensable?'

'Why, yes--because he chose to marry. As a bachelor he might possiblyhave got into the right circles, though his character would in any casehave made it difficult for him to curry favour. 

But as a married man, without means, the situation was hopeless. Oncemarried you must live up to the standard of the society you frequent;you can't be entertained without entertaining in return. Now if his wifehad brought him only a couple of thousand pounds all might have beenwell. I should have advised him, in sober seriousness, to live for twoyears at the rate of a thousand a year. At the end of that time he wouldhave been earning enough to continue at pretty much the same rate ofexpenditure. '

'Perhaps. '

'Well, I ought rather to say that the average man of letters would beable to do that. As for Reardon--'

He stopped. The name had escaped him unawares. 

'Reardon?' said Marian, looking up. 'You are speaking of him?'

'I have betrayed myself Miss Yule. '

'But what does it matter? You have only spoken in his favour. '

'I feared the name might affect you disagreeably. '

Marian delayed her reply. 

'It is true, ' she said, 'we are not on friendly terms with my cousin'sfamily. I have never met Mr Reardon. But I shouldn't like you to thinkthat the mention of his name is disagreeable to me. '

'It made me slightly uncomfortable yesterday--the fact that I am wellacquainted with Mrs Edmund Yule, and that Reardon is my friend. YetI didn't see why that should prevent my making your father'sacquaintance. '

'Surely not. I shall say nothing about it; I mean, as you uttered thename unintentionally. '

There was a pause in the dialogue. They had been speaking almostconfidentially, and Marian seemed to become suddenly aware of an oddnessin the situation. She turned towards the uphill path, as if thinking ofresuming her walk. 

'You are tired of standing still, ' said Jasper. 'May I walk back a partof the way with you?'

'Thank you; I shall be glad. '

They went on for a few minutes in silence. 

'Have you published anything with your signature, Miss Yule?' Jasper atlength inquired. 

'Nothing. I only help father a little. '

The silence that again followed was broken this time by Marian. 

'When you chanced to mention Mr Reardon's name, ' she said, with adiffident smile in which lay that suggestion of humour so delightfulupon a woman's face, 'you were going to say something more about him?'

'Only that--' he broke off and laughed. 'Now, how boyish it was, wasn'tit? I remember doing just the same thing once when I came homefrom school and had an exciting story to tell, with preservation ofanonymities. Of course I blurted out a name in the first minute or two, to my father's great amusement. He told me that I hadn't the diplomaticcharacter. I have been trying to acquire it ever since. 

'But why?'

'It's one of the essentials of success in any kind of public life. AndI mean to succeed, you know. I feel that I am one of the men who dosucceed. But I beg your pardon; you asked me a question. Really, I wasonly going to say of Reardon what I had said before: that he hasn't thetact requisite for acquiring popularity. '

'Then I may hope that it isn't his marriage with my cousin which hasproved a fatal misfortune?'

'In no case, ' replied Milvain, averting his look, 'would he have usedhis advantages. '

'And now? Do you think he has but poor prospects?'

'I wish I could see any chance of his being estimated at his rightvalue. It's very hard to say what is before him. '

'I knew my cousin Amy when we were children, ' said Marian, presently. 'She gave promise of beauty. '

'Yes, she is beautiful. '

'And--the kind of woman to be of help to such a husband?'

'I hardly know how to answer, Miss Yule, ' said Jasper, looking franklyat her. 'Perhaps I had better say that it's unfortunate they are poor. '

Marian cast down her eyes. 

'To whom isn't it a misfortune?' pursued her companion. 'Poverty is theroot of all social ills; its existence accounts even for the ills thatarise from wealth. The poor man is a man labouring in fetters. I declarethere is no word in our language which sounds so hideous to me as"Poverty. "'

Shortly after this they came to the bridge over the railway line. Jasperlooked at his watch. 

'Will you indulge me in a piece of childishness?' he said. 'In less thanfive minutes a London express goes by; I have often watched it here, andit amuses me. Would it weary you to wait?'

'I should like to, ' she replied with a laugh. 

The line ran along a deep cutting, from either side of which grew hazelbushes and a few larger trees. Leaning upon the parapet of the bridge, Jasper kept his eye in the westward direction, where the gleaming railswere visible for more than a mile. Suddenly he raised his finger. 

'You hear?'

Marian had just caught the far-off sound of the train. She lookedeagerly, and in a few moments saw it approaching. The front of theengine blackened nearer and nearer, coming on with dread force andspeed. A blinding rush, and there burst against the bridge a greatvolley of sunlit steam. Milvain and his companion ran to the oppositeparapet, but already the whole train had emerged, and in a few secondsit had disappeared round a sharp curve. The leafy branches that grew outover the line swayed violently backwards and forwards in the perturbedair. 

'If I were ten years younger, ' said Jasper, laughing, 'I should say thatwas jolly! It enspirits me. It makes me feel eager to go back and plungeinto the fight again. '

'Upon me it has just the opposite effect, ' fell from Marian, in very lowtones. 

'Oh, don't say that! Well, it only means that you haven't had enoughholiday yet. I have been in the country more than a week; a few daysmore and I must be off. How long do you think of staying?'

'Not much more than a week, I think. '

'By-the-bye, you are coming to have tea with us to-morrow, ' Jasperremarked a propos of nothing. Then he returned to another subject thatwas in his thoughts. 

'It was by a train like that that I first went up to London. Not reallythe first time; I mean when I went to live there, seven years ago. What spirits I was in! A boy of eighteen going to live independently inLondon; think of it!'

'You went straight from school?'

'I was for two years at Redmayne College after leaving WattleboroughGrammar School. Then my father died, and I spent nearly half a year athome. I was meant to be a teacher, but the prospect of entering a schoolby no means appealed to me. A friend of mine was studying in London forsome Civil Service exam. , so I declared that I would go and do the samething. '

'Did you succeed?'

'Not I! I never worked properly for that kind of thing. I readvoraciously, and got to know London. I might have gone to the dogs, youknow; but by when I had been in London a year a pretty clear purposebegan to form in me. Strange to think that you were growing up there allthe time. I may have passed you in the street now and then. '

Marian laughed. 

'And I did at length see you at the British Museum, you know. '

They turned a corner of the road, and came full upon Marian's father, who was walking in this direction with eyes fixed upon the ground. 

'So here you are!' he exclaimed, looking at the girl, and for the momentpaying no attention to Jasper. 'I wondered whether I should meet you. 'Then, more dryly, 'How do you do, Mr Milvain?'

In a tone of easy indifference Jasper explained how he came to beaccompanying Miss Yule. 

'Shall I walk on with you, father?' Marian asked, scrutinising hisrugged features. 

'Just as you please; I don't know that I should have gone much further. But we might take another way back. '

Jasper readily adapted himself to the wish he discerned in Mr Yule; atonce he offered leave-taking in the most natural way. Nothing was saidon either side about another meeting. 

The young man proceeded homewards, but, on arriving, did not at onceenter the house. Behind the garden was a field used for the grazing ofhorses; he entered it by the unfastened gate, and strolled idly hitherand thither, now and then standing to observe a poor worn-out beast, allskin and bone, which had presumably been sent here in the hope that alittle more labour might still be exacted from it if it were sufferedto repose for a few weeks. There were sores upon its back and legs; itstood in a fixed attitude of despondency, just flicking away troublesomeflies with its grizzled tail. 

It was tea-time when he went in. Maud was not at home, and Mrs Milvain, tormented by a familiar headache, kept her room; so Jasper and Dora satdown together. Each had an open book on the table; throughout the mealthey exchanged only a few words. 

'Going to play a little?' Jasper suggested when they had gone into thesitting-room. 

'If you like. '

She sat down at the piano, whilst her brother lay on the sofa, hishands clasped beneath his head. Dora did not play badly, but anabsentmindedness which was commonly observable in her had its effectupon the music. She at length broke off idly in the middle of a passage, and began to linger on careless chords. Then, without turning her head, she asked:

'Were you serious in what you said about writing storybooks?'

'Quite. I see no reason why you shouldn't do something in that way. ButI tell you what; when I get back, I'll inquire into the state of themarket. I know a man who was once engaged at Jolly & Monk's--the chiefpublishers of that kind of thing, you know; I must look him up--what amistake it is to neglect any acquaintance!--and get some information outof him. But it's obvious what an immense field there is for anyone whocan just hit the taste of the' new generation of Board school children. Mustn't be too goody-goody; that kind of thing is falling out of date. But you'd have to cultivate a particular kind of vulgarity. 

There's an idea, by-the-bye. I'll write a paper on the characteristicsof that new generation; it may bring me a few guineas, and it would be ahelp to you. '

'But what do you know about the subject?' asked Dora doubtfully. 

'What a comical question! It is my business to know something aboutevery subject--or to know where to get the knowledge. '

'Well, ' said Dora, after a pause, 'there's no doubt Maud and I oughtto think very seriously about the future. You are aware, Jasper, thatmother has not been able to save a penny of her income. '

'I don't see how she could have done. Of course I know what you'rethinking; but for me, it would have been possible. I don't mindconfessing to you that the thought troubles me a little now and then;I shouldn't like to see you two going off governessing in strangers'houses. All I can say is, that I am very honestly working for the endwhich I am convinced will be most profitable. 

I shall not desert you; you needn't fear that. But just put your headstogether, and cultivate your writing faculty. Suppose you could bothtogether earn about a hundred a year in Grub Street, it would be betterthan governessing; wouldn't it?'

'You say you don't know what Miss Yule writes?'

'Well, I know a little more about her than I did yesterday. I've had anhour's talk with her this afternoon. '

'Indeed?'

'Met her down in the Leggatt fields. I find she doesn't writeindependently; just helps her father. What the help amounts to I can'tsay. There's something very attractive about her. She quoted a line ortwo of Tennyson; the first time I ever heard a woman speak blank versewith any kind of decency. '

'She was walking alone?'

'Yes. On the way back we met old Yule; he seemed rather grumpy, Ithought. I don't think she's the kind of girl to make a paying businessof literature. Her qualities are personal. And it's pretty clear tome that the valley of the shadow of books by no means agrees with herdisposition. Possibly old Yule is something of a tyrant. '

'He doesn't impress me very favourably. Do you think you will keep uptheir acquaintance in London?'

'Can't say. I wonder what sort of a woman that mother really is? Can'tbe so very gross, I should think. '

'Miss Harrow knows nothing about her, except that she was a quiteuneducated girl. '

'But, dash it! by this time she must have got decent manners. Of coursethere may be other objections. Mrs Reardon knows nothing against her. '

Midway in the following morning, as Jasper sat with a book in thegarden, he was surprised to see Alfred Yule enter by the gate. 

'I thought, ' began the visitor, who seemed in high spirits, 'that youmight like to see something I received this morning. '

He unfolded a London evening paper, and indicated a long letter froma casual correspondent. It was written by the authoress of 'On theBoards, ' and drew attention, with much expenditure of witticism, to theconflicting notices of that book which had appeared in The Study. Jasperread the thing with laughing appreciation. 

'Just what one expected!'

'And I have private letters on the subject, ' added Mr Yule. 

'There has been something like a personal conflict between Fadge and theman who looks after the minor notices. Fadge, more so, charged the otherman with a design to damage him and the paper. There's talk of legalproceedings. An immense joke!'

He laughed in his peculiar croaking way. 

'Do you feel disposed for a turn along the lanes, Mr Milvain?'

'By all means. --There's my mother at the window; will you come in for amoment?'

With a step of quite unusual sprightliness Mr Yule entered the house. He could talk of but one subject, and Mrs Milvain had to listen to alaboured account of the blunder just committed by The Study. It wasAlfred's Yule's characteristic that he could do nothing lighthandedly. He seemed always to converse with effort; he took a seat with stiffungainliness; he walked with a stumbling or sprawling gait. 

When he and Jasper set out for their ramble, his loquacity was in strongcontrast with the taciturn mood he had exhibited yesterday and the daybefore. He fell upon the general aspects of contemporary literature. 

'. .. The evil of the time is the multiplication of ephemerides. Hence ademand for essays, descriptive articles, fragments of criticism, out ofall proportion to the supply of even tolerable work. The men who havean aptitude for turning out this kind of thing in vast quantities areenlisted by every new periodical, with the result that their productionsare ultimately watered down into worthlessness. .. . Well now, there'sFadge. Years ago some of Fadge's work was not without a certain--acertain conditional promise of--of comparative merit; but now hiswriting, in my opinion, is altogether beneath consideration; how Rackettcould be so benighted as to give him The Study--especially after a manlike Henry Hawkridge--passes my comprehension. Did you read a paper ofhis, a few months back, in The Wayside, a preposterous rehabilitation ofElkanah Settle? Ha! Ha! That's what such men are driven to. ElkanahSettle! And he hadn't even a competent acquaintance with his paltrysubject. Will you credit that he twice or thrice referred to Settle'sreply to "Absalom and Achitophel" by the title of "Absalom Transposed, "when every schoolgirl knows that the thing was called "AchitophelTransposed"! This was monstrous enough, but there was something stillmore contemptible. He positively, I assure you, attributed the play of"Epsom Wells" to Crowne! I should have presumed that every student ofeven the most trivial primer of literature was aware that "Epsom Wells"was written by Shadwell. .. . Now, if one were to take Shadwell for thesubject of a paper, one might very well show how unjustly his name hasfallen into contempt. It has often occurred to me to do this. "ButShadwell never deviates into sense. " The sneer, in my opinion, isentirely unmerited. For my own part, I put Shadwell very high among thedramatists of his time, and I think I could show that his absolute worthis by no means inconsiderable. Shadwell has distinct vigour of dramaticconception; his dialogue. .. . '

And as he talked the man kept describing imaginary geometrical figureswith the end of his walking-stick; he very seldom raised his eyesfrom the ground, and the stoop in his shoulders grew more and morepronounced, until at a little distance one might have taken him for ahunchback. At one point Jasper made a pause to speak of the pleasantwooded prospect that lay before them; his companion regarded itabsently, and in a moment or two asked:

'Did you ever come across Cottle's poem on the Malvern Hills? No?

It contains a couple of the richest lines ever put into print:

 It needs the evidence of close deduction To know that I shall ever reach the top. 

Perfectly serious poetry, mind you!'

He barked in laughter. Impossible to interest him in anything apart fromliterature; yet one saw him to be a man of solid understanding, andnot without perception of humour. He had read vastly; his memory was aliterary cyclopaedia. His failings, obvious enough, were the resultsof a strong and somewhat pedantic individuality ceaselessly at conflictwith unpropitious circumstances. 

Towards the young man his demeanour varied between a shy cordiality anda dignified reserve which was in danger of seeming pretentious. On thehomeward part of the walk he made a few discreet inquiries regardingMilvain's literary achievements and prospects, and the frankself-confidence of the replies appeared to interest him. But heexpressed no desire to number Jasper among his acquaintances in town, and of his own professional or private concerns he said not a word. 

'Whether he could be any use to me or not, I don't exactly know, ' Jasperremarked to his mother and sisters at dinner. 'I suspect it's as much ashe can do to keep a footing among the younger tradesmen. But I think hemight have said he was willing to help me if he could. '

'Perhaps, ' replied Maud, 'your large way of talking made him think anysuch offer superfluous. '

'You have still to learn, ' said Jasper, 'that modesty helps a man in nodepartment of modern life. People take you at your own valuation. It'sthe men who declare boldly that they need no help to whom practicalhelp comes from all sides. As likely as not Yule will mention my nameto someone. "A young fellow who seems to see his way pretty clear beforehim. " The other man will repeat it to somebody else, "A young fellowwhose way is clear before him, " and so I come to the ears of a man whothinks "Just the fellow I want; I must look him up and ask him if he'lldo such-and-such a thing. " But I should like to see these Yules at home;I must fish for an invitation. '

In the afternoon, Miss Harrow and Marian came at the expected hour. Jasper purposely kept out of the way until he was summoned to thetea-table. 

The Milvain girls were so far from effusive, even towards oldacquaintances, that even the people who knew them best spoke of themas rather cold and perhaps a trifle condescending; there were peoplein Wattleborough who declared their airs of superiority ridiculous andinsufferable. The truth was that nature had endowed them with a largershare of brains than was common in their circle, and had added thattouch of pride which harmonised so ill with the restrictions ofpoverty. Their life had a tone of melancholy, the painful reserve whichcharacterises a certain clearly defined class in the present day. Hadthey been born twenty years earlier, the children of that veterinarysurgeon would have grown up to a very different, and in all probabilitya much happier, existence, for their education would have beenlimited to the strictly needful, and--certainly in the case of thegirls--nothing would have encouraged them to look beyond the simple lifepossible to a poor man's offspring. But whilst Maud and Dora were stillwith their homely schoolmistress, Wattleborough saw fit to establisha Girls' High School, and the moderateness of the fees enabled thesesisters to receive an intellectual training wholly incompatible with thematerial conditions of their life. To the relatively poor (who are somuch worse off than the poor absolutely) education is in most casesa mocking cruelty. The burden of their brother's support made it verydifficult for Maud and Dora even to dress as became their intellectualstation; amusements, holidays, the purchase of such simple luxuries aswere all but indispensable to them, could not be thought of. It resultedthat they held apart from the society which would have welcomed them, for they could not bear to receive without offering in turn. Thenecessity of giving lessons galled them; they felt--and with everyreason--that it made their position ambiguous. So that, though theycould not help knowing many people, they had no intimates; theyencouraged no one to visit them, and visited other houses as little asmight be. 

In Marian Yule they divined a sympathetic nature. She was unlike anygirl with whom they had hitherto associated, and it was the impulse ofboth to receive her with unusual friendliness. The habit of reticencecould not be at once overcome, and Marian's own timidity was an obstaclein the way of free intercourse, but Jasper's conversation at tea helpedto smooth the course of things. 

'I wish you lived anywhere near us, ' Dora said to their visitor, as thethree girls walked in the garden afterwards, and Maud echoed the wish. 

'It would be very nice, ' was Marian's reply. 'I have no friends of myown age in London. '

'None?'

'Not one!'

She was about to add something, but in the end kept silence. 

'You seem to get along with Miss Yule pretty well, after all, ' saidJasper, when the family were alone again. 

'Did you anticipate anything else?' Maud asked. 

'It seemed doubtful, up at Yule's house. Well, get her to come hereagain before I go. But it's a pity she doesn't play the piano, ' headded, musingly. 

For two days nothing was seen of the Yules. Jasper went each afternoonto the stream in the valley, but did not again meet Marian. In themeanwhile he was growing restless. A fortnight always exhausted hiscapacity for enjoying the companionship of his mother and sisters, andthis time he seemed anxious to get to the end of his holiday. For allthat, there was no continuance of the domestic bickering which hadbegun. Whatever the reason, Maud behaved with unusual mildness to herbrother, and Jasper in turn was gently disposed to both the girls. 

On the morning of the third day--it was Saturday--he kept silencethrough breakfast, and just as all were about to rise from the table, hemade a sudden announcement:

'I shall go to London this afternoon. '

'This afternoon?' all exclaimed. 'But Monday is your day. '

'No, I shall go this afternoon, by the 2. 45. '

And he left the room. Mrs Milvain and the girls exchanged looks. 

'I suppose he thinks the Sunday will be too wearisome, ' said the mother. 

'Perhaps so, ' Maud agreed, carelessly. 

Half an hour later, just as Dora was ready to leave the house for herengagements in Wattleborough, her brother came into the hall and tookhis hat, saying:

'I'll walk a little way with you, if you don't mind. '

When they were in the road, he asked her in an offhand manner:

'Do you think I ought to say good-bye to the Yules? Or won't itsignify?'

'I should have thought you would wish to. '

'I don't care about it. And, you see, there's been no hint of a wish ontheir part that I should see them in London. No, I'll just leave you tosay good-bye for me. '

'But they expect to see us to-day or to-morrow. You told them you werenot going till Monday, and you don't know but Mr Yule might mean to saysomething yet. '

'Well, I had rather he didn't, ' replied Jasper, with a laugh. 

'Oh, indeed?'

'I don't mind telling you, ' he laughed again. 'I'm afraid of that girl. No, it won't do! You understand that I'm a practical man, and I shallkeep clear of dangers. These days of holiday idleness put all sorts ofnonsense into one's head. '

Dora kept her eyes down, and smiled ambiguously. 

'You must act as you think fit, ' she remarked at length. 

'Exactly. Now I'll turn back. You'll be with us at dinner?'

They parted. But Jasper did not keep to the straight way home. First ofall, he loitered to watch a reaping-machine at work; then he turned intoa lane which led up the hill on which was John Yule's house. Even if hehad purposed making a farewell call, it was still far too early; all hewanted to do was to pass an hour of the morning, which threatened to lieheavy on his hands. So he rambled on, and went past the house, and tookthe field-path which would lead him circuitously home again. 

His mother desired to speak to him. She was in the dining-room; in theparlour Maud was practising music. 

'I think I ought to tell you of something I did yesterday, Jasper, ' MrsMilvain began. 'You see, my dear, we have been rather straitened lately, and my health, you know, grows so uncertain, and, all things considered, I have been feeling very anxious about the girls. So I wrote to youruncle William, and told him that I must positively have that money. Imust think of my own children before his. '

The matter referred to was this. The deceased Mr Milvain had a brotherwho was a struggling shopkeeper in a Midland town. Some ten years ago, William Milvain, on the point of bankruptcy, had borrowed a hundredand seventy pounds from his brother in Wattleborough, and this debt wasstill unpaid; for on the death of Jasper's father repayment of the loanwas impossible for William, and since then it had seemed hopeless thatthe sum would ever be recovered. The poor shopkeeper had a large family, and Mrs Milvain, notwithstanding her own position, had never felt ableto press him; her relative, however, often spoke of the business, anddeclared his intention of paying whenever he could. 

'You can't recover by law now, you know, ' said Jasper. 

'But we have a right to the money, law or no law. He must pay it. '

'He will simply refuse--and be justified. Poverty doesn't allow ofhonourable feeling, any more than of compassion. I'm sorry you wrotelike that. You won't get anything, and you might as well have enjoyedthe reputation of forbearance. '

Mrs Milvain was not able to appreciate this characteristic remark. Anxiety weighed upon her, and she became irritable. 

'I am obliged to say, Jasper, that you seem rather thoughtless. Ifit were only myself I would make any sacrifice for you; but you mustremember--'

'Now listen, mother, ' he interrupted, laying a hand on her shoulder;'I have been thinking about all this, and the fact of the matter is, I shall do my best to ask you for no more money. It may or may not bepracticable, but I'll have a try. So don't worry. If uncle writes thathe can't pay, just explain why you wrote, and keep him gently in mind ofthe thing, that's all. One doesn't like to do brutal things if one canavoid them, you know. '

The young man went to the parlour and listened to Maud's music forawhile. But restlessness again drove him forth. Towards eleven o'clockhe was again ascending in the direction of John Yule's house. Againhe had no intention of calling, but when he reached the iron gates helingered. 

'I will, by Jove!' he said within himself at last. 'Just to prove Ihave complete command of myself. It's to be a display of strength, notweakness. '

At the house door he inquired for Mr Alfred Yule. That gentleman hadgone in the carriage to Wattleborough, half an hour ago, with hisbrother. 

'Miss Yule?'

Yes, she was within. Jasper entered the sitting-room, waited a fewmoments, and Marian appeared. She wore a dress in which Milvain hadnot yet seen her, and it had the effect of making him regard herattentively. The smile with which she had come towards him passed fromher face, which was perchance a little warmer of hue than commonly. 

'I'm sorry your father is away, Miss Yule, ' Jasper began, in an animatedvoice. 'I wanted to say good-bye to him. I return to London in a fewhours. '

'You are going sooner than you intended?'

'Yes, I feel I mustn't waste any more time. I think the country air isdoing you good; you certainly look better than when I passed you thatfirst day. '

'I feel better, much. '

'My sisters are anxious to see you again. I shouldn't wonder if theycome up this afternoon. '

Marian had seated herself on the sofa, and her hands were linked uponher lap in the same way as when Jasper spoke with her here before, thepalms downward. The beautiful outline of her bent head was relievedagainst a broad strip of sunlight on the wall behind her. 

'They deplore, ' he continued in a moment, 'that they should come to knowyou only to lose you again so soon. 

'I have quite as much reason to be sorry, ' she answered, looking at himwith the slightest possible smile. 'But perhaps they will let me writeto them, and hear from them now and then. '

'They would think it an honour. Country girls are not often invited tocorrespond with literary ladies in London. '

He said it with as much jocoseness as civility allowed, then at oncerose. 

'Father will be very sorry, ' Marian began, with one quick glance towardsthe window and then another towards the door. 'Perhaps he might possiblybe able to see you before you go?'

Jasper stood in hesitation. There was a look on the girl's face which, under other circumstances, would have suggested a ready answer. 

'I mean, ' she added, hastily, 'he might just call, or even see you atthe station?'

'Oh, I shouldn't like to give Mr Yule any trouble. It's my own fault, for deciding to go to-day. I shall leave by the 2. 45. '

He offered his hand. 

'I shall look for your name in the magazines, Miss Yule. '

'Oh, I don't think you will ever find it there. '

He laughed incredulously, shook hands with her a second time, and strodeout of the room, head erect--feeling proud of himself. 

When Dora came home at dinner-time, he informed her of what he had done. 

'A very interesting girl, ' he added impartially. 'I advise you to makea friend of her. Who knows but you may live in London some day, and thenshe might be valuable--morally, I mean. For myself, I shall do my bestnot to see her again for a long time; she's dangerous. '

Jasper was unaccompanied when he went to the station. Whilst waiting onthe platform, he suffered from apprehension lest Alfred Yule's seamedvisage should present itself; but no acquaintance approached him. Safein the corner of his third-class carriage, he smiled at the last glimpseof the familiar fields, and began to think of something he had decidedto write for The West End. 

CHAPTER IV. AN AUTHOR AND HIS WIFE

Eight flights of stairs, consisting alternately of eight and nine steps. Amy had made the calculation, and wondered what was the cause of thisarrangement. The ascent was trying, but then no one could contest therespectability of the abode. In the flat immediately beneath resided asuccessful musician, whose carriage and pair came at a regular hour eachafternoon to take him and his wife for a most respectable drive. In thisspecial building no one else seemed at present to keep a carriage, butall the tenants were gentlefolk. 

And as to living up at the very top, why, there were distinctadvantages--as so many people of moderate income are nowadays hasteningto discover. The noise from the street was diminished at this height; nopossible tramplers could establish themselves above your head; the airwas bound to be purer than that of inferior strata; finally, one hadthe flat roof whereon to sit or expatiate in sunny weather. True that agentle rain of soot was wont to interfere with one's comfort out therein the open, but such minutiae are easily forgotten in the fervour ofdomestic description. It was undeniable that on a fine day one enjoyedextensive views. The green ridge from Hampstead to Highgate, withPrimrose Hill and the foliage of Regent's Park in the foreground; thesuburban spaces of St John's Wood, Maida Vale, Kilburn; WestminsterAbbey and the Houses of Parliament, lying low by the side of the hiddenriver, and a glassy gleam on far-off hills which meant the CrystalPalace; then the clouded majesty of eastern London, crowned by St Paul'sdome. These things one's friends were expected to admire. Sunset oftenafforded rich effects, but they were for solitary musing. 

A sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen. But the kitchen was calleddining-room, or even parlour at need; for the cooking-range lent itselfto concealment behind an ornamental screen, the walls displayed picturesand bookcases, and a tiny scullery which lay apart sufficed for thecoarser domestic operations. This was Amy's territory during the hourswhen her husband was working, or endeavouring to work. Of necessity, Edwin Reardon used the front room as his study. His writing-table stoodagainst the window; each wall had its shelves of serried literature;vases, busts, engravings (all of the inexpensive kind) served forornaments. 

A maid-servant, recently emancipated from the Board school, came athalf-past seven each morning, and remained until two o'clock, by whichtime the Reardons had dined; on special occasions, her services wereenlisted for later hours. But it was Reardon's habit to begin theserious work of the day at about three o'clock, and to continue withbrief interruptions until ten or eleven; in many respects an awkwardarrangement, but enforced by the man's temperament and his poverty. 

One evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper beforehim. It was the hour of sunset. His outlook was upon the backs ofcertain large houses skirting Regent's Park, and lights had begun toshow here and there in the windows: in one room a man was discoverabledressing for dinner, he had not thought it worth while to lower theblind; in another, some people were playing billiards. The higherwindows reflected a rich glow from the western sky. 

For two or three hours Reardon had been seated in much the sameattitude. Occasionally he dipped his pen into the ink and seemed aboutto write: but each time the effort was abortive. At the head of thepaper was inscribed 'Chapter III. , ' but that was all. 

And now the sky was dusking over; darkness would soon fall. 

He looked something older than his years, which were two-and-thirty; onhis face was the pallor of mental suffering. Often he fell into a fitof absence, and gazed at vacancy with wide, miserable eyes. Returningto consciousness, he fidgeted nervously on his chair, dipped his penfor the hundredth time, bent forward in feverish determination to work. Useless; he scarcely knew what he wished to put into words, and hisbrain refused to construct the simplest sentence. 

The colours faded from the sky, and night came quickly. Reardon threwhis arms upon the desk, let his head fall forward, and remained so, asif asleep. 

Presently the door opened, and a young, clear voice made inquiry:

'Don't you want the lamp, Edwin?'

The man roused himself, turned his chair a little, and looked towardsthe open door. 

'Come here, Amy. '

His wife approached. It was not quite dark in the room, for a glimmercame from the opposite houses. 

'What's the matter? Can't you do anything?'

'I haven't written a word to-day. At this rate, one goes crazy. Come andsit by me a minute, dearest. '

'I'll get the lamp. '

'No; come and talk to me; we can understand each other better. '

'Nonsense; you have such morbid ideas. I can't bear to sit in thegloom. '

At once she went away, and quickly reappeared with a reading-lamp, whichshe placed on the square table in the middle of the room. 

'Draw down the blind, Edwin. '

She was a slender girl, but not very tall; her shoulders seemed ratherbroad in proportion to her waist and the part of her figure below it. The hue of her hair was ruddy gold; loosely arranged tresses made asuperb crown to the beauty of her small, refined head. Yet the facewas not of distinctly feminine type; with short hair and appropriateclothing, she would have passed unquestioned as a handsome boy ofseventeen, a spirited boy too, and one much in the habit of givingorders to inferiors. Her nose would have been perfect but for ever soslight a crook which made it preferable to view her in full face than inprofile; her lips curved sharply out, and when she straightened them ofa sudden, the effect was not reassuring to anyone who had counted uponher for facile humour. In harmony with the broad shoulders, she had astrong neck; as she bore the lamp into the room a slight turn ofher head showed splendid muscles from the ear downward. It was amagnificently clear-cut bust; one thought, in looking at her, of thenewly-finished head which some honest sculptor has wrought with his ownhand from the marble block; there was a suggestion of 'planes' and ofthe chisel. The atmosphere was cold; ruddiness would have been quiteout of place on her cheeks, and a flush must have been the rarest thingthere. 

Her age was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly twoyears, and had a child ten months old. 

As for her dress, it was unpretending in fashion and colour, butof admirable fit. Every detail of her appearance denoted scrupulouspersonal refinement. She walked well; you saw that the foot, howevergently, was firmly planted. When she seated herself her posture wasinstantly graceful, and that of one who is indifferent about support forthe back. 

'What is the matter?' she began. 'Why can't you get on with the story?'

It was the tone of friendly remonstrance, not exactly of affection, notat all of tender solicitude. 

Reardon had risen and wished to approach her, but could not do sodirectly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round to theback of her chair, and bent his face upon her shoulder. 

'Amy--'

'Well. '

'I think it's all over with me. I don't think I shall write any more. '

'Don't be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your writing?'

'Perhaps I am only out of sorts. But I begin to be horribly afraid. My will seems to be fatally weakened. I can't see my way to the end ofanything; if I get hold of an idea which seems good, all the sap hasgone out of it before I have got it into working shape. In these lastfew months, I must have begun a dozen different books; I have beenashamed to tell you of each new beginning. I write twenty pages, perhaps, and then my courage fails. I am disgusted with the thing, andcan't go on with it--can't! My fingers refuse to hold the pen. In merewriting, I have done enough to make much more than three volumes; butit's all destroyed. '

'Because of your morbid conscientiousness. There was no need to destroywhat you had written. It was all good enough for the market. '

'Don't use that word, Amy. I hate it!'

'You can't afford to hate it, ' was her rejoinder, in very practicaltones. 'However it was before, you must write for the market now. Youhave admitted that yourself. '

He kept silence. 

'Where are you?' she went on to ask. 'What have you actually done?'

'Two short chapters of a story I can't go on with. The three volumes liebefore me like an interminable desert. Impossible to get through them. The idea is stupidly artificial, and I haven't a living character init. '

'The public don't care whether the characters are living or not. --Don'tstand behind me, like that; it's such an awkward way of talking. Comeand sit down. '

He drew away, and came to a position whence he could see her face, butkept at a distance. 

'Yes, ' he said, in a different way, 'that's the worst of it. '

'What is?'

'That you--well, it's no use. '

'That I--what?'

She did not look at him; her lips, after she had spoken, drew in alittle. 

'That your disposition towards me is being affected by this miserablefailure. You keep saying to yourself that I am not what you thought me. Perhaps you even feel that I have been guilty of a sort of deception. Idon't blame you; it's natural enough. '

'I'll tell you quite honestly what I do think, ' she replied, after ashort silence. 'You are much weaker than I imagined. Difficulties crushyou, instead of rousing you to struggle. '

'True. It has always been my fault. '

'But don't you feel it's rather unmanly, this state of things? You sayyou love me, and I try to believe it. But whilst you are saying so, youlet me get nearer and nearer to miserable, hateful poverty. What is tobecome of me--of us? Shall you sit here day after day until our lastshilling is spent?'

'No; of course I must do something. '

'When shall you begin in earnest? In a day or two you must pay thisquarter's rent, and that will leave us just about fifteen pounds in theworld. Where is the rent at Christmas to come from?

What are we to live upon? There's all sorts of clothing to be bought;there'll be all the extra expenses of winter. Surely it's bad enoughthat we have had to stay here all the summer; no holiday of any kind. Ihave done my best not to grumble about it, but I begin to think that itwould be very much wiser if I did grumble. '

She squared her shoulders, and gave her head just a little shake, as ifa fly had troubled her. 

'You bear everything very well and kindly, ' said Reardon. 'My behaviouris contemptible; I know that. Good heavens! if I only had some businessto go to, something I could work at in any state of mind, and make moneyout of! Given this chance, I would work myself to death rather than youshould lack anything you desire. But I am at the mercy of my brain; itis dry and powerless. How I envy those clerks who go by to their officesin the morning! There's the day's work cut out for them; no questionof mood and feeling; they have just to work at something, and when theevening comes, they have earned their wages, they are free to rest andenjoy themselves. What an insane thing it is to make literature one'sonly means of support! When the most trivial accident may at any timeprove fatal to one's power of work for weeks or months. No, that is theunpardonable sin! To make a trade of an art! I am rightly served forattempting such a brutal folly. '

He turned away in a passion of misery. 

'How very silly it is to talk like this!' came in Amy's voice, clearlycritical. 'Art must be practised as a trade, at all events in our time. This is the age of trade. Of course if one refuses to be of one's time, and yet hasn't the means to live independently, what can result butbreakdown and wretchedness? The fact of the matter is, you could dofairly good work, and work which would sell, if only you would bringyourself to look at things in a more practical way. It's what Mr Milvainis always saying, you know. '

'Milvain's temperament is very different from mine. He is naturallylight-hearted and hopeful; I am naturally the opposite. 

What you and he say is true enough; the misfortune is that I can't actupon it. I am no uncompromising artistic pedant; I am quite willing totry and do the kind of work that will sell; under the circumstances itwould be a kind of insanity if I refused. But power doesn't answerto the will. My efforts are utterly vain; I suppose the prospect ofpennilessness is itself a hindrance; the fear haunts me. With suchterrible real things pressing upon me, my imagination can shape nothingsubstantial. When I have laboured out a story, I suddenly see it ina light of such contemptible triviality that to work at it is animpossible thing. '

'You are ill, that's the fact of the matter. You ought to have had aholiday. I think even now you had better go away for a week or two. Do, Edwin!'

'Impossible! It would be the merest pretence of holiday. To go away andleave you here--no!'

'Shall I ask mother or Jack to lend us some money?'

'That would be intolerable. '

'But this state of things is intolerable!'

Reardon walked the length of the room and back again. 

'Your mother has no money to lend, dear, and your brother would do it sounwillingly that we can't lay ourselves under such an obligation. '

'Yet it will come to that, you know, ' remarked Amy, calmly. 

'No, it shall not come to that. I must and will get something done longbefore Christmas. If only you--'

He came and took one of her hands. 

'If only you will give me more sympathy, dearest. You see, that's oneside of my weakness. I am utterly dependent upon you. Your kindness isthe breath of life to me. Don't refuse it!'

'But I have done nothing of the kind. '

'You begin to speak very coldly. And I understand your feeling ofdisappointment. The mere fact of your urging me to do anything that willsell is a proof of bitter disappointment. You would have looked withscorn at anyone who talked to me like that two years ago. You were proudof me because my work wasn't altogether common, and because I had neverwritten a line that was meant to attract the vulgar. All that's overnow. If you knew how dreadful it is to see that you have lost your hopesof me!'

'Well, but I haven't--altogether, ' Amy replied, meditatively. 'I knowvery well that, if you had a lot of money, you would do better thingsthan ever. '

'Thank you a thousand times for saying that, my dearest. '

'But, you see, we haven't money, and there's little chance of ourgetting any. That scrubby old uncle won't leave anything to us; I feeltoo sure of it. I often feel disposed to go and beg him on my knees tothink of us in his will. ' She laughed. 'I suppose it's impossible, andwould be useless; but I should be capable of it if I knew it would bringmoney. '

Reardon said nothing. 

'I didn't think so much of money when we were married, ' Amycontinued. 'I had never seriously felt the want of it, you know. I didthink--there's no harm in confessing it--that you were sure to be richsome day; but I should have married you all the same if I had known thatyou would win only reputation. '

'You are sure of that?'

'Well, I think so. But I know the value of money better now. I know itis the most powerful thing in the world. If I had to choose betweena glorious reputation with poverty and a contemptible popularity withwealth, I should choose the latter. '

'No!'

'I should. '

'Perhaps you are right. '

He turned away with a sigh. 

'Yes, you are right. What is reputation? If it is deserved, itoriginates with a few score of people among the many millions who wouldnever have recognised the merit they at last applaud. That's the lot ofa great genius. As for a mediocrity like me--what ludicrous absurdity tofret myself in the hope that half-a-dozen folks will say I am "above theaverage!" After all, is there sillier vanity than this? A year after Ihave published my last book, I shall be practically forgotten; ten yearslater, I shall be as absolutely forgotten as one of those novelists ofthe early part of this century, whose names one doesn't even recognise. What fatuous posing!'

Amy looked askance at him, but replied nothing. 

'And yet, ' he continued, 'of course it isn't only for the sake ofreputation that one tries to do uncommon work. There's the shrinkingfrom conscious insincerity of workmanship--which most of the writersnowadays seem never to feel. "It's good enough for the market"; thatsatisfies them. And perhaps they are justified. 

I can't pretend that I rule my life by absolute ideals; I admit thateverything is relative. There is no such thing as goodness or badness, in the absolute sense, of course. Perhaps I am absurdly inconsistentwhen--though knowing my work can't be first rate--I strive to make it asgood as possible. I don't say this in irony, Amy; I really mean it. Itmay very well be that I am just as foolish as the people I ridicule formoral and religious superstition. This habit of mine is superstitious. How well I can imagine the answer of some popular novelist if he heardme speak scornfully of his books. "My dear fellow, " he might say, "doyou suppose I am not aware that my books are rubbish? I know it justas well as you do. But my vocation is to live comfortably. I have aluxurious house, a wife and children who are happy and grateful to mefor their happiness. If you choose to live in a garret, and, what'sworse, make your wife and children share it with you, that's yourconcern. " The man would be abundantly right. '

'But, ' said Amy, 'why should you assume that his books are rubbish? Goodwork succeeds--now and then. '

'I speak of the common kind of success, which is never due toliterary merit. And if I speak bitterly, well, I am suffering from mypowerlessness. I am a failure, my poor girl, and it isn't easy for me tolook with charity on the success of men who deserved it far less than Idid, when I was still able to work. '

'Of course, Edwin, if you make up your mind that you are a failure, you will end by being so. But I'm convinced there's no reason that youshould fail to make a living with your pen. Now let me advise you; putaside all your strict ideas about what is worthy and what is unworthy, and just act upon my advice. It's impossible for you to write athree-volume novel; very well, then do a short story of a kind that'slikely to be popular. You know Mr Milvain is always saying that the longnovel has had its day, and that in future people will write shillingbooks. Why not try?

Give yourself a week to invent a sensational plot, and then a fortnightfor the writing. Have it ready for the new season at the end of October. If you like, don't put your name to it; your name certainly would haveno weight with this sort of public. Just make it a matter of business, as Mr Milvain says, and see if you can't earn some money. '

He stood and regarded her. His expression was one of pained perplexity. 

'You mustn't forget, Amy, that it needs a particular kind of faculty towrite stories of this sort. The invention of a plot is just the thing Ifind most difficult. '

'But the plot may be as silly as you like, providing it holds theattention of vulgar readers. Think of "The Hollow Statue", what could bemore idiotic? Yet it sells by thousands. '

'I don't think I can bring myself to that, ' Reardon said, in a lowvoice. 

'Very well, then will you tell me what you propose to do?'

'I might perhaps manage a novel in two volumes, instead of three. '

He seated himself at the writing-table, and stared at the blank sheetsof paper in an anguish of hopelessness. 

'It will take you till Christmas, ' said Amy, 'and then you will getperhaps fifty pounds for it. '

'I must do my best. I'll go out and try to get some ideas. I--'

He broke off and looked steadily at his wife. 

'What is it?' she asked. 

'Suppose I were to propose to you to leave this flat and take cheaperrooms?'

He uttered it in a shamefaced way, his eyes falling. Amy kept silence. 

'We might sublet it, ' he continued, in the same tone, 'for the last yearof the lease. '

'And where do you propose to live?' Amy inquired, coldly. 

'There's no need to be in such a dear neighbourhood. We could go to oneof the outer districts. One might find three unfurnished rooms for abouteight-and-sixpence a week--less than half our rent here. '

'You must do as seems good to you. '

'For Heaven's sake, Amy, don't speak to me in that way! I can't standthat! Surely you can see that I am driven to think of every possibleresource. To speak like that is to abandon me. Say you can't or won't doit, but don't treat me as if you had no share in my miseries!'

She was touched for the moment. 

'I didn't mean to speak unkindly, dear. But think what it means, to giveup our home and position. That is open confession of failure. It wouldbe horrible. '

'I won't think of it. I have three months before Christmas, and I willfinish a book!'

'I really can't see why you shouldn't. Just do a certain number of pagesevery day. Good or bad, never mind; let the pages be finished. Now youhave got two chapters--'

'No; that won't do. I must think of a better subject. '

Amy made a gesture of impatience. 

'There you are! What does the subject matter? Get this book finished andsold, and then do something better next time. '

'Give me to-night, just to think. Perhaps one of the old stories I havethrown aside will come back in a clearer light. I'll go out for an hour;you don't mind being left alone?'

'You mustn't think of such trifles as that. '

'But nothing that concerns you in the slightest way is a trifle tome--nothing! I can't bear that you should forget that. Have patiencewith me, darling, a little longer. '

He knelt by her, and looked up into her face. 

'Say only one or two kind words--like you used to!'

She passed her hand lightly over his hair, and murmured something with afaint smile. 

Then Reardon took his hat and stick and descended the eight flightsof stone steps, and walked in the darkness round the outer circleof Regent's Park, racking his fagged brain in a hopeless search forcharacters, situations, motives. 

CHAPTER V. THE WAY HITHER

Even in mid-rapture of his marriage month he had foreseen thispossibility; but fate had hitherto rescued him in sudden ways when hewas on the brink of self-abandonment, and it was hard to imagine thatthis culmination of triumphant joy could be a preface to base miseries. 

He was the son of a man who had followed many different pursuits, andin none had done much more than earn a livelihood. At the age offorty--when Edwin, his only child, was ten years old--Mr Reardonestablished himself in the town of Hereford as a photographer, and therehe abode until his death, nine years after, occasionally risking somespeculation not inconsistent with the photographic business, but alwayswith the result of losing the little capital he ventured. Mrs Reardondied when Edwin had reached his fifteenth year. In breeding andeducation she was superior to her husband, to whom, moreover, she hadbrought something between four and five hundred pounds; her temper waspassionate in both senses of the word, and the marriage could hardly becalled a happy one, though it was never disturbed by serious discord. The photographer was a man of whims and idealisms; his wife had astrong vein of worldly ambition. They made few friends, and it was MrsReardon's frequently expressed desire to go and live in London, wherefortune, she thought, might be kinder to them. Reardon had all but madeup his mind to try this venture when he suddenly became a widower; afterthat he never summoned energy to embark on new enterprises. 

The boy was educated at an excellent local school; at eighteen he hada far better acquaintance with the ancient classics than most ladswho have been expressly prepared for a university, and, thanks to ananglicised Swiss who acted as an assistant in Mr Reardon's business, he not only read French, but could talk it with a certain haphazardfluency. These attainments, however, were not of much practical use; thebest that could be done for Edwin was to place him in the office ofan estate agent. His health was indifferent, and it seemed likelythat open-air exercise, of which he would have a good deal under theparticular circumstances of the case, might counteract the effects ofstudy too closely pursued. 

At his father's death he came into possession (practically it was put athis disposal at once, though he was little more than nineteen) ofabout two hundred pounds--a life-insurance for five hundred had beensacrificed to exigencies not very long before. He had no difficulty indeciding how to use this money. His mother's desire to live in Londonhad in him the force of an inherited motive; as soon as possible hereleased himself from his uncongenial occupations, converted into moneyall the possessions of which he had not immediate need, and betookhimself to the metropolis. 

To become a literary man, of course. 

His capital lasted him nearly four years, for, notwithstanding his age, he lived with painful economy. The strangest life, of almost absoluteloneliness. From a certain point of Tottenham Court Road there isvisible a certain garret window in a certain street which runs parallelwith that thoroughfare; for the greater part of these four years thegarret in question was Reardon's home. He paid only three-and-sixpencea week for the privilege of living there; his food cost him about ashilling a day; on clothing and other unavoidable expenses he laidout some five pounds yearly. Then he bought books--volumes which costanything between twopence and two shillings; further than that he durstnot go. A strange time, I assure you. 

When he had completed his twenty-first year, he desired to procure areader's ticket for the British Museum. Now this was not such a simplematter as you may suppose; it was necessary to obtain the signature ofsome respectable householder, and Reardon was acquainted with no suchperson. His landlady was a decent woman enough, and a payer of rates andtaxes, but it would look odd, to say the least of it, to present oneselfin Great Russell Street armed with this person's recommendation. Therewas nothing for it but to take a bold step, to force himself upon theattention of a stranger--the thing from which his pride had alwaysshrunk. He wrote to a well-known novelist--a man with whose works he hadsome sympathy. 'I am trying to prepare myself for a literary career. I wish to study in the Reading-room of the British Museum, but haveno acquaintance to whom I can refer in the ordinary way. Will you helpme--I mean, in this particular only?' That was the substance of hisletter. For reply came an invitation to a house in the West-end. Withfear and trembling Reardon answered the summons. He was so shabbilyattired; he was so diffident from the habit of living quite alone; hewas horribly afraid lest it should be supposed that he looked for otherassistance than he had requested. Well, the novelist was a rotund andjovial man; his dwelling and his person smelt of money; he was so happyhimself that he could afford to be kind to others. 

'Have you published anything?' he inquired, for the young man's letterhad left this uncertain. 

'Nothing. I have tried the magazines, but as yet without success. '

'But what do you write?'

'Chiefly essays on literary subjects. '

'I can understand that you would find a difficulty in disposing of them. That kind of thing is supplied either by men of established reputation, or by anonymous writers who have a regular engagement on papers andmagazines. Give me an example of your topics. '

'I have written something lately about Tibullus. '

'Oh, dear! Oh, dear!--Forgive me, Mr Reardon; my feelings were too muchfor me; those names have been my horror ever since I was a schoolboy. Far be it from me to discourage you, if your line is to be solidliterary criticism; I will only mention, as a matter of fact, that suchwork is indifferently paid and in very small demand. It hasn't occurredto you to try your hand at fiction?'

In uttering the word he beamed; to him it meant a thousand or so a year. 

'I am afraid I have no talent for that. '

The novelist could do no more than grant his genial signature for thespecified purpose, and add good wishes in abundance. Reardon went homewith his brain in a whirl. He had had his first glimpse of what wasmeant by literary success. That luxurious study, with its shelves ofhandsomely-bound books, its beautiful pictures, its warm, fragrantair--great heavens! what might not a man do who sat at his ease amidsuch surroundings!

He began to work at the Reading-room, but at the same time he thoughtoften of the novelist's suggestion, and before long had written two orthree short stories. No editor would accept them; but he continued topractise himself in that art, and by degrees came to fancy that, after all, perhaps he had some talent for fiction. It was significant, however, that no native impulse had directed him to novel-writing. Hisintellectual temper was that of the student, the scholar, but stronglyblended with a love of independence which had always made him thinkwith distaste of a teacher's life. The stories he wrote were scrapsof immature psychology--the last thing a magazine would accept from anunknown man. 

His money dwindled, and there came a winter during which he sufferedmuch from cold and hunger. What a blessed refuge it was, there under thegreat dome, when he must else have sat in his windy garret with themere pretence of a fire! The Reading-room was his true home; its warmthenwrapped him kindly; the peculiar odour of its atmosphere--at first acause of headache--grew dear and delightful to him. But he could not sithere until his last penny should be spent. Something practical must bedone, and practicality was not his strong point. 

Friends in London he had none; but for an occasional conversation withhis landlady he would scarcely have spoken a dozen words in a week. His disposition was the reverse of democratic, and he could not makeacquaintances below his own intellectual level. Solitude fostereda sensitiveness which to begin with was extreme; the lack of statedoccupation encouraged his natural tendency to dream and procrastinateand hope for the improbable. He was a recluse in the midst of millions, and viewed with dread the necessity of going forth to fight for dailyfood. 

Little by little he had ceased to hold any correspondence with hisformer friends at Hereford. The only person to whom he still wrote andfrom whom he still heard was his mother's father--an old man who livedat Derby, retired from the business of a draper, and spending his lastyears pleasantly enough with a daughter who had remained single. Edwinhad always been a favourite with his grandfather, though they had metonly once or twice during the past eight years. But in writing he didnot allow it to be understood that he was in actual want, and he feltthat he must come to dire extremities before he could bring himself tobeg assistance. 

He had begun to answer advertisements, but the state of his wardrobeforbade his applying for any but humble positions. Once or twice hepresented himself personally at offices, but his reception was somortifying that death by hunger seemed preferable to a continuance ofsuch experiences. The injury to his pride made him savagely arrogant;for days after the last rejection he hid himself in his garret, hatingthe world. 

He sold his little collection of books, and of course they brought onlya trifling sum. That exhausted, he must begin to sell his clothes. Andthen--?

But help was at hand. One day he saw it advertised in a newspaper thatthe secretary of a hospital in the north of London was in need of aclerk; application was to be made by letter. He wrote, and two dayslater, to his astonishment, received a reply asking him to wait uponthe secretary at a certain hour. In a fever of agitation he kept theappointment, and found that his business was with a young man in thevery highest spirits, who walked up and down a little office (thehospital was of the 'special' order, a house of no great size), andtreated the matter in hand as an excellent joke. 

'I thought, you know, of engaging someone much younger--quite a lad, infact. But look there! Those are the replies to my advertisement. '

He pointed to a heap of five or six hundred letters, and laughedconsumedly. 

'Impossible to read them all, you know. It seemed to me that the fairestthing would be to shake them together, stick my hand in, and take outone by chance. If it didn't seem very promising, I would try a secondtime. But the first letter was yours, and I thought the fair thing to dowas at all events to see you, you know. The fact is, I am only able tooffer a pound a week. '

'I shall be very glad indeed to take that, ' said Reardon, who was bathedin perspiration. 

'Then what about references, and so on?' proceeded the young man, chuckling and rubbing his hands together. 

The applicant was engaged. He had barely strength to walk home; thesudden relief from his miseries made him, for the first time, sensibleof the extreme physical weakness into which he had sunk. For the nextweek he was very ill, but he did not allow this to interfere with hisnew work, which was easily learnt and not burdensome. 

He held this position for three years, and during that timeimportant things happened. When he had recovered from his state ofsemi-starvation, and was living in comfort (a pound a week is a verylarge sum if you have previously had to live on ten shillings), Reardonfound that the impulse to literary production awoke in him more stronglythan ever. He generally got home from the hospital about six o'clock, and the evening was his own. In this leisure time he wrote a novel intwo volumes; one publisher refused it, but a second offered to bring itout on the terms of half profits to the author. The book appeared, andwas well spoken of in one or two papers; but profits there were noneto divide. In the third year of his clerkship he wrote a novel in threevolumes; for this his publishers gave him twenty-five pounds, with againa promise of half the profits after deduction of the sum advanced. Againthere was no pecuniary success. He had just got to work upon a thirdbook, when his grandfather at Derby died and left him four hundredpounds. 

He could not resist the temptation to recover his freedom. Four hundredpounds, at the rate of eighty pounds a year, meant five years ofliterary endeavour. In that period he could certainly determine whetheror not it was his destiny to live by the pen. 

In the meantime his relations with the secretary of the hospital, Carterby name, had grown very friendly. When Reardon began to publish books, the high-spirited Mr Carter looked upon him with something of awe; andwhen the literary man ceased to be a clerk, there was nothing to preventassociation on equal terms between him and his former employer. Theycontinued to see a good deal of each other, and Carter made Reardonacquainted with certain of his friends, among whom was one John Yule, an easy-going, selfish, semi-intellectual young man who had a place ina Government office. The time of solitude had gone by for Reardon. Hebegan to develop the power that was in him. 

Those two books of his were not of a kind to win popularity. They dealtwith no particular class of society (unless one makes a distinct classof people who have brains), and they lacked local colour. Their interestwas almost purely psychological. It was clear that the author had nofaculty for constructing a story, and that pictures of active life werenot to be expected of him; he could never appeal to the multitude. But strong characterisation was within his scope, and an intellectualfervour, appetising to a small section of refined readers, marked allhis best pages. 

He was the kind of man who cannot struggle against adverse conditions, but whom prosperity warms to the exercise of his powers. Anythinglike the cares of responsibility would sooner or later harass him intounproductiveness. That he should produce much was in any case out of thequestion; possibly a book every two or three years might not prove toogreat a strain upon his delicate mental organism, but for him to attemptmore than that would certainly be fatal to the peculiar merit of hiswork. Of this he was dimly conscious, and, on receiving his legacy, heput aside for nearly twelve months the new novel he had begun. To givehis mind a rest he wrote several essays, much maturer than those whichhad formerly failed to find acceptance, and two of these appeared inmagazines. 

The money thus earned he spent--at a tailor's. His friend Carterventured to suggest this mode of outlay. 

His third book sold for fifty pounds. It was a great improvement on itspredecessors, and the reviews were generally favourable. For the storywhich followed, 'On Neutral Ground, ' he received a hundred pounds. Onthe strength of that he spent six months travelling in the South ofEurope. 

He returned to London at mid-June, and on the second day after hisarrival befell an incident which was to control the rest of his life. Busy with the pictures in the Grosvenor Gallery, he heard himselfaddressed in a familiar voice, and on turning he was aware of Mr Carter, resplendent in fashionable summer attire, and accompanied by a younglady of some charms. Reardon had formerly feared encounters of thiskind, too conscious of the defects of his attire; but at present therewas no reason why he should shirk social intercourse. He was passablydressed, and the half-year of travel had benefited his appearance inno slight degree. Carter presented him to the young lady, of whom thenovelist had already heard as affianced to his friend. 

Whilst they stood conversing, there approached two ladies, evidentlymother and daughter, whose attendant was another of Reardon'sacquaintances, Mr John Yule. This gentleman stepped briskly forward andwelcomed the returned wanderer. 

'Let me introduce you, ' he said, 'to my mother and sister. Your fame hasmade them anxious to know you. '

Reardon found himself in a position of which the novelty wasembarrassing, but scarcely disagreeable. Here were five peoplegrouped around him, all of whom regarded him unaffectedly as a man ofimportance; for though, strictly speaking, he had no 'fame' at all, these persons had kept up with the progress of his small repute, and were all distinctly glad to number among their acquaintances anunmistakable author, one, too, who was fresh from Italy and Greece. MrsYule, a lady rather too pretentious in her tone to be attractive to aman of Reardon's refinement, hastened to assure him how well his bookswere known in her house, 'though for the run of ordinary novels we don'tcare much. ' Miss Yule, not at all pretentious in speech, and seeminglyreserved of disposition, was good enough to show frank interest in theauthor. As for the poor author himself, well, he merely fell in lovewith Miss Yule at first sight, and there was an end of the matter. 

A day or two later he made a call at their house, in the regionof Westbourne Park. It was a small house, and rather showily thanhandsomely furnished; no one after visiting it would be astonished tohear that Mrs Edmund Yule had but a small income, and that she was oftenput to desperate expedients to keep up the gloss of easy circumstances. In the gauzy and fluffy and varnishy little drawing-room Reardon founda youngish gentleman already in conversation with the widow and herdaughter. This proved to be one Mr Jasper Milvain, also a man ofletters. Mr Milvain was glad to meet Reardon, whose books he had readwith decided interest. 

'Really, ' exclaimed Mrs Yule, 'I don't know how it is that we have hadto wait so long for the pleasure of knowing you, Mr Reardon. IfJohn were not so selfish he would have allowed us a share in youracquaintance long ago. '

Ten weeks thereafter, Miss Yule became Mrs Reardon. 

It was a time of frantic exultation with the poor fellow. He had alwaysregarded the winning of a beautiful and intellectual wife as the crownof a successful literary career, but he had not dared to hope that sucha triumph would be his. Life had been too hard with him on the whole. He, who hungered for sympathy, who thought of a woman's love as theprize of mortals supremely blessed, had spent the fresh years of hisyouth in monkish solitude. Now of a sudden came friends and flattery, ay, and love itself. He was rapt to the seventh heaven. 

Indeed, it seemed that the girl loved him. She knew that he had but ahundred pounds or so left over from that little inheritance, that hisbooks sold for a trifle, that he had no wealthy relatives from whom hecould expect anything; yet she hesitated not a moment when he asked herto marry him. 

'I have loved you from the first. '

'How is that possible?' he urged. 'What is there lovable in me? Iam afraid of waking up and finding myself in my old garret, cold andhungry. '

'You will be a great man. '

'I implore you not to count on that! In many ways I am wretchedly weak. I have no such confidence in myself. '

'Then I will have confidence for both. '

'But can you love me for my own sake--love me as a man?'

'I love you!'

And the words sang about him, filled the air with a mad pulsing ofintolerable joy, made him desire to fling himself in passionate humilityat her feet, to weep hot tears, to cry to her in insane worship. Hethought her beautiful beyond anything his heart had imagined; her warmgold hair was the rapture of his eyes and of his reverent hand. Thoughslenderly fashioned, she was so gloriously strong. 'Not a day of illnessin her life, ' said Mrs Yule, and one could readily believe it. 

She spoke with such a sweet decision. Her 'I love you!' was a bond witheternity. In the simplest as in the greatest things she saw his wishand acted frankly upon it. No pretty petulance, no affectation ofsilly-sweet languishing, none of the weaknesses of woman. And soexquisitely fresh in her twenty years of maidenhood, with bright youngeyes that seemed to bid defiance to all the years to come. 

He went about like one dazzled with excessive light. He talked as he hadnever talked before, recklessly, exultantly, insolently--in the noblersense. He made friends on every hand; he welcomed all the world to hisbosom; he felt the benevolence of a god. 

'I love you!' It breathed like music at his ears when he fell asleepin weariness of joy; it awakened him on the morrow as with a gloriousringing summons to renewed life. 

Delay? Why should there be delay? Amy wished nothing but to become hiswife. Idle to think of his doing any more work until he sat down in thehome of which she was mistress. His brain burned with visions of thebooks he would henceforth write, but his hand was incapable of anythingbut a love-letter. And what letters! Reardon never published anythingequal to those. 'I have received your poem, ' Amy replied to one of them. And she was right; not a letter, but a poem he had sent her, with everyword on fire. 

The hours of talk! It enraptured him to find how much she had read, andwith what clearness of understanding. Latin and Greek, no. Ah! butshe should learn them both, that there might be nothing wanting in thecommunion between his thought and hers. For he loved the old writerswith all his heart; they had been such strength to him in his days ofmisery. 

They would go together to the charmed lands of the South. No, not nowfor their marriage holiday--Amy said that would be an imprudentexpense; but as soon as he had got a good price for a book. Will not thepublishers be kind? If they knew what happiness lurked in embryo withintheir foolish cheque-books!

He woke of a sudden in the early hours of one morning, a week before thewedding-day. You know that kind of awaking, so complete in an instant, caused by the pressure of some troublesome thought upon the dreamingbrain. 'Suppose I should not succeed henceforth? Suppose I could neverget more than this poor hundred pounds for one of the long books whichcost me so much labour? I shall perhaps have children to support; andAmy--how would Amy bear poverty?'

He knew what poverty means. The chilling of brain and heart, theunnerving of the hands, the slow gathering about one of fear and shameand impotent wrath, the dread feeling of helplessness, of the world'sbase indifference. Poverty! Poverty!

And for hours he could not sleep. His eyes kept filling with tears, thebeating of his heart was low; and in his solitude he called upon Amywith pitiful entreaty: 'Do not forsake me! I love you! I love you!'

But that went by. Six days, five days, four days--will one's heart burstwith happiness? The flat is taken, is furnished, up there towards thesky, eight flights of stone steps. 

'You're a confoundedly lucky fellow, Reardon, ' remarked Milvain, who hadalready become very intimate with his new friend. 'A good fellow, too, and you deserve it. '

'But at first I had a horrible suspicion. '

'I guess what you mean. No; I wasn't even in love with her, though Iadmired her. She would never have cared for me in any case; I am notsentimental enough. '

'The deuce!'

'I mean it in an inoffensive sense. She and I are rather too much alike, I fancy. '

'How do you mean?' asked Reardon, puzzled, and not very well pleased. 

'There's a great deal of pure intellect about Miss Yule, you know. Shewas sure to choose a man of the passionate kind. '

'I think you are talking nonsense, my dear fellow. '

'Well, perhaps I am. To tell you the truth, I have by no means completedmy study of women yet. It is one of the things in which I hope to be aspecialist some day, though I don't think I shall ever make use of it innovels--rather, perhaps, in life. '

Three days--two days--one day. 

Now let every joyous sound which the great globe can utter ring forthin one burst of harmony! Is it not well done to make the village-bellschant merrily when a marriage is over? Here in London we can have nosuch music; but for us, my dear one, all the roaring life of the greatcity is wedding-hymn. Sweet, pure face under its bridal-veil! The facewhich shall, if fate spare it, be as dear to me many a long year henceas now at the culminating moment of my life!

As he trudged on in the dark, his tortured memory was living throughthat time again. The images forced themselves upon him, however much hetried to think of quite other things--of some fictitious story on whichhe might set to work. In the case of his earlier books he had waitedquietly until some suggestive 'situation, ' some group of congenialcharacters, came with sudden delightfulness before his mind and urgedhim to write; but nothing so spontaneous could now be hoped for. Hisbrain was too weary with months of fruitless, harassing endeavour;moreover, he was trying to devise a 'plot, ' the kind of literaryJack-in-the-box which might excite interest in the mass of readers, andthis was alien to the natural working of his imagination. He sufferedthe torments of nightmare--an oppression of the brain and heart whichmust soon be intolerable. 

CHAPTER VI. THE PRACTICAL FRIEND

When her husband had set forth, Amy seated herself in the study and tookup a new library volume as if to read. But she had no real intention ofdoing so; it was always disagreeable to her to sit in the manner of onetotally unoccupied, with hands on lap, and even when she consciouslygave herself up to musing an open book was generally before her. She didnot, in truth, read much nowadays; since the birth of her child she hadseemed to care less than before for disinterested study. If a newnovel that had succeeded came into her hands she perused it in a verypractical spirit, commenting to Reardon on the features of the workwhich had made it popular; formerly, she would have thought much more ofits purely literary merits, for which her eye was very keen. How oftenshe had given her husband a thrill of exquisite pleasure by pointingto some merit or defect of which the common reader would be totallyinsensible! Now she spoke less frequently on such subjects. Herinterests were becoming more personal; she liked to hear details of thesuccess of popular authors--about their wives or husbands, as the casemight be, their arrangements with publishers, their methods of work. The gossip columns of literary papers--and of some that were notliterary--had an attraction for her. She talked of questions suchas international copyright, was anxious to get an insight into thepractical conduct of journals and magazines, liked to know who 'read'for the publishing-houses. To an impartial observer it might haveappeared that her intellect was growing more active and mature. 

More than half an hour passed. It was not a pleasant train of thoughtthat now occupied her. Her lips were drawn together, her brows wereslightly wrinkled; the self-control which at other times was agreeablyexpressed upon her features had become rather too cold and decided. Atone moment it seemed to her that she heard a sound in the bedroom--thedoors were purposely left ajar--and her head turned quickly to listen, the look in her eyes instantaneously softening; but all remained quiet. The street would have been silent but for a cab that now and thenpassed--the swing of a hansom or the roll of a four-wheeler--and withinthe buildings nothing whatever was audible. 

Yes, a footstep, briskly mounting the stone stairs. Not like that of thepostman. A visitor, perhaps, to the other flat on the topmost landing. But the final pause was in this direction, and then came a sharp rat-tatat the door. Amy rose immediately and went to open. 

Jasper Milvain raised his urban silk hat, then held out his hand withthe greeting of frank friendship. His inquiries were in so loud a voicethat Amy checked him with a forbidding gesture. 

'You'll wake Willie!'

'By Jove! I always forget, ' he exclaimed in subdued tones. 'Does theinfant flourish?'

'Oh, yes!'

'Reardon out? I got back on Saturday evening, but couldn't come roundbefore this. ' It was Monday. 'How close it is in here! I suppose theroof gets so heated during the day. Glorious weather in the country! AndI've no end of things to tell you. He won't be long, I suppose?'

'I think not. '

He left his hat and stick in the passage, came into the study, andglanced about as if he expected to see some change since he was lasthere, three weeks ago. 

'So you have been enjoying yourself?' said Amy as, after listening for amoment at the door, she took a seat. 

'Oh, a little freshening of the faculties. But whose acquaintance do youthink I have made?'

'Down there?'

'Yes. Your uncle Alfred and his daughter were staying at John Yule's, and I saw something of them. I was invited to the house. '

'Did you speak of us?'

'To Miss Yule only. I happened to meet her on a walk, and in ablundering way I mentioned Reardon's name. But of course it didn'tmatter in the least. She inquired about you with a good deal ofinterest--asked if you were as beautiful as you promised to be yearsago. '

Amy laughed. 

'Doesn't that proceed from your fertile invention, Mr Milvain?'

'Not a bit of it! By-the-bye, what would be your natural questionconcerning her? Do you think she gave promise of good looks?'

'I'm afraid I can't say that she did. She had a good face, but--ratherplain. '

'I see. ' Jasper threw back his head and seemed to contemplate an objectin memory. 'Well, I shouldn't wonder if most people called her a trifleplain even now; and yet--no, that's hardly possible, after all. She hasno colour. Wears her hair short. '

'Short?'

'Oh, I don't mean the smooth, boyish hair with a parting--not thekind of hair that would be lank if it grew long. Curly all over. Looksuncommonly well, I assure you. She has a capital head. Odd girl; veryodd girl! Quiet, thoughtful--not very happy, I'm afraid. Seems to thinkwith dread of a return to books. '

'Indeed! But I had understood that she was a reader. '

'Reading enough for six people, probably. Perhaps her health is notvery robust. Oh, I knew her by sight quite well--had seen her at theReading-room. She's the kind of girl that gets into one's head, youknow--suggestive; much more in her than comes out until one knows hervery well. '

'Well, I should hope so, ' remarked Amy, with a peculiar smile. 

'But that's by no means a matter of course. They didn't invite me tocome and see them in London. '

'I suppose Marian mentioned your acquaintance with this branch of thefamily?'

'I think not. At all events, she promised me she wouldn't. '

Amy looked at him inquiringly, in a puzzled way. 

'She promised you?'

'Voluntarily. We got rather sympathetic. Your uncle--Alfred, I mean--isa remarkable man; but I think he regarded me as a youth of no particularimportance. Well, how do things go?'

Amy shook her head. 

'No progress?'

'None whatever. He can't work; I begin to be afraid that he is reallyill. He must go away before the fine weather is over. Do persuade himto-night! I wish you could have had a holiday with him. '

'Out of the question now, I'm sorry to say. I must work savagely. Butcan't you all manage a fortnight somewhere--Hastings, Eastbourne?'

'It would be simply rash. One goes on saying, "What does a pound or twomatter?"--but it begins at length to matter a great deal. '

'I know, confound it all! Think how it would amuse some rich grocer'sson who pitches his half-sovereign to the waiter when he has dinedhimself into good humour! But I tell you what it is: you must really tryto influence him towards practicality. Don't you think--?'

He paused, and Amy sat looking at her hands. 

'I have made an attempt, ' she said at length, in a distant undertone. 

'You really have?'

Jasper leaned forward, his clasped hands hanging between his knees. Hewas scrutinising her face, and Amy, conscious of the too fixed regard, at length moved her head uneasily. 

'It seems very clear to me, ' she said, 'that a long book is out of thequestion for him at present. He writes so slowly, and is so fastidious. It would be a fatal thing to hurry through something weaker even thanthe last. '

'You think "The Optimist" weak?' Jasper asked, half absently. 

'I don't think it worthy of Edwin; I don't see how anyone can. 

'I have wondered what your opinion was. Yes, he ought to try a new tack, I think. '

Just then there came the sound of a latch-key opening the outer door. Jasper lay back in his chair and waited with a smile for his expectedfriend's appearance; Amy made no movement. 

'Oh, there you are!' said Reardon, presenting himself with the dazzledeyes of one who has been in darkness; he spoke in a voice of genialwelcome, though it still had the note of depression. 'When did you getback?'

Milvain began to recount what he had told in the first part of hisconversation with Amy. As he did so, the latter withdrew, and was absentfor five minutes; on reappearing she said:

'You'll have some supper with us, Mr Milvain?'

'I think I will, please. '

Shortly after, all repaired to the eating-room, where conversationhad to be carried on in a low tone because of the proximity of thebedchamber in which lay the sleeping child. Jasper began to tell ofcertain things that had happened to him since his arrival in town. 

'It was a curious coincidence--but, by-the-bye, have you heard of whatThe Study has been doing?'

'I should rather think so, ' replied Reardon, his face lighting up. 'Withno small satisfaction. '

'Delicious, isn't it?' exclaimed his wife. 'I thought it too good to betrue when Edwin heard of it from Mr Biffen. '

All three laughed in subdued chorus. For the moment, Reardon became anew man in his exultation over the contradictory reviewers. 

'Oh, Biffen told you, did he? Well, ' continued Jasper, 'it was an oddthing, but when I reached my lodgings on Saturday evening there laya note from Horace Barlow, inviting me to go and see him on Sundayafternoon out at Wimbledon, the special reason being that the editor ofThe Study would be there, and Barlow thought I might like to meet him. Now this letter gave me a fit of laughter; not only because of thoseprecious reviews, but because Alfred Yule had been telling me all aboutthis same editor, who rejoices in the name of Fadge. Your uncle, MrsReardon, declares that Fadge is the most malicious man in the literaryprofession; though that's saying such a very great deal--well, nevermind! Of course I was delighted to go and meet Fadge. At Barlow's Ifound the queerest collection of people, most of them women of theinkiest description. The great Fadge himself surprised me; I expectedto see a gaunt, bilious man, and he was the rosiest and dumpiest littledandy you can imagine; a fellow of forty-five, I dare say, with thinyellow hair and blue eyes and a manner of extreme innocence. Fadgeflattered me with confidential chat, and I discovered at length whyBarlow had asked me to meet him; it's Fadge that is going to editCulpepper's new monthly--you've heard about it?--and he had actuallythought it worth while to enlist me among contributors! Now, how's thatfor a piece of news?'

The speaker looked from Reardon to Amy with a smile of vastsignificance. 

'I rejoice to hear it!' said Reardon, fervently. 

'You see! you see!' cried Jasper, forgetting all about the infant in thenext room, 'all things come to the man who knows how to wait. But I'mhanged if I expected a thing of this kind to come so soon! Why, I'm aman of distinction! My doings have been noted; the admirable qualitiesof my style have drawn attention; I'm looked upon as one of the comingmen! Thanks, I confess, in some measure, to old Barlow; he seems to haveamused himself with cracking me up to all and sundry. That last thingof mine in The West End has done me a vast amount of good, it seems. AndAlfred Yule himself had noticed that paper in The Wayside. That's howthings work, you know; reputation comes with a burst, just when you'renot looking for anything of the kind. '

'What's the new magazine to be called?' asked Amy. 

'Why, they propose The Current. Not bad, in a way; though you imaginea fellow saying "Have you seen the current Current?" At all events, thetone is to be up to date, and the articles are to be short; no padding, merum sal from cover to cover. What do you think I have undertaken todo, for a start? A paper consisting of sketches of typical readers ofeach of the principal daily and weekly papers. A deuced good idea, youknow--my own, of course--but deucedly hard to carry out. I shall riseto the occasion, see if I don't. I'll rival Fadge himself inmaliciousness--though I must confess I discovered no particular malicein the fellow's way of talking. The article shall make a sensation. I'llspend a whole month on it, and make it a perfect piece of satire. '

'Now that's the kind of thing that inspires me with awe and envy, 'said Reardon. 'I could no more write such a paper than an article onFluxions. '

''Tis my vocation, Hal! You might think I hadn't experience enough, to begin with. But my intuition is so strong that I can make a littleexperience go an immense way. Most people would imagine I had beenwasting my time these last few years, just sauntering about, readingnothing but periodicals, making acquaintance with loafers of everydescription. The truth is, I have been collecting ideas, and ideasthat are convertible into coin of the realm, my boy; I have the specialfaculty of an extempore writer. Never in my life shall I do anything ofsolid literary value; I shall always despise the people I write for. Butmy path will be that of success. I have always said it, and now I'm sureof it. '

'Does Fadge retire from The Study, then?' inquired Reardon, when he hadreceived this tirade with a friendly laugh. 

'Yes, he does. Was going to, it seems, in any case. Of course I heardnothing about the two reviews, and I was almost afraid to smile whilstFadge was talking with me, lest I should betray my thought. Did you knowanything about the fellow before?'

'Not I. Didn't know who edited The Study. '

'Nor I either. Remarkable what a number of illustrious obscure are goingabout. But I have still something else to tell you. I'm going to set mysisters afloat in literature. '

'How!'

'Well, I don't see why they shouldn't try their hands at a littlewriting, instead of giving lessons, which doesn't suit them a bit. Lastnight, when I got back from Wimbledon, I went to look up Davies. Perhapsyou don't remember my mentioning him; a fellow who was at Jolly andMonk's, the publishers, up to a year ago. He edits a trade journal now, and I see very little of him. However, I found him at home, and hada long practical talk with him. I wanted to find out the state of themarket as to such wares as Jolly and Monk dispose of. He gave me somevery useful hints, and the result was that I went off this morning andsaw Monk himself--no Jolly exists at present. "Mr Monk, " I began, in myblandest tone--you know it--"I am requested to call upon you by a ladywho thinks of preparing a little volume to be called 'A Child's Historyof the English Parliament. ' Her idea is, that"--and so on. Well, Igot on admirably with Monk, especially when he learnt that I was to beconnected with Culpepper's new venture; he smiled upon the project, andsaid he should be very glad to see a specimen chapter; if that pleasedhim, we could then discuss terms. '

'But has one of your sisters really begun such a book?' inquired Amy. 

'Neither of them knows anything of the matter, but they are certainlycapable of doing the kind of thing I have in mind, which will consistlargely of anecdotes of prominent statesmen. I myself shall write thespecimen chapter, and send it to the girls to show them what I propose. I shouldn't wonder if they make some fifty pounds out of it. The fewbooks that will be necessary they can either get at a Wattleboroughlibrary, or I can send them. '

'Your energy is remarkable, all of a sudden, ' said Reardon. 

'Yes. The hour has come, I find. "There is a tide"--to quote somethingthat has the charm of freshness. '

The supper--which consisted of bread and butter, cheese, sardines, cocoa--was now over, and Jasper, still enlarging on his recentexperiences and future prospects, led the way back to the sitting-room. Not very long after this, Amy left the two friends to their pipes; shewas anxious that her husband should discuss his affairs privately withMilvain, and give ear to the practical advice which she knew would betendered him. 

'I hear that you are still stuck fast, ' began Jasper, when they hadsmoked awhile in silence. 

'Yes. '

'Getting rather serious, I should fear, isn't it?'

'Yes, ' repeated Reardon, in a low voice. 

'Come, come, old man, you can't go on in this way. Would it, or wouldn'tit, be any use if you took a seaside holiday?'

'Not the least. I am incapable of holiday, if the opportunity wereoffered. Do something I must, or I shall fret myself into imbecility. '

'Very well. What is it to be?'

'I shall try to manufacture two volumes. They needn't run to more thanabout two hundred and seventy pages, and those well spaced out. '

'This is refreshing. This is practical. But look now: let it besomething rather sensational. Couldn't we invent a good title--somethingto catch eye and ear? The title would suggest the story, you know. '

Reardon laughed contemptuously, but the scorn was directed ratheragainst himself than Milvain. 

'Let's try, ' he muttered. 

Both appeared to exercise their minds on the problem for a few minutes. Then Jasper slapped his knee. 

'How would this do: "The Weird Sisters"? Devilish good, eh? Suggests allsorts of things, both to the vulgar and the educated. Nothing brutallyclap-trap about it, you know. '

'But--what does it suggest to you?'

'Oh, witch-like, mysterious girls or women. Think it over. '

There was another long silence. Reardon's face was that of a man inblank misery. 

'I have been trying, ' he said at length, after an attempt to speak whichwas checked by a huskiness in his throat, 'to explain to myself how thisstate of things has come about. I almost think I can do so. '

'How?'

'That half-year abroad, and the extraordinary shock of happiness whichfollowed at once upon it, have disturbed the balance of my nature. It was adjusted to circumstances of hardship, privation, struggle. A temperament like mine can't pass through such a violent change ofconditions without being greatly affected; I have never since been theman I was before I left England. The stage I had then reached was theresult of a slow and elaborate building up; I could look back and seethe processes by which I had grown from the boy who was a mere bookwormto the man who had all but succeeded as a novelist. It was a perfectlynatural, sober development. But in the last two years and a half I candistinguish no order. In living through it, I have imagined from timeto time that my powers were coming to their ripest; but that was meredelusion. Intellectually, I have fallen back. The probability is thatthis wouldn't matter, if only I could live on in peace of mind; I shouldrecover my equilibrium, and perhaps once more understand myself. But thedue course of things is troubled by my poverty. '

He spoke in a slow, meditative way, in a monotonous voice, and withoutraising his eyes from the ground. 

'I can understand, ' put in Jasper, 'that there may be philosophicaltruth in all this. All the same, it's a great pity that you shouldoccupy your mind with such thoughts. '

'A pity--no! I must remain a reasoning creature. Disaster may end bydriving me out of my wits, but till then I won't abandon my heritage ofthought. '

'Let us have it out, then. You think it was a mistake to spend thosemonths abroad?'

'A mistake from the practical point of view. That vast broadening of myhorizon lost me the command of my literary resources. I lived inItaly and Greece as a student, concerned especially with the oldcivilisations; I read little but Greek and Latin. That brought me out ofthe track I had laboriously made for myself I often thought with disgustof the kind of work I had been doing; my novels seemed vapid stuff sowretchedly and shallowly modern. If I had had the means, I should havedevoted myself to the life of a scholar. That, I quite believe, is mynatural life; it's only the influence of recent circumstances that hasmade me a writer of novels. A man who can't journalise, yet must earnhis bread by literature, nowadays inevitably turns to fiction, as theElizabethan men turned to the drama. Well, but I should have got back, Ithink, into the old line of work. It was my marriage that completed whatthe time abroad had begun. '

He looked up suddenly, and added:

'I am speaking as if to myself. You, of course, don't misunderstand me, and think I am accusing my wife. '

'No, I don't take you to mean that, by any means. '

'No, no; of course not. All that's wrong is my accursed want of money. But that threatens to be such a fearful wrong, that I begin to wish Ihad died before my marriage-day. Then Amy would have been saved. ThePhilistines are right: a man has no business to marry unless he has asecured income equal to all natural demands. I behaved with the grossestselfishness. I might have known that such happiness was never meant forme. '

'Do you mean by all this that you seriously doubt whether you will everbe able to write again?'

'In awful seriousness, I doubt it, ' replied Reardon, with haggard face. 

'It strikes me as extraordinary. In your position I should work as Inever had done before. '

'Because you are the kind of man who is roused by necessity. I amovercome by it. My nature is feeble and luxurious. I never in my lifeencountered and overcame a practical difficulty. '

'Yes; when you got the work at the hospital. '

'All I did was to write a letter, and chance made it effective. '

'My view of the case, Reardon, is that you are simply ill. '

'Certainly I am; but the ailment is desperately complicated. Tell me: doyou think I might possibly get any kind of stated work to do? Should Ibe fit for any place in a newspaper office, for instance?'

'I fear not. You are the last man to have anything to do withjournalism. '

'If I appealed to my publishers, could they help me?'

'I don't see how. They would simply say: Write a book and we'll buy it. '

'Yes, there's no help but that. '

'If only you were able to write short stories, Fadge might be useful. '

'But what's the use? I suppose I might get ten guineas, at most, forsuch a story. I need a couple of hundred pounds at least. Even ifI could finish a three-volume book, I doubt if they would give me ahundred again, after the failure of "The Optimist"; no, they wouldn't. '

'But to sit and look forward in this way is absolutely fatal, mydear fellow. Get to work at your two-volume story. Call it "The WeirdSisters, " or anything better that you can devise; but get it done, somany pages a day. If I go ahead as I begin to think I shall, I shallsoon be able to assure you good notices in a lot of papers. Yourmisfortune has been that you had no influential friends. By-the-bye, howhas The Study been in the habit of treating you?'

'Scrubbily. '

'I'll make an opportunity of talking about your books to Fadge. I thinkFadge and I shall get on pretty well together. Alfred Yule hates the manfiercely, for some reason or other. By the way, I may as well tell youthat I broke short off with the Yules on purpose. '

'Oh?'

'I had begun to think far too much about the girl. Wouldn't do, youknow. I must marry someone with money, and a good deal of it. 

That's a settled point with me. '

'Then you are not at all likely to meet them in London?'

'Not at all. And if I get allied with Fadge, no doubt Yule will involveme in his savage feeling. You see how wisely I acted. I have a scent forthe prudent course. '

They talked for a long time, but again chiefly of Milvain's affairs. Reardon, indeed, cared little to say anything more about his own. Talkwas mere vanity and vexation of spirit, for the spring of his volitionseemed to be broken, and, whatever resolve he might utter, he knew thateverything depended on influences he could not even foresee. 

CHAPTER VII. MARIAN'S HOME

Three weeks after her return from the country--which took place a weeklater than that of Jasper Milvain--Marian Yule was working one afternoonat her usual place in the Museum Reading-room. It was three o'clock, andwith the interval of half an hour at midday, when she went away for acup of tea and a sandwich, she had been closely occupied since half-pastnine. Her task at present was to collect materials for a paper on'French Authoresses of the Seventeenth Century, ' the kind of thingwhich her father supplied on stipulated terms for anonymous publication. Marian was by this time almost able to complete such a piece ofmanufacture herself and her father's share in it was limited to a fewhints and corrections. The greater part of the work by which Yule earnedhis moderate income was anonymous: volumes and articles which bore hissignature dealt with much the same subjects as his unsigned matter, butthe writing was laboured with a conscientiousness unusual in men of hisposition. The result, unhappily, was not correspondent with the efforts. Alfred Yule had made a recognisable name among the critical writers ofthe day; seeing him in the title-lists of a periodical, most people knewwhat to expect, but not a few forbore the cutting open of the pages heoccupied. He was learned, copious, occasionally mordant in style; butgrace had been denied to him. He had of late begun to perceive the factthat those passages of Marian's writing which were printed just as theycame from her pen had merit of a kind quite distinct from anything ofwhich he himself was capable, and it began to be a question withhim whether it would not be advantageous to let the girl sign thesecompositions. A matter of business, to be sure--at all events in thefirst instance. 

For a long time Marian had scarcely looked up from the desk, but at thismoment she found it necessary to refer to the invaluable Larousse. As sooften happened, the particular volume of which she had need was not uponthe shelf she turned away, and looked about her with a gaze of wearydisappointment. At a little distance were standing two young men, engaged, as their faces showed, in facetious colloquy; as soon as sheobserved them, Marian's eyes fell, but the next moment she looked againin that direction. Her face had wholly changed; she wore a look of timidexpectancy. 

The men were moving towards her, still talking and laughing. She turnedto the shelves, and affected to search for a book. The voices drew near, and one of them was well known to her; now she could hear every word;now the speakers were gone by. Was it possible that Mr Milvain had notrecognised her? She followed him with her eyes, and saw him take a seatnot far off he must have passed without even being aware of her. 

She went back to her place and for some minutes sat trifling with a pen. When she made a show of resuming work, it was evident that she could nolonger apply herself as before. Every now and then she glanced at peoplewho were passing; there were intervals when she wholly lost herself inreverie. She was tired, and had even a slight headache. When the hand ofthe clock pointed to half-past three, she closed the volume from whichshe had been copying extracts, and began to collect her papers. 

A voice spoke close behind her. 

'Where's your father, Miss Yule?'

The speaker was a man of sixty, short, stout, tonsured by the hand oftime. He had a broad, flabby face, the colour of an ancient turnip, save where one of the cheeks was marked with a mulberry stain; hiseyes, grey-orbed in a yellow setting, glared with good-humouredinquisitiveness, and his mouth was that of the confirmed gossip. Foreyebrows he had two little patches of reddish stubble; for moustache, what looked like a bit of discoloured tow, and scraps of similarmaterial hanging beneath his creasy chin represented a beard. His garbmust have seen a great deal of Museum service; it consisted of a jacket, something between brown and blue, hanging in capacious shapelessness, a waistcoat half open for lack of buttons and with one of the pocketscoming unsewn, a pair of bronze-hued trousers which had all run toknee. Necktie he had none, and his linen made distinct appeal to thelaundress. 

Marian shook hands with him. 

'He went away at half-past two, ' was her reply to his question. 

'How annoying! I wanted particularly to see him. I have been runningabout all day, and couldn't get here before. Something important--mostimportant. At all events, I can tell you. But I entreat that you won'tbreathe a word save to your father. '

Mr Quarmby--that was his name--had taken a vacant chair and drawn itclose to Marian's. He was in a state of joyous excitement, and talkedin thick, rather pompous tones, with a pant at the end of a sentence. Toemphasise the extremely confidential nature of his remarks, he broughthis head almost in contact with the girl's, and one of her thin, delicate hands was covered with his red, podgy fingers. 

'I've had a talk with Nathaniel Walker, ' he continued; 'a long talk--atalk of vast importance. You know Walker? No, no; how should you? He's aman of business; close friend of Rackett's--Rackett, you know, the ownerof The Study. '

Upon this he made a grave pause, and glared more excitedly than ever. 

'I have heard of Mr Rackett, ' said Marian. 

'Of course, of course. And you must also have heard that Fadge leavesThe Study at the end of this year, eh?'

'Father told me it was probable. '

'Rackett and he have done nothing but quarrel for months; the paper isfalling off seriously. Well, now, when I came across Nat Walker thisafternoon, the first thing he said to me was, "You know Alfred Yulepretty well, I think?" "Pretty well, " I answered; "why?" "I'll tellyou, " he said, "but it's between you and me, you understand. Rackett isthinking about him in connection with The Study. " "I'm delighted to hearit. " "To tell you the truth, " went on Nat, "I shouldn't wonder if Yulegets the editorship; but you understand that it would be altogetherpremature to talk about it. " Now what do you think of this, eh?'

'It's very good news, ' answered Marian. 

'I should think so! Ho, ho!'

Mr Quarmby laughed in a peculiar way, which was the result of long yearsof mirth-subdual in the Reading-room. 

'But not a breath to anyone but your father. He'll be here to-morrow?Break it gently to him, you know; he's an excitable man; can't takethings quietly, like I do. Ho, ho!'

His suppressed laugh ended in a fit of coughing--the Reading-room cough. When he had recovered from it, he pressed Marian's hand with paternalfervour, and waddled off to chatter with someone else. 

Marian replaced several books on the reference-shelves, returned othersto the central desk, and was just leaving the room, when again a voicemade demand upon her attention. 

'Miss Yule! One moment, if you please!'

It was a tall, meagre, dry-featured man, dressed with the painfulneatness of self-respecting poverty: the edges of his coat-sleeves werecarefully darned; his black necktie and a skull-cap which coveredhis baldness were evidently of home manufacture. He smiled softly andtimidly with blue, rheumy eyes. Two or three recent cuts on his chin andneck were the result of conscientious shaving with an unsteady hand. 

'I have been looking for your father, ' he said, as Marian turned. 'Isn'the here?'

'He has gone, Mr Hinks. '

'Ah, then would you do me the kindness to take a book for him? In fact, it's my little "Essay on the Historical Drama, " just out. '

He spoke with nervous hesitation, and in a tone which seemed to makeapology for his existence. 

'Oh, father will be very glad to have it. '

'If you will kindly wait one minute, Miss Yule. It's at my place overthere. '

He went off with long strides, and speedily came back panting, in hishand a thin new volume. 

'My kind regards to him, Miss Yule. You are quite well, I hope? I won'tdetain you. '

And he backed into a man who was coming inobservantly this way. 

Marian went to the ladies' cloak-room, put on her hat and jacket, andleft the Museum. Some one passed out through the swing-door a momentbefore her, and as soon as she had issued beneath the portico, she sawthat it was Jasper Milvain; she must have followed him through the hall, but her eyes had been cast down. The young man was now alone; as hedescended the steps he looked to left and right, but not behind him. Marian followed at a distance of two or three yards. Nearing thegateway, she quickened her pace a little, so as to pass out into thestreet almost at the same moment as Milvain. But he did not turn hishead. 

He took to the right. Marian had fallen back again, but she stillfollowed at a very little distance. His walk was slow, and she mighteasily have passed him in quite a natural way; in that case he could nothelp seeing her. But there was an uneasy suspicion in her mind that hereally must have noticed her in the Reading-room. This was the firsttime she had seen him since their parting at Finden. Had he any reasonfor avoiding her? Did he take it ill that her father had shown no desireto keep up his acquaintance?

She allowed the interval between them to become greater. In a minute ortwo Milvain turned up Charlotte Street, and so she lost sight of him. 

In Tottenham Court Road she waited for an omnibus that would take herto the remoter part of Camden Town; obtaining a corner seat, she drew asfar back as possible, and paid no attention to her fellow-passengers. At a point in Camden Road she at length alighted, and after tenminutes' walk reached her destination in a quiet by-way called St Paul'sCrescent, consisting of small, decent houses. That at which she pausedhad an exterior promising comfort within; the windows were clean andneatly curtained, and the polishable appurtenances of the door gleamedto perfection. She admitted herself with a latch-key, and went straightupstairs without encountering anyone. 

Descending again in a few moments, she entered the front room on theground-floor. This served both as parlour and dining-room; it wascomfortably furnished, without much attempt at adornment. On the wallswere a few autotypes and old engravings. A recess between fireplace andwindow was fitted with shelves, which supported hundreds of volumes, the overflow of Yule's library. The table was laid for a meal. It bestsuited the convenience of the family to dine at five o'clock; a longevening, so necessary to most literary people, was thus assured. Marian, as always when she had spent a day at the Museum, was faint withweariness and hunger; she cut a small piece of bread from a loaf on thetable, and sat down in an easy chair. 

Presently appeared a short, slight woman of middle age, plainly dressedin serviceable grey. Her face could never have been very comely, and itexpressed but moderate intelligence; its lines, however, were those ofgentleness and good feeling. She had the look of one who is makinga painful effort to understand something; this was fixed upon herfeatures, and probably resulted from the peculiar conditions of herlife. 

'Rather early, aren't you, Marian?' she said, as she closed the door andcame forward to take a seat. 

'Yes; I have a little headache. '

'Oh, dear! Is that beginning again?'

Mrs Yule's speech was seldom ungrammatical, and her intonation was notflagrantly vulgar, but the accent of the London poor, which brands aswith hereditary baseness, still clung to her words, rendering futilesuch propriety of phrase as she owed to years of association witheducated people. In the same degree did her bearing fall short of thatwhich distinguishes a lady. The London work-girl is rarely capable ofraising herself or being raised, to a place in life above that to whichshe was born; she cannot learn how to stand and sit and move like awoman bred to refinement, any more than she can fashion her tongueto graceful speech. Mrs Yule's behaviour to Marian was marked with asingular diffidence; she looked and spoke affectionately, but not with amother's freedom; one might have taken her for a trusted servant waitingupon her mistress. Whenever opportunity offered, she watched the girlin a curiously furtive way, that puzzled look on her face becoming verynoticeable. Her consciousness was never able to accept as a familiar andunimportant fact the vast difference between herself and her daughter. Marian's superiority in native powers, in delicacy of feeling, in theresults of education, could never be lost sight of. Under ordinarycircumstances she addressed the girl as if tentatively; however sure ofanything from her own point of view, she knew that Marian, as oftenas not, had quite a different criterion. She understood that thegirl frequently expressed an opinion by mere reticence, and hence thecarefulness with which, when conversing, she tried to discover the realeffect of her words in Marian's features. 

'Hungry, too, ' she said, seeing the crust Marian was nibbling. 'Youreally must have more lunch, dear. It isn't right to go so long; you'llmake yourself ill. '

'Have you been out?' Marian asked. 

'Yes; I went to Holloway. '

Mrs Yule sighed and looked very unhappy. By 'going to Holloway' wasalways meant a visit to her own relatives--a married sister with threechildren, and a brother who inhabited the same house. To her husbandshe scarcely ever ventured to speak of these persons; Yule hadno intercourse with them. But Marian was always willing to listensympathetically, and her mother often exhibited a touching gratitude forthis condescension--as she deemed it. 

'Are things no better?' the girl inquired. 

'Worse, as far as I can see. John has begun his drinking again, and himand Tom quarrel every night; there's no peace in the 'ouse. '

If ever Mrs Yule lapsed into gross errors of pronunciation or phrase, itwas when she spoke of her kinsfolk. The subject seemed to throw her backinto a former condition. 

'He ought to go and live by himself' said Marian, referring to hermother's brother, the thirsty John. 

'So he ought, to be sure. I'm always telling them so. But there!you don't seem to be able to persuade them, they're that silly andobstinate. And Susan, she only gets angry with me, and tells me not totalk in a stuck-up way. I'm sure I never say a word that could offendher; I'm too careful for that. And there's Annie; no doing anything withher! She's about the streets at all hours, and what'll be the end ofit no one can say. They're getting that ragged, all of them. It isn'tSusan's fault; indeed it isn't. She does all that woman can. But Tomhasn't brought home ten shillings the last month, and it seems to me asif he was getting careless. I gave her half-a-crown; it was all I coulddo. And the worst of it is, they think I could do so much more if Iliked. They're always hinting that we are rich people, and it's no goodmy trying to persuade them. They think I'm telling falsehoods, and it'svery hard to be looked at in that way; it is, indeed, Marian. '

'You can't help it, mother. I suppose their suffering makes them unkindand unjust. '

'That's just what it does, my dear; you never said anything truer. Poverty will make the best people bad, if it gets hard enough. Whythere's so much of it in the world, I'm sure I can't see. '

'I suppose father will be back soon?'

'He said dinner-time. '

'Mr Quarmby has been telling me something which is wonderfully good newsif it's really true; but I can't help feeling doubtful. 

He says that father may perhaps be made editor of The Study at the endof this year. '

Mrs Yule, of course, understood, in outline, these affairs of theliterary world; she thought of them only from the pecuniary point ofview, but that made no essential distinction between her and the mass ofliterary people. 

'My word!' she exclaimed. 'What a thing that would be for us!'

Marian had begun to explain her reluctance to base any hopes on MrQuarmby's prediction, when the sound of a postman's knock at thehouse-door caused her mother to disappear for a moment. 

'It's for you, ' said Mrs Yule, returning. 'From the country. '

Marian took the letter and examined its address with interest. 

'It must be one of the Miss Milvains. Yes; Dora Milvain. '

After Jasper's departure from Finden his sisters had seen Marian severaltimes, and the mutual liking between her and them had been confirmed byopportunity of conversation. The promise of correspondence had hithertowaited for fulfilment. It seemed natural to Marian that the youngerof the two girls should write; Maud was attractive and agreeable, andprobably clever, but Dora had more spontaneity in friendship. 

'It will amuse you to hear, ' wrote Dora, 'that the literary project ourbrother mentioned in a letter whilst you were still here is really tocome to something. He has sent us a specimen chapter, written by himselfof the "Child's History of Parliament, " and Maud thinks she could carryit on in that style, if there's no hurry. She and I have both set towork on English histories, and we shall be authorities before long. Jolly and Monk offer thirty pounds for the little book, if it suits themwhen finished, with certain possible profits in the future. Trust Jasperfor making a bargain! So perhaps our literary career will be somethingmore than a joke, after all. I hope it may; anything rather than a lifeof teaching. We shall be so glad to hear from you, if you still care totrouble about country girls. '

And so on. Marian read with a pleased smile, then acquainted her motherwith the contents. 

'I am very glad, ' said Mrs Yule; 'it's so seldom you get a letter. '

'Yes. '

Marian seemed desirous of saying something more, and her mother had athoughtful look, suggestive of sympathetic curiosity. 

'Is their brother likely to call here?' Mrs Yule asked, with misgiving. 

'No one has invited him to, ' was the girl's quiet reply. 

'He wouldn't come without that?'

'It's not likely that he even knows the address. '

'Your father won't be seeing him, I suppose?'

'By chance, perhaps. I don't know. '

It was very rare indeed for these two to touch upon any subject savethose of everyday interest. In spite of the affection between them, their exchange of confidence did not go very far; Mrs Yule, who hadnever exercised maternal authority since Marian's earliest childhood, claimed no maternal privileges, and Marian's natural reserve had beenstrengthened by her mother's respectful aloofness. The English fault ofdomestic reticence could scarcely go further than it did in their case;its exaggeration is, of course, one of the characteristics of thoseunhappy families severed by differences of education between the old andyoung. 

'I think, ' said Marian, in a forced tone, 'that father hasn't muchliking for Mr Milvain. '

She wished to know if her mother had heard any private remarks on thissubject, but she could not bring herself to ask directly. 

'I'm sure I don't know, ' replied Mrs Yule, smoothing her dress. 'Hehasn't said anything to me, Marian. '

An awkward silence. The mother had fixed her eyes on the mantelpiece, and was thinking hard. 

'Otherwise, ' said Marian, 'he would have said something, I should think, about meeting in London. '

'But is there anything in--this gentleman that he wouldn't like?'

'I don't know of anything. '

Impossible to pursue the dialogue; Marian moved uneasily, then rose, said something about putting the letter away, and left the room. 

Shortly after, Alfred Yule entered the house. It was no uncommon thingfor him to come home in a mood of silent moroseness, and this eveningthe first glimpse of his face was sufficient warning. He entered thedining-room and stood on the hearthrug reading an evening paper. Hiswife made a pretence of straightening things upon the table. 

'Well?' he exclaimed irritably. 'It's after five; why isn't dinnerserved?'

'It's just coming, Alfred. '

Even the average man of a certain age is an alarming creature whendinner delays itself; the literary man in such a moment goes beyond allparallel. If there be added the fact that he has just returned from avery unsatisfactory interview with a publisher, wife and daughter mayindeed regard the situation as appalling. Marian came in, and at onceobserved her mother's frightened face. 

'Father, ' she said, hoping to make a diversion, 'Mr Hinks has sent youhis new book, and wishes--'

'Then take Mr Hinks's new book back to him, and tell him that I havequite enough to do without reading tedious trash. He needn't expectthat I'm going to write a notice of it. The simpleton pesters me beyondendurance. I wish to know, if you please, ' he added with savage calm, 'when dinner will be ready. If there's time to write a few letters, justtell me at once, that I mayn't waste half an hour. '

Marian resented this unreasonable anger, but she durst not reply. 

At that moment the servant appeared with a smoking joint, and MrsYule followed carrying dishes of vegetables. The man of letters seatedhimself and carved angrily. He began his meal by drinking half a glassof ale; then he ate a few mouthfuls in a quick, hungry way, his headbent closely over the plate. It happened commonly enough that dinnerpassed without a word of conversation, and that seemed likely to be thecase this evening. 

To his wife Yule seldom addressed anything but a curt inquiry or causticcomment; if he spoke humanly at table it was to Marian. 

Ten minutes passed; then Marian resolved to try any means of clearingthe atmosphere. 

'Mr Quarmby gave me a message for you, ' she said. 'A friend of his, Nathaniel Walker, has told him that Mr Rackett will very likely offeryou the editorship of The Study. '

Yule stopped in the act of mastication. He fixed his eyes intently onthe sirloin for half a minute; then, by way of the beer-jug and thesalt-cellar, turned them upon Marian's face. 

'Walker told him that? Pooh!'

'It was a great secret. I wasn't to breathe a word to any one but you. '

'Walker's a fool and Quarmby's an ass, ' remarked her father. 

But there was a tremulousness in his bushy eyebrows; his forehead halfunwreathed itself; he continued to eat more slowly, and as if withappreciation of the viands. 

'What did he say? Repeat it to me in his words. '

Marian did so, as nearly as possible. He listened with a scoffingexpression, but still his features relaxed. 

'I don't credit Rackett with enough good sense for such a proposal, ' hesaid deliberately. 'And I'm not very sure that I should accept it if itwere made. That fellow Fadge has all but ruined the paper. It willamuse me to see how long it takes him to make Culpepper's new magazine adistinct failure. '

A silence of five minutes ensued; then Yule said of a sudden. 

'Where is Hinks's book?'

Marian reached it from a side table; under this roof, literature wasregarded almost as a necessary part of table garnishing. 

'I thought it would be bigger than this, ' Yule muttered, as he openedthe volume in a way peculiar to bookish men. 

A page was turned down, as if to draw attention to some passage. Yuleput on his eyeglasses, and soon made a discovery which had the effect ofcompleting the transformation of his visage. His eyes glinted, his chinworked in pleasurable emotion. In a moment he handed the book to Marian, indicating the small type of a foot-note; it embodied an effusiveeulogy--introduced a propos of some literary discussion--of 'Mr AlfredYule's critical acumen, scholarly research, lucid style, ' and sundryother distinguished merits. 

'That is kind of him, ' said Marian. 

'Good old Hinks! I suppose I must try to get him half-a-dozen readers. '

'May I see?' asked Mrs Yule, under her breath, bending to Marian. 

Her daughter passed on the volume, and Mrs Yule read the footnote withthat look of slow apprehension which is so pathetic when it signifiesthe heart's good-will thwarted by the mind's defect. 

'That'll be good for you, Alfred, won't it?' she said, glancing at herhusband. 

'Certainly, ' he replied, with a smile of contemptuous irony. 'If Hinksgoes on, he'll establish my reputation. '

And he took a draught of ale, like one who is reinvigorated for thebattle of life. Marian, regarding him askance, mused on what seemed toher a strange anomaly in his character; it had often surprised her thata man of his temperament and powers should be so dependent upon thepraise and blame of people whom he justly deemed his inferiors. 

Yule was glancing over the pages of the work. 

'A pity the man can't write English. ' What a vocabulary!Obstruent--reliable--particularization--fabulosity--different to--averseto--did one ever come across such a mixture of antique pedantry andmodern vulgarism! Surely he has his name from the German hinken--eh, Marian?'

With a laugh he tossed the book away again. His mood was wholly changed. He gave various evidences of enjoying the meal, and began to talk freelywith his daughter. 

'Finished the authoresses?'

'Not quite. '

'No hurry. When you have time I want you to read Ditchley's new book, and jot down a selection of his worst sentences. I'll use them for anarticle on contemporary style; it occurred to me this afternoon. '

He smiled grimly. Mrs Yule's face exhibited much contentment, whichbecame radiant joy when her husband remarked casually that the custardwas very well made to-day. Dinner over, he rose without ceremony andwent off to his study. 

The man had suffered much and toiled stupendously. It was notinexplicable that dyspepsia, and many another ill that literary flesh isheir to, racked him sore. 

Go back to the days when he was an assistant at a bookseller's inHolborn. Already ambition devoured him, and the genuine love ofknowledge goaded his brain. He allowed himself but three or four hoursof sleep; he wrought doggedly at languages, ancient and modern; he triedhis hand at metrical translations; he planned tragedies. Practically hewas living in a past age; his literary ideals were formed on the studyof Boswell. 

The head assistant in the shop went away to pursue a business whichhad come into his hands on the death of a relative; it was a smallpublishing concern, housed in an alley off the Strand, and Mr Polo (asingular name, to become well known in the course of time) had hisideas about its possible extension. Among other instances of activity hestarted a penny weekly paper, called All Sorts, and in the pages ofthis periodical Alfred Yule first appeared as an author. Before long hebecame sub-editor of All Sorts, then actual director of the paper. Hesaid good-bye to the bookseller, and his literary career fairly began. 

Mr Polo used to say that he never knew a man who could work so manyconsecutive hours as Alfred Yule. A faithful account of all thatthe young man learnt and wrote from 1855 to 1860--that is, from histwenty-fifth to his thirtieth year--would have the look of burlesqueexaggeration. He had set it before him to become a celebrated man, andhe was not unaware that the attainment of that end would cost himquite exceptional labour, seeing that nature had not favoured him withbrilliant parts. No matter; his name should be spoken among men unlesshe killed himself in the struggle for success. 

In the meantime he married. Living in a garret, and supplying himselfwith the materials of his scanty meals, he was in the habit of makingpurchases at a little chandler's shop, where he was waited upon bya young girl of no beauty, but, as it seemed to him, of amiabledisposition. One holiday he met this girl as she was walking with ayounger sister in the streets; he made her nearer acquaintance, andbefore long she consented to be his wife and share his garret. Hisbrothers, John and Edmund, cried out that he had made an unpardonablefool of himself in marrying so much beneath him; that he might well havewaited until his income improved. This was all very well, but they mightjust as reasonably have bidden him reject plain food because a few yearshence he would be able to purchase luxuries; he could not do withoutnourishment of some sort, and the time had come when he could not dowithout a wife. Many a man with brains but no money has been compelledto the same step. Educated girls have a pronounced distaste forLondon garrets; not one in fifty thousand would share poverty withthe brightest genius ever born. Seeing that marriage is so oftenindispensable to that very success which would enable a man of parts tomate equally, there is nothing for it but to look below one's own level, and be grateful to the untaught woman who has pity on one's loneliness. 

Unfortunately, Alfred Yule was not so grateful as he might have been. His marriage proved far from unsuccessful; he might have found himselfunited to a vulgar shrew, whereas the girl had the great virtues ofhumility and kindliness. She endeavoured to learn of him, but herdulness and his impatience made this attempt a failure; her humanqualities had to suffice. And they did, until Yule began to lift hishead above the literary mob. Previously, he often lost his temper withher, but never expressed or felt repentance of his marriage; now hebegan to see only the disadvantages of his position, and, forgetting thefacts of the case, to imagine that he might well have waited for a wifewho could share his intellectual existence. Mrs Yule had to pass througha few years of much bitterness. Already a martyr to dyspepsia, and oftensuffering from bilious headaches of extreme violence, her husband nowand then lost all control of his temper, all sense of kind feeling, even of decency, and reproached the poor woman with her ignorance, herstupidity, her low origin. Naturally enough she defended herself withsuch weapons as a sense of cruel injustice supplied. More than oncethe two all but parted. It did not come to an actual rupture, chieflybecause Yule could not do without his wife; her tendance had becomeindispensable. And then there was the child to consider. 

From the first it was Yule's dread lest Marian should be infected withher mother's faults of speech and behaviour. He would scarcely permithis wife to talk to the child. At the earliest possible moment Marianwas sent to a day-school, and in her tenth year she went as weeklyboarder to an establishment at Fulham; any sacrifice of money to insureher growing up with the tongue and manners of a lady. It can scarcelyhave been a light trial to the mother to know that contact with her wasregarded as her child's greatest danger; but in her humility and herlove for Marian she offered no resistance. And so it came to passthat one day the little girl, hearing her mother make some flagrantgrammatical error, turned to the other parent and asked gravely: 'Whydoesn't mother speak as properly as we do?' Well, that is one of theresults of such marriages, one of the myriad miseries that result frompoverty. 

The end was gained at all hazards. Marian grew up everything that herfather desired. Not only had she the bearing of refinement, but it earlybecame obvious that nature had well endowed her with brains. From thenursery her talk was of books, and at the age of twelve she was alreadyable to give her father some assistance as an amanuensis. 

At that time Edmund Yule was still living; he had overcome hisprejudices, and there was intercourse between his household and that ofthe literary man. Intimacy it could not be called, for Mrs Edmund (whowas the daughter of a law-stationer) had much difficulty in behaving toMrs Alfred with show of suavity. Still, the cousins Amy and Marian fromtime to time saw each other, and were not unsuitable companions. It wasthe death of Amy's father that brought these relations to an end; leftto the control of her own affairs Mrs Edmund was not long in givingoffence to Mrs Alfred, and so to Alfred himself. The man of lettersmight be inconsiderate enough in his behaviour to his wife, but assoon as anyone else treated her with disrespect that was quite anothermatter. Purely on this account he quarrelled violently with hisbrother's widow, and from that day the two families kept apart. 

The chapter of quarrels was one of no small importance in Alfred's life;his difficult temper, and an ever-increasing sense of neglected merit, frequently put him at war with publishers, editors, fellow-authors, andhe had an unhappy trick of exciting the hostility of men who were mostlikely to be useful to him. With Mr Polo, for instance, who held himin esteem, and whose commercial success made him a valuable connection, Alfred ultimately broke on a trifling matter of personal dignity. Latercame the great quarrel with Clement Fadge, an affair of considerableadvantage in the way of advertisement to both the men concerned. Ithappened in the year 1873. At that time Yule was editor of a weeklypaper called The Balance, a literary organ which aimed high, and failedto hit the circulation essential to its existence. Fadge, a younger man, did reviewing for The Balance; he was in needy circumstances, and hadwrought himself into Yule's good opinion by judicious flattery. But witha clear eye for the main chance Mr Fadge soon perceived that Yulecould only be of temporary use to him, and that the editor of awell-established weekly which lost no opportunity of throwing scornupon Yule and all his works would be a much more profitable conquest. He succeeded in transferring his services to the more flourishingpaper, and struck out a special line of work by the free exercise ofa malicious flippancy which was then without rival in the periodicalpress. When he had thoroughly got his hand in, it fell to Mr Fadge, in the mere way of business, to review a volume of his old editor's, a rather pretentious and longwinded but far from worthless essay 'OnImagination as a National Characteristic. ' The notice was a masterpiece;its exquisite virulence set the literary circles chuckling. Concerningthe authorship there was no mystery, and Alfred Yule had theindiscretion to make a violent reply, a savage assault upon Fadge, inthe columns of The Balance. Fadge desired nothing better; the uproarwhich arose--chaff, fury, grave comments, sneering spite--could onlyresult in drawing universal attention to his anonymous cleverness, andthrowing ridicule upon the heavy, conscientious man. Well, youprobably remember all about it. It ended in the disappearance of Yule'sstruggling paper, and the establishment on a firm basis of Fadge'sreputation. 

It would be difficult to mention any department of literary endeavour inwhich Yule did not, at one time or another, try his fortune. Turn tohis name in the Museum Catalogue; the list of works appended to itwill amuse you. In his thirtieth year he published a novel; it failedcompletely, and the same result awaited a similar experiment five yearslater. He wrote a drama of modern life, and for some years strove toget it acted, but in vain; finally it appeared 'for the closet'--givingClement Fadge such an opportunity as he seldom enjoyed. The onenoteworthy thing about these productions, and about others of equallymistaken direction, was the sincerity of their workmanship. Had Yulebeen content to manufacture a novel or a play with due disregard forliterary honour, he might perchance have made a mercantile success; butthe poor fellow had not pliancy enough for this. He took his effortsau grand serieux; thought he was producing works of art; pursued hisambition in a spirit of fierce conscientiousness. In spite of all, heremained only a journeyman. The kind of work he did best was poorlypaid, and could bring no fame. At the age of fifty he was still livingin a poor house in an obscure quarter. He earned enough for his actualneeds, and was under no pressing fear for the morrow, so long as hisfaculties remained unimpaired; but there was no disguising from himselfthat his life had been a failure. And the thought tormented him. 

Now there had come unexpectedly a gleam of hope. If indeed, the manRackett thought of offering him the editorship of The Study he mighteven yet taste the triumphs for which he had so vehemently longed. TheStudy was a weekly paper of fair repute. Fadge had harmed it, no doubtof that, by giving it a tone which did not suit the majority of itsreaders--serious people, who thought that the criticism of contemporarywriting offered an opportunity for something better than a display ofmalevolent wit. But a return to the old earnestness would doubtless setall right again. And the joy of sitting in that dictatorial chair! Thedelight of having his own organ once more, of making himself a power inthe world of letters, of emphasising to a large audience his developedmethods of criticism!

An embittered man is a man beset by evil temptations. The Studycontained each week certain columns of flying gossip, and when hethought of this, Yule also thought of Clement Fadge, and sundry otherof his worst enemies. How the gossip column can be used for hostilepurposes, yet without the least overt offence, he had learnt only toowell. Sometimes the mere omission of a man's name from a list of authorscan mortify and injure. In our day the manipulation of such paragraphshas become a fine art; but you recall numerous illustrations. Alfredknew well enough how incessantly the tempter would be at his ear;he said to himself that in certain instances yielding would be nodishonour. He himself had many a time been mercilessly treated; in thevery interest of the public it was good that certain men should suffer asnubbing, and his fingers itched to have hold of the editorial pen. Ha, ha! Like the war-horse he snuffed the battle afar off. 

No work this evening, though there were tasks which pressed forcompletion. His study--the only room on the ground level except thedining-room--was small, and even a good deal of the floor was encumberedwith books, but he found space for walking nervously hither and thither. He was doing this when, about half-past nine, his wife appeared at thedoor, bringing him a cup of coffee and some biscuits, his wonted supper. Marian generally waited upon him at this time, and he asked why she hadnot come. 

'She has one of her headaches again, I'm sorry to say, ' Mrs Yulereplied. 'I persuaded her to go to bed early. '

Having placed the tray upon the table--books had to be pushed aside--shedid not seem disposed to withdraw. 

'Are you busy, Alfred?'

'Why?'

'I thought I should like just to speak of something. '

She was using the opportunity of his good humour. Yule spoke to her withthe usual carelessness, but not forbiddingly. 

'What is it? Those Holloway people, I'll warrant. '

'No, no! It's about Marian. She had a letter from one of those youngladies this afternoon. '

'What young ladies?' asked Yule, with impatience of this circuitousapproach. 

'The Miss Milvains. '

'Well, there's no harm that I know of. They're decent people. '

'Yes; so you told me. But she began to speak about their brother, and--'

'What about him? Do say what you want to say, and have done with it!'

'I can't help thinking, Alfred, that she's disappointed you didn't askhim to come here. '

Yule stared at her in slight surprise. He was still not angry, andseemed quite willing to consider this matter suggested to him sotimorously. 

'Oh, you think so? Well, I don't know. Why should I have asked him?It was only because Miss Harrow seemed to wish it that I saw him downthere. I have no particular interest in him. And as for--'

He broke off and seated himself. Mrs Yule stood at a distance. 

'We must remember her age, ' she said. 

'Why yes, of course. '

He mused, and began to nibble a biscuit. 

'And you know, Alfred, she never does meet any young men. I've oftenthought it wasn't right to her. '

'H'm! But this lad Milvain is a very doubtful sort of customer. To beginwith, he has nothing, and they tell me his mother for the most partsupports him. I don't quite approve of that. She isn't well off, and heought to have been making a living by now. 

He has a kind of cleverness, may do something; but there's no being sureof that. '

These thoughts were not coming into his mind for the first time. On theoccasion when he met Milvain and Marian together in the country road hehad necessarily reflected upon the possibilities of such intercourse, and with the issue that he did not care to give any particularencouragement to its continuance. He of course heard of Milvain'sleave-taking call, and he purposely refrained from seeing the young manafter that. The matter took no very clear shape in his meditations; hesaw no likelihood that either of the young people would think much ofthe other after their parting, and time enough to trouble one's headwith such subjects when they could no longer be postponed. It wouldnot have been pleasant to him to foresee a life of spinsterhood for hisdaughter; but she was young, and--she was a valuable assistant. 

How far did that latter consideration weigh with him? He put thequestion pretty distinctly to himself now that his wife had broachedthe matter thus unexpectedly. Was he prepared to behave with deliberateselfishness? Never yet had any conflict been manifested between hisinterests and Marian's; practically he was in the habit of counting uponher aid for an indefinite period. 

If indeed he became editor of The Study, why, in that case herassistance would be less needful. And indeed it seemed probable thatyoung Milvain had a future before him. 

'But, in any case, ' he said aloud, partly continuing his thoughts, partly replying to a look of disappointment on his wife's face, 'how doyou know that he has any wish to come and see Marian?'

'I don't know anything about it, of course. '

'And you may have made a mistake about her. What made you think she--hadhim in mind?'

'Well, it was her way of speaking, you know. And then, she asked if youhad got a dislike to him. '

'She did? H'm! Well, I don't think Milvain is any good to Marian. He'sjust the kind of man to make himself agreeable to a girl for the fun ofthe thing. '

Mrs Yule looked alarmed. 

'Oh, if you really think that, don't let him come. I wouldn't foranything. '

'I don't say it for certain. ' He took a sip of his coffee. 'I have hadno opportunity of observing him with much attention. But he's not thekind of man I care for. '

'Then no doubt it's better as it is. '

'Yes. I don't see that anything could be done now. We shall see whetherhe gets on. I advise you not to mention him to her. '

'Oh no, I won't. '

She moved as if to go away, but her heart had been made uneasy by thatshort conversation which followed on Marian's reading the letter, andthere were still things she wished to put into words. 

'If those young ladies go on writing to her, I dare say they'll oftenspeak about their brother. '

'Yes, it's rather unfortunate. '

'And you know, Alfred, he may have asked them to do it. '

'I suppose there's one subject on which all women can be subtle, 'muttered Yule, smiling. The remark was not a kind one, but he did notmake it worse by his tone. 

The listener failed to understand him, and looked with her familiarexpression of mental effort. 

'We can't help that, ' he added, with reference to her suggestion. 'Ifhe has any serious thoughts, well, let him go on and wait foropportunities. '

'It's a great pity, isn't it, that she can't see more people--of theright kind?'

'No use talking about it. Things are as they are. I can't see that herlife is unhappy. '

'It isn't very happy. '

'You think not?'

'I'm sure it isn't. '

'If I get The Study things may be different. Though--But it's no usetalking about what can't be helped. Now don't you go encouraging herto think herself lonely, and so on. It's best for her to keep close towork, I'm sure of that. '

'Perhaps it is. '

'I'll think it over. '

Mrs Yule silently left the room, and went back to her sewing. 

She had understood that 'Though--' and the 'what can't be helped. ' Suchallusions reminded her of a time unhappier than the present, when shehad been wont to hear plainer language. She knew too well that, had shebeen a woman of education, her daughter would not now be suffering fromloneliness. 

It was her own choice that she did not go with her husband and Marian toJohn Yule's. She made an excuse that the house could not be left toone servant; but in any case she would have remained at home, for herpresence must needs be an embarrassment both to father and daughter. Alfred was always ashamed of her before strangers; he could not concealhis feeling, either from her or from other people who had reason forobserving him. Marian was not perhaps ashamed, but such companionshipput restraint upon her freedom. And would it not always be the same?Supposing Mr Milvain were to come to this house, would it not repel himwhen he found what sort of person Marian's mother was?

She shed a few tears over her needlework. 

At midnight the study door opened. Yule came to the dining-room to seethat all was right, and it surprised him to find his wife still sittingthere. 

'Why are you so late?'

'I've forgot the time. '

'Forgotten, forgotten. Don't go back to that kind of language again. Come, put the light out. '

PART TWO

CHAPTER VIII. TO THE WINNING SIDE

Of the acquaintances Yule had retained from his earlier years severalwere in the well-defined category of men with unpresentable wives. Therewas Hinks, for instance, whom, though in anger he spoke of him as abore, Alfred held in some genuine regard. Hinks made perhaps a hundred ayear out of a kind of writing which only certain publishers can get ridof and of this income he spent about a third on books. His wife was thedaughter of a laundress, in whose house he had lodged thirty years ago, when new to London but already long-acquainted with hunger; they livedin complete harmony, but Mrs Hinks, who was four years the elder, stillspoke the laundress tongue, unmitigated and immitigable. Another pairwere Mr and Mrs Gorbutt. In this case there were no narrow circumstancesto contend with, for the wife, originally a nursemaid, not long afterher marriage inherited house property from a relative. Mr Gorbutt deemedhimself a poet; since his accession to an income he had published, athis own expense, a yearly volume of verses; the only result being tokeep alive rancour in his wife, who was both parsimonious and vain. Making no secret of it, Mrs Gorbutt rued the day on which she had weddeda man of letters, when by waiting so short a time she would have beenenabled to aim at a prosperous tradesman, who kept his gig and hadeverything handsome about him. Mrs Yule suspected, not without reason, that this lady had an inclination to strong liquors. Thirdly came Mrand Mrs Christopherson, who were poor as church mice. Even in a friend'shouse they wrangled incessantly, and made tragi-comical revelationsof their home life. The husband worked casually at irresponsiblejournalism, but his chosen study was metaphysics; for many years he hadhad a huge and profound book on hand, which he believed would bring himfame, though he was not so unsettled in mind as to hope for anythingelse. When an article or two had earned enough money for immediatenecessities he went off to the British Museum, and then the difficultywas to recall him to profitable exertions. Yet husband and wife had anaffection for each other. Mrs Christopherson came from Camberwell, where her father, once upon a time, was the smallest of small butchers. Disagreeable stories were whispered concerning her earlier life, andprobably the metaphysician did not care to look back in that direction. They had had three children; all were happily buried. 

These men were capable of better things than they had done or would everdo; in each case their failure to fulfil youthful promise was largelyexplained by the unpresentable wife. They should have waited; they mighthave married a social equal at something between fifty and sixty. 

Another old friend was Mr Quarmby. Unwedded he, and perpetually exultantover men who, as he phrased it, had noosed themselves. He made a fairliving, but, like Dr Johnson, had no passion for clean linen. 

Yule was not disdainful of these old companions, and the fact thatall had a habit of looking up to him increased his pleasure in theiroccasional society. If, as happened once or twice in half a year, several of them were gathered together at his house, he tasted a shamkind of social and intellectual authority which he could not helprelishing. On such occasions he threw off his habitual gloom and talkedvigorously, making natural display of his learning and critical ability. The topic, sooner or later, was that which is inevitable in such acircle--the demerits, the pretentiousness, the personal weaknesses ofprominent contemporaries in the world of letters. Then did the room ringwith scornful laughter, with boisterous satire, with shouted irony, with fierce invective. After an evening of that kind Yule was unwell andmiserable for several days. 

It was not to be expected that Mr Quarmby, inveterate chatterbox of theReading-room and other resorts, should keep silence concerning what hehad heard of Mr Rackett's intentions. The rumour soon spread thatAlfred Yule was to succeed Fadge in the direction of The Study, with thenecessary consequence that Yule found himself an object of affectionateinterest to a great many people of whom he knew little or nothing. Atthe same time the genuine old friends pressed warmly about him, withcongratulations, with hints of their sincere readiness to assist infilling the columns of the paper. All this was not disagreeable, but inthe meantime Yule had heard nothing whatever from Mr Rackett himself andhis doubts did not diminish as week after week went by. 

The event justified him. At the end of October appeared an authoritativeannouncement that Fadge's successor would be--not Alfred Yule, but agentleman who till of late had been quietly working as a sub-editor inthe provinces, and who had neither friendships nor enmities among thepeople of the London literary press. A young man, comparatively freshfrom the university, and said to be strong in pure scholarship. Thechoice, as you are aware, proved a good one, and The Study became anorgan of more repute than ever. 

Yule had been secretly conscious that it was not to men such as he thatpositions of this kind are nowadays entrusted. He tried to persuadehimself that he was not disappointed. But when Mr Quarmby approached himwith blank face, he spoke certain wrathful words which long rankled inthat worthy's mind. At home he kept sullen silence. 

No, not to such men as he--poor, and without social recommendations. Besides, he was growing too old. In literature, as in most otherpursuits, the press of energetic young men was making it very hard fora veteran even to hold the little grazing-plot he had won by hardfighting. Still, Quarmby's story had not been without foundation; it wastrue that the proprietor of The Study had for a moment thought of AlfredYule, doubtless as the natural contrast to Clement Fadge, whom he wouldhave liked to mortify if the thing were possible. But counsellors hadproved to Mr Rackett the disadvantages of such a choice. 

Mrs Yule and her daughter foresaw but too well the results of thisdisappointment, notwithstanding that Alfred announced it to them withdry indifference. The month that followed was a time of misery for allin the house. Day after day Yule sat at his meals in sullen muteness; tohis wife he scarcely spoke at all, and his conversation with Marian didnot go beyond necessary questions and remarks on topics of business. His face became so strange a colour that one would have thought himsuffering from an attack of jaundice; bilious headaches exasperated hissavage mood. Mrs Yule knew from long experience how worse than uselessit was for her to attempt consolation; in silence was her only safety. Nor did Marian venture to speak directly of what had happened. Butone evening, when she had been engaged in the study and was now saying'Good-night, ' she laid her cheek against her father's, an unwontedcaress which had a strange effect upon him. The expression of sympathycaused his thoughts to reveal themselves as they never yet had donebefore his daughter. 

'It might have been very different with me, ' he exclaimed abruptly, asif they had already been conversing on the subject. 'When you thinkof my failures--and you must often do so now you are grown up andunderstand things--don't forget the obstacles that have been in my way. I don't like you to look upon your father as a thickhead who couldn'tbe expected to succeed. Look at Fadge. He married a woman of good socialposition; she brought him friends and influence. But for that he wouldnever have been editor of The Study, a place for which he wasn't in theleast fit. But he was able to give dinners; he and his wife went intosociety; everybody knew him and talked of him. How has it been withme? I live here like an animal in its hole, and go blinking about ifby chance I find myself among the people with whom I ought naturally toassociate. If I had been able to come in direct contact with Rackett andother men of that kind, to dine with them, and have them to dine withme, to belong to a club, and so on, I shouldn't be what I am at my age. My one opportunity--when I edited The Balance--wasn't worth much; therewas no money behind the paper; we couldn't hold out long enough. Buteven then, if I could have assumed my proper social standing, if I couldhave opened my house freely to the right kind of people--How was itpossible?'

Marian could not raise her head. She recognised the portion of truth inwhat he said, but it shocked her that he should allow himself to speakthus. Her silence seemed to remind him how painful it must be to her tohear these accusations of her mother, and with a sudden 'Good-night' hedismissed her. 

She went up to her room, and wept over the wretchedness of all theirlives. Her loneliness had seemed harder to bear than ever since thatlast holiday. For a moment, in the lanes about Finden, there had come toher a vision of joy such as fate owed her youth; but it had faded, andshe could no longer hope for its return. She was not a woman, but a meremachine for reading and writing. Did her father never think of this? Hewas not the only one to suffer from the circumstances in which povertyhad involved him. 

She had no friends to whom she could utter her thoughts. Dora Milvainhad written a second time, and more recently had come a letter fromMaud; but in replying to them she could not give a true account ofherself. Impossible, to them. From what she wrote they would imagine hercontentedly busy, absorbed in the affairs of literature. To no one couldshe make known the aching sadness of her heart, the dreariness of lifeas it lay before her. 

That beginning of half-confidence between her and her mother had led tonothing. Mrs Yule found no second opportunity of speaking to her husbandabout Jasper Milvain, and purposely she refrained from any further hintor question to Marian. Everything must go on as hitherto. 

The days darkened. Through November rains and fogs Marian went her usualway to the Museum, and toiled there among the other toilers. Perhapsonce a week she allowed herself to stray about the alleys of theReading-room, scanning furtively those who sat at the desks, but theface she might perchance have discovered was not there. 

One day at the end of the month she sat with books open before her, butby no effort could fix her attention upon them. It was gloomy, and onecould scarcely see to read; a taste of fog grew perceptible in the warm, headachy air. Such profound discouragement possessed her that shecould not even maintain the pretence of study; heedless whether anyoneobserved her, she let her hands fall and her head droop. She kept askingherself what was the use and purpose of such a life as she was condemnedto lead. When already there was more good literature in the world thanany mortal could cope with in his lifetime, here was she exhaustingherself in the manufacture of printed stuff which no one even pretendedto be more than a commodity for the day's market. What unspeakablefolly! To write--was not that the joy and the privilege of one who hadan urgent message for the world?

Her father, she knew well, had no such message; he had abandoned allthought of original production, and only wrote about writing. 

She herself would throw away her pen with joy but for the need ofearning money. And all these people about her, what aim had they save tomake new books out of those already existing, that yet newer booksmight in turn be made out of theirs? This huge library, growing intounwieldiness, threatening to become a trackless desert of print--howintolerably it weighed upon the spirit!

Oh, to go forth and labour with one's hands, to do any poorest, commonest work of which the world had truly need! It was ignoble to sithere and support the paltry pretence of intellectual dignity. A fewdays ago her startled eye had caught an advertisement in the newspaper, headed 'Literary Machine'; had it then been invented at last, someautomaton to supply the place of such poor creatures as herself toturn out books and articles? Alas! the machine was only one for holdingvolumes conveniently, that the work of literary manufacture might bephysically lightened. But surely before long some Edison would make thetrue automaton; the problem must be comparatively such a simple one. Only to throw in a given number of old books, and have them reduced, blended, modernised into a single one for to-day's consumption. 

The fog grew thicker; she looked up at the windows beneath the dome andsaw that they were a dusky yellow. Then her eye discerned an officialwalking along the upper gallery, and in pursuance of her grotesquehumour, her mocking misery, she likened him to a black, lost soul, doomed to wander in an eternity of vain research along endless shelves. Or again, the readers who sat here at these radiating lines of desks, what were they but hapless flies caught in a huge web, its nucleus thegreat circle of the Catalogue? Darker, darker. From the towering wall ofvolumes seemed to emanate visible motes, intensifying the obscurity;in a moment the book-lined circumference of the room would be but afeatureless prison-limit. 

But then flashed forth the sputtering whiteness of the electric light, and its ceaseless hum was henceforth a new source of headache. Itreminded her how little work she had done to-day; she must, she mustforce herself to think of the task in hand. A machine has no business torefuse its duty. But the pages were blue and green and yellow before hereyes; the uncertainty of the light was intolerable. Right or wrong shewould go home, and hide herself, and let her heart unburden itself oftears. 

On her way to return books she encountered Jasper Milvain. Face to face;no possibility of his avoiding her. 

And indeed he seemed to have no such wish. His countenance lighted upwith unmistakable pleasure. 

'At last we meet, as they say in the melodramas. Oh, do let me help youwith those volumes, which won't even let you shake hands. How do you do?How do you like this weather? And how do you like this light?'

'It's very bad. '

'That'll do both for weather and light, but not for yourself. How glad Iam to see you! Are you just going?'

'Yes. '

'I have scarcely been here half-a-dozen times since I came back toLondon. '

'But you are writing still?'

'Oh yes! But I draw upon my genius, and my stores of observation, andthe living world. '

Marian received her vouchers for the volumes, and turned to face Jasperagain. There was a smile on her lips. 

'The fog is terrible, ' Milvain went on. 'How do you get home?'

'By omnibus from Tottenham Court Road. '

'Then do let me go a part of the way with you. I live in MorningtonRoad--up yonder, you know. I have only just come in to waste half anhour, and after all I think I should be better at home. Your father isall right, I hope?'

'He is not quite well. '

'I'm sorry to hear that. You are not exactly up to the mark, either. What weather! What a place to live in, this London, in winter! It wouldbe a little better down at Finden. '

'A good deal better, I should think. If the weather were bad, it wouldbe bad in a natural way; but this is artificial misery. '

'I don't let it affect me much, ' said Milvain. 'Just of late I havebeen in remarkably good spirits. I'm doing a lot of work. No end ofwork--more than I've ever done. '

'I am very glad. '

'Where are your out-of-door things? I think there's a ladies' vestrysomewhere, isn't there?'

'Oh yes. '

'Then will you go and get ready? I'll wait for you in the hall. But, by-the-bye, I am taking it for granted that you were going alone. '

'I was, quite alone. '

The 'quite' seemed excessive; it made Jasper smile. 

'And also, ' he added, 'that I shall not annoy you by offering mycompany?'

'Why should it annoy me?'

'Good!'

Milvain had only to wait a minute or two. He surveyed Marian from headto foot when she appeared--an impertinence as unintentional as thatoccasionally noticeable in his speech--and smiled approval. They wentout into the fog, which was not one of London's densest, but madewalking disagreeable enough. 

'You have heard from the girls, I think?' Jasper resumed. 

'Your sisters? Yes; they have been so kind as to write to me. '

'Told you all about their great work? I hope it'll be finished by theend of the year. The bits they have sent me will do very well indeed. Iknew they had it in them to put sentences together. Now I want them tothink of patching up something or other for The English Girl; you knowthe paper?'

'I have heard of it. '

'I happen to know Mrs Boston Wright, who edits it. Met her at a housethe other day, and told her frankly that she would have to give mysisters something to do. It's the only way to get on; one has to take itfor granted that people are willing to help you. I have made a host ofnew acquaintances just lately. '

'I'm glad to hear it, ' said Marian. 

'Do you know--but how should you? I am going to write for the newmagazine, The Current. '

'Indeed!'

'Edited by that man Fadge. '

'Yes. '

'Your father has no affection for him, I know. '

'He has no reason to have, Mr Milvain. '

'No, no. Fadge is an offensive fellow, when he likes; and I fancy hevery often does like. Well, I must make what use of him I can. 

You won't think worse of me because I write for him?'

'I know that one can't exercise choice in such things. '

'True. I shouldn't like to think that you regard me as a Fadge-likeindividual, a natural Fadgeite. '

Marian laughed. 

'There's no danger of my thinking that. '

But the fog was making their eyes water and getting into their throats. By when they reached Tottenham Court Road they were both thoroughlyuncomfortable. The 'bus had to be waited for, and in the meantime theytalked scrappily, coughily. In the vehicle things were a little better, but here one could not converse with freedom. 

'What pestilent conditions of life!' exclaimed Jasper, putting his facerather near to Marian's. 'I wish to goodness we were back in those quietfields--you remember?--with the September sun warm about us. Shall yougo to Finden again before long?'

'I really don't know. '

'I'm sorry to say my mother is far from well. In any case I must go atChristmas, but I'm afraid it won't be a cheerful visit. '

Arrived in Hampstead Road he offered his hand for good-bye. 

'I wanted to talk about all sorts of things. But perhaps I shall findyou again some day. '

He jumped out, and waved his hat in the lurid fog. 

Shortly before the end of December appeared the first number of TheCurrent. Yule had once or twice referred to the forthcoming magazinewith acrid contempt, and of course he did not purchase a copy. 

'So young Milvain has joined Fadge's hopeful standard, ' he remarked, a day or two later, at breakfast. 'They say his paper is remarkablyclever; I could wish it had appeared anywhere else. 

Evil communications, &c. '

'But I shouldn't think there's any personal connection, ' said Marian. 

'Very likely not. But Milvain has been invited to contribute, you see. 

'Do you think he ought to have refused?'

'Oh no. It's nothing to me; nothing whatever. '

Mrs Yule glanced at her daughter, but Marian seemed unconcerned. Thesubject was dismissed. In introducing it Yule had had his purpose;there had always been an unnatural avoidance of Milvain's name inconversation, and he wished to have an end of this. Hitherto he had felta troublesome uncertainty regarding his position in the matter. Fromwhat his wife had told him it seemed pretty certain that Marian wasdisappointed by the abrupt closing of her brief acquaintance with theyoung man, and Yule's affection for his daughter caused him to feeluneasy in the thought that perhaps he had deprived her of a chance ofhappiness. His conscience readily took hold of an excuse for justifyingthe course he had followed. Milvain had gone over to the enemy. Whetheror not the young man understood how relentless the hostility was betweenYule and Fadge mattered little; the probability was that he knewall about it. In any case intimate relations with him could not havesurvived this alliance with Fadge, so that, after all, there had beenwisdom in letting the acquaintance lapse. To be sure, nothing could havecome of it. Milvain was the kind of man who weighed opportunities; everystep he took would be regulated by considerations of advantage; at allevents that was the impression his character had made upon Yule. Anyhopes that Marian might have been induced to form would assuredly haveended in disappointment. It was kindness to interpose before things hadgone so far. 

Henceforth, if Milvain's name was unavoidable, it should be mentionedjust like that of any other literary man. It seemed very unlikely indeedthat Marian would continue to think of him with any special and personalinterest. The fact of her having got into correspondence with hissisters was unfortunate, but this kind of thing rarely went on for verylong. 

Yule spoke of the matter with his wife that evening. 

'By-the-bye, has Marian heard from those girls at Finden lately?'

'She had a letter one afternoon last week. '

'Do you see these letters?'

'No; she told me what was in them at first, but now she doesn't. '

'She hasn't spoken to you again of Milvain?'

'Not a word. '

'Well, I understood what I was about, ' Yule remarked, with the confidentair of one who doesn't wish to remember that he had ever felt doubtful. 'There was no good in having the fellow here. 

He has got in with a set that I don't at all care for. If she ever saysanything--you understand--you can just let me know. '

Marian had already procured a copy of The Current, and read itprivately. Of the cleverness of Milvain's contribution there could beno two opinions; it drew the attention of the public, and all noticesof the new magazine made special reference to this article. With keeninterest Marian sought after comments of the press; when it was possibleshe cut them out and put them carefully away. 

January passed, and February. She saw nothing of Jasper. A letter fromDora in the first week of March made announcement that the 'Child'sHistory of the English Parliament' would be published very shortly; ittold her, too, that Mrs Milvain had been very ill indeed, but that sheseemed to recover a little strength as the weather improved. Of Jasperthere was no mention. 

A week later came the news that Mrs Milvain had suddenly died. 

This letter was received at breakfast-time. The envelope was an ordinaryone, and so little did Marian anticipate the nature of its contents thatat the first sight of the words she uttered an exclamation of pain. Her father, who had turned from the table to the fireside with hisnewspaper, looked round and asked what was the matter. 

'Mrs Milvain died the day before yesterday. '

'Indeed!'

He averted his face again and seemed disposed to say no more. But in afew moments he inquired:

'What are her daughters likely to do?'

'I have no idea. '

'Do you know anything of their circumstances?'

'I believe they will have to depend upon themselves. '

Nothing more was said. Afterwards Mrs Yule made a few sympatheticinquiries, but Marian was very brief in her replies. 

Ten days after that, on a Sunday afternoon when Marian and her motherwere alone in the sitting-room, they heard the knock of a visitor at thefront door. Yule was out, and there was no likelihood of the visitor'swishing to see anyone but him. They listened; the servant went to thedoor, and, after a murmur of voices, came to speak to her mistress. 

'It's a gentleman called Mr Milvain, ' the girl reported, in a way thatproved how seldom callers presented themselves. 'He asked for Mr Yule, and when I said he was out, then he asked for Miss Yule. ' Mother anddaughter looked anxiously at each other. Mrs Yule was nervous andhelpless. 

'Show Mr Milvain into the study, ' said Marian, with sudden decision. 

'Are you going to see him there?' asked her mother in a hurried whisper. 

'I thought you would prefer that to his coming in here. '

'Yes--yes. But suppose father comes back before he's gone?'

'What will it matter? You forget that he asked for father first. '

'Oh yes! Then don't wait. '

Marian, scarcely less agitated than her mother, was just leaving theroom, when she turned back again. 

'If father comes in, you will tell him before he goes into the study?'

'Yes, I will. '

The fire in the study was on the point of extinction; this was the firstthing Marian's eye perceived on entering, and it gave her assurance thather father would not be back for some hours. Evidently he had intendedit to go out; small economies of this kind, unintelligible to people whohave always lived at ease, had been the life-long rule with him. With asensation of gladness at having free time before her, Marian turned towhere Milvain was standing, in front of one of the bookcases. He wore nosymbol of mourning, but his countenance was far graver than usual, andrather paler. They shook hands in silence. 

'I am so grieved--' Marian began with broken voice. 

'Thank you. I know the girls have told you all about it. We knew for thelast month that it must come before long, though there was a deceptiveimprovement just before the end. '

'Please to sit down, Mr Milvain. Father went out not long ago, and Idon't think he will be back very soon. '

'It was not really Mr Yule I wished to see, ' said Jasper, frankly. 'Ifhe had been at home I should have spoken with him about what I havein mind, but if you will kindly give me a few minutes it will be muchbetter. '

Marian glanced at the expiring fire. Her curiosity as to what Milvainhad to say was mingled with an anxious doubt whether it was not too lateto put on fresh coals; already the room was growing very chill, and thisappearance of inhospitality troubled her. 

'Do you wish to save it?' Jasper asked, understanding her look andmovement. 

'I'm afraid it has got too low. '

'I think not. Life in lodgings has made me skilful at this kind ofthing; let me try my hand. '

He took the tongs and carefully disposed small pieces of coal uponthe glow that remained. Marian stood apart with a feeling of shameand annoyance. But it is so seldom that situations in life arrangethemselves with dramatic propriety; and, after all, this vulgarnecessity made the beginning of the conversation easier. 

'That will be all right now, ' said Jasper at length, as little tonguesof flame began to shoot here and there. 

Marian said nothing, but seated herself and waited. 

'I came up to town yesterday, ' Jasper began. 'Of course we have had agreat deal to do and think about. Miss Harrow has been very kind indeedto the girls; so have several of our old friends in Wattleborough. Itwas necessary to decide at once what Maud and Dora are going to do, andit is on their account that I have come to see you. 

The listener kept silence, with a face of sympathetic attention. 

'We have made up our minds that they may as well come to London. It's abold step; I'm by no means sure that the result will justify it. But Ithink they are perhaps right in wishing to try it. '

'They will go on with literary work?'

'Well, it's our hope that they may be able to. Of course there's nochance of their earning enough to live upon for some time. But thematter stands like this. They have a trifling sum of money, on which, at a pinch, they could live in London for perhaps a year and a half. Inthat time they may find their way to a sort of income; at all events, the chances are that a year and a half hence I shall be able to helpthem to keep body and soul together. '

The money of which he spoke was the debt owed to their father by WilliamMilvain. In consequence of Mrs Milvain's pressing application, half ofthis sum had at length been paid and the remainder was promised in ayear's time, greatly to Jasper's astonishment. In addition, there wouldbe the trifle realised by the sale of furniture, though most of thismight have to go in payment of rent unless the house could be reletimmediately. 

'They have made a good beginning, ' said Marian. 

She spoke mechanically, for it was impossible to keep her thoughts undercontrol. If Maud and Dora came to live in London it might bring abouta most important change in her life; she could scarcely imagine thehappiness of having two such friends always near. On the other hand, howwould it be regarded by her father? She was at a loss amid conflictingemotions. 

'It's better than if they had done nothing at all, ' Jasper replied toher remark. 'And the way they knocked that trifle together promiseswell. They did it very quickly, and in a far more workmanlike way than Ishould have thought possible. '

'No doubt they share your own talent. '

'Perhaps so. Of course I know that I have talent of a kind, thoughI don't rate it very high. We shall have to see whether they can doanything more than mere booksellers' work; they are both very young, you know. I think they may be able to write something that'll do for TheEnglish Girl, and no doubt I can hit upon a second idea that will appealto Jolly and Monk. At all events, they'll have books within reach, andbetter opportunities every way than at Finden. '

'How do their friends in the country think of it?'

'Very dubiously; but then what else was to be expected? Of course, therespectable and intelligible path marked out for both of them pointsto a lifetime of governessing. But the girls have no relish for that;they'd rather do almost anything. We talked over all the aspects of thesituation seriously enough--it is desperately serious, no doubt of that. I told them fairly all the hardships they would have to face--describedthe typical London lodgings, and so on. Still, there's an adventurousvein in them, and they decided for the risk. If it came to the worst Isuppose they could still find governess work. '

'Let us hope better things. '

'Yes. But now, I should have felt far more reluctant to let them comehere in this way hadn't it been that they regard you as a friend. To-morrow morning you will probably hear from one or both of them. Perhaps it would have been better if I had left them to tell you allthis, but I felt I should like to see you and--put it in my own way. Ithink you'll understand this feeling, Miss Yule. I wanted, in fact, tohear from yourself that you would be a friend to the poor girls. '

'Oh, you already know that! I shall be so very glad to see them often. '

Marian's voice lent itself very naturally and sweetly to the expressionof warm feeling. Emphasis was not her habit; it only needed that sheshould put off her ordinary reserve, utter quietly the emotional thoughtwhich so seldom might declare itself, and her tones had an exquisitewomanliness. 

Jasper looked full into her face. 

'In that case they won't miss the comfort of home so much. Of coursethey will have to go into very modest lodgings indeed. I have alreadybeen looking about. I should like to find rooms for them somewhere nearmy own place; it's a decent neighbourhood, and the park is at hand, and then they wouldn't be very far from you. They thought it might bepossible to make a joint establishment with me, but I'm afraid that'sout of the question. 

The lodgings we should want in that case, everything considered, wouldcost more than the sum of our expenses if we live apart. Besides, there's no harm in saying that I don't think we should get along verywell together. We're all of us rather quarrelsome, to tell the truth, and we try each other's tempers. '

Marian smiled and looked puzzled. 

'Shouldn't you have thought that?'

'I have seen no signs of quarrelsomeness. '

'I'm not sure that the worst fault is on my side. Why should one condemnoneself against conscience? Maud is perhaps the hardest to get alongwith. She has a sort of arrogance, an exaggeration of something I amquite aware of in myself. You have noticed that trait in me?'

'Arrogance--I think not. You have self-confidence. '

'Which goes into extremes now and then. But, putting myself aside, Ifeel pretty sure that the girls won't seem quarrelsome to you; theywould have to be very fractious indeed before that were possible. '

'We shall continue to be friends, I am sure. '

Jasper let his eyes wander about the room. 

'This is your father's study?'

'Yes. '

'Perhaps it would have seemed odd to Mr Yule if I had come in and begunto talk to him about these purely private affairs. He knows me so veryslightly. But, in calling here for the first time--'

An unusual embarrassment checked him. 

'I will explain to father your very natural wish to speak of thesethings, ' said Marian, with tact. 

She thought uneasily of her mother in the next room. To her thereappeared no reason whatever why Jasper should not be introduced to MrsYule, yet she could not venture to propose it. Remembering her father'slast remarks about Milvain in connection with Fadge's magazine, she mustwait for distinct permission before offering the young man encouragementto repeat his visit. Perhaps there was complicated trouble in storefor her; impossible to say how her father's deep-rooted and ranklingantipathies might affect her intercourse even with the two girls. Butshe was of independent years; she must be allowed the choice of herown friends. The pleasure she had in seeing Jasper under this roof, inhearing him talk with such intimate friendliness, strengthened her toresist timid thoughts. 

'When will your sisters arrive?' she asked. 

'I think in a very few days. When I have fixed upon lodgings for them Imust go back to Finden; then they will return with me as soon as wecan get the house emptied. It's rather miserable selling things one haslived among from childhood. A friend in Wattleborough will house for uswhat we really can't bear to part with. '

'It must be very sad, ' Marian murmured. 

'You know, ' said the other suddenly, 'that it's my fault the girls areleft in such a hard position?'

Marian looked at him with startled eyes. His tone was quite unfamiliarto her. 

'Mother had an annuity, ' he continued. 'It ended with her life, but ifit hadn't been for me she could have saved a good deal out of it. Untilthe last year or two I have earned nothing, and I have spent morethan was strictly necessary. Well, I didn't live like that in mererecklessness; I knew I was preparing myself for remunerative work. Butit seems too bad now. I'm sorry for it. I wish I had found some way ofsupporting myself. The end of mother's life was made far more unhappythan it need have been. I should like you to understand all this. '

The listener kept her eyes on the ground. 

'Perhaps the girls have hinted it to you?' Jasper added. 

'No. '

'Selfishness--that's one of my faults. It isn't a brutal kind ofselfishness; the thought of it often enough troubles me. If I were rich, I should be a generous and good man; I know I should. So would manyanother poor fellow whose worst features come out under hardship. Thisisn't a heroic type; of course not. I am a civilised man, that's all. '

Marian could say nothing. 

'You wonder why I am so impertinent as to talk about myself like this. I have gone through a good deal of mental pain these last few weeks, and somehow I can't help showing you something of my real thoughts. Justbecause you are one of the few people I regard with sincere respect. I don't know you very well, but quite well enough to respect you. Mysisters think of you in the same way. I shall do many a base thing inlife, just to get money and reputation; I tell you this that you mayn'tbe surprised if anything of that kind comes to your ears. I can't affordto live as I should like to. '

She looked up at him with a smile. 

'People who are going to live unworthily don't declare it in this way. '

'I oughtn't to; a few minutes ago I had no intention of saying suchthings. It means I am rather overstrung, I suppose; but it's all true, unfortunately. '

He rose, and began to run his eye along the shelves nearest to him. 

'Well, now I will go, Miss Yule. '

Marian stood up as he approached. 

'It's all very well, ' he said, smiling, 'for me to encourage my sistersin the hope that they may earn a living; but suppose I can't even do itmyself? It's by no means certain that I shall make ends meet this year. '

'You have every reason to hope, I think. '

'I like to hear people say that, but it'll mean savage work. When wewere all at Finden last year, I told the girls that it would be anothertwelve months before I could support myself. Now I am forced to doit. And I don't like work; my nature is lazy. I shall never write forwriting's sake, only to make money. All my plans and efforts will havemoney in view--all. I shan't allow anything to come in the way of mymaterial advancement. '

'I wish you every success, ' said Marian, without looking at him, andwithout a smile. 

'Thank you. But that sounds too much like good-bye. I trust we are to befriends, for all that?'

'Indeed, I hope we may be. '

They shook hands, and he went towards the door. But before opening it, he asked:

'Did you read that thing of mine in The Current?'

'Yes, I did. '

'It wasn't bad, I think?'

'It seemed to me very clever. '

'Clever--yes, that's the word. It had a success, too. I have as good athing half done for the April number, but I've felt too heavy-hearted togo on with it. The girls shall let you know when they are in town. '

Marian followed him into the passage, and watched him as he opened thefront door. When it had closed, she went back into the study for a fewminutes before rejoining her mother. 

CHAPTER IX. INVITA MINERVA

After all, there came a day when Edwin Reardon found himself regularlyat work once more, ticking off his stipulated quantum of manuscript eachfour-and-twenty hours. He wrote a very small hand; sixty written slipsof the kind of paper he habitually used would represent--thanks to theastonishing system which prevails in such matters: large type, widespacing, frequency of blank pages--a passable three-hundred-page volume. On an average he could write four such slips a day; so here we havefifteen days for the volume, and forty-five for the completed book. 

Forty-five days; an eternity in the looking forward. Yet the calculationgave him a faint-hearted encouragement. At that rate he might havehis book sold by Christmas. It would certainly not bring him a hundredpounds; seventy-five perhaps. But even that small sum would enable himto pay the quarter's rent, and then give him a short time, if only twoor three weeks, of mental rest. If such rest could not be obtained allwas at an end with him. He must either find some new means of supportinghimself and his family, or--have done with life and its responsibilitiesaltogether. 

The latter alternative was often enough before him. He seldom slept formore than two or three consecutive hours in the night, and the timeof wakefulness was often terrible. The various sounds which marked thestages from midnight to dawn had grown miserably familiar to him; worsttorture to his mind was the chiming and striking of clocks. Two of thesewere in general audible, that of Marylebone parish church, and that ofthe adjoining workhouse; the latter always sounded several minutes afterits ecclesiastical neighbour, and with a difference of note which seemedto Reardon very appropriate--a thin, querulous voice, reminding one ofthe community it represented. After lying awake for awhile he would hearquarters sounding; if they ceased before the fourth he was glad, forhe feared to know what time it was. If the hour was complete, he waitedanxiously for its number. Two, three, even four, were grateful; therewas still a long time before he need rise and face the dreaded task, thehorrible four blank slips of paper that had to be filled ere he mightsleep again. But such restfulness was only for a moment; no sooner hadthe workhouse bell become silent than he began to toil in his wearyimagination, or else, incapable of that, to vision fearful hazards ofthe future. The soft breathing of Amy at his side, the contact of herwarm limbs, often filled him with intolerable dread. Even now he did notbelieve that Amy loved him with the old love, and the suspicion was likea cold weight at his heart that to retain even her wifely sympathy, herwedded tenderness, he must achieve the impossible. 

The impossible; for he could no longer deceive himself with a hope ofgenuine success. If he earned a bare living, that would be the utmost. And with bare livelihood Amy would not, could not, be content. 

If he were to die a natural death it would be well for all. His wife andthe child would be looked after; they could live with Mrs Edmund Yule, and certainly it would not be long before Amy married again, this time aman of whose competency to maintain her there would be no doubt. His ownbehaviour had been cowardly selfishness. Oh yes, she had loved him, hadbeen eager to believe in him. But there was always that voice of warningin his mind; he foresaw--he knew--

And if he killed himself? Not here; no lurid horrors for that poor girland her relatives; but somewhere at a distance, under circumstanceswhich would render the recovery of his body difficult, yet would leaveno doubt of his death. Would that, again, be cowardly? The opposite, when once it was certain that to live meant poverty and wretchedness. Amy's grief, however sincere, would be but a short trial compared withwhat else might lie before her. The burden of supporting her and Williewould be a very slight one if she went to live in her mother's house. He considered the whole matter night after night, until perchance ithappened that sleep had pity upon him for an hour before the time ofrising. 

Autumn was passing into winter. Dark days, which were always anoppression to his mind, began to be frequent, and would soon succeedeach other remorselessly. Well, if only each of them represented fourwritten slips. 

Milvain's advice to him had of course proved useless. The sensationaltitle suggested nothing, or only ragged shapes of incomplete humanitythat fluttered mockingly when he strove to fix them. But he had decidedupon a story of the kind natural to him; a 'thin' story, and one whichit would be difficult to spin into three volumes. His own, at allevents. The title was always a matter for head-racking when the book wasfinished; he had never yet chosen it before beginning. 

For a week he got on at the desired rate; then came once more the crisishe had anticipated. 

A familiar symptom of the malady which falls upon outweariedimagination. There were floating in his mind five or six possiblesubjects for a book, all dating back to the time when he first begannovel-writing, when ideas came freshly to him. If he grasped desperatelyat one of these, and did his best to develop it, for a day or two hecould almost content himself; characters, situations, lines of motive, were laboriously schemed, and he felt ready to begin writing. Butscarcely had he done a chapter or two when all the structure fell intoflatness. He had made a mistake. Not this story, but that other one, waswhat he should have taken. The other one in question, left out of mindfor a time, had come back with a face of new possibility; it invitedhim, tempted him to throw aside what he had already written. Good;now he was in more hopeful train. But a few days, and the experiencerepeated itself. No, not this story, but that third one, of which hehad not thought for a long time. How could he have rejected so hopeful asubject?

For months he had been living in this way; endless circling, perpetualbeginning, followed by frustration. A sign of exhaustion, it of coursemade exhaustion more complete. At times he was on the border-land ofimbecility; his mind looked into a cloudy chaos, a shapeless whirl ofnothings. He talked aloud to himself, not knowing that he did so. Littlephrases which indicated dolorously the subject of his preoccupationoften escaped him in the street: 'What could I make of that, now?''Well, suppose I made him--?' 'But no, that wouldn't do, ' and so on. It had happened that he caught the eye of some one passing fixed insurprise upon him; so young a man to be talking to himself in evidentdistress!

The expected crisis came, even now that he was savagely determined togo on at any cost, to write, let the result be what it would. His willprevailed. A day or two of anguish such as there is no describing to theinexperienced, and again he was dismissing slip after slip, a sigh ofthankfulness at the completion of each one. It was a fraction of thewhole, a fraction, a fraction. 

The ordering of his day was thus. At nine, after breakfast, he sat downto his desk, and worked till one. Then came dinner, followed by a walk. As a rule he could not allow Amy to walk with him, for he had to thinkover the remainder of the day's toil, and companionship would have beenfatal. At about half-past three he again seated himself; and wrote untilhalf-past six, when he had a meal. Then once more to work from half-pastseven to ten. Numberless were the experiments he had tried for the day'sdivision. The slightest interruption of the order for the time being puthim out of gear; Amy durst not open his door to ask however necessary aquestion. 

Sometimes the three hours' labour of a morning resulted in half-a-dozenlines, corrected into illegibility. His brain would not work; he couldnot recall the simplest synonyms; intolerable faults of compositiondrove him mad. He would write a sentence beginning thus: 'She took abook with a look of--;' or thus: 'A revision of this decision wouldhave made him an object of derision. ' Or, if the period were otherwiseinoffensive, it ran in a rhythmic gallop which was torment to the ear. All this, in spite of the fact that his former books had been noticeablygood in style. He had an appreciation of shapely prose which made himscorn himself for the kind of stuff he was now turning out. 'I can'thelp it; it must go; the time is passing. '

Things were better, as a rule, in the evening. Occasionally he wrote apage with fluency which recalled his fortunate years; and then his heartgladdened, his hand trembled with joy. 

Description of locality, deliberate analysis of character or motive, demanded far too great an effort for his present condition. He kept asmuch as possible to dialogue; the space is filled so much more quickly, and at a pinch one can make people talk about the paltriest incidents oflife. 

There came an evening when he opened the door and called to Amy. 

'What is it?' she answered from the bedroom. 'I'm busy with Willie. '

'Come as soon as you are free. '

In ten minutes she appeared. There was apprehension on her face; shefeared he was going to lament his inability to work. Instead of that, hetold her joyfully that the first volume was finished. 

'Thank goodness!' she exclaimed. 'Are you going to do any moreto-night?'

'I think not--if you will come and sit with me. '

'Willie doesn't seem very well. He can't get to sleep. '

'You would like to stay with him?'

'A little while. I'll come presently. '

She closed the door. Reardon brought a high-backed chair to thefireside, and allowed himself to forget the two volumes that had stillto be struggled through, in a grateful sense of the portion thatwas achieved. In a few minutes it occurred to him that it would bedelightful to read a scrap of the 'Odyssey'; he went to the shelves onwhich were his classical books, took the desired volume, and opened itwhere Odysseus speaks to Nausicaa:

'For never yet did I behold one of mortals like to thee, neither man norwoman; I am awed as I look upon thee. In Delos once, hard by the altarof Apollo, I saw a young palm-tree shooting up with even such a grace. '

Yes, yes; THAT was not written at so many pages a day, with a workhouseclock clanging its admonition at the poet's ear. How it freshened thesoul! How the eyes grew dim with a rare joy in the sounding of thosenobly sweet hexameters!

Amy came into the room again. 

'Listen, ' said Reardon, looking up at her with a bright smile. 'Do youremember the first time that I read you this?'

And he turned the speech into free prose. Amy laughed. 

'I remember it well enough. We were alone in the drawing-room; I hadtold the others that they must make shift with the dining-room for thatevening. And you pulled the book out of your pocket unexpectedly. Ilaughed at your habit of always carrying little books about. '

The cheerful news had brightened her. If she had been summoned to hearlamentations her voice would not have rippled thus soothingly. Reardonthought of this, and it made him silent for a minute. 

'The habit was ominous, ' he said, looking at her with an uncertainsmile. 'A practical literary man doesn't do such things. '

'Milvain, for instance. No. '

With curious frequency she mentioned the name of Milvain. Herunconsciousness in doing so prevented Reardon from thinking about thefact; still, he had noted it. 

'Did you understand the phrase slightingly?' he asked. 

'Slightingly? Yes, a little, of course. It always has that sense on yourlips, I think. '

In the light of this answer he mused upon her readily-offered instance. True, he had occasionally spoken of Jasper with something less thanrespect, but Amy was not in the habit of doing so. 

'I hadn't any such meaning just then, ' he said. 'I meant quitesimply that my bookish habits didn't promise much for my success as anovelist. '

'I see. But you didn't think of it in that way at the time. '

He sighed. 

'No. At least--no. '

'At least what?'

'Well, no; on the whole I had good hope. '

Amy twisted her fingers together impatiently. 

'Edwin, let me tell you something. You are getting too fond of speakingin a discouraging way. Now, why should you do so? I don't like it. Ithas one disagreeable effect on me, and that is, when people ask me aboutyou, how you are getting on, I don't quite know how to answer. Theycan't help seeing that I am uneasy. I speak so differently from what Iused to. '

'Do you, really?'

'Indeed I can't help it. As I say, it's very much your own fault. '

'Well, but granted that I am not of a very sanguine nature, and that Ieasily fall into gloomy ways of talk, what is Amy here for?'

'Yes, yes. But--'

'But?'

'I am not here only to try and keep you in good spirits, am I?'

She asked it prettily, with a smile like that of maidenhood. 

'Heaven forbid! I oughtn't to have put it in that absolute way. I washalf joking, you know. But unfortunately it's true that I can't be aslight-spirited as I could wish. Does that make you impatient with me?'

'A little. I can't help the feeling, and I ought to try to overcome it. But you must try on your side as well. Why should you have said thatthing just now?'

'You're quite right. It was needless. '

'A few weeks ago I didn't expect you to be cheerful. Things beganto look about as bad as they could. But now that you've got a volumefinished, there's hope once more. '

Hope? Of what quality? Reardon durst not say what rose in his thoughts. 'A very small, poor hope. Hope of money enough to struggle throughanother half year, if indeed enough for that. ' He had learnt that Amywas not to be told the whole truth about anything as he himself saw it. It was a pity. To the ideal wife a man speaks out all that is in him;she had infinitely rather share his full conviction than be treated asone from whom facts must be disguised. She says: 'Let us face the worstand talk of it together, you and I. ' No, Amy was not the ideal wifefrom that point of view. But the moment after this half-reproach hadtraversed his consciousness he condemned himself; and looked with thejoy of love into her clear eyes. 

'Yes, there's hope once more, my dearest. No more gloomy talk to-night!I have read you something, now you shall read something to me; it is along time since I delighted myself with listening to you. What shall itbe?'

'I feel rather too tired to-night. '

'Do you?'

'I have had to look after Willie so much. But read me some more Homer; Ishall be very glad to listen. '

Reardon reached for the book again, but not readily. His face showeddisappointment. Their evenings together had never been the same sincethe birth of the child; Willie was always an excuse--valid enough--forAmy's feeling tired. The little boy had come between him and the mother, as must always be the case in poor homes, most of all where the povertyis relative. Reardon could not pass the subject without a remark, but hetried to speak humorously. 

'There ought to be a huge public creche in London. It's monstrous thatan educated mother should have to be nursemaid. '

'But you know very well I think nothing of that. A creche, indeed! Nochild of mine should go to any such place. '

There it was. She grudged no trouble on behalf of the child. That waslove; whereas--But then maternal love was a mere matter of course. 

'As soon as you get two or three hundred pounds for a book, ' she added, laughing, 'there'll be no need for me to give so much time. '

'Two or three hundred pounds!' He repeated it with a shake of the head. 'Ah, if that were possible!'

'But that's really a paltry sum. What would fifty novelists you couldname say if they were offered three hundred pounds for a book? How muchdo you suppose even Markland got for his last?'

'Didn't sell it at all, ten to one. Gets a royalty. '

'Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book ceasesto be talked of. '

'Never mind. I'm sick of the word "pounds. "'

'So am I. '

She sighed, commenting thus on her acquiescence. 

'But look, Amy. If I try to be cheerful in spite of natural dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of money?'

'Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades, andAjax stalking past him. Oh, I like that!'

So he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming. Amy sat withfolded arms, a smile on her lips, her brows knitted to the epic humour. In a few minutes it was as if no difficulties threatened their life. Every now and then Reardon looked up from his translating with adelighted laugh, in which Amy joined. 

When he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his wife'schair, leaned upon it, and put his cheek against hers. 

'Amy!'

'Yes, dear?'

'Do you still love me a little?'

'Much more than a little. '

'Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler?'

'Is it so bad as all that?'

'Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the proofswill be a martyrdom. '

'Oh, but why? why?'

'It's the best I can do, dearest. So you don't love me enough to hearthat calmly. '

'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin. It's dreadfulto me to think of what they will say in the reviews. '

'Curse the reviews!'

His mood had changed on the instant. He stood up with darkened face, trembling angrily. 

'I want you to promise me something, Amy. You won't read a single oneof the notices unless it is forced upon your attention. Now, promise methat. Neglect them absolutely, as I do. They're not worth a glance ofyour eyes. And I shan't be able to bear it if I know you read all thecontempt that will be poured on me. '

'I'm sure I shall be glad enough to avoid it; but other people, ourfriends, read it. That's the worst. '

'You know that their praise would be valueless, so have strength todisregard the blame. Let our friends read and talk as much as they like. Can't you console yourself with the thought that I am not contemptible, though I may have been forced to do poor work?'

'People don't look at it in that way. '

'But, darling, ' he took her hands strongly in his own, 'I want you todisregard other people. You and I are surely everything to each other?Are you ashamed of me, of me myself?'

'No, not ashamed of you. But I am sensitive to people's talk andopinions. '

'But that means they make you feel ashamed of me. What else?'

There was silence. 

'Edwin, if you find you are unable to do good work, you mustn't do bad. We must think of some other way of making a living. '

'Have you forgotten that you urged me to write a trashy sensationalstory?'

She coloured and looked annoyed. 

'You misunderstood me. A sensational story needn't be trash. And then, you know, if you had tried something entirely unlike your usual work, that would have been excuse enough if people had called it a failure. '

'People! People!'

'We can't live in solitude, Edwin, though really we are not farfrom it. ' He did not dare to make any reply to this. Amy was soexasperatingly womanlike in avoiding the important issue to which hetried to confine her; another moment, and his tone would be that ofirritation. So he turned away and sat down to his desk, as if he hadsome thought of resuming work. 

'Will you come and have some supper?' Amy asked, rising. 

'I have been forgetting that to-morrow morning's chapter has still to bethought out. '

'Edwin, I can't think this book will really be so poor. You couldn'tpossibly give all this toil for no result. '

'No; not if I were in sound health. But I am far from it. '

'Come and have supper with me, dear, and think afterwards. '

He turned and smiled at her. 

'I hope I shall never be able to resist an invitation from you, sweet. '

The result of all this was, of course, that he sat down in anything butthe right mood to his work next morning. Amy's anticipation of criticismhad made it harder than ever for him to labour at what he knew to bebad. And, as ill-luck would have it, in a day or two he caught hisfirst winter's cold. For several years a succession of influenzas, sore-throats, lumbagoes, had tormented him from October to May; inplanning his present work, and telling himself that it must be finishedbefore Christmas, he had not lost sight of these possible interruptions. But he said to himself: 'Other men have worked hard in seasons ofillness; I must do the same. ' All very well, but Reardon did not belongto the heroic class. A feverish cold now put his powers and resolutionto the test. Through one hideous day he nailed himself to the desk--andwrote a quarter of a page. The next day Amy would not let him rise frombed; he was wretchedly ill. In the night he had talked about his workdeliriously, causing her no slight alarm. 

'If this goes on, ' she said to him in the morning, 'you'll have brainfever. You must rest for two or three days. '

'Teach me how to. I wish I could. '

Rest had indeed become out of the question. For two days he could notwrite, but the result upon his mind was far worse than if he had been atthe desk. He looked a haggard creature when he again sat down with theaccustomed blank slip before him. 

The second volume ought to have been much easier work than the first; itproved far harder. Messieurs and mesdames the critics are wont to pointout the weakness of second volumes; they are generally right, simplybecause a story which would have made a tolerable book (the common runof stories) refuses to fill three books. Reardon's story was in itselfweak, and this second volume had to consist almost entirely of laboriouspadding. If he wrote three slips a day he did well. 

And the money was melting, melting, despite Amy's efforts at economy. She spent as little as she could; not a luxury came into their home;articles of clothing all but indispensable were left unpurchased. Butto what purpose was all this? Impossible, now, that the book should befinished and sold before the money had all run out. 

At the end of November, Reardon said to his wife one morning:

'To-morrow I finish the second volume. '

'And in a week, ' she replied, 'we shan't have a shilling left. '

He had refrained from making inquiries, and Amy had forborne to tellhim the state of things, lest it should bring him to a dead stop in hiswriting. But now they must needs discuss their position. 

'In three weeks I can get to the end, ' said Reardon, with unnaturalcalmness. 'Then I will go personally to the publishers, and beg them toadvance me something on the manuscript before they have read it. '

'Couldn't you do that with the first two volumes?'

'No, I can't; indeed I can't. The other thing will be bad enough; but tobeg on an incomplete book, and such a book--I can't!'

There were drops on his forehead. 

'They would help you if they knew, ' said Amy in a low voice. 

'Perhaps; I can't say. They can't help every poor devil. No; I will sellsome books. I can pick out fifty or sixty that I shan't much miss. '

Amy knew what a wrench this would be. The imminence of distress seemedto have softened her. 

'Edwin, let me take those two volumes to the publishers, and ask--'

'Heavens! no. That's impossible. Ten to one you will be told that mywork is of such doubtful value that they can't offer even a guinea tillthe whole book has been considered. I can't allow you to go, dearest. This morning I'll choose some books that I can spare, and after dinnerI'll ask a man to come and look at them. Don't worry yourself; I canfinish in three weeks, I'm sure I can. If I can get you three or fourpounds you could make it do, couldn't you?'

'Yes. '

She averted her face as she spoke. 

'You shall have that. ' He still spoke very quietly. 'If the books won'tbring enough, there's my watch--oh, lots of things. '

He turned abruptly away, and Amy went on with her household work. 

CHAPTER X. THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY

It was natural that Amy should hint dissatisfaction with the lonelinessin which her days were mostly spent. She had never lived in a largecircle of acquaintances; the narrowness of her mother's means restrictedthe family to intercourse with a few old friends and such new ones aswere content with teacup entertainment; but her tastes were social, and the maturing process which followed upon her marriage made her moreconscious of this than she had been before. Already she had allowed herhusband to understand that one of her strongest motives in marryinghim was the belief that he would achieve distinction. At the timeshe doubtless thought of his coming fame only--or principally--as itconcerned their relations to each other; her pride in him was to be onephase of her love. Now she was well aware that no degree of distinctionin her husband would be of much value to her unless she had the pleasureof witnessing its effect upon others; she must shine with reflectedlight before an admiring assembly. 

The more conscious she became of this requirement of her nature, themore clearly did she perceive that her hopes had been founded on anerror. Reardon would never be a great man; he would never even occupya prominent place in the estimation of the public. The two things, Amyknew, might be as different as light and darkness; but in the grief ofher disappointment she would rather have had him flare into a worthlesspopularity than flicker down into total extinction, which it almostseemed was to be his fate. 

She knew so well how 'people' were talking of him and her. Even herunliterary acquaintances understood that Reardon's last novel had beenanything but successful, and they must of course ask each other howthe Reardons were going to live if the business of novel-writing provedunremunerative. Her pride took offence at the mere thought of suchconversations. Presently she would become an object of pity; there wouldbe talk of 'poor Mrs Reardon. ' It was intolerable. 

So during the last half year she had withheld as much as possible fromthe intercourse which might have been one of her chief pleasures. And todisguise the true cause she made pretences which were a satire upon herstate of mind--alleging that she had devoted herself to a serious courseof studies, that the care of house and child occupied all the time shecould spare from her intellectual pursuits. The worst of it was, shehad little faith in the efficacy of these fictions; in uttering them shefelt an unpleasant warmth upon her cheeks, and it was not difficult todetect a look of doubt in the eyes of the listener. She grew angrywith herself for being dishonest, and with her husband for making suchdishonesty needful. 

The female friend with whom she had most trouble was Mrs Carter. Youremember that on the occasion of Reardon's first meeting with his futurewife, at the Grosvenor Gallery, there were present his friend Carterand a young lady who was shortly to bear the name of that spiritedyoung man. The Carters had now been married about a year; they livedin Bayswater, and saw much of a certain world which imitates on a lowerplane the amusements and affectations of society proper. Mr Carter wasstill secretary to the hospital where Reardon had once earned his twentyshillings a week, but by voyaging in the seas of charitable enterprisehe had come upon supplementary sources of income; for instance, he heldthe post of secretary to the Barclay Trust, a charity whose moderatefunds were largely devoted to the support of gentlemen engaged inadministering it. This young man, with his air of pleasing vivacity, hadearly ingratiated himself with the kind of people who were likely to beof use to him; he had his reward in the shape of offices which are onlyprocured through private influence. His wife was a good-natured, lively, and rather clever girl; she had a genuine regard for Amy, and muchrespect for Reardon. Her ambition was to form a circle of distinctlyintellectual acquaintances, and she was constantly inviting the Reardonsto her house; a real live novelist is not easily drawn into the worldwhere Mrs Carter had her being, and it annoyed her that all attempts tosecure Amy and her husband for five-o'clock teas and small parties hadof late failed. 

On the afternoon when Reardon had visited a second-hand bookseller witha view of raising money--he was again shut up in his study, dolorouslyat work--Amy was disturbed by the sound of a visitor's rat-tat; thelittle servant went to the door, and returned followed by Mrs Carter. 

Under the best of circumstances it was awkward to receive any butintimate friends during the hours when Reardon sat at his desk. Thelittle dining-room (with its screen to conceal the kitchen range)offered nothing more than homely comfort; and then the servant had tobe disposed of by sending her into the bedroom to take care of Willie. Privacy, in the strict sense, was impossible, for the servantmight listen at the door (one room led out of the other) to all theconversation that went on; yet Amy could not request her visitors tospeak in a low tone. For the first year these difficulties had notbeen felt; Reardon made a point of leaving the front room at his wife'sdisposal from three to six; it was only when dread of the future beganto press upon him that he sat in the study all day long. You see howcomplicated were the miseries of the situation; one torment involvedanother, and in every quarter subjects of discontent were multiplied. 

Mrs Carter would have taken it ill had she known that Amy did notregard her as strictly an intimate. They addressed each other by theirChristian names, and conversed without ceremony; but Amy was alwaysdissatisfied when the well-dressed young woman burst with laughter andanimated talk into this abode of concealed poverty. Edith was not thekind of person with whom one can quarrel; she had a kind heart, and wasnever disagreeably pretentious. Had circumstances allowed it, Amy wouldhave given frank welcome to such friendship; she would have been gladto accept as many invitations as Edith chose to offer. But at presentit did her harm to come in contact with Mrs Carter; it made her envious, cold to her husband, resentful against fate. 

'Why can't she leave me alone?' was the thought that rose in her mind asEdith entered. 'I shall let her see that I don't want her here. '

'Your husband at work?' Edith asked, with a glance in the direction ofthe study, as soon as they had exchanged kisses and greetings. 

'Yes, he is busy. '

'And you are sitting alone, as usual. I feared you might be out; anafternoon of sunshine isn't to be neglected at this time of year. '

'Is there sunshine?' Amy inquired coldly. 

'Why, look! Do you mean to say you haven't noticed it? What a comicalperson you are sometimes! I suppose you have been over head and ears inbooks all day. How is Willie?'

'Very well, thank you. '

'Mayn't I see him?'

'If you like. '

Amy stepped to the bedroom door and bade the servant bring Willie forexhibition. Edith, who as yet had no child of her own, always showed themost flattering admiration of this infant; it was so manifestly sincerethat the mother could not but be moved to a grateful friendlinesswhenever she listened to its expression. Even this afternoon the usualeffect followed when Edith had made a pretty and tender fool of herselffor several minutes. Amy bade the servant make tea. 

At this moment the door from the passage opened, and Reardon looked in. 

'Well, if this isn't marvellous!' cried Edith. 'I should as soon haveexpected the heavens to fall!'

'As what?' asked Reardon, with a pale smile. 

'As you to show yourself when I am here. '

'I should like to say that I came on purpose to see you, Mrs Carter, but it wouldn't be true. I'm going out for an hour, so that you can takepossession of the other room if you like, Amy. '

'Going out?' said Amy, with a look of surprise. 

'Nothing--nothing. I mustn't stay. '

He just inquired of Mrs Carter how her husband was, and withdrew. Thedoor of the flat was heard to close after him. 

'Let us go into the study, then, ' said Amy, again in rather a coldvoice. 

On Reardon's desk were lying slips of blank paper. Edith, approaching ontiptoe with what was partly make believe, partly genuine, awe, looked atthe literary apparatus, then turned with a laugh to her friend. 

'How delightful it must be to sit down and write about people one hasinvented! Ever since I have known you and Mr Reardon I have been temptedto try if I couldn't write a story. '

'Have you?'

'And I'm sure I don't know how you can resist the temptation. I feelsure you could write books almost as clever as your husband's. '

'I have no intention of trying. '

'You don't seem very well to-day, Amy. '

'Oh, I think I am as well as usual. '

She guessed that her husband was once more brought to a standstill, andthis darkened her humour again. 

'One of my reasons for corning, ' said Edith, 'was to beg and entreat andimplore you and Mr Reardon to dine with us next Wednesday. Now, don'tput on such a severe face! Are you engaged that evening?'

'Yes; in the ordinary way. Edwin can't possibly leave his work. '

'But for one poor evening! It's such ages since we saw you. '

'I'm very sorry. I don't think we shall ever be able to acceptinvitations in future. '

Amy spoke thus at the prompting of a sudden impulse. A minute ago, nosuch definite declaration was in her mind. 

'Never?' exclaimed Edith. 'But why? Whatever do you mean?'

'We find that social engagements consume too much time, ' Amy replied, her explanation just as much of an impromptu as the announcement hadbeen. 'You see, one must either belong to society or not. Married peoplecan't accept an occasional invitation from friends and never do theirsocial duty in return. 

We have decided to withdraw altogether--at all events for the present. Ishall see no one except my relatives. '

Edith listened with a face of astonishment. 

'You won't even see ME?' she exclaimed. 

'Indeed, I have no wish to lose your friendship. Yet I am ashamed to askyou to come here when I can never return your visits. '

'Oh, please don't put it in that way! But it seems so very strange. '

Edith could not help conjecturing the true significance of this resolve. But, as is commonly the case with people in easy circumstances, shefound it hard to believe that her friends were so straitened as tohave a difficulty in supporting the ordinary obligations of a civilisedstate. 

'I know how precious your husband's time is, ' she added, as if to removethe effect of her last remark. 'Surely, there's no harm in my saying--weknow each other well enough--you wouldn't think it necessary to devotean evening to entertaining us just because you had given us the pleasureof your company. I put it very stupidly, but I'm sure you understand me, Amy. Don't refuse just to come to our house now and then. '

'I'm afraid we shall have to be consistent, Edith. '

'But do you think this is a WISE thing to do?'

'Wise?'

'You know what you once told me, about how necessary it was for anovelist to study all sorts of people. How can Mr Reardon do this if heshuts himself up in the house? I should have thought he would find itnecessary to make new acquaintances. '

'As I said, ' returned Amy, 'it won't be always like this. For thepresent, Edwin has quite enough "material. "'

She spoke distantly; it irritated her to have to invent excuses for thesacrifice she had just imposed on herself. Edith sipped the tea whichhad been offered her, and for a minute kept silence. 

'When will Mr Reardon's next book be published?' she asked at length. 

'I'm sure I don't know. Not before the spring. '

'I shall look so anxiously for it. Whenever I meet new people I alwaysturn the conversation to novels, just for the sake of asking them ifthey know your husband's books. '

She laughed merrily. 

'Which is seldom the case, I should think, ' said Amy, with a smile ofindifference. 

'Well, my dear, you don't expect ordinary novel-readers to know about MrReardon. I wish my acquaintances were a better kind of people; then, ofcourse, I should hear of his books more often. But one has to make thebest of such society as offers. If you and your husband forsake me, Ishall feel it a sad loss; I shall indeed. '

Amy gave a quick glance at the speaker's face. 

'Oh, we must be friends just the same, ' she said, more naturally thanshe had spoken hitherto. 'But don't ask us to come and dine just now. All through this winter we shall be very busy, both of us. Indeed, wehave decided not to accept any invitations at all. '

'Then, so long as you let me come here now and then, I must give in. Ipromise not to trouble you with any more complaining. But how you canlive such a life I don't know. I consider myself more of a reader thanwomen generally are, and I should be mortally offended if anyone calledme frivolous; but I must have a good deal of society. Really and truly, I can't live without it. '

'No?' said Amy, with a smile which meant more than Edith couldinterpret. It seemed slightly condescending. 

'There's no knowing; perhaps if I had married a literary man---' Shepaused, smiling and musing. 'But then I haven't, you see. ' She laughed. 'Albert is anything but a bookworm, as you know. '

'You wouldn't wish him to be. '

'Oh no! Not a bookworm. To be sure, we suit each other very well indeed. He likes society just as much as I do. It would be the death of him ifhe didn't spend three-quarters of every day with lively people. '

'That's rather a large portion. But then you count yourself among thelively ones. '

They exchanged looks, and laughed together. 

'Of course you think me rather silly to want to talk so much with sillypeople, ' Edith went on. 'But then there's generally some amusement tobe got, you know. I don't take life quite so seriously as you do. Peopleare people, after all; it's good fun to see how they live and hear howthey talk. '

Amy felt that she was playing a sorry part. She thought of sour grapes, and of the fox who had lost his tail. Worst of all, perhaps Edithsuspected the truth. She began to make inquiries about commonacquaintances, and fell into an easier current of gossip. 

A quarter of an hour after the visitor's departure Reardon came back. Amy had guessed aright; the necessity of selling his books weighed uponhim so that for the present he could do nothing. The evening was spentgloomily, with very little conversation. 

Next day came the bookseller to make his inspection. Reardon hadchosen out and ranged upon a table nearly a hundred volumes. With a fewexceptions, they had been purchased second-hand. The tradesman examinedthem rapidly. 

'What do you ask?' he inquired, putting his head aside. 

'I prefer that you should make an offer, ' Reardon replied, with thehelplessness of one who lives remote from traffic. 

'I can't say more than two pounds ten. '

'That is at the rate of sixpence a volume---?'

'To me that's about the average value of books like these. '

Perhaps the offer was a fair one; perhaps it was not. Reardon hadneither time nor spirit to test the possibilities of the market; he wasashamed to betray his need by higgling. 

'I'll take it, ' he said, in a matter-of-fact voice. 

A messenger was sent for the books that afternoon. He stowed themskilfully in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that waswaiting. 

Reardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves. Many of those vanishedvolumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told you where hehad picked them up and when; to open them recalled a past moment ofintellectual growth, a mood of hope or despondency, a stage of struggle. In most of them his name was written, and there were often pencillednotes in the margin. Of course he had chosen from among the mostvaluable he possessed; such a multitude must else have been sold to makethis sum of two pounds ten. Books are cheap, you know. At need, one canbuy a Homer for fourpence, a Sophocles for sixpence. It was not rubbishthat he had accumulated at so small expenditure, but the library of apoor student--battered bindings, stained pages, supplanted editions. He loved his books, but there was something he loved more, and when Amyglanced at him with eyes of sympathy he broke into a cheerful laugh. 

'I'm only sorry they have gone for so little. Tell me when the moneyis nearly at an end again, and you shall have more. It's all right; thenovel will be done soon. '

And that night he worked until twelve o'clock, doggedly, fiercely. 

The next day was Sunday. As a rule he made it a day of rest, and almostperforce, for the depressing influence of Sunday in London made work toodifficult. Then, it was the day on which he either went to see his ownparticular friends or was visited by them. 

'Do you expect anyone this evening?' Amy inquired. 

'Biffen will look in, I dare say. Perhaps Milvain. '

'I think I shall take Willie to mother's. I shall be back before eight. '

'Amy, don't say anything about the books. '

'No, no. '

'I suppose they always ask you when we think of removing over the way?'

He pointed in a direction that suggested Marylebone Workhouse. Amy triedto laugh, but a woman with a child in her arms has no keen relish forsuch jokes. 

'I don't talk to them about our affairs, ' she said. 

'That's best. '

She left home about three o'clock, the servant going with her to carrythe child. 

At five a familiar knock sounded through the flat; it was a heavy rapfollowed by half-a-dozen light ones, like a reverberating echo, the laststroke scarcely audible. Reardon laid down his book, but kept his pipein his mouth, and went to the door. A tall, thin man stood there, with aslouch hat and long grey overcoat. He shook hands silently, hung his hatin the passage, and came forward into the study. 

His name was Harold Biffen, and, to judge from his appearance, he didnot belong to the race of common mortals. His excessive meagreness wouldall but have qualified him to enter an exhibition in the capacity ofliving skeleton, and the garments which hung upon this framework wouldperhaps have sold for three-and-sixpence at an old-clothes dealer's. Butthe man was superior to these accidents of flesh and raiment. He hada fine face: large, gentle eyes, nose slightly aquiline, small anddelicate mouth. Thick black hair fell to his coat-collar; he wore aheavy moustache and a full beard. In his gait there was a singulardignity; only a man of cultivated mind and graceful character could moveand stand as he did. 

His first act on entering the room was to take from his pocket a pipe, a pouch, a little tobacco-stopper, and a box of matches, all of whichhe arranged carefully on a corner of the central table. Then he drewforward a chair and seated himself. 

'Take your top-coat off;' said Reardon. 

'Thanks, not this evening. '

'Why the deuce not?'

'Not this evening, thanks. '

The reason, as soon as Reardon sought for it, was obvious. Biffen hadno ordinary coat beneath the other. To have referred to this fact wouldhave been indelicate; the novelist of course understood it, and smiled, but with no mirth. 

'Let me have your Sophocles, ' were the visitor's next words. 

Reardon offered him a volume of the Oxford Pocket Classics. 

'I prefer the Wunder, please. '

'It's gone, my boy. '

'Gone?'

'Wanted a little cash. '

Biffen uttered a sound in which remonstrance and sympathy were blended. 

'I'm sorry to hear that; very sorry. Well, this must do. Now, I want toknow how you scan this chorus in the "Oedipus Rex. "'

Reardon took the volume, considered, and began to read aloud with metricemphasis. 

'Choriambics, eh?' cried the other. 'Possible, of course; but treat themas Ionics a minore with an anacrusis, and see if they don't go better. '

He involved himself in terms of pedantry, and with such delight that hiseyes gleamed. Having delivered a technical lecture, he began to read inillustration, producing quite a different effect from that of therhythm as given by his friend. And the reading was by no means that of apedant, rather of a poet. 

For half an hour the two men talked Greek metres as if they lived in aworld where the only hunger known could be satisfied by grand or sweetcadences. 

They had first met in an amusing way. Not long after the publication ofhis book 'On Neutral Ground' Reardon was spending a week at Hastings. A rainy day drove him to the circulating library, and as he was lookingalong the shelves for something readable a voice near at hand asked theattendant if he had anything 'by Edwin Reardon. ' The novelist turned inastonishment; that any casual mortal should inquire for his books seemedincredible. Of course there was nothing by that author in the library, and he who had asked the question walked out again. On the morrowReardon encountered this same man at a lonely part of the shore; helooked at him, and spoke a word or two of common civility; they got intoconversation, with the result that Edwin told the story of yesterday. The stranger introduced himself as Harold Biffen, an author in a smallway, and a teacher whenever he could get pupils; an abusive review hadinterested him in Reardon's novels, but as yet he knew nothing of thembut the names. 

Their tastes were found to be in many respects sympathetic, and afterreturning to London they saw each other frequently. Biffen was always indire poverty, and lived in the oddest places; he had seen harder trialsthan even Reardon himself. The teaching by which he partly lived was ofa kind quite unknown to the respectable tutorial world. In these daysof examinations, numbers of men in a poor position--clerkschiefly--conceive a hope that by 'passing' this, that, or the otherformal test they may open for themselves a new career. Not a few suchpersons nourish preposterous ambitions; there are warehouse clerksprivately preparing (without any means or prospect of them) for acall to the Bar, drapers' assistants who 'go in' for the preliminaryexamination of the College of Surgeons, and untaught men innumerable whodesire to procure enough show of education to be eligible for a curacy. Candidates of this stamp frequently advertise in the newspapers forcheap tuition, or answer advertisements which are intended to appeal tothem; they pay from sixpence to half-a-crown an hour--rarely as much asthe latter sum. Occasionally it happened that Harold Biffen had three orfour such pupils in hand, and extraordinary stories he could draw fromhis large experience in this sphere. 

Then as to his authorship. --But shortly after the discussion of Greekmetres he fell upon the subject of his literary projects, and, by nomeans for the first time, developed the theory on which he worked. 

'I have thought of a new way of putting it. What I really aim at is anabsolute realism in the sphere of the ignobly decent. The field, as Iunderstand it, is a new one; I don't know any writer who has treatedordinary vulgar life with fidelity and seriousness. Zola writesdeliberate tragedies; his vilest figures become heroic from theplace they fill in a strongly imagined drama. I want to deal with theessentially unheroic, with the day-to-day life of that vast majority ofpeople who are at the mercy of paltry circumstance. Dickens understoodthe possibility of such work, but his tendency to melodrama on the onehand, and his humour on the other, prevented him from thinking of it. Aninstance, now. As I came along by Regent's Park half an hour ago a manand a girl were walking close in front of me, love-making; I passed themslowly and heard a good deal of their talk--it was part of the situationthat they should pay no heed to a stranger's proximity. Now, sucha love-scene as that has absolutely never been written down; it wasentirely decent, yet vulgar to the nth power. Dickens would have madeit ludicrous--a gross injustice. Other men who deal with low-class lifewould perhaps have preferred idealising it--an absurdity. For myown part, I am going to reproduce it verbatim, without one singleimpertinent suggestion of any point of view save that of honestreporting. The result will be something unutterably tedious. Precisely. That is the stamp of the ignobly decent life. If it were anything buttedious it would be untrue. I speak, of course, of its effect upon theordinary reader. '

'I couldn't do it, ' said Reardon. 

'Certainly you couldn't. You--well, you are a psychological realist inthe sphere of culture. You are impatient of vulgar circumstances. '

'In a great measure because my life has been martyred by them. '

'And for that very same reason I delight in them, ' cried Biffen. 'You are repelled by what has injured you; I am attracted by it. Thisdivergence is very interesting; but for that, we should have resembledeach other so closely. You know that by temper we are rabid idealists, both of us. '

'I suppose so. '

'But let me go on. I want, among other things, to insist upon thefateful power of trivial incidents. No one has yet dared to do thisseriously. It has often been done in farce, and that's why farcicalwriting so often makes one melancholy. You know my stock instancesof the kind of thing I mean. There was poor Allen, who lost the mostvaluable opportunity of his life because he hadn't a clean shirt to puton; and Williamson, who would probably have married that rich girl butfor the grain of dust that got into his eye, and made him unable to sayor do anything at the critical moment. '

Reardon burst into a roar of laughter. 

'There you are!' cried Biffen, with friendly annoyance. 'You take theconventional view. If you wrote of these things you would represent themas laughable. '

'They are laughable, ' asserted the other, 'however serious to thepersons concerned. The mere fact of grave issues in life depending onsuch paltry things is monstrously ludicrous. Life is a huge farce, andthe advantage of possessing a sense of humour is that it enables one todefy fate with mocking laughter. '

'That's all very well, but it isn't an original view. I am not lackingin sense of humour, but I prefer to treat these aspects of life froman impartial standpoint. The man who laughs takes the side of a cruelomnipotence, if one can imagine such a thing. 

I want to take no side at all; simply to say, Look, this is the kind ofthing that happens. '

'I admire your honesty, Biffen, ' said Reardon, sighing. 'You willnever sell work of this kind, yet you have the courage to go on with itbecause you believe in it. '

'I don't know; I may perhaps sell it some day. '

'In the meantime, ' said Reardon, laying down his pipe, 'suppose we eat amorsel of something. I'm rather hungry. '

In the early days of his marriage Reardon was wont to offer the friendswho looked in on Sunday evening a substantial supper; by degrees themeal had grown simpler, until now, in the depth of his poverty, he madeno pretence of hospitable entertainment. It was only because he knewthat Biffen as often as not had nothing whatever to eat that he did nothesitate to offer him a slice of bread and butter and a cup of tea. Theywent into the back room, and over the Spartan fare continued to discussaspects of fiction. 

'I shall never, ' said Biffen, 'write anything like a dramatic scene. Such things do happen in life, but so very rarely that they are nothingto my purpose. Even when they happen, by-the-bye, it is in a shape thatwould be useless to the ordinary novelist; he would have to cut awaythis circumstance, and add that. Why? I should like to know. Suchconventionalism results from stage necessities. Fiction hasn't yetoutgrown the influence of the stage on which it originated. Whatever aman writes FOR EFFECT is wrong and bad. '

'Only in your view. There may surely exist such a thing as the ART offiction. '

'It is worked out. We must have a rest from it. You, now--the bestthings you have done are altogether in conflict with novelisticconventionalities. It was because that blackguard review of "On NeutralGround" clumsily hinted this that I first thought of you with interest. No, no; let us copy life. When the man and woman are to meet for agreat scene of passion, let it all be frustrated by one or other ofthem having a bad cold in the head, and so on. Let the pretty girl geta disfiguring pimple on her nose just before the ball at which she isgoing to shine. Show the numberless repulsive features of common decentlife. Seriously, coldly; not a hint of facetiousness, or the thingbecomes different. '

About eight o'clock Reardon heard his wife's knock at the door. Onopening he saw not only Amy and the servant, the latter holding Williein her arms, but with them Jasper Milvain. 

'I have been at Mrs Yule's, ' Jasper explained as he came in. 'Have youanyone here?'

'Biffen. '

'Ah, then we'll discuss realism. '

'That's over for the evening. Greek metres also. '

'Thank Heaven!'

The three men seated themselves with joking and laughter, and the smokeof their pipes gathered thickly in the little room. It was half anhour before Amy joined them. Tobacco was no disturbance to her, andshe enjoyed the kind of talk that was held on these occasions; butit annoyed her that she could no longer play the hostess at a merrysupper-table. 

'Why ever are you sitting in your overcoat, Mr Biffen?' were her firstwords when she entered. 

'Please excuse me, Mrs Reardon. It happens to be more convenient thisevening. '

She was puzzled, but a glance from her husband warned her not to pursuethe subject. 

Biffen always behaved to Amy with a sincerity of respect which had madehim a favourite with her. To him, poor fellow, Reardon seemed supremelyblessed. That a struggling man of letters should have been able tomarry, and such a wife, was miraculous in Biffen's eyes. A woman's lovewas to him the unattainable ideal; already thirty-five years old, he hadno prospect of ever being rich enough to assure himself a daily dinner;marriage was wildly out of the question. Sitting here, he found it verydifficult not to gaze at Amy with uncivil persistency. Seldom in hislife had he conversed with educated women, and the sound of this clearvoice was always more delightful to him than any music. 

Amy took a place near to him, and talked in her most charming way ofsuch things as she knew interested him. Biffen's deferential attitudeas he listened and replied was in strong contrast with the carelessease which marked Jasper Milvain. The realist would never smoke in Amy'spresence, but Jasper puffed jovial clouds even whilst she was conversingwith him. 

'Whelpdale came to see me last night, ' remarked Milvain, presently. 'His novel is refused on all hands. He talks of earning a living as acommission agent for some sewing-machine people. '

'I can't understand how his book should be positively refused, ' saidReardon. 'The last wasn't altogether a failure. '

'Very nearly. And this one consists of nothing but a series ofconversations between two people. It is really a dialogue, not a novelat all. He read me some twenty pages, and I no longer wondered that hecouldn't sell it. '

'Oh, but it has considerable merit, ' put in Biffen. 'The talk isremarkably true. '

'But what's the good of talk that leads to nothing?' protested Jasper. 

'It's a bit of real life. '

'Yes, but it has no market value. You may write what you like, so longas people are willing to read you. Whelpdale's a clever fellow, but hecan't hit a practical line. '

'Like some other people I have heard of;' said Reardon, laughing. 

'But the odd thing is, that he always strikes one as practical-minded. Don't you feel that, Mrs Reardon?'

He and Amy talked for a few minutes, and Reardon, seemingly lost inmeditation, now and then observed them from the corner of his eye. 

At eleven o'clock husband and wife were alone again. 

'You don't mean to say, ' exclaimed Amy, 'that Biffen has sold his coat?'

'Or pawned it. '

'But why not the overcoat?'

'Partly, I should think, because it's the warmer of the two; partly, perhaps, because the other would fetch more. '

'That poor man will die of starvation, some day, Edwin. '

'I think it not impossible. '

'I hope you gave him something to eat?'

'Oh yes. But I could see he didn't like to take as much as he wanted. I don't think of him with so much pity as I used that's a result ofsuffering oneself. '

Amy set her lips and sighed. 

CHAPTER XI. RESPITE

The last volume was written in fourteen days. In this achievementReardon rose almost to heroic pitch, for he had much to contend withbeyond the mere labour of composition. Scarcely had he begun when asharp attack of lumbago fell upon him; for two or three days it wastorture to support himself at the desk, and he moved about like acripple. Upon this ensued headaches, sore-throat, general enfeeblement. And before the end of the fortnight it was necessary to think of raisinganother small sum of money; he took his watch to the pawnbroker's (youcan imagine that it would not stand as security for much), and sold afew more books. All this notwithstanding, here was the novel at lengthfinished. When he had written 'The End' he lay back, closed his eyes, and let time pass in blankness for a quarter of an hour. 

It remained to determine the title. But his brain refused anothereffort; after a few minutes' feeble search he simply took the name ofthe chief female character, Margaret Home. That must do for the book. Already, with the penning of the last word, all its scenes, personages, dialogues had slipped away into oblivion; he knew and cared nothing moreabout them. 

'Amy, you will have to correct the proofs for me. Never as long as Ilive will I look upon a page of this accursed novel. It has all butkilled me. '

'The point is, ' replied Amy, 'that here we have it complete. Pack it upand take it to the publishers' to-morrow morning. '

'I will. '

'And--you will ask them to advance you a few pounds?'

'I must. '

But that undertaking was almost as hard to face as a rewriting ofthe last volume would have been. Reardon had such superfluity ofsensitiveness that, for his own part, he would far rather have gonehungry than ask for money not legally his due. To-day there was nochoice. In the ordinary course of business it would be certainly a monthbefore he heard the publishers' terms, and perhaps the Christmas seasonmight cause yet more delay. Without borrowing, he could not provide forthe expenses of more than another week or two. 

His parcel under his arm, he entered the ground-floor office, anddesired to see that member of the firm with whom he had previously hadpersonal relations. This gentleman was not in town; he would be away fora few days. Reardon left the manuscript, and came out into the streetagain. 

He crossed, and looked up at the publishers' windows from the oppositepavement. 'Do they suspect in what wretched circumstances I am? Wouldit surprise them to know all that depends upon that budget of paltryscribbling? I suppose not; it must be a daily experience with them. Well, I must write a begging letter. '

It was raining and windy. He went slowly homewards, and was on the pointof entering the public door of the flats when his uneasiness became sogreat that he turned and walked past. If he went in, he must atonce write his appeal for money, and he felt that he could not. Thedegradation seemed too great. 

Was there no way of getting over the next few weeks? Rent, of course, would be due at Christmas, but that payment might be postponed; it wasonly a question of buying food and fuel. Amy had offered to ask hermother for a few pounds; it would be cowardly to put this task upon hernow that he had promised to meet the difficulty himself. What man inall London could and would lend him money? He reviewed the list of hisacquaintances, but there was only one to whom he could appeal with theslightest hope--that was Carter. 

Half an hour later he entered that same hospital door through which, some years ago, he had passed as a half-starved applicant for work. Thematron met him. 

'Is Mr Carter here?'

'No, sir. But we expect him any minute. Will you wait?'

He entered the familiar office, and sat down. At the table where he hadbeen wont to work, a young clerk was writing. If only all the events ofthe last few years could be undone, and he, with no soul dependent uponhim, be once more earning his pound a week in this room! What a happyman he was in those days!

Nearly half an hour passed. It is the common experience of beggarsto have to wait. Then Carter came in with quick step; he wore a heavyulster of the latest fashion, new gloves, a resplendent silk hat; hischeeks were rosy from the east wind. 

'Ha, Reardon! How do? how do? Delighted to see you!'

'Are you very busy?'

'Well, no, not particularly. A few cheques to sign, and we're justgetting out our Christmas appeals. You remember?'

He laughed gaily. There was a remarkable freedom from snobbishness inthis young man; the fact of Reardon's intellectual superiority had longago counteracted Carter's social prejudices. 

'I should like to have a word with you. '

'Right you are!'

They went into a small inner room. Reardon's pulse beat at fever-rate;his tongue was cleaving to his palate. 

'What is it, old man?' asked the secretary, seating himself and flingingone of his legs over the other. 'You look rather seedy, do you know. Whythe deuce don't you and your wife look us up now and then?'

'I've had a hard pull to finish my novel. '

'Finished, is it? I'm glad to hear that. When'll it be out? I'll sendscores of people to Mudie's after it. 

'Thanks; but I don't think much of it, to tell you the truth. '

'Oh, we know what that means. '

Reardon was talking like an automaton. It seemed to him that he turnedscrews and pressed levers for the utterance of his next words. 

'I may as well say at once what I have come for. Could you lend me tenpounds for a month--in fact, until I get the money for my book?'

The secretary's countenance fell, though not to that expression of uttercoldness which would have come naturally under the circumstances to agreat many vivacious men. He seemed genuinely embarrassed. 

'By Jove! I--confound it! To tell you the truth, I haven't ten poundsto lend. Upon my word, I haven't, Reardon! These infernal housekeepingexpenses! I don't mind telling you, old man, that Edith and I have beenpushing the pace rather. ' He laughed, and thrust his hands down intohis trousers-pockets. 'We pay such a darned rent, you know--hundred andtwenty-five. We've only just been saying we should have to draw it mildfor the rest of the winter. But I'm infernally sorry; upon my word Iam. '

'And I am sorry to have annoyed you by the unseasonable request. '

'Devilish seasonable, Reardon, I assure you!' cried the secretary, androared at his joke. It put him into a better temper than ever, and hesaid at length: 'I suppose a fiver wouldn't be much use?--For a month, you say?--I might manage a fiver, I think. '

'It would be very useful. But on no account if----'

'No, no; I could manage a fiver, for a month. Shall I give you acheque?'

'I'm ashamed----'

'Not a bit of it! I'll go and write the cheque. '

Reardon's face was burning. Of the conversation that followed whenCarter again presented himself he never recalled a word. The bit ofpaper was crushed together in his hand. Out in the street again, he allbut threw it away, dreaming for the moment that it was a 'bus ticket ora patent medicine bill. 

He reached home much after the dinner-hour. Amy was surprised at hislong absence. 

'Got anything?' she asked. 

'Yes. '

It was half his intention to deceive her, to say that the publishers hadadvanced him five pounds. But that would be his first word of untruthto Amy, and why should he be guilty of it? He told her all that hadhappened. The result of this frankness was something that he had notanticipated; Amy exhibited profound vexation. 

'Oh, you SHOULDN'T have done that!' she exclaimed. 'Why didn't you comehome and tell me? I would have gone to mother at once. '

'But does it matter?'

'Of course it does, ' she replied sharply. 'Mr Carter will tell his wife, and how pleasant that is?'

'I never thought of that. And perhaps it wouldn't have seemed to me soannoying as it does to you. '

'Very likely not. '

She turned abruptly away, and stood at a distance in gloomy muteness. 

'Well, ' she said at length, 'there's no helping it now. Come and haveyour dinner. '

'You have taken away my appetite. '

'Nonsense! I suppose you're dying of hunger. '

They had a very uncomfortable meal, exchanging few words. On Amy's facewas a look more resembling bad temper than anything Reardon had everseen there. After dinner he went and sat alone in the study. Amy didnot come near him. He grew stubbornly angry; remembering the pain he hadgone through, he felt that Amy's behaviour to him was cruel. She mustcome and speak when she would. 

At six o'clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he wouldcome to tea. 

'Thank you, ' he replied, 'I had rather stay here. '

'As you please. '

And he sat alone until about nine. It was only then he recollected thathe must send a note to the publishers, calling their attention to theparcel he had left. He wrote it, and closed with a request that theywould let him hear as soon as they conveniently could. As he wasputting on his hat and coat to go out and post the letter Amy opened thedining-room door. 

'You're going out?'

'Yes. '

'Shall you be long?'

'I think not. '

He was away only a few minutes. On returning he went first of all intothe study, but the thought of Amy alone in the other room would not lethim rest. He looked in and saw that she was sitting without a fire. 

'You can't stay here in the cold, Amy. '

'I'm afraid I must get used to it, ' she replied, affecting to be closelyengaged upon some sewing. 

That strength of character which it had always delighted him to read inher features was become an ominous hardness. He felt his heart sink ashe looked at her. 

'Is poverty going to have the usual result in our case?' he asked, drawing nearer. 

'I never pretended that I could be indifferent to it. '

'Still, don't you care to try and resist it?'

She gave no answer. As usual in conversation with an aggrieved woman itwas necessary to go back from the general to the particular. 

'I'm afraid, ' he said, 'that the Carters already knew pretty well howthings were going with us. '

'That's a very different thing. But when it comes to asking them formoney--'

'I'm very sorry. I would rather have done anything if I had known how itwould annoy you. '

'If we have to wait a month, five pounds will be very little use to us. '

She detailed all manner of expenses that had to be met--outlay there wasno possibility of avoiding so long as their life was maintained on itspresent basis. 

'However, you needn't trouble any more about it. I'll see to it. Now youare free from your book try to rest. '

'Come and sit by the fire. There's small chance of rest for me if we arethinking unkindly of each other. '

A doleful Christmas. Week after week went by and Reardon knew that Amymust have exhausted the money he had given her. But she made no moredemands upon him, and necessaries were paid for in the usual way. Hesuffered from a sense of humiliation; sometimes he found it difficult tolook in his wife's face. 

When the publishers' letter came it contained an offer of seventy-fivepounds for the copyright of 'Margaret Home, ' twenty-five more to bepaid if the sale in three-volume form should reach a certain number ofcopies. 

Here was failure put into unmistakable figures. Reardon said to himselfthat it was all over with his profession of authorship. The book couldnot possibly succeed even to the point of completing his hundred pounds;it would meet with universal contempt, and indeed deserved nothingbetter. 

'Shall you accept this?' asked Amy, after dreary silence. 

'No one else would offer terms as good. '

'Will they pay you at once?'

'I must ask them to. '

Well, it was seventy-five pounds in hand. The cheque came as soon asit was requested, and Reardon's face brightened for the moment. Blessedmoney! root of all good, until the world invent some saner economy. 

'How much do you owe your mother?' he inquired, without looking at Amy. 

'Six pounds, ' she answered coldly. 

'And five to Carter; and rent, twelve pounds ten. We shall have a matterof fifty pounds to go on with. '

CHAPTER XII. WORK WITHOUT HOPE

The prudent course was so obvious that he marvelled at Amy's failingto suggest it. For people in their circumstances to be paying a rentof fifty pounds when a home could be found for half the money wasrecklessness; there would be no difficulty in letting the flat for thislast year of their lease, and the cost of removal would be trifling. Themental relief of such a change might enable him to front with couragea problem in any case very difficult, and, as things were, desperate. Three months ago, in a moment of profoundest misery, he had proposedthis step; courage failed him to speak of it again, Amy's look and voicewere too vivid in his memory. Was she not capable of such a sacrificefor his sake? Did she prefer to let him bear all the responsibility ofwhatever might result from a futile struggle to keep up appearances?

Between him and her there was no longer perfect confidence. Her silencemeant reproach, and--whatever might have been the case before--there wasno doubt that she now discussed him with her mother, possibly with otherpeople. It was not likely that she concealed his own opinion of the bookhe had just finished; all their acquaintances would be prepared to greetits publication with private scoffing or with mournful shaking of thehead. His feeling towards Amy entered upon a new phase. The stability ofhis love was a source of pain; condemning himself, he felt at the sametime that he was wronged. A coldness which was far from representingthe truth began to affect his manner and speech, and Amy did not seemto notice it, at all events she made no kind of protest. They no longertalked of the old subjects, but of those mean concerns of material lifewhich formerly they had agreed to dismiss as quickly as possible. Theirrelations to each other--not long ago an inexhaustible topic--would notbear spoken comment; both were too conscious of the danger-signal whenthey looked that way. 

In the time of waiting for the publishers' offer, and now again when hewas asking himself how he should use the respite granted him, Reardonspent his days at the British Museum. He could not read to much purpose, but it was better to sit here among strangers than seem to be idlingunder Amy's glance. Sick of imaginative writing, he turned to thestudies which had always been most congenial, and tried to shape out apaper or two like those he had formerly disposed of to editors. Amonghis unused material lay a mass of notes he had made in a reading ofDiogenes Laertius, and it seemed to him now that he might make somethingsalable out of these anecdotes of the philosophers. In a happier mood hecould have written delightfully on such a subject--not learnedly, but inthe strain of a modern man whose humour and sensibility find free playamong the classic ghosts; even now he was able to recover something ofthe light touch which had given value to his published essays. 

Meanwhile the first number of The Current had appeared, and JasperMilvain had made a palpable hit. Amy spoke very often of the articlecalled 'Typical Readers, ' and her interest in its author was freelymanifested. Whenever a mention of Jasper came under her notice she readit Out to her husband. Reardon smiled and appeared glad, but he did notcare to discuss Milvain with the same frankness as formerly. 

One evening at the end of January he told Amy what he had been writingat the Museum, and asked her if she would care to hear it read. 

'I began to wonder what you were doing, ' she replied. 

'Then why didn't you ask me?'

'I was rather afraid to. '

'Why afraid?'

'It would have seemed like reminding you that--you know what I mean. '

'That a month or two more will see us at the same crisis again. Still, Ihad rather you had shown an interest in my doings. '

After a pause Amy asked:

'Do you think you can get a paper of this kind accepted?'

'It isn't impossible. I think it's rather well done. Let me read you apage--'

'Where will you send it?' she interrupted. 

'To The Wayside. '

'Why not try The Current? Ask Milvain to introduce you to Mr Fadge. Theypay much better, you know. '

'But this isn't so well suited for Fadge. And I much prefer to beindependent, as long as it's possible. '

'That's one of your faults, Edwin, ' remarked his wife, mildly. 'It'sonly the strongest men that can make their way independently. You oughtto use every means that offers. '

'Seeing that I am so weak?'

'I didn't think it would offend you. I only meant---'

'No, no; you are quite right. Certainly, I am one of the men who needall the help they can get. But I assure you, this thing won't do for TheCurrent. '

'What a pity you will go hack to those musty old times! Now think ofthat article of Milvain's. If only you could do something of that kind!What do people care about Diogenes and his tub and his lantern?'

'My dear girl, Diogenes Laertius had neither tub nor lantern, that Iknow of. You are making a mistake; but it doesn't matter. '

'No, I don't think it does. ' The caustic note was not very pleasant onAmy's lips. 'Whoever he was, the mass of readers will be frightened byhis name. '

'Well, we have to recognise that the mass of readers will never care foranything I do. '

'You will never convince me that you couldn't write in a popular way ifyou tried. I'm sure you are quite as clever as Milvain--'

Reardon made an impatient gesture. 

'Do leave Milvain aside for a little! He and I are as unlike as twomen could be. What's the use of constantly comparing us?'

Amy looked at him. He had never spoken to her so brusquely. 

'How can you say that I am constantly comparing you?'

'If not in spoken words, then in your thoughts. '

'That's not a very nice thing to say, Edwin. '

'You make it so unmistakable, Amy. What I mean is, that you are alwaysregretting the difference between him and me. You lament that I can'twrite in that attractive way. Well, I lament it myself--for your sake. Iwish I had Milvain's peculiar talent, so that I could get reputation andmoney. But I haven't, and there's an end of it. It irritates a man to beperpetually told of his disadvantages. '

'I will never mention Milvain's name again, ' said Amy coldly. 

'Now that's ridiculous, and you know it. '

'I feel the same about your irritation. I can't see that I have givenany cause for it. '

'Then we'll talk no more of the matter. '

Reardon threw his manuscript aside and opened a book. Amy never askedhim to resume his intention of reading what he had written. 

However, the paper was accepted. It came out in The Wayside for March, and Reardon received seven pounds ten for it. By that time he hadwritten another thing of the same gossipy kind, suggested by Pliny'sLetters. The pleasant occupation did him good, but there was nopossibility of pursuing this course. 'Margaret Home' would be publishedin April; he might get the five-and-twenty pounds contingent upon acertain sale, yet that could in no case be paid until the middle of theyear, and long before then he would be penniless. His respite drew to anend. 

But now he took counsel of no one; as far as it was possible he lived insolitude, never seeing those of his acquaintances who were outside theliterary world, and seldom even his colleagues. Milvain was so busy thathe had only been able to look in twice or thrice since Christmas, andReardon nowadays never went to Jasper's lodgings. 

He had the conviction that all was over with the happiness of hismarried life, though how the events which were to express this ruinwould shape themselves he could not foresee. Amy was revealing thataspect of her character to which he had been blind, though a practicalman would have perceived it from the first; so far from helping him tosupport poverty, she perhaps would even refuse to share it with him. He knew that she was slowly drawing apart; already there was a divorcebetween their minds, and he tortured himself in uncertainty as to howfar he retained her affections. A word of tenderness, a caress, nolonger met with response from her; her softest mood was that of merecomradeship. All the warmth of her nature was expended upon the child;Reardon learnt how easy it is for a mother to forget that both parentshave a share in her offspring. 

He was beginning to dislike the child. But for Willie's existence Amywould still love him with undivided heart; not, perhaps, so passionatelyas once, but still with lover's love. And Amy understood--or, at allevents, remarked--this change in him. She was aware that he seldom askeda question about Willie, and that he listened with indifference when shespoke of the little fellow's progress. In part offended, she was also inpart pleased. 

But for the child, mere poverty, he said to himself, should never havesundered them. In the strength of his passion he could have overcome allher disappointments; and, indeed, but for that new care, he wouldmost likely never have fallen to this extremity of helplessness. It isnatural in a weak and sensitive man to dream of possibilities disturbedby the force of circumstance. For one hour which he gave to conflictwith his present difficulties, Reardon spent many in contemplation ofthe happiness that might have been. 

Even yet, it needed but a little money to redeem all. Amy had noextravagant aspirations; a home of simple refinement and freedom fromanxiety would restore her to her nobler self. How could he find faultwith her? She knew nothing of such sordid life as he had gone through, and to lack money for necessities seemed to her degrading beyondendurance. Why, even the ordinary artisan's wife does not suffer suchprivations as hers at the end of the past year. For lack of that littlemoney his life must be ruined. Of late he had often thought about therich uncle, John Yule, who might perhaps leave something to Amy; but thehope was so uncertain. And supposing such a thing were to happen; wouldit be perfectly easy to live upon his wife's bounty--perhaps exhaustinga small capital, so that, some years hence, their position would beno better than before? Not long ago, he could have taken anything fromAmy's hand; would it be so simple since the change that had come betweenthem?

Having written his second magazine-article (it was rejected by twoeditors, and he had no choice but to hold it over until sufficient timehad elapsed to allow of his again trying The Wayside), he saw that hemust perforce plan another novel. But this time he was resolute not toundertake three volumes. The advertisements informed him that numbers ofauthors were abandoning that procrustean system; hopeless as he was, hemight as well try his chance with a book which could be written in afew weeks. And why not a glaringly artificial story with a sensationaltitle? It could not be worse than what he had last written. 

So, without a word to Amy, he put aside his purely intellectual workand began once more the search for a 'plot. ' This was towards the end ofFebruary. The proofs of 'Margaret Home' were coming in day by day; Amyhad offered to correct them, but after all he preferred to keep hisshame to himself as long as possible, and with a hurried reading hedismissed sheet after sheet. His imagination did not work the morehappily for this repugnant task; still, he hit at length upon aconception which seemed absurd enough for the purpose before him. Whether he could persevere with it even to the extent of one volume wasvery doubtful. But it should not be said of him that he abandoned hiswife and child to penury without one effort of the kind that Milvain andAmy herself had recommended. 

Writing a page or two of manuscript daily, and with several holocauststo retard him, he had done nearly a quarter of the story when there camea note from Jasper telling of Mrs Milvain's death. He handed it acrossthe breakfast-table to Amy, and watched her as she read it. 

'I suppose it doesn't alter his position, ' Amy remarked, without muchinterest. 

'I suppose not appreciably. He told me once his mother had a sufficientincome; but whatever she leaves will go to his sisters, I should think. He has never said much to me. '

Nearly three weeks passed before they heard anything more from Jasperhimself; then he wrote, again from the country, saying that he purposedbringing his sisters to live in London. Another week, and one evening heappeared at the door. 

A want of heartiness in Reardon's reception of him might have beenexplained as gravity natural under the circumstances. But Jasper hadbefore this become conscious that he was not welcomed here quite socheerily as in the old days. He remarked it distinctly on that eveningwhen he accompanied Amy home from Mrs Yule's; since then he had allowedhis pressing occupations to be an excuse for the paucity of his visits. It seemed to him perfectly intelligible that Reardon, sinking intoliterary insignificance, should grow cool to a man entering upon asuccessful career; the vein of cynicism in Jasper enabled him to pardona weakness of this kind, which in some measure flattered him. But heboth liked and respected Reardon, and at present he was in the mood togive expression to his warmer feelings. 

'Your book is announced, I see, ' he said with an accent of pleasure, assoon as he had seated himself. 

'I didn't know it. '

'Yes. "New novel by the author of 'On Neutral Ground. '" Down for thesixteenth of April. And I have a proposal to make about it. Will youlet me ask Fadge to have it noticed in "Books of the Month, " in the MayCurrent?'

'I strongly advise you to let it take its chance. The book isn't worthspecial notice, and whoever undertook to review it for Fadge wouldeither have to lie, or stultify the magazine. '

Jasper turned to Amy. 

'Now what is to be done with a man like this? What is one to say to him, Mrs Reardon?'

'Edwin dislikes the book, ' Amy replied, carelessly. 

'That has nothing to do with the matter. We know quite well that inanything he writes there'll be something for a well-disposed reviewerto make a good deal of. If Fadge will let me, I should do the thingmyself. '

Neither Reardon nor his wife spoke. 

'Of course, ' went on Milvain, looking at the former, 'if you had ratherI left it alone--'

'I had much rather. Please don't say anything about it. '

There was an awkward silence. Amy broke it by saying:

'Are your sisters in town, Mr Milvain?'

'Yes. We came up two days ago. I found lodgings for them not far fromMornington Road. Poor girls! they don't quite know where they are, yet. Of course they will keep very quiet for a time, then I must try to getfriends for them. Well, they have one already--your cousin, Miss Yule. She has already been to see them. '

'I'm very glad of that. '

Amy took an opportunity of studying his face. There was again asilence as if of constraint. Reardon, glancing at his wife, said withhesitation:

'When they care to see other visitors, I'm sure Amy would be veryglad--'

'Certainly!' his wife added. 

'Thank you very much. Of course I knew I could depend on Mrs Reardon toshow them kindness in that way. But let me speak frankly of something. My sisters have made quite a friend of Miss Yule, since she was downthere last year. Wouldn't that'--he turned to Amy--'cause you a littleawkwardness?'

Amy had a difficulty in replying. She kept her eyes on the ground. 

'You have had no quarrel with your cousin, ' remarked Reardon. 

'None whatever. It's only my mother and my uncle. '

'I can't imagine Miss Yule having a quarrel with anyone, ' said Jasper. Then he added quickly: 'Well, things must shape themselves naturally. Weshall see. For the present they will be fully occupied. Of course it'sbest that they should be. I shall see them every day, and Miss Yule willcome pretty often, I dare say. '

Reardon caught Amy's eye, but at once looked away again. 

'My word!' exclaimed Milvain, after a moment's meditation. 'It's wellthis didn't happen a year ago. The girls have no income; only a littlecash to go on with. We shall have our work set. It's a precious luckything that I have just got a sort of footing. '

Reardon muttered an assent. 

'And what are you doing now?' Jasper inquired suddenly. 

'Writing a one-volume story. '

'I'm glad to hear that. Any special plan for its publication?'

'No. '

'Then why not offer it to Jedwood? He's publishing a series ofone-volume novels. You know of Jedwood, don't you? He was Culpepper'smanager; started business about half a year ago, and it looks as if hewould do well. He married that woman--what's her name?--Who wrote "MrHenderson's Wives"?'

'Never heard of it. '

'Nonsense!--Miss Wilkes, of course. Well, she married this fellowJedwood, and there was a great row about something or other betweenhim and her publishers. Mrs Boston Wright told me all about it. Anastonishing woman that; a cyclopaedia of the day's small talk. I'm quitea favourite with her; she's promised to help the girls all she can. Well, but I was talking about Jedwood. Why not offer him this book ofyours? He's eager to get hold of the new writers. Advertises hugely; hehas the whole back page of The Study about every other week. I supposeMiss Wilkes's profits are paying for it. He has just given Markland twohundred pounds for a paltry little tale that would scarcely swell outto a volume. Markland told me himself. You know that I've scraped anacquaintance with him? Oh! I suppose I haven't seen you since then. He'sa dwarfish fellow with only one eye. Mrs Boston Wright cries him up atevery opportunity. '

'Who IS Mrs Boston Wright?' asked Reardon, laughing impatiently. 

'Edits The English Girl, you know. She's had an extraordinary life. Was born in Mauritius--no, Ceylon--I forget; some such place. Married asailor at fifteen. Was shipwrecked somewhere, and only restored to lifeafter terrific efforts;--her story leaves it all rather vague. Then sheturns up as a newspaper correspondent at the Cape. Gave up that, andtook to some kind of farming, I forget where. Married again (firsthusband lost in aforementioned shipwreck), this time a Baptist minister, and began to devote herself to soup-kitchens in Liverpool. Husbandburned to death, somewhere. She's next discovered in the thick ofliterary society in London. A wonderful woman, I assure you. Must benearly fifty, but she looks twenty-five. '

He paused, then added impulsively:

'Let me take you to one of her evenings--nine on Thursday. Do persuadehim, Mrs Reardon?'

Reardon shook his head. 

'No, no. I should be horribly out of my element. '

'I can't see why. You would meet all sorts of well-known people; thoseyou ought to have met long ago. Better still, let me ask her to sendan invitation for both of you. I'm sure you'd like her, Mrs Reardon. There's a good deal of humbug about her, it's true, but some solidqualities as well. No one has a word to say against her. And it's asplendid advertisement to have her for a friend. She'll talk about yourbooks and articles till all is blue. '

Amy gave a questioning look at her husband. But Reardon moved in anuncomfortable way. 

'We'll see about it, ' he said. 'Some day, perhaps. '

'Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood: I happen toknow a man who reads for him. '

'Heavens!' cried Reardon. 'Who don't you know?'

'The simplest thing in the world. At present it's a large part of mybusiness to make acquaintances. Why, look you; a man who has to liveby miscellaneous writing couldn't get on without a vast variety ofacquaintances. One's own brain would soon run dry; a clever fellow knowshow to use the brains of other people. '

Amy listened with an unconscious smile which expressed keen interest. 

'Oh, ' pursued Jasper, 'when did you see Whelpdale last?'

'Haven't seen him for a long time. '

'You don't know what he's doing? The fellow has set up as a "literaryadviser. " He has an advertisement in The Study every week. "To YoungAuthors and Literary Aspirants"--something of the kind. "Advice given onchoice of subjects, MSS. Read, corrected, and recommended to publishers. Moderate terms. " A fact! And what's more, he made six guineas in thefirst fortnight; so he says, at all events. Now that's one of the finestjokes I ever heard. A man who can't get anyone to publish his own booksmakes a living by telling other people how to write!'

'But it's a confounded swindle!'

'Oh, I don't know. He's capable of correcting the grammar of "literaryaspirants, " and as for recommending to publishers--well, anyone canrecommend, I suppose. '

Reardon's indignation yielded to laughter. 

'It's not impossible that he may thrive by this kind of thing. '

'Not at all, ' assented Jasper. 

Shortly after this he looked at his watch. 

'I must be off, my friends. I have something to write before I can go tomy truckle-bed, and it'll take me three hours at least. 

Good-bye, old man. Let me know when your story's finished, and we'lltalk about it. And think about Mrs Boston Wright; oh, and about thatreview in The Current. I wish you'd let me do it. Talk it over with yourguide, philosopher, and friend. '

He indicated Amy, who laughed in a forced way. 

When he was gone, the two sat without speaking for several minutes. 

'Do you care to make friends with those girls?' asked Reardon at length. 

'I suppose in decency I must call upon them?'

'I suppose so. '

'You may find them very agreeable. '

'Oh yes. '

They conversed with their own thoughts for a while. Then Reardon burstout laughing. 

'Well, there's the successful man, you see. Some day he'll live in amansion, and dictate literary opinions to the universe. '

'How has he offended you?'

'Offended me? Not at all. I am glad of his cheerful prospects. '

'Why should you refuse to go among those people? It might be good foryou in several ways. '

'If the chance had come when I was publishing my best work, I dare say Ishouldn't have refused. But I certainly shall not present myself as theauthor of "Margaret Home, " and the rubbish I'm now writing. '

'Then you must cease to write rubbish. '

'Yes. I must cease to write altogether. '

'And do what?'

'I wish to Heaven I knew!'

CHAPTER XIII. A WARNING

In the spring list of Mr Jedwood's publications, announcement wasmade of a new work by Alfred Yule. It was called 'English Prose in theNineteenth Century, ' and consisted of a number of essays (several ofwhich had already seen the light in periodicals) strung into continuity. The final chapter dealt with contemporary writers, more especially thosewho served to illustrate the author's theme--that journalism is thedestruction of prose style: on certain popular writers of the day therewas an outpouring of gall which was not likely to be received as thoughit were sweet ointment. The book met with rather severe treatment incritical columns; it could scarcely be ignored (the safest mode ofattack when one's author has no expectant public), and only the mostskilful could write of it in a hostile spirit without betraying thatsome of its strokes had told. An evening newspaper which piqued itselfon independence indulged in laughing appreciation of the polemicalchapter, and the next day printed a scornful letter from athinly-disguised correspondent who assailed both book and reviewer. Forthe moment people talked more of Alfred Yule than they had done sincehis memorable conflict with Clement Fadge. 

The publisher had hoped for this. Mr Jedwood was an energetic andsanguine man, who had entered upon his business with a determination torival in a year or so the houses which had slowly risen into commandingstability. He had no great capital, but the stroke of fortune which hadwedded him to a popular novelist enabled him to count on steady profitfrom one source, and boundless faith in his own judgment urged him to aninitial outlay which made the prudent shake their heads. He talked muchof 'the new era, ' foresaw revolutions in publishing and book-selling, planned every week a score of untried ventures which should appeal tothe democratic generation just maturing; in the meantime, was ready topublish anything which seemed likely to get talked about. 

The May number of The Current, in its article headed 'Books of theMonth, ' devoted about half a page to 'English Prose in the NineteenthCentury. ' This notice was a consummate example of the flippant style ofattack. Flippancy, the most hopeless form of intellectual vice, was acharacterising note of Mr Fadge's periodical; his monthly comments onpublications were already looked for with eagerness by that growingclass of readers who care for nothing but what can be made matter ofridicule. The hostility of other reviewers was awkward and ineffectualcompared with this venomous banter, which entertained by showing that inthe book under notice there was neither entertainment nor any other kindof interest. To assail an author without increasing the number of hisreaders is the perfection of journalistic skill, and The Current, hadit stood alone, would fully have achieved this end. As it was, silencemight have been better tactics. But Mr Fadge knew that his enemy wouldsmart under the poisoned pin-points, and that was something gained. 

On the day that The Current appeared, its treatment of Alfred Yule wasdiscussed in Mr Jedwood's private office. Mr Quarmby, who had intimaterelations with the publisher, happened to look in just as a young man(one of Mr Jedwood's 'readers') was expressing a doubt whether Fadgehimself was the author of the review. 

'But there's Fadge's thumb-mark all down the page, ' cried Mr Quarmby. 

'He inspired the thing, of course; but I rather think it was written bythat fellow Milvain. '

'Think so?' asked the publisher. 

'Well, I know with certainty that the notice of Markland's novel is hiswriting, and I have reasons for suspecting that he did Yule's book aswell. '

'Smart youngster, that, ' remarked Mr Jedwood. 'Who is he, by-the-bye?'

'Somebody's illegitimate son, I believe, ' replied the source oftrustworthy information, with a laugh. 'Denham says he met him in NewYork a year or two ago, under another name. 

'Excuse me, ' interposed Mr Quarmby, 'there's some mistake in all that. '

He went on to state what he knew, from Yule himself, concerningMilvain's history. Though in this instance a corrector, Mr Quarmby tookan opportunity, a few hours later, of informing Mr Hinks that the attackon Yule in The Current was almost certainly written by young Milvain, with the result that when the rumour reached Yule's ears it wasdelivered as an undoubted and well-known fact. 

It was a month prior to this that Milvain made his call upon MarianYule, on the Sunday when her father was absent. When told of the visit, Yule assumed a manner of indifference, but his daughter understood thathe was annoyed. With regard to the sisters who would shortly be livingin London, he merely said that Marian must behave as discretion directedher. If she wished to invite the Miss Milvains to St Paul's Crescent, he only begged that the times and seasons of the household might not bedisturbed. 

As her habit was, Marian took refuge in silence. Nothing could have beenmore welcome to her than the proximity of Maud and Dora, but she foresawthat her own home would not be freely open to them; perhaps it might benecessary to behave with simple frankness, and let her friends know theembarrassments of the situation. But that could not be done in the firstinstance; the unkindness would seem too great. A day after the arrivalof the girls, she received a note from Dora, and almost at once repliedto it by calling at her friends' lodgings. A week after that, Maud andDora came to St Paul's Crescent; it was Sunday, and Mr Yule purposelykept away from home. They had only been once to the house since then, again without meeting Mr Yule. Marian, however, visited them at theirlodgings frequently; now and then she met Jasper there. The latter neverspoke of her father, and there was no question of inviting him to repeathis call. 

In the end, Marian was obliged to speak on the subject with her mother. Mrs Yule offered an occasion by asking when the Miss Milvains werecoming again. 

'I don't think I shall ever ask them again, ' Marian replied. 

Her mother understood, and looked troubled. 

'I must tell them how it is, that's all, ' the girl went on. 'They aresensible; they won't be offended with me. '

'But your father has never had anything to say against them, ' urged MrsYule. 'Not a word to me, Marian. I'd tell you the truth if he had. '

'It's too disagreeable, all the same. I can't invite them here withpleasure. Father has grown prejudiced against them all, and he won'tchange. No, I shall just tell them. '

'It's very hard for you, ' sighed her mother. 'If I thought I could doany good by speaking--but I can't, my dear. '

'I know it, mother. Let us go on as we did before. '

The day after this, when Yule came home about the hour of dinner, hecalled Marian's name from within the study. Marian had not left thehouse to-day; her work had been set, in the shape of a long taskof copying from disorderly manuscript. She left the sitting-room inobedience to her father's summons. 

'Here's something that will afford you amusement, ' he said, holdingto her the new number of The Current, and indicating the notice of hisbook. 

She read a few lines, then threw the thing on to the table. 

'That kind of writing sickens me, ' she exclaimed, with anger in hereyes. 'Only base and heartless people can write in that way. You surelywon't let it trouble you?'

'Oh, not for a moment, ' her father answered, with exaggerated show ofcalm. 'But I am surprised that you don't see the literary merit of thework. I thought it would distinctly appeal to you. '

There was a strangeness in his voice, as well as in the words, whichcaused her to look at him inquiringly. She knew him well enough tounderstand that such a notice would irritate him profoundly; but whyshould he go out of his way to show it her, and with this peculiaracerbity of manner?

'Why do you say that, father?'

'It doesn't occur to you who may probably have written it?'

She could not miss his meaning; astonishment held her mute for a moment, then she said:

'Surely Mr Fadge wrote it himself?'

'I am told not. I am informed on very good authority that one of hisyoung gentlemen has the credit of it. '

'You refer, of course, to Mr Milvain, ' she replied quietly. 'But I thinkthat can't be true. '

He looked keenly at her. He had expected a more decided protest. 

'I see no reason for disbelieving it. '

'I see every reason, until I have your evidence. '

This was not at all Marian's natural tone in argument with him. She waswont to be submissive. 

'I was told, ' he continued, hardening face and voice, 'by someone whohad it from Jedwood. '

Yule was conscious of untruth in this statement, but his mood would notallow him to speak ingenuously, and he wished to note the effect uponMarian of what he said. There were two beliefs in him: on the one hand, he recognised Fadge in every line of the writing; on the other, he had aperverse satisfaction in convincing himself that it was Milvain who hadcaught so successfully the master's manner. He was not the kind of manwho can resist an opportunity of justifying, to himself and others, acourse into which he has been led by mingled feelings, all more or lessunjustifiable. 

'How should Jedwood know?' asked Marian. 

Yule shrugged his shoulders. 

'As if these things didn't get about among editors and publishers!'

'In this case, there's a mistake. '

'And why, pray?' His voice trembled with choler. 'Why need there be amistake?'

'Because Mr Milvain is quite incapable of reviewing your book in such aspirit. '

'There is your mistake, my girl. Milvain will do anything that's askedof him, provided he's well enough paid. '

Marian reflected. When she raised her eyes again they were perfectlycalm. 

'What has led you to think that?'

'Don't I know the type of man? Noscitur ex sociis--have you Latin enoughfor that?'

'You'll find that you are misinformed, ' Marian replied, and therewithwent from the room. 

She could not trust herself to converse longer. A resentment such as herfather had never yet excited in her--such, indeed, as she had seldom, ifever, conceived--threatened to force utterance for itself in words whichwould change the current of her whole life. She saw her father in hisworst aspect, and her heart was shaken by an unnatural revolt from him. Let his assurance of what he reported be ever so firm, what right hadhe to make this use of it? His behaviour was spiteful. Suppose heentertained suspicions which seemed to make it his duty to warn heragainst Milvain, this was not the way to go about it. A father actuatedby simple motives of affection would never speak and look thus. 

It was the hateful spirit of literary rancour that ruled him; the spiritthat made people eager to believe all evil, that blinded and maddened. Never had she felt so strongly the unworthiness of the existence towhich she was condemned. That contemptible review, and now her father'signoble passion--such things were enough to make all literature appear amorbid excrescence upon human life. 

Forgetful of the time, she sat in her bedroom until a knock at thedoor, and her mother's voice, admonished her that dinner was waiting. Animpulse all but caused her to say that she would rather not go downfor the meal, that she wished to be left alone. But this would be weakpeevishness. She just looked at the glass to see that her face bore nounwonted signs, and descended to take her place as usual. 

Throughout the dinner there passed no word of conversation. Yule was athis blackest; he gobbled a few mouthfuls, then occupied himself with theevening paper. On rising, he said to Marian:

'Have you copied the whole of that?'

The tone would have been uncivil if addressed to an impertinent servant. 

'Not much more than half, ' was the cold reply. 

'Can you finish it to-night?'

'I'm afraid not. I am going out. '

'Then I must do it myself'

And he went to the study. 

Mrs Yule was in an anguish of nervousness. 

'What is it, dear?' she asked of Marian, in a pleading whisper. 'Oh, don't quarrel with your father! Don't!'

'I can't be a slave, mother, and I can't be treated unjustly. '

'What is it? Let me go and speak to him. '

'It's no use. We CAN'T live in terror. '

For Mrs Yule this was unimaginable disaster. She had never dreamt thatMarian, the still, gentle Marian, could be driven to revolt. And it hadcome with the suddenness of a thunderclap. She wished to ask what hadtaken place between father and daughter in the brief interview beforedinner; but Marian gave her no chance, quitting the room upon those lasttrembling words. 

The girl had resolved to visit her friends, the sisters, and tell themthat in future they must never come to see her at home. But it was noeasy thing for her to stifle her conscience, and leave her father totoil over that copying which had need of being finished. Not her will, but her exasperated feeling, had replied to him that she would not dothe work; already it astonished her that she had really spoken suchwords. And as the throbbing of her pulses subsided, she saw more clearlyinto the motives of this wretched tumult which possessed her. Hermind was harassed with a fear lest in defending Milvain she had spokenfoolishly. Had he not himself said to her that he might be guilty ofbase things, just to make his way? Perhaps it was the intolerable painof imagining that he had already made good his words, which robbed herof self-control and made her meet her father's rudeness with defiance. 

Impossible to carry out her purpose; she could not deliberately leavethe house and spend some hours away with the thought of such wrath andmisery left behind her. Gradually she was returning to her natural self;fear and penitence were chill at her heart. 

She went down to the study, tapped, and entered. 

'Father, I said something that I did not really mean. Of course I shallgo on with the copying and finish it as soon as possible. '

'You will do nothing of the kind, my girl. ' He was in his usual place, already working at Marian's task; he spoke in a low, thick voice. 'Spendyour evening as you choose, I have no need of you. '

'I behaved very ill-temperedly. Forgive me, father. '

'Have the goodness to go away. You hear me?'

His eyes were inflamed, and his discoloured teeth showed themselvessavagely. Marian durst not, really durst not approach him. Shehesitated, but once more a sense of hateful injustice moved within her, and she went away as quietly as she had entered. 

She said to herself that now it was her perfect right to go whithershe would. But the freedom was only in theory; her submissive and timidnature kept her at home--and upstairs in her own room; for, if shewent to sit with her mother, of necessity she must talk about what hadhappened, and that she felt unable to do. Some friend to whom she couldunbosom all her sufferings would now have been very precious to her, butMaud and Dora were her only intimates, and to them she might not makethe full confession which gives solace. 

Mrs Yule did not venture to intrude upon her daughter's privacy. ThatMarian neither went out nor showed herself in the house proved hertroubled state, but the mother had no confidence in her power tocomfort. At the usual time she presented herself in the study with herhusband's coffee; the face which was for an instant turned to her didnot invite conversation, but distress obliged her to speak. 

'Why are you cross with Marian, Alfred?'

'You had better ask what she means by her extraordinary behaviour. '

A word of harsh rebuff was the most she had expected. Thus encouraged, she timidly put another question. 

'How has she behaved?'

'I suppose you have ears?'

'But wasn't there something before that? You spoke so angry to her. '

'Spoke so angry, did I? She is out, I suppose?'

'No, she hasn't gone out. '

'That'll do. Don't disturb me any longer. '

She did not venture to linger. 

The breakfast next morning seemed likely to pass without any interchangeof words. But when Yule was pushing back his chair, Marian--who lookedpale and ill--addressed a question to him about the work she wouldordinarily have pursued to-day at the Reading-room. He answered in amatter-of-fact tone, and for a few minutes they talked on the subjectmuch as at any other time. Half an hour after, Marian set forth for theMuseum in the usual way. Her father stayed at home. 

It was the end of the episode for the present. Marian felt that thebest thing would be to ignore what had happened, as her father evidentlypurposed doing. She had asked his forgiveness, and it was harsh in himto have repelled her; but by now she was able once more to take intoconsideration all his trials and toils, his embittered temper and thenew wound he had received. That he should resume his wonted manner wassufficient evidence of regret on his part. Gladly she would have unsaidher resentful words; she had been guilty of a childish outburst oftemper, and perhaps had prepared worse sufferings for the future. 

And yet, perhaps it was as well that her father should be warned. Shewas not all submission, he might try her beyond endurance; there mightcome a day when perforce she must stand face to face with him, and makeit known she had her own claims upon life. It was as well he should holdthat possibility in view. 

This evening no work was expected of her. Not long after dinner sheprepared for going out; to her mother she mentioned she should be backabout ten o'clock. 

'Give my kind regards to them, dear--if you like to, ' said Mrs Yule justabove her breath. 

'Certainly I will. '

CHAPTER XIV. ECRUITS

Marian walked to the nearest point of Camden Road, and there waited foran omnibus, which conveyed her to within easy reach of the street whereMaud and Dora Milvain had their lodgings. This was at the north-east ofRegent's Park, and no great distance from Mornington Road, where Jasperstill dwelt. 

On learning that the young ladies were at home and alone, she ascendedto the second floor and knocked. 

'That's right!' exclaimed Dora's pleasant voice, as the door opened andthe visitor showed herself And then came the friendly greeting whichwarmed Marian's heart, the greeting which until lately no house inLondon could afford her. 

The girls looked oddly out of place in this second-floor sitting-room, with its vulgar furniture and paltry ornaments. Maud especially so, forher fine figure was well displayed by the dress of mourning, andher pale, handsome face had as little congruence as possible with abackground of humble circumstances. 

Dora impressed one as a simpler nature, but she too had distinctly thenote of refinement which was out of harmony with these surroundings. They occupied only two rooms, the sleeping-chamber being double-bedded;they purchased food for themselves and prepared their own meals, excepting dinner. During the first week a good many tears were shedby both of them; it was not easy to transfer themselves from thecomfortable country home to this bare corner of lodgers' London. Maud, as appeared at the first glance, was less disposed than her sister tomake the best of things; her countenance wore an expression rather ofdiscontent than of sorrow, and she did not talk with the same readinessas Dora. 

On the round table lay a number of books; when disturbed, the sistershad been engaged in studious reading. 

'I'm not sure that I do right in coming again so soon, ' said Marian asshe took off her things. 'Your time is precious. '

'So are you, ' replied Dora, laughing. 'It's only under protest that wework in the evening when we have been hard at it all day. '

'We have news for you, too, ' said Maud, who sat languidly on an uneasychair. 

'Good, I hope?'

'Someone called to see us yesterday. I dare say you can guess who itwas. '

'Amy, perhaps?'

'Yes. '

'And how did you like her?'

The sisters seemed to have a difficulty in answering. Dora was the firstto speak. 

'We thought she was sadly out of spirits. Indeed she told us that shehasn't been very well lately. But I think we shall like her if we cometo know her better. '

'It was rather awkward, Marian, ' the elder sister explained. 'We feltobliged to say something about Mr Reardon's books, but we haven't readany of them yet, you know, so I just said that I hoped soon to read hisnew novel. "I suppose you have seen reviews of it?" she asked at once. Of course I ought to have had the courage to say no, but I admittedthat I had seen one or two--Jasper showed us them. She looked very muchannoyed, and after that we didn't find much to talk about. '

'The reviews are very disagreeable, ' said Marian with a troubled face. 'I have read the book since I saw you the other day, and I am afraid itisn't good, but I have seen many worse novels more kindly reviewed. '

'Jasper says it's because Mr Reardon has no friends among thejournalists. '

'Still, ' replied Marian, 'I'm afraid they couldn't have given the bookmuch praise, if they wrote honestly. Did Amy ask you to go and see her?'

'Yes, but she said it was uncertain how long they would be living attheir present address. And really, we can't feel sure whether we shouldbe welcome or not just now. '

Marian listened with bent head. She too had to make known to her friendsthat they were not welcome in her own home; but she knew not how toutter words which would sound so unkind. 

'Your brother, ' she said after a pause, 'will soon find suitable friendsfor you. '

'Before long, ' replied Dora, with a look of amusement, 'he's going totake us to call on Mrs Boston Wright. I hardly thought he was serious atfirst, but he says he really means it. '

Marian grew more and more silent. At home she had felt that it would notbe difficult to explain her troubles to these sympathetic girls, but nowthe time had come for speaking, she was oppressed by shame and anxiety. True, there was no absolute necessity for making the confession thisevening, and if she chose to resist her father's prejudice, things mighteven go on in a seemingly natural way. But the loneliness of her lifehad developed in her a sensitiveness which could not endure situationssuch as the present; difficulties which are of small account topeople who take their part in active social life, harassed her to thedestruction of all peace. Dora was not long in noticing the dejectedmood which had come upon her friend. 

'What's troubling you, Marian?'

'Something I can hardly bear to speak of. Perhaps it will be the end ofyour friendship for me, and I should find it very hard to go back to myold solitude. '

The girls gazed at her, in doubt at first whether she spoke seriously. 

'What can you mean?' Dora exclaimed. 'What crime have you beencommitting?'

Maud, who leaned with her elbows on the table, searched Marian's facecuriously, but said nothing. 

'Has Mr Milvain shown you the new number of The Current?' Marian went onto ask. 

They replied with a negative, and Maud added:

'He has nothing in it this month, except a review. '

'A review?' repeated Marian in a low voice. 

'Yes; of somebody's novel. '

'Markland's, ' supplied Dora. 

Marian drew a breath, but remained for a moment with her eyes cast down. 

'Do go on, dear, ' urged Dora. 'Whatever are you going to tell us?'

'There's a notice of father's book, ' continued the other, 'a veryill-natured one; it's written by the editor, Mr Fadge. Father and hehave been very unfriendly for a long time. Perhaps Mr Milvain has toldyou something about it?'

Dora replied that he had. 

'I don't know how it is in other professions, ' Marian resumed, 'but Ihope there is less envy, hatred and malice than in this of ours. Thename of literature is often made hateful to me by the things I hearand read. My father has never been very fortunate, and many things havehappened to make him bitter against the men who succeed; he has oftenquarrelled with people who were at first his friends, but never soseriously with anyone as with Mr Fadge. His feeling of enmity goes sofar that it includes even those who are in any way associated with MrFadge. I am sorry to say'--she looked with painful anxiety from one tothe other of her hearers--'this has turned him against your brother, and--'

Her voice was checked by agitation. 

'We were afraid of this, ' said Dora, in a tone of sympathy. 

'Jasper feared it might be the case, ' added Maud, more coldly, thoughwith friendliness. 

'Why I speak of it at all, ' Marian hastened to say, 'is because I am soafraid it should make a difference between yourselves and me. '

'Oh! don't think that!' Dora exclaimed. 

'I am so ashamed, ' Marian went on in an uncertain tone, 'but I thinkit will be better if I don't ask you to come and see me. It soundsridiculous; it is ridiculous and shameful. I couldn't complain if yourefused to have anything more to do with me. '

'Don't let it trouble you, ' urged Maud, with perhaps a trifle more ofmagnanimity in her voice than was needful. We quite understand. Indeed, it shan't make any difference to us. '

But Marian had averted her face, and could not meet these assuranceswith any show of pleasure. Now that the step was taken she felt thather behaviour had been very weak. Unreasonable harshness such as herfather's ought to have been met more steadily; she had no right to makeit an excuse for such incivility to her friends. Yet only in somesuch way as this could she make known to Jasper Milvain how her fatherregarded him, which she felt it necessary to do. Now his sisters wouldtell him, and henceforth there would be a clear understanding on bothsides. That state of things was painful to her, but it was better thanambiguous relations. 

'Jasper is very sorry about it, ' said Dora, glancing rapidly at Marian. 

'But his connection with Mr Fadge came about in such a natural way, 'added the eldest sister. 'And it was impossible for him to refuseopportunities. '

'Impossible; I know, ' Marian replied earnestly. 'Don't think that Iwish to justify my father. But I can understand him, and it must be verydifficult for you to do so. You can't know, as I do, how intensely hehas suffered in these wretched, ignoble quarrels. If only you will letme come here still, in the same way, and still be as friendly to me. Myhome has never been a place to which I could have invited friendswith any comfort, even if I had had any to invite. There were alwaysreasons--but I can't speak of them. '

'My dear Marian, ' appealed Dora, 'don't distress yourself so! Do believethat nothing whatever has happened to change our feeling to you. Hasthere, Maud?'

'Nothing whatever. We are not unreasonable girls, Marian. '

'I am more grateful to you than I can say. '

It had seemed as if Marian must give way to the emotions which all butchoked her voice; she overcame them, however, and presently was ableto talk in pretty much her usual way, though when she smiled it wasbut faintly. Maud tried to lead her thoughts in another direction byspeaking of work in which she and Dora were engaged. Already the sisterswere doing a new piece of compilation for Messrs Jolly and Monk; it wasmore exacting than their initial task for the book market, and wouldtake a much longer time. 

A couple of hours went by, and Marian had just spoken of taking herleave, when a man's step was heard rapidly ascending the nearest flightof stairs. 

'Here's Jasper, ' remarked Dora, and in a moment there sounded a short, sharp summons at the door. 

Jasper it was; he came in with radiant face, his eyes blinking beforethe lamplight. 

'Well, girls! Ha! how do you do, Miss Yule? I had just the vaguest sortof expectation that you might be here. It seemed a likely night; Idon't know why. I say, Dora, we really must get two or three decenteasy-chairs for your room. I've seen some outside a second-handfurniture shop in Hampstead Road, about six shillings apiece. There's nositting on chairs such as these. '

That on which he tried to dispose himself, when he had flung aside histrappings, creaked and shivered ominously. 

'You hear? I shall come plump on to the floor, if I don't mind. My word, what a day I have had! I've just been trying what I really could doin one day if I worked my hardest. Now just listen; it deserves to bechronicled for the encouragement of aspiring youth. I got up at 7. 30, and whilst I breakfasted I read through a volume I had to review. By10. 30 the review was written--three-quarters of a column of the EveningBudget. '

'Who is the unfortunate author?' interrupted Maud, caustically. 

'Not unfortunate at all. I had to crack him up; otherwise I couldn'thave done the job so quickly. It's the easiest thing in the world towrite laudation; only an inexperienced grumbler would declare it waseasier to find fault. The book was Billington's "Vagaries"; pompousidiocy, of course, but he lives in a big house and gives dinners. Well, from 10. 30 to 11, I smoked a cigar and reflected, feeling that the daywasn't badly begun. At eleven I was ready to write my Saturday causeriefor the Will o' the Wisp; it took me till close upon one o'clock, whichwas rather too long. I can't afford more than an hour and a halffor that job. At one, I rushed out to a dirty little eating-housein Hampstead Road. Was back again by a quarter to two, having in themeantime sketched a paper for The West End. Pipe in mouth, I sat downto leisurely artistic work; by five, half the paper was done; theother half remains for to-morrow. From five to half-past I read fournewspapers and two magazines, and from half-past to a quarter to six Ijotted down several ideas that had come to me whilst reading. At six Iwas again in the dirty eating-house, satisfying a ferocious hunger. Homeonce more at 6. 45, and for two hours wrote steadily at a long affair Ihave in hand for The Current. Then I came here, thinking hard all theway. What say you to this? Have I earned a night's repose?'

'And what's the value of it all?' asked Maud. 

'Probably from ten to twelve guineas, if I calculated. '

'I meant, what was the literary value of it?' said his sister, with asmile. 

'Equal to that of the contents of a mouldy nut. '

'Pretty much what I thought. '

'Oh, but it answers the purpose, ' urged Dora, 'and it does no one anyharm. '

'Honest journey-work!' cried Jasper. 'There are few men in Londoncapable of such a feat. Many a fellow could write more in quantity, butthey couldn't command my market. It's rubbish, but rubbish of a veryspecial kind, of fine quality. '

Marian had not yet spoken, save a word or two in reply to Jasper'sgreeting; now and then she just glanced at him, but for the most parther eyes were cast down. Now Jasper addressed her. 

'A year ago, Miss Yule, I shouldn't have believed myself capable of suchactivity. In fact I wasn't capable of it then. '

'You think such work won't be too great a strain upon you?' she asked. 

'Oh, this isn't a specimen day, you know. To-morrow I shall very likelydo nothing but finish my West End article, in an easy two or threehours. There's no knowing; I might perhaps keep up the high pressureif I tried. But then I couldn't dispose of all the work. Little bylittle--or perhaps rather quicker than that--I shall extend my scope. For instance, I should like to do two or three leaders a week for one ofthe big dailies. I can't attain unto that just yet. '

'Not political leaders?'

'By no means. That's not my line. The kind of thing in which one makes acolumn out of what would fill six lines of respectable prose. You calla cigar a "convoluted weed, " and so on, you know; that passes forfacetiousness. I've never really tried my hand at that style yet; Ishouldn't wonder if I managed it brilliantly. Some day I'll write a fewexercises; just take two lines of some good prose writer, and expandthem into twenty, in half-a-dozen different ways. Excellent mentalgymnastics!'

Marian listened to his flow of talk for a few minutes longer, then tookthe opportunity of a brief silence to rise and put on her hat. Jasperobserved her, but without rising; he looked at his sisters in ahesitating way. At length he stood up, and declared that he too must beoff. This coincidence had happened once before when he met Marian herein the evening. 

'At all events, you won't do any more work to-night, ' said Dora. 

'No; I shall read a page of something or other over a glass of whisky, and seek the sleep of a man who has done his duty. '

'Why the whisky?' asked Maud. 

'Do you grudge me such poor solace?'

'I don't see the need of it. '

'Nonsense, Maud!' exclaimed her sister. 'He needs a little stimulantwhen he works so hard. '

Each of the girls gave Marian's hand a significant pressure as she tookleave of them, and begged her to come again as soon as she had a freeevening. There was gratitude in her eyes. 

The evening was clear, and not very cold. 

'It's rather late for you to go home, ' said Jasper, as they left thehouse. 'May I walk part of the way with you?'

Marian replied with a low 'Thank you. '

'I think you get on pretty well with the girls, don't you?'

'I hope they are as glad of my friendship as I am of theirs. '

'Pity to see them in a place like that, isn't it? They ought to have agood house, with plenty of servants. It's bad enough for a civilisedman to have to rough it, but I hate to see women living in a sordid way. Don't you think they could both play their part in a drawing-room, witha little experience?'

'Surely there's no doubt of it. '

'Maud would look really superb if she were handsomely dressed. Shehasn't a common face, by any means. And Dora is pretty, I think. Well, they shall go and see some people before long. The difficulty is, onedoesn't like it to be known that they live in such a crib; but I daren'tadvise them to go in for expense. One can't be sure that it would repaythem, though--Now, in my own case, if I could get hold of a few thousandpounds I should know how to use it with the certainty of return; itwould save me, probably, a clear ten years of life; I mean, I should goat a jump to what I shall be ten years hence without the help of money. But they have such a miserable little bit of capital, and everything isstill so uncertain. One daren't speculate under the circumstances. '

Marian made no reply. 

'You think I talk of nothing but money?' Jasper said suddenly, lookingdown into her face. 

'I know too well what it means to be without money. '

'Yes, but--you do just a little despise me?'

'Indeed, I don't, Mr Milvain. '

'If that is sincere, I'm very glad. I take it in a friendly sense. I amrather despicable, you know; it's part of my business to be so. Buta friend needn't regard that. There is the man apart from hisnecessities. '

The silence was then unbroken till they came to the lower end of ParkStreet, the junction of roads which lead to Hampstead, to Highgate, andto Holloway. 

'Shall you take an omnibus?' Jasper asked. 

She hesitated. 

'Or will you give me the pleasure of walking on with you? You are tired, perhaps?'

'Not the least. '

For the rest of her answer she moved forward, and they crossed into theobscurity of Camden Road. 

'Shall I be doing wrong, Mr Milvain, ' Marian began in a very lowvoice, 'if I ask you about the authorship of something in this month'sCurrent?'

'I'm afraid I know what you refer to. There's no reason why I shouldn'tanswer a question of the kind. '

'It was Mr Fadge himself who reviewed my father's book?'

'It was--confound him! I don't know another man who could have done thething so vilely well. '

'I suppose he was only replying to my father's attack upon him and hisfriends. '

'Your father's attack is honest and straightforward and justifiable andwell put. I read that chapter of his book with huge satisfaction. But has anyone suggested that another than Fadge was capable of thatmasterpiece?'

'Yes. I am told that Mr Jedwood, the publisher, has somehow made amistake. '

'Jedwood? And what mistake?'

'Father heard that you were the writer. '

'I?' Jasper stopped short. They were in the rays of a street-lamp, andcould see each other's faces. 'And he believes that?'

'I'm afraid so. '

'And you believe--believed it?'

'Not for a moment. '

'I shall write a note to Mr Yule. '

Marian was silent a while, then said:

'Wouldn't it be better if you found a way of letting Mr Jedwood know thetruth?'

'Perhaps you are right. '

Jasper was very grateful for the suggestion. In that moment he hadreflected how rash it would be to write to Alfred Yule on such asubject, with whatever prudence in expressing himself. Such a letter, coming under the notice of the great Fadge, might do its writer seriousharm. 

'Yes, you are right, ' he repeated. 'I'll stop that rumour at its source. I can't guess how it started; for aught I know, some enemy hath donethis, though I don't quite discern the motive. Thank you very much fortelling me, and still more for refusing to believe that I could treat MrYule in that way, even as a matter of business. When I said that I wasdespicable, I didn't mean that I could sink quite to such a point asthat. If only because it was your father--'

He checked himself and they walked on for several yards withoutspeaking. 

'In that case, ' Jasper resumed at length, 'your father doesn't think ofme in a very friendly way?'

'He scarcely could--'

'No, no. And I quite understand that the mere fact of my working forFadge would prejudice him against me. But that's no reason, I hope, whyyou and I shouldn't be friends?'

'I hope not. '

'I don't know that my friendship is worth much, ' Jasper continued, talking into the upper air, a habit of his when he discussed his owncharacter. 'I shall go on as I have begun, and fight for some of thegood things of life. But your friendship is valuable. If I am sure ofit, I shall be at all events within sight of the better ideals. '

Marian walked on with her eyes upon the ground. To her surprise shediscovered presently that they had all but reached St Paul's Crescent. 

'Thank you for having come so far, ' she said, pausing. 

'Ah, you are nearly home. Why, it seems only a few minutes since we leftthe girls. Now I'll run back to the whisky of which Maud disapproves. '

'May it do you good!' said Marian with a laugh. 

A speech of this kind seemed unusual upon her lips. Jasper smiled as heheld her hand and regarded her. 

'Then you can speak in a joking way?'

'Do I seem so very dull?'

'Dull, by no means. But sage and sober and reticent--and exactly whatI like in my friend, because it contrasts with my own habits. All thebetter that merriment lies below it. Goodnight, Miss Yule. '

He strode off and in a minute or two turned his head to look at theslight figure passing into darkness. 

Marian's hand trembled as she tried to insert her latch-key. Whenshe had closed the door very quietly behind her she went to thesitting-room; Mrs Yule was just laying aside the sewing on which she hadoccupied herself throughout the lonely evening. 

'I'm rather late, ' said the girl, in a voice of subdued joyousness. 

'Yes; I was getting a little uneasy, dear. '

'Oh, there's no danger. '

'You have been enjoying yourself, I can see. '

'I have had a pleasant evening. '

In the retrospect it seemed the pleasantest she had yet spent with herfriends, though she had set out in such a different mood. Her mind wasrelieved of two anxieties; she felt sure that the girls had nottaken ill what she told them, and there was no longer the least doubtconcerning the authorship of that review in The Current. 

She could confess to herself now that the assurance from Jasper'slips was not superfluous. He might have weighed profit against otherconsiderations, and have written in that way of her father; she had notfelt that absolute confidence which defies every argument from humanfrailty. And now she asked herself if faith of that unassailable kind isever possible; is it not only the poet's dream, the far ideal?

Marian often went thus far in her speculation. Her candour was alliedwith clear insight into the possibilities of falsehood; she was notreadily the victim of illusion; thinking much, and speaking little, shehad not come to her twenty-third year without perceiving what a distancelay between a girl's dream of life as it might be and life as it is. Hadshe invariably disclosed her thoughts, she would have earned the reputeof a very sceptical and slightly cynical person. 

But with what rapturous tumult of the heart she could abandon herself toa belief in human virtues when their suggestion seemed to promise her afuture of happiness!

Alone in her room she sat down only to think of Jasper Milvain, andextract from the memory of his words, his looks, new sustenance forher hungry heart. Jasper was the first man who had ever evinced aman's interest in her. Until she met him she had not known a lookof compliment or a word addressed to her emotions. He was as far aspossible from representing the lover of her imagination, but from theday of that long talk in the fields near Wattleborough the thought ofhim had supplanted dreams. On that day she said to herself: I could lovehim if he cared to seek my love. Premature, perhaps; why, yes, but onewho is starving is not wont to feel reluctance at the suggestion offood. The first man who had approached her with display of feeling andenergy and youthful self-confidence; handsome too, it seemed to her. Herwomanhood went eagerly to meet him. 

Since then she had made careful study of his faults. Each conversationhad revealed to her new weakness and follies. With the result that herlove had grown to a reality. 

He was so human, and a youth of all but monastic seclusion had preparedher to love the man who aimed with frank energy at the joys of life. A taint of pedantry would have repelled her. She did not ask for highintellect or great attainments; but vivacity, courage, determination tosucceed, were delightful to her senses. Her ideal would not have beena literary man at all; certainly not a man likely to be prominentin journalism; rather a man of action, one who had no restraints ofcommerce or official routine. But in Jasper she saw the qualities thatattracted her apart from the accidents of his position. Ideal personagesdo not descend to girls who have to labour at the British Museum; itseemed a marvel to her, and of good augury, that even such a man asJasper should have crossed her path. 

It was as though years had passed since their first meeting. Upon herreturn to London had followed such long periods of hopelessness. Yetwhenever they encountered each other he had look and speech for her withwhich surely he did not greet every woman. From the first his way ofregarding her had shown frank interest. And at length had come theconfession of his 'respect, ' his desire to be something more to her thana mere acquaintance. It was scarcely possible that he should speak as heseveral times had of late if he did not wish to draw her towards him. 

That was the hopeful side of her thoughts. It was easy to forget for atime those words of his which one might think were spoken as distinctwarning; but they crept into the memory, unwelcome, importunate, as soonas imagination had built its palace of joy. Why did he always recur tothe subject of money? 'I shall allow nothing to come in my way;' he oncesaid that as if meaning, 'certainly not a love affair with a girl whois penniless. ' He emphasised the word 'friend, ' as if to explain that heoffered and asked nothing more than friendship. 

But it only meant that he would not be in haste to declare himself. Ofa certainty there was conflict between his ambition and his love, butshe recognised her power over him and exulted in it. She had observedhis hesitancy this evening, before he rose to accompany her fromthe house; her heart laughed within her as the desire drew him. Andhenceforth such meetings would be frequent, with each one her influencewould increase. How kindly fate had dealt with her in bringing Maud andDora to London!

It was within his reach to marry a woman who would bring him wealth. He had that in mind; she understood it too well. But not one moment'sadvantage would she relinquish. He must choose her in her poverty, andbe content with what his talents could earn for him. Her love gave herthe right to demand this sacrifice; let him ask for her love, and thesacrifice would no longer seem one, so passionately would she rewardhim. 

He would ask it. To-night she was full of a rich confidence, partly, nodoubt, the result of reaction from her miseries. He had said at partingthat her character was so well suited to his; that he liked her. Andthen he had pressed her hand so warmly. Before long he would ask herlove. 

The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the valleyof the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine might at anymoment strike into its musty gloom. 

CHAPTER XV. THE LAST RESOURCE

The past twelve months had added several years to Edwin Reardon'sseeming age; at thirty-three he would generally have been taken forforty. His bearing, his personal habits, were no longer those of ayoung man; he walked with a stoop and pressed noticeably on the stickhe carried; it was rare for him to show the countenance which tells ofpresent cheerfulness or glad onward-looking; there was no spring in hisstep; his voice had fallen to a lower key, and often he spoke withthat hesitation in choice of words which may be noticed in persons whomdefeat has made self-distrustful. Ceaseless perplexity and dread gave awandering, sometimes a wild, expression to his eyes. 

He seldom slept, in the proper sense of the word; as a rule he wasconscious all through the night of 'a kind of fighting' between physicalweariness and wakeful toil of the mind. It often happened that somewholly imaginary obstacle in the story he was writing kept him undera sense of effort throughout the dark hours; now and again he woke, reasoned with himself, and remembered clearly that the torment waswithout cause, but the short relief thus afforded soon passed in therecollection of real distress. In his unsoothing slumber he talkedaloud, frequently wakening Amy; generally he seemed to be holding adialogue with someone who had imposed an intolerable task upon him; heprotested passionately, appealed, argued in the strangest way aboutthe injustice of what was demanded. Once Amy heard him begging formoney--positively begging, like some poor wretch in the street; itwas horrible, and made her shed tears; when he asked what he had beensaying, she could not bring herself to tell him. 

When the striking clocks summoned him remorselessly to rise and workhe often reeled with dizziness. It seemed to him that the greatesthappiness attainable would be to creep into some dark, warm corner, outof the sight and memory of men, and lie there torpid, with a blessedhalf-consciousness that death was slowly overcoming him. Of all thesufferings collected into each four-and-twenty hours this of rising to anew day was the worst. 

The one-volume story which he had calculated would take him four or fiveweeks was with difficulty finished in two months. March winds made aninvalid of him; at one time he was threatened with bronchitis, and forseveral days had to abandon even the effort to work. In previous wintershe had been wont to undergo a good deal of martyrdom from the Londonclimate, but never in such a degree as now; mental illness seemed tohave enfeebled his body. 

It was strange that he succeeded in doing work of any kind, for he hadno hope from the result. This one last effort he would make, just tocomplete the undeniableness of his failure, and then literature shouldbe thrown behind him; what other pursuit was possible to him he knewnot, but perhaps he might discover some mode of earning a livelihood. Had it been a question of gaining a pound a week, as in the old days, he might have hoped to obtain some clerkship like that at the hospital, where no commercial experience or aptitude was demanded; but in hispresent position such an income would be useless. Could he take Amyand the child to live in a garret? On less than a hundred a year it wasscarcely possible to maintain outward decency. Already his own clothingbegan to declare him poverty-stricken, and but for gifts from hermother Amy would have reached the like pass. They lived in dread ofthe pettiest casual expense, for the day of pennilessness was againapproaching. 

Amy was oftener from home than had been her custom. 

Occasionally she went away soon after breakfast, and spent the whole dayat her mother's house. 'It saves food, ' she said with a bitter laugh, when Reardon once expressed surprise that she should be going again sosoon. 

'And gives you an opportunity of bewailing your hard fate, ' he returnedcoldly. 

The reproach was ignoble, and he could not be surprised that Amy leftthe house without another word to him. Yet he resented that, as hehad resented her sorrowful jest. The feeling of unmanliness in his ownposition tortured him into a mood of perversity. Through the day hewrote only a few lines, and on Amy's return he resolved not to speakto her. There was a sense of repose in this change of attitude; heencouraged himself in the view that Amy was treating him with cruelneglect. She, surprised that her friendly questions elicited no answer, looked into his face and saw a sullen anger of which hitherto Reardonhad never seemed capable. Her indignation took fire, and she left him tohimself. 

For a day or two he persevered in his muteness, uttering a word onlywhen it could not be avoided. Amy was at first so resentful that shecontemplated leaving him to his ill-temper and dwelling at her mother'shouse until he chose to recall her. But his face grew so haggard infixed misery that compassion at length prevailed over her injuredpride. Late in the evening she went to the study, and found him sittingunoccupied. 

'Edwin--'

'What do you want?' he asked indifferently. 

'Why are you behaving to me like this?'

'Surely it makes no difference to you how I behave? You can easilyforget that I exist, and live your own life. '

'What have I done to make this change in you?'

'Is it a change?'

'You know it is. '

'How did I behave before?' he asked, glancing at her. 

'Like yourself--kindly and gently. '

'If I always did so, in spite of things that might have embitteredanother man's temper, I think it deserved some return of kindness fromyou. '

'What "things" do you mean?'

'Circumstances for which neither of us is to blame. '

'I am not conscious of having failed in kindness, ' said Amy, distantly. 

'Then that only shows that you have forgotten your old self, and utterlychanged in your feeling to me. When we first came to live here could youhave imagined yourself leaving me alone for long, miserable days, justbecause I was suffering under misfortunes? You have shown too plainlythat you don't care to give me the help even of a kind word. You getaway from me as often as you can, as if to remind me that we have nolonger any interests in common. Other people are your confidants; youspeak of me to them as if I were purposely dragging you down into a meancondition. '

'How can you know what I say about you?'

'Isn't it true?' he asked, flashing an angry glance at her. 

'It is not true. Of course I have talked to mother about ourdifficulties; how could I help it?'

'And to other people. '

'Not in a way that you could find fault with. '

'In a way that makes me seem contemptible to them. You show them thatI have made you poor and unhappy, and you are glad to have theirsympathy. '

'What you mean is, that I oughtn't to see anyone. There's no other wayof avoiding such a reproach as this. So long as I don't laugh and singbefore people, and assure them that things couldn't be more hopeful, Ishall be asking for their sympathy, and against you. I can't understandyour unreasonableness. '

'I'm afraid there is very little in me that you can understand. So longas my prospects seemed bright, you could sympathise readily enough; assoon as ever they darkened, something came between us. Amy, you haven'tdone your duty. Your love hasn't stood the test as it should have done. You have given me no help; besides the burden of cheerless work I havehad to bear that of your growing coldness. I can't remember one instancewhen you have spoken to me as a wife might--a wife who was somethingmore than a man's housekeeper. '

The passion in his voice and the harshness of the accusation made herunable to reply. 

'You said rightly, ' he went on, 'that I have always been kind andgentle. I never thought I could speak to you or feel to you in any otherway. But I have undergone too much, and you have deserted me. Surely itwas too soon to do that. So long as I endeavoured my utmost, and lovedyou the same as ever, you might have remembered all you once said to me. You might have given me help, but you haven't cared to. '

The impulses which had part in this outbreak were numerous and complex. He felt all that he expressed, but at the same time it seemed to himthat he had the choice between two ways of uttering his emotion--thetenderly appealing and the sternly reproachful: he took the lattercourse because it was less natural to him than the former. His desirewas to impress Amy with the bitter intensity of his sufferings; pathosand loving words seemed to have lost their power upon her, but perhapsif he yielded to that other form of passion she would be shaken out ofher coldness. The stress of injured love is always tempted to speechwhich seems its contradiction. Reardon had the strangest mixture of painand pleasure in flinging out these first words of wrath that he had everaddressed to Amy; they consoled him under the humiliating sense of hisweakness, and yet he watched with dread his wife's countenance as shelistened to him. He hoped to cause her pain equal to his own, for thenit would be in his power at once to throw off this disguise and sootheher with every softest word his heart could suggest. That she had reallyceased to love him he could not, durst not, believe; but his naturedemanded frequent assurance of affection. Amy had abandoned too soon thecaresses of their ardent time; she was absorbed in her maternity, andthought it enough to be her husband's friend. Ashamed to make appealdirectly for the tenderness she no longer offered, he accused her ofutter indifference, of abandoning him and all but betraying him, that inself-defence she might show what really was in her heart. 

But Amy made no movement towards him. 

'How can you say that I have deserted you?' she returned, with coldindignation. 'When did I refuse to share your poverty? When did Igrumble at what we have had to go through?'

'Ever since the troubles really began you have let me know what yourthoughts were, even if you didn't speak them. You have never shared mylot willingly. I can't recall one word of encouragement from you, butmany, many which made the struggle harder for me. '

'Then it would be better for you if I went away altogether, and left youfree to do the best for yourself. If that is what you mean by all this, why not say it plainly? I won't be a burden to you. Someone will give mea home. '

'And you would leave me without regret? Your only care would be that youwere still bound to me?'

'You must think of me what you like. I don't care to defend myself. '

'You won't admit, then, that I have anything to complain of? I seem toyou simply in a bad temper without a cause?'

'To tell you the truth, that's just what I do think. I came here to askwhat I had done that you were angry with me, and you break out furiouslywith all sorts of vague reproaches. You have much to endure, I knowthat, but it's no reason why you should turn against me. I have neverneglected my duty. Is the duty all on my side? I believe there are veryfew wives who would be as patient as I have been. '

Reardon gazed at her for a moment, then turned away. The distancebetween them was greater than he had thought, and now he repented ofhaving given way to an impulse so alien to his true feelings; anger onlyestranged her, whereas by speech of a different kind he might have wonthe caress for which he hungered. 

Amy, seeing that he would say nothing more, left him to himself. 

It grew late in the night. The fire had gone out, but Reardon still satin the cold room. Thoughts of self-destruction were again haunting him, as they had done during the black months of last year. If he had lostAmy's love, and all through the mental impotence which would make ithard for him even to earn bread, why should he still live? Affection forhis child had no weight with him; it was Amy's child rather than his, and he had more fear than pleasure in the prospect of Willie's growingto manhood. 

He had just heard the workhouse clock strike two, when, without thewarning of a footstep, the door opened. Amy came in; she wore herdressing-gown, and her hair was arranged for the night. 

'Why do you stay here?' she asked. 

It was not the same voice as before. He saw that her eyes were red andswollen. 

'Have you been crying, Amy?'

'Never mind. Do you know what time it is?'

He went towards her. 

'Why have you been crying?'

'There are many things to cry for. '

'Amy, have you any love for me still, or has poverty robbed me of itall?'

'I have never said that I didn't love you. Why do you accuse me of suchthings?'

He took her in his arms and held her passionately and kissed her faceagain and again. Amy's tears broke forth anew. 

'Why should we come to such utter ruin?' she sobbed. 'Oh, try, try ifyou can't save us even yet! You know without my saying it that I do loveyou; it's dreadful to me to think all our happy life should be at anend, when we thought of such a future together. Is it impossible? Can'tyou work as you used to and succeed as we felt confident you would?Don't despair yet, Edwin; do, do try, whilst there is still time!'

'Darling, darling--if only I COULD!'

'I have thought of something, dearest. Do as you proposed last year;find a tenant for the flat whilst we still have a little money, andthen go away into some quiet country place, where you can get back yourhealth and live for very little, and write another book--a good book, that'll bring you reputation again. I and Willie can go and live atmother's for the summer months. Do this! It would cost you so little, living alone, wouldn't it? You would know that I was well cared for;mother would be willing to have me for a few months, and it's easy toexplain that your health has failed, that you're obliged to go away fora time. '

'But why shouldn't you go with me, if we are to let this place?'

'We shouldn't have enough money. I want to free your mind from theburden whilst you are writing. And what is before us if we go on in thisway? You don't think you will get much for what you're writing now, doyou?'

Reardon shook his head. 

'Then how can we live even till the end of the year? Something must bedone, you know. If we get into poor lodgings, what hope is there thatyou'll be able to write anything good?'

'But, Amy, I have no faith in my power of--'

'Oh, it would be different! A few days--a week or a fortnight of realholiday in this spring weather. Go to some seaside place. How is itpossible that all your talent should have left you? It's only that youhave been so anxious and in such poor health. You say I don't love you, but I have thought and thought what would be best for you to do, howyou could save yourself. How can you sink down to the position of a poorclerk in some office? That CAN'T be your fate, Edwin; it's incredible. Oh, after such bright hopes, make one more effort! Have you forgottenthat we were to go to the South together--you were to take me to Italyand Greece? How can that ever be if you fail utterly in literature? Howcan you ever hope to earn more than bare sustenance at any other kind ofwork?'

He all but lost consciousness of her words in gazing at the face sheheld up to his. 

'You love me? Say again that you love me!'

'Dear, I love you with all my heart. But I am so afraid of the future. I can't bear poverty; I have found that I can't bear it. And I dread tothink of your becoming only an ordinary man--'

Reardon laughed. 

'But I am NOT "only an ordinary man, " Amy! If I never write anotherline, that won't undo what I have done. It's little enough, to be sure;but you know what I am. Do you only love the author in me? Don't youthink of me apart from all that I may do or not do? If I had to earn myliving as a clerk, would that make me a clerk in soul?'

'You shall not fall to that! It would be too bitter a shame to lose allyou have gained in these long years of work. Let me plan for you; do asI wish. You are to be what we hoped from the first. Take all the summermonths. How long will it be before you can finish this short book?'

'A week or two. '

'Then finish it, and see what you can get for it. And try at onceto find a tenant to take this place off our hands; that would betwenty-five pounds saved for the rest of the year. You could live on solittle by yourself, couldn't you?'

'Oh, on ten shillings a week, if need be. '

'But not to starve yourself, you know. Don't you feel that my plan is agood one? When I came to you to-night I meant to speak of this, but youwere so cruel--'

'Forgive me, dearest love! I was half a madman. You have been so cold tome for a long time. '

'I have been distracted. It was as if we were drawing nearer and nearerto the edge of a cataract. '

'Have you spoken to your mother about this?' he asked uneasily. 

'No--not exactly this. But I know she will help us in this way. '

He had seated himself and was holding her in his arms, his face laidagainst hers. 

'I shall dread to part from you, Amy. That's such a dangerous thing todo. It may mean that we are never to live as husband and wife again. '

'But how could it? It's just to prevent that danger. If we go on heretill we have no money--what's before us then? Wretched lodgings at thebest. And I am afraid to think of that. I can't trust myself if thatshould come to pass. '

'What do you mean?' he asked anxiously. 

'I hate poverty so. It brings out all the worst things in me; you know Ihave told you that before, Edwin?'

'But you would never forget that you are my wife?'

'I hope not. But--I can't think of it; I can't face it! That would bethe very worst that can befall us, and we are going to try our utmost toescape from it. Was there ever a man who did as much as you have done inliterature and then sank into hopeless poverty?'

'Oh, many!'

'But at your age, I mean. Surely not at your age?'

'I'm afraid there have been such poor fellows. Think how often one hearsof hopeful beginnings, new reputations, and then--you hear no more. Ofcourse it generally means that the man has gone into a different career;but sometimes, sometimes--'

'What?'

'The abyss. ' He pointed downward. 'Penury and despair and a miserabledeath. '

'Oh, but those men haven't a wife and child! They would struggle--'

'Darling, they do struggle. But it's as if an ever-increasing weightwere round their necks; it drags them lower and lower. The world has nopity on a man who can't do or produce something it thinks worth money. You may be a divine poet, and if some good fellow doesn't take pity onyou you will starve by the roadside. Society is as blind and brutal asfate. I have no right to complain of my own ill-fortune; it's my ownfault (in a sense) that I can't continue as well as I began; if I couldwrite books as good as the early ones I should earn money. For all that, it's hard that I must be kicked aside as worthless just because I don'tknow a trade. '

'It shan't be! I have only to look into your face to know that you willsucceed after all. Yours is the kind of face that people come to know inportraits. '

He kissed her hair, and her eyes, and her mouth. 

'How well I remember your saying that before! Why have you grown so goodto me all at once, my Amy? Hearing you speak like that I feel there'snothing beyond my reach. But I dread to go away from you. If I find thatit is hopeless; if I am alone somewhere, and know that the effort is allin vain--'

'Then?'

'Well, I can leave you free. If I can't support you, it will be onlyjust that I should give you back your freedom. '

'I don't understand--'

She raised herself and looked into his eyes. 

'We won't talk of that. If you bid me go on with the struggle, I shalldo so. '

Amy had hidden her face, and lay silently in his arms for a minute ortwo. Then she murmured:

'It is so cold here, and so late. Come!'

'So early. There goes three o'clock. '

The next day they talked much of this new project. As there was sunshineAmy accompanied her husband for his walk in the afternoon; it was longsince they had been out together. An open carriage that passed, followedby two young girls on horseback, gave a familiar direction to Reardon'sthoughts. 

'If one were as rich as those people! They pass so close to us; they seeus, and we see them; but the distance between is infinity. They don'tbelong to the same world as we poor wretches. They see everything in adifferent light; they have powers which would seem supernatural if wewere suddenly endowed with them. '

'Of course, ' assented his companion with a sigh. 

'Just fancy, if one got up in the morning with the thought that noreasonable desire that occurred to one throughout the day need remainungratified! And that it would be the same, any day and every day, tothe end of one's life! Look at those houses; every detail, within andwithout, luxurious. To have such a home as that!'

'And they are empty creatures who live there. '

'They do live, Amy, at all events. Whatever may be their faculties, theyall have free scope. I have often stood staring at houses like theseuntil I couldn't believe that the people owning them were mere humanbeings like myself. The power of money is so hard to realise; one whohas never had it marvels at the completeness with which it transformsevery detail of life. Compare what we call our home with that of richpeople; it moves one to scornful laughter. I have no sympathy with thestoical point of view; between wealth and poverty is just the differencebetween the whole man and the maimed. If my lower limbs are paralysedI may still be able to think, but then there is such a thing in life aswalking. As a poor devil I may live nobly; but one happens to be madewith faculties of enjoyment, and those have to fall into atrophy. To besure, most rich people don't understand their happiness; if they did, they would move and talk like gods--which indeed they are. '

Amy's brow was shadowed. A wise man, in Reardon's position, would nothave chosen this subject to dilate upon. 

'The difference, ' he went on, 'between the man with money and the manwithout is simply this: the one thinks, "How shall I use my life?" andthe other, "How shall I keep myself alive?" A physiologist ought to beable to discover some curious distinction between the brain of a personwho has never given a thought to the means of subsistence, and that ofone who has never known a day free from such cares. There must be somespecial cerebral development representing the mental anguish kept up bypoverty. '

'I should say, ' put in Amy, 'that it affects every function of thebrain. It isn't a special point of suffering, but a misery that coloursevery thought. '

'True. Can I think of a single subject in all the sphere of myexperience without the consciousness that I see it through the medium ofpoverty? I have no enjoyment which isn't tainted by that thought, and Ican suffer no pain which it doesn't increase. The curse of poverty is tothe modern world just what that of slavery was to the ancient. Rich anddestitute stand to each other as free man and bond. You remember theline of Homer I have often quoted about the demoralising effect ofenslavement; poverty degrades in the same way. '

'It has had its effect upon me--I know that too well, ' said Amy, withbitter frankness. 

Reardon glanced at her, and wished to make some reply, but he could notsay what was in his thoughts. 

He worked on at his story. Before he had reached the end of it, 'Margaret Home' was published, and one day arrived a parcel containingthe six copies to which an author is traditionally entitled. Reardon wasnot so old in authorship that he could open the packet without a slightflutter of his pulse. The book was tastefully got up; Amy exclaimed withpleasure as she caught sight of the cover and lettering:

'It may succeed, Edwin. It doesn't look like a book that fails, doesit?'

She laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one of thevolumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a chapter. 

'Good God!' he cried. 'What hellish torment it was to write that page!I did it one morning when the fog was so thick that I had to light thelamp. It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read the words. And tothink that people will skim over it without a suspicion of what itcost the writer!--What execrable style! A potboy could write betternarrative. '

'Who are to have copies?'

'No one, if I could help it. But I suppose your mother will expect one?'

'And--Milvain?'

'I suppose so, ' he replied indifferently. 'But not unless he asks forit. Poor old Biffen, of course; though it'll make him despise me. Thenone for ourselves. That leaves two--to light the fire with. We havebeen rather short of fire-paper since we couldn't afford our dailynewspaper. '

'Will you let me give one to Mrs Carter?'

'As you please. '

He took one set and added it to the row of his productions which stoodon a topmost shelf Amy laid her hand upon his shoulder and contemplatedthe effect of this addition. 

'The works of Edwin Reardon, ' she said, with a smile. 

'The work, at all events--rather a different thing, unfortunately. Amy, if only I were back at the time when I wrote "On Neutral Ground, " andyet had you with me! How full my mind was in those days! Then I had onlyto look, and I saw something; now I strain my eyes, but can make outnothing more than nebulous grotesques. I used to sit down knowingso well what I had to say; now I strive to invent, and never come atanything. Suppose you pick up a needle with warm, supple fingers; try todo it when your hand is stiff and numb with cold; there's the differencebetween my manner of work in those days and what it is now. '

'But you are going to get back your health. You will write better thanever. '

'We shall see. Of course there was a great deal of miserable struggleeven then, but I remember it as insignificant compared with the hours ofcontented work. I seldom did anything in the mornings except think andprepare; towards evening I felt myself getting ready, and at last I satdown with the first lines buzzing in my head. And I used to read a greatdeal at the same time. Whilst I was writing "On Neutral Ground" I wentsolidly through the "Divina Commedia, " a canto each day. Very often Iwrote till after midnight, but occasionally I got my quantum finishedmuch earlier, and then I used to treat myself to a ramble about thestreets. I can recall exactly the places where some of my best ideascame to me. You remember the scene in Prendergast's lodgings? Thatflashed on me late one night as I was turning out of Leicester Squareinto the slum that leads to Clare Market; ah, how well I remember! AndI went home to my garret in a state of delightful fever, and scribblednotes furiously before going to bed. '

'Don't trouble; it'll all come back to you. '

'But in those days I hadn't to think of money. I could look forward andsee provision for my needs. I never asked myself what I should get forthe book; I assure you, that never came into my head--never. The workwas done for its own sake. No hurry to finish it; if I felt that Iwasn't up to the mark, I just waited till the better mood returned. "OnNeutral Ground" took me seven months; now I have to write three volumesin nine weeks, with the lash stinging on my back if I miss a day. '

He brooded for a little. 

'I suppose there must be some rich man somewhere who has read one or twoof my books with a certain interest. If only I could encounter him andtell him plainly what a cursed state I am in, perhaps he would help meto some means of earning a couple of pounds a week. One has heard ofsuch things. '

'In the old days. '

'Yes. I doubt if it ever happens now. Coleridge wouldn't so easily meetwith his Gillman nowadays. Well, I am not a Coleridge, and I don't askto be lodged under any man's roof; but if I could earn money enough toleave me good long evenings unspoilt by fear of the workhouse--'

Amy turned away, and presently went to look after her little boy. 

A few days after this they had a visit from Milvain. He came about teno'clock in the evening. 

'I'm not going to stay, ' he announced. 'But where's my copy of "MargaretHome"? I am to have one, I suppose?'

'I have no particular desire that you should read it, ' returned Reardon. 

'But I HAVE read it, my dear fellow. Got it from the library on the dayof publication; I had a suspicion that you wouldn't send me a copy. ButI must possess your opera omnia. '

'Here it is. Hide it away somewhere. --You may as well sit down for a fewminutes. '

'I confess I should like to talk about the book, if you don't mind. It isn't so utterly and damnably bad as you make out, you know. Themisfortune was that you had to make three volumes of it. If I had leaveto cut it down to one, it would do you credit. 

The motive is good enough. '

'Yes. Just good enough to show how badly it's managed. '

Milvain began to expatiate on that well-worn topic, the evils of thethree-volume system. 

'A triple-headed monster, sucking the blood of English novelists. One might design an allegorical cartoon for a comic literary paper. By-the-bye, why doesn't such a thing exist?--a weekly paper treating ofthings and people literary in a facetious spirit. It would be caviareto the general, but might be supported, I should think. The editor wouldprobably be assassinated, though. '

'For anyone in my position, ' said Reardon, 'how is it possible toabandon the three volumes? It is a question of payment. An author ofmoderate repute may live on a yearly three-volume novel--I mean the manwho is obliged to sell his book out and out, and who gets from one totwo hundred pounds for it. But he would have to produce four one-volumenovels to obtain the same income; and I doubt whether he could get somany published within the twelve months. And here comes in the benefitof the libraries; from the commercial point of view the libraries areindispensable. Do you suppose the public would support the presentnumber of novelists if each book had to be purchased? A sudden change tothat system would throw three-fourths of the novelists out of work. '

'But there's no reason why the libraries shouldn't circulate novels inone volume. '

'Profits would be less, I suppose. People would take the minimumsubscription. '

'Well, to go to the concrete, what about your own one-volume?'

'All but done. '

'And you'll offer it to Jedwood? Go and see him personally. He's a verydecent fellow, I believe. '

Milvain stayed only half an hour. The days when he was wont to sit andtalk at large through a whole evening were no more; partly because ofhis diminished leisure, but also for a less simple reason--the growth ofsomething like estrangement between him and Reardon. 

'You didn't mention your plans, ' said Amy, when the visitor had beengone some time. 

'No. '

Reardon was content with the negative, and his wife made no furtherremark. 

The result of advertising the flat was that two or three persons calledto make inspection. One of them, a man of military appearance, showedhimself anxious to come to terms; he was willing to take the tenementfrom next quarter-day (June), but wished, if possible, to enter uponpossession sooner than that. 

'Nothing could be better, ' said Amy in colloquy with her husband. 'If hewill pay for the extra time, we shall be only too glad. '

Reardon mused and looked gloomy. He could not bring himself to regardthe experiment before him with hopefulness, and his heart sank at thethought of parting from Amy. 

'You are very anxious to get rid of me, ' he answered, trying to smile. 

'Yes, I am, ' she exclaimed; 'but simply for your own good, as you knowvery well. '

'Suppose I can't sell this book?'

'You will have a few pounds. Send your "Pliny" article to The Wayside. If you come to an end of all your money, mother shall lend you some. '

'I am not very likely to do much work in that case. '

'Oh, but you will sell the book. You'll get twenty pounds for it, andthat alone would keep you for three months. Think--three months of thebest part of the year at the seaside! Oh, you will do wonders!'

The furniture was to be housed at Mrs Yule's. Neither of them durstspeak of selling it; that would have sounded too ominous. As for thelocality of Reardon's retreat, Amy herself had suggested Worthing, whichshe knew from a visit a few years ago; the advantages were its proximityto London, and the likelihood that very cheap lodgings could be foundeither in the town or near it. One room would suffice for the haplessauthor, and his expenses, beyond a trifling rent, would be confined tomere food. 

Oh yes, he might manage on considerably less than a pound a week. 

Amy was in much better spirits than for a long time; she appeared tohave convinced herself that there was no doubt of the issue of thisperilous scheme; that her husband would write a notable book, receive asatisfactory price for it, and so re-establish their home. Yet her moodsvaried greatly. After all, there was delay in the letting of the flat, and this caused her annoyance. It was whilst the negotiations were stillpending that she made her call upon Maud and Dora Milvain; Reardon didnot know of her intention to visit them until it had been carried out. She mentioned what she had done in almost a casual manner. 

'I had to get it over, ' she said, when Reardon exhibited surprise, 'andI don't think I made a very favourable impression. '

'You told them, I suppose, what we are going to do?'

'No; I didn't say a word of it. '

'But why not? It can't be kept a secret. Milvain will have heard of italready, I should think, from your mother. '

'From mother? But it's the rarest thing for him to go there. Do youimagine he is a constant visitor? I thought it better to say nothinguntil the thing is actually done. Who knows what may happen?'

She was in a strange, nervous state, and Reardon regarded her uneasily. He talked very little in these days, and passed hours in dark reverie. His book was finished, and he awaited the publisher's decision. 

PART THREE

CHAPTER XVI. REJECTION

One of Reardon's minor worries at this time was the fear that by chancehe might come upon a review of 'Margaret Home. ' Since the publication ofhis first book he had avoided as far as possible all knowledge of whatthe critics had to say about him; his nervous temperament could not bearthe agitation of reading these remarks, which, however inept, definean author and his work to so many people incapable of judging forthemselves. No man or woman could tell him anything in the way of praiseor blame which he did not already know quite well; commendation waspleasant, but it so often aimed amiss, and censure was for the most partso unintelligent. In the case of this latest novel he dreaded thesight of a review as he would have done a gash from a rusty knife. The judgments could not but be damnatory, and their expression injournalistic phrase would disturb his mind with evil rancour. No onewould have insight enough to appreciate the nature and cause of hisbook's demerits; every comment would be wide of the mark; sneer, ridicule, trite objection, would but madden him with a sense ofinjustice. 

His position was illogical--one result of the moral weakness which wasallied with his aesthetic sensibility. Putting aside the worthlessnessof current reviewing, the critic of an isolated book has of coursenothing to do with its author's state of mind and body any more thanwith the condition of his purse. Reardon would have granted this, but hecould not command his emotions. He was in passionate revolt againstthe base necessities which compelled him to put forth work in no wayrepresenting his healthy powers, his artistic criterion. Not he hadwritten this book, but his accursed poverty. To assail him as the authorwas, in his feeling, to be guilty of brutal insult. When by ill-hap anotice in one of the daily papers came under his eyes, it made his bloodboil with a fierceness of hatred only possible to him in a profoundlymorbid condition; he could not steady his hand for half an hour after. Yet this particular critic only said what was quite true--that the novelcontained not a single striking scene and not one living character;Reardon had expressed himself about it in almost identical terms. Buthe saw himself in the position of one sickly and all but destitute managainst a relentless world, and every blow directed against him appeareddastardly. He could have cried 'Coward!' to the writer who wounded him. 

The would-be sensational story which was now in Mr Jedwood's hands hadperhaps more merit than 'Margaret Home'; its brevity, and the fact thatnothing more was aimed at than a concatenation of brisk events, made itnot unreadable. But Reardon thought of it with humiliation. If itwere published as his next work it would afford final proof to suchsympathetic readers as he might still retain that he had hopelesslywritten himself out, and was now endeavouring to adapt himself to aninferior public. In spite of his dire necessities he now and then hopedthat Jedwood might refuse the thing. 

At moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or four monthshe was about to spend in retirement, but such impulses were the mereoutcome of his nervous disease. He had no faith in himself underpresent conditions; the permanence of his sufferings would mean the suredestruction of powers he still possessed, though they were not athis command. Yet he believed that his mind was made up as to theadvisability of trying this last resource; he was impatient for the dayof departure, and in the interval merely killed time as best he might. He could not read, and did not attempt to gather ideas for his nextbook; the delusion that his mind was resting made an excuse to him forthe barrenness of day after day. His 'Pliny' article had been despatchedto The Wayside, and would possibly be accepted. But he did not troublehimself about this or other details; it was as though his mind could donothing more than grasp the bald fact of impending destitution; with thesteps towards that final stage he seemed to have little concern. 

One evening he set forth to make a call upon Harold Biffen, whom he hadnot seen since the realist called to acknowledge the receipt of a copyof 'Margaret Home' left at his lodgings when he was out. Biffen residedin Clipstone Street, a thoroughfare discoverable in the dim districtwhich lies between Portland Place and Tottenham Court Road. On knockingat the door of the lodging-house, Reardon learnt that his friend was athome. He ascended to the third storey and tapped at a door which allowedrays of lamplight to issue from great gaps above and below. A sound ofvoices came from within, and on entering he perceived that Biffen wasengaged with a pupil. 

'They didn't tell me you had a visitor, ' he said. 'I'll call againlater. '

'No need to go away, ' replied Biffen, coming forward to shake hands. 'Take a book for a few minutes. Mr Baker won't mind. '

It was a very small room, with a ceiling so low that the tall lodgercould only just stand upright with safety; perhaps three inchesintervened between his head and the plaster, which was cracked, grimy, cobwebby. A small scrap of weedy carpet lay in front of the fireplace;elsewhere the chinky boards were unconcealed. The furniture consisted ofa round table, which kept such imperfect balance on its central supportthat the lamp entrusted to it looked in a dangerous position, of threesmall cane-bottomed chairs, a small wash-hand-stand with sundry rudeappurtenances, and a chair-bedstead which the tenant opened at the hourof repose and spread with certain primitive trappings at present keptin a cupboard. There was no bookcase, but a few hundred battered volumeswere arranged some on the floor and some on a rough chest. The weatherwas too characteristic of an English spring to make an empty grateagreeable to the eye, but Biffen held it an axiom that fires wereunseasonable after the first of May. 

The individual referred to as Mr Baker, who sat at the table in theattitude of a student, was a robust, hard-featured, black-haired youngman of two-or three-and-twenty; judging from his weather-beaten cheeksand huge hands, as well as from the garb he wore, one would havepresumed that study was not his normal occupation. There was somethingof the riverside about him; he might be a dockman, or even a bargeman. He looked intelligent, however, and bore himself with much modesty. 

'Now do endeavour to write in shorter sentences, ' said Biffen, who satdown by him and resumed the lesson, Reardon having taken up a volume. 'This isn't bad--it isn't bad at all, I assure you; but you have put allyou had to say into three appalling periods, whereas you ought to havemade about a dozen. '

'There it is, sir; there it is!' exclaimed the man, smoothing his wiryhair. 'I can't break it up. The thoughts come in a lump, if I may sayso. To break it up--there's the art of compersition. '

Reardon could not refrain from a glance at the speaker, and Biffen, whose manner was very grave and kindly, turned to his friend with anexplanation of the difficulties with which the student was struggling. 

'Mr Baker is preparing for the examination of the outdoor CustomsDepartment. One of the subjects is English composition, and really, youknow, that isn't quite such a simple matter as some people think. '

Baker beamed upon the visitor with a homely, good-natured smile. 

'I can make headway with the other things, sir, ' he said, striking thetable lightly with his clenched fist. 'There's handwriting, there'sorthography, there's arithmetic; I'm not afraid of one of 'em, as MrBiffen 'll tell you, sir. But when it comes to compersition, that bringsout the sweat on my forehead, I do assure you. 

'You're not the only man in that case, Mr Baker, ' replied Reardon. 

'It's thought a tough job in general, is it, sir?'

'It is indeed. '

'Two hundred marks for compersition, ' continued the man. 'Now how manywould they have given me for this bit of a try, Mr Biffen?'

'Well, well; I can't exactly say. But you improve; you improve, decidedly. Peg away for another week or two. '

'Oh, don't fear me, sir! I'm not easily beaten when I've set my mind ona thing, and I'll break up the compersition yet, see if I don't!'

Again his fist descended upon the table in a way that reminded one ofthe steam-hammer cracking a nut. 

The lesson proceeded for about ten minutes, Reardon, under pretence ofreading, following it with as much amusement as anything could excitein him nowadays. At length Mr Baker stood up, collected his papers andbooks, and seemed about to depart; but, after certain uneasy movementsand glances, he said to Biffen in a subdued voice:

'Perhaps I might speak to you outside the door a minute, sir?'

He and the teacher went out, the door closed, and Reardon heard soundsof muffled conversation. In a minute or two a heavy footstep descendedthe stairs, and Biffen re-entered the room. 

'Now that's a good, honest fellow, ' he said, in an amused tone. 'It'smy pay-night, but he didn't like to fork out money before you. A veryunusual delicacy in a man of that standing. He pays me sixpence for anhour's lesson; that brings me two shillings a week. I sometimes feel alittle ashamed to take his money, but then the fact is he's a good dealbetter off than I am. '

'Will he get a place in the Customs, do you think?'

'Oh, I've no doubt of it. If it seemed unlikely, I should have told himso before this. To be sure, that's a point I have often to consider, and once or twice my delicacy has asserted itself at the expense of mypocket. There was a poor consumptive lad came to me not long ago andwanted Latin lessons; talked about going in for the London Matric. , onhis way to the pulpit. I couldn't stand it. After a lesson or two I toldhim his cough was too bad, and he had no right to study until he gotinto better health; that was better, I think, than saying plainly he hadno chance on earth. But the food I bought with his money was choking me. Oh yes, Baker will make his way right enough. A good, modest fellow. 

You noticed how respectfully he spoke to me? It doesn't make anydifference to him that I live in a garret like this; I'm a man ofeducation, and he can separate this fact from my surroundings. '

'Biffen, why don't you get some decent position? Surely you might. '

'What position? No school would take me; I have neither credentialsnor conventional clothing. For the same reason I couldn't get a privatetutorship in a rich family. No, no; it's all right. I keep myself alive, and I get on with my work. --By-the-bye, I've decided to write a bookcalled "Mr Bailey, Grocer. "'

'What's the idea?'

'An objectionable word, that. Better say: "What's the reality?" Well, MrBailey is a grocer in a little street by here. I have dealt with himfor a long time, and as he's a talkative fellow I've come to know a gooddeal about him and his history. He's fond of talking about the strugglehe had in his first year of business. He had no money of his own, buthe married a woman who had saved forty-five pounds out of a cat's-meatbusiness. You should see that woman! A big, coarse, squinting creature;at the time of the marriage she was a widow and forty-two years old. Now I'm going to tell the true story of Mr Bailey's marriage and of hisprogress as a grocer. It'll be a great book--a great book!'

He walked up and down the room, fervid with his conception. 

'There'll be nothing bestial in it, you know. The decently ignoble--asI've so often said. The thing'll take me a year at least. I shall doit slowly, lovingly. One volume, of course; the length of the ordinaryFrench novel. There's something fine in the title, don't you think? "MrBailey, Grocer"!'

'I envy you, old fellow, ' said Reardon, sighing. 'You have the rightfire in you; you have zeal and energy. Well, what do you think I havedecided to do?'

'I should like to hear. '

Reardon gave an account of his project. The other listened gravely, seated across a chair with his arms on the back. 

'Your wife is in agreement with this?'

'Oh yes. ' He could not bring himself to say that Amy had suggested it. 'She has great hopes that the change will be just what I need. '

'I should say so too--if you were going to rest. But if you have to setto work at once it seems to me very doubtful. '

'Never mind. For Heaven's sake don't discourage me! If this fails Ithink--upon my soul, I think I shall kill myself. '

'Pooh!' exclaimed Biffen, gently. 'With a wife like yours?'

'Just because of that. '

'No, no; there'll be some way out of it. By-the-bye, I passed MrsReardon this morning, but she didn't see me. It was in Tottenham CourtRoad, and Milvain was with her. I felt myself too seedy in appearance tostop and speak. '

'In Tottenham Court Road?'

That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon'sattention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His mindinvoluntarily played this trick. 

'I only saw them just as they were passing, ' pursued Biffen. 'Oh, I knewI had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale is going tobe married?'

Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way. 

'I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to look himup to-night, and he'd let me know all about it. Let's go together, shallwe?'

'I don't feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I'll walk with you, andgo on home. '

'No, no; come and see him. It'll do you good to talk a little. --But Imust positively eat a mouthful before we go. I'm afraid you won't careto join?'

He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer ofdripping, with salt and pepper. 

'Better dripping this than I've had for a long time. I get it at MrBailey's--that isn't his real name, of course. He assures me it comesfrom a large hotel where his wife's sister is a kitchen-maid, and thatit's perfectly pure; they very often mix flour with it, you know, andperhaps more obnoxious things that an economical man doesn't careto reflect upon. Now, with a little pepper and salt, this bread anddripping is as appetising food as I know. I often make a dinner of it. '

'I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-pudding?'

'I should think so! I get magnificent pennyworths at a shop in ClevelandStreet, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent faggots they havethere, too. I'll give you a supper of them some night before you go. '

Biffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties. 

He ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork; this always made thefare seem more substantial. 

'Is it very cold out?' he asked, rising from the table. 'Need I put myovercoat on?'

This overcoat, purchased second-hand three years ago, hung on adoor-nail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to therealist his ordinary indoor garment--a morning coat of the cloth calleddiagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation than theother articles of his attire. 

Reardon judging the overcoat necessary, his friend carefully brushed itand drew it on with a caution which probably had reference tostarting seams. Then he put into the pocket his pipe, his pouch, histobacco-stopper, and his matches, murmuring to himself a Greek iambicline which had come into his head a propos of nothing obvious. 

'Go out, ' he said, 'and then I'll extinguish the lamp. Mind the secondstep down, as usual. '

They issued into Clipstone Street, turned northward, crossed EustonRoad, and came into Albany Street, where, in a house of decent exterior, Mr Whelpdale had his present abode. A girl who opened the door requestedthem to walk up to the topmost storey. 

A cheery voice called to them from within the room at which theyknocked. This lodging spoke more distinctly of civilisation than thatinhabited by Biffen; it contained the minimum supply of furniture neededto give it somewhat the appearance of a study, but the articles were ingood condition. One end of the room was concealed by a chintz curtain;scrutiny would have discovered behind the draping the essentialequipments of a bedchamber. 

Mr Whelpdale sat by the fire, smoking a cigar. He was a plain-featuredbut graceful and refined-looking man of thirty, with wavy chestnuthair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At present he wore adressing-gown and was without collar. 

'Welcome, gents both!' he cried facetiously. 'Ages since I saw you, Reardon. I've been reading your new book. Uncommonly good things in ithere and there--uncommonly good. '

Whelpdale had the weakness of being unable to tell a disagreeabletruth, and a tendency to flattery which had always made Reardon ratheruncomfortable in his society. Though there was no need whatever of hismentioning 'Margaret Home, ' he preferred to frame smooth fictions ratherthan keep a silence which might be construed as unfavourable criticism. 

'In the last volume, ' he went on, 'I think there are one or two thingsas good as you ever did; I do indeed. '

Reardon made no acknowledgment of these remarks. They irritated him, forhe knew their insincerity. Biffen, understanding his friend's silence, struck in on another subject. 

'Who is this lady of whom you write to me?'

'Ah, quite a story! I'm going to be married, Reardon. A seriousmarriage. Light your pipes, and I'll tell you all about it. Startledyou, I suppose, Biffen? Unlikely news, eh? Some people would call it arash step, I dare say. We shall just take another room in this house, that's all. I think I can count upon an income of a couple of guineasa week, and I have plans without end that are pretty sure to bring incoin. '

Reardon did not care to smoke, but Biffen lit his pipe and waited withgrave interest for the romantic narrative. Whenever he heard of a poorman's persuading a woman to share his poverty he was eager of details;perchance he himself might yet have that heavenly good fortune. 

'Well, ' began Whelpdale, crossing his legs and watching a wreath he hadjust puffed from the cigar, 'you know all about my literary advisership. The business goes on reasonably well. I'm going to extend it in waysI'll explain to you presently. About six weeks ago I received a letterfrom a lady who referred to my advertisements, and said she had themanuscript of a novel which she would like to offer for my opinion. Twopublishers had refused it, but one with complimentary phrases, and shehoped it mightn't be impossible to put the thing into acceptable shape. Of course I wrote optimistically, and the manuscript was sent to me. 

Well, it wasn't actually bad--by Jove! you should have seen some ofthe things I have been asked to recommend to publishers! It wasn'thopelessly bad by any means, and I gave serious thought to it. Afterexchange of several letters I asked the authoress to come and see me, that we might save postage stamps and talk things over. She hadn'tgiven me her address: I had to direct to a stationer's in Bayswater. Sheagreed to come, and did come. I had formed a sort of idea, but of courseI was quite wrong. Imagine my excitement when there came in avery beautiful girl, a tremendously interesting girl, aboutone-and-twenty--just the kind of girl that most strongly appeals tome; dark, pale, rather consumptive-looking, slender--no, there's nodescribing her; there really isn't! You must wait till you see her. '

'I hope the consumption was only a figure of speech, ' remarked Biffen inhis grave way. 

'Oh, there's nothing serious the matter, I think. A slight cough, poorgirl. '

'The deuce!' interjected Reardon. 

'Oh, nothing, nothing! It'll be all right. Well, now, of course wetalked over the story--in good earnest, you know. Little by little Iinduced her to speak of herself--this, after she'd come two or threetimes--and she told me lamentable things. She was absolutely alone inLondon, and hadn't had sufficient food for weeks; had sold all she couldof her clothing; and so on. Her home was in Birmingham; she had beendriven away by the brutality of a stepmother; a friend lent her a fewpounds, and she came to London with an unfinished novel. Well, you know, this kind of thing would be enough to make me soft-hearted to any girl, let alone one who, to begin with, was absolutely my ideal. When shebegan to express a fear that I was giving too much time to her, that shewouldn't be able to pay my fees, and so on, I could restrain myselfno longer. On the spot I asked her to marry me. I didn't practise anydeception, mind. I told her I was a poor devil who had failed as arealistic novelist and was earning bread in haphazard ways; and Iexplained frankly that I thought we might carry on various kinds ofbusiness together: she might go on with her novel-writing, and--so on. But she was frightened; I had been too abrupt. That's a fault of mine, you know; but I was so confoundedly afraid of losing her. And I told heras much, plainly. '

Biffen smiled. 

'This would be exciting, ' he said, 'if we didn't know the end of thestory. '

'Yes. Pity I didn't keep it a secret. Well, she wouldn't say yes, butI could see that she didn't absolutely say no. "In any case, " I said, "you'll let me see you often? Fees be hanged! I'll work day and nightfor you. I'll do my utmost to get your novel accepted. " And I imploredher to let me lend her a little money. It was very difficult to persuadeher, but at last she accepted a few shillings. I could see in her facethat she was hungry. Just imagine! A beautiful girl absolutely hungry;it drove me frantic!

But that was a great point gained. After that we saw each other almostevery day, and at last--she consented! Did indeed! I can hardly believeit yet. We shall be married in a fortnight's time. '

'I congratulate you, ' said Reardon. 

'So do I, ' sighed Biffen. 

'The day before yesterday she went to Birmingham to see her father andtell him all about the affair. I agreed with her it was as well; the oldfellow isn't badly off; and he may forgive her for running away, thoughhe's under his wife's thumb, it appears. I had a note yesterday. She hadgone to a friend's house for the first day. I hoped to have heard againthis morning--must to-morrow, in any case. I live, as you may imagine, in wild excitement. Of course, if the old man stumps up a weddingpresent, all the better. But I don't care; we'll make a living somehow. What do you think I'm writing just now? An author's Guide. You know thekind of thing; they sell splendidly. Of course I shall make it a goodadvertisement of my business. Then I have a splendid idea. I'm going toadvertise: "Novel-writing taught in ten lessons!" What do you thinkof that? No swindle; not a bit of it. I am quite capable of giving theordinary man or woman ten very useful lessons. I've been working out thescheme; it would amuse you vastly, Reardon. The first lesson deals withthe question of subjects, local colour--that kind of thing. I gravelyadvise people, if they possibly can, to write of the wealthy middleclass; that's the popular subject, you know. Lords and ladies are allvery well, but the real thing to take is a story about people who haveno titles, but live in good Philistine style. I urge study of horseymatters especially; that's very important. You must be well up, too, in military grades, know about Sandhurst, and so on. Boating is animportant topic. You see? Oh, I shall make a great thing of this. Ishall teach my wife carefully, and then let her advertise lessons togirls; they'll prefer coming to a woman, you know. '

Biffen leant back and laughed noisily. 

'How much shall you charge for the course?' asked Reardon. 

'That'll depend. I shan't refuse a guinea or two; but some people may bemade to pay five, perhaps. '

Someone knocked at the door, and a voice said:

'A letter for you, Mr Whelpdale. '

He started up, and came back into the room with face illuminated. 

'Yes, it's from Birmingham; posted this morning. Look what an exquisitehand she writes!'

He tore open the envelope. In delicacy Reardon and Biffen averted theireyes. There was silence for a minute, then a strange ejaculation fromWhelpdale caused his friends to look up at him. He had gone pale, andwas frowning at the sheet of paper which trembled in his hand. 

'No bad news, I hope?' Biffen ventured to say. 

Whelpdale let himself sink into a chair. 

'Now if this isn't too bad!' he exclaimed in a thick voice. 'Ifthis isn't monstrously unkind! I never heard anything so gross asthis--never!'

The two waited, trying not to smile. 

'She writes--that she has met an old lover--in Birmingham--that it waswith him she had quarrelled-not with her father at all--that she ranaway to annoy him and frighten him--that she has made it up again, andthey're going to be married!'

He let the sheet fall, and looked so utterly woebegone that his friendsat once exerted themselves to offer such consolation as the caseadmitted of. Reardon thought better of Whelpdale for this emotion; hehad not believed him capable of it. 

'It isn't a case of vulgar cheating!' cried the forsaken one presently. 'Don't go away thinking that. She writes in real distress andpenitence--she does indeed. Oh, the devil! Why did I let her go toBirmingham? A fortnight more, and I should have had her safe. But it'sjust like my luck. Do you know that this is the third time I've beenengaged to be married?--no, by Jove, the fourth! And every time the girlhas got out of it at the last moment. What an unlucky beast I am! A girlwho was positively my ideal! I haven't even a photograph of her to showyou; but you'd be astonished at her face. Why, in the devil's name, didI let her go to Birmingham?'

The visitors had risen. They felt uncomfortable, for it seemed as ifWhelpdale might find vent for his distress in tears. 

'We had better leave you, ' suggested Biffen. 'It's very hard--it isindeed. '

'Look here! Read the letter for yourselves! Do!'

They declined, and begged him not to insist. 

'But I want you to see what kind of girl she is. It isn't a case offarcical deceiving--not a bit of it! She implores me to forgive her, andblames herself no end. Just my luck! The third--no, the fourth time, byJove! Never was such an unlucky fellow with women. It's because I'm sodamnably poor; that's it, of course!'

Reardon and his companion succeeded at length in getting away, thoughnot till they had heard the virtues and beauty of the vanished girldescribed again and again in much detail. Both were in a state ofdepression as they left the house. 

'What think you of this story?' asked Biffen. 'Is this possible in awoman of any merit?'

'Anything is possible in a woman, ' Reardon replied, harshly. 

They walked in silence as far as Portland Road Station. There, with anassurance that he would come to a garret-supper before leaving London, Reardon parted from his friend and turned westward. 

As soon as he had entered, Amy's voice called to him:

'Here's a letter from Jedwood, Edwin!'

He stepped into the study. 

'It came just after you went out, and it has been all I could do toresist the temptation to open it. '

'Why shouldn't you have opened it?' said her husband, carelessly. 

He tried to do so himself, but his shaking hand thwarted him at first. Succeeding at length, he found a letter in the publisher's own writing, and the first word that caught his attention was 'regret. ' With an angryeffort to command himself he ran through the communication, then held itout to Amy. 

She read, and her countenance fell. Mr Jedwood regretted that the storyoffered to him did not seem likely to please that particular public towhom his series of one-volume novels made appeal. He hoped it wouldbe understood that, in declining, he by no means expressed an adversejudgment on the story itself &c. 

'It doesn't surprise me, ' said Reardon. 'I believe he is quite right. The thing is too empty to please the better kind of readers, yet notvulgar enough to please the worse. '

'But you'll try someone else?'

'I don't think it's much use. '

They sat opposite each other, and kept silence. Jedwood's letter slippedfrom Amy's lap to the ground. 

'So, ' said Reardon, presently, 'I don't see how our plan is to becarried out. '

'Oh, it must be!'

'But how?'

'You'll get seven or eight pounds from The Wayside. And--hadn't webetter sell the furniture, instead of--'

His look checked her. 

'It seems to me, Amy, that your one desire is to get away from me, onwhatever terms. '

'Don't begin that over again!' she exclaimed, fretfully. 'If you don'tbelieve what I say--'

They were both in a state of intolerable nervous tension. Their voicesquivered, and their eyes had an unnatural brightness. 

'If we sell the furniture, ' pursued Reardon, 'that means you'll nevercome back to me. You wish to save yourself and the child from the hardlife that seems to be before us. '

'Yes, I do; but not by deserting you. I want you to go and work for usall, so that we may live more happily before long. Oh, how wretched thisis!'

She burst into hysterical weeping. But Reardon, instead of attempting tosoothe her, went into the next room, where he sat for a long time inthe dark. When he returned Amy was calm again; her face expressed a coldmisery. 

'Where did you go this morning?' he asked, as if wishing to talk ofcommon things. 

'I told you. I went to buy those things for Willie. '

'Oh yes. '

There was a silence. 

'Biffen passed you in Tottenham Court Road, ' he added. 

'I didn't see him. '

'No; he said you didn't. '

'Perhaps, ' said Amy, 'it was just when I was speaking to Mr Milvain. '

'You met Milvain?'

'Yes. '

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I'm sure I don't know. I can't mention every trifle that happens. '

'No, of course not. '

Amy closed her eyes, as if in weariness, and for a minute or two Reardonobserved her countenance. 

'So you think we had better sell the furniture. '

'I shall say nothing more about it. You must do as seems best to you, Edwin. '

'Are you going to see your mother to-morrow?'

'Yes. I thought you would like to come too. '

'No; there's no good in my going. '

He again rose, and that night they talked no more of their difficulties, though on the morrow (Sunday) it would be necessary to decide theircourse in every detail. 

CHAPTER XVII. THE PARTING

Amy did not go to church. Before her marriage she had done so as a merematter of course, accompanying her mother, but Reardon's attitude withregard to the popular religion speedily became her own; she let thesubject lapse from her mind, and cared neither to defend nor to attackwhere dogma was concerned. She had no sympathies with mysticism; hernature was strongly practical, with something of zeal for intellectualattainment superadded. 

This Sunday morning she was very busy with domestic minutiae. Reardonnoticed what looked like preparations for packing, and being as littledisposed for conversation as his wife, he went out and walked for acouple of hours in the Hampstead region. Dinner over, Amy at once madeready for her journey to Westbourne Park. 

'Then you won't come?' she said to her husband. 

'No. I shall see your mother before I go away, but I don't care to tillyou have settled everything. '

It was half a year since he had met Mrs Yule. She never came to theirdwelling, and Reardon could not bring himself to visit her. 

'You had very much rather we didn't sell the furniture?' Amy asked. 

'Ask your mother's opinion. That shall decide. '

'There'll be the expense of moving it, you know. Unless money comes fromThe Wayside, you'll only have two or three pounds left. '

Reardon made no reply. He was overcome by the bitterness of shame. 

'I shall say, then, ' pursued Amy, who spoke with averted face, 'that Iam to go there for good on Tuesday? I mean, of course, for the summermonths. '

'I suppose so. '

Then he turned suddenly upon her. 

'Do you really imagine that at the end of the summer I shall be a richman? What do you mean by talking in this way? If the furniture is soldto supply me with a few pounds for the present, what prospect is therethat I shall be able to buy new?'

'How can we look forward at all?' replied Amy. 'It has come to thequestion of how we are to subsist. I thought you would rather get moneyin this way than borrow of mother--when she has the expense of keepingme and Willie. '

'You are right, ' muttered Reardon. 'Do as you think best. ' Amy was inher most practical mood, and would not linger for purposeless talk. Afew minutes, and Reardon was left alone. 

He stood before his bookshelves and began to pick out the volumes whichhe would take away with him. Just a few, the indispensable companions ofa bookish man who still clings to life--his Homer, his Shakespeare--

The rest must be sold. He would get rid of them to-morrow morning. Alltogether they might bring him a couple of sovereigns. 

Then his clothing. Amy had fulfilled all the domestic duties of a wife;his wardrobe was in as good a state as circumstances allowed. But therewas no object in burdening himself with winter garments, for, if helived through the summer at all, he would be able to repurchase such fewpoor things as were needful; at present he could only think of how toget together a few coins. So he made a heap of such things as might besold. 

The furniture? If it must go, the price could scarcely be more than tenor twelve pounds; well, perhaps fifteen. To be sure, in this way hissummer's living would be abundantly provided for. 

He thought of Biffen enviously. Biffen, if need be, could support lifeon three or four shillings a week, happy in the thought that no mortalhad a claim upon him. If he starved to death--well, many another lonelyman has come to that end. If he preferred to kill himself, who would bedistressed? Spoilt child of fortune!

The bells of St Marylebone began to clang for afternoon service. Inthe idleness of dull pain his thoughts followed their summons, and hemarvelled that there were people who could imagine it a duty or find ita solace to go and sit in that twilight church and listen to the droningof prayers. He thought of the wretched millions of mankind to whom lifeis so barren that they must needs believe in a recompense beyond thegrave. For that he neither looked nor longed. The bitterness of hislot was that this world might be a sufficing paradise to him if only hecould clutch a poor little share of current coin. He had won the world'sgreatest prize--a woman's love--but could not retain it because hispockets were empty. 

That he should fail to make a great name, this was grievousdisappointment to Amy, but this alone would not have estranged her. Itwas the dread and shame of penury that made her heart cold to him. Andhe could not in his conscience scorn her for being thus affected by thevulgar circumstances of life; only a few supreme natures stand unshakenunder such a trial, and though his love of Amy was still passionate, heknew that her place was among a certain class of women, and not on theisolated pinnacle where he had at first visioned her. It was entirelynatural that she shrank at the test of squalid suffering. A littlemoney, and he could have rested secure in her love, for then he wouldhave been able to keep ever before her the best qualities of his heartand brain. Upon him, too, penury had its debasing effect; as he nowpresented himself he was not a man to be admired or loved. It was allsimple and intelligible enough--a situation that would be misread onlyby shallow idealism. 

Worst of all, she was attracted by Jasper Milvain's energy and promiseof success. He had no ignoble suspicions of Amy, but it was impossiblefor him not to see that she habitually contrasted the young journalist, who laughingly made his way among men, with her grave, dispiritedhusband, who was not even capable of holding such position as he hadgained. She enjoyed Milvain's conversation, it put her into a goodhumour; she liked him personally, and there could be no doubt that shehad observed a jealous tendency in Reardon's attitude to his formerfriend--always a harmful suggestion to a woman. Formerly she hadappreciated her husband's superiority; she had smiled at Milvain'scommoner stamp of mind and character. But tedious repetition of failurehad outwearied her, and now she saw Milvain in the sunshine of progress, dwelt upon the worldly advantages of gifts and a temperament such ashis. Again, simple and intelligible enough. 

Living apart from her husband, she could not be expected to forswearsociety, and doubtless she would see Milvain pretty often. He calledoccasionally at Mrs Yule's, and would not do so less often when he knewthat Amy was to be met there. There would be chance encounters like thatof yesterday, of which she had chosen to keep silence. 

A dark fear began to shadow him. In yielding thus passively to stress ofcircumstances, was he not exposing his wife to a danger which outweighedall the ills of poverty? As one to whom she was inestimably dear, washe right in allowing her to leave him, if only for a few months? He knewvery well that a man of strong character would never have entertainedthis project. He had got into the way of thinking of himself as too weakto struggle against the obstacles on which Amy insisted, and of lookingfor safety in retreat; but what was to be the end of this weakness ifthe summer did not at all advance him? He knew better than Amy could howunlikely it was that he should recover the energies of his mind inso short a time and under such circumstances; only the feeble man'stemptation to postpone effort had made him consent to this step, andnow that he was all but beyond turning back, the perils of which he hadthought too little forced themselves upon his mind. 

He rose in anguish, and stood looking about him as if aid mightsomewhere be visible. 

Presently there was a knock at the front door, and on opening he beheldthe vivacious Mr Carter. This gentleman had only made two or three callshere since Reardon's marriage; his appearance was a surprise. 

'I hear you are leaving town for a time, ' he exclaimed. 'Edith told meyesterday, so I thought I'd look you up. '

He was in spring costume, and exhaled fresh odours. The contrast betweenhis prosperous animation and Reardon's broken-spirited quietness couldnot have been more striking. 

'Going away for your health, they tell me. You've been working too hard, you know. You mustn't overdo it. And where do you think of going to?'

'It isn't at all certain that I shall go, ' Reardon replied. 'I thoughtof a few weeks--somewhere at the seaside. '

'I advise you to go north, ' went on Carter cheerily. 'You want a tonic, you know. Get up into Scotland and do some boating and fishing--thatkind of thing. You'd come back a new man. Edith and I had a turn upthere last year, you know; it did me heaps of good. '

'Oh, I don't think I should go so far as that. '

'But that's just what you want--a regular change, something bracing. Youdon't look at all well, that's the fact. A winter in London tries anyman--it does me, I know. I've been seedy myself these last few weeks. Edith wants me to take her over to Paris at the end of this month, andI think it isn't a bad idea; but I'm so confoundedly busy. In the autumnwe shall go to Norway, I think; it seems to be the right thing to donowadays. Why shouldn't you have a run over to Norway? They say it canbe done very cheaply; the steamers take you for next to nothing. '

He talked on with the joyous satisfaction of a man whose income isassured, and whose future teems with a succession of lively holidays. Reardon could make no answer to such suggestions; he sat with a fixedsmile on his face. 

'Have you heard, ' said Carter, presently, 'that we're opening a branchof the hospital in the City Road?'

'No; I hadn't heard of it. '

'It'll only be for out-patients. Open three mornings and three eveningsalternately. '

'Who'll represent you there?''I shall look in now and then, of course;there'll be a clerk, like at the old place. '

He talked of the matter in detail--of the doctors who would attend, andof certain new arrangements to be tried. 

'Have you engaged the clerk?' Reardon asked. 

'Not yet. I think I know a man who'll suit me, though. '

'You wouldn't be disposed to give me the chance?'

Reardon spoke huskily, and ended with a broken laugh. 

'You're rather above my figure nowadays, old man!' exclaimed Carter, joining in what he considered the jest. 

'Shall you pay a pound a week?'

'Twenty-five shillings. It'll have to be a man who can be trusted totake money from the paying patients. '

'Well, I am serious. Will you give me the place?'

Carter gazed at him, and checked another laugh. 

'What the deuce do you mean?'

'The fact is, ' Reardon replied, 'I want variety of occupation. I can'tstick at writing for more than a month or two at a time. It's because Ihave tried to do so that--well, practically, I have broken down. If youwill give me this clerkship, it will relieve me from the necessity ofperpetually writing novels; I shall be better for it in every way. Youknow that I'm equal to the job; you can trust me; and I dare say I shallbe more useful than most clerks you could get. '

It was done, most happily done, on the first impulse. A minute more ofpause, and he could not have faced the humiliation. His face burned, histongue was parched. 

'I'm floored!' cried Carter. 'I shouldn't have thought--but of course, if you really want it. I can hardly believe yet that you're serious, Reardon. '

'Why not? Will you promise me the work?'

'Well, yes. '

'When shall I have to begin?'

'The place'll be opened to-morrow week. But how about your holiday?'

'Oh, let that stand over. It'll be holiday enough to occupy myself in anew way. An old way, too; I shall enjoy it. '

He laughed merrily, relieved beyond measure at having come to whatseemed an end of his difficulties. For half an hour they continued totalk over the affair. 

'Well, it's a comical idea, ' said Carter, as he took his leave, 'but youknow your own business best. '

When Amy returned, Reardon allowed her to put the child to bed before hesought any conversation. She came at length and sat down in the study. 

'Mother advises us not to sell the furniture, ' were her first words. 

'I'm glad of that, as I had quite made up my mind not to. ' There was achange in his way of speaking which she at once noticed. 

'Have you thought of something?'

'Yes. Carter has been here, and he happened to mention that they'reopening an out-patient department of the hospital, in the City Road. He'll want someone to help him there. I asked for the post, and hepromised it me. '

The last words were hurried, though he had resolved to speak withdeliberation. No more feebleness; he had taken a decision, and would actupon it as became a responsible man. 

'The post?' said Amy. 'What post?'

'In plain English, the clerkship. It'll be the same work as I used tohave--registering patients, receiving their "letters, " and so on. Thepay is to be five-and-twenty shillings a week. '

Amy sat upright and looked steadily at him. 

'Is this a joke?'

'Far from it, dear. It's a blessed deliverance. '

'You have asked Mr Carter to take you back as a clerk?'

'I have. '

'And you propose that we shall live on twenty-five shillings a week?'

'Oh no! I shall be engaged only three mornings in the week and threeevenings. In my free time I shall do literary work, and no doubt I canearn fifty pounds a year by it--if I have your sympathy to help me. To-morrow I shall go and look for rooms some distance from here; inIslington, I think. We have been living far beyond our means; that mustcome to an end. We'll have no more keeping up of sham appearances. If Ican make my way in literature, well and good; in that case our positionand prospects will of course change. But for the present we are poorpeople, and must live in a poor way. If our friends like to come and seeus, they must put aside all snobbishness, and take us as we are. If theyprefer not to come, there'll be an excuse in our remoteness. '

Amy was stroking the back of her hand. After a long silence, she said ina very quiet, but very resolute tone:

'I shall not consent to this. '

'In that case, Amy, I must do without your consent. The rooms will betaken, and our furniture transferred to them. '

'To me that will make no difference, ' returned his wife, in the samevoice as before. 'I have decided--as you told me to--to go with Willieto mother's next Tuesday. You, of course, must do as you please. Ishould have thought a summer at the seaside would have been more helpfulto you; but if you prefer to live in Islington--'

Reardon approached her, and laid a hand on her shoulder. 

'Amy, are you my wife, or not?'

'I am certainly not the wife of a clerk who is paid so much a week. '

He had foreseen a struggle, but without certainty of the form Amy'sopposition would take. For himself he meant to be gently resolute, calmly regardless of protest. But in a man to whom such self-assertionis a matter of conscious effort, tremor of the nerves will alwaysinterfere with the line of conduct he has conceived in advance. Already Reardon had spoken with far more bluntness than he proposed;involuntarily, his voice slipped from earnest determination to thenote of absolutism, and, as is wont to be the case, the sound of thesestrange tones instigated him to further utterances of the same kind. He lost control of himself. Amy's last reply went through him like anelectric shock, and for the moment he was a mere husband defied byhis wife, the male stung to exertion of his brute force against thephysically weaker sex. 

'However you regard me, you will do what I think fit. I shall not arguewith you. If I choose to take lodgings in Whitechapel, there you willcome and live. '

He met Amy's full look, and was conscious of that in it whichcorresponded to his own brutality. She had become suddenly a mucholder woman; her cheeks were tight drawn into thinness, her lips werebloodlessly hard, there was an unknown furrow along her forehead, andshe glared like the animal that defends itself with tooth and claw. 

'Do as YOU think fit? Indeed!'

Could Amy's voice sound like that? Great Heaven! With just such accenthe had heard a wrangling woman retort upon her husband at the streetcorner. Is there then no essential difference between a woman of thisworld and one of that? Does the same nature lie beneath such unlikesurfaces?

He had but to do one thing: to seize her by the arm, drag her upfrom the chair, dash her back again with all his force--there, thetransformation would be complete, they would stand towards each otheron the natural footing. With an added curse perhaps--Instead of that, hechoked, struggled for breath, and shed tears. 

Amy turned scornfully away from him. Blows and a curse would haveoverawed her, at all events for the moment; she would have felt: 'Yes, he is a man, and I have put my destiny into his hands. ' His tearsmoved her to a feeling cruelly exultant; they were the sign of hersuperiority. It was she who should have wept, and never in her life hadshe been further from such display of weakness. 

This could not be the end, however, and she had no wish to terminatethe scene. They stood for a minute without regarding each other, thenReardon faced to her. 

'You refuse to live with me, then?'

'Yes, if this is the kind of life you offer me. '

'You would be more ashamed to share your husband's misfortunes than todeclare to everyone that you had deserted him?'

'I shall "declare to everyone" the simple truth. You have theopportunity of making one more effort to save us from degradation. Yourefuse to take the trouble; you prefer to drag me down into a lower rankof life. I can't and won't consent to that. The disgrace is yours; it'sfortunate for me that I have a decent home to go to. '

'Fortunate for you!--you make yourself unutterably contemptible. I havedone nothing that justifies you in leaving me. It is for me to judgewhat I can do and what I can't. A good woman would see no degradation inwhat I ask of you. But to run away from me just because I am poorer thanyou ever thought I should be--'

He was incoherent. A thousand passionate things that he wished to sayclashed together in his mind and confused his speech. Defeated inthe attempt to act like a strong man, he could not yet recoverstanding-ground, knew not how to tone his utterances. 

'Yes, of course, that's how you will put it, ' said Amy. 'That's how youwill represent me to your friends. My friends will see it in a differentlight. '

'They will regard you as a martyr?'

'No one shall make a martyr of me, you may be sure. I was unfortunateenough to marry a man who had no delicacy, no regard for my feelings. --Iam not the first woman who has made a mistake of this kind. '

'No delicacy? No regard for your feelings?--Have I always utterlymisunderstood you? Or has poverty changed you to a woman I can'trecognise?'

He came nearer, and gazed desperately into her face. Not a muscle of itshowed susceptibility to the old influences. 

'Do you know, Amy, ' he added in a lower voice, 'that if we part now, wepart for ever?'

'I'm afraid that is only too likely. '

She moved aside. 

'You mean that you wish it. You are weary of me, and care for nothingbut how to make yourself free. '

'I shall argue no more. I am tired to death of it. '

'Then say nothing, but listen for the last time to my view of theposition we have come to. When I consented to leave you for a time, togo away and try to work in solitude, I was foolish and even insincere, both to you and to myself. I knew that I was undertaking the impossible. It was just putting off the evil day, that was all--putting off the timewhen I should have to say plainly: "I can't live by literature, so Imust look out for some other employment. " I shouldn't have been so weakbut that I knew how you would regard such a decision as that. I wasafraid to tell the truth--afraid. Now, when Carter of a sudden put thisopportunity before me, I saw all the absurdity of the arrangements wehad made. It didn't take me a moment to make up my mind. Anything wasto be chosen rather than a parting from you on false pretences, aridiculous affectation of hope where there was no hope. '

He paused, and saw that his words had no effect upon her. 

'And a grievous share of the fault lies with you, Amy. You remember verywell when I first saw how dark the future was. I was driven even to saythat we ought to change our mode of living; I asked you if you would bewilling to leave this place and go into cheaper rooms. And you know whatyour answer was. Not a sign in you that you would stand by me if theworst came. I knew then what I had to look forward to, but I durst notbelieve it. I kept saying to myself: "She loves me, and as soon as shereally understands--" That was all self-deception. If I had been a wiseman, I should have spoken to you in a way you couldn't mistake. I shouldhave told you that we were living recklessly, and that I had determinedto alter it. I have no delicacy? No regard for your feelings? Oh, ifI had had less! I doubt whether you can even understand some of theconsiderations that weighed with me, and made me cowardly--though I oncethought there was no refinement of sensibility that you couldn't enterinto. Yes, I was absurd enough to say to myself: "It will look as if Ihad consciously deceived her; she may suffer from the thought that I wonher at all hazards, knowing that I should soon expose her to poverty andall sorts of humiliation. " Impossible to speak of that again; I had tostruggle desperately on, trying to hope. Oh! if you knew--'

His voice gave way for an instant. 

'I don't understand how you could be so thoughtless and heartless. Youknew that I was almost mad with anxiety at times. Surely, any woman musthave had the impulse to give what help was in her power. How could youhesitate? Had you no suspicion of what a relief and encouragement itwould be to me, if you said: "Yes, we must go and live in a simplerway?" If only as a proof that you loved me, how I should have welcomedthat! You helped me in nothing. You threw all the responsibility uponme--always bearing in mind, I suppose, that there was a refuge for you. Even now, I despise myself for saying such things of you, though I knowso bitterly that they are true. It takes a long time to see you as sucha different woman from the one I worshipped. In passion, I can fling outviolent words, but they don't yet answer to my actual feeling. It willbe long enough yet before I think contemptuously of you. You know thatwhen a light is suddenly extinguished, the image of it still showsbefore your eyes. But at last comes the darkness. '

Amy turned towards him once more. 

'Instead of saying all this, you might be proving that I am wrong. Doso, and I will gladly confess it. '

'That you are wrong? I don't see your meaning. '

'You might prove that you are willing to do your utmost to save me fromhumiliation. '

'Amy, I have done my utmost. I have done more than you can imagine. '

'No. You have toiled on in illness and anxiety--I know that. But achance is offered you now of working in a better way. Till that istried, you have no right to give all up and try to drag me down withyou. '

'I don't know how to answer. I have told you so often--You can'tunderstand me!'

'I can! I can!' Her voice trembled for the first time. 'I know that youare so ready to give in to difficulties. Listen to me, and do as I bidyou. ' She spoke in the strangest tone of command. 

It was command, not exhortation, but there was no harshness in hervoice. 'Go at once to Mr Carter. Tell him you have made a ludicrousmistake--in a fit of low spirits; anything you like to say. Tell him youof course couldn't dream of becoming his clerk. To-night; at once! Youunderstand me, Edwin? Go now, this moment. '

'Have you determined to see how weak I am? Do you wish to be able todespise me more completely still?'

'I am determined to be your friend, and to save you from yourself. Go atonce! Leave all the rest to me. If I have let things take their coursetill now, it shan't be so in future. The responsibility shall be withme. Only do as I tell you. '

'You know it's impossible--'

'It is not! I will find money. No one shall be allowed to say that weare parting; no one has any such idea yet. You are going away foryour health, just three summer months. I have been far more careful ofappearances than you imagine, but you give me credit for so little. Iwill find the money you need, until you have written another book. Ipromise; I undertake it. Then I will find another home for us, of theproper kind. You shall have no trouble. You shall give yourself entirelyto intellectual things. 

But Mr Carter must be told at once, before he can spread a report. If hehas spoken, he must contradict what he has said. '

'But you amaze me, Amy. Do you mean to say that you look upon it as averitable disgrace, my taking this clerkship?'

'I do. I can't help my nature. I am ashamed through and through that youshould sink to this. '

'But everyone knows that I was a clerk once!'

'Very few people know it. And then that isn't the same thing. Itdoesn't matter what one has been in the past. Especially a literary man;everyone expects to hear that he was once poor. But to fall from theposition you now have, and to take weekly wages--you surely can't knowhow people of my world regard that. '

'Of your world? I had thought your world was the same as mine, and knewnothing whatever of these imbecilities. '

'It is getting late. Go and see Mr Carter, and afterwards I will talk asmuch as you like. '

He might perhaps have yielded, but the unemphasised contempt in thatlast sentence was more than he could bear. It demonstrated to him morecompletely than set terms could have done what a paltry weakling hewould appear in Amy's eyes if he took his hat down from the peg and setout to obey her orders. 

'You are asking too much, ' he said, with unexpected coldness. 'If myopinions are so valueless to you that you dismiss them like those of atroublesome child, I wonder you think it worth while to try and keep upappearances about me. It is very simple: make known to everyone that youare in no way connected with the disgrace I have brought upon myself. Put an advertisement in the newspapers to that effect, if you like--asmen do about their wives' debts. I have chosen my part. I can't stultifymyself to please you. '

She knew that this was final. His voice had the true ring of shame inrevolt. 

'Then go your way, and I will go mine!'

Amy left the room. 

When Reardon went into the bedchamber an hour later, he unfolded achair-bedstead that stood there, threw some rugs upon it, and so laydown to pass the night. He did not close his eyes. Amy slept for an houror two before dawn, and on waking she started up and looked anxiouslyabout the room. But neither spoke. 

There was a pretence of ordinary breakfast; the little servantnecessitated that. When she saw her husband preparing to go out, Amyasked him to come into the study. 

'How long shall you be away?' she asked, curtly. 

'It is doubtful. I am going to look for rooms. '

'Then no doubt I shall be gone when you come back. There's no object, now, in my staying here till to-morrow. '

'As you please. '

'Do you wish Lizzie still to come?'

'No. Please to pay her wages and dismiss her. Here is some money. '

'I think you had better let me see to that. '

He flung the coin on to the table and opened the door. Amy steppedquickly forward and closed it again. 

'This is our good-bye, is it?' she asked, her eyes on the ground. 

'As you wish it--yes. '

'You will remember that I have not wished it. '

'In that case, you have only to go with me to the new home. '

'I can't. '

'Then you have made your choice. '

She did not prevent his opening the door this time, and he passed outwithout looking at her. 

His return was at three in the afternoon. Amy and the child were gone;the servant was gone. The table in the dining-room was spread as if forone person's meal. 

He went into the bedroom. Amy's trunks had disappeared. The child's cotwas covered over. In the study, he saw that the sovereign he had thrownon to the table still lay in the same place. 

As it was a very cold day he lit a fire. Whilst it burnt up he satreading a torn portion of a newspaper, and became quite interested inthe report of a commercial meeting in the City, a thing he would neverhave glanced at under ordinary circumstances. The fragment fell atlength from his hands; his head drooped; he sank into a troubled sleep. 

About six he had tea, then began the packing of the few books that wereto go with him, and of such other things as could be enclosed in boxor portmanteau. After a couple of hours of this occupation he could nolonger resist his weariness, so he went to bed. Before falling asleephe heard the two familiar clocks strike eight; this evening they werein unusual accord, and the querulous notes from the workhouse soundedbetween the deeper ones from St Marylebone. Reardon tried to rememberwhen he had last observed this; the matter seemed to have a peculiarinterest for him, and in dreams he worried himself with a grotesquespeculation thence derived. 

CHAPTER XVIII. THE OLD HOME

Before her marriage Mrs Edmund Yule was one of seven motherless sisterswho constituted the family of a dentist slenderly provided in the matterof income. The pinching and paring which was a chief employment of herenergies in those early days had disagreeable effects upon a characterdisposed rather to generosity than the reverse; during her husband'slifetime she had enjoyed rather too eagerly all the good things which heput at her command, sometimes forgetting that a wife has duties aswell as claims, and in her widowhood she indulged a pretentiousnessand querulousness which were the natural, but not amiable, results ofsuddenly restricted circumstances. 

Like the majority of London people, she occupied a house of which therent absurdly exceeded the due proportion of her income, a pleasantfoible turned to such good account by London landlords. Whereas shemight have lived with a good deal of modest comfort, her existence was aperpetual effort to conceal the squalid background of what was meant forthe eyes of her friends and neighbours. She kept only two servants, whowere so ill paid and so relentlessly overworked that it was seldom theyremained with her for more than three months. In dealings with otherpeople whom she perforce employed, she was often guilty of incrediblemeanness; as, for instance, when she obliged her half-starved dressmakerto purchase material for her, and then postponed payment alike forthat and for the work itself to the last possible moment. This was notheartlessness in the strict sense of the word; the woman not only knewthat her behaviour was shameful, she was in truth ashamed of it andsorry for her victims. But life was a battle. She must either crush orbe crushed. With sufficient means, she would have defrauded no one, andwould have behaved generously to many; with barely enough for her needs, she set her face and defied her feelings, inasmuch as she believed therewas no choice. 

She would shed tears over a pitiful story of want, and without shadow ofhypocrisy. It was hard, it was cruel; such things oughtn't to be allowedin a world where there were so many rich people. The next day she wouldargue with her charwoman about halfpence, and end by paying the poorcreature what she knew was inadequate and unjust. For the simplestreason: she hadn't more to give, without submitting to privations whichshe considered intolerable. 

But whilst she could be a positive hyena to strangers, to those who wereakin to her, and those of whom she was fond, her affectionate kindnesswas remarkable. One observes this peculiarity often enough; it remindsone how savage the social conflict is, in which those little groups ofpeople stand serried against their common enemies; relentless to allothers, among themselves only the more tender and zealous because ofthe ever-impending danger. No mother was ever more devoted. Her son, agentleman of quite noteworthy selfishness, had board and lodging beneathher roof on nominal terms, and under no stress of pecuniary trouble hadMrs Yule called upon him to make the slightest sacrifice on her behalf. Her daughter she loved with profound tenderness, and had no will thatwas opposed to Amy's. And it was characteristic of her that her childrenwere never allowed to understand of what baseness she often becameguilty in the determination to support appearances. John Yule naturallysuspected what went on behind the scenes; on one occasion--since Amy'smarriage--he had involuntarily overheard a dialogue between his motherand a servant on the point of departing which made even him feelashamed. But from Amy every paltriness and meanness had always beenconcealed with the utmost care; Mrs Yule did not scruple to lieheroically when in danger of being detected by her daughter. 

Yet this energetic lady had no social ambitions that pointed above herown stratum. She did not aim at intimacy with her superiors; merely atsuperiority among her intimates. Her circle was not large, but in thatcircle she must be regarded with the respect due to a woman of refinedtastes and personal distinction. Her little dinners might be of rareoccurrence, but to be invited must be felt a privilege. 'Mrs EdmundYule' must sound well on people's lips; never be the occasion of thosepeculiar smiles which she herself was rather fond of indulging at themention of other people's names. 

The question of Amy's marriage had been her constant thought from thetime when the little girl shot into a woman grown. For Amy no commonmatch, no acceptance of a husband merely for money or position. Few menwho walked the earth were mates for Amy. But years went on, and the manof undeniable distinction did not yet present himself. Suitors offered, but Amy smiled coldly at their addresses, in private not seldomscornfully, and her mother, though growing anxious, approved. Then of asudden appeared Edwin Reardon. 

A literary man? Well, it was one mode of distinction. Happily, anovelist; novelists now and then had considerable social success. 

Mr Reardon, it was true, did not impress one as a man likely to pushforward where the battle called for rude vigour, but Amy soon assuredherself that he would have a reputation far other than that of theaverage successful storyteller. The best people would regard him; hewould be welcomed in the penetralia of culture; superior persons wouldsay: 'Oh, I don't read novels as a rule, but of course Mr Reardon's--'If that really were to be the case, all was well; for Mrs Yule couldappreciate social and intellectual differences. 

Alas! alas! What was the end of those shining anticipations?

First of all, Mrs Yule began to make less frequent mention of 'myson-in-law, Mr Edwin Reardon. ' Next, she never uttered his name savewhen inquiries necessitated it. Then, the most intimate of her intimatesreceived little hints which were not quite easy to interpret. 'Mr Reardon is growing so very eccentric--has an odd distaste forsociety--occupies himself with all sorts of out-of-the-way interests. No, I'm afraid we shan't have another of his novels for some time. I think he writes anonymously a good deal. And really, such curiouseccentricities!' Many were the tears she wept after her depressingcolloquies with Amy; and, as was to be expected, she thought severelyof the cause of these sorrows. On the last occasion when he came toher house she received him with such extreme civility that Reardonthenceforth disliked her, whereas before he had only thought her agood-natured and silly woman. 

Alas for Amy's marriage with a man of distinction! From step to step ofdescent, till here was downright catastrophe. Bitter enough in itself, but most lamentable with reference to the friends of the family. How wasit to be explained, this return of Amy to her home for several months, whilst her husband was no further away than Worthing? The bald, horribletruth--impossible! Yet Mr Milvain knew it, and the Carters must guessit. What colour could be thrown upon such vulgar distress?

The worst was not yet. It declared itself this May morning, when, quiteunexpectedly, a cab drove up to the house, bringing Amy and her child, and her trunks, and her band-boxes, and her what-nots. 

From the dining-room window Mrs Yule was aware of this arrival, and in afew moments she learnt the unspeakable cause. 

She burst into tears, genuine as ever woman shed. 

'There's no use in that, mother, ' said Amy, whose temper was in adangerous state. 'Nothing worse can happen, that's one consolation. '

'Oh, it's disgraceful! disgraceful!' sobbed Mrs Yule. 'What we are tosay I can NOT think. '

'I shall say nothing whatever. People can scarcely have the impertinenceto ask us questions when we have shown that they are unwelcome. '

'But there are some people I can't help giving some explanation to. Mydear child, he is not in his right mind. I'm convinced of it, there! Heis not in his right mind. '

'That's nonsense, mother. He is as sane as I am. '

'But you have often said what strange things he says and does; you knowyou have, Amy. That talking in his sleep; I've thought a great deal ofit since you told me about that. And--and so many other things. My love, I shall give it to be understood that he has become so very odd in hisways that--'

'I can't have that, ' replied Amy with decision. 'Don't you see that inthat case I should be behaving very badly?'

'I can't see that at all. There are many reasons, as you know very well, why one shouldn't live with a husband who is at all suspected of mentalderangement. You have done your utmost for him. And this would be somesort of explanation, you know. I am so convinced that there is truth init, too. '

'Of course I can't prevent you from saying what you like, but I think itwould be very wrong to start a rumour of this kind. '

There was less resolve in this utterance. Amy mused, and lookedwretched. 

'Come up to the drawing-room, dear, ' said her mother, for they had heldtheir conversation in the room nearest to the house-door. 'What a stateyour mind must be in! Oh dear! Oh dear!'

She was a slender, well-proportioned woman, still pretty in face, anddressed in a way that emphasised her abiding charms. Her voice hadsomething of plaintiveness, and altogether she was of frailer type thanher daughter. 

'Is my room ready?' Amy inquired on the stairs. 

'I'm sorry to say it isn't, dear, as I didn't expect you till tomorrow. But it shall be seen to immediately. '

This addition to the household was destined to cause grave difficultieswith the domestic slaves. But Mrs Yule would prove equal to theoccasion. On Amy's behalf she would have worked her servants till theyperished of exhaustion before her eyes. 

'Use my room for the present, ' she added. 'I think the girl has finishedup there. But wait here; I'll just go and see to things. '

'Things' were not quite satisfactory, as it proved. You should haveheard the change that came in that sweetly plaintive voice when itaddressed the luckless housemaid. It was not brutal; not at all. Butso sharp, hard, unrelenting--the voice of the goddess Poverty herselfperhaps sounds like that. 

Mad? Was he to be spoken of in a low voice, and with finger pointing tothe forehead? There was something ridiculous, as well as repugnant, insuch a thought; but it kept possession of Amy's mind. She was broodingupon it when her mother came into the drawing-room. 

'And he positively refused to carry out the former plan?'

'Refused. Said it was useless. '

'How could it be useless? There's something so unaccountable in hisbehaviour. '

'I don't think it unaccountable, ' replied Amy. 'It's weak and selfish, that's all. He takes the first miserable employment that offers ratherthan face the hard work of writing another book. '

She was quite aware that this did not truly represent her husband'sposition. But an uneasiness of conscience impelled her to harsh speech. 

'But just fancy!' exclaimed her mother. 'What can he mean by asking youto go and live with him on twenty-five shillings a week? Upon my word. If his mind isn't disordered he must have made a deliberate plan to getrid of you. '

Amy shook her head. 

'You mean, ' asked Mrs Yule, 'that he really thinks it possible for allof you to be supported on those wages?'

The last word was chosen to express the utmost scorn. 

'He talked of earning fifty pounds a year by writing. '

'Even then it could only make about a hundred a year. My dear child, it's one of two things: either he is out of his mind, or he haspurposely cast you off. '

Amy laughed, thinking of her husband in the light of the latteralternative. 

'There's no need to seek so far for explanations, ' she said. 'He hasfailed, that's all; just like a man might fail in any other business. Hecan't write like he used to. It may be all the result of ill-health; Idon't know. His last book, you see, is positively refused. He has madeup his mind that there's nothing but poverty before him, and he can'tunderstand why I should object to live like the wife of a working-man. '

'Well, I only know that he has placed you in an exceedingly difficultposition. If he had gone away to Worthing for the summer we might havemade it seem natural; people are always ready to allow literary men todo rather odd things--up to a certain point. We should have behaved asif there were nothing that called for explanation. But what are we to donow?'

Like her multitudinous kind, Mrs Yule lived only in the opinions ofother people. What others would say was her ceaseless preoccupation. She had never conceived of life as something proper to the individual;independence in the directing of one's course seemed to her onlypossible in the case of very eccentric persons, or of such as werealtogether out of society. Amy had advanced, intellectually, far beyondthis standpoint, but lack of courage disabled her from acting upon herconvictions. 

'People must know the truth, I suppose, ' she answered dispiritedly. 

Now, confession of the truth was the last thing that would occur to MrsYule when social relations were concerned. Her whole existence was basedon bold denial of actualities. And, as is natural in such persons, shehad the ostrich instinct strongly developed; though very acute inthe discovery of her friends' shams and lies, she deceived herselfludicrously in the matter of concealing her own embarrassments. 

'But the fact is, my dear, ' she answered, 'we don't know the truthourselves. You had better let yourself be directed by me. It will bebetter, at first, if you see as few people as possible. I suppose youmust say something or other to two or three of your own friends; if youtake my advice you'll be rather mysterious. Let them think what theylike; anything is better than to say plainly. "My husband can't supportme, and he has gone to work as a clerk for weekly wages. " Be mysterious, darling; depend upon it, that's the safest. '

The conversation was pursued, with brief intervals, all through theday. In the afternoon two ladies paid a call, but Amy kept out ofsight. Between six and seven John Yule returned from his gentlemanlyoccupations. As he was generally in a touchy temper before dinner hadsoothed him, nothing was said to him of the latest development of hissister's affairs until late in the evening; he was allowed to supposethat Reardon's departure for the seaside had taken place a day soonerthan had been arranged. 

Behind the dining-room was a comfortable little chamber set apart asJohn's sanctum; here he smoked and entertained his male friends, andcontemplated the portraits of those female ones who would not have beenaltogether at their ease in Mrs Yule's drawing-room. Not long afterdinner his mother and sister came to talk with him in this retreat. 

With some nervousness Mrs Yule made known to him what had taken place. Amy, the while, stood by the table, and glanced over a magazine that shehad picked up. 

'Well, I see nothing to be surprised at, ' was John's first remark. 'Itwas pretty certain he'd come to this. But what I want to know is, howlong are we to be at the expense of supporting Amy and her youngster?'

This was practical, and just what Mrs Yule had expected from her son. 

'We can't consider such things as that, ' she replied. 'You don't wish, Isuppose, that Amy should go and live in a back street at Islington, andbe hungry every other day, and soon have no decent clothes?'

'I don't think Jack would be greatly distressed, ' Amy put in quietly. 

'This is a woman's way of talking, ' replied John. 'I want to know whatis to be the end of it all? I've no doubt it's uncommonly pleasant forReardon to shift his responsibilities on to our shoulders. At this rateI think I shall get married, and live beyond my means until I can holdout no longer, and then hand my wife over to her relatives, with mycompliments. It's about the coolest business that ever came under mynotice. '

'But what is to be done?' asked Mrs Yule. 'It's no use talkingsarcastically, John, or making yourself disagreeable. '

'We are not called upon to find a way out of the difficulty. The fact ofthe matter is, Reardon must get a decent berth. Somebody or other mustpitch him into the kind of place that suits men who can do nothing inparticular. Carter ought to be able to help, I should think. '

'You know very well, ' said Amy, 'that places of that kind are not to behad for the asking. It may be years before any such opportunity offers. '

'Confound the fellow! Why the deuce doesn't he go on with hisnovel-writing? There's plenty of money to be made out of novels. '

'But he can't write, Jack. He has lost his talent. '

'That's all bosh, Amy. If a fellow has once got into the swing of it hecan keep it up if he likes. He might write his two novels a year easilyenough, just like twenty other men and women. Look here, I could do itmyself if I weren't too lazy. And that's what's the matter with Reardon. He doesn't care to work. '

'I have thought that myself;' observed Mrs Yule. 'It really is tooridiculous to say that he couldn't write some kind of novels if hechose. Look at Miss Blunt's last book; why, anybody could have writtenthat. I'm sure there isn't a thing in it I couldn't have imaginedmyself. '

'Well, all I want to know is, what's Amy going to do if things don'talter?'

'She shall never want a home as long as I have one to share with her. '

John's natural procedure, when beset by difficulties, was to findfault with everyone all round, himself maintaining a position ofirresponsibility. 

'It's all very well, mother, but when a girl gets married she takes herhusband, I have always understood, for better or worse, just as a mantakes his wife. To tell the truth, it seems to me Amy has put herself inthe wrong. It's deuced unpleasant to go and live in back streets, andto go without dinner now and then, but girls mustn't marry if they'reafraid to face these things. '

'Don't talk so monstrously, John!' exclaimed his mother. 'How could Amypossibly foresee such things? The case is quite an extraordinary one. '

'Not so uncommon, I assure you. Some one was telling me the other day ofa married lady--well educated and blameless--who goes to work at a shopsomewhere or other because her husband can't support her. '

'And you wish to see Amy working in a shop?'

'No, I can't say I do. I'm only telling you that her bad luck isn'tunexampled. It's very fortunate for her that she has good-naturedrelatives. '

Amy had taken a seat apart. She sat with her head leaning on her hand. 

'Why don't you go and see Reardon?' John asked of his mother. 

'What would be the use? Perhaps he would tell me to mind my ownbusiness. '

'By jingo! precisely what you would be doing. I think you ought to seehim and give him to understand that he's behaving in a confoundedlyungentlemanly way. Evidently he's the kind of fellow that wants stirringup. I've half a mind to go and see him myself. Where is this slum thathe's gone to live in?'

'We don't know his address yet. '

'So long as it's not the kind of place where one would be afraid ofcatching a fever, I think it wouldn't be amiss for me to look him up. '

'You'll do no good by that, ' said Amy, indifferently. 

'Confound it! It's just because nobody does anything that things havecome to this pass!'

The conversation was, of course, profitless. John could only returnagain and again to his assertion that Reardon must get 'a decent berth. 'At length Amy left the room in weariness and disgust. 

'I suppose they have quarrelled terrifically, ' said her brother, as soonas she was gone. 

'I am afraid so. '

'Well, you must do as you please. But it's confounded hard lines thatyou should have to keep her and the kid. You know I can't afford tocontribute. '

'My dear, I haven't asked you to. '

'No, but you'll have the devil's own job to make ends meet; I know thatwell enough. '

'I shall manage somehow. '

'All right; you're a plucky woman, but it's too bad. Reardon's a humbug, that's my opinion. I shall have a talk with Carter about him. I supposehe has transferred all their furniture to the slum?'

'He can't have removed yet. It was only this morning that he went tosearch for lodgings. '

'Oh, then I tell you what it is: I shall look in there the first thingto-morrow morning, and just talk to him in a fatherly way. You needn'tsay anything to Amy. But I see he's just the kind of fellow that, if everyone leaves him alone, he'll be content with Carter'sfive-and-twenty shillings for the rest of his life, and never troublehis head about how Amy is living. '

To this proposal Mrs Yule readily assented. On going upstairs she foundthat Amy had all but fallen asleep upon a settee in the drawing-room. 

'You are quite worn out with your troubles, ' she said. 'Go to bed, andhave a good long sleep. '

'Yes, I will. '

The neat, fresh bedchamber seemed to Amy a delightful haven of rest. Sheturned the key in the door with an enjoyment of the privacy thus securedsuch as she had never known in her life; for in maidenhood safe solitudewas a matter of course to her, and since marriage she had not passed anight alone. Willie was fast asleep in a little bed shadowed by her own. In an impulse of maternal love and gladness she bent over the child andcovered his face with kisses too gentle to awaken him. 

How clean and sweet everything was! It is often said, by people who areexquisitely ignorant of the matter, that cleanliness is a luxury withinreach even of the poorest. Very far from that; only with the utmostdifficulty, with wearisome exertion, with harassing sacrifice, canpeople who are pinched for money preserve a moderate purity in theirpersons and their surroundings. By painful degrees Amy had accustomedherself to compromises in this particular which in the early days of hermarried life would have seemed intensely disagreeable, if not revolting. A housewife who lives in the country, and has but a patch of backgarden, or even a good-sized kitchen, can, if she thinks fit, take herplace at the wash-tub and relieve her mind on laundry matters; but tothe inhabitant of a miniature flat in the heart of London anything ofthat kind is out of the question. 

When Amy began to cut down her laundress's bill, she did it with asense of degradation. One grows accustomed, however, to such unpleasantnecessities, and already she had learnt what was the minimum ofexpenditure for one who is troubled with a lady's instincts. 

No, no; cleanliness is a costly thing, and a troublesome thing whenappliances and means have to be improvised. It was, in part, theunderstanding she had gained of this side of the life of poverty thatmade Amy shrink in dread from the still narrower lodgings to whichReardon invited her. She knew how subtly one's self-respect can beundermined by sordid conditions. The difference between the life ofwell-to-do educated people and that of the uneducated poor is notgreater in visible details than in the minutiae of privacy, and Amymust have submitted to an extraordinary change before it would have beenpossible for her to live at ease in the circumstances which satisfy adecent working-class woman. She was prepared for final parting from herhusband rather than try to effect that change in herself. 

She undressed at leisure, and stretched her limbs in the cold, soft, fragrant bed. A sigh of profound relief escaped her. How good it was tobe alone!

And in a quarter of an hour she was sleeping as peacefully as the childwho shared her room. 

At breakfast in the morning she showed a bright, almost a happy face. Itwas long, long since she had enjoyed such a night's rest, so undisturbedwith unwelcome thoughts on the threshold of sleep and on awaking. Herlife was perhaps wrecked, but the thought of that did not press uponher; for the present she must enjoy her freedom. It was like a recoveryof girlhood. There are few married women who would not, sooner or later, accept with joy the offer of some months of a maidenly liberty. Amywould not allow herself to think that her wedded life was at an end. With a woman's strange faculty of closing her eyes against facts thatdo not immediately concern her, she tasted the relief of the present andlet the future lie unregarded. Reardon would get out of his difficultiessooner or later; somebody or other would help him; that was the dimbackground of her agreeable sensations. 

He suffered, no doubt. But then it was just as well that he should. Suffering would perhaps impel him to effort. When he communicated to herhis new address--he could scarcely neglect to do that--she would send anot unfriendly letter, and hint to him that now was his opportunity forwriting a book, as good a book as those which formerly issued from hisgarret-solitude. If he found that literature was in truth a thing of thepast with him, then he must exert himself to obtain a position worthy ofan educated man. Yes, in this way she would write to him, without a wordthat could hurt or offend. 

She ate an excellent breakfast, and made known her enjoyment of it. 

'I am so glad!' replied her mother. 'You have been getting quite thinand pale. '

'Quite consumptive, ' remarked John, looking up from his newspaper. 'Shall I make arrangements for a daily landau at the livery stablesround here?'

'You can if you like, ' replied his sister; 'it would do both mother andme good, and I have no doubt you could afford it quite well. '

'Oh, indeed! You're a remarkable young woman, let me tell you. By-the-bye, I suppose your husband is breakfasting on bread and water?'

'I hope not, and I don't think it very likely. '

'Jack, Jack!' interposed Mrs Yule, softly. 

Her son resumed his paper, and at the end of the meal rose with anunwonted briskness to make his preparations for departure. 

CHAPTER XIX. THE PAST REVIVED

Nor would it be true to represent Edwin Reardon as rising to the new daywholly disconsolate. He too had slept unusually well, and with returningconsciousness the sense of a burden removed was more instant than thatof his loss and all the dreary circumstances attaching to it. He had nolonger to fear the effects upon Amy of such a grievous change as fromtheir homelike flat to the couple of rooms he had taken in Islington;for the moment, this relief helped him to bear the pain of all that hadhappened and the uneasiness which troubled him when he reflected thathis wife was henceforth a charge to her mother. 

Of course for the moment only. He had no sooner begun to move about, toprepare his breakfast (amid the relics of last evening's meal), to thinkof all the detestable work he had to do before to-morrow night, than hisheart sank again. His position was well-nigh as dolorous as that of anyman who awoke that morning to the brutal realities of life. If only forthe shame of it! How must they be speaking of him, Amy's relatives, and her friends? A novelist who couldn't write novels; a husbandwho couldn't support his wife and child; a literate who made eagerapplication for illiterate work at paltry wages--how interesting itwould all sound in humorous gossip! And what hope had he that thingswould ever be better with him?

Had he done well? Had he done wisely? Would it not have been better tohave made that one last effort? There came before him a vision of quietnooks beneath the Sussex cliffs, of the long lines of green breakersbursting into foam; he heard the wave-music, and tasted the brinyfreshness of the sea-breeze. Inspiration, after all, would perchancehave come to him. 

If Amy's love had but been of more enduring quality; if she hadstrengthened him for this last endeavour with the brave tenderness ofan ideal wife! But he had seen such hateful things in her eyes. Her lovewas dead, and she regarded him as the man who had spoilt her hopes ofhappiness. It was only for her own sake that she urged him to strive on;let his be the toil, that hers might be the advantage if he succeeded. 

'She would be glad if I were dead. She would be glad. '

He had the conviction of it. Oh yes, she would shed tears; they come soeasily to women. But to have him dead and out of her way; to be savedfrom her anomalous position; to see once more a chance in life; shewould welcome it. 

But there was no time for brooding. To-day he had to sell all the thingsthat were superfluous, and to make arrangements for the removal of hiseffects to-morrow. By Wednesday night, in accordance with his agreement, the flat must be free for the new occupier. 

He had taken only two rooms, and fortunately as things were. Three wouldhave cost more than he was likely to be able to afford for a long time. The rent of the two was to be six-and-sixpence; and how, if Amy hadconsented to come, could he have met the expenses of their living outof his weekly twenty-five shillings? How could he have pretended to doliterary work in such cramped quarters, he who had never been able towrite a line save in strict seclusion? In his despair he had faced theimpossible. Amy had shown more wisdom, though in a spirit of unkindness. 

Towards ten o'clock he was leaving the flat to go and find people whowould purchase his books and old clothing and other superfluities; butbefore he could close the door behind him, an approaching step onthe stairs caught his attention. He saw the shining silk hat of awell-equipped gentleman. It was John Yule. 

'Ha! Good-morning!' John exclaimed, looking up. 'A minute or two and Ishould have been too late, I see. '

He spoke in quite a friendly way, and, on reaching the landing, shookhands. 

'Are you obliged to go at once? Or could I have a word with you?'

'Come in. '

They entered the study, which was in some disorder; Reardon made noreference to circumstances, but offered a chair, and seated himself. 

'Have a cigarette?' said Yule, holding out a box of them. 

'No, thank you; I don't smoke so early. '

'Then I'll light one myself; it always makes talk easier to me. You'reon the point of moving, I suppose?'

'Yes, I am. '

Reardon tried to speak in quite a simple way, with no admission ofembarrassment. He was not successful, and to his visitor the tone seemedrather offensive. 

'I suppose you'll let Amy know your new address?'

'Certainly. Why should I conceal it?'

'No, no; I didn't mean to suggest that. But you might be taking it forgranted that--that the rupture was final, I thought. '

There had never been any intimacy between these two men. Reardonregarded his wife's brother as rather snobbish and disagreeably selfish;John Yule looked upon the novelist as a prig, and now of late asa shuffling, untrustworthy fellow. It appeared to John that hisbrother-in-law was assuming a manner wholly unjustifiable, and he had adifficulty in behaving to him with courtesy. Reardon, on the other hand, felt injured by the turn his visitor's remarks were taking, and began toresent the visit altogether. 

'I take nothing for granted, ' he said coldly. 'But I'm afraid nothing isto be gained by a discussion of our difficulties. The time for that isover. 

'I can't quite see that. It seems to me that the time has just come. '

'Please tell me, to begin with, do you come on Amy's behalf?'

'In a way, yes. She hasn't sent me, but my mother and I are soastonished at what is happening that it was necessary for one or otherof us to see you. '

'I think it is all between Amy and myself. '

'Difficulties between husband and wife are generally best left tothe people themselves, I know. But the fact is, there are peculiarcircumstances in the present case. It can't be necessary for me toexplain further. '

Reardon could find no suitable words of reply. He understood what Yulereferred to, and began to feel the full extent of his humiliation. 

'You mean, of course--' he began; but his tongue failed him. 

'Well, we should really like to know how long it is proposed that Amyshall remain with her mother. '

John was perfectly self-possessed; it took much to disturb hisequanimity. He smoked his cigarette, which was in an amber mouthpiece, and seemed to enjoy its flavour. Reardon found himself observing theperfection of the young man's boots and trousers. 

'That depends entirely on my wife herself;' he replied mechanically. 

'How so?'

'I offer her the best home I can. '

Reardon felt himself a poor, pitiful creature, and hated thewell-dressed man who made him feel so. 

'But really, Reardon, ' began the other, uncrossing and recrossing hislegs, 'do you tell me in seriousness that you expect Amy to live in suchlodgings as you can afford on a pound a week?'

'I don't. I said that I had offered her the best home I could. I knowit's impossible, of course. '

Either he must speak thus, or break into senseless wrath. It was hard tohold back the angry words that were on his lips, but he succeeded, andhe was glad he had done so. 

'Then it doesn't depend on Amy, ' said John. 

'I suppose not. '

'You see no reason, then, why she shouldn't live as at present for anindefinite time?'

To John, whose perspicacity was not remarkable, Reardon's changedtone conveyed simply an impression of bland impudence. He eyed hisbrother-in-law rather haughtily. 

'I can only say, ' returned the other, who was become wearilyindifferent, 'that as soon as I can afford a decent home I shall give mywife the opportunity of returning to me. '

'But, pray, when is that likely to be?'

John had passed the bounds; his manner was too frankly contemptuous. 

'I see no right you have to examine me in this fashion, ' Reardonexclaimed. 'With Mrs Yule I should have done my best to be patient ifshe had asked these questions; but you are not justified in puttingthem, at all events not in this way. '

'I'm very sorry you speak like this, Reardon, ' said the other, with calminsolence. 'It confirms unpleasant ideas, you know. '

'What do you mean?'

'Why, one can't help thinking that you are rather too much at your easeunder the circumstances. It isn't exactly an everyday thing, you know, for a man's wife to be sent back to her own people--'

Reardon could not endure the sound of these words. He interrupted hotly. 

'I can't discuss it with you. You are utterly unable to comprehend meand my position, utterly! It would be useless to defend myself. You musttake whatever view seems to you the natural one. '

John, having finished his cigarette, rose. 

'The natural view is an uncommonly disagreeable one, ' he said. 'However, I have no intention of quarrelling with you. I'll only just say that, as I take a share in the expenses of my mother's house, this questiondecidedly concerns me; and I'll add that I think it ought to concern youa good deal more than it seems to. '

Reardon, ashamed already of his violence, paused upon these remarks. 

'It shall, ' he uttered at length, coldly. 'You have put it clearlyenough to me, and you shan't have spoken in vain. Is there anything elseyou wish to say?'

'Thank you; I think not. '

They parted with distant civility, and Reardon closed the door behindhis visitor. 

He knew that his character was seen through a distorting medium by Amy'srelatives, to some extent by Amy herself; but hitherto the reflectionthat this must always be the case when a man of his kind is judged bypeople of the world had strengthened him in defiance. An endeavourto explain himself would be maddeningly hopeless; even Amy did notunderstand aright the troubles through which his intellectual and moralnature was passing, and to speak of such experiences to Mrs Yule or toJohn would be equivalent to addressing them in alien tongues; he andthey had no common criterion by reference to which he could makehimself intelligible. The practical tone in which John had explained theopposing view of the situation made it impossible for him to proceed ashe had purposed. Amy would never come to him in his poor lodgings; hermother, her brother, all her advisers would regard such a thing as outof the question. Very well; recognising this, he must also recognise hiswife's claim upon him for material support. It was not in his power tosupply her with means sufficient to live upon, but what he could affordshe should have. 

When he went out, it was with a different purpose from that of halfan hour ago. After a short search in the direction of Edgware Road, hefound a dealer in second-hand furniture, whom he requested to come assoon as possible to the flat on a matter of business. An hour later theman kept his appointment. Having brought him into the study, Reardonsaid:

'I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions that I'llpoint out to you'. 

'Very good, sir, ' was the reply. 'Let's have a look through the rooms. '

That the price offered would be strictly a minimum Reardon knew wellenough. The dealer was a rough and rather dirty fellow, with thedistrustful glance which distinguishes his class. Men of Reardon's type, when hapless enough to be forced into vulgar commerce, are doubly at adisadvantage; not only their ignorance, but their sensitiveness, makesthem ready victims of even the least subtle man of business. To dealon equal terms with a person you must be able to assert with calmconfidence that you are not to be cheated; Reardon was too well awarethat he would certainly be cheated, and shrank scornfully from thehiggling of the market. Moreover, he was in a half-frenzied state ofmind, and cared for little but to be done with the hateful details ofthis process of ruin. 

He pencilled a list of the articles he must retain for his own use; itwould of course be cheaper to take a bare room than furnishedlodgings, and every penny he could save was of importance to him. Thechair-bedstead, with necessary linen and blankets, a table, two chairs, a looking-glass--strictly the indispensable things; no need to completethe list. Then there were a few valuable wedding-presents, whichbelonged rather to Amy than to him; these he would get packed and sendto Westbourne Park. 

The dealer made his calculation, with many side-glances at the vendor. 

'And what may you ask for the lot?'

'Please to make an offer. '

'Most of the things has had a good deal of wear--'

'I know, I know. Just let me hear what you will give. '

'Well, if you want a valuation, I say eighteen pound ten. '

It was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a man whounderstood such affairs would have obtained. 

'That's the most you can give?'

'Wouldn't pay me to give a sixpence more. You see--'

He began to point out defects, but Reardon cut him short. 

'Can you take them away at once?'

'At wunst? Would two o'clock do?'

'Yes, it would. '

'And might you want these other things takin' anywheres?'

'Yes, but not till to-morrow. They have to go to Islington. What wouldyou do it for?'

This bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way. ThereuponReardon set to work to dispose of his books; by half-past one he hadsold them for a couple of guineas. At two came the cart that was to takeaway the furniture, and at four o'clock nothing remained in the flatsave what had to be removed on the morrow. 

The next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a week's rentfor the two rooms he had taken, and find a single room at the lowestpossible cost. On the way, he entered an eating-house and satisfied hishunger, for he had had nothing since breakfast. It took him a couple ofhours to discover the ideal garret; it was found at length in a narrowlittle by-way running out of Upper Street. The rent was half-a-crown aweek. 

At seven o'clock he sat down in what once was called his study, andwrote the following letter:

'Enclosed in this envelope you will find twenty pounds. I have beenreminded that your relatives will be at the expense of your support;it seemed best to me to sell the furniture, and now I send you allthe money I can spare at present. You will receive to-morrow a boxcontaining several things I did not feel justified in selling. As soonas I begin to have my payment from Carter, half of it shall be sentto you every week. My address is: 5 Manville Street, Upper Street, Islington. --EDWIN REARDON. '

He enclosed the money, in notes and gold, and addressed the envelope tohis wife. She must receive it this very night, and he knew not how toensure that save by delivering it himself. So he went to Westbourne Parkby train, and walked to Mrs Yule's house. 

At this hour the family were probably at dinner; yes, the window of thedining-room showed lights within, whilst those of the drawing-room werein shadow. After a little hesitation he rang the servants' bell. Whenthe door opened, he handed his letter to the girl, and requested that itmight be given to Mrs Reardon as soon as possible. With one more hastyglance at the window--Amy was perhaps enjoying her unwonted comfort--hewalked quickly away. 

As he re-entered what had been his home, its bareness made his heartsink. An hour or two had sufficed for this devastation; nothing remainedupon the uncarpeted floors but the needments he would carry with himinto the wilderness, such few evidences of civilisation as the poorestcannot well dispense with. Anger, revolt, a sense of outraged love--allmanner of confused passions had sustained him throughout this day oftoil; now he had leisure to know how faint he was. He threw himself uponhis chair-bedstead, and lay for more than an hour in torpor of body andmind. 

But before he could sleep he must eat. Though it was cold, he couldnot exert himself to light a fire; there was some food still in thecupboard, and he consumed it in the fashion of a tired labourer, withthe plate on his lap, using his fingers and a knife. What had he to dowith delicacies?

He felt utterly alone in the world. Unless it were Biffen, what mortalwould give him kindly welcome under any roof? These stripped roomswere symbolical of his life; losing money, he had lost everything. 'Bethankful that you exist, that these morsels of food are still grantedyou. Man has a right to nothing in this world that he cannot pay for. Did you imagine that love was an exception? Foolish idealist! Love isone of the first things to be frightened away by poverty. Go and liveupon your twelve-and-sixpence a week, and on your memories of the past. '

In this room he had sat with Amy on their return from the weddingholiday. 'Shall you always love me as you do now?'--'For ever! forever!'--'Even if I disappointed you? If I failed?'--'How could thataffect my love?' The voices seemed to be lingering still, in a sad, faint echo, so short a time it was since those words were uttered. 

His own fault. A man has no business to fail; least of all can he expectothers to have time to look back upon him or pity him if he sink underthe stress of conflict. Those behind will trample over his body; theycan't help it; they themselves are borne onwards by resistless pressure. 

He slept for a few hours, then lay watching the light of dawn as itrevealed his desolation. 

The morning's post brought him a large heavy envelope, the aspect ofwhich for a moment puzzled him. But he recognised the handwriting, andunderstood. The editor of The Wayside, in a pleasantly-written note, begged to return the paper on Pliny's Letters which had recentlybeen submitted to him; he was sorry it did not strike him as quite sointeresting as the other contributions from Reardon's pen. 

This was a trifle. For the first time he received a rejected piece ofwriting without distress; he even laughed at the artistic completenessof the situation. The money would have been welcome, but on that veryaccount he might have known it would not come. 

The cart that was to transfer his property to the room in Islingtonarrived about mid-day. By that time he had dismissed the last details ofbusiness in relation to the flat, and was free to go back to the obscureworld whence he had risen. He felt that for two years and a half he hadbeen a pretender. It was not natural to him to live in the manner ofpeople who enjoy an assured income; he belonged to the class of casualwage-earners. Back to obscurity!

Carrying a bag which contained a few things best kept in his own care, he went by train to King's Cross, and thence walked up PentonvilleHill to Upper Street and his own little by-way. Manville Street was notunreasonably squalid; the house in which he had found a home was notalarming in its appearance, and the woman who kept it had an honestface. Amy would have shrunk in apprehension, but to one who hadexperience of London garrets this was a rather favourable specimen ofits kind. The door closed more satisfactorily than poor Biffen's, forinstance, and there were not many of those knot-holes in the floor whichgave admission to piercing little draughts; not a pane of the windowwas cracked, not one. A man might live here comfortably--could memory bedestroyed. 

'There's a letter come for you, ' said the landlady as she admitted him. 'You'll find it on your mantel. '

He ascended hastily. The letter must be from Amy, as no one else knewhis address. Yes, and its contents were these:

'As you have really sold the furniture, I shall accept half this moneythat you send. I must buy clothing for myself and Willie. But the otherten pounds I shall return to you as soon as possible. As for youroffer of half what you are to receive from Mr Carter, that seems to meridiculous; in any case, I cannot take it. If you seriously abandonall further hope from literature, I think it is your duty to make everyeffort to obtain a position suitable to a man of your education. --AMYREARDON. '

Doubtless Amy thought it was her duty to write in this way. Not a wordof sympathy; he must understand that no one was to blame but himself;and that her hardships were equal to his own. 

In the bag he had brought with him there were writing materials. Standing at the mantelpiece, he forthwith penned a reply to this letter:

'The money is for your support, as far as it will go. If it comes backto me I shall send it again. If you refuse to make use of it, youwill have the kindness to put it aside and consider it as belongingto Willie. The other money of which I spoke will be sent to you once amonth. As our concerns are no longer between us alone, I must protectmyself against anyone who would be likely to accuse me of not giving youwhat I could afford. For your advice I thank you, but remember that inwithdrawing from me your affection you have lost all right to offer mecounsel. '

He went out and posted this at once. 

By three o'clock the furniture of his room was arranged. He had not kepta carpet; that was luxury, and beyond his due. His score of volumes mustrank upon the mantelpiece; his clothing must be kept in the trunk. Cups, plates, knives, forks, and spoons would lie in the little open cupboard, the lowest section of which was for his supply of coals. When everythingwas in order he drew water from a tap on the landing and washed himself;then, with his bag, went out to make purchases. A loaf of bread, butter, sugar, condensed milk; a remnant of tea he had brought with him. Onreturning, he lit as small a fire as possible, put on his kettle, andsat down to meditate. 

How familiar it all was to him! And not unpleasant, for it broughtback the days when he had worked to such good purpose. It was like arestoration of youth. 

Of Amy he would not think. Knowing his bitter misery, she could writeto him in cold, hard words, without a touch even of womanly feeling. Ifever they were to meet again, the advance must be from her side. He hadno more tenderness for her until she strove to revive it. 

Next morning he called at the hospital to see Carter. The secretary'speculiar look and smile seemed to betray a knowledge of what had beengoing on since Sunday, and his first words confirmed this impression ofReardon's. 

'You have removed, I hear?'

'Yes; I had better give you my new address. '

Reardon's tone was meant to signify that further remark on the subjectwould be unwelcome. Musingly, Carter made a note of the address. 

'You still wish to go on with this affair?'

'Certainly. '

'Come and have some lunch with me, then, and afterwards we'll go to theCity Road and talk things over on the spot. '

The vivacious young man was not quite so genial as of wont, but heevidently strove to show that the renewal of their relations as employerand clerk would make no difference in the friendly intercourse whichhad since been established; the invitation to lunch evidently had thispurpose. 

'I suppose, ' said Carter, when they were seated in a restaurant, 'youwouldn't object to anything better, if a chance turned up?'

'I should take it, to be sure. '

'But you don't want a job that would occupy all your time? You're goingon with writing, of course?'

'Not for the present, I think. '

'Then you would like me to keep a look-out? I haven't anything inview--nothing whatever. But one hears of things sometimes. '

'I should be obliged to you if you could help me to anythingsatisfactory. '

Having brought himself to this admission, Reardon felt more at ease. Towhat purpose should he keep up transparent pretences? It was manifestlyhis duty to earn as much money as he could, in whatever way. Let theman of letters be forgotten; he was seeking for remunerative employment, just as if he had never written a line. 

Amy did not return the ten pounds, and did not write again. So, presumably, she would accept the moiety of his earnings; he was gladof it. After paying half-a-crown for rent, there would be left tenshillings. Something like three pounds that still remained to him hewould not reckon; this must be for casualties. 

Half-a-sovereign was enough for his needs; in the old times he hadcounted it a competency which put his mind quite at rest. 

The day came, and he entered upon his duties in City Road. It needed butan hour or two, and all the intervening time was cancelled; he wasback once more in the days of no reputation, a harmless clerk, a decentwage-earner. 

CHAPTER XX. THE END OF WAITING

It was more than a fortnight after Reardon's removal to Islington whenJasper Milvain heard for the first time of what had happened. He wascoming down from the office of the Will-o'-the-Wisp one afternoon, after a talk with the editor concerning a paragraph in his last week'scauserie which had been complained of as libellous, and which wouldprobably lead to the 'case' so much desired by everyone connected withthe paper, when someone descending from a higher storey of the buildingovertook him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned and sawWhelpdale. 

'What brings you on these premises?' he asked, as they shook hands. 

'A man I know has just been made sub-editor of Chat, upstairs. He hashalf promised to let me do a column of answers to correspondents. '

'Cosmetics? Fashions? Cookery?'

'I'm not so versatile as all that, unfortunately. No, the generalinformation column. "Will you be so good as to inform me, through themedium of your invaluable paper, what was the exact area devastatedby the Great Fire of London?"--that kind of thing, you know. Hopburn--that's the fellow's name--tells me that his predecessor alwayscalled the paper Chat-moss, because of the frightful difficulty he hadin filling it up each week. By-the-bye, what a capital column that is ofyours in Will-o'-the-Wisp. I know nothing like it in English journalism;upon my word I don't!'

'Glad you like it. Some people are less fervent in their admiration. '

Jasper recounted the affair which had just been under discussion in theoffice. 

'It may cost a couple of thousands, but the advertisement is worth that, Patwin thinks. Barlow is delighted; he wouldn't mind paying double themoney to make those people a laughing-stock for a week or two. '

They issued into the street, and walked on together; Milvain, withhis keen eye and critical smile, unmistakably the modern young man whocultivates the art of success; his companion of a less pronounced type, but distinguished by a certain subtlety of countenance, a blending ofthe sentimental and the shrewd. 

'Of course you know all about the Reardons?' said Whelpdale. 

'Haven't seen or heard of them lately. What is it?'

'Then you don't know that they have parted?'

'Parted?'

'I only heard about it last night; Biffen told me. Reardon is doingclerk's work at a hospital somewhere in the East-end, and his wife hasgone to live at her mother's house. '

'Ho, ho!' exclaimed Jasper, thoughtfully. 'Then the crash has come. Ofcourse I knew it must be impending. I'm sorry for Reardon. '

'I'm sorry for his wife. '

'Trust you for thinking of women first, Whelpdale. '

'It's in an honourable way, my dear fellow. I'm a slave to women, true, but all in an honourable way. After that last adventure of mine mostmen would be savage and cynical, wouldn't they, now? I'm nothing of thekind. I think no worse of women--not a bit. I reverence them as much asever. There must be a good deal of magnanimity in me, don't you think?'

Jasper laughed unrestrainedly. 

'But it's the simple truth, ' pursued the other. 'You should haveseen the letter I wrote to that girl at Birmingham--all charity andforgiveness. I meant it, every word of it. I shouldn't talk to everyonelike this, you know; but it's as well to show a friend one's bestqualities now and then. '

'Is Reardon still living at the old place?'

'No, no. They sold up everything and let the flat. He's in lodgingssomewhere or other. I'm not quite intimate enough with him to go and seehim under the circumstances. But I'm surprised you know nothing aboutit. '

'I haven't seen much of them this year. Reardon--well, I'm afraid hehasn't very much of the virtue you claim for yourself. It rather annoyshim to see me going ahead. '

'Really? His character never struck me in that way. '

'You haven't come enough in contact with him. At all events, I can'texplain his change of manner in any other way. But I'm sorry for him;I am, indeed. At a hospital? I suppose Carter has given him the old jobagain?'

'Don't know. Biffen doesn't talk very freely about it; there's a gooddeal of delicacy in Biffen, you know. A thoroughly good-hearted fellow. And so is Reardon, I believe, though no doubt he has his weaknesses. '

'Oh, an excellent fellow! But weakness isn't the word. Why, I foresawall this from the very beginning. The first hour's talk I ever hadwith him was enough to convince me that he'd never hold his own. But hereally believed that the future was clear before him; he imagined he'dgo on getting more and more for his books. An extraordinary thing thatthat girl had such faith in him!'

They parted soon after this, and Milvain went homeward, musing upon whathe had heard. It was his purpose to spend the whole evening on somework which pressed for completion, but he found an unusual difficultyin settling to it. About eight o'clock he gave up the effort, arrayedhimself in the costume of black and white, and journeyed to WestbournePark, where his destination was the house of Mrs Edmund Yule. Of theservant who opened to him he inquired if Mrs Yule was at home, andreceived an answer in the affirmative. 

'Any company with her?'

'A lady--Mrs Carter. '

'Then please to give my name, and ask if Mrs Yule can see me. '

He was speedily conducted to the drawing-room, where he found the ladyof the house, her son, and Mrs Carter. For Mrs Reardon his eye sought invain. 

'I'm so glad you have come, ' said Mrs Yule, in a confidential tone. 'Ihave been wishing to see you. Of course, you know of our sad trouble?'

'I have heard of it only to-day. '

'From Mr Reardon himself?'

'No; I haven't seen him. '

'I do wish you had! We should have been so anxious to know how heimpressed you. '

'How he impressed me?'

'My mother has got hold of the notion, ' put in John Yule, 'that he's notexactly compos mentis. I'll admit that he went on in a queer sort of waythe last time I saw him. '

'And my husband thinks he is rather strange, ' remarked Mrs Carter. 

'He has gone back to the hospital, I understand--'

'To a new branch that has just been opened in the City Road, ' repliedMrs Yule. 'And he's living in a dreadful place--one of the most shockingalleys in the worst part of Islington. I should have gone to see him, but I really feel afraid; they give me such an account of the place. And everyone agrees that he has such a very wild look, and speaks sostrangely. '

'Between ourselves, ' said John, 'there's no use in exaggerating. He'sliving in a vile hole, that's true, and Carter says he looks miserablyill, but of course he may be as sane as we are. 

Jasper listened to all this with no small astonishment. 

'And Mrs Reardon?' he asked. 

'I'm sorry to say she is far from well, ' replied Mrs Yule. 'To-day shehas been obliged to keep her room. You can imagine what a shock it hasbeen to her. It came with such extraordinary suddenness. Without a wordof warning, her husband announced that he had taken a clerkship and wasgoing to remove immediately to the East-end. Fancy! And this when he hadalready arranged, as you know, to go to the South Coast and write hisnext book under the influences of the sea air. He was anything but well;we all knew that, and we had all joined in advising him to spend thesummer at the seaside. It seemed better that he should go alone; MrsReardon would, of course, have gone down for a few days now and then. And at a moment's notice everything is changed, and in such a dreadfulway! I cannot believe that this is the behaviour of a sane man!'

Jasper understood that an explanation of the matter might have beengiven in much more homely terms; it was natural that Mrs Yuleshould leave out of sight the sufficient, but ignoble, cause of herson-in-law's behaviour. 

'You see in what a painful position we are placed, ' continued theeuphemistic lady. 'It is so terrible even to hint that Mr Reardon is notresponsible for his actions, yet how are we to explain to our friendsthis extraordinary state of things?'

'My husband is afraid Mr Reardon may fall seriously ill, ' said MrsCarter. 'And how dreadful! In such a place as that!'

'It would be so kind of you to go and see him, Mr Milvain, ' urged MrsYule. 'We should be so glad to hear what you think. '

'Certainly, I will go, ' replied Jasper. 'Will you give me his address?'

He remained for an hour, and before his departure the subject wasdiscussed with rather more frankness than at first; even the word'money' was once or twice heard. 

'Mr Carter has very kindly promised, ' said Mrs Yule, 'to do his best tohear of some position that would be suitable. It seems a most shockingthing that a successful author should abandon his career in thisdeliberate way; who could have imagined anything of the kind twoyears ago? But it is clearly quite impossible for him to go on asat present--if there is really no reason for believing his minddisordered. '

A cab was summoned for Mrs Carter, and she took her leave, suppressingher native cheerfulness to the tone of the occasion. A minute or twoafter, Milvain left the house. 

He had walked perhaps twenty yards, almost to the end of the silentstreet in which his friends' house was situated, when a man came roundthe corner and approached him. At once he recognised the figure, and ina moment he was face to face with Reardon. Both stopped. Jasper held outhis hand, but the other did not seem to notice it. 

'You are coming from Mrs Yule's?' said Reardon, with a strange smile. 

By the gaslight his face showed pale and sunken, and he met Jasper'slook with fixedness. 

'Yes, I am. The fact is, I went there to hear of your address. Whyhaven't you let me know about all this?'

'You went to the flat?'

'No, I was told about you by Whelpdale. '

Reardon turned in the direction whence he had come, and began to walkslowly; Jasper kept beside him. 

'I'm afraid there's something amiss between us, Reardon, ' said thelatter, just glancing at his companion. 

'There's something amiss between me and everyone, ' was the reply, in anunnatural voice. 

'You look at things too gloomily. Am I detaining you, by-the-bye? Youwere going--'

'Nowhere. '

'Then come to my rooms, and let us see if we can't talk more in the oldway. '

'Your old way of talk isn't much to my taste, Milvain. It has cost metoo much. 'Jasper gazed at him. Was there some foundation for Mrs Yule'sseeming extravagance? This reply sounded so meaningless, and so unlikeReardon's manner of speech, that the younger man experienced a suddenalarm. 

'Cost you too much? I don't understand you. '

They had turned into a broader thoroughfare, which, however, was littlefrequented at this hour. Reardon, his hands thrust into the pockets ofa shabby overcoat and his head bent forward, went on at a slow pace, observant of nothing. For a moment or two he delayed reply, then said inan unsteady voice:

'Your way of talking has always been to glorify success, to insist uponit as the one end a man ought to keep in view. If you had talked so tome alone, it wouldn't have mattered. But there was generally someoneelse present. Your words had their effect; I can see that now. It's verymuch owing to you that I am deserted, now that there's no hope of myever succeeding. '

Jasper's first impulse was to meet this accusation with indignantdenial, but a sense of compassion prevailed. It was so painful to seethe defeated man wandering at night near the house where his wifeand child were comfortably sheltered; and the tone in which he spokerevealed such profound misery. 

'That's a most astonishing thing to say, ' Jasper replied. 'Of course Iknow nothing of what has passed between you and your wife, but I feelcertain that I have no more to do with what has happened than any otherof your acquaintances. '

'You may feel as certain as you will, but your words and your examplehave influenced my wife against me. You didn't intend that; I don'tsuppose it for a moment. It's my misfortune, that's all. '

'That I intended nothing of the kind, you need hardly say, I shouldthink. But you are deceiving yourself in the strangest way. I'm afraidto speak plainly; I'm afraid of offending you. But can you recallsomething that I said about the time of your marriage? You didn't likeit then, and certainly it won't be pleasant to you to remember it now. If you mean that your wife has grown unkind to you because you areunfortunate, there's no need to examine into other people's influencefor an explanation of that. '

Reardon turned his face towards the speaker. 

'Then you have always regarded my wife as a woman likely to fail me intime of need?'

'I don't care to answer a question put in that way. If we are no longerto talk with the old friendliness, it's far better we shouldn't discussthings such as this. '

'Well, practically you have answered. Of course I remember those wordsof yours that you refer to. Whether you were right or wrong doesn'taffect what I say. '

He spoke with a dull doggedness, as though mental fatigue did not allowhim to say more. 

'It's impossible to argue against such a charge, ' said Milvain. 'I amconvinced it isn't true, and that's all I can answer. But perhaps youthink this extraordinary influence of mine is still being used againstyou?'

'I know nothing about it, ' Reardon replied, in the same unmodulatedvoice. 

'Well, as I have told you, this was my first visit to Mrs Yule's sinceyour wife has been there, and I didn't see her; she isn't very well, and keeps her room. I'm glad it happened so--that I didn't meet her. Henceforth I shall keep away from the family altogether, so long, at allevents, as your wife remains with them. Of course I shan't tell anyonewhy; that would be impossible. But you shan't have to fear that I amdecrying you. By Jove! an amiable figure you make of me!'

'I have said what I didn't wish to say, and what I oughtn't to havesaid. You must misunderstand me; I can't help it. '

Reardon had been walking for hours, and was, in truth, exhausted. 

He became mute. Jasper, whose misrepresentation was wilful, though notmaliciously so, also fell into silence; he did not believe that hisconversations with Amy had seriously affected the course of events, but he knew that he had often said things to her in private whichwould scarcely have fallen from his lips if her husband had beenpresent--little depreciatory phrases, wrong rather in tone than interms, which came of his irresistible desire to assume superioritywhenever it was possible. He, too, was weak, but with quite anotherkind of weakness than Reardon's. His was the weakness of vanity, whichsometimes leads a man to commit treacheries of which he would believehimself incapable. Self-accused, he took refuge in the pretence ofmisconception, which again was a betrayal of littleness. 

They drew near to Westbourne Park station. 

'You are living a long way from here, ' Jasper said, coldly. 'Are yougoing by train?'

'No. You said my wife was ill?'

'Oh, not ill. At least, I didn't understand that it was anythingserious. Why don't you walk back to the house?'

'I must judge of my own affairs. '

'True; I beg your pardon. I take the train here, so I'll saygood-night. '

They nodded to each other, but did not shake hands. 

A day or two later, Milvain wrote to Mrs Yule, and told her that hehad seen Reardon; he did not describe the circumstances under which theinterview had taken place, but gave it as his opinion that Reardonwas in a state of nervous illness, and made by suffering quite unlikehimself. That he might be on the way to positive mental disease seemedlikely enough. 'Unhappily, I myself can be of no use to him; he hasnot the same friendly feeling for me as he used to have. But it isvery certain that those of his friends who have the power should exertthemselves to raise him out of this fearful slough of despond. If heisn't effectually helped, there's no saying what may happen. One thingis certain, I think: he is past helping himself. Sane literary workcannot be expected from him. It seems a monstrous thing that so good afellow, and one with such excellent brains too, should perish by theway when influential people would have no difficulty in restoring him tohealth and usefulness. '

All the months of summer went by. Jasper kept his word, and nevervisited Mrs Yule's house; but once in July he met that lady at theCarters', and heard then, what he knew from other sources, that theposition of things was unchanged. In August, Mrs Yule spent a fortnightat the seaside, and Amy accompanied her. Milvain and his sistersaccepted an invitation to visit friends at Wattleborough, and were outof town about three weeks, the last ten days being passed in the Isle ofWight; it was an extravagant holiday, but Dora had been ailing, and herbrother declared that they would all work better for the change. AlfredYule, with his wife and daughter, rusticated somewhere in Kent. Dora andMarian exchanged letters, and here is a passage from one written by theformer:

'Jasper has shown himself in an unusually amiable light since we lefttown. I looked forward to this holiday with some misgivings, as I knowby experience that it doesn't do for him and us to be too much together;he gets tired of our company, and then his selfishness--believe me, hehas a good deal of it--comes out in a way we don't appreciate. But Ihave never known him so forbearing. To me he is particularly kind, onaccount of my headaches and general shakiness. It isn't impossible thatthis young man, if all goes well with him, may turn out far better thanMaud and I ever expected. But things will have to go very well, if theimprovement is to be permanent. I only hope he may make a lot of moneybefore long. If this sounds rather gross to you, I can only say thatJasper's moral nature will never be safe as long as he is exposed tothe risks of poverty. There are such people, you know. As a poor man, Iwouldn't trust him out of my sight; with money, he will be a tolerablecreature--as men go. '

Dora, no doubt, had her reasons for writing in this strain. She wouldnot have made such remarks in conversation with her friend, but took theopportunity of being at a distance to communicate them in writing. 

On their return, the two girls made good progress with the book theywere manufacturing for Messrs Jolly and Monk, and early in October itwas finished. Dora was now writing little things for The English Girl, and Maud had begun to review an occasional novel for an illustratedpaper. In spite of their poor lodgings, they had been brought intosocial relations with Mrs Boston Wright and a few of her friends; theirposition was understood, and in accepting invitations they had no fearlest unwelcome people should pounce down upon them in their shabbylittle sitting-room. The younger sister cared little for society suchas Jasper procured them; with Marian Yule for a companion she would havebeen quite content to spend her evenings at home. But Maud relished theintroduction to strangers. She was admired, and knew it. Prudencecould not restrain her from buying a handsomer dress than those she hadbrought from her country home, and it irked her sorely that she mightnot reconstruct all her equipment to rival the appearance of well-to-dogirls whom she studied and envied. Her disadvantages, for the present, were insuperable. She had no one to chaperon her; she could not formintimacies because of her poverty. A rare invitation to luncheon, apermission to call at the sacred hour of small-talk--this was all shecould hope for. 

'I advise you to possess your soul in patience, ' Jasper said to her, as they talked one day on the sea-shore. 'You are not to blame that youlive without conventional protection, but it necessitates your beingvery careful. These people you are getting to know are not rigid aboutsocial observances, and they won't exactly despise you for poverty; allthe same, their charity mustn't be tested too severely. Be very quietfor the present; let it be seen that you understand that your positionisn't quite regular--I mean, of course, do so in a modest and niceway. As soon as ever it's possible, we'll arrange for you to live withsomeone who will preserve appearances. All this is contemptible, of course; but we belong to a contemptible society, and can't helpourselves. For Heaven's sake, don't spoil your chances by rashness; becontent to wait a little, till some more money comes in. '

Midway in October, about half-past eight one evening, Jasper receivedan unexpected visit from Dora. He was in his sitting-room, smoking andreading a novel. 

'Anything wrong?' he asked, as his sister entered. 

'No; but I'm alone this evening, and I thought I would see if you werein. 

'Where's Maud, then?'

'She went to see the Lanes this afternoon, and Mrs Lane invited herto go to the Gaiety to-night; she said a friend whom she had invitedcouldn't come, and the ticket would be wasted. Maud went back to dinewith them. She'll come home in a cab. '

'Why is Mrs Lane so affectionate all at once? Take your things off; Ihave nothing to do. '

'Miss Radway was going as well. '

'Who's Miss Radway?'

'Don't you know her? She's staying with the Lanes. Maud says she writesfor The West End. '

'And will that fellow Lane be with them?'

'I think not. '

Jasper mused, contemplating the bowl of his pipe. 

'I suppose she was in rare excitement?'

'Pretty well. She has wanted to go to the Gaiety for a long time. There's no harm, is there?'

Dora asked the question with that absent air which girls are wont toassume when they touch on doubtful subjects. 

'Harm, no. Idiocy and lively music, that's all. It's too late, or I'dhave taken you, for the joke of the thing. Confound it! she ought tohave better dresses. '

'Oh, she looked very nice, in that best. '

'Pooh! But I don't care for her to be running about with the Lanes. Laneis too big a blackguard; it reflects upon his wife to a certain extent. '

They gossiped for half an hour, then a tap at the door interrupted them;it was the landlady. 

'Mr Whelpdale has called to see you, sir. I mentioned as Miss Milvainwas here, so he said he wouldn't come up unless you sent to ask him. '

Jasper smiled at Dora, and said in a low voice. 

'What do you say? Shall he come up? He can behave himself. '

'Just as you please, Jasper. '

'Ask him to come up, Mrs Thompson, please. '

Mr Whelpdale presented himself. He entered with much more ceremony thanwhen Milvain was alone; on his visage was a grave respectfulness, hisstep was light, his whole bearing expressed diffidence and pleasurableanticipation. 

'My younger sister, Whelpdale, ' said Jasper, with subdued amusement. 

The dealer in literary advice made a bow which did him no discredit, andbegan to speak in a low, reverential tone not at all disagreeable to theear. His breeding, in truth, had been that of a gentleman, and it wasonly of late years that he had fallen into the hungry region of New GrubStreet. 

'How's the "Manual" going off?' Milvain inquired. 

'Excellently! We have sold nearly six hundred. '

'My sister is one of your readers. I believe she has studied the bookwith much conscientiousness. '

'Really? You have really read it, Miss Milvain?'

Dora assured him that she had, and his delight knew no bounds. 

'It isn't all rubbish, by any means, ' said Jasper, graciously. 'In thechapter on writing for magazines, there are one or two very good hints. What a pity you can't apply your own advice, Whelpdale!'

'Now that's horribly unkind of you!' protested the other. 'You mighthave spared me this evening. But unfortunately it's quite true, MissMilvain. I point the way, but I haven't been able to travel it myself. You mustn't think I have never succeeded in getting things published;but I can't keep it up as a profession. 

Your brother is the successful man. A marvellous facility! I envy him. Few men at present writing have such talent. '

'Please don't make him more conceited than he naturally is, ' interposedDora. 

'What news of Biffen?' asked Jasper, presently. 

'He says he shall finish "Mr Bailey, Grocer, " in about a month. He readme one of the later chapters the other night. It's really very fine;most remarkable writing, it seems to me. It will be scandalous if hecan't get it published; it will, indeed. '

'I do hope he may!' said Dora, laughing. 'I have heard so much of "MrBailey, " that it will be a great disappointment if I am never to readit. '

'I'm afraid it would give you very little pleasure, ' Whelpdale replied, hesitatingly. 'The matter is so very gross. '

'And the hero grocer!' shouted Jasper, mirthfully. 'Oh, but it's quitedecent; only rather depressing. The decently ignoble--or, the ignoblydecent? Which is Biffen's formula? I saw him a week ago, and he lookedhungrier than ever. '

'Ah, but poor Reardon! I passed him at King's Cross not long ago. 

He didn't see me--walks with his eyes on the ground always--and I hadn'tthe courage to stop him. He's the ghost of his old self He can't livelong. '

Dora and her brother exchanged a glance. It was a long time since Jasperhad spoken to his sisters about the Reardons; nowadays he seldom heardeither of husband or wife. 

The conversation that went on was so agreeable to Whelpdale, that helost consciousness of time. It was past eleven o'clock when Jasper feltobliged to remind him. 

'Dora, I think I must be taking you home. '

The visitor at once made ready for departure, and his leave-taking wasas respectful as his entrance had been. Though he might not say whathe thought, there was very legible upon his countenance a hope that hewould again be privileged to meet Miss Dora Milvain. 

'Not a bad fellow, in his way, ' said Jasper, when Dora and he were aloneagain. 

'Not at all. '

She had heard the story of Whelpdale's hapless wooing half a year ago, and her recollection of it explained the smile with which she spoke. 

'Never get on, I'm afraid, ' Jasper pursued. 'He has his allowance oftwenty pounds a year, and makes perhaps fifty or sixty more. If I werein his position, I should go in for some kind of regular business; hehas people who could help him. Good-natured fellow; but what's the useof that if you've no money?'

They set out together, and walked to the girls' lodgings. Dora was aboutto use her latch-key, but Jasper checked her. 'No. There's a light inthe kitchen still; better knock, as we're so late. '

'But why?'

'Never mind; do as I tell you. '

The landlady admitted them, and Jasper spoke a word or two with her, explaining that he would wait until his elder sister's return; thedarkness of the second-floor windows had shown that Maud was not yetback. 

'What strange fancies you have!' remarked Dora, when they were upstairs. 

'So have people in general, unfortunately. '

A letter lay on the table. It was addressed to Maud, and Dora recognisedthe handwriting as that of a Wattleborough friend. 

'There must be some news here, ' she said. 'Mrs Haynes wouldn't writeunless she had something special to say. 

Just upon midnight, a cab drew up before the house. Dora ran down toopen the door to her sister, who came in with very bright eyes and morecolour than usual on her cheeks. 

'How late for you to be here!' she exclaimed, on entering thesitting-room and seeing Jasper. 

'I shouldn't have felt comfortable till I knew that you were back allright. '

'What fear was there?'

She threw off her wraps, laughing. 

'Well, have you enjoyed yourself?'

'Oh yes!' she replied, carelessly. 'This letter for me? What has MrsHaynes got to say, I wonder?'

She opened the envelope, and began to glance hurriedly over the sheet ofpaper. Then her face changed. 

'What do you think? Mr Yule is dead!'

Dora uttered an exclamation; Jasper displayed the keenest interest. 

'He died yesterday--no, it would be the day before yesterday. He had afit of some kind at a public meeting, was taken to the hospital becauseit was nearest, and died in a few hours. So that has come, at last! Nowwhat'll be the result of it, I wonder?'

'When shall you be seeing Marian?' asked her brother. 

'She might come to-morrow evening. '

'But won't she go to the funeral?' suggested Dora. 

'Perhaps; there's no saying. I suppose her father will, at all events. The day before yesterday? Then the funeral will be on Saturday, I shouldthink. '

'Ought I to write to Marian?' asked Dora. 

'No; I wouldn't, ' was Jasper's reply. 'Better wait till she lets youhear. That's sure to be soon. She may have gone to Wattleborough thisafternoon, or be going to-morrow morning. '

The letter from Mrs Haynes was passed from hand to hand. 'Everybodyfeels sure, ' it said, 'that a great deal of his money will be left forpublic purposes. The ground for the park being already purchased, he issure to have made provision for carrying out his plans connected withit. But I hope your friends in London may benefit. '

It was some time before Jasper could put an end to the speculativeconversation and betake himself homewards. And even on getting back tohis lodgings he was little disposed to go to bed. This event of JohnYule's death had been constantly in his mind, but there was always afear that it might not happen for long enough; the sudden announcementexcited him almost as much as if he were a relative of the deceased. 

'Confound his public purposes!' was the thought upon which he at lengthslept. 

CHAPTER XXI. MR YULE LEAVES TOWN

Since the domestic incidents connected with that unpleasant review inThe Current, the relations between Alfred Yule and his daughter hadsuffered a permanent change, though not in a degree noticeable by anyone but the two concerned. To all appearances, they worked together andconversed very much as they had been wont to do; but Marian was madeto feel in many subtle ways that her father no longer had completeconfidence in her, no longer took the same pleasure as formerly in theskill and conscientiousness of her work, and Yule on his side perceivedtoo clearly that the girl was preoccupied with something other thanher old wish to aid and satisfy him, that she had a new life of her ownalien to, and in some respects irreconcilable with, the existencein which he desired to confirm her. There was no renewal of opendisagreement, but their conversations frequently ended by tacit mutualconsent, at a point which threatened divergence; and in Yule's caseevery such warning was a cause of intense irritation. He feared toprovoke Marian, and this fear was again a torture to his pride. 

Beyond the fact that his daughter was in constant communication withthe Miss Milvains, he knew, and could discover, nothing of the terms onwhich she stood with the girls' brother, and this ignorance was harderto bear than full assurance of a disagreeable fact would have been. Thata man like Jasper Milvain, whose name was every now and then forcedupon his notice as a rising periodicalist and a faithful henchman ofthe unspeakable Fadge--that a young fellow of such excellent prospectsshould seriously attach himself to a girl like Marian seemed to himhighly improbable, save, indeed, for the one consideration, thatMilvain, who assuredly had a very keen eye to chances, might regard thegirl as a niece of old John Yule, and therefore worth holding in viewuntil it was decided whether or not she would benefit by her uncle'sdecease. Fixed in his antipathy to the young man, he would not allowhimself to admit any but a base motive on Milvain's side, if, indeed, Marian and Jasper were more to each other than slight acquaintances; andhe persuaded himself that anxiety for the girl's welfare was at leastas strong a motive with him as mere prejudice against the ally of Fadge, and, it might be, the reviewer of 'English Prose. ' Milvain was quitecapable of playing fast and loose with a girl, and Marian, owing to thepeculiar circumstances of her position, would easily be misled by thepretence of a clever speculator. 

That she had never spoken again about the review in The Current mightreceive several explanations. Perhaps she had not been able to convinceherself either for or against Milvain's authorship; perhaps she hadreason to suspect that the young man was the author; perhaps she merelyshrank from reviving a discussion in which she might betray what shedesired to keep secret. This last was the truth. Finding that her fatherdid not recur to the subject, Marian concluded that he had found himselfto be misinformed. But Yule, though he heard the original rumour deniedby people whom in other matters he would have trusted, would not layaside the doubt that flattered his prejudices. If Milvain were not thewriter of the review, he very well might have been; and what certaintycould be arrived at in matters of literary gossip?

There was an element of jealousy in the father's feeling. If he did notlove Marian with all the warmth of which a parent is capable, at leasthe had more affection for her than for any other person, and of this hebecame strongly aware now that the girl seemed to be turning from him. If he lost Marian, he would indeed be a lonely man, for he consideredhis wife of no account. 

Intellectually again, he demanded an entire allegiance from hisdaughter; he could not bear to think that her zeal on his behalf wasdiminishing, that perhaps she was beginning to regard his work as futileand antiquated in comparison with that of the new generation. Yet thismust needs be the result of frequent intercourse with such a man asMilvain. It seemed to him that he remarked it in her speech and manner, and at times he with difficulty restrained himself from a reproach or asarcasm which would have led to trouble. 

Had he been in the habit of dealing harshly with Marian, as with hermother, of course his position would have been simpler. But he hadalways respected her, and he feared to lose that measure of respect withwhich she repaid him. Already he had suffered in her esteem, perhapsmore than he liked to think, and the increasing embitterment of histemper kept him always in danger of the conflict he dreaded. Marian wasnot like her mother; she could not submit to tyrannous usage. Warnedof that, he did his utmost to avoid an outbreak of discord, constantlyhoping that he might come to understand his daughter's position, andperhaps discover that his greatest fear was unfounded. 

Twice in the course of the summer he inquired of his wife whether sheknew anything about the Milvains. But Mrs Yule was not in Marian'sconfidence. 

'I only know that she goes to see the young ladies, and that they dowriting of some kind. '

'She never even mentions their brother to you?'

'Never. I haven't heard his name from her since she told me the MissMilvains weren't coming here again. '

He was not sorry that Marian had taken the decision to keep her friendsaway from St Paul's Crescent, for it saved him a recurring annoyance;but, on the other hand, if they had continued to come, he would nothave been thus completely in the dark as to her intercourse with Jasper;scraps of information must now and then have been gathered by his wifefrom the girls' talk. 

Throughout the month of July he suffered much from his wonted biliousattacks, and Mrs Yule had to endure a double share of his ill-temper, that which was naturally directed against her, and that of which Marianwas the cause. In August things were slightly better; but with thereturn to labour came a renewal of Yule's sullenness and savageness. Sundry pieces of ill-luck of a professional kind--warnings, as he toowell understood, that it was growing more and more difficult for himto hold his own against the new writers--exasperated his quarrel withdestiny. The gloom of a cold and stormy September was doubly wretchedin that house on the far borders of Camden Town, but in October the sunreappeared and it seemed to mollify the literary man's mood. Just whenMrs Yule and Marian began to hope that this long distemper must surelycome to an end, there befell an incident which, at the best of times, would have occasioned misery, and which in the present juncture proveddisastrous. 

It was one morning about eleven. Yule was in his study; Marian was atthe Museum; Mrs Yule had gone shopping. There came a sharp knock atthe front door, and the servant, on opening, was confronted with adecently-dressed woman, who asked in a peremptory voice if Mrs Yule wasat home. 

'No? Then is Mr Yule?'

'Yes, mum, but I'm afraid he's busy. '

'I don't care, I must see him. Say that Mrs Goby wants to see him atonce. '

The servant, not without apprehensions, delivered this message at thedoor of the study. 

'Mrs Goby? Who is Mrs Goby?' exclaimed the man of letters, irate at thedisturbance. 

There sounded an answer out of the passage, for the visitor had followedclose. 

'I am Mrs Goby, of the 'Olloway Road, wife of Mr C. O. Goby, 'aberdasher. I just want to speak to you, Mr Yule, if you please, seeingthat Mrs Yule isn't in. '

Yule started up in fury, and stared at the woman, to whom the servanthad reluctantly given place. 

'What business can you have with me? If you wish to see Mrs Yule, comeagain when she is at home. '

'No, Mr Yule, I will not come again!' cried the woman, red in the face. 'I thought I might have had respectable treatment here, at all events;but I see you're pretty much like your relations in the way of behavingto people, though you do wear better clothes, and--I s'pose--callyourself a gentleman. I won't come again, and you shall just hear whatI've got to say. 

She closed the door violently, and stood in an attitude of robustdefiance. 

'What's all this about?' asked the enraged author, overcoming an impulseto take Mrs Goby by the shoulders and throw her out--though he mighthave found some difficulty in achieving this feat. 'Who are you? And whydo you come here with your brawling?'

'I'm the respectable wife of a respectable man--that's who I am, MrYule, if you want to know. And I always thought Mrs Yule was the same, from the dealings we've had with her at the shop, though not knowing anymore of her, it's true, except that she lived in St Paul's Crezzent. And so she may be respectable, though I can't say as her husband behaveshimself very much like what he pretends to be. But I can't say as muchfor her relations in Perker Street, 'Olloway, which I s'pose they'reyour relations as well, at least by marriage. And if they think they'regoing to insult me, and use their blackguard tongues--'

'What are you talking about?' shouted Yule, who was driven to frenzy bythe mention of his wife's humble family. 'What have I to do with thesepeople?'

'What have you to do with them? I s'pose they're your relations, ain'tthey? And I s'pose the girl Annie Rudd is your niece, ain't she? Atleast, she's your wife's niece, and that comes to the same thing, I'vealways understood, though I dare say a gentleman as has so many booksabout him can correct me if I've made a mistake. '

She looked scornfully, though also with some surprise, round the volumedwalls. 

'And what of this girl? Will you have the goodness to say what yourbusiness is?'

'Yes, I will have the goodness! I s'pose you know very well that I tookyour niece Annie Rudd as a domestic servant'--she repeated this precisedefinition--'as a domestic servant, because Mrs Yule 'appened to 'arstme if I knew of a place for a girl of that kind, as hadn't been outbefore, but could be trusted to do her best to give satisfaction to agood mistress? I s'pose you know that?'

'I know nothing of the kind. What have I to do with servants?'

'Well, whether you've much to do with them or little, that's how itwas. And nicely she's paid me out, has your niece, Miss Rudd. Of all thetrouble I ever had with a girl! And now when she's run away back 'ome, and when I take the trouble to go arfter her, I'm to be insulted andabused as never was! Oh, they're a nice respectable family, those Rudds!Mrs Rudd--that's Mrs Yule's sister--what a nice, polite-spoken lady sheis, to be sure? If I was to repeat the language--but there, I wouldn'tlower myself. And I've been a brute of a mistress; I ill-use myservants, and I don't give 'em enough to eat, and I pay 'em worse thanany woman in London! That's what I've learnt about myself by going toPerker Street, 'Olloway. And when I come here to ask Mrs Yule what shemeans by recommending such a creature, from such a 'ome, I get insultedby her gentleman husband. '

Yule was livid with rage, but the extremity of his scorn withheld himfrom utterance of what he felt. 

'As I said, all this has nothing to do with me. I will let Mrs Yule knowthat you have called. I have no more time to spare. '

Mrs Goby repeated at still greater length the details of her grievance, but long before she had finished Yule was sitting again at his desk inostentatious disregard of her. Finally, the exasperated woman flung openthe door, railed in a loud voice along the passage, and left the housewith an alarming crash. 

It was not long before Mrs Yule returned. Before taking off her things, she went down into the kitchen with certain purchases, and there shelearnt from the servant what had happened during her absence. Fear andtrembling possessed her--the sick, faint dread always excited by herhusband's wrath--but she felt obliged to go at once to the study. Thescene that took place there was one of ignoble violence on Yule's part, and, on that of his wife, of terrified self-accusation, changing atlength to dolorous resentment of the harshness with which she wastreated. When it was over, Yule took his hat and went out. 

He did not return for the mid-day meal, and when Marian, late in theafternoon, came back from the Museum, he was still absent. 

Not finding her mother in the parlour, Marian called at the head of thekitchen stairs. The servant answered, saying that Mrs Yule was up inher bedroom, and that she didn't seem well. Marian at once went up andknocked at the bedroom door. In a moment or two her mother came out, showing a face of tearful misery. 

'What is it, mother? What's the matter?'

They went into Marian's room, where Mrs Yule gave free utterance to herlamentations. 

'I can't put up with it, Marian! Your father is too hard with me. 

I was wrong, I dare say, and I might have known what would have come ofit, but he couldn't speak to me worse if I did him all the harm I couldon purpose. It's all about Annie, because I found a place for her at MrsGoby's in the 'Olloway Road; and now Mrs Goby's been here and seen yourfather, and told him she's been insulted by the Rudds, because Anniewent off home, and she went after her to make inquiries. And yourfather's in such a passion about it as never was. That woman Mrs Gobyrushed into the study when he was working; it was this morning, when Ihappened to be out. And she throws all the blame on me for recommendingher such a girl. And I did it for the best, that I did! Annie promisedme faithfully she'd behave well, and never give me trouble, and sheseemed thankful to me, because she wasn't happy at home. And now tothink of her causing all this disturbance! I oughtn't to have donesuch a thing without speaking about it to your father; but you know howafraid I am to say a word to him about those people. And my sister'stold me so often I ought to be ashamed of myself never helping her andher children; she thinks I could do such a lot if I only liked. And nowthat I did try to do something, see what comes of it!'

Marian listened with a confusion of wretched feelings. But hersympathies were strongly with her mother; as well as she couldunderstand the broken story, her father seemed to have no just causefor his pitiless rage, though such an occasion would be likely enough tobring out his worst faults. 

'Is he in the study?' she asked. 

'No, he went out at twelve o'clock, and he's never been back since. Ifeel as if I must do something; I can't bear with it, Marian. He tellsme I'm the curse of his life--yes, he said that. I oughtn't to tell you, I know I oughtn't; but it's more than I can bear. I've always tried todo my best, but it gets harder and harder for me. But for me he'dnever be in these bad tempers; it's because he can't look at me withoutgetting angry. He says I've kept him back all through his life; but forme he might have been far better off than he is. It may be true; I'veoften enough thought it. But I can't bear to have it told me like that, and to see it in his face every time he looks at me. I shall have to dosomething. He'd be glad if only I was out of his way. '

'Father has no right to make you so unhappy, ' said Marian. 'I can't seethat you did anything blameworthy; it seems to me that it was your dutyto try and help Annie, and if it turned out unfortunately, that can't behelped. You oughtn't to think so much of what father says in his anger;I believe he hardly knows what he does say. Don't take it so much toheart, mother. '

'I've tried my best, Marian, ' sobbed the poor woman, who felt that evenher child's sympathy could not be perfect, owing to the distance putbetween them by Marian's education and refined sensibilities. 'I'vealways thought it wasn't right to talk to you about such things, buthe's been too hard with me to-day. '

'I think it was better you should tell me. It can't go on like this; Ifeel that just as you do. I must tell father that he is making our livesa burden to us. '

'Oh, you mustn't speak to him like that, Marian! I wouldn't for anythingmake unkindness between you and your father; that would be the worstthing I'd done yet. I'd rather go away and work for my own living thanmake trouble between you and him. '

'It isn't you who make trouble; it's father. I ought to have spokento him before this; I had no right to stand by and see how much yousuffered from his ill-temper. '

The longer they talked, the firmer grew Marian's resolve to front herfather's tyrannous ill-humour, and in one way or another to change theintolerable state of things. She had been weak to hold her peace solong; at her age it was a simple duty to interfere when her motherwas treated with such flagrant injustice. Her father's behaviour wasunworthy of a thinking man, and he must be made to feel that. 

Yule did not return. Dinner was delayed for half an hour, then Mariandeclared that they would wait no longer. They two made a sorry meal, andafterwards went together into the sitting-room. At eight o'clock theyheard the front door open, and Yule's footstep in the passage. Marianrose. 

'Don't speak till to-morrow!' whispered her mother, catching at thegirl's arm. 'Let it be till to-morrow, Marian!'

'I must speak! We can't live in this terror. '

She reached the study just as her father was closing the door behindhim. Yule, seeing her enter, glared with bloodshot eyes; shame andsullen anger were blended on his countenance. 

'Will you tell me what is wrong, father?' Marian asked, in a voice whichbetrayed her nervous suffering, yet indicated the resolve with which shehad come. 

'I am not at all disposed to talk of the matter, ' he replied, with theawkward rotundity of phrase which distinguished him in his worst humour. 'For information you had better go to Mrs Goby--or a person of some suchname--in Holloway Road. I have nothing more to do with it. '

'It was very unfortunate that the woman came and troubled you aboutsuch things. But I can't see that mother was to blame; I don't think youought to be so angry with her. '

It cost Marian a terrible effort to address her father in these terms. When he turned fiercely upon her, she shrank back and felt as ifstrength must fail her even to stand. 

'You can't see that she was to blame? Isn't it entirely against my wishthat she keeps up any intercourse with those low people? Am I to beexposed to insulting disturbance in my very study, because she choosesto introduce girls of bad character as servants to vulgar women?'

'I don't think Annie Rudd can be called a girl of bad character, andit was very natural that mother should try to do something for her. Youhave never actually forbidden her to see her relatives. '

'A thousand times I have given her to understand that I utterlydisapproved of such association. She knew perfectly well that this girlwas as likely as not to discredit her. If she had consulted me, I shouldat once have forbidden anything of the kind; she was aware of that. Shekept it secret from me, knowing that it would excite my displeasure. Iwill not be drawn into such squalid affairs; I won't have my name spokenin such connection. Your mother has only herself to blame if I am angrywith her. '

'Your anger goes beyond all bounds. At the very worst, mother behavedimprudently, and with a very good motive. It is cruel that you shouldmake her suffer as she is doing. '

Marian was being strengthened to resist. Her blood grew hot; thesensation which once before had brought her to the verge of conflictwith her father possessed her heart and brain. 

'You are not a suitable judge of my behaviour, ' replied Yule, severely. 

'I am driven to speak. We can't go on living in this way, father. Formonths our home has been almost ceaselessly wretched, because of theill-temper you are always in. Mother and I must defend ourselves; wecan't bear it any longer. You must surely feel how ridiculous it is tomake such a thing as happened this morning the excuse for violent anger. How can I help judging your behaviour? When mother is brought to thepoint of saying that she would rather leave home and everything thanendure her misery any longer, I should be wrong if I didn't speak toyou. Why are you so unkind? What serious cause has mother ever givenyou?'

'I refuse to argue such questions with you. '

'Then you are very unjust. I am not a child, and there's nothing wrongin my asking you why home is made a place of misery, instead of beingwhat home ought to be. '

'You prove that you are a child, in asking for explanations which oughtto be clear enough to you. '

'You mean that mother is to blame for everything?'

'The subject is no fit one to be discussed between a father and hisdaughter. If you cannot see the impropriety of it, be so good as to goaway and reflect, and leave me to my occupations. '

Marian came to a pause. But she knew that his rebuke was mere unworthyevasion; she saw that her father could not meet her look, and thisperception of shame in him impelled her to finish what she had begun. 

'I will say nothing of mother, then, but speak only for myself. I suffertoo much from your unkindness; you ask too much endurance. '

'You mean that I exact too much work from you?' asked her father, with alook which might have been directed to a recalcitrant clerk. 

'No. But that you make the conditions of my work too hard. I live inconstant fear of your anger. '

'Indeed? When did I last ill-use you, or threaten you?'

'I often think that threats, or even ill-usage, would be easier to bearthan an unchanging gloom which always seems on the point of breakinginto violence. '

'I am obliged to you for your criticism of my disposition and manner, but unhappily I am too old to reform. Life has made me what I am, and Ishould have thought that your knowledge of what my life has been wouldhave gone far to excuse a lack of cheerfulness in me. '

The irony of this laborious period was full of self-pity. His voicequavered at the close, and a tremor was noticeable in his stiff frame. 

'It isn't lack of cheerfulness that I mean, father. That could neverhave brought me to speak like this. '

'If you wish me to admit that I am bad-tempered, surly, irritable--Imake no difficulty about that. The charge is true enough. I can only askyou again: What are the circumstances that have ruined my temper? Whenyou present yourself here with a general accusation of my behaviour, Iam at a loss to understand what you ask of me, what you wish me to sayor do. I must beg you to speak plainly. Are you suggesting that I shouldmake provision for the support of you and your mother away from myintolerable proximity? My income is not large, as I think you are aware, but of course, if a demand of this kind is seriously made, I must do mybest to comply with it. '

'It hurts me very much that you can understand me no better than this. '

'I am sorry. I think we used to understand each other, but that wasbefore you were subjected to the influence of strangers. '

In his perverse frame of mind he was ready to give utterance to anythought which confused the point at issue. This last allusion wassuggested to him by a sudden pang of regret for the pain he was causingMarian; he defended himself against self-reproach by hinting at the truereason of much of his harshness. 

'I am subjected to no influence that is hostile to you, ' Marian replied. 

'You may think that. But in such a matter it is very easy for you todeceive yourself. '

'Of course I know what you refer to, and I can assure you that I don'tdeceive myself. '

Yule flashed a searching glance at her. 

'Can you deny that you are on terms of friendship with a--a person whowould at any moment rejoice to injure me?'

'I am friendly with no such person. Will you say whom you are thinkingof?'

'It would be useless. I have no wish to discuss a subject on which weshould only disagree unprofitably. '

Marian kept silence for a moment, then said in a low, unsteady voice:

'It is perhaps because we never speak of that subject that we are sofar from understanding each other. If you think that Mr Milvain isyour enemy, that he would rejoice to injure you, you are grievouslymistaken. '

'When I see a man in close alliance with my worst enemy, and looking tothat enemy for favour, I am justified in thinking that he would injureme if the right kind of opportunity offered. One need not be very deeplyread in human nature to have assurance of that. '

'But I know Mr Milvain!'

'You know him?'

'Far better than you can, I am sure. You draw conclusions from generalprinciples; but I know that they don't apply in this case. '

'I have no doubt you sincerely think so. I repeat that nothing can begained by such a discussion as this. '

'One thing I must tell you. There was no truth in your suspicion that MrMilvain wrote that review in The Current. He assured me himself that hewas not the writer, that he had nothing to do with it. '

Yule looked askance at her, and his face displayed solicitude, whichsoon passed, however, into a smile of sarcasm. 

'The gentleman's word no doubt has weight with you. '

'Father, what do you mean?' broke from Marian, whose eyes of a suddenflashed stormily. 'Would Mr Milvain tell me a lie?'

'I shouldn't like to say that it is impossible, ' replied her father inthe same tone as before. 

'But--what right have you to insult him so grossly?'

'I have every right, my dear child, to express an opinion about himor any other man, provided I do it honestly. I beg you not to strikeattitudes and address me in the language of the stage. You insist on myspeaking plainly, and I have spoken plainly. I warned you that we werenot likely to agree on this topic. '

'Literary quarrels have made you incapable of judging honestly inthings such as this. I wish I could have done for ever with the hatefulprofession that so poisons men's minds. '

'Believe me, my girl, ' said her father, incisively, 'the simpler thingwould be to hold aloof from such people as use the profession in aspirit of unalloyed selfishness, who seek only material advancement, andwho, whatever connection they form, have nothing but self-interest inview. '

And he glared at her with much meaning. Marian--both had remainedstanding all through the dialogue--cast down her eyes and became lost inbrooding. 

'I speak with profound conviction, ' pursued her father, 'and, howeverlittle you credit me with such a motive, out of desire to guard youagainst the dangers to which your inexperience is exposed. It is perhapsas well that you have afforded me this--'

There sounded at the house-door that duplicated double-knock whichgenerally announces the bearer of a telegram. Yule interrupted himself, and stood in an attitude of waiting. The servant was heard to go alongthe passage, to open the door, and then return towards the study. Yes, it was a telegram. Such despatches rarely came to this house; Yule torethe envelope, read its contents, and stood with gaze fixed upon the slipof paper until the servant inquired if there was any reply for the boyto take with him. 

'No reply. '

He slowly crumpled the envelope, and stepped aside to throw it into thepaper-basket. The telegram he laid on his desk. Marian stood allthe time with bent head; he now looked at her with an expression ofmeditative displeasure. 

'I don't know that there's much good in resuming our conversation, ' hesaid, in quite a changed tone, as if something of more importance hadtaken possession of his thoughts and had made him almost indifferent tothe past dispute. 'But of course I am quite willing to hear anything youwould still like to say. 

Marian had lost her vehemence. She was absent and melancholy. 

'I can only ask you, ' she replied, 'to try and make life less of aburden to us. '

'I shall have to leave town to-morrow for a few days; no doubt it willbe some satisfaction to you to hear that. '

Marian's eyes turned involuntarily towards the telegram. 

'As for your occupation in my absence, ' he went on, in a hard tone whichyet had something tremulous, emotional, making it quite different fromthe voice he had hitherto used, 'that will be entirely a matter for yourown judgment. I have felt for some time that you assisted me with lessgood-will than formerly, and now that you have frankly admitted it, Ishall of course have very little satisfaction in requesting your aid. Imust leave it to you; consult your own inclination. '

It was resentful, but not savage; between the beginning and the end ofhis speech he softened to a sort of self-satisfied pathos. 

'I can't pretend, ' replied Marian, 'that I have as much pleasure in thework as I should have if your mood were gentler. '

'I am sorry. I might perhaps have made greater efforts to appear at easewhen I was suffering. '

'Do you mean physical suffering?'

'Physical and mental. But that can't concern you. During my absence Iwill think of your reproof. I know that it is deserved, in some degree. If it is possible, you shall have less to complain of in future. '

He looked about the room, and at length seated himself; his eyes werefixed in a direction away from Marian. 

'I suppose you had dinner somewhere?' Marian asked, after catching aglimpse of his worn, colourless face. 

'Oh, I had a mouthful of something. It doesn't matter. '

It seemed as if he found some special pleasure in assuming this tone ofmartyrdom just now. At the same time he was becoming more absorbed inthought. 

'Shall I have something brought up for you, father?'

'Something--? Oh no, no; on no account. '

He rose again impatiently, then approached his desk, and laid a hand onthe telegram. Marian observed this movement, and examined his face; itwas set in an expression of eagerness. 

'You have nothing more to say, then?' He turned sharply upon her. 

'I feel that I haven't made you understand me, but I can say nothingmore. '

'I understand you very well--too well. That you should misunderstand andmistrust me, I suppose, is natural. You are young, and I am old. You arestill full of hope, and I have been so often deceived and defeated thatI dare not let a ray of hope enter my mind. Judge me; judge me as hardlyas you like. My life has been one long, bitter struggle, and if now--. Isay, ' he began a new sentence, 'that only the hard side of life has beenshown to me; small wonder if I have become hard myself. Desert me;go your own Way, as the young always do. But bear in mind my warning. Remember the caution I have given you. '

He spoke in a strangely sudden agitation. The arm with which he leanedupon the table trembled violently. After a moment's pause he added, in athick voice:

'Leave me. I will speak to you again in the morning. '

Impressed in a way she did not understand, Marian at once obeyed, andrejoined her mother in the parlour. Mrs Yule gazed anxiously at her asshe entered. 

'Don't be afraid, ' said Marian, with difficulty bringing herself tospeak. 'I think it will be better. '

'Was that a telegram that came?' her mother inquired after a silence. 

'Yes. I don't know where it was from. But father said he would have toleave town for a few days. '

They exchanged looks. 

'Perhaps your uncle is very ill, ' said the mother in a low voice. 

'Perhaps so. '

The evening passed drearily. Fatigued with her emotions, Marian wentearly to bed; she even slept later than usual in the morning, and ondescending she found her father already at the breakfast-table. Nogreeting passed, and there was no conversation during the meal. Mariannoticed that her mother kept glancing at her in a peculiarly grave way;but she felt ill and dejected, and could fix her thoughts on no subject. As he left the table Yule said to her:

'I want to speak to you for a moment. I shall be in the study. '

She joined him there very soon. He looked coldly at her, and said in adistant tone:

'The telegram last night was to tell me that your uncle is dead. '

'Dead!'

'He died of apoplexy, at a meeting in Wattleborough. I shall go downthis morning, and of course remain till after the funeral. I see nonecessity for your going, unless, of course, it is your desire to doso. '

'No; I should do as you wish. '

'I think you had better not go to the Museum whilst I am away. You willoccupy yourself as you think fit. '

'I shall go on with the Harrington notes. '

'As you please. I don't know what mourning it would be decent for you towear; you must consult with your mother about that. That is all I wishedto say. '

His tone was dismissal. Marian had a struggle with herself but she couldfind nothing to reply to his cold phrases. And an hour or two afterwardsYule left the house without leave-taking. 

Soon after his departure there was a visitor's rat-tat at the door;it heralded Mrs Goby. In the interview which then took place Marianassisted her mother to bear the vigorous onslaughts of the haberdasher'swife. For more than two hours Mrs Goby related her grievances, againstthe fugitive servant, against Mrs Yule, against Mr Yule; meeting with noirritating opposition, she was able in this space of time to cool downto the temperature of normal intercourse, and when she went forth fromthe house again it was in a mood of dignified displeasure which she feltto be some recompense for the injuries of yesterday. 

A result of this annoyance was to postpone conversation between motherand daughter on the subject of John Yule's death until a late hour ofthe afternoon. Marian was at work in the study, or endeavouring to work, for her thoughts would not fix themselves on the matter in hand formany minutes together, and Mrs Yule came in with more than her customarydiffidence. 

'Have you nearly done for to-day, dear?'

'Enough for the present, I think. '

She laid down her pen, and leant back in the chair. 

'Marian, do you think your father will be rich?'

'I have no idea, mother. I suppose we shall know very soon. '

Her tone was dreamy. She seemed to herself to be speaking of somethingwhich scarcely at all concerned her, of vague possibilities which didnot affect her habits of thought. 

'If that happens, ' continued Mrs Yule, in a low tone of distress, 'Idon't know what I shall do. '

Marian looked at her questioningly. 

'I can't wish that it mayn't happen, ' her mother went on; 'I can't, forhis sake and for yours; but I don't know what I shall do. He'd think memore in his way than ever. He'd wish to have a large house, and livein quite a different way; and how could I manage then? I couldn't showmyself; he'd be too much ashamed of me. I shouldn't be in my place; evenyou'd feel ashamed of me. '

'You mustn't say that, mother. I have never given you cause to thinkthat. '

'No, my dear, you haven't; but it would be only natural. I couldn't livethe kind of life that you're fit for. I shall be nothing but a hindranceand a shame to both of you. '

'To me you would never be either hindrance or shame; be quite sure ofthat. And as for father, I am all but certain that, if he became rich, he would be a very much kinder man, a better man in every way. It ispoverty that has made him worse than he naturally is; it has that effecton almost everybody. Money does harm, too, sometimes; but never, Ithink, to people who have a good heart and a strong mind. Father isnaturally a warm-hearted man; riches would bring out all the best inhim. He would be generous again, which he has almost forgotten how tobe among all his disappointments and battlings. Don't be afraid of thatchange, but hope for it. '

Mrs Yule gave a troublous sigh, and for a few minutes ponderedanxiously. 

'I wasn't thinking so much about myself' she said at length. 'It's thehindrance I should be to father. Just because of me, he mightn't be ableto use his money as he'd wish. He'd always be feeling that if it wasn'tfor me things would be so much better for him and for you as well. '

'You must remember, ' Marian replied, 'that at father's age people don'tcare to make such great changes. His home life, I feel sure, wouldn't beso very different from what it is now; he would prefer to use his moneyin starting a paper or magazine. I know that would be his first thought. If more acquaintances came to his house, what would that matter? Itisn't as if he wished for fashionable society. They would be literarypeople, and why ever shouldn't you meet with them?'

'I've always been the reason why he couldn't have many friends. '

'That's a great mistake. If father ever said that, in his bad temper, heknew it wasn't the truth. The chief reason has always been his poverty. It costs money to entertain friends; time as well. Don't think in thisanxious way, mother. If we are to be rich, it will be better for all ofus. '

Marian had every reason for seeking to persuade herself that this wastrue. In her own heart there was a fear of how wealth might affect herfather, but she could not bring herself to face the darker prospect. Forher so much depended on that hope of a revival of generous feeling undersunny influences. 

It was only after this conversation that she began to reflect on all thepossible consequences of her uncle's death. As yet she had been too muchdisturbed to grasp as a reality the event to which she had often lookedforward, though as to something still remote, and of quite uncertainresults. Perhaps at this moment, though she could not know it, thecourse of her life had undergone the most important change. Perhapsthere was no more need for her to labour upon this 'article' she wasmanufacturing. 

She did not think it probable that she herself would benefit directly byJohn Yule's will. There was no certainty that even her father would, forhe and his brother had never been on cordial terms. But on the whole itseemed likely that he would inherit money enough to free him from thetoil of writing for periodicals. He himself anticipated that. What elsecould be the meaning of those words in which (and it was beforethe arrival of the news) he had warned her against 'people who madeconnections only with self-interest in view?' This threw a sudden lightupon her father's attitude towards Jasper Milvain. Evidently he thoughtthat Jasper regarded her as a possible heiress, sooner or later. That suspicion was rankling in his mind; doubtless it intensified theprejudice which originated in literary animosity. 

Was there any truth in his suspicion? She did not shrink from admittingthat there might be. Jasper had from the first been so frank with her, had so often repeated that money was at present his chief need. If herfather inherited substantial property, would it induce Jasper to declarehimself more than her friend? She could view the possibility of that, and yet not for a moment be shaken in her love. It was plain thatJasper could not think of marrying until his position and prospects weregreatly improved; practically, his sisters depended upon him. What follyit would be to draw back if circumstances led him to avow what hithertohe had so slightly disguised! She had the conviction that he valued herfor her own sake; if the obstacle between them could only be removed, what matter how?

Would he be willing to abandon Clement Fadge, and come over to herfather's side? If Yule were able to found a magazine?

Had she read or heard of a girl who went so far in concessions, Marianwould have turned away, her delicacy offended. In her own case she couldindulge to the utmost that practicality which colours a woman's thoughteven in mid passion. The cold exhibition of ignoble scheming will repelmany a woman who, for her own heart's desire, is capable of that samecompromise with her strict sense of honour. 

Marian wrote to Dora Milvain, telling her what had happened. But sherefrained from visiting her friends. 

Each night found her more restless, each morning less able to employherself. She shut herself in the study merely to be alone with herthoughts, to be able to walk backwards and forwards, or sit for hours infeverish reverie. From her father came no news. Her mother was sufferingdreadfully from suspense, and often had eyes red with weeping. Absorbedin her own hopes and fears, whilst every hour harassed her moreintolerably, Marian was unable to play the part of an encourager; shehad never known such exclusiveness of self-occupation. 

Yule's return was unannounced. Early in the afternoon, when he had beenabsent five days, he entered the house, deposited his travelling-bag inthe passage, and went upstairs. Marian had come out of the study justin time to see him up on the first landing; at the same moment Mrs Yuleascended from the kitchen. 

'Wasn't that father?'

'Yes, he has gone up. '

'Did he say anything?'

Marian shook her head. They looked at the travelling-bag, then went intothe parlour and waited in silence for more than a quarter of an hour. Yule's foot was heard on the stairs; he came down slowly, paused in thepassage, entered the parlour with his usual grave, cold countenance. 

CHAPTER XXII. THE LEGATEES

Each day Jasper came to inquire of his sisters if they had news fromWattleborough or from Marian Yule. He exhibited no impatience, spoke ofthe matter in a disinterested tone; still, he came daily. 

One afternoon he found Dora working alone. Maud, he was told, had goneto lunch at Mrs Lane's. 

'So soon again? She's getting very thick with those people. And whydon't they ask you?'

'Maud has told them that I don't care to go out. '

'It's all very well, but she mustn't neglect her work. Did she writeanything last night or this morning?'

Dora bit the end of her pen and shook her head. 

'Why not?'

'The invitation came about five o'clock, and it seemed to unsettle her. '

'Precisely. That's what I'm afraid of. She isn't the kind of girl tostick at work if people begin to send her invitations. But I tell youwhat it is, you must talk seriously to her; she has to get her living, you know. Mrs Lane and her set are not likely to be much use, that's theworst of it; they'll merely waste her time, and make her discontented. '

His sister executed an elaborate bit of cross-hatching on some wastepaper. Her lips were drawn together, and her brows wrinkled. At lengthshe broke the silence by saying:

'Marian hasn't been yet. '

Jasper seemed to pay no attention; she looked up at him, and saw that hewas in thought. 

'Did you go to those people last night?' she inquired. 

'Yes. By-the-bye, Miss Rupert was there. '

He spoke as if the name would be familiar to his hearer, but Dora seemedat a loss. 

'Who is Miss Rupert?'

'Didn't I tell you about her? I thought I did. Oh, I met her first ofall at Barlow's, just after we got back from the seaside. Rather aninteresting girl. She's a daughter of Manton Rupert, the advertisingagent. I want to get invited to their house; useful people, you know. '

'But is an advertising agent a gentleman?'

Jasper laughed. 

'Do you think of him as a bill-poster? At all events he is enormouslywealthy, and has a magnificent house at Chislehurst. The girl goes aboutwith her stepmother. I call her a girl, but she must be nearly thirty, and Mrs Rupert looks only two or three years older. I had quite a longtalk with her--Miss Rupert, I mean--last night. She told me she wasgoing to stay next week with the Barlows, so I shall have a run out toWimbledon one afternoon. '

Dora looked at him inquiringly. 

'Just to see Miss Rupert?' she asked, meeting his eyes. 

'To be sure. Why not?'

'Oh!' ejaculated his sister, as if the question did not concern her. 

'She isn't exactly good-looking, ' pursued Jasper, meditatively, with aquick glance at the listener, 'but fairly intellectual. Plays very well, and has a nice contralto voice; she sang that new thing of Tosti's--whatdo you call it? I thought her rather masculine when I first saw her, butthe impression wears off when one knows her better. She rather takes tome, I fancy. '

'But--' began Dora, after a minute's silence. 

'But what?' inquired her brother with an air of interest. 

'I don't quite understand you. '

'In general, or with reference to some particular?'

'What right have you to go to places just to see this Miss Rupert?'

'What right?' He laughed. 'I am a young man with my way to make. I can'tafford to lose any opportunity. If Miss Rupert is so good as to take aninterest in me, I have no objection. She's old enough to make friendsfor herself. '

'Oh, then you consider her simply a friend?'

'I shall see how things go on. '

'But, pray, do you consider yourself perfectly free?' asked Dora, withsome indignation. 

'Why shouldn't I?'

'Then I think you have been behaving very strangely. '

Jasper saw that she was in earnest. He stroked the back of his head andsmiled at the wall. 

'With regard to Marian, you mean?'

'Of course I do. '

'But Marian understands me perfectly. I have never for a moment triedto make her think that--well, to put it plainly, that I was in love withher. In all our conversations it has been my one object to afford herinsight into my character, and to explain my position. She has no excusewhatever for misinterpreting me. And I feel assured that she has donenothing of the kind. '

'Very well, if you feel satisfied with yourself--'

'But come now, Dora; what's all this about? You are Marian's friend, and, of course, I don't wish you to say a word about her. 

But let me explain myself. I have occasionally walked part of the wayhome with Marian, when she and I have happened to go from here at thesame time; now there was nothing whatever in our talk at such times thatanyone mightn't have listened to. We are both intellectual people, andwe talk in an intellectual way. You seem to have rather old-fashionedideas--provincial ideas. A girl like Marian Yule claims the newprivileges of woman; she would resent it if you supposed that shecouldn't be friendly with a man without attributing "intentions" tohim--to use the old word. We don't live in Wattleborough, where libertyis rendered impossible by the cackling of gossips. '

'No, but--'

'Well?'

'It seems to me rather strange, that's all. We had better not talk aboutit any more. '

'But I have only just begun to talk about it; I must try to makemy position intelligible to you. Now, suppose--a quite impossiblething--that Marian inherited some twenty or thirty thousand pounds; Ishould forthwith ask her to be my wife. '

'Oh indeed!'

'I see no reason for sarcasm. It would be a most rational proceeding. I like her very much; but to marry her (supposing she would have me)without money would he a gross absurdity, simply spoiling my career, andleading to all sorts of discontents. '

'No one would suggest that you should marry as things are. '

'No; but please to bear in mind that to obtain money somehow orother--and I see no other way than by marriage--is necessary to me, andthat with as little delay as possible. I am not at all likely to get abig editorship for some years to come, and I don't feel disposed to makemyself prematurely old by toiling for a few hundreds per annum in themeantime. Now all this I have frankly and fully explained to Marian. Idare say she suspects what I should do if she came into possession ofmoney; there's no harm in that. But she knows perfectly well that, asthings are, we remain intellectual friends. '

'Then listen to me, Jasper. If we hear that Marian gets nothing from heruncle, you had better behave honestly, and let her see that you haven'tas much interest in her as before. '

'That would be brutality. '

'It would be honest. '

'Well, no, it wouldn't. Strictly speaking, my interest in Marianwouldn't suffer at all. I should know that we could be nothing butfriends, that's all. Hitherto I haven't known what might come to pass;I don't know yet. So far from following your advice, I shall let Marianunderstand that, if anything, I am more her friend than ever, seeingthat henceforth there can be no ambiguities. '

'I can only tell you that Maud would agree with me in what I have beensaying. '

'Then both of you have distorted views. '

'I think not. It's you who are unprincipled. '

'My dear girl, haven't I been showing you that no man could be moreabove-board, more straightforward?'

'You have been talking nonsense, Jasper. '

'Nonsense? Oh, this female lack of logic! Then my argument has beenutterly thrown away. Now that's one of the things I like in Miss Rupert;she can follow an argument and see consequences. And for that matter socan Marian. I only wish it were possible to refer this question to her. '

There was a tap at the door. Dora called 'Come in!' and Marian herselfappeared. 

'What an odd thing!' exclaimed Jasper, lowering his voice. 'I was thatmoment saying I wished it were possible to refer a question to you. '

Dora reddened, and stood in an embarrassed attitude. 

'It was the old dispute whether women in general are capable of logic. But pardon me, Miss Yule; I forget that you have been occupied with sadthings since I last saw you. '

Dora led her to a chair, asking if her father had returned. 

'Yes, he came back yesterday. '

Jasper and his sister could not think it likely that Marian had sufferedmuch from grief at her uncle's death; practically John Yule was astranger to her. Yet her face bore the signs of acute mental trouble, and it seemed as if some agitation made it difficult for her to speak. The awkward silence that fell upon the three was broken by Jasper, whoexpressed a regret that he was obliged to take his leave. 

'Maud is becoming a young lady of society, ' he said--just for the sakeof saying something--as he moved towards the door. 'If she comes backwhilst you are here, Miss Yule, warn her that that is the path ofdestruction for literary people. '

'You should bear that in mind yourself' remarked Dora, with asignificant look. 

'Oh, I am cool-headed enough to make society serve my own ends. '

Marian turned her head with a sudden movement which was checked beforeshe had quite looked round to him. The phrase he uttered last appearedto have affected her in some way; her eyes fell, and an expression ofpain was on her brows for a moment. 

'I can only stay a few minutes, ' she said, bending with a faint smiletowards Dora, as soon as they were alone. 'I have come on my way fromthe Museum. '

'Where you have tired yourself to death as usual, I can see. '

'No; I have done scarcely anything. I only pretended to read; my mind istoo much troubled. Have you heard anything about my uncle's will?'

'Nothing whatever. '

'I thought it might have been spoken of in Wattleborough, and somefriend might have written to you. But I suppose there has hardly beentime for that. I shall surprise you very much. Father receives nothing, but I have a legacy of five thousand pounds. '

Dora kept her eyes down. 

'Then--what do you think?' continued Marian. 'My cousin Amy has tenthousand pounds. '

'Good gracious! What a difference that will make!'

'Yes, indeed. And her brother John has six thousand. But nothing totheir mother. There are a good many other legacies, but most ofthe property goes to the Wattleborough park--"Yule Park" it will becalled--and to the volunteers, and things of that kind. They say hewasn't as rich as people thought. '

'Do you know what Miss Harrow gets?'

'She has the house for her life, and fifteen hundred pounds. '

'And your father nothing whatever?'

'Nothing. Not a penny. Oh I am so grieved! I think it so unkind, sowrong. Amy and her brother to have sixteen thousand pounds and fathernothing! I can't understand it. There was no unkind feeling between himand father. He knew what a hard life father has had. Doesn't it seemheartless?'

'What does your father say?'

'I think he feels the unkindness more than he does the disappointment;of course he must have expected something. He came into the room wheremother and I were, and sat down, and began to tell us about the willjust as if he were speaking to strangers about something he had read inthe newspaper--that's the only way I can describe it. Then he got up andwent away into the study. I waited a little, and then went to him there;he was sitting at work, as if he hadn't been away from home at all. Itried to tell him how sorry I was, but I couldn't say anything. I beganto cry foolishly. He spoke kindly to me, far more kindly than he hasdone for a long time; but he wouldn't talk about the will, and I had togo away and leave him. Poor mother! for all she was afraid that we weregoing to be rich, is broken-hearted at his disappointment. '

'Your mother was afraid?' said Dora. 

'Because she thought herself unfitted for life in a large house, andfeared we should think her in our way. ' She smiled sadly. 'Poor mother!she is so humble and so good. I do hope that father will be kinder toher. But there's no telling yet what the result of this may be. I feelguilty when I stand before him. '

'But he must feel glad that you have five thousand pounds. '

Marian delayed her reply for a moment, her eyes down. 

'Yes, perhaps he is glad of that. '

'Perhaps!'

'He can't help thinking, Dora, what use he could have made of it. 

It has always been his greatest wish to have a literary paper of hisown--like The Study, you know. He would have used the money in that way, I am sure. '

'But, all the same, he ought to feel pleasure in your good fortune. '

Marian turned to another subject. 

'Think of the Reardons; what a change all at once! What will they do, Iwonder? Surely they won't continue to live apart?'

'We shall hear from Jasper. '

Whilst they were discussing the affairs of that branch of the family, Maud returned. There was ill-humour on her handsome face, and shegreeted Marian but coldly. Throwing off her hat and gloves and mantleshe listened to the repeated story of John Yule's bequests. 

'But why ever has Mrs Reardon so much more than anyone else?' she asked. 

'We can only suppose it is because she was the favourite child of thebrother he liked best. Yet at her wedding he gave her nothing, and spokecontemptuously of her for marrying a literary man. '

'Fortunate for her poor husband that her uncle was able to forgive her. I wonder what's the date of the will? Who knows but he may have rewardedher for quarrelling with Mr Reardon. '

This excited a laugh. 

'I don't know when the will was made, ' said Marian. 'And I don't knowwhether uncle had even heard of the Reardons' misfortunes. I suppose hemust have done. My cousin John was at the funeral, but not my aunt. Ithink it most likely father and John didn't speak a word to each other. Fortunately the relatives were lost sight of in the great crowd ofWattleborough people; there was an enormous procession, of course. '

Maud kept glancing at her sister. The ill-humour had not altogetherpassed from her face, but it was now blended with reflectiveness. 

A few moments more, and Marian had to hasten home. When she was gone thesisters looked at each other. 

'Five thousand pounds, ' murmured the elder. 'I suppose that isconsidered nothing. '

'I suppose so. --He was here when Marian came, but didn't stay. '

'Then you'll take him the news this evening?'

'Yes, ' replied Dora. Then, after musing, 'He seemed annoyed that youwere at the Lanes' again. '

Maud made a movement of indifference. 

'What has been putting you out?'

'Things were rather stupid. Some people who were to have come didn'tturn up. And--well, it doesn't matter. '

She rose and glanced at herself in the little oblong mirror over themantelpiece. 

'Did Jasper ever speak to you of a Miss Rupert?' asked Dora. 

'Not that I remember. '

'What do you think? He told me in the calmest way that he didn't seewhy Marian should think of him as anything but the most ordinaryfriend--said he had never given her reason to think anything else. '

'Indeed! And Miss Rupert is someone who has the honour of hispreference?'

'He says she is about thirty, and rather masculine, but a great heiress. Jasper is shameful!'

'What do you expect? I consider it is your duty to let Marian knoweverything he says. Otherwise you help to deceive her. He has no senseof honour in such things. '

Dora was so impatient to let her brother have the news that she leftthe house as soon as she had had tea on the chance of finding Jasperat home. She had not gone a dozen yards before she encountered him inperson. 

'I was afraid Marian might still be with you, ' he said, laughing. 

'I should have asked the landlady. Well?'

'We can't stand talking here. You had better come in. '

He was in too much excitement to wait. 

'Just tell me. What has she?'

Dora walked quickly towards the house, looking annoyed. 

'Nothing at all? Then what has her father?'

'He has nothing, ' replied his sister, 'and she has five thousandpounds. '

Jasper walked on with bent head. He said nothing more until he wasupstairs in the sitting-room, where Maud greeted him carelessly. 

'Mrs Reardon anything?'

Dora informed him. 

'What?' he cried incredulously. 'Ten thousand? You don't say so!'

He burst into uproarious laughter. 

'So Reardon is rescued from the slum and the clerk's desk! Well, I'mglad; by Jove, I am. I should have liked it better if Marian had had theten thousand and he the five, but it's an excellent joke. Perhaps thenext thing will be that he'll refuse to have anything to do with hiswife's money; that would be just like him. ' After amusing himself withthis subject for a few minutes more, he turned to the window and stoodthere in silence. 

'Are you going to have tea with us?' Dora inquired. 

He did not seem to hear her. On a repetition of the inquiry, he answeredabsently:

'Yes, I may as well. Then I can go home and get to work. '

During the remainder of his stay he talked very little, and as Maud alsowas in an abstracted mood, tea passed almost in silence. On the point ofdeparting he asked:

'When is Marian likely to come here again?'

'I haven't the least idea, ' answered Dora. 

He nodded, and went his way. 

It was necessary for him to work at a magazine article which he hadbegun this morning, and on reaching home he spread out his papers inthe usual businesslike fashion. The subject out of which he wasmanufacturing 'copy' had its difficulties, and was not altogethercongenial to him; this morning he had laboured with unwonted effort toproduce about a page of manuscript, and now that he tried to resume thetask his thoughts would not centre upon it. Jasper was too young to havethoroughly mastered the art of somnambulistic composition; to write, he was still obliged to give exclusive attention to the matter undertreatment. Dr Johnson's saying, that a man may write at any time if hewill set himself doggedly to it, was often upon his lips, and had evenbeen of help to him, as no doubt it has to many another man obliged tocompose amid distracting circumstances; but the formula had no efficacythis evening. Twice or thrice he rose from his chair, paced the roomwith a determined brow, and sat down again with vigorous clutch of thepen; still he failed to excogitate a single sentence that would servehis purpose. 

'I must have it out with myself before I can do anything, ' was histhought as he finally abandoned the endeavour. 'I must make up my mind. '

To this end he settled himself in an easy-chair and began to smokecigarettes. Some dozen of these aids to reflection only made him sonervous that he could no longer remain alone. He put on his hat andovercoat and went out--to find that it was raining heavily. He returnedfor an umbrella, and before long was walking aimlessly about the Strand, unable to make up his mind whether to turn into a theatre or not. Instead of doing so, he sought a certain upper room of a familiarrestaurant, where the day's papers were to be seen, and perchance anacquaintance might be met. Only half-a-dozen men were there, reading andsmoking, and all were unknown to him. He drank a glass of lager beer, skimmed the news of the evening, and again went out into the badweather. 

After all it was better to go home. Everything he encountered had anunsettling effect upon him, so that he was further than ever from thedecision at which he wished to arrive. In Mornington Road he came uponWhelpdale, who was walking slowly under an umbrella. 

'I've just called at your place. '

'All right; come back if you like. '

'But perhaps I shall waste your time?' said Whelpdale, with unusualdiffidence. 

Reassured, he gladly returned to the house. Milvain acquainted himwith the fact of John Yule's death, and with its result so far as itconcerned the Reardons. They talked of how the couple would probablybehave under this decisive change of circumstances. 

'Biffen professes to know nothing about Mrs Reardon, ' said Whelpdale. 'Isuspect he keeps his knowledge to himself, out of regard for Reardon. Itwouldn't surprise me if they live apart for a long time yet. '

'Not very likely. It was only want of money. '

'They're not at all suited to each other. Mrs Reardon, no doubt, repentsher marriage bitterly, and I doubt whether Reardon cares much for hiswife. '

'As there's no way of getting divorced they'll make the best of it. Tenthousand pounds produce about four hundred a year; it's enough to liveon. '

'And be miserable on--if they no longer love each other. '

'You're such a sentimental fellow!' cried Jasper. 'I believe youseriously think that love--the sort of frenzy you understand byit--ought to endure throughout married life. How has a man come to yourage with such primitive ideas?'

'Well, I don't know. Perhaps you err a little in the oppositedirection. '

'I haven't much faith in marrying for love, as you know. What's more, I believe it's the very rarest thing for people to be in love with eachother. Reardon and his wife perhaps were an instance; perhaps--I'mnot quite sure about her. As a rule, marriage is the result of a mildpreference, encouraged by circumstances, and deliberately heightenedinto strong sexual feeling. You, of all men, know well enough that thesame kind of feeling could be produced for almost any woman who wasn'trepulsive. '

'The same kind of feeling; but there's vast difference of degree. '

'To be sure. I think it's only a matter of degree. When it rises to thepoint of frenzy people may strictly be said to be in love; and, as Itell you, I think that comes to pass very rarely indeed. For my ownpart, I have no experience of it, and think I never shall have. '

'I can't say the same. '

They laughed. 

'I dare say you have imagined yourself in love--or really been so foraught I know--a dozen times. How the deuce you can attach any importanceto such feeling where marriage is concerned I don't understand. '

'Well, now, ' said Whelpdale, 'I have never upheld the theory--at leastnot since I was sixteen--that a man can be in love only once, or thatthere is one particular woman if he misses whom he can never be happy. There may be thousands of women whom I could love with equal sincerity. '

'I object to the word "love" altogether. It has been vulgarised. Let ustalk about compatibility. Now, I should say that, no doubt, and speakingscientifically, there is one particular woman supremely fitted toeach man. I put aside consideration of circumstances; we know thatcircumstances will disturb any degree of abstract fitness. But in thenature of things there must be one woman whose nature is specially welladapted to harmonise with mine, or with yours. If there were any meansof discovering this woman in each case, then I have no doubt it wouldbe worth a man's utmost effort to do so, and any amount of eroticjubilation would be reasonable when the discovery was made. Butthe thing is impossible, and, what's more, we know what ridiculousfallibility people display when they imagine they have found the bestsubstitute for that indiscoverable. This is what makes me impatient withsentimental talk about marriage. An educated man mustn't play so intothe hands of ironic destiny. Let him think he wants to marry a woman;but don't let him exaggerate his feelings or idealise their nature. '

'There's a good deal in all that, ' admitted Whelpdale, thoughdiscontentedly. 

'There's more than a good deal; there's the last word on the subject. The days of romantic love are gone by. The scientific spirit has putan end to that kind of self-deception. Romantic love was inextricablyblended with all sorts of superstitions--belief in personal immortality, in superior beings, in--all the rest of it. What we think of now ismoral and intellectual and physical compatibility; I mean, if we arereasonable people. '

'And if we are not so unfortunate as to fall in love with anincompatible, ' added Whelpdale, laughing. 

'Well, that is a form of unreason--a blind desire which science couldexplain in each case. I rejoice that I am not subject to that form ofepilepsy. '

'You positively never were in love!'

'As you understand it, never. But I have felt a very distinctpreference. '

'Based on what you think compatibility?'

'Yes. Not strong enough to make me lose sight of prudence and advantage. No, not strong enough for that. '

He seemed to be reassuring himself. 

'Then of course that can't be called love, ' said Whelpdale. 

'Perhaps not. But, as I told you, a preference of this kind can beheightened into emotion, if one chooses. In the case of which I amthinking it easily might be. And I think it very improbable indeed thatI should repent it if anything led me to indulge such an impulse. '

Whelpdale smiled. 

'This is very interesting. I hope it may lead to something. '

'I don't think it will. I am far more likely to marry some woman forwhom I have no preference, but who can serve me materially. '

'I confess that amazes me. I know the value of money as well as you do, but I wouldn't marry a rich woman for whom I had no preference. By Jove, no!'

'Yes, yes. You are a consistent sentimentalist. '

'Doomed to perpetual disappointment, ' said the other, lookingdisconsolately about the room. 

'Courage, my boy! I have every hope that I shall see you marry andrepent. '

'I admit the danger of that. But shall I tell you something I haveobserved? Each woman I fall in love with is of a higher type than theone before. '

Jasper roared irreverently, and his companion looked hurt. 

'But I am perfectly serious, I assure you. To go back only three or fouryears. There was the daughter of my landlady in Barham Street; well, anice girl enough, but limited, decidedly limited. 

Next came that girl at the stationer's--you remember? She was distinctlyan advance, both in mind and person. Then there was Miss Embleton; yes, I think she made again an advance. She had been at Bedford College, you know, and was really a girl of considerable attainments; morally, admirable. Afterwards--'

He paused. 

'The maiden from Birmingham, wasn't it?' said Jasper, again exploding. 

'Yes, it was. Well, I can't be quite sure. But in many respects thatgirl was my ideal; she really was. '

'As you once or twice told me at the time. '

'I really believe she would rank above Miss Embleton--at all events frommy point of view. And that's everything, you know. It's the effect awoman produces on one that has to be considered. '

'The next should be a paragon, ' said Jasper. 

'The next?'

Whelpdale again looked about the room, but added nothing, and fell intoa long silence. 

When left to himself Jasper walked about a little, then sat down at hiswriting-table, for he felt easier in mind, and fancied that he mightstill do a couple of hours' work before going to bed. He did in factwrite half-a-dozen lines, but with the effort came back his former mood. Very soon the pen dropped, and he was once more in the throes of anxiousmental debate. 

He sat till after midnight, and when he went to his bedroom it was witha lingering step, which proved him still a prey to indecision. 

PART FOUR

CHAPTER XXIII. A PROPOSED INVESTMENT

Alfred Yule's behaviour under his disappointment seemed to prove thateven for him the uses of adversity could be sweet. On the day after hisreturn home he displayed a most unwonted mildness in such remarks ashe addressed to his wife, and his bearing towards Marian was gravelygentle. At meals he conversed, or rather monologised, on literarytopics, with occasionally one of his grim jokes, pointed for Marian'sappreciation. He became aware that the girl had been overtaxing herstrength of late, and suggested a few weeks of recreation among newnovels. The coldness and gloom which had possessed him when he made aformal announcement of the news appeared to have given way before thesympathy manifested by his wife and daughter; he was now sorrowful, butresigned. 

He explained to Marian the exact nature of her legacy. It was to be paidout of her uncle's share in a wholesale stationery business, with whichJohn Yule had been connected for the last twenty years, but from whichhe had not long ago withdrawn a large portion of his invested capital. This house was known as 'Turberville & Co. , ' a name which Marian nowheard for the first time. 

'I knew nothing of his association with them, ' said her father. 'Theytell me that seven or eight thousand pounds will be realised from thatsource; it seems a pity that the investment was not left to you intact. Whether there will be any delay in withdrawing the money I can't say. '

The executors were two old friends of the deceased, one of them a formerpartner in his paper-making concern. 

On the evening of the second day, about an hour after dinner was over, Mr Hinks called at the house; as usual, he went into the study. Beforelong came a second visitor, Mr Quarmby, who joined Yule and Hinks. Thethree had all sat together for some time, when Marian, who happened tobe coming down stairs, saw her father at the study door. 

'Ask your mother to let us have some supper at a quarter to ten, ' hesaid urbanely. 'And come in, won't you? We are only gossiping. '

It had not often happened that Marian was invited to join parties ofthis kind. 

'Do you wish me to come?' she asked. 

'Yes, I should like you to, if you have nothing particular to do. '

Marian informed Mrs Yule that the visitors would have supper, and thenwent to the study. Mr Quarmby was smoking a pipe; Mr Hinks, who ongrounds of economy had long since given up tobacco, sat with his handsin his trouser pockets, and his long, thin legs tucked beneath thechair; both rose and greeted Marian with more than ordinary warmth. 

'Will you allow me five or six more puffs?' asked Mr Quarmby, laying onehand on his ample stomach and elevating his pipe as if it were a glassof beaded liquor. 'I shall then have done. '

'As many more as you like, ' Marian replied. 

The easiest chair was placed for her, Mr Hinks hastening to perform thiscourtesy, and her father apprised her of the topic they were discussing. 

'What's your view, Marian? Is there anything to be said for theestablishment of a literary academy in England?'

Mr Quarmby beamed benevolently upon her, and Mr Hinks, his scraggy neckat full length, awaited her reply with a look of the most respectfulattention. 

'I really think we have quite enough literary quarrelling as it is, ' thegirl replied, casting down her eyes and smiling. 

Mr Quarmby uttered a hollow chuckle, Mr Hinks laughed thinly andexclaimed, 'Very good indeed! Very good!' Yule affected to applaud withimpartial smile. 

'It wouldn't harmonise with the Anglo-Saxon spirit, ' remarked Mr Hinks, with an air of diffident profundity. 

Yule held forth on the subject for a few minutes in laboured phrases. Presently the conversation turned to periodicals, and the three men wereunanimous in an opinion that no existing monthly or quarterly could beconsidered as representing the best literary opinion. 

'We want, ' remarked Mr Quarmby, 'we want a monthly review whichshall deal exclusively with literature. The Fortnightly, theContemporary--they are very well in their way, but then they are meremiscellanies. You will find one solid literary article amid a confusedmass of politics and economics and general clap-trap. '

'Articles on the currency and railway statistics and views ofevolution, ' said Mr Hinks, with a look as if something were gratingbetween his teeth. 

'The quarterlies?' put in Yule. 'Well, the original idea of thequarterlies was that there are not enough important books published tooccupy solid reviewers more than four times a year. That may be true, but then a literary monthly would include much more than professedreviews. Hinks's essays on the historical drama would have come out init very well; or your "Spanish Poets, " Quarmby. '

'I threw out the idea to Jedwood the other day, ' said Mr Quarmby, 'andhe seemed to nibble at it. '

'Yes, yes, ' came from Yule; 'but Jedwood has so many irons in the fire. I doubt if he has the necessary capital at command just now. No doubthe's the man, if some capitalist would join him. '

'No enormous capital needed, ' opined Mr Quarmby. 'The thing wouldpay its way almost from the first. It would take a place between theliterary weeklies and the quarterlies. The former are too academic, the latter too massive, for multitudes of people who yet have strongliterary tastes. Foreign publications should be liberally dealt with. But, as Hinks says, no meddling with the books that are no books--bibliaabiblia; nothing about essays on bimetallism and treatises for oragainst vaccination. '

Even here, in the freedom of a friend's study, he laughed hisReading-room laugh, folding both hands upon his expansive waistcoat. 

'Fiction? I presume a serial of the better kind might be admitted?' saidYule. 

'That would be advisable, no doubt. But strictly of the better kind. '

'Oh, strictly of the better kind, ' chimed in Mr Hinks. 

They pursued the discussion as if they were an editorial committeeplanning a review of which the first number was shortly to appear. It occupied them until Mrs Yule announced at the door that supper wasready. 

During the meal Marian found herself the object of unusual attention;her father troubled to inquire if the cut of cold beef he sent her wasto her taste, and kept an eye on her progress. Mr Hinks talked to her ina tone of respectful sympathy, and Mr Quarmby was paternally jovial whenhe addressed her. Mrs Yule would have kept silence, in her ordinary way, but this evening her husband made several remarks which he had adaptedto her intellect, and even showed that a reply would be graciouslyreceived. 

Mother and daughter remained together when the men withdrew to theirtobacco and toddy. Neither made allusion to the wonderful change, butthey talked more light-heartedly than for a long time. 

On the morrow Yule began by consulting Marian with regard to thedisposition of matter in an essay he was writing. What she said heweighed carefully, and seemed to think that she had set his doubts atrest. 

'Poor old Hinks!' he said presently, with a sigh. 'Breaking up, isn'the? He positively totters in his walk. I'm afraid he's the kind ofman to have a paralytic stroke; it wouldn't astonish me to hear at anymoment that he was lying helpless. '

'What ever would become of him in that case?'

'Goodness knows! One might ask the same of so many of us. What wouldbecome of me, for instance, if I were incapable of work?'

Marian could make no reply. 

'There's something I'll just mention to you, ' he went on in a loweredtone, 'though I don't wish you to take it too seriously. I'm beginningto have a little trouble with my eyes. '

She looked at him, startled. 

'With your eyes?'

'Nothing, I hope; but--well, I think I shall see an oculist. One doesn'tcare to face a prospect of failing sight, perhaps of cataract, orsomething of that kind; still, it's better to know the facts, I shouldsay. '

'By all means go to an oculist, ' said Marian, earnestly. 

'Don't disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all. But in anycase I must change my glasses. '

He rustled over some slips of manuscript, whilst Marian regarded himanxiously. 

'Now, I appeal to you, Marian, ' he continued: 'could I possibly savemoney out of an income that has never exceeded two hundred and fiftypounds, and often--I mean even in latter years--has been much less?'

'I don't see how you could. '

'In one way, of course, I have managed it. My life is insured for fivehundred pounds. But that is no provision for possible disablement. If Icould no longer earn money with my pen, what would become of me?'

Marian could have made an encouraging reply, but did not venture toutter her thoughts. 

'Sit down, ' said her father. 'You are not to work for a few days, and Imyself shall be none the worse for a morning's rest. Poor old Hinks!I suppose we shall help him among us, somehow. Quarmby, of course, iscomparatively flourishing. Well, we have been companions for a quarterof a century, we three. When I first met Quarmby I was a Grub Streetgazetteer, and I think he was even poorer than I. A life of toil! A lifeof toil!'

'That it has been, indeed. '

'By-the-bye'--he threw an arm over the back of his chair--'what didyou think of our imaginary review, the thing we were talking about lastnight?'

'There are so many periodicals, ' replied Marian, doubtfully. 

'So many? My dear child, if we live another ten years we shall see thenumber trebled. '

'Is it desirable?'

'That there should be such growth of periodicals? Well, from one pointof view, no. No doubt they take up the time which some people wouldgive to solid literature. But, on the other hand, there's a far greaternumber of people who would probably not read at all, but for thetemptations of these short and new articles; and they may be induced topass on to substantial works. Of course it all depends on the quality ofthe periodical matter you offer. Now, magazines like'--he named two orthree of popular stamp--'might very well be dispensed with, unless oneregards them as an alternative to the talking of scandal or any othervicious result of total idleness. But such a monthly as we projectedwould be of distinct literary value. There can be no doubt that someoneor other will shortly establish it. '

'I am afraid, ' said Marian, 'I haven't so much sympathy with literaryundertakings as you would like me to have. '

Money is a great fortifier of self-respect. Since she had become reallyconscious of her position as the owner of five thousand pounds, Marianspoke with a steadier voice, walked with firmer step; mentally she feltherself altogether a less dependent being. She might have confessed thislukewarmness towards literary enterprise in the anger which her fatherexcited eight or nine days ago, but at that time she could not haveuttered her opinion calmly, deliberately, as now. The smile whichaccompanied the words was also new; it signified deliverance frompupilage. 

'I have felt that, ' returned her father, after a slight pause to commandhis voice, that it might be suave instead of scornful. 'I greatly fearthat I have made your life something of a martyrdom----'

'Don't think I meant that, father. I am speaking only of the generalquestion. I can't be quite so zealous as you are, that's all. I lovebooks, but I could wish people were content for a while with those wealready have. '

'My dear Marian, don't suppose that I am out of sympathy with you here. Alas! how much of my work has been mere drudgery, mere labouring for alivelihood! How gladly I would have spent much more of my time amongthe great authors, with no thought of making money of them! If I speakapprovingly of a scheme for a new periodical, it is greatly because ofmy necessities. '

He paused and looked at her. Marian returned the look. 

'You would of course write for it, ' she said. 

'Marian, why shouldn't I edit it? Why shouldn't it be your property?'

'My property--?'

She checked a laugh. There came into her mind a more disagreeablesuspicion than she had ever entertained of her father. Was thisthe meaning of his softened behaviour? Was he capable of calculatedhypocrisy? That did not seem consistent with his character, as she knewit. 

'Let us talk it over, ' said Yule. He was in visible agitation and hisvoice shook. 'The idea may well startle you at first. It will seem toyou that I propose to make away with your property before you have evencome into possession of it. ' He laughed. 'But, in fact, what I have inmind is merely an investment for your capital, and that an admirableone. Five thousand pounds at three per cent. --one doesn't care to reckonon more--represents a hundred and fifty a year. Now, there can be verylittle doubt that, if it were invested in literary property such as Ihave in mind, it would bring you five times that interest, and beforelong perhaps much more. Of course I am now speaking in the roughestoutline. I should have to get trustworthy advice; complete and detailedestimates would be submitted to you. At present I merely suggest to youthis form of investment. '

He watched her face eagerly, greedily. When Marian's eyes rose to his helooked away. 

'Then, of course, ' she said, 'you don't expect me to give any decidedanswer. '

'Of course not--of course not. I merely put before you the chiefadvantages of such an investment. As I am a selfish old fellow, I'lltalk about the benefit to myself first of all. I should be editor of thenew review; I should draw a stipend sufficient to all my needs--quitecontent, at first, to take far less than another man would ask, and toprogress with the advance of the periodical. This position would enableme to have done with mere drudgery; I should only write when I feltcalled to do so--when the spirit moved me. ' Again he laughed, as thoughdesirous of keeping his listener in good humour. 'My eyes would begreatly spared henceforth. '

He dwelt on that point, waiting its effect on Marian. As she saidnothing he proceeded:

'And suppose I really were doomed to lose my sight in the course of afew years, am I wrong in thinking that the proprietor of this periodicalwould willingly grant a small annuity to the man who had firmlyestablished it?'

'I see the force of all that, ' said Marian; 'but it takes for grantedthat the periodical will be successful. '

'It does. In the hands of a publisher like Jedwood--a vigorous man ofthe new school--its success could scarcely be doubtful. '

'Do you think five thousand pounds would be enough to start such areview?'

'Well, I can say nothing definite on that point. For one thing, thecoat must be made according to the cloth; expenditure can be largelycontrolled without endangering success. Then again, I think Jedwoodwould take a share in the venture. These are details. At present I onlywant to familiarise you with the thought that an investment of this sortwill very probably offer itself to you. '

'It would be better if we called it a speculation, ' said Marian, smilinguneasily. 

Her one object at present was to oblige her father to understand thatthe suggestion by no means lured her. She could not tell him that whathe proposed was out of the question, though as yet that was the light inwhich she saw it. His subtlety of approach had made her feel justifiedin dealing with him in a matter-of-fact way. He must see that she wasnot to be cajoled. Obviously, and in the nature of the case, he wasurging a proposal in which he himself had all faith; but Marian knewhis judgment was far from infallible. It mitigated her sense of behavingunkindly to reflect that in all likelihood this disposal of her moneywould be the worst possible for her own interests, and therefore forhis. If, indeed, his dark forebodings were warranted, then upon herwould fall the care of him, and the steadiness with which she faced thatresponsibility came from a hope of which she could not speak. 

'Name it as you will, ' returned her father, hardly suppressing a note ofirritation. 'True, every commercial enterprise is a speculation. But letme ask you one question, and beg you to reply frankly. Do you distrustmy ability to conduct this periodical?'

She did. She knew that he was not in touch with the interests of theday, and that all manner of considerations akin to the prime end ofselling his review would make him an untrustworthy editor. 

But how could she tell him this?

'My opinion would be worthless, ' she replied. 

'If Jedwood were disposed to put confidence in me, you also would?'

'There's no need to talk of that now, father. Indeed, I can't sayanything that would sound like a promise. '

He flashed a glance at her. Then she was more than doubtful?

'But you have no objection, Marian, to talk in a friendly way of aproject that would mean so much to me?'

'But I am afraid to encourage you, ' she replied, frankly. 'It isimpossible for me to say whether I can do as you wish, or not. '

'Yes, yes; I perfectly understand that. Heaven forbid that I shouldregard you as a child to be led independently of your own views andwishes! With so large a sum of money at stake, it would be monstrousif I acted rashly, and tried to persuade you to do the same. The matterwill have to be most gravely considered. '

'Yes. ' She spoke mechanically. 

'But if only it should come to something! You don't know what it wouldmean to me, Marian. '

'Yes, father; I know very well how you think and feel about it. '

'Do you?' He leaned forward, his features working under stress ofemotion. 'If I could see myself the editor of an influential review, allmy bygone toils and sufferings would be as nothing; I should rejoice inthem as the steps to this triumph. Meminisse juvabit! My dear, I am nota man fitted for subordinate places. My nature is framed for authority. The failure of all my undertakings rankles so in my heart that sometimesI feel capable of every brutality, every meanness, every hatefulcruelty. To you I have behaved shamefully. Don't interrupt me, Marian. I have treated you abominably, my child, my dear daughter--and all thetime with a full sense of what I was doing. That's the punishment offaults such as mine. I hate myself for every harsh word and angry look Ihave given you; at the time, I hated myself!'

'Father--'

'No, no; let me speak, Marian. You have forgiven me; I know it. You werealways ready to forgive, dear. Can I ever forget that evening when Ispoke like a brute, and you came afterwards and addressed me as if thewrong had been on your side? It burns in my memory. It wasn't I whospoke; it was the demon of failure, of humiliation. My enemies sitin triumph, and scorn at me; the thought of it is infuriating. Have Ideserved this? Am I the inferior of--of those men who have succeededand now try to trample on me? No! I am not! I have a better brain and abetter heart!'

Listening to this strange outpouring, Marian more than forgave thehypocrisy of the last day or two. Nay, could it be called hypocrisy? Itwas only his better self declared at the impulse of a passionate hope. 

'Why should you think so much of these troubles, father? Is it such agreat matter that narrow-minded people triumph over you?'

'Narrow-minded?' He clutched at the word. 'You admit they are that?'

'I feel very sure that Mr Fadge is. '

'Then you are not on his side against me?'

'How could you suppose such a thing?'

'Well, well; we won't talk of that. Perhaps it isn't a great matter. No--from a philosophical point of view, such things are unspeakablypetty. But I am not much of a philosopher. ' He laughed, with a break inhis voice. 'Defeat in life is defeat, after all; and unmerited failureis a bitter curse. You see, I am not too old to do something yet. Mysight is failing, but I can take care of it. If I had my own review, Iwould write every now and then a critical paper in my very best style. You remember poor old Hinks's note about me in his book? We laughed atit, but he wasn't so far wrong. I have many of those qualities. A man isconscious of his own merits as well as of his defects. I have done a fewadmirable things. You remember my paper on Lord Herbert of Cherbury? Noone ever wrote a more subtle piece of criticism; but it was swept asideamong the rubbish of the magazines. And it's just because of my pungentphrases that I have excited so much enmity. Wait! Wait! Let me have myown review, and leisure, and satisfaction of mind--heavens! what I willwrite! How I will scarify!'

'That is unworthy of you. How much better to ignore your enemies!

In such a position, I should carefully avoid every word that betrayedpersonal feeling. '

'Well, well; you are of course right, my good girl. And I believe Ishould do injustice to myself if I made you think that those ignoblemotives are the strongest in me. No; it isn't so. From my boyhood Ihave had a passionate desire of literary fame, deep down below all thesurface faults of my character. The best of my life has gone by, and itdrives me to despair when I feel that I have not gained the position dueto me. There is only one way of doing this now, and that is by becomingthe editor of an important periodical. Only in that way shall I succeedin forcing people to pay attention to my claims. Many a man goes tohis grave unrecognised, just because he has never had a fair judgment. Nowadays it is the unscrupulous men of business who hold the attentionof the public; they blow their trumpets so loudly that the voices ofhonest men have no chance of being heard. '

Marian was pained by the humility of his pleading with her--for what wasall this but an endeavour to move her sympathies?--and by the necessityshe was under of seeming to turn a deaf ear. She believed that therewas some truth in his estimate of his own powers; though as an editorhe would almost certainly fail, as a man of letters he had probablydone far better work than some who had passed him by on their way topopularity. Circumstances might enable her to assist him, though not inthe way he proposed. The worst of it was that she could not let him seewhat was in her mind. He must think that she was simply balancingher own satisfaction against his, when in truth she suffered from theconviction that to yield would be as unwise in regard to her father'sfuture as it would be perilous to her own prospect of happiness. 

'Shall we leave this to be talked of when the money has been paid overto me?' she said, after a silence. 

'Yes. Don't suppose I wish to influence you by dwelling on myown hardships. That would be contemptible. I have only taken thisopportunity of making myself better known to you. I don't readily talkof myself and in general my real feelings are hidden by the faults ofmy temper. In suggesting how you could do me a great service, and at thesame time reap advantage for yourself I couldn't but remember how littlereason you have to think kindly of me. But we will postpone furthertalk. You will think over what I have said?'

Marian promised that she would, and was glad to bring the conversationto an end. 

When Sunday came, Yule inquired of his daughter if she had anyengagement for the afternoon. 

'Yes, I have, ' she replied, with an effort to disguise herembarrassment. 

'I'm sorry. I thought of asking you to come with me to Quarmby's. Shallyou be away through the evening?'

'Till about nine o'clock, I think. '

'Ah! Never mind, never mind. '

He tried to dismiss the matter as if it were of no moment, but Mariansaw the shadow that passed over his countenance. This was just afterbreakfast. For the remainder of the morning she did not meet him, and atthe mid-day dinner he was silent, though he brought no book to the tablewith him, as he was wont to do when in his dark moods. Mariantalked with her mother, doing her best to preserve the appearance ofcheerfulness which was natural since the change in Yule's demeanour. 

She chanced to meet her father in the passage just as she was goingout. He smiled (it was more like a grin of pain) and nodded, but saidnothing. 

When the front door closed, he went into the parlour. Mrs Yule wasreading, or, at all events, turning over a volume of an illustratedmagazine. 

'Where do you suppose she has gone?' he asked, in a voice which was onlydistant, not offensive. 

'To the Miss Milvains, I believe, ' Mrs Yule answered, looking aside. 

'Did she tell you so?'

'No. We don't talk about it. '

He seated himself on the corner of a chair and bent forward, his chin inhis hand. 

'Has she said anything to you about the review?'

'Not a word. '

She glanced at him timidly, and turned a few pages of her book. 

'I wanted her to come to Quarmby's, because there'll be a man there whois anxious that Jedwood should start a magazine, and it would be usefulfor her to hear practical opinions. There'd be no harm if you just spoketo her about it now and then. Of course if she has made up her mindto refuse me it's no use troubling myself any more. I should think youmight find out what's really going on. '

Only dire stress of circumstances could have brought Alfred Yule to makedistinct appeal for his wife's help. There was no underhand plottingbetween them to influence their daughter; Mrs Yule had as much desirefor the happiness of her husband as for that of Marian, but she feltpowerless to effect anything on either side. 

'If ever she says anything, I'll let you know. '

'But it seems to me that you have a right to question her. '

'I can't do that, Alfred. '

'Unfortunately, there are a good many things you can't do. ' With thatremark, familiar to his wife in substance, though the tone of it wasless caustic than usual, he rose and sauntered from the room. He spenta gloomy hour in the study, then went off to join the literary circle atMr Quarmby's. 

CHAPTER XXIV. JASPER'S MAGNANIMITY

Occasionally Milvain met his sisters as they came out of church onSunday morning, and walked home to have dinner with them. He did soto-day, though the sky was cheerless and a strong north-west wind madeit anything but agreeable to wait about in open spaces. 

'Are you going to Mrs Wright's this afternoon?' he asked, as they wenton together. 

'I thought of going, ' replied Maud. 'Marian will be with Dora. '

'You ought both to go. You mustn't neglect that woman. '

He said nothing more just then, but when presently he was alone withDora in the sitting-room for a few minutes, he turned with a peculiarsmile and remarked quietly:

'I think you had better go with Maud this afternoon. '

'But I can't. I expect Marian at three. '

'That's just why I want you to go. '

She looked her surprise. 

'I want to have a talk with Marian. We'll manage it in this way. At aquarter to three you two shall start, and as you go out you can tell thelandlady that if Miss Yule comes she is to wait for you, as you won't belong. She'll come upstairs, and I shall be there. You see?'

Dora turned half away, disturbed a little, but not displeased. 

'And what about Miss Rupert?' she asked. 

'Oh, Miss Rupert may go to Jericho for all I care. I'm in a magnanimousmood. '

'Very, I've no doubt. '

'Well, you'll do this? One of the results of poverty, you see; one can'teven have a private conversation with a friend without plotting to getthe use of a room. But there shall be an end of this state of things. '

He nodded significantly. Thereupon Dora left the room to speak with hersister. 

The device was put into execution, and Jasper saw his sisters departknowing that they were not likely to return for some three hours. Heseated himself comfortably by the fire and mused. Five minutes hadhardly gone by when he looked at his watch, thinking Marian must beunpunctual. He was nervous, though he had believed himself secureagainst such weakness. His presence here with the purpose he had in hismind seemed to him distinctly a concession to impulses he ought to havecontrolled; but to this resolve he had come, and it was now too late torecommence the arguments with himself. Too late? Well, not strictly so;he had committed himself to nothing; up to the last moment of freedom hecould always--

That was doubtless Marian's knock at the front door. He jumped up, walked the length of the room, sat down on another chair, returned tohis former seat. Then the door opened and Marian came in. 

She was not surprised; the landlady had mentioned to her that Mr Milvainwas upstairs, waiting the return of his sisters. 

'I am to make 'Dora's excuses, ' Jasper said. 'She begged you wouldforgive her--that you would wait. '

'Oh yes. '

'And you were to be sure to take off your hat, ' he added in a laughingtone; 'and to let me put your umbrella in the corner--like that. '

He had always admired the shape of Marian's head, and the beauty of hershort, soft, curly hair. As he watched her uncovering it, he was pleasedwith the grace of her arms and the pliancy of her slight figure. 

'Which is usually your chair?'

'I'm sure I don't know. '

'When one goes to see a friend frequently, one gets into regularhabits in these matters. In Biffen's garret I used to have the mostuncomfortable chair it was ever my lot to sit upon; still, I came tofeel an affection for it. At Reardon's I always had what was supposed tobe the most luxurious seat, but it was too small for me, and I eyed itresentfully on sitting down and rising. '

'Have you any news about the Reardons?'

'Yes. I am told that Reardon has had the offer of a secretaryship to aboys' home, or something of the kind, at Croydon. But I suppose there'llbe no need for him to think of that now. '

'Surely not!'

'Oh there's no saying. '

'Why should he do work of that kind now?'

'Perhaps his wife will tell him that she wants her money all forherself. '

Marian laughed. It was very rarely that Jasper had heard her laugh atall, and never so spontaneously as this. He liked the music. 

'You haven't a very good opinion of Mrs Reardon, ' she said. 

'She is a difficult person to judge. I never disliked her, by any means;but she was decidedly out of place as the wife of a struggling author. Perhaps I have been a little prejudiced against her since Reardonquarrelled with me on her account. '

Marian was astonished at this unlooked-for explanation of the rupturebetween Milvain and his friend. That they had not seen each other forsome months she knew from Jasper himself but no definite cause had beenassigned. 

'I may as well let you know all about it, ' Milvain continued, seeingthat he had disconcerted the girl, as he meant to. 'I met Reardon notlong after they had parted, and he charged me with being in great partthe cause of his troubles. '

The listener did not raise her eyes. 

'You would never imagine what my fault was. Reardon declared that thetone of my conversation had been morally injurious to his wife. He saidI was always glorifying worldly success, and that this had made herdiscontented with her lot. Sounds rather ludicrous, don't you think?'

'It was very strange. '

'Reardon was in desperate earnest, poor fellow. And, to tell you thetruth, I fear there may have been something in his complaint. 

I told him at once that I should henceforth keep away from Mrs EdmundYule's; and so I have done, with the result, of course, that theysuppose I condemn Mrs Reardon's behaviour. The affair was a nuisance, but I had no choice, I think. '

'You say that perhaps your talk really was harmful to her. '

'It may have been, though such a danger never occurred to me. '

'Then Amy must be very weak-minded. '

'To be influenced by such a paltry fellow?'

'To be influenced by anyone in such a way. '

'You think the worse of me for this story?' Jasper asked. 

'I don't quite understand it. How did you talk to her?'

'As I talk to everyone. You have heard me say the same things many atime. I simply declare my opinion that the end of literary work--unlessone is a man of genius--is to secure comfort and repute. This doesn'tseem to me very scandalous. But Mrs Reardon was perhaps too urgent inrepeating such views to her husband. She saw that in my case they werelikely to have solid results, and it was a misery to her that Reardoncouldn't or wouldn't work in the same practical way. 

'It was very unfortunate. '

'And you are inclined to blame me?'

'No; because I am so sure that you only spoke in the way natural to you, without a thought of such consequences. '

Jasper smiled. 

'That's precisely the truth. Nearly all men who have their way to makethink as I do, but most feel obliged to adopt a false tone, to talkabout literary conscientiousness, and so on. I simply say what I think, with no pretences. I should like to be conscientious, but it's a luxuryI can't afford. I've told you all this often enough, you know. '

'Yes. '

'But it hasn't been morally injurious to you, ' he said with a laugh. 

'Not at all. Still I don't like it. '

Jasper was startled. He gazed at her. Ought he, then, to have dealtwith her less frankly? Had he been mistaken in thinking that theunusual openness of his talk was attractive to her? She spoke with quiteunaccustomed decision; indeed, he had noticed from her entrance thatthere was something unfamiliar in her way of conversing. She was so muchmore self-possessed than of wont, and did not seem to treat him with thesame deference, the same subdual of her own personality. 

'You don't like it?' he repeated calmly. 'It has become rather tiresometo you?'

'I feel sorry that you should always represent yourself in anunfavourable light. '

He was an acute man, but the self-confidence with which he had enteredupon this dialogue, his conviction that he had but to speak when hewished to receive assurance of Marian's devotion, prevented him fromunderstanding the tone of independence she had suddenly adopted. Withmore modesty he would have felt more subtly at this juncture, would havedivined that the girl had an exquisite pleasure in drawing back now thatshe saw him approaching her with unmistakable purpose, that she wishedto be wooed in less off-hand fashion before confessing what was in herheart. For the moment he was disconcerted. Those last words of hers hada slight tone of superiority, the last thing he would have expected uponher lips. 

'Yet I surely haven't always appeared so--to you?' he said. 

'No, not always. '

'But you are in doubt concerning the real man?'

'I'm not sure that I understand you. You say that you do really think asyou speak. '

'So I do. I think that there is no choice for a man who can't bearpoverty. I have never said, though, that I had pleasure in meannecessities; I accept them because I can't help it. '

It was a delight to Marian to observe the anxiety with which he turnedto self-defence. Never in her life had she felt this joy of holding aposition of command. It was nothing to her that Jasper valued her morebecause of her money; impossible for it to be otherwise. Satisfied thathe did value her, to begin with, for her own sake, she was very willingto accept money as her ally in the winning of his love. He scarcelyloved her yet, as she understood the feeling, but she perceived herpower over him, and passion taught her how to exert it. 

'But you resign yourself very cheerfully to the necessity, ' she said, looking at him with merely intellectual eyes. 

'You had rather I lamented my fate in not being able to devote myself tonobly unremunerative work?'

There was a note of irony here. It caused her a tremor, but she held herposition. 

'That you never do so would make one think--but I won't speak unkindly. '

'That I neither care for good work nor am capable of it, ' Jasperfinished her sentence. 'I shouldn't have thought it would make you thinkso. '

Instead of replying she turned her look towards the door. There was afootstep on the stairs, but it passed. 

'I thought it might be Dora, ' she said. 

'She won't be here for another couple of hours at least, ' replied Jasperwith a slight smile. 

'But you said--?'

'I sent her to Mrs Boston Wright's that I might have an opportunity oftalking to you. Will you forgive the stratagem?'

Marian resumed her former attitude, the faintest smile hovering abouther lips. 

'I'm glad there's plenty of time, ' he continued. 'I begin to suspectthat you have been misunderstanding me of late. I must set that right. '

'I don't think I have misunderstood you. '

'That may mean something very disagreeable. I know that some people whomI esteem have a very poor opinion of me, but I can't allow you to be oneof them. What do I seem to you? What is the result on your mind of allour conversations?'

'I have already told you. '

'Not seriously. Do you believe I am capable of generous feeling?'

'To say no, would be to put you in the lowest class of men, and that avery small one. ''Good! Then I am not among the basest. But that doesn'tgive me very distinguished claims upon your consideration. Whatever Iam, I am high in some of my ambitions. '

'Which of them?'

'For instance, I have been daring enough to hope that you might loveme. '

Marian delayed for a moment, then said quietly:

'Why do you call that daring?'

'Because I have enough of old-fashioned thought to believe that a womanwho is worthy of a man's love is higher than he, and condescends ingiving herself to him. '

His voice was not convincing; the phrase did not sound natural on hislips. It was not thus that she had hoped to hear him speak. Whilst heexpressed himself thus conventionally he did not love her as she desiredto be loved. 

'I don't hold that view, ' she said. 

'It doesn't surprise me. You are very reserved on all subjects, and wehave never spoken of this, but of course I know that your thought isnever commonplace. Hold what view you like of woman's position, thatdoesn't affect mine. '

'Is yours commonplace, then?'

'Desperately. Love is a very old and common thing, and I believe I loveyou in the old and common way. I think you beautiful, you seem to mewomanly in the best sense, full of charm and sweetness. I know myself acoarse being in comparison. All this has been felt and said in the sameway by men infinite in variety. Must I find some new expression beforeyou can believe me?'

Marian kept silence. 

'I know what you are thinking, ' he said. 'The thought is as inevitableas my consciousness of it. '

For an instant she looked at him. 

'Yes, you look the thought. Why have I not spoken to you in thisway before? Why have I waited until you are obliged to suspect mysincerity?'

'My thought is not so easily read, then, ' said Marian. 

'To be sure it hasn't a gross form, but I know you wish--whatever yourreal feeling towards me--that I had spoken a fortnight ago. You wouldwish that of any man in my position, merely because it is painful to youto see a possible insincerity. Well, I am not insincere. I have thoughtof you as of no other woman for some time. But--yes, you shall have theplain, coarse truth, which is good in its way, no doubt. I was afraid tosay that I loved you. You don't flinch; so far, so good. Now what harmis there in this confession? In the common course of things I shouldn'tbe in a position to marry for perhaps three or four years, and even thenmarriage would mean difficulties, restraints, obstacles. I have alwaysdreaded the thought of marriage with a poor income. You remember?

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is--Love forgive us!--cinders, ashes, dust. 

You know that is true. '

'Not always, I dare say. '

'But for the vast majority of mortals. There's the instance of theReardons. They were in love with each other, if ever two people were;but poverty ruined everything. I am not in the confidence of either ofthem, but I feel sure each has wished the other dead. What else wasto be expected? Should I have dared to take a wife in my presentcircumstances--a wife as poor as myself?'

'You will be in a much better position before long, ' said Marian. 'If you loved me, why should you have been afraid to ask me to haveconfidence in your future?'

'It's all so uncertain. It may be another ten years before I can counton an income of five or six hundred pounds--if I have to struggle on inthe common way. '

'But tell me, what is your aim in life? What do you understand bysuccess?'

'Yes, I will tell you. My aim is to have easy command of all thepleasures desired by a cultivated man. I want to live among beautifulthings, and never to be troubled by a thought of vulgar difficulties. I want to travel and enrich my mind in foreign countries. I want toassociate on equal terms with refined and interesting people. I want tobe known, to be familiarly referred to, to feel when I enter a room thatpeople regard me with some curiosity. '

He looked steadily at her with bright eyes. 

'And that's all?' asked Marian. 

'That is very much. Perhaps you don't know how I suffer in feelingmyself at a disadvantage. My instincts are strongly social, yet I can'tbe at my ease in society, simply because I can't do justice to myself. Want of money makes me the inferior of the people I talk with, thoughI might be superior to them in most things. I am ignorant in manyways, and merely because I am poor. Imagine my never having been out ofEngland! It shames me when people talk familiarly of the Continent. Sowith regard to all manner of amusements and pursuits at home. Impossiblefor me to appear among my acquaintances at the theatre, at concerts. I am perpetually at a disadvantage; I haven't fair play. Suppose mepossessed of money enough to live a full and active life for the nextfive years; why, at the end of that time my position would be secure. Tohim that hath shall be given--you know how universally true that is. '

'And yet, ' came in a low voice from Marian, 'you say that you love me. '

'You mean that I speak as if no such thing as love existed. But youasked me what I understood by success. I am speaking of worldly things. Now suppose I had said to you:

My one aim and desire in life is to win your love. Could you havebelieved me? Such phrases are always untrue; I don't know how itcan give anyone pleasure to hear them. But if I say to you: All thesatisfactions I have described would be immensely heightened if theywere shared with a woman who loved me--there is the simple truth. '

Marian's heart sank. She did not want truth such as this; she would havepreferred that he should utter the poor, common falsehoods. Hungry forpassionate love, she heard with a sense of desolation all this calmreasoning. That Jasper was of cold temperament she had often feared; yetthere was always the consoling thought that she did not see with perfectclearness into his nature. Now and then had come a flash, a hint ofpossibilities. She had looked forward with trembling eagerness to somesudden revelation; but it seemed as if he knew no word of the languagewhich would have called such joyous response from her expectant soul. 

'We have talked for a long time, ' she said, turning her head as if hislast words were of no significance. 'As Dora is not coming, I think Iwill go now. '

She rose, and went towards the chair on which lay her out-of-doorthings. At once Jasper stepped to her side. 

'You will go without giving me any answer?'

'Answer? To what?'

'Will you be my wife?'

'It is too soon to ask me that. '

'Too soon? Haven't you known for months that I thought of you with farmore than friendliness?'

'How was it possible I should know that? You have explained to me whyyou would not let your real feelings be understood. '

The reproach was merited, and not easy to be outfaced. He turned awayfor an instant, then with a sudden movement caught both her hands. 

'Whatever I have done or said or thought in the past, that is of noaccount now. I love you, Marian. I want you to be my wife. I have neverseen any other girl who impressed me as you did from the first. If I hadbeen weak enough to try to win anyone but you, I should have known thatI had turned aside from the path of my true happiness. Let us forget fora moment all our circumstances. I hold your hands, and look into yourface, and say that I love you. Whatever answer you give, I love you!'

Till now her heart had only fluttered a little; it was a great part ofher distress that the love she had so long nurtured seemed shrinkingtogether into some far corner of her being whilst she listened tothe discourses which prefaced Jasper's declaration. She was nervous, painfully self-conscious, touched with maidenly shame, but could notabandon herself to that delicious emotion which ought to have been thefulfilment of all her secret imaginings. Now at length there began athrobbing in her bosom. Keeping her face averted, her eyes cast down, she waited for a repetition of the note that was in that last 'I loveyou. ' She felt a change in the hands that held hers--a warmth, a moistsoftness; it caused a shock through her veins. 

He was trying to draw her nearer, but she kept at full arm's length andlooked irresponsive. 

'Marian?'

She wished to answer, but a spirit of perversity held her tongue. 

'Marian, don't you love me? Or have I offended you by my way ofspeaking?'

Persisting, she at length withdrew her hands. Jasper's face expressedsomething like dismay. 

'You have not offended me, ' she said. 'But I am not sure that you don'tdeceive yourself in thinking, for the moment, that I am necessary toyour happiness. '

The emotional current which had passed from her flesh to his whilsttheir hands were linked, made him incapable of standing aloof from her. He saw that her face and neck were warmer hued, and her beauty becamemore desirable to him than ever yet. 

'You are more to me than anything else in the compass of life!' heexclaimed, again pressing forward. 'I think of nothing but you--youyourself--my beautiful, gentle, thoughtful Marian!'

His arm captured her, and she did not resist. A sob, then a strangelittle laugh, betrayed the passion that was at length unfolded in her. 

'You do love me, Marian?'

'I love you. '

And there followed the antiphony of ardour that finds its firstutterance--a subdued music, often interrupted, ever returning upon thesame rich note. 

Marian closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the luxury of the dream. It was her first complete escape from the world of intellectual routine, her first taste of life. All the pedantry of her daily toil slipped awaylike a cumbrous garment; she was clad only in her womanhood. Once ortwice a shudder of strange self-consciousness went through her, andshe felt guilty, immodest; but upon that sensation followed a surge ofpassionate joy, obliterating memory and forethought. 

'How shall I see you?' Jasper asked at length. 'Where can we meet?'

It was a difficulty. The season no longer allowed lingerings underthe open sky, but Marian could not go to his lodgings, and it seemedimpossible for him to visit her at her home. 

'Will your father persist in unfriendliness to me?'

She was only just beginning to reflect on all that was involved in thisnew relation. 

'I have no hope that he will change, ' she said sadly. 

'He will refuse to countenance your marriage?'

'I shall disappoint him and grieve him bitterly. He has asked me to usemy money in starting a new review. '

'Which he is to edit?'

'Yes. Do you think there would be any hope of its success?'

Jasper shook his head. 

'Your father is not the man for that, Marian. I don't say itdisrespectfully; I mean that he doesn't seem to me to have that kind ofaptitude. It would be a disastrous speculation. '

'I felt that. Of course I can't think of it now. '

She smiled, raising her face to his. 

'Don't trouble, ' said Jasper. 'Wait a little, till I have made myselfindependent of Fadge and a few other men, and your father shall seehow heartily I wish to be of use to him. He will miss your help, I'mafraid?'

'Yes. I shall feel it a cruelty when I have to leave him. He has onlyjust told me that his sight is beginning to fail. Oh, why didn't hisbrother leave him a little money? It was such unkindness! Surely he hada much better right than Amy, or than myself either. But literature hasbeen a curse to father all his life. My uncle hated it, and I supposethat was why he left father nothing. '

'But how am I to see you often? That's the first question. I know what Ishall do. I must take new lodgings, for the girls and myself, all inthe same house. We must have two sitting-rooms; then you will come to myroom without any difficulty. These astonishing proprieties are so easilysatisfied after all. '

'You will really do that?'

'Yes. I shall go and look for rooms to-morrow. Then when you come youcan always ask for Maud or Dora, you know. They will be very glad of achange to more respectable quarters. '

'I won't stay to see them now, Jasper, ' said Marian, her thoughtsturning to the girls. 

'Very well. You are safe for another hour, but to make certain you shallgo at a quarter to five. Your mother won't be against us?'

'Poor mother--no. But she won't dare to justify me before father. '

'I feel as if I should play a mean part in leaving it to you to tellyour father. Marian, I will brave it out and go and see him. '

'Oh, it would be better not to. '

'Then I will write to him--such a letter as he can't possibly take inill part. '

Marian pondered this proposal. 

'You shall do that, Jasper, if you are willing. But not yet; presently. '

'You don't wish him to know at once?'

'We had better wait a little. You know, ' she added laughing, 'that mylegacy is only in name mine as yet. The will hasn't been proved. Andthen the money will have to be realised. '

She informed him of the details; Jasper listened with his eyes on theground. 

They were now sitting on chairs drawn close to each other. It was witha sense of relief that Jasper had passed from dithyrambs to conversationon practical points; Marian's excited sensitiveness could not butobserve this, and she kept watching the motions of his countenance. Atlength he even let go her hand. 

'You would prefer, ' he said reflectively, 'that nothing should be saidto your father until that business is finished?'

'If you consent to it. '

'Oh, I have no doubt it's as well. '

Her little phrase of self-subjection, and its tremulous tone, called foranother answer than this. Jasper fell again into thought, and clearly itwas thought of practical things. 

'I think I must go now, Jasper, ' she said. 

'Must you? Well, if you had rather. '

He rose, though she was still seated. Marian moved a few steps away, butturned and approached him again. 

'Do you really love me?' she asked, taking one of his hands and foldingit between her own. 

'I do indeed love you, Marian. Are you still doubtful?'

'You're not sorry that I must go?'

'But I am, dearest. I wish we could sit here undisturbed all through theevening. '

Her touch had the same effect as before. His blood warmed again, and hepressed her to his side, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead. 

'Are you sorry I wear my hair short?' she asked, longing for more praisethan he had bestowed on her. 

'Sorry? It is perfect. Everything else seems vulgar compared with thisway of yours. How strange you would look with plaits and that kind ofthing!'

'I am so glad it pleases you. '

'There is nothing in you that doesn't please me, my thoughtful girl. '

'You called me that before. Do I seem so very thoughtful?'

'So grave, and sweetly reserved, and with eyes so full of meaning. '

She quivered with delight, her face hidden against his breast. 

'I seem to be new-born, Jasper. Everything in the world is new to me, and I am strange to myself. I have never known an hour of happiness tillnow, and I can't believe yet that it has come to me. '

She at length attired herself, and they left the house together, ofcourse not unobserved by the landlady. Jasper walked about half the wayto St Paul's Crescent. It was arranged that he should address a letterfor her to the care of his sisters; but in a day or two the change oflodgings would be effected. 

When they had parted, Marian looked back. But Jasper was walking quicklyaway, his head bent, in profound meditation. 

CHAPTER XXV. A FRUITLESS MEETING

Refuge from despair is often found in the passion of self-pity and thatspirit of obstinate resistance which it engenders. In certain naturesthe extreme of self-pity is intolerable, and leads to self-destruction;but there are less fortunate beings whom the vehemence of their revoltagainst fate strengthens to endure in suffering. These latter are ratherimaginative than passionate; the stages of their woe impress them asthe acts of a drama, which they cannot bring themselves to cut short, sovarious are the possibilities of its dark motive. The intellectual manwho kills himself is most often brought to that decision by convictionof his insignificance; self-pity merges in self-scorn, and thehumiliated soul is intolerant of existence. He who survives under likeconditions does so because misery magnifies him in his own estimate. 

It was by force of commiserating his own lot that Edwin Reardoncontinued to live through the first month after his parting from Amy. Once or twice a week, sometimes early in the evening, sometimes atmidnight or later, he haunted the street at Westbourne Park where hiswife was dwelling, and on each occasion he returned to his garret witha fortified sense of the injustice to which he was submitted, of revoltagainst the circumstances which had driven him into outer darkness, ofbitterness against his wife for saving her own comfort rather thanshare his downfall. At times he was not far from that state of sheerdistraction which Mrs Edmund Yule preferred to suppose that he hadreached. An extraordinary arrogance now and then possessed him; he stoodamid his poor surroundings with the sensations of an outraged exile, andlaughed aloud in furious contempt of all who censured or pitied him. 

On hearing from Jasper Milvain that Amy had fallen ill, or at allevents was suffering in health from what she had gone through, he felta momentary pang which all but determined him to hasten to her side. Thereaction was a feeling of distinct pleasure that she had her share ofpain, and even a hope that her illness might become grave; he picturedhimself summoned to her sick chamber, imagined her begging hisforgiveness. But it was not merely, nor in great part, a malicioussatisfaction; he succeeded in believing that Amy suffered because shestill had a remnant of love for him. As the days went by and he heardnothing, disappointment and resentment occupied him. At length he ceasedto haunt the neighbourhood. His desires grew sullen; he became fixed inthe resolve to hold entirely apart and doggedly await the issue. 

At the end of each month he sent half the money he had received fromCarter, simply enclosing postal orders in an envelope addressed to hiswife. The first two remittances were in no way acknowledged; the thirdbrought a short note from Amy:

'As you continue to send these sums of money, I had perhaps better letyou know that I cannot use them for any purposes of my own. Perhaps asense of duty leads you to make this sacrifice, but I am afraid itis more likely that you wish to remind me every month that you areundergoing privations, and to pain me in this way. What you have sent Ihave deposited in the Post Office Savings' Bank in Willie's name, and Ishall continue to do so. --A. R. '

For a day or two Reardon persevered in an intention of not replying, butthe desire to utter his turbid feelings became in the end too strong. Hewrote:

'I regard it as quite natural that you should put the worstinterpretation on whatever I do. As for my privations, I think verylittle of them; they are a trifle in comparison with the thought thatI am forsaken just because my pocket is empty. And I am far indeed fromthinking that you can be pained by whatever I may undergo; that wouldsuppose some generosity in your nature. '

This was no sooner posted than he would gladly have recalled it. He knewthat it was undignified, that it contained as many falsehoods as lines, and he was ashamed of himself for having written so. But he could notpen a letter of retractation, and there remained with him a new cause ofexasperated wretchedness. 

Excepting the people with whom he came in contact at the hospital, hehad no society but that of Biffen. The realist visited him once aweek, and this friendship grew closer than it had been in the time ofReardon's prosperity. Biffen was a man of so much natural delicacy, thatthere was a pleasure in imparting to him the details of private sorrow;though profoundly sympathetic, he did his best to oppose Reardon'sharsher judgments of Amy, and herein he gave his friend a satisfactionwhich might not be avowed. 

'I really do not see, ' he exclaimed, as they sat in the garret one nightof midsummer, 'how your wife could have acted otherwise. Of course Iam quite unable to judge the attitude of her mind, but I think, I can'thelp thinking, from what I knew of her, that there has been strictly amisunderstanding between you. 

It was a hard and miserable thing that she should have to leave you fora time, and you couldn't face the necessity in a just spirit. Don't youthink there's some truth in this way of looking at it?'

'As a woman, it was her part to soften the hateful necessity; she madeit worse. '

'I'm not sure that you don't demand too much of her. Unhappily, I knowlittle or nothing of delicately-bred women, but I have a suspicion thatone oughtn't to expect heroism in them, any more than in the women ofthe lower classes. I think of women as creatures to be protected. Is aman justified in asking them to be stronger than himself?'

'Of course, ' replied Reardon, 'there's no use in demanding more thana character is capable of. But I believed her of finer stuff. Mybitterness comes of the disappointment. '

'I suppose there were faults of temper on both sides, and you saw atlast only each other's weaknesses. '

'I saw the truth, which had always been disguised from me. ' Biffenpersisted in looking doubtful, and in secret Reardon thanked him for it. 

As the realist progressed with his novel, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer, ' he readthe chapters to Reardon, not only for his own satisfaction, but in greatpart because he hoped that this example of productivity might in the endencourage the listener to resume his own literary tasks. Reardon foundmuch to criticise in his friend's work; it was noteworthy that heobjected and condemned with much less hesitation than in his betterdays, for sensitive reticence is one of the virtues wont to be assailedby suffering, at all events in the weaker natures. Biffen purposelyurged these discussions as far as possible, and doubtless they benefitedReardon for the time; but the defeated novelist could not be induced toundertake another practical illustration of his own views. Occasionallyhe had an impulse to plan a story, but an hour's turning it over in hismind sufficed to disgust him. His ideas seemed barren, vapid; it wouldhave been impossible for him to write half a dozen pages, and the merethought of a whole book overcame him with the dread of insurmountabledifficulties, immeasurable toil. 

In time, however, he was able to read. He had a pleasure incontemplating the little collection of sterling books that aloneremained to him from his library; the sight of many volumes would havebeen a weariness, but these few--when he was again able to thinkof books at all--were as friendly countenances. He could not readcontinuously, but sometimes he opened his Shakespeare, for instance, and dreamed over a page or two. From such glimpses there remained inhis head a line or a short passage, which he kept repeating to himselfwherever he went; generally some example of sweet or sonorous metrewhich had a soothing effect upon him. 

With odd result on one occasion. He was walking in one of the backstreets of Islington, and stopped idly to gaze into the window of somesmall shop. Standing thus, he forgot himself and presently recitedaloud:

'Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster: An argument that he is pluck'd, whenhither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, Which had superfluouskings for messengers Not many moons gone by. '

The last two lines he uttered a second time, enjoying their magnificentsound, and then was brought back to consciousness by the loud mockinglaugh of two men standing close by, who evidently looked upon him as astrayed lunatic. 

He kept one suit of clothes for his hours of attendance at the hospital;it was still decent, and with much care would remain so for a long time. That which he wore at home and in his street wanderings declared povertyat every point; it had been discarded before he left the old abode. Inhis present state of mind he cared nothing how disreputable he looked topassers-by. These seedy habiliments were the token of his degradation, and at times he regarded them (happening to see himself in a shopmirror) with pleasurable contempt. The same spirit often led him for ameal to the poorest of eating-houses, places where he rubbed elbows withragged creatures who had somehow obtained the price of a cup of coffeeand a slice of bread and butter. He liked to contrast himself with thesecomrades in misfortune. 'This is the rate at which the world esteemsme; I am worth no better provision than this. ' Or else, instead ofemphasising the contrast, he defiantly took a place among the miserablesof the nether world, and nursed hatred of all who were well-to-do. 

One of these he desired to regard with gratitude, but found it difficultto support that feeling. Carter, the vivacious, though at firstperfectly unembarrassed in his relations with the City Road clerk, gradually exhibited a change of demeanour. Reardon occasionally foundthe young man's eye fixed upon him with a singular expression, and thesecretary's talk, though still as a rule genial, was wont to suffercurious interruptions, during which he seemed to be musing on somethingReardon had said, or on some point of his behaviour. The explanation ofthis was that Carter had begun to think there might be a foundation forMrs Yule's hypothesis--that the novelist was not altogether in his soundsenses. At first he scouted the idea, but as time went on it seemedto him that Reardon's countenance certainly had a gaunt wildness whichsuggested disagreeable things. Especially did he remark this after hisreturn from an August holiday in Norway. On coming for the first timeto the City Road branch he sat down and began to favour Reardon witha lively description of how he had enjoyed himself abroad; it neveroccurred to him that such talk was not likely to inspirit the manwho had passed his August between the garret and the hospital, but heobserved before long that his listener was glancing hither and thitherin rather a strange way. 

'You haven't been ill since I saw you?' he inquired. 

'Oh no!'

'But you look as if you might have been. I say, we must manage for youto have a fortnight off, you know, this month. '

'I have no wish for it, ' said Reardon. 'I'll imagine I have been toNorway. It has done me good to hear of your holiday. '

'I'm glad of that; but it isn't quite the same thing, you know, ashaving a run somewhere yourself. '

'Oh, much better! To enjoy myself may be mere selfishness, but to enjoyanother's enjoyment is the purest satisfaction, good for body and soul. I am cultivating altruism. '

'What's that?'

'A highly rarefied form of happiness. The curious thing about it isthat it won't grow unless you have just twice as much faith in it as isrequired for assent to the Athanasian Creed. '

'Oh!'

Carter went away more than puzzled. He told his wife that evening thatReardon had been talking to him in the most extraordinary fashion--nounderstanding a word he said. 

All this time he was on the look-out for employment that would be moresuitable to his unfortunate clerk. Whether slightly demented or not, Reardon gave no sign of inability to discharge his duties; he wasconscientious as ever, and might, unless he changed greatly, be reliedupon in positions of more responsibility than his present one. And atlength, early in October, there came to the secretary's knowledge anopportunity with which he lost no time in acquainting Reardon. Thelatter repaired that evening to Clipstone Street, and climbed toBiffen's chamber. He entered with a cheerful look, and exclaimed:

'I have just invented a riddle; see if you can guess it. Why is a Londonlodging-house like the human body?'

Biffen looked with some concern at his friend, so unwonted was a sallyof this kind. 

'Why is a London lodging-house--? Haven't the least idea. '

'Because the brains are always at the top. Not bad, I think, eh?'

'Well, no; it'll pass. Distinctly professional though. The generalpublic would fail to see the point, I'm afraid. But what has come toyou?'

'Good tidings. Carter has offered me a place which will be a decidedimprovement. A house found--or rooms, at all events--and salary ahundred and fifty a year. 

'By Plutus! That's good hearing. Some duties attached, I suppose?'

'I'm afraid that was inevitable, as things go. It's the secretaryship ofa home for destitute boys at Croydon. The post is far from a sinecure, Carter assures me. There's a great deal of purely secretarial work, and there's a great deal of practical work, some of it rather rough, I fancy. It seems doubtful whether I am exactly the man. The presentholder is a burly fellow over six feet high, delighting in gymnastics, and rather fond of a fight now and then when opportunity offers. But heis departing at Christmas--going somewhere as a missionary; and I canhave the place if I choose. '

'As I suppose you do?'

'Yes. I shall try it, decidedly. '

Biffen waited a little, then asked:

'I suppose your wife will go with you?'

'There's no saying. '

Reardon tried to answer indifferently, but it could be seen that he wasagitated between hopes and fears. 

'You'll ask her, at all events?'

'Oh yes, ' was the half-absent reply. 

'But surely there can be no doubt that she'll come. A hundred and fiftya year, without rent to pay. Why, that's affluence!'

'The rooms I might occupy are in the home itself. Amy won't take veryreadily to a dwelling of that kind. And Croydon isn't the most invitinglocality. '

'Close to delightful country. '

'Yes, yes; but Amy doesn't care about that. '

'You misjudge her, Reardon. You are too harsh. I implore you not to losethe chance of setting all right again! If only you could be put into myposition for a moment, and then be offered the companionship of such awife as yours!'

Reardon listened with a face of lowering excitement. 

'I should be perfectly within my rights, ' he said sternly, 'if I merelytold her when I have taken the position, and let her ask me to take herback--if she wishes. '

'You have changed a great deal this last year, ' replied Biffen, shakinghis head, 'a great deal. I hope to see you your old self again beforelong. I should have declared it impossible for you to become so rugged. Go and see your wife, there's a good fellow. '

'No; I shall write to her. '

'Go and see her, I beg you! No good ever came of letter-writing betweentwo people who have misunderstood each other. Go to Westbourne Parkto-morrow. And be reasonable; be more than reasonable. The happinessof your life depends on what you do now. Be content to forget whateverwrong has been done you. To think that a man should need persuading towin back such a wife!'

In truth, there needed little persuasion. Perverseness, one of the formsor issues of self-pity, made him strive against his desire, and causedhim to adopt a tone of acerbity in excess of what he felt; but alreadyhe had made up his mind to see Amy. Even if this excuse had notpresented itself he must very soon have yielded to the longing fora sight of his wife's face which day by day increased among all theconflicting passions of which he was the victim. A month or two ago, when the summer sunshine made his confinement to the streets a dailytorture, he convinced himself that there remained in him no trace of hislove for Amy; there were moments when he thought of her with repugnance, as a cold, selfish woman, who had feigned affection when it seemed herinterest to do so, but brutally declared her true self when there wasno longer anything to be hoped from him. That was the self-deception ofmisery. Love, even passion, was still alive in the depths of his being;the animation with which he sped to his friend as soon as a new hope hadrisen was the best proof of his feeling. 

He went home and wrote to Amy. 

'I have a reason for wishing to see you. Will you have the kindness toappoint an hour on Sunday morning when I can speak with you in private?It must be understood that I shall see no one else. '

She would receive this by the first post to-morrow, Saturday, anddoubtless would let him hear in reply some time in the afternoon. Impatience allowed him little sleep, and the next day was a longweariness of waiting. The evening he would have to spend at thehospital; if there came no reply before the time of his leaving home, heknew not how he should compel himself to the ordinary routine of work. Yet the hour came, and he had heard nothing. He was tempted to go atonce to Westbourne Park, but reason prevailed with him. When he againentered the house, having walked at his utmost speed from the City Road, the letter lay waiting for him; it had been pushed beneath his door, andwhen he struck a match he found that one of his feet was upon the whiteenvelope. 

Amy wrote that she would be at home at eleven to-morrow morning. Notanother word. 

In all probability she knew of the offer that had been made to him; MrsCarter would have told her. Was it of good or of ill omen that she wroteonly these half-dozen words? Half through the night he plagued himselfwith suppositions, now thinking that her brevity promised a welcome, now that she wished to warn him against expecting anything but a cold, offended demeanour. At seven he was dressed; two hours and a half hadto be killed before he could start on his walk westward. He would havewandered about the streets, but it rained. 

He had made himself as decent as possible in appearance, but he mustnecessarily seem an odd Sunday visitor at a house such as Mrs Yule's. His soft felt hat, never brushed for months, was a greyish green, andstained round the band with perspiration. His necktie was discolouredand worn. Coat and waistcoat might pass muster, but of the trousers theless said the better. One of his boots was patched, and both were allbut heelless. 

Very well; let her see him thus. Let her understand what it meant tolive on twelve and sixpence a week. 

Though it was cold and wet he could not put on his overcoat. Threeyears ago it had been a fairly good ulster; at present, the edges of thesleeves were frayed, two buttons were missing, and the original hue ofthe cloth was indeterminable. 

At half-past nine he set out and struggled with his shabby umbrellaagainst wind and rain. Down Pentonville Hill, up Euston Road, allalong Marylebone Road, then north-westwards towards the point of hisdestination. It was a good six miles from the one house to the other, but he arrived before the appointed time, and had to stray about untilthe cessation of bell-clanging and the striking of clocks told him itwas eleven. Then he presented himself at the familiar door. 

On his asking for Mrs Reardon, he was at once admitted and led up to thedrawing-room; the servant did not ask his name. 

Then he waited for a minute or two, feeling himself a squalid wretchamid the dainty furniture. The door opened. Amy, in a simple but verybecoming dress, approached to within a yard of him; after the firstglance she had averted her eyes, and she did not offer to shake hands. He saw that his muddy and shapeless boots drew her attention. 

'Do you know why I have come?' he asked. 

He meant the tone to be conciliatory, but he could not command hisvoice, and it sounded rough, hostile. 

'I think so, ' Amy answered, seating herself gracefully. She would havespoken with less dignity but for that accent of his. 

'The Carters have told you?'

'Yes; I have heard about it. '

There was no promise in her manner. She kept her face turned away, andReardon saw its beautiful profile, hard and cold as though in marble. 

'It doesn't interest you at all?'

'I am glad to hear that a better prospect offers for you. '

He did not sit down, and was holding his rusty hat behind his back. 

'You speak as if it in no way concerned yourself. Is that what you wishme to understand?'

'Won't it be better if you tell me why you have come here? As you areresolved to find offence in whatever I say, I prefer to keep silence. Please to let me know why you have asked to see me. '

Reardon turned abruptly as if to leave her, but checked himself at alittle distance. 

Both had come to this meeting prepared for a renewal of amity, but inthese first few moments each was so disagreeably impressed by the lookand language of the other that a revulsion of feeling undid all the morehopeful effects of their long severance. On entering, Amy had meant tooffer her hand, but the unexpected meanness of Reardon's aspect shockedand restrained her. All but every woman would have experienced thatshrinking from the livery of poverty. Amy had but to reflect, and sheunderstood that her husband could in no wise help this shabbiness;when he parted from her his wardrobe was already in a long-sufferingcondition, and how was he to have purchased new garments since then?None the less such attire degraded him in her eyes; it symbolised themelancholy decline which he had suffered intellectually. On Reardon hiswife's elegance had the same repellent effect, though this would nothave been the case but for the expression of her countenance. Had itbeen possible for them to remain together during the first five minuteswithout exchange of words, sympathies might have prevailed on bothsides; the first speech uttered would most likely have harmonised withtheir gentler thoughts. But the mischief was done so speedily. 

A man must indeed be graciously endowed if his personal appearance candefy the disadvantage of cheap modern clothing worn into shapelessness. Reardon had no such remarkable physique, and it was not wonderful thathis wife felt ashamed of him. Strictly ashamed; he seemed to her asocial inferior; the impression was so strong that it resisted allmemory of his spiritual qualities. She might have anticipated this stateof things, and have armed herself to encounter it, but somehow she hadnot done so. For more than five months she had been living among peoplewho dressed well; the contrast was too suddenly forced upon her. She wasespecially susceptible in such matters, and had become none the lessso under the demoralising influence of her misfortunes. True, she soonbegan to feel ashamed of her shame, but that could not annihilate thenatural feeling and its results. 

'I don't love him. I can't love him. ' Thus she spoke to herself, withimmutable decision. She had been doubtful till now, but all doubt was atan end. Had Reardon been practical man enough to procure by hook orby crook a decent suit of clothes for this interview, that ridiculoustrifle might have made all the difference in what was to result. 

He turned again, and spoke with the harshness of a man who feels that heis despised, and is determined to show an equal contempt. 

'I came to ask you what you propose to do in case I go to Croydon. '

'I have no proposal to make whatever. '

'That means, then, that you are content to go on living here?'

'If I have no choice, I must make myself content. '

'But you have a choice. '

'None has yet been offered me. '

'Then I offer it now, ' said Reardon, speaking less aggressively. 'Ishall have a dwelling rent free, and a hundred and fifty pounds ayear--perhaps it would be more in keeping with my station if I say thatI shall have something less than three pounds a week. You can eitheraccept from me half this money, as up to now, or come and take yourplace again as my wife. Please to decide what you will do. '

'I will let you know by letter in a few days. '

It seemed impossible to her to say she would return, yet a refusal todo so involved nothing less than separation for the rest of their lives. Postponement of decision was her only resource. 

'I must know at once, ' said Reardon. 

'I can't answer at once. '

'If you don't, I shall understand you to mean that you refuse to cometo me. You know the circumstances; there is no reason why you shouldconsult with anyone else. You can answer me immediately if you will. '

'I don't wish to answer you immediately, ' Amy replied, paling slightly. 

'Then that decides it. When I leave you we are strangers to each other. '

Amy made a rapid study of his countenance. She had never entertained fora moment the supposition that his wits were unsettled, but none the lessthe constant recurrence of that idea in her mother's talk had subtlyinfluenced her against her husband. It had confirmed her in thinkingthat his behaviour was inexcusable. And now it seemed to her thatanyone might be justified in holding him demented, so reckless was hisutterance. 

It was difficult to know him as the man who had loved her so devotedly, who was incapable of an unkind word or look. 

'If that is what you prefer, ' she said, 'there must be a formalseparation. I can't trust my future to your caprice. '

'You mean it must be put into the hands of a lawyer?'

'Yes, I do. '

'That will be the best, no doubt. '

'Very well; I will speak with my friends about it. '

'Your friends!' he exclaimed bitterly. 'But for those friends of yours, this would never have happened. I wish you had been alone in the worldand penniless. '

'A kind wish, all things considered. '

'Yes, it is a kind wish. Then your marriage with me would have beenbinding; you would have known that my lot was yours, and the knowledgewould have helped your weakness. I begin to see how much right there ison the side of those people who would keep women in subjection. You havebeen allowed to act with independence, and the result is that you haveruined my life and debased your own. If I had been strong enough totreat you as a child, and bid you follow me wherever my own fortunesled, it would have been as much better for you as for me. I was weak, and I suffer as all weak people do. '

'You think it was my duty to share such a home as you have at present?'

'You know it was. And if the choice had lain between that and earningyour own livelihood you would have thought that even such a poor homemight be made tolerable. There were possibilities in you of betterthings than will ever come out now. '

There followed a silence. Amy sat with her eyes gloomily fixed on thecarpet; Reardon looked about the room, but saw nothing. He had thrownhis hat into a chair, and his fingers worked nervously together behindhis back. 

'Will you tell me, ' he said at length, 'how your position is regardedby these friends of yours? I don't mean your mother and brother, but thepeople who come to this house. '

'I have not asked such people for their opinion. '

'Still, I suppose some sort of explanation has been necessary in yourintercourse with them. How have you represented your relations with me?'

'I can't see that that concerns you. '

'In a manner it does. Certainly it matters very little to me how I amthought of by people of this kind, but one doesn't like to be reviledwithout cause. Have you allowed it to be supposed that I have made lifewith me intolerable for you?'

'No, I have not. You insult me by asking the question, but as youdon't seem to understand feelings of that kind I may as well answer yousimply. '

'Then have you told them the truth? That I became so poor you couldn'tlive with me?'

'I have never said that in so many words, but no doubt it is understood. It must be known also that you refused to take the step which might havehelped you out of your difficulties. '

'What step?'

She reminded him of his intention to spend half a year in working at theseaside. 

'I had utterly forgotten it, ' he returned with a mocking laugh. 'Thatshows how ridiculous such a thing would have been. '

'You are doing no literary work at all?' Amy asked. 

'Do you imagine that I have the peace of mind necessary for anything ofthat sort?'

This was in a changed voice. It reminded her so strongly of her husbandbefore his disasters that she could not frame a reply. 

'Do you think I am able to occupy myself with the affairs of imaginarypeople?'

'I didn't necessarily mean fiction. '

'That I can forget myself, then, in the study of literature?--I wonderwhether you really think of me like that. How, in Heaven's name, do yousuppose I spend my leisure time?'

She made no answer. 

'Do you think I take this calamity as light-heartedly as you do, Amy?'

'I am far from taking it light-heartedly. '

'Yet you are in good health. I see no sign that you have suffered. '

She kept silence. Her suffering had been slight enough, and chiefly dueto considerations of social propriety; but she would not avow this, anddid not like to make admission of it to herself. Before her friends shefrequently affected to conceal a profound sorrow; but so long as herchild was left to her she was in no danger of falling a victim tosentimental troubles. 

'And certainly I can't believe it, ' he continued, 'now you declare yourwish to be formally separated from me. '

'I have declared no such wish. '

'Indeed you have. If you can hesitate a moment about returning to mewhen difficulties are at an end, that tells me you would prefer finalseparation. '

'I hesitate for this reason, ' Amy said after reflecting. 'You are sovery greatly changed from what you used to be, that I think it doubtfulif I could live with you. '

'Changed?--Yes, that is true, I am afraid. But how do you think thischange will affect my behaviour to you?'

'Remember how you have been speaking to me. '

'And you think I should treat you brutally if you came into my power?'

'Not brutally, in the ordinary sense of the word. But with faults oftemper which I couldn't bear. I have my own faults. I can't behave asmeekly as some women can. '

It was a small concession, but Reardon made much of it. 

'Did my faults of temper give you any trouble during the first year ofour married life?' he asked gently. 

'No, ' she admitted. 

'They began to afflict you when I was so hard driven by difficultiesthat I needed all your sympathy, all your forbearance. Did I receivemuch of either from you, Amy?'

'I think you did--until you demanded impossible things of me. '

'It was always in your power to rule me. What pained me worst, andhardened me against you, was that I saw you didn't care to exert yourinfluence. There was never a time when I could have resisted a word ofyours spoken out of your love for me. But even then, I am afraid, you nolonger loved me, and now--'

He broke off, and stood watching her face. 

'Have you any love for me left?' burst from his lips, as if the wordsall but choked him in the utterance. 

Amy tried to shape some evasive answer, but could say nothing. 

'Is there ever so small a hope that I might win some love from youagain?'

'If you wish me to come and live with you when you go to Croydon I willdo so. '

'But that is not answering me, Amy. '

'It's all I can say. '

'Then you mean that you would sacrifice yourself out of--what? Out ofpity for me, let us say. '

'Do you wish to see Willie?' asked Amy, instead of replying. 

'No. It is you I have come to see. The child is nothing to me, comparedwith you. It is you, who loved me, who became my wife--you only I careabout. Tell me you will try to be as you used to be. Give me only thathope, Amy; I will ask nothing except that, now. '

'I can't say anything except that I will come to Croydon if you wishit. '

'And reproach me always because you have to live in such a place, awayfrom your friends, without a hope of the social success which was yourdearest ambition?'

Her practical denial that she loved him wrung this taunt from hisanguished heart. He repented the words as soon as they were spoken. 

'What is the good?' exclaimed Amy in irritation, rising and moving awayfrom him. 'How can I pretend that I look forward to such a life with anyhope?'

He stood in mute misery, inwardly cursing himself and his fate. 

'I have said I will come, ' she continued, her voice shaken with nervoustension. 'Ask me or not, as you please, when you are ready to go there. I can't talk about it. '

'I shall not ask you, ' he replied. 'I will have no woman slave draggingout a weary life with me. Either you are my willing wife, or you arenothing to me. '

'I am married to you, and that can't be undone. I repeat that I shan'trefuse to obey you. I shall say no more. '

She moved to a distance, and there seated herself, half turned from him. 

'I shall never ask you to come, ' said Reardon, breaking a short silence. 'If our married life is ever to begin again it must be of your seeking. Come to me of your own will, and I shall never reject you. But I willdie in utter loneliness rather than ask you again. '

He lingered a few moments, watching her; she did not move. Then he tookhis hat, went in silence from the room, and left the house. 

It rained harder than before. As no trains were running at this hour, he walked in the direction where he would be likely to meet with anomnibus. But it was a long time before one passed which was any use tohim. When he reached home he was in cheerless plight enough; to makethings pleasanter, one of his boots had let in water abundantly. 

'The first sore throat of the season, no doubt, ' he muttered to himself. 

Nor was he disappointed. By Tuesday the cold had firm grip of him. Aday or two of influenza or sore throat always made him so weak that withdifficulty he supported the least physical exertion; but at present hemust go to his work at the hospital. Why stay at home? To what purposespare himself? It was not as if life had any promise for him. He wasa machine for earning so much money a week, and would at least givefaithful work for his wages until the day of final breakdown. 

But, midway in the week, Carter discovered how ill his clerk was. 

'You ought to be in bed, my dear fellow, with gruel and mustard plastersand all the rest of it. Go home and take care of yourself--I insist uponit. '

Before leaving the office, Reardon wrote a few lines to Biffen, whom hehad visited on the Monday. 'Come and see me if you can. I am down with abad cold, and have to keep in for the rest of the week. All the same, I feel far more cheerful. Bring a new chapter of your exhilaratingromance. '

CHAPTER XXVI. MARRIED WOMAN'S PROPERTY

On her return from church that Sunday Mrs Edmund Yule was anxious tolearn the result of the meeting between Amy and her husband. She hopedfervently that Amy's anomalous position would come to an end now thatReardon had the offer of something better than a mere clerkship. JohnYule never ceased to grumble at his sister's permanence in the house, especially since he had learnt that the money sent by Reardon each monthwas not made use of; why it should not be applied for household expensespassed his understanding. 

'It seems to me, ' he remarked several times, 'that the fellow only doeshis bare duty in sending it. What is it to anyone else whether helives on twelve shillings a week or twelve pence? It is his businessto support his wife; if he can't do that, to contribute as much to hersupport as possible. Amy's scruples are all very fine, if she couldafford them; it's very nice to pay for your delicacies of feeling out ofother people's pockets. '

'There'll have to be a formal separation, ' was the startlingannouncement with which Amy answered her mother's inquiry as to what hadpassed. 

'A separation? But, my dear--!'

Mrs Yule could not express her disappointment and dismay. 

'We couldn't live together; it's no use trying. '

'But at your age, Amy! How can you think of anything so shocking? Andthen, you know it will be impossible for him to make you a sufficientallowance. '

'I shall have to live as well as I can on the seventy-five pounds ayear. If you can't afford to let me stay with you for that, I must gointo cheap lodgings in the country, like poor Mrs Butcher did. '

This was wild talking for Amy. The interview had upset her, and for therest of the day she kept apart in her own room. On the morrow Mrs Yulesucceeded in eliciting a clear account of the conversation which hadended so hopelessly. 

'I would rather spend the rest of my days in the workhouse than beg himto take me back, ' was Amy's final comment, uttered with the earnestnesswhich her mother understood but too well. 

'But you are willing to go back, dear?'

'I told him so. '

'Then you must leave this to me. The Carters will let us know how thingsgo on, and when it seems to be time I must see Edwin myself. '

'I can't allow that. Anything you could say on your own account would beuseless, and there is nothing to say from me. '

Mrs Yule kept her own counsel. She had a full month before her duringwhich to consider the situation, but it was clear to her that theseyoung people must be brought together again. Her estimate of Reardon'smental condition had undergone a sudden change from the moment when sheheard that a respectable post was within his reach; she decided thathe was 'strange, ' but then all men of literary talent had markedsingularities, and doubtless she had been too hasty in interpreting thepeculiar features natural to a character such as his. 

A few days later arrived the news of their relative's death atWattleborough. 

This threw Mrs Yule into a commotion. At first she decided to accompanyher son and be present at the funeral; after changing her mind twentytimes, she determined not to go. John must send or bring back the newsas soon as possible. That it would be of a nature sensibly to affecther own position, if not that of her children, she had little doubt;her husband had been the favourite brother of the deceased, and on thataccount there was no saying how handsome a legacy she might receive. Shedreamt of houses in South Kensington, of social ambitions gratified eventhus late. 

On the morning after the funeral came a postcard announcing John'sreturn by a certain train, but no scrap of news was added. 

'Just like that irritating boy! We must go to the station to meet him. You'll come, won't you, Amy?'

Amy readily consented, for she too had hopes, though circumstancesblurred them. Mother and daughter were walking about the platformhalf an hour before the train was due; their agitation would have beenmanifest to anyone observing them. When at length the train rolled inand John was discovered, they pressed eagerly upon him. 

'Don't you excite yourself, ' he said gruffly to his mother. 'There's noreason whatever. '

Mrs Yule glanced in dismay at Amy. They followed John to a cab, and tookplaces with him. 

'Now don't be provoking, Jack. Just tell us at once. '

'By all means. You haven't a penny. '

'I haven't? You are joking, ridiculous boy!'

'Never felt less disposed to, I assure you. '

After staring out of the window for a minute or two, he at lengthinformed Amy of the extent to which she profited by her uncle's decease, then made known what was bequeathed to himself. His temper grew worseevery moment, and he replied savagely to each successive questionconcerning the other items of the will. 

'What have you to grumble about?' asked Amy, whose face was exultantnotwithstanding the drawbacks attaching to her good fortune. 'If UncleAlfred receives nothing at all, and mother has nothing, you ought tothink yourself very lucky. '

'It's very easy for you to say that, with your ten thousand. '

'But is it her own?' asked Mrs Yule. 'Is it for her separate use?'

'Of course it is. She gets the benefit of last year's Married Woman'sProperty Act. The will was executed in January this year, and I dare saythe old curmudgeon destroyed a former one. 

'What a splendid Act of Parliament that is!' cried Amy. 'The only oneworth anything that I ever heard of. '

'But my dear--' began her mother, in a tone of protest. However, shereserved her comment for a more fitting time and place, and merely said:'I wonder whether he had heard what has been going on?'

'Do you think he would have altered his will if he had?' asked Amy witha smile of security. 

'Why the deuce he should have left you so much in any case is morethan I can understand, ' growled her brother. 'What's the use to me ofa paltry thousand or two? It isn't enough to invest; isn't enough to doanything with. '

'You may depend upon it your cousin Marian thinks her five thousandgood for something, ' said Mrs Yule. 'Who was at the funeral? Don't beso surly, Jack; tell us all about it. I'm sure if anyone has cause to beill-tempered it's poor me. '

Thus they talked, amid the rattle of the cab-wheels. By when theyreached home silence had fallen upon them, and each one was sufficientlyoccupied with private thoughts. 

Mrs Yule's servants had a terrible time of it for the next few days. Tooaffectionate to turn her ill-temper against John and Amy, she relievedherself by severity to the domestic slaves, as an English matron is ofcourse justified in doing. Her daughter's position caused her even moreconcern than before; she constantly lamented to herself: 'Oh, why didn'the die before she was married!'--in which case Amy would never havedreamt of wedding a penniless author. Amy declined to discuss the newaspect of things until twenty-four hours after John's return; then shesaid:

'I shall do nothing whatever until the money is paid to me. And what Ishall do then I don't know. '

'You are sure to hear from Edwin, ' opined Mrs Yule. 

'I think not. He isn't the kind of man to behave in that way. '

'Then I suppose you are bound to take the first step?'

'That I shall never do. '

She said so, but the sudden happiness of finding herself wealthy wasnot without its softening effect on Amy's feelings. Generous impulsesalternated with moods of discontent. The thought of her husband in hissqualid lodgings tempted her to forget injuries and disillusions, and toplay the part of a generous wife. It would be possible now for them togo abroad and spend a year or two in healthful travel; the result inReardon's case might be wonderful. He might recover all the energy ofhis imagination, and resume his literary career from the point he hadreached at the time of his marriage. 

On the other hand, was it not more likely that he would lapse into alife of scholarly self-indulgence, such as he had often told her washis ideal? In that event, what tedium and regret lay before her! Tenthousand pounds sounded well, but what did it represent in reality? Apoor four hundred a year, perhaps; mere decency of obscure existence, unless her husband could glorify it by winning fame. If he did nothing, she would be the wife of a man who had failed in literature. She wouldnot be able to take a place in society. Life would be supported withoutstruggle; nothing more to be hoped. 

This view of the future possessed her strongly when, on the second day, she went to communicate her news to Mrs Carter. This amiable lady hadnow become what she always desired to be, Amy's intimate friend; theysaw each other very frequently, and conversed of most things with muchfrankness. It was between eleven and twelve in the morning when Amy paidher visit, and she found Mrs Carter on the point of going out. 

'I was coming to see you, ' cried Edith. 'Why haven't you let me know ofwhat has happened?'

'You have heard, I suppose?'

'Albert heard from your brother. '

'I supposed he would. And I haven't felt in the mood for talking aboutit, even with you. '

They went into Mrs Carter's boudoir, a tiny room full of such prettythings as can be purchased nowadays by anyone who has a few shillingsto spare, and tolerable taste either of their own or at second-hand. Hadshe been left to her instincts, Edith would have surrounded herself withobjects representing a much earlier stage of artistic development; butshe was quick to imitate what fashion declared becoming. Her husbandregarded her as a remarkable authority in all matters of personal ordomestic ornamentation. 

'And what are you going to do?' she inquired, examining Amy from headto foot, as if she thought that the inheritance of so substantial a summust have produced visible changes in her friend. 

'I am going to do nothing. '

'But surely you're not in low spirits?'

'What have I to rejoice about?'

They talked for a while before Amy brought herself to utter what she wasthinking. 

'Isn't it a most ridiculous thing that married people who both wish toseparate can't do so and be quite free again?'

'I suppose it would lead to all sorts of troubles--don't you think?'

'So people say about every new step in civilisation. What would havebeen thought twenty years ago of a proposal to make all married womenindependent of their husbands in money matters? All sorts of absurddangers were foreseen, no doubt. And it's the same now about divorce. In America people can get divorced if they don't suit each other--atall events in some of the States--and does any harm come of it? Just theopposite I should think. '

Edith mused. Such speculations were daring, but she had grown accustomedto think of Amy as an 'advanced' woman, and liked to imitate her in thisrespect. 

'It does seem reasonable, ' she murmured. 

'The law ought to encourage such separations, instead of forbiddingthem, ' Amy pursued. 'If a husband and wife find that they have madea mistake, what useless cruelty it is to condemn them to suffer theconsequences for the whole of their lives!'

'I suppose it's to make people careful, ' said Edith, with a laugh. 

'If so, we know that it has always failed, and always will fail; so thesooner such a profitless law is altered the better. Isn't there somesociety for getting that kind of reform? I would subscribe fifty poundsa year to help it. Wouldn't you?'

'Yes, if I had it to spare, ' replied the other. 

Then they both laughed, but Edith the more naturally. 

'Not on my own account, you know, ' she added. 

'It's because women who are happily married can't and won't understandthe position of those who are not that there's so much difficulty inreforming marriage laws. '

'But I understand you, Amy, and I grieve about you. What you are to do Ican't think. '

'Oh, it's easy to see what I shall do. Of course I have no choicereally. And I ought to have a choice; that's the hardship and the wrongof it. Perhaps if I had, I should find a sort of pleasure in sacrificingmyself. '

There were some new novels on the table; Amy took up a volume presently, and glanced over a page or two. 

'I don't know how you can go on reading that sort of stuff, book afterbook, ' she exclaimed. 

'Oh, but people say this last novel of Markland's is one of his best. '

'Best or worst, novels are all the same. Nothing but love, love, love;what silly nonsense it is! Why don't people write about the reallyimportant things of life? Some of the French novelists do; several ofBalzac's, for instance. I have just been reading his "Cousin Pons, " aterrible book, but I enjoyed it ever so much because it was nothing likea love story. What rubbish is printed about love!'

'I get rather tired of it sometimes, ' admitted Edith with amusement. 

'I should hope you do, indeed. What downright lies are accepted asindisputable! That about love being a woman's whole life; who believesit really? Love is the most insignificant thing in most women's lives. It occupies a few months, possibly a year or two, and even then I doubtif it is often the first consideration. '

Edith held her head aside, and pondered smilingly. 

'I'm sure there's a great opportunity for some clever novelist who willnever write about love at all. '

'But then it does come into life. '

'Yes, for a month or two, as I say. Think of the biographies of men andwomen; how many pages are devoted to their love affairs? Compare thosebooks with novels which profess to be biographies, and you see how falsesuch pictures are. Think of the very words "novel, " "romance"--what dothey mean but exaggeration of one bit of life?'

'That may be true. But why do people find the subject so interesting?'

'Because there is so little love in real life. That's the truth ofit. Why do poor people care only for stories about the rich? The sameprinciple. '

'How clever you are, Amy!'

'Am I? It's very nice to be told so. Perhaps I have some cleverness of akind; but what use is it to me? My life is being wasted. I ought tohave a place in the society of clever people. I was never meant to livequietly in the background. Oh, if I hadn't been in such a hurry, and soinexperienced!'

'Oh, I wanted to ask you, ' said Edith, soon after this. 'Do you wishAlbert to say anything about you--at the hospital?'

'There's no reason why he shouldn't. '

'You won't even write to say--?'

'I shall do nothing. '

Since the parting from her husband, there had proceeded in Amya noticeable maturing of intellect. Probably the one thing was aconsequence of the other. During that last year in the flat her mindwas held captive by material cares, and this arrest of her naturaldevelopment doubtless had much to do with the appearance of acerbityin a character which had displayed so much sweetness, so much womanlygrace. Moreover, it was arrest at a critical point. When she fell inlove with Edwin Reardon her mind had still to undergo the culture ofcircumstances; though a woman in years she had seen nothing of life buta few phases of artificial society, and her education had not progressedbeyond the final schoolgirl stage. Submitting herself to Reardon'sinfluence, she passed through what was a highly useful training of theintellect; but with the result that she became clearly conscious of thedivergence between herself and her husband. In endeavouring to imbue herwith his own literary tastes, Reardon instructed Amy as to the naturaltendencies of her mind, which till then she had not clearly understood. When she ceased to read with the eyes of passion, most of the thingswhich were Reardon's supreme interests lost their value for her. A soundintelligence enabled her to think and feel in many directions, but thespecial line of her growth lay apart from that in which the novelist andclassical scholar had directed her. 

When she found herself alone and independent, her mind acted like aspring when pressure is removed. After a few weeks of desoeuvrement sheobeyed the impulse to occupy herself with a kind of reading aliento Reardon's sympathies. The solid periodicals attracted her, andespecially those articles which dealt with themes of social science. Anything that savoured of newness and boldness in philosophic thoughthad a charm for her palate. She read a good deal of that kind ofliterature which may be defined as specialism popularised; writing whichaddresses itself to educated, but not strictly studious, persons, andwhich forms the reservoir of conversation for society above the sphereof turf and west-endism. Thus, for instance, though she could notundertake the volumes of Herbert Spencer, she was intelligentlyacquainted with the tenor of their contents; and though she had neveropened one of Darwin's books, her knowledge of his main theories andillustrations was respectable. She was becoming a typical woman of thenew time, the woman who has developed concurrently with journalisticenterprise. 

Not many days after that conversation with Edith Carter, she hadoccasion to visit Mudie's, for the new number of some periodical whichcontained an appetising title. As it was a sunny and warm day she walkedto New Oxford Street from the nearest Metropolitan station. Whilstwaiting at the library counter, she heard a familiar voice in herproximity; it was that of Jasper Milvain, who stood talking with amiddle-aged lady. As Amy turned to look at him his eye met hers; clearlyhe had been aware of her. The review she desired was handed to her; shemoved aside, and turned over the pages. Then Milvain walked up. 

He was armed cap-a-pie in the fashions of suave society; no Bohemianismof garb or person, for Jasper knew he could not afford that kind ofeconomy. On her part, Amy was much better dressed than usual, a costumesuited to her position of bereaved heiress. 

'What a time since we met!' said Jasper, taking her delicately glovedhand and looking into her face with his most effective smile. 

'And why?' asked Amy. 

'Indeed, I hardly know. I hope Mrs Yule is well?'

'Quite, thank you. '

It seemed as if he would draw back to let her pass, and so make an endof the colloquy. But Amy, though she moved forward, added a remark:

'I don't see your name in any of this month's magazines. '

'I have nothing signed this month. A short review in The Current, that'sall. '

'But I suppose you write as much as ever?'

'Yes; but chiefly in weekly papers just now. You don't see theWill-o'-the-Wisp?'

'Oh yes. And I think I can generally recognise your hand. '

They issued from the library. 

'Which way are you going?' Jasper inquired, with something more of theold freedom. 

'I walked from Gower Street station, and I think, as it's so fine, Ishall walk back again. '

He accompanied her. They turned up Museum Street, and Amy, after a shortsilence, made inquiry concerning his sisters. 

'I am sorry I saw them only once, but no doubt you thought it better tolet the acquaintance end there. '

'I really didn't think of it in that way at all, ' Jasper replied. 'Wenaturally understood it so, when you even ceased to call, yourself. '

'But don't you feel that there would have been a good deal ofawkwardness in my coming to Mrs Yule's?'

'Seeing that you looked at things from my husband's point of view?'

'Oh, that's a mistake! I have only seen your husband once since he wentto Islington. '

Amy gave him a look of surprise. 

'You are not on friendly terms with him?'

'Well, we have drifted apart. For some reason he seemed to think that mycompanionship was not very profitable. So it was better, on the whole, that I should see neither you nor him. '

Amy was wondering whether he had heard of her legacy. He might have beeninformed by a Wattleborough correspondent, even if no one in London hadtold him. 

'Do your sisters keep up their friendship with my cousin Marian?' sheasked, quitting the previous difficult topic. 

'Oh yes!' He smiled. 'They see a great deal of each other. '

'Then of course you have heard of my uncle's death?'

'Yes. I hope all your difficulties are now at an end. '

Amy delayed a moment, then said: 'I hope so, ' without any emphasis. 

'Do you think of spending this winter abroad?'

It was the nearest he could come to a question concerning the future ofAmy and her husband. 

'Everything is still quite uncertain. But tell me something about ourold acquaintances. How does Mr Biffen get on?'

'I scarcely ever see him, but I think he pegs away at an interminablenovel, which no one will publish when it's done. Whelpdale I meetoccasionally. '

He talked of the latter's projects and achievements in a lively strain. 

'Your own prospects continue to brighten, no doubt, ' said Amy. 

'I really think they do. Things go fairly well. And I have latelyreceived a promise of very valuable help. '

'From whom?'

'A relative of yours. '

Amy turned to interrogate him with a look. 

'A relative? You mean--?'

'Yes; Marian. '

They were passing Bedford Square. Amy glanced at the trees, nowalmost bare of foliage; then her eyes met Jasper's, and she smiledsignificantly. 

'I should have thought your aim would have been far more ambitious, ' shesaid, with distinct utterance. 

'Marian and I have been engaged for some time--practically. '

'Indeed? I remember now how you once spoke of her. And you will bemarried soon?'

'Probably before the end of the year. I see that you are criticising mymotives. I am quite prepared for that in everyone who knows me and thecircumstances. But you must remember that I couldn't foresee anything ofthis kind. It enables us to marry sooner, that's all. '

'I am sure your motives are unassailable, ' replied Amy, still with asmile. 'I imagined that you wouldn't marry for years, and then somedistinguished person. This throws new light upon your character. '

'You thought me so desperately scheming and cold-blooded?'

'Oh dear no! But--well, to be sure, I can't say that I know Marian. Ihaven't seen her for years and years. She may be admirably suited toyou. '

'Depend upon it, I think so. '

'She's likely to shine in society? She is a brilliant girl, full of tactand insight?'

'Scarcely all that, perhaps. '

He looked dubiously at his companion. 

'Then you have abandoned your old ambitions?' Amy pursued. 

'Not a bit of it. I am on the way to achieve them. '

'And Marian is the ideal wife to assist you?'

'From one point of view, yes. Pray, why all this ironic questioning?'

'Not ironic at all. '

'It sounded very much like it, and I know from of old that you have atendency that way. '

'The news surprised me a little, I confess. But I see that I am indanger of offending you. '

'Let us wait another five years, and then I will ask your opinion asto the success of my marriage. I don't take a step of this kind withoutmaturely considering it. Have I made many blunders as yet?'

'As yet, not that I know of. '

'Do I impress you as one likely to commit follies?'

'I had rather wait a little before answering that. '

'That is to say, you prefer to prophesy after the event. Very well, weshall see. '

In the length of Gower Street they talked of several other things lesspersonal. By degrees the tone of their conversation had become what itwas used to be, now and then almost confidential. 

'You are still at the same lodgings?' asked Amy, as they drew near tothe railway station. 

'I moved yesterday, so that the girls and I could be under the sameroof--until the next change. '

'You will let us know when that takes place?'

He promised, and with exchange of smiles which were something like achallenge they took leave of each other. 

CHAPTER XXVII. THE LONELY MAN

A touch of congestion in the right lung was a warning to Reardon thathis half-year of insufficient food and general waste of strength wouldmake the coming winter a hard time for him, worse probably than thelast. Biffen, responding in person to the summons, found him in bed, waited upon by a gaunt, dry, sententious woman of sixty--not thelandlady, but a lodger who was glad to earn one meal a day by any meansthat offered. 

'It wouldn't be very nice to die here, would it?' said the sufferer, with a laugh which was cut short by a cough. 'One would like acomfortable room, at least. Why, I don't know. I dreamt last night thatI was in a ship that had struck something and was going down; and itwasn't the thought of death that most disturbed me, but a horror ofbeing plunged in the icy water. In fact, I have had just the samefeeling on shipboard. I remember waking up midway between Corfu andBrindisi, on that shaky tub of a Greek boat; we were rolling a gooddeal, and I heard a sort of alarmed rush and shouting up on deck. Itwas so warm and comfortable in the berth, and I thought with intolerablehorror of the possibility of sousing into the black depths. '

'Don't talk, my boy, ' advised Biffen. 'Let me read you the new chapterof "Mr Bailey. " It may induce a refreshing slumber. '

Reardon was away from his duties for a week; he returned to them with afeeling of extreme shakiness, an indisposition to exert himself, anda complete disregard of the course that events were taking. It wasfortunate that he had kept aside that small store of money designedfor emergencies; he was able to draw on it now to pay his doctor, andprovide himself with better nourishment than usual. He purchased newboots, too, and some articles of warm clothing of which he stood inneed--an alarming outlay. 

A change had come over him; he was no longer rendered miserable bythoughts of Amy--seldom, indeed, turned his mind to her at all. His secretaryship at Croydon was a haven within view; the income ofseventy-five pounds (the other half to go to his wife) would support himluxuriously, and for anything beyond that he seemed to care little. NextSunday he was to go over to Croydon and see the institution. 

One evening of calm weather he made his way to Clipstone Street andgreeted his friend with more show of light-heartedness than he had beencapable of for at least two years. 

'I have been as nearly as possible a happy man all to-day, ' he said, when his pipe was well lit. 'Partly the sunshine, I suppose. There'sno saying if the mood will last, but if it does all is well with me. Iregret nothing and wish for nothing. '

'A morbid state of mind, ' was Biffen's opinion. 

'No doubt of that, but I am content to be indebted to morbidness. Onemust have a rest from misery somehow. Another kind of man would havetaken to drinking; that has tempted me now and then, I assure you. ButI couldn't afford it. Did you ever feel tempted to drink merely for thesake of forgetting trouble?'

'Often enough. I have done it. I have deliberately spent a certainproportion of the money that ought to have gone for food in the cheapestkind of strong liquor. '

'Ha! that's interesting. But it never got the force of a habit you hadto break?'

'No. Partly, I dare say, because I had the warning of poor Sykes beforemy eyes. '

'You never see that poor fellow?'

'Never. He must be dead, I think. He would die either in the hospital orthe workhouse. '

'Well, ' said Reardon, musing cheerfully, 'I shall never become adrunkard; I haven't that diathesis, to use your expression. Doesn't itstrike you that you and I are very respectable persons? We really haveno vices. Put us on a social pedestal, and we should be shining lightsof morality. I sometimes wonder at our inoffensiveness. Why don't we runamuck against law and order? Why, at the least, don't we become savagerevolutionists, and harangue in Regent's Park of a Sunday?'

'Because we are passive beings, and were meant to enjoy life veryquietly. As we can't enjoy, we just suffer quietly, that's all. By-the-bye, I want to talk about a difficulty in one of the Fragments ofEuripides. Did you ever go through the Fragments?'

This made a diversion for half an hour. Then Reardon returned to hisformer line of thought. 

'As I was entering patients yesterday, there came up to the table atall, good-looking, very quiet girl, poorly dressed, but as neat ascould be. She gave me her name, then I asked "Occupation?" She saidat once, "I'm unfortunate, sir. " I couldn't help looking up at her insurprise; I had taken it for granted she was a dressmaker or somethingof the kind. And, do you know, I never felt so strong an impulse toshake hands, to show sympathy, and even respect, in some way. I shouldhave liked to say, "Why, I am unfortunate, too!" such a good, patientface she had. '

'I distrust such appearances, ' said Biffen in his quality of realist. 

'Well, so do I, as a rule. But in this case they were convincing. Andthere was no need whatever for her to make such a declaration; she mightjust as well have said anything else; it's the merest form. I shallalways hear her voice saying, "I'm unfortunate, sir. " She made me feelwhat a mistake it was for me to marry such a girl as Amy. I ought tohave looked about for some simple, kind-hearted work-girl; that wasthe kind of wife indicated for me by circumstances. If I had earned ahundred a year she would have thought we were well-to-do. I should havebeen an authority to her on everything under the sun--and above it. Noambition would have unsettled her. We should have lived in a couple ofpoor rooms somewhere, and--we should have loved each other. '

'What a shameless idealist you are!' said Biffen, shaking his head. 'Letme sketch the true issue of such a marriage. To begin with, the girlwould have married you in firm persuasion that you were a "gentleman"in temporary difficulties, and that before long you would have plentyof money to dispose of. Disappointed in this hope, she would have grownsharp-tempered, querulous, selfish. All your endeavours to make herunderstand you would only have resulted in widening the impassablegulf. She would have misconstrued your every sentence, found food forsuspicion in every harmless joke, tormented you with the vulgarest formsof jealousy. The effect upon your nature would have been degrading. Inthe end, you must have abandoned every effort to raise her to your ownlevel, and either have sunk to hers or made a rupture. Who doesn't knowthe story of such attempts? I myself ten years ago, was on the point ofcommitting such a folly, but, Heaven be praised! an accident saved me. '

'You never told me that story. '

'And don't care to now. I prefer to forget it. '

'Well, you can judge for yourself but not for me. Of course I might havechosen the wrong girl, but I am supposing that I had been fortunate. Inany case there would have been a much better chance than in the marriagethat I made. '

'Your marriage was sensible enough, and a few years hence you will be ahappy man again. '

'You seriously think Amy will come back to me?'

'Of course I do. '

'Upon my word, I don't know that I desire it. '

'Because you are in a strangely unhealthy state. '

'I rather think I regard the matter more sanely than ever yet. Iam quite free from sexual bias. I can see that Amy was not my fitintellectual companion, and all emotion at the thought of her has gonefrom me. The word "love" is a weariness to me. If only our idiotic lawspermitted us to break the legal bond, how glad both of us would be!'

'You are depressed and anaemic. Get yourself in flesh, and view thingslike a man of this world. '

'But don't you think it the best thing that can happen to a man if heoutgrows passion?'

'In certain circumstances, no doubt. '

'In all and any. The best moments of life are those when we contemplatebeauty in the purely artistic spirit--objectively. I have had suchmoments in Greece and Italy; times when I was a free spirit, utterlyremote from the temptations and harassings of sexual emotion. What wecall love is mere turmoil. Who wouldn't release himself from it forever, if the possibility offered?'

'Oh, there's a good deal to be said for that, of course. '

Reardon's face was illumined with the glow of an exquisite memory. 

'Haven't I told you, ' he said, 'of that marvellous sunset at Athens? Iwas on the Pnyx; had been rambling about there the whole afternoon. ForI dare say a couple of hours I had noticed a growing rift of light inthe clouds to the west; it looked as if the dull day might have a richending. That rift grew broader and brighter--the only bit of light inthe sky. On Parnes there were white strips of ragged mist, hanging verylow; the same on Hymettus, and even the peak of Lycabettus was justhidden. Of a sudden, the sun's rays broke out. They showed themselvesfirst in a strangely beautiful way, striking from behind the seawardhills through the pass that leads to Eleusis, and so gleaming on thenearer slopes of Aigaleos, making the clefts black and the rounded partsof the mountain wonderfully brilliant with golden colour. All the restof the landscape, remember, was untouched with a ray of light. Thislasted only a minute or two, then the sun itself sank into the openpatch of sky and shot glory in every direction; broadening beams smoteupwards over the dark clouds, and made them a lurid yellow. To the leftof the sun, the gulf of Aegina was all golden mist, the islands floatingin it vaguely. To the right, over black Salamis, lay delicate strips ofpale blue--indescribably pale and delicate. '

'You remember it very clearly. '

'As if I saw it now! But wait. I turned eastward, and there to myastonishment was a magnificent rainbow, a perfect semicircle, stretchingfrom the foot of Parnes to that of Hymettus, framing Athens and itshills, which grew brighter and brighter--the brightness for whichthere is no name among colours. Hymettus was of a soft misty warmth, asomething tending to purple, its ridges marked by exquisitely softand indefinite shadows, the rainbow coming right down in front. TheAcropolis simply glowed and blazed. As the sun descended all thesecolours grew richer and warmer; for a moment the landscape was nearlycrimson. Then suddenly the sun passed into the lower stratum of cloud, and the splendour died almost at once, except that there remained thenorthern half of the rainbow, which had become double. In the west, theclouds were still glorious for a time; there were two shaped like greatexpanded wings, edged with refulgence. '

'Stop!' cried Biffen, 'or I shall clutch you by the throat. I warned youbefore that I can't stand those reminiscences. '

'Live in hope. Scrape together twenty pounds, and go there, if you dieof hunger afterwards. '

'I shall never have twenty shillings, ' was the despondent answer. 

'I feel sure you will sell "Mr Bailey. "'

'It's kind of you to encourage me; but if "Mr Bailey" is ever sold Idon't mind undertaking to eat my duplicate of the proofs. '

'But now, you remember what led me to that. What does a man care for anywoman on earth when he is absorbed in contemplation of that kind?'

'But it is only one of life's satisfactions. '

'I am only maintaining that it is the best, and infinitely preferable tosexual emotion. It leaves, no doubt, no bitterness of any kind. Povertycan't rob me of those memories. I have lived in an ideal world that wasnot deceitful, a world which seems to me, when I recall it, beyond thehuman sphere, bathed in diviner light. '

It was four or five days after this that Reardon, on going to his workin City Road, found a note from Carter. It requested him to call atthe main hospital at half-past eleven the next morning. He supposed theappointment had something to do with his business at Croydon, whitherhe had been in the mean time. Some unfavourable news, perhaps; anymisfortune was likely. 

He answered the summons punctually, and on entering the general officewas requested by the clerk to wait in Mr Carter's private room; thesecretary had not yet arrived. His waiting lasted some ten minutes, thenthe door opened and admitted, not Carter, but Mrs Edmund Yule. 

Reardon stood up in perturbation. He was anything but prepared, ordisposed, for an interview with this lady. She came towards him withhand extended and a countenance of suave friendliness. 

'I doubted whether you would see me if I let you know, ' she said. 'Forgive me this little bit of scheming, will you? I have something sovery important to speak to you about. '

He said nothing, but kept a demeanour of courtesy. 

'I think you haven't heard from Amy?' Mrs Yule asked. 

'Not since I saw her. '

'And you don't know what has come to pass?'

'I have heard of nothing. '

'I am come to see you quite on my own responsibility, quite. I took MrCarter into my confidence, but begged him not to let Mrs Carter know, lest she should tell Amy; I think he will keep his promise. It seemed tome that it was really my duty to do whatever I could in these sad, sadcircumstances. '

Reardon listened respectfully, but without sign of feeling. 

'I had better tell you at once that Amy's uncle at Wattleborough isdead, and that in his will he has bequeathed her ten thousand pounds. '

Mrs Yule watched the effect of this. For a moment none was visible, but she saw at length that Reardon's lips trembled and his eyebrowstwitched. 

'I am glad to hear of her good fortune, ' he said distantly and in eventones. 

'You will feel, I am sure, ' continued his mother-in-law, 'that this mustput an end to your most unhappy differences. '

'How can it have that result?'

'It puts you both in a very different position, does it not? But foryour distressing circumstances, I am sure there would never have beensuch unpleasantness--never. Neither you nor Amy is the kind of person totake a pleasure in disagreement. Let me beg you to go and see her again. Everything is so different now. Amy has not the faintest idea that Ihave come to see you, and she mustn't on any account be told, for herworst fault is that sensitive pride of hers. And I'm sure you won'tbe offended, Edwin, if I say that you have very much the same failing. Between two such sensitive people differences might last a lifetime, unless one could be persuaded to take the first step. Do be generous!A woman is privileged to be a little obstinate, it is always said. Overlook the fault, and persuade her to let bygones be bygones. '

There was an involuntary affectedness in Mrs Yule's speech whichrepelled Reardon. He could not even put faith in her assurance thatAmy knew nothing of this intercession. In any case it was extremelydistasteful to him to discuss such matters with Mrs Yule. 

'Under no circumstances could I do more than I already have done, ' hereplied. 'And after what you have told me, it is impossible for me to goand see her unless she expressly invites me. '

'Oh, if only you would overcome this sensitiveness!'

'It is not in my power to do so. My poverty, as you justly say, was thecause of our parting; but if Amy is no longer poor, that is very farfrom a reason why I should go to her as a suppliant for forgiveness. '

'But do consider the facts of the case, independently of feeling. 

I really think I don't go too far in saying that at least some--someprovocation was given by you first of all. I am so very, very far fromwishing to say anything disagreeable--I am sure you feel that--butwasn't there some little ground for complaint on Amy's part? Wasn'tthere, now?'

Reardon was tortured with nervousness. He wished to be alone, to thinkover what had happened, and Mrs Yule's urgent voice rasped upon hisears. Its very smoothness made it worse. 

'There may have been ground for grief and concern, ' he answered, 'butfor complaint, no, I think not. '

'But I understand'--the voice sounded rather irritable now--'that youpositively reproached and upbraided her because she was reluctant to goand live in some very shocking place. '

'I may have lost my temper after Amy had shown--But I can't review ourtroubles in this way. '

'Am I to plead in vain?'

'I regret very much that I can't possibly do as you wish. It is allbetween Amy and myself. Interference by other people cannot do anygood. '

'I am sorry you should use such a word as "interference, "' replied MrsYule, bridling a little. 'Very sorry, indeed. I confess it didn't occurto me that my good-will to you could be seen in that light. '

'Believe me that I didn't use the word offensively. '

'Then you refuse to take any step towards a restoration of goodfeeling?'

'I am obliged to, and Amy would understand perfectly why I say so. '

His earnestness was so unmistakable that Mrs Yule had no choice butto rise and bring the interview to an end. She commanded herselfsufficiently to offer a regretful hand. 

'I can only say that my daughter is very, very unfortunate. '

Reardon lingered a little after her departure, then left the hospitaland walked at a rapid pace in no particular direction. 

Ah! if this had happened in the first year of his marriage, what moreblessed man than he would have walked the earth! But it came afterirreparable harm. No amount of wealth could undo the ruin caused bypoverty. 

It was natural for him, as soon as he could think with deliberation, toturn towards his only friend. But on calling at the house in ClipstoneStreet he found the garret empty, and no one could tell him when itsoccupant was likely to be back. He left a note, and made his way backto Islington. The evening had to be spent at the hospital, but on hisreturn Biffen sat waiting for him. 

'You called about twelve, didn't you?' the visitor inquired. 

'Half-past. '

'I was at the police-court. Odd thing--but it always happens so--thatI should have spoken of Sykes the other night. Last night I came upona crowd in Oxford Street, and the nucleus of it was no other than Sykeshimself very drunk and disorderly, in the grip of two policemen. Nothingcould be done for him; I was useless as bail; he e'en had to sleep inthe cell. But I went this morning to see what would become of him. Sucha spectacle when they brought him forward! It was only five shillingsfine, and to my astonishment he produced the money. I joined himoutside--it required a little courage--and had a long talk with him. He's writing a London Letter for some provincial daily, and the firstpayment had thrown him off his balance. '

Reardon laughed gaily, and made inquiries about the eccentric gentleman. Only when the subject was exhausted did he speak of his own concerns, relating quietly what he had learnt from Mrs Yule. Biffen's eyeswidened. 

'So, ' Reardon cried with exultation, 'there is the last burden off mymind! Henceforth I haven't a care! The only thing that still troubledme was my inability to give Amy enough to live upon. Now she is providedfor in secula seculorum. Isn't this grand news?'

'Decidedly. But if she is provided for, so are you. '

'Biffen, you know me better. Could I accept a farthing of hermoney? This has made our coming together again for ever impossible, unless--unless dead things can come to life. I know the value of money, but I can't take it from Amy. '

The other kept silence. 

'No! But now everything is well. She has her child, and can devoteherself to bringing the boy up. And I--but I shall be rich on my ownaccount. A hundred and fifty a year; it would be a farce to offerAmy her share of it. By all the gods of Olympus, we will go to Greecetogether, you and I!'

'Pooh!'

'I swear it! Let me save for a couple of years, and then get a goodmonth's holiday, or more if possible, and, as Pallas Athene liveth!we shall find ourselves at Marseilles, going aboard some boat of theMessageries. I can't believe yet that this is true. Come, we will have asupper to-night. Come out into Upper Street, and let us eat, drink, andbe merry!'

'You are beside yourself. But never mind; let us rejoice by all means. There's every reason. '

'That poor girl! Now, at last, she'll be at ease. '

'Who?'

'Amy, of course! I'm delighted on her account. Ah! but if it had comea long time ago, in the happy days! Then she, too, would have gone toGreece, wouldn't she? Everything in life comes too soon or too late. What it would have meant for her and for me! She would never have hatedme then, never. Biffen, am I base or contemptible? She thinks so. That'show poverty has served me. If you had seen her, how she looked atme, when we met the other day, you would understand well enough why Icouldn't live with her now, not if she entreated me to. That would makeme base if you like. Gods! how ashamed I should be if I yielded to sucha temptation! And once--'

He had worked himself to such intensity of feeling that at length hisvoice choked and tears burst from his eyes. 

'Come out, and let us have a walk, ' said Biffen. 

On leaving the house they found themselves in a thick fog, through whichtrickled drops of warm rain. Nevertheless, they pursued their purpose, and presently were seated in one of the boxes of a small coffee-shop. Their only companion in the place was a cab-driver, who had justfinished a meal, and was now nodding into slumber over his plate andcup. Reardon ordered fried ham and eggs, the luxury of the poor, andwhen the attendant woman was gone away to execute the order, he burstinto excited laughter. 

'Here we sit, two literary men! How should we be regarded by--'

He named two or three of the successful novelists of the day. 

'With what magnificent scorn they would turn from us and our squalidfeast! They have never known struggle; not they. They are public-schoolmen, University men, club men, society men. An income of less than threeor four hundred a year is inconceivable to them; that seems the minimumfor an educated man's support. It would be small-minded to think of themwith rancour, but, by Apollo! I know that we should change places withthem if the work we have done were justly weighed against theirs. '

'What does it matter? We are different types of intellectual workers. Ithink of them savagely now and then, but only when hunger gets atrifle too keen. Their work answers a demand; ours--or mine at allevents--doesn't. They are in touch with the reading multitude; they havethe sentiments of the respectable; they write for their class. Well, youhad your circle of readers, and, if things hadn't gone against you, bythis time you certainly could have counted on your three or four hundreda year. '

'It's unlikely that I should ever have got more than two hundred poundsfor a book; and, to have kept at my best, I must have been content topublish once every two or three years. The position was untenable withno private income. And I must needs marry a wife of dainty instincts!What astounding impudence! No wonder Fate pitched me aside into thegutter. '

They ate their ham and eggs, and exhilarated themselves with a cupof chicory--called coffee. Then Biffen drew from the pocket of hisvenerable overcoat the volume of Euripides he had brought, and theirtalk turned once more to the land of the sun. Only when the coffee-shopwas closed did they go forth again into the foggy street, and at thetop of Pentonville Hill they stood for ten minutes debating a metricaleffect in one of the Fragments. 

Day after day Reardon went about with a fever upon him. By evening hispulse was always rapid, and no extremity of weariness brought him arefreshing sleep. In conversation he seemed either depressed orexcited, more often the latter. Save when attending to his duties at thehospital, he made no pretence of employing himself; if at home, he satfor hours without opening a book, and his walks, excepting when they ledhim to Clipstone Street, were aimless. 

The hours of postal delivery found him waiting in an anguish ofsuspense. At eight o'clock each morning he stood by his window, listening for the postman's knock in the street. As it approached hewent out to the head of the stairs, and if the knock sounded at the doorof his house, he leaned over the banisters, trembling in expectation. But the letter was never for him. When his agitation had subsided hefelt glad of the disappointment, and laughed and sang. 

One day Carter appeared at the City Road establishment, and made anopportunity of speaking to his clerk in private. 

'I suppose, ' he said with a smile, 'they'll have to look out for someoneelse at Croydon?'

'By no means! The thing is settled. I go at Christmas. '

'You really mean that?'

'Undoubtedly. '

Seeing that Reardon was not disposed even to allude to privatecircumstances, the secretary said no more, and went away convinced thatmisfortunes had turned the poor fellow's brain. 

Wandering in the city, about this time, Reardon encountered his friendthe realist. 

'Would you like to meet Sykes?' asked Biffen. 'I am just going to seehim. '

'Where does he live?'

'In some indiscoverable hole. To save fuel, he spends his mornings atsome reading-rooms; the admission is only a penny, and there he can seeall the papers and do his writing and enjoy a grateful temperature. '

They repaired to the haunt in question. A flight of stairs brought themto a small room in which were exposed the daily newspapers; anotherascent, and they were in a room devoted to magazines, chess, andrefreshments; yet another, and they reached the department of weeklypublications; lastly, at the top of the house, they found a lavatory, and a chamber for the use of those who desired to write. The wallsof this last retreat were of blue plaster and sloped inwards from thefloor; along them stood school desks with benches, and in one place wassuspended a ragged and dirty card announcing that paper and envelopescould be purchased downstairs. An enormous basket full of waste-paper, and a small stove, occupied two corners; ink blotches, satiricaldesigns, and much scribbling in pen and pencil served for muraladornment. From the adjacent lavatory came sounds of splashing andspluttering, and the busy street far below sent up its confused noises. 

Two persons only sat at the desks. One was a hunger-bitten, out-of-workclerk, evidently engaged in replying to advertisements; in front of himlay two or three finished letters, and on the ground at his feet wereseveral crumpled sheets of note-paper, representing abortive essays incomposition. The other man, also occupied with the pen, looked aboutforty years old, and was clad in a very rusty suit of tweeds; on thebench beside him lay a grey overcoat and a silk hat which had forsome time been moulting. His face declared the habit to which he was avictim, but it had nothing repulsive in its lineaments and expression;on the contrary, it was pleasing, amiable, and rather quaint. At thismoment no one would have doubted his sobriety. With coat-sleeve turnedback, so as to give free play to his right hand and wrist, revealingmeanwhile a flannel shirt of singular colour, and with his collarunbuttoned (he wore no tie) to leave his throat at ease as he bentmyopically over the paper, he was writing at express speed, evidentlyin the full rush of the ardour of composition. The veins of his foreheadwere dilated, and his chin pushed forward in a way that made one thinkof a racing horse. 

'Are you too busy to talk?' asked Biffen, going to his side. 

'I am! Upon my soul I am!' exclaimed the other looking up in alarm. 'Forthe love of Heaven don't put me out! A quarter of an hour!'

'All right. I'll come up again. '

The friends went downstairs and turned over the papers. 

'Now let's try him again, ' said Biffen, when considerably more thanthe requested time had elapsed. They went up, and found Mr Sykes in anattitude of melancholy meditation. He had turned back his coatsleeve, had buttoned his collar, and was eyeing the slips of completedmanuscript. Biffen presented his companion, and Mr Sykes greeted thenovelist with much geniality. 

'What do you think this is?' he exclaimed, pointing to his work. 'Thefirst instalment of my autobiography for the "Shropshire Weekly Herald. "Anonymous, of course, but strictly veracious, with the omission ofsundry little personal failings which are nothing to the point. I callit "Through the Wilds of Literary London. " An old friend of mine editsthe "Herald, " and I'm indebted to him for the suggestion. '

His voice was a trifle husky, but he spoke like a man of education. 

'Most people will take it for fiction. I wish I had inventive powerenough to write fiction anything like it. I have published novels, MrReardon, but my experience in that branch of literature was peculiar--asI may say it has been in most others to which I have applied myself. Myfirst stories were written for "The Young Lady's Favourite, " and mostremarkable productions they were, I promise you. That was fifteen yearsago, in the days of my versatility. I could throw off my supplementalnovelette of fifteen thousand words without turning a hair, andimmediately after it fall to, fresh as a daisy, on the "IllustratedHistory of the United States, " which I was then doing for EdwardCoghlan. But presently I thought myself too good for the "Favourite"; inan evil day I began to write three-volume novels, aiming at reputation. It wouldn't do. I persevered for five years, and made about fivefailures. Then I went back to Bowring. "Take me on again, old man, willyou?" Bowring was a man of few words; he said, "Blaze away, my boy. " AndI tried to. But it was no use; I had got out of the style; my writingwas too literary by a long chalk. For a whole year I deliberately stroveto write badly, but Bowring was so pained with the feebleness of myefforts that at last he sternly bade me avoid his sight. "What thedevil, " he roared one day, "do you mean by sending me stories aboutmen and women? You ought to know better than that, a fellow of yourexperience!" So I had to give it up, and there was an end of my careeras a writer of fiction. '

He shook his head sadly. 

'Biffen, ' he continued, 'when I first made his acquaintance, had an ideaof writing for the working classes; and what do you think he was goingto offer them? Stories about the working classes! Nay, never hang yourhead for it, old boy; it was excusable in the days of your youth. Why, Mr Reardon, as no doubt you know well enough, nothing can induce workingmen or women to read stories that treat of their own world. They arethe most consumed idealists in creation, especially the women. Againand again work-girls have said to me: "Oh, I don't like that book; it'snothing but real life. "'

'It's the fault of women in general, ' remarked Reardon. 

'So it is, but it comes out with delicious naivete in the workingclasses. Now, educated people like to read of scenes that are familiarto them, though I grant you that the picture must be idealised if you'reto appeal to more than one in a thousand. The working classes detestanything that tries to represent their daily life. It isn't because thatlife is too painful; no, no; it's downright snobbishness. Dickens goesdown only with the best of them, and then solely because of his strengthin farce and his melodrama. '

Presently the three went out together, and had dinner at an a la modebeef shop. Mr Sykes ate little, but took copious libations of porter attwopence a pint. When the meal was over he grew taciturn. 

'Can you walk westwards?' Biffen asked. 

'I'm afraid not, afraid not. In fact I have an appointment at two--atAldgate station. '

They parted from him. 

'Now he'll go and soak till he's unconscious, ' said Biffen. 'Poorfellow! Pity he ever earns anything at all. The workhouse would bebetter, I should think. '

'No, no! Let a man drink himself to death rather. I have a horror of theworkhouse. Remember the clock at Marylebone I used to tell you about. '

'Unphilosophic. I don't think I should be unhappy in the workhouse. I should have a certain satisfaction in the thought that I had forcedsociety to support me. And then the absolute freedom from care! Why, it's very much the same as being a man of independent fortune. '

It was about a week after this, midway in November, that there at lengthcame to Manville Street a letter addressed in Amy's hand. It arrivedat three one afternoon; Reardon heard the postman, but he had ceased torush out on every such occasion, and to-day he was feeling ill. Lyingupon the bed, he had just raised his head wearily when he became awarethat someone was mounting to his room. He sprang up, his face and neckflushing. 

This time Amy began 'Dear Edwin'; the sight of those words made hisbrain swim. 

'You must, of course, have heard [she wrote] that my uncle John has leftme ten thousand pounds. It has not yet come into my possession, andI had decided that I would not write to you till that happened, butperhaps you may altogether misunderstand my silence. 

'If this money had come to me when you were struggling so hard to earna living for us, we should never have spoken the words and thought thethoughts which now make it so difficult for me to write to you. What Iwish to say is that, although the property is legally my own, I quiterecognise that you have a right to share in it. Since we have livedapart you have sent me far more than you could really afford, believingit your duty to do so; now that things are so different I wish you, aswell as myself, to benefit by the change. 

'I said at our last meeting that I should be quite prepared to return toyou if you took that position at Croydon. There is now no need for youto pursue a kind of work for which you are quite unfitted, and I repeatthat I am willing to live with you as before. If you will tell me whereyou would like to make a new home I shall gladly agree. I do not thinkyou would care to leave London permanently, and certainly I should not. 

'Please to let me hear from you as soon as possible. In writing likethis I feel that I have done what you expressed a wish that I shoulddo. I have asked you to put an end to our separation, and I trust that Ihave not asked in vain. 

'Yours always, 'AMY REARDON. '

The letter fell from his hand. It was such a letter as he might haveexpected, but the beginning misled him, and as his agitation throbbeditself away he suffered an encroachment of despair which made him for atime unable to move or even think. 

His reply, written by the dreary twilight which represented sunset, ranthus. 

'Dear Amy, --I thank you for your letter, and I appreciate your motive inwriting it. But if you feel that you have "done what I expressed a wishthat you should do, " you must have strangely misunderstood me. 

'The only one thing that I wished was, that by some miracle your lovefor me might be revived. Can I persuade myself that this is the letterof a wife who desires to return to me because in her heart she loves me?If that is the truth you have been most unfortunate in trying to expressyourself. 

'You have written because it seemed your duty to do so. But, indeed, asense of duty such as this is a mistaken one. You have no love for me, and where there is no love there is no mutual obligation in marriage. Perhaps you think that regard for social conventions will necessitateyour living with me again. But have more courage; refuse to actfalsehoods; tell society it is base and brutal, and that you prefer tolive an honest life. 

'I cannot share your wealth, dear. But as you have no longer need of myhelp--as we are now quite independent of each other--I shall cease tosend the money which hitherto I have considered yours. In this way Ishall have enough, and more than enough, for my necessities, so that youwill never have to trouble yourself with the thought that I am sufferingprivations. At Christmas I go to Croydon, and I will then write to youagain. 

'For we may at all events be friendly. My mind is relieved fromceaseless anxiety on your account. I know now that you are safe fromthat accursed poverty which is to blame for all our sufferings. You I donot blame, though I have sometimes done so. My own experience teachesme how kindness can be embittered by misfortune. Some great and noblesorrow may have the effect of drawing hearts together, but to struggleagainst destitution, to be crushed by care about shillings andsixpences--that must always degrade. 

'No other reply than this is possible, so I beg you not to write in thisway again. Let me know if you go to live elsewhere. I hope Willie iswell, and that his growth is still a delight and happiness to you. 

'EDWIN REARDON. '

That one word 'dear, ' occurring in the middle of the letter, gave himpause as he read the lines over. Should he not obliterate it, and evenin such a way that Amy might see what he had done? His pen was dipped inthe ink for that purpose, but after all he held his hand. Amy wasstill dear to him, say what he might, and if she noted the word--if shepondered over it--

A street gas lamp prevented the room from becoming absolutely dark. Whenhe had closed the envelope he lay down on his bed again, and watched theflickering yellowness upon the ceiling. He ought to have some tea beforegoing to the hospital, but he cared so little for it that the trouble ofboiling water was too great. 

The flickering light grew fainter; he understood at length that this wascaused by fog that had begun to descend. The fog was his enemy; it wouldbe wise to purchase a respirator if this hideous weather continued, forsometimes his throat burned, and there was a rasping in his chest whichgave disagreeable admonition. 

He fell asleep for half an hour, and on awaking he was feverish, asusual at this time of day. Well, it was time to go to his work. Ugh!That first mouthful of fog!

CHAPTER XXVIII. INTERIM

The rooms which Milvain had taken for himself and his sisters weremodest, but more expensive than their old quarters. As the change wason his account he held himself responsible for the extra outlay. But forhis immediate prospects this step would have been unwarrantable, ashis earnings were only just sufficient for his needs on the previousfooting. He had resolved that his marriage must take place beforeChristmas; till that event he would draw when necessary upon the girls'little store, and then repay them out of Marian's dowry. 

'And what are we to do when you are married?' asked Dora. 

The question was put on the first evening of their being all under thesame roof. The trio had had supper in the girls' sitting-room, andit was a moment for frank conversation. Dora rejoiced in the comingmarriage; her brother had behaved honourably, and Marian, she trusted, would be very happy, notwithstanding disagreement with her father, whichseemed inevitable. Maud was by no means so well pleased, though sheendeavoured to wear smiles. It looked to her as if Jasper had beenguilty of a kind of weakness not to be expected in him. Marian, as anindividual, could not be considered an appropriate wife for such aman with such a future; and as for her five thousand pounds, that wasridiculous. Had it been ten--something can be made of ten thousand; buta paltry five! Maud's ideas on such subjects had notably expanded oflate, and one of the results was that she did not live so harmoniouslywith her sister as for the first few months of their London career. 

'I have been thinking a good deal about that, ' replied Jasper to theyounger girl's question. He stood with his back to the fire and smoked acigarette. 'I thought at first of taking a flat; but then a flat of thekind I should want would be twice the rent of a large house. If we havea house with plenty of room in it you might come and live with us aftera time. At first I must find you decent lodgings in our neighbourhood. '

'You show a good deal of generosity, Jasper, ' said Maud, 'but prayremember that Marian isn't bringing you five thousand a year. '

'I regret to say that she isn't. What she brings me is five hundred ayear for ten years--that's how I look at it. My own income will makeit something between six or seven hundred at first, and before longprobably more like a thousand. I am quite cool and collected. Iunderstand exactly where I am, and where I am likely to be ten yearshence. Marian's money is to be spent in obtaining a position for myself. At present I am spoken of as a "smart young fellow, " and that kind ofthing; but no one would offer me an editorship, or any other serioushelp. Wait till I show that I have helped myself and hands will bestretched to me from every side. 'Tis the way of the world. I shallbelong to a club; I shall give nice, quiet little dinners to selectedpeople; I shall let it be understood by all and sundry that I have asocial position. Thenceforth I am quite a different man, a man to betaken into account. And what will you bet me that I don't stand in theforemost rank of literary reputabilities ten years hence?'

'I doubt whether six or seven hundred a year will be enough for this. '

'If not, I am prepared to spend a thousand. Bless my soul! As if two orthree years wouldn't suffice to draw out the mean qualities in the kindof people I am thinking of! I say ten, to leave myself a great margin. '

'Marian approves this?'

'I haven't distinctly spoken of it. But she approves whatever I thinkgood. '

The girls laughed at his way of pronouncing this. 

'And let us just suppose that you are so unfortunate as to fail?'

'There's no supposing it, unless, of course, I lose my health. I am notpresuming on any wonderful development of powers. Such as I am now, Ineed only to be put on the little pedestal of a decent independence andplenty of people will point fingers of admiration at me. You don't fullyappreciate this. Mind, it wouldn't do if I had no qualities. I have thequalities; they only need bringing into prominence. If I am an unknownman, and publish a wonderful book, it will make its way very slowly, ornot at all. If I, become a known man, publish that very same book, itspraise will echo over both hemispheres. I should be within the truthif I had said "a vastly inferior book, " But I am in a bland mood atpresent. Suppose poor Reardon's novels had been published in the fulllight of reputation instead of in the struggling dawn which was never tobecome day, wouldn't they have been magnified by every critic? You haveto become famous before you can secure the attention which would givefame. '

He delivered this apophthegm with emphasis, and repeated it in anotherform. 

'You have to obtain reputation before you can get a fair hearing forthat which would justify your repute. It's the old story of the Frenchpublisher who said to Dumas: "Make a name, and I'll publish anything youwrite. " "But how the diable, " cries the author, "am I to make a nameif I can't get published?" If a man can't hit upon any other way ofattracting attention, let him dance on his head in the middle of thestreet; after that he may hope to get consideration for his volume ofpoems. I am speaking of men who wish to win reputation before they aretoothless. Of course if your work is strong, and you can afford to wait, the probability is that half a dozen people will at last begin to shoutthat you have been monstrously neglected, as you have. But that happenswhen you are hoary and sapless, and when nothing under the sun delightsyou. '

He lit a new cigarette. 

'Now I, my dear girls, am not a man who can afford to wait. First ofall, my qualities are not of the kind which demand the recognition ofposterity. My writing is for to-day, most distinctly hodiernal. It hasno value save in reference to to-day. The question is: How can I getthe eyes of men fixed upon me? The answer: By pretending I am quiteindependent of their gaze. I shall succeed, without any kind of doubt;and then I'll have a medal struck to celebrate the day of my marriage. '

But Jasper was not quite so well assured of the prudence of what he wasabout to do as he wished his sisters to believe. The impulse to which hehad finally yielded still kept its force; indeed, was stronger thanever since the intimacy of lovers' dialogue had revealed to him more ofMarian's heart and mind. Undeniably he was in love. Not passionately, not with the consuming desire which makes every motive seem paltrycompared with its own satisfaction; but still quite sufficiently in loveto have a great difficulty in pursuing his daily tasks. This did notstill the voice which bade him remember all the opportunities and hopeshe was throwing aside. Since the plighting of troth with Marian he hadbeen over to Wimbledon, to the house of his friend and patron Mr HoraceBarlow, and there he had again met with Miss Rupert. This lady had nopower whatever over his emotions, but he felt assured that sheregarded him with strong interest. When he imagined the possibility ofcontracting a marriage with Miss Rupert, who would make him at oncea man of solid means, his head drooped, and he wondered at hisprecipitation. It had to be confessed that he was the victim of a vulgarweakness. He had declared himself not of the first order of progressivemen. 

The conversation with Amy Reardon did not tend to put his mind at rest. Amy was astonished at so indiscreet a step in a man of his calibre. Ah!if only Amy herself were free, with her ten thousand pounds to disposeof! She, he felt sure, did not view him with indifference. Was there nota touch of pique in the elaborate irony with which she had spoken of hischoice?--But it was idle to look in that direction. 

He was anxious on his sisters' account. They were clever girls, and withenergy might before long earn a bare subsistence; but it began to bedoubtful whether they would persevere in literary work. Maud, it wasclear, had conceived hopes of quite another kind. Her intimacy with MrsLane was effecting a change in her habits, her dress, even her modes ofspeech. A few days after their establishment in the new lodgings, Jasperspoke seriously on this subject with the younger girl. 

'I wonder whether you could satisfy my curiosity in a certain matter, 'he said. 'Do you, by chance, know how much Maud gave for that new jacketin which I saw her yesterday?'

Dora was reluctant to answer. 

'I don't think it was very much. '

'That is to say, it didn't cost twenty guineas. Well, I hope not. 

I notice, too, that she has been purchasing a new hat. '

'Oh, that was very inexpensive. She trimmed it herself. '

'Did she? Is there any particular, any quite special, reason for thisexpenditure?'

'I really can't say, Jasper. '

'That's ambiguous, you know. Perhaps it means you won't allow yourselfto say?'

'No, Maud doesn't tell me about things of that kind. '

He took opportunities of investigating the matter, with the result thatsome ten days after he sought private colloquy with Maud herself. Shehad asked his opinion of a little paper she was going to send to aladies' illustrated weekly, and he summoned her to his own room. 

'I think this will do pretty well, ' he said. 'There's rather too muchthought in it, perhaps. Suppose you knock out one or two of the lessobvious reflections, and substitute a wholesome commonplace? You'll havea better chance, I assure you. '

'But I shall make it worthless. '

'No; you'll probably make it worth a guinea or so. You must rememberthat the people who read women's papers are irritated, simply irritated, by anything that isn't glaringly obvious. They hate an unusualthought. The art of writing for such papers--indeed, for the public ingeneral--is to express vulgar thought and feeling in a way that flattersthe vulgar thinkers and feelers. Just abandon your mind to it, and thenlet me see it again. '

Maud took up the manuscript and glanced over it with a contemptuoussmile. Having observed her for a moment, Jasper threw himself back inthe chair and said, as if casually:

'I am told that Mr Dolomore is becoming a great friend of yours. '

The girl's face changed. She drew herself up, and looked away towardsthe window. 

'I don't know that he is a "great" friend. '

'Still, he pays enough attention to you to excite remark. '

'Whose remark?'

'That of several people who go to Mrs Lane's. '

'I don't know any reason for it, ' said Maud coldly. 

'Look here, Maud, you don't mind if I give you a friendly warning?'

She kept silence, with a look of superiority to all monition. 

'Dolomore, ' pursued her brother, 'is all very well in his way, butthat way isn't yours. I believe he has a good deal of money, but hehas neither brains nor principle. There's no harm in your observingthe nature and habits of such individuals, but don't allow yourself toforget that they are altogether beneath you. '

'There's no need whatever for you to teach me self-respect, ' replied thegirl. 

'I'm quite sure of that; but you are inexperienced. On the whole, I dorather wish that you would go less frequently to Mrs Lane's. 

It was rather an unfortunate choice of yours. Very much better if youcould have got on a good footing with the Barnabys. If you are generallylooked upon as belonging to the Lanes' set it will make it difficult foryou to get in with the better people. '

Maud was not to be drawn into argument, and Jasper could only hope thathis words would have some weight with her. The Mr Dolomore in questionwas a young man of rather offensive type--athletic, dandiacal, andhalf-educated. It astonished Jasper that his sister could tolerate suchan empty creature for a moment; who has not felt the like surprise withregard to women's inclinations? He talked with Dora about it, but shewas not in her sister's confidence. 

'I think you ought to have some influence with her, ' Jasper said. 

'Maud won't allow anyone to interfere in--her private affairs. ''It wouldbe unfortunate if she made me quarrel with her. '

'Oh, surely there isn't any danger of that?'

'I don't know, she mustn't be obstinate. '

Jasper himself saw a good deal of miscellaneous society at this time. Hecould not work so persistently as usual, and with wise tactics he usedthe seasons of enforced leisure to extend his acquaintance. Marian andhe were together twice a week, in the evening. 

Of his old Bohemian associates he kept up intimate relations with oneonly, and that was Whelpdale. This was in a measure obligatory, forWhelpdale frequently came to see him, and it would have been difficultto repel a man who was always making known how highly he esteemed theprivilege of Milvain's friendship, and whose company on the whole wasagreeable enough. At the present juncture Whelpdale's cheery flatterywas a distinct assistance; it helped to support Jasper in hisself-confidence, and to keep the brightest complexion on the prospect towhich he had committed himself. 

'Whelpdale is anxious to make Marian's acquaintance, ' Jasper said to hissisters one day. 'Shall we have him here tomorrow evening?'

'Just as you like, ' Maud replied. 

'You won't object, Dora?'

'Oh no! I rather like Mr Whelpdale. '

'If I were to repeat that to him he'd go wild with delight. But don'tbe afraid; I shan't. I'll ask him to come for an hour, and trust to hisdiscretion not to bore us by staying too long. '

A note was posted to Whelpdale; he was invited to present himself ateight o'clock, by which time Marian would have arrived. Jasper's roomwas to be the scene of the assembly, and punctual to the minute theliterary adviser appeared. He was dressed with all the finish hiswardrobe allowed, and his face beamed with gratification; it was raptureto him to enter the presence of these three girls, one of whom he had, more suo, held in romantic remembrance since his one meeting with her atJasper's old lodgings. His eyes melted with tenderness as he approachedDora and saw her smile of gracious recognition. By Maud he wasprofoundly impressed. Marian inspired him with no awe, but he fullyappreciated the charm of her features and her modest gravity. After all, it was to Dora that his eyes turned again most naturally. He thoughther exquisite, and, rather than be long without a glimpse of her, hecontented himself with fixing his eyes on the hem of her dress and theboot-toe that occasionally peeped from beneath it. 

As was to be expected in such a circle, conversation soon turned to thesubject of literary struggles. 

'I always feel it rather humiliating, ' said Jasper, 'that I have gonethrough no very serious hardships. It must be so gratifying to say toyoung fellows who are just beginning:

"Ah, I remember when I was within an ace of starving to death, " andthen come out with Grub Street reminiscences of the most appalling kind. Unfortunately, I have always had enough to eat. '

'I haven't, ' exclaimed Whelpdale. 'I have lived for five days on a fewcents' worth of pea-nuts in the States. '

'What are pea-nuts, Mr Whelpdale?' asked Dora. 

Delighted with the question, Whelpdale described that undesirablespecies of food. 

'It was in Troy, ' he went on, 'Troy, N. Y. To think that a man shouldlive on pea-nuts in a town called Troy!'

'Tell us those adventures, ' cried Jasper. 'It's a long time since Iheard them, and the girls will enjoy it vastly. '

Dora looked at him with such good-humoured interest that the travellerneeded no further persuasion. 

'It came to pass in those days, ' he began, 'that I inherited from mygodfather a small, a very small, sum of money. I was making strenuousefforts to write for magazines, with absolutely no encouragement. As everybody was talking just then of the Centennial Exhibition atPhiladelphia, I conceived the brilliant idea of crossing the Atlantic, in the hope that I might find valuable literary material at theExhibition--or Exposition, as they called it--and elsewhere. I won'ttrouble you with an account of how I lived whilst I still had money;sufficient that no one would accept the articles I sent to England, and that at last I got into perilous straits. I went to New York, andthought of returning home, but the spirit of adventure was strong in me. "I'll go West, " I said to myself. "There I am bound to find material. "And go I did, taking an emigrant ticket to Chicago. It was December, andI should like you to imagine what a journey of a thousand miles by anemigrant train meant at that season. The cars were deadly cold, and whatwith that and the hardness of the seats I found it impossible to sleep;it reminded me of tortures I had read about; I thought my brain wouldhave burst with the need of sleeping. At Cleveland, in Ohio, we had towait several hours in the night; I left the station and wandered abouttill I found myself on the edge of a great cliff that looked over LakeErie. A magnificent picture! Brilliant moonlight, and all the lake awayto the horizon frozen and covered with snow. The clocks struck two as Istood there. '

He was interrupted by the entrance of a servant who brought coffee. 

'Nothing could be more welcome, ' cried Dora. 'Mr Whelpdale makes onefeel quite chilly. '

There was laughter and chatting whilst Maud poured out the beverage. Then Whelpdale pursued his narrative. 

'I reached Chicago with not quite five dollars in my pockets, and, witha courage which I now marvel at, I paid immediately four dollars and ahalf for a week's board and lodging. "Well, " I said to myself, "for aweek I am safe. If I earn nothing in that time, at least I shall owenothing when I have to turn out into the streets. " It was a rather dirtylittle boarding-house, in Wabash Avenue, and occupied, as I soon found, almost entirely by actors. There was no fireplace in my bedroom, andif there had been I couldn't have afforded a fire. But that matteredlittle; what I had to do was to set forth and discover some way ofmaking money. Don't suppose that I was in a desperate state of mind;how it was, I don't quite know, but I felt decidedly cheerful. It waspleasant to be in this new region of the earth, and I went about thetown like a tourist who has abundant resources. '

He sipped his coffee. 

'I saw nothing for it but to apply at the office of some newspaper, andas I happened to light upon the biggest of them first of all, I put ona bold face, marched in, asked if I could see the editor. There was nodifficulty whatever about this; I was told to ascend by means of the"elevator" to an upper storey, and there I walked into a comfortablelittle room where a youngish man sat smoking a cigar at a table coveredwith print and manuscript. I introduced myself, stated my business. "Canyou give me work of any kind on your paper?" "Well, what experience haveyou had?" "None whatever. " The editor smiled. "I'm very much afraid youwould be no use to us. But what do you think you could do?" Well now, there was but one thing that by any possibility I could do. I asked him:"Do you publish any fiction--short stories?" "Yes, we're always gladof a short story, if it's good. " This was a big daily paper; they haveweekly supplements of all conceivable kinds of matter. "Well, " I said, "if I write a story of English life, will you consider it?" "Withpleasure. " I left him, and went out as if my existence were henceforthprovided for. '

He laughed heartily, and was joined by his hearers. 

'It was a great thing to be permitted to write a story, but then--whatstory? I went down to the shore of Lake Michigan; walked there for halfan hour in an icy wind. Then I looked for a stationer's shop, andlaid out a few of my remaining cents in the purchase of pen, ink, andpaper--my stock of all these things was at an end when I left New York. Then back to the boarding-house. Impossible to write in my bedroom, thetemperature was below zero; there was no choice but to sit down in thecommon room, a place like the smoke-room of a poor commercial hotel inEngland. A dozen men were gathered about the fire, smoking, talking, quarrelling. Favourable conditions, you see, for literary effort. Butthe story had to be written, and write it I did, sitting there at theend of a deal table; I finished it in less than a couple of days, agood long story, enough to fill three columns of the huge paper. I standamazed at my power of concentration as often as I think of it!'

'And was it accepted?' asked Dora. 

'You shall hear. I took my manuscript to the editor, and he told me tocome and see him again next morning. I didn't forget the appointment. As I entered he smiled in a very promising way, and said, "I thinkyour story will do. I'll put it into the Saturday supplement. Call onSaturday morning and I'll remunerate you. " How well I remember thatword "remunerate"! I have had an affection for the word ever since. Andremunerate me he did; scribbled something on a scrap of paper, whichI presented to the cashier. The sum was eighteen dollars. Behold mesaved!'

He sipped his coffee again. 

'I have never come across an English editor who treated me with anythinglike that consideration and general kindliness. How the man had time, inhis position, to see me so often, and do things in such a human way, I can't understand. Imagine anyone trying the same at the office of aLondon newspaper! To begin with, one couldn't see the editor at all. Ishall always think with profound gratitude of that man with the peakedbrown beard and pleasant smile. '

'But did the pea-nuts come after that!' inquired Dora. 

'Alas! they did. For some months I supported myself in Chicago, writingfor that same paper, and for others. But at length the flow of myinspiration was checked; I had written myself out. And I began to growhome-sick, wanted to get back to England. The result was that I foundmyself one day in New York again, but without money enough to pay for apassage home. I tried to write one more story. But it happened, as I waslooking over newspapers in a reading-room, that I saw one of my Chicagotales copied into a paper published at Troy. Now Troy was not very faroff; and it occurred to me that, if I went there, the editor of thispaper might be disposed to employ me, seeing he had a taste for myfiction. And I went, up the Hudson by steamboat. On landing at Troy Iwas as badly off as when I reached Chicago; I had less than a dollar. And the worst of it was I had come on a vain errand; the editor treatedme with scant courtesy, and no work was to be got. I took a little room, paying for it day by day, and in the meantime I fed on those loathsomepea-nuts, buying a handful in the street now and then. And I assure youI looked starvation in the face. '

'What sort of a town is Troy?' asked Marian, speaking for the firsttime. 

'Don't ask me. They make straw hats there principally, and they sellpea-nuts. More I remember not. '

'But you didn't starve to death, ' said Maud. 

'No, I just didn't. I went one afternoon into a lawyer's office, thinking I might get some copying work, and there I found an odd-lookingold man, sitting with an open Bible on his knees. He explained to methat he wasn't the lawyer; that the lawyer was away on business, and that he was just guarding the office. Well, could he help me?He meditated, and a thought occurred to him. "Go, " he said, "tosuch-and-such a boarding-house, and ask for Mr Freeman Sterling. He isjust starting on a business tour, and wants a young man to accompanyhim. " I didn't dream of asking what the business was, but sped, as fastas my trembling limbs would carry me, to the address he had mentioned. Iasked for Mr Freeman Sterling, and found him. He was a photographer, and his business at present was to go about getting orders for thereproducing of old portraits. A good-natured young fellow. He said heliked the look of me, and on the spot engaged me to assist him in ahouse-to-house visitation. He would pay for my board and lodging, andgive me a commission on all the orders I obtained. Forthwith I sat downto a "square meal, " and ate--my conscience, how I ate!'

'You were not eminently successful in that pursuit, I think?' saidJasper. 

'I don't think I got half-a-dozen orders. Yet that good Samaritansupported me for five or six weeks, whilst we travelled from Troy toBoston. It couldn't go on; I was ashamed of myself; at last I toldhim that we must part. Upon my word, I believe he would have paid myexpenses for another month; why, I can't understand. But he had a vastrespect for me because I had written in newspapers, and I do seriouslythink that he didn't like to tell me I was a useless fellow. We partedon the very best of terms in Boston. '

'And you again had recourse to pea-nuts?' asked Dora. 

'Well, no. In the meantime I had written to someone in England, beggingthe loan of just enough money to enable me to get home. The money came aday after I had seen Sterling off by train. '

An hour and a half quickly passed, and Jasper, who wished to have a fewminutes of Marian's company before it was time for her to go, cast asignificant glance at his sisters. Dora said innocently:

'You wished me to tell you when it was half-past nine, Marian. '

And Marian rose. This was a signal Whelpdale could not disregard. Immediately he made ready for his own departure, and in less than fiveminutes was gone, his face at the last moment expressing blended delightand pain. 

'Too good of you to have asked me to come, ' he said with gratitude toJasper, who went to the door with him. 'You are a happy man, by Jove! Ahappy man!'

When Jasper returned to the room his sisters had vanished. Marianstood by the fire. He drew near to her, took her hands, and repeatedlaughingly Whelpdale's last words. 

'Is it true?' she asked. 

'Tolerably true, I think. '

'Then I am as happy as you are. '

He released her hands, and moved a little apart. 

'Marian, I have been thinking about that letter to your father. I hadbetter get it written, don't you think?'

She gazed at him with troubled eyes. 

'Perhaps you had. Though we said it might be delayed until--'

'Yes, I know. But I suspect you had rather I didn't wait any longer. Isn't that the truth?'

'Partly. Do just as you wish, Jasper. '

'I'll go and see him, if you like. '

'I am so afraid--No, writing will be better. '

'Very well. Then he shall have the letter to-morrow afternoon. '

'Don't let it come before the last post. I had so much rather not. Manage it, if you can. '

'Very well. Now go and say good-night to the girls. It's a vile night, and you must get home as soon as possible. '

She turned away, but again came towards him, murmuring:

'Just a word or two more. '

'About the letter?'

'No. You haven't said--'

He laughed. 

'And you couldn't go away contentedly unless I repeated for thehundredth time that I love you?'

Marian searched his countenance. 

'Do you think it foolish? I live only on those words. '

'Well, they are better than pea-nuts. '

'Oh don't! I can't bear to--'

Jasper was unable to understand that such a jest sounded to her likeprofanity. She hid her face against him, and whispered the words thatwould have enraptured her had they but come from his lips. The young manfound it pleasant enough to be worshipped, but he could not reply asshe desired. A few phrases of tenderness, and his love-vocabularywas exhausted; he even grew weary when something more--the indefinitesomething--was vaguely required of him. 

'You are a dear, good, tender-hearted girl, ' he said, stroking hershort, soft hair, which was exquisite to the hand. 'Now go and getready. '

She left him, but stood for a few moments on the landing before going tothe girls' room. 

CHAPTER XXIX. CATASTROPHE

Marian had finished the rough draft of a paper on James Harrington, author of 'Oceana. ' Her father went through it by the midnight lamp, and the next morning made his comments. A black sky and sooty rainstrengthened his inclination to sit by the study fire and talk at largein a tone of flattering benignity. 

'Those paragraphs on the Rota Club strike me as singularly happy, ' hesaid, tapping the manuscript with the mouthpiece of his pipe. 'Perhapsyou might say a word or two more about Cyriac Skinner; one mustn't betoo allusive with general readers, their ignorance is incredible. Butthere is so little to add to this paper--so little to alter--that Icouldn't feel justified in sending it as my own work. I think it isaltogether too good to appear anonymously. You must sign it, Marian, andhave the credit that is due to you. '

'Oh, do you think it's worth while?' answered the girl, who was far fromeasy under this praise. Of late there had been too much of it; it madeher regard her father with suspicions which increased her sense oftrouble in keeping a momentous secret from him. 

'Yes, yes; you had better sign it. I'll undertake there's no other girlof your age who could turn out such a piece of work. I think we mayfairly say that your apprenticeship is at an end. Before long, ' hesmiled anxiously, 'I may be counting upon you as a valued contributor. And that reminds me; would you be disposed to call with me on theJedwoods at their house next Sunday?'

Marian understood the intention that lay beneath this proposal. Shesaw that her father would not allow himself to seem discouraged by thesilence she maintained on the great subject which awaited her decision. He was endeavouring gradually to involve her in his ambitions, to carryher forward by insensible steps. It pained her to observe the suppressedeagerness with which he looked for her reply. 

'I will go if you wish, father, but I had rather not. '

'I feel sure you would like Mrs Jedwood. One has no great opinion of hernovels, but she is a woman of some intellect. Let me book you for nextSunday; surely I have a claim to your companionship now and then. '

Marian kept silence. Yule puffed at his pipe, then said with aspeculative air:

'I suppose it has never even occurred to you to try your hand atfiction?'

'I haven't the least inclination that way. '

'You would probably do something rather good if you tried. But I don'turge it. My own efforts in that line were a mistake, I'm disposed tothink. Not that the things were worse than multitudes of books whichnowadays go down with the many-headed. But I never quite knew what Iwished to be at in fiction. I wasn't content to write a mere narrativeof the exciting kind, yet I couldn't hit upon subjects of intellectualcast that altogether satisfied me. Well, well; I have tried my handat most kinds of literature. Assuredly I merit the title of man ofletters. '

'You certainly do. '

'By-the-by, what should you think of that title for a review--Letters?It has never been used, so far as I know. I like the word "letters. "How much better "a man of letters" than "a literary man"! And apropos ofthat, when was the word "literature" first used in our modern senseto signify a body of writing? In Johnson's day it was pretty much theequivalent of our "culture. " You remember his saying, "It is surprisinghow little literature people have. " His dictionary, I believe, definesthe word as "learning, skill in letters"--nothing else. '

It was characteristic of Yule to dwell with gusto on little points suchas this; he prosed for a quarter of an hour, with a pause every now andthen whilst he kept his pipe alight. 

'I think Letters wouldn't be amiss, ' he said at length, returning tothe suggestion which he wished to keep before Marian's mind. 'It wouldclearly indicate our scope. No articles on bimetallism, as Quarmbysaid--wasn't it Quarmby?'

He laughed idly. 

'Yes, I must ask Jedwood how he likes the name. '

Though Marian feared the result, she was glad when Jasper made up hismind to write to her father. Since it was determined that her moneycould not be devoted to establishing a review, the truth ought to beconfessed before Yule had gone too far in nursing his dangerous hope. Without the support of her love and all the prospects connected with it, she would hardly have been capable of giving a distinct refusal when herreply could no longer be postponed; to hold the money merely for her ownbenefit would have seemed to her too selfish, however slight her faithin the project on which her father built so exultantly. When it wasdeclared that she had accepted an offer of marriage, a sacrifice of thatkind could no longer be expected of her. Opposition must direct itselfagainst the choice she had made. It would be stern, perhaps relentless;but she felt able to face any extremity of wrath. Her nerves quivered, but in her heart was an exhaustless source of courage. 

That a change had somehow come about in the girl Yule was aware. Heobserved her with the closest study day after day. Her health seemedto have improved; after a long spell of work she had not the air ofdespondent weariness which had sometimes irritated him, sometimesmade him uneasy. She was more womanly in her bearing and speech, andexercised an independence, appropriate indeed to her years, but suchas had not formerly declared itself The question with her fatherwas whether these things resulted simply from her consciousness ofpossessing what to her seemed wealth, or something else had happenedof the nature that he dreaded. An alarming symptom was the increasedattention she paid to her personal appearance; its indications werenot at all prominent, but Yule, on the watch for such things, did notoverlook them. True, this also might mean nothing but a sense of relieffrom narrow means; a girl would naturally adorn herself a little underthe circumstances. 

His doubts came to an end two days after that proposal of a title forthe new review. As he sat in his study the servant brought him a letterdelivered by the last evening post. The handwriting was unknown to him;the contents were these:

'DEAR MR YULE, --It is my desire to write to you with perfect franknessand as simply as I can on a subject which has the deepest interest forme, and which I trust you will consider in that spirit of kindness withwhich you received me when we first met at Finden. 

'On the occasion of that meeting I had the happiness of being presentedto Miss Yule. She was not totally a stranger to me; at that time I usedto work pretty regularly in the Museum Reading-room, and there I hadseen Miss Yule, had ventured to observe her at moments with a youngman's attention, and had felt my interest aroused, though I did notknow her name. To find her at Finden seemed to me a very unusual anddelightful piece of good fortune. 

When I came back from my holiday I was conscious of a new purpose inlife, a new desire and a new motive to help me on in my chosen career. 

'My mother's death led to my sisters' coming to live in London. Alreadythere had been friendly correspondence between Miss Yule and the twogirls, and now that the opportunity offered they began to see each otherfrequently. As I was often at my sisters' lodgings it came about thatI met Miss Yule there from time to time. In this way was confirmed myattachment to your daughter. The better I knew her, the more worthy Ifound her of reverence and love. 

'Would it not have been natural for me to seek a renewal of theacquaintance with yourself which had been begun in the country? Gladly Ishould have done so. Before my sisters' coming to London I did call oneday at your house with the desire of seeing you, but unfortunately youwere not at home. Very soon after that I learnt to my extreme regretthat my connection with The Current and its editor would make anyrepetition of my visit very distasteful to you. I was conscious ofnothing in my literary life that could justly offend you--and at thisday I can say the same--but I shrank from the appearance of importunity, and for some months I was deeply distressed by the fear that what I mostdesired in life had become unattainable. My means were very slight; Ihad no choice but to take such work as offered, and mere chance had putme into a position which threatened ruin to the hope that you would someday regard me as a not unworthy suitor for your daughter's hand. 

'Circumstances have led me to a step which at that time seemedimpossible. Having discovered that Miss Yule returned the feelingI entertained for her, I have asked her to be my wife, and she hasconsented. It is now my hope that you will permit me to call upon you. Miss Yule is aware that I am writing this letter; will you not let herplead for me, seeing that only by an unhappy chance have I been keptaloof from you? Marian and I are equally desirous that you shouldapprove our union; without that approval, indeed, something will belacking to the happiness for which we hope. 

'Believe me to be sincerely yours, 'JASPER MILVAIN. '

Half an hour after reading this Yule was roused from a fit of thegloomiest brooding by Marian's entrance. She came towards him timidly, with pale countenance. He had glanced round to see who it was, but atonce turned his head again. 

'Will you forgive me for keeping this secret from you, father?'

'Forgive you?' he replied in a hard, deliberate voice. 'I assure you itis a matter of perfect indifference to me. You are long since of age, and I have no power whatever to prevent your falling a victim to anyschemer who takes your fancy. It would be folly in me to discuss thequestion. I recognise your right to have as many secrets as may seemgood to you. To talk of forgiveness is the merest affectation. '

'No, I spoke sincerely. If it had seemed possible I should gladly havelet you know about this from the first. That would have been natural andright. But you know what prevented me. '

'I do. I will try to hope that even a sense of shame had something to dowith it. '

'That had nothing to do with it, ' said Marian, coldly. 'I have never hadreason to feel ashamed. '

'Be it so. I trust you may never have reason to feel repentance. May Iask when you propose to be married?'

'I don't know when it will take place. '

'As soon, I suppose, as your uncle's executors have discharged a pieceof business which is distinctly germane to the matter?'

'Perhaps. '

'Does your mother know?'

'I have just told her. '

'Very well, then it seems to me that there's nothing more to be said. '

'Do you refuse to see Mr Milvain?'

'Most decidedly I do. You will have the goodness to inform him that thatis my reply to his letter. '

'I don't think that is the behaviour of a gentleman, ' said Marian, hereyes beginning to gleam with resentment. 

'I am obliged to you for your instruction. '

'Will you tell me, father, in plain words, why you dislike Mr Milvain?'

'I am not inclined to repeat what I have already fruitlessly told you. For the sake of a clear understanding, however, I will let you know thepractical result of my dislike. From the day of your marriage with thatman you are nothing to me. I shall distinctly forbid you to enter myhouse. You make your choice, and go your own way. I shall hope never tosee your face again. '

Their eyes met, and the look of each seemed to fascinate the other. 

'If you have made up your mind to that, ' said Marian in a shakingvoice, 'I can remain here no longer. Such words are senselessly cruel. To-morrow I shall leave the house. '

'I repeat that you are of age, and perfectly independent. It can benothing to me how soon you go. You have given proof that I am of lessthan no account to you, and doubtless the sooner we cease to afflicteach other the better. '

It seemed as if the effect of these conflicts with her father were todevelop in Marian a vehemence of temper which at length matched thatof which Yule was the victim. Her face, outlined to express a gentlegravity, was now haughtily passionate; nostrils and lips thrilled withwrath, and her eyes were magnificent in their dark fieriness. 

'You shall not need to tell me that again, ' she answered, andimmediately left him. 

She went into the sitting-room, where Mrs Yule was awaiting the resultof the interview. 

'Mother, ' she said, with stern gentleness, 'this house can no longer bea home for me. I shall go away to-morrow, and live in lodgings until thetime of my marriage. '

Mrs Yule uttered a cry of pain, and started up. 

'Oh, don't do that, Marian! What has he said to you? Come and talk tome, darling--tell me what he's said--don't look like that!'

She clung to the girl despairingly, terrified by a transformation shewould have thought impossible. 

'He says that if I marry Mr Milvain he hopes never to see my face again. I can't stay here. You shall come and see me, and we will be the sameto each other as always. But father has treated me too unjustly. I can'tlive near him after this. '

'He doesn't mean it, ' sobbed her mother. 'He says what he's sorry foras soon as the words are spoken. He loves you too much, my darling, todrive you away like that. It's his disappointment, Marian; that's all itis. He counted on it so much. I've heard him talk of it in his sleep;he made so sure that he was going to have that new magazine, and thedisappointment makes him that he doesn't know what he's saying. Onlywait and see; he'll tell you he didn't mean it, I know he will. Onlyleave him alone till he's had time to get over it. Do forgive him thisonce. '

'It's like a madman to talk in that way, ' said the girl, releasingherself. 'Whatever his disappointment, I can't endure it. I have workedhard for him, very hard, ever since I was old enough, and he owes mesome kindness, some respect. It would be different if he had the leastreason for his hatred of Jasper. It is nothing but insensate prejudice, the result of his quarrels with other people. What right has he toinsult me by representing my future husband as a scheming hypocrite?'

'My love, he has had so much to bear--it's made him so quick-tempered. '

'Then I am quick-tempered too, and the sooner we are apart the better, as he said himself. '

'Oh, but you have always been such a patient girl. '

'My patience is at an end when I am treated as if I had neither rightsnor feelings. However wrong the choice I had made, this was not the wayto behave to me. His disappointment? Is there a natural law, then, thata daughter must be sacrificed to her father? My husband will have asmuch need of that money as my father has, and he will be able to makefar better use of it. It was wrong even to ask me to give my money awaylike that. I have a right to happiness, as well as other women. '

She was shaken with hysterical passion, the natural consequence of thisoutbreak in a nature such as hers. Her mother, in the meantime, grew stronger by force of profound love that at length had found itsopportunity of expression. Presently she persuaded Marian to comeupstairs with her, and before long the overburdened breast was relievedby a flow of tears. But Marian's purpose remained unshaken. 

'It is impossible for us to see each other day after day, ' she said whencalmer. 'He can't control his anger against me, and I suffer too muchwhen I am made to feel like this. I shall take a lodging not far offwhere you can see me often. '

'But you have no money, Marian, ' replied Mrs Yule, miserably. 

'No money? As if I couldn't borrow a few pounds until all my own comesto me! Dora Milvain can lend me all I shall want; it won't make theleast difference to her. I must have my money very soon now. '

At about half-past eleven Mrs Yule went downstairs, and entered thestudy. 

'If you are coming to speak about Marian, ' said her husband, turningupon her with savage eyes, 'you can save your breath. I won't hear hername mentioned. '

She faltered, but overcame her weakness. 

'You are driving her away from us, Alfred. It isn't right! Oh, it isn'tright!'

'If she didn't go I should, so understand that! And if I go, you haveseen the last of me. Make your choice, make your choice!'

He had yielded himself to that perverse frenzy which impels a man toacts and utterances most wildly at conflict with reason. His sense ofthe monstrous irrationality to which he was committed completed what wasbegun in him by the bitterness of a great frustration. 

'If I wasn't a poor, helpless woman, ' replied his wife, sinking upon achair and crying without raising her hands to her face, 'I'd go and livewith her till she was married, and then make a home for myself. But Ihaven't a penny, and I'm too old to earn my own living; I should only bea burden to her. '

'That shall be no hindrance, ' cried Yule. 'Go, by all means; you shallhave a sufficient allowance as long as I can continue to work, and whenI'm past that, your lot will be no harder than mine. Your daughter hadthe chance of making provision for my old age, at no expense to herself. But that was asking too much of her. Go, by all means, and leave me tomake what I can of the rest of my life; perhaps I may save a few yearsstill from the curse brought upon me by my own folly. '

It was idle to address him. Mrs Yule went into the sitting-room, andthere sat weeping for an hour. Then she extinguished the lights, andcrept upstairs in silence. 

Yule passed the night in the study. Towards morning he slept for an houror two, just long enough to let the fire go out and to get thoroughlychilled. When he opened his eyes a muddy twilight had begun to show atthe window; the sounds of a clapping door within the house, which hadprobably awakened him, made him aware that the servant was already up. 

He drew up the blind. There seemed to be a frost, for the moistureof last night had all disappeared, and the yard upon which the windowlooked was unusually clean. With a glance at the black grate heextinguished his lamp, and went out into the passage. A few minutes'groping for his overcoat and hat, and he left the house. 

His purpose was to warm himself with a vigorous walk, and at thesame time to shake off if possible, the nightmare of his rage andhopelessness. He had no distinct feeling with regard to his behaviour ofthe past evening; he neither justified nor condemned himself; he did notask himself whether Marian would to-day leave her home, or if her motherwould take him at his word and also depart. These seemed to be detailswhich his brain was too weary to consider. But he wished to be away fromthe wretchedness of his house, and to let things go as they wouldwhilst he was absent. As he closed the front door he felt as if he wereescaping from an atmosphere that threatened to stifle him. 

His steps directing themselves more by habit than with any deliberatechoice, he walked towards Camden Road. When he had reached Camden Townrailway-station he was attracted by a coffee-stall; a draught ofthe steaming liquid, no matter its quality, would help his blood tocirculate. He laid down his penny, and first warmed his hands by holdingthem round the cup. Whilst standing thus he noticed that the objects atwhich he looked had a blurred appearance; his eyesight seemed to havebecome worse this morning. Only a result of his insufficient sleepperhaps. He took up a scrap of newspaper that lay on the stall; he couldread it, but one of his eyes was certainly weaker than the other; tryingto see with that one alone, he found that everything became misty. 

He laughed, as if the threat of new calamity were an amusement in hispresent state of mind. And at the same moment his look encountered thatof a man who had drawn near to him, a shabbily-dressed man of middleage, whose face did not correspond with his attire. 

'Will you give me a cup of coffee?' asked the stranger, in a low voiceand with shamefaced manner. 'It would be a great kindness. '

The accent was that of good breeding. Yule hesitated in surprise for amoment, then said:

'Have one by all means. Would you care for anything to eat?'

'I am much obliged to you. I think I should be none the worse for one ofthose solid slices of bread and butter. '

The stall-keeper was just extinguishing his lights; the frosty skyshowed a pale gleam of sunrise. 

'Hard times, I'm afraid, ' remarked Yule, as his beneficiary began to eatthe luncheon with much appearance of grateful appetite. 

'Very hard times. ' He had a small, thin, colourless countenance, withlarge, pathetic eyes; a slight moustache and curly beard. His clotheswere such as would be worn by some very poor clerk. 'I came here anhour ago, ' he continued, 'with the hope of meeting an acquaintance whogenerally goes from this station at a certain time. I have missedhim, and in doing so I missed what I had thought my one chance of abreakfast. When one has neither dined nor supped on the previous day, breakfast becomes a meal of some importance. '

'True. Take another slice. '

'I am greatly obliged to you. '

'Not at all. I have known hard times myself, and am likely to knowworse. '

'I trust not. This is the first time that I have positively begged. I should have been too much ashamed to beg of the kind of men who areusually at these places; they certainly have no money to spare. I wasthinking of making an appeal at a baker's shop, but it is very likely Ishould have been handed over to a policeman. Indeed I don't know what Ishould have done; the last point of endurance was almost reached. I haveno clothes but these I wear, and they are few enough for the season. Still, I suppose the waistcoat must have gone. '

He did not talk like a beggar who is trying to excite compassion, butwith a sort of detached curiosity concerning the difficulties of hisposition. 

'You can find nothing to do?' said the man of letters. 

'Positively nothing. By profession I am a surgeon, but it's a long timesince I practised. Fifteen years ago I was comfortably established atWakefield; I was married and had one child. But my capital ran out, andmy practice, never anything to boast of, fell to nothing. I succeededin getting a place as an assistant to a man at Chester. We sold up, andstarted on the journey. '

He paused, looking at Yule in a strange way. 

'What happened then?'

'You probably don't remember a railway accident that took place nearCrewe in that year--it was 1869? I and my wife and child were alone ina carriage that was splintered. One moment I was talking with them, infairly good spirits, and my wife was laughing at something I had said;the next, there were two crushed, bleeding bodies at my feet. I had abroken arm, that was all. Well, they were killed on the instant; theydidn't suffer. That has been my one consolation. '

Yule kept the silence of sympathy. 

'I was in a lunatic asylum for more than a year after that, ' continuedthe man. 'Unhappily, I didn't lose my senses at the moment; it took twoor three weeks to bring me to that pass. But I recovered, and there hasbeen no return of the disease. Don't suppose that I am still of unsoundmind. There can be little doubt that poverty will bring me to that againin the end; but as yet I am perfectly sane. I have supported myself invarious ways. 

No, I don't drink; I see the question in your face. But I am physicallyweak, and, to quote Mrs Gummidge, "things go contrary with me. " There'sno use lamenting; this breakfast has helped me on, and I feel in muchbetter spirits. '

'Your surgical knowledge is no use to you?'

The other shook his head and sighed. 

'Did you ever give any special attention to diseases of the eyes?'

'Special, no. But of course I had some acquaintance with the subject. '

'Could you tell by examination whether a man was threatened withcataract, or anything of that kind?'

'I think I could. '

'I am speaking of myself. '

The stranger made a close scrutiny of Yule's face, and asked certainquestions with reference to his visual sensations. 

'I hardly like to propose it, ' he said at length, 'but if you werewilling to accompany me to a very poor room that I have not far fromhere, I could make the examination formally. '

'I will go with you. '

They turned away from the stall, and the ex-surgeon led into aby-street. Yule wondered at himself for caring to seek such a singularconsultation, but he had a pressing desire to hear some opinion as tothe state of his eyes. Whatever the stranger might tell him, he wouldafterwards have recourse to a man of recognised standing; but just nowcompanionship of any kind was welcome, and the poor hungry fellow, withhis dolorous life-story, had made appeal to his sympathies. To givemoney under guise of a fee would be better than merely offering alms. 

'This is the house, ' said his guide, pausing at a dirty door. 'It isn'tinviting, but the people are honest, so far as I know. My room is at thetop. '

'Lead on, ' answered Yule. 

In the room they entered was nothing noticeable; it was only the poorestpossible kind of bed-chamber, or all but the poorest possible. Daylighthad now succeeded to dawn, yet the first thing the stranger did was tostrike a match and light a candle. 

'Will you kindly place yourself with your back to the window?' hesaid. 'I am going to apply what is called the catoptric test. You haveprobably heard of it?'

'My ignorance of scientific matters is fathomless. '

The other smiled, and at once offered a simple explanation of the term. By the appearance of the candle as it reflected itself in the patient'seye it was possible, he said, to decide whether cataract had taken holdupon the organ. 

For a minute or two he conducted his experiment carefully, and Yule wasat no loss to read the result upon his face. 

'How long have you suspected that something was wrong?' the surgeonasked, as he put down the candle. 

'For several months. '

'You haven't consulted anyone?'

'No one. I have kept putting it off. Just tell me what you havediscovered. '

'The back of the right lens is affected beyond a doubt. '

'That means, I take it, that before very long I shall be practicallyblind?'

'I don't like to speak with an air of authority. After all, I am only asurgeon who has bungled himself into pauperdom. You must see a competentman; that much I can tell you in all earnestness. 

Do you use your eyes much?'

'Fourteen hours a day, that's all. '

'H'm! You are a literary man, I think?'

'I am. My name is Alfred Yule. '

He had some faint hope that the name might be recognised; that wouldhave gone far, for the moment, to counteract his trouble. But not eventhis poor satisfaction was to be granted him; to his hearer the nameevidently conveyed nothing. 

'See a competent man, Mr Yule. Science has advanced rapidly since thedays when I was a student; I am only able to assure you of the existenceof disease. '

They talked for half an hour, until both were shaking with cold. ThenYule thrust his hand into his pocket. 

'You will of course allow me to offer such return as I am able, ' hesaid. 'The information isn't pleasant, but I am glad to have it. '

He laid five shillings on the chest of drawers--there was no table. Thestranger expressed his gratitude. 

'My name is Duke, ' he said, 'and I was christened Victor--possiblybecause I was doomed to defeat in life. I wish you could have associatedthe memory of me with happier circumstances. '

They shook hands, and Yule quitted the house. 

He came out again by Camden Town station. The coffee-stall haddisappeared; the traffic of the great highway was growing uproarious. Among all the strugglers for existence who rushed this way and that, Alfred Yule felt himself a man chosen for fate's heaviest infliction. Henever questioned the accuracy of the stranger's judgment, and he hopedfor no mitigation of the doom it threatened. His life was over--andwasted. 

He might as well go home, and take his place meekly by the fireside. He was beaten. Soon to be a useless old man, a burden and annoyance towhosoever had pity on him. 

It was a curious effect of the imagination that since coming into theopen air again his eyesight seemed to be far worse than before. Heirritated his nerves of vision by incessant tests, closing first one eyethen the other, comparing his view of nearer objects with the appearanceof others more remote, fancying an occasional pain--which could have hadno connection with his disease. The literary projects which had stirredso actively in his mind twelve hours ago were become an insubstantialmemory; to the one crushing blow had succeeded a second, which wasfatal. He could hardly recall what special piece of work he had beenengaged upon last night. His thoughts were such as if actual blindnesshad really fallen upon him. 

At half-past eight he entered the house. Mrs Yule was standing at thefoot of the stairs; she looked at him, then turned away towards thekitchen. He went upstairs. On coming down again he found breakfast readyas usual, and seated himself at the table. Two letters waited for himthere; he opened them. 

When Mrs Yule came into the room a few moments later she was astonishedby a burst of loud, mocking laughter from her husband, excited, as itappeared, by something he was reading. 

'Is Marian up?' he asked, turning to her. 

'Yes. '

'She is not coming to breakfast?'

'No. '

'Then just take that letter to her, and ask her to read it. '

Mrs Yule ascended to her daughter's bedroom. She knocked, was biddenenter, and found Marian packing clothes in a trunk. The girl looked asif she had been up all night; her eyes bore the traces of much weeping. 

'He has come back, dear, ' said Mrs Yule, in the low voice ofapprehension, 'and he says you are to read this letter. '

Marian took the sheet, unfolded it, and read. As soon as she had reachedthe end she looked wildly at her mother, seemed to endeavour vainly tospeak, then fell to the floor in unconsciousness. The mother was onlyjust able to break the violence of her fall. Having snatched a pillowand placed it beneath Marian's head, she rushed to the door and calledloudly for her husband, who in a moment appeared. 

'What is it?' she cried to him. 'Look, she has fallen down in a faint. Why are you treating her like this?'

'Attend to her, ' Yule replied roughly. 'I suppose you know better than Ido what to do when a person faints. '

The swoon lasted for several minutes. 

'What's in the letter?' asked Mrs Yule whilst chafing the lifelesshands. 

'Her money's lost. The people who were to pay it have just failed. '

'She won't get anything?'

'Most likely nothing at all. '

The letter was a private communication from one of John Yule'sexecutors. It seemed likely that the demand upon Turberville & Co. Foran account of the deceased partner's share in their business had helpedto bring about a crisis in affairs that were already unstable. Somethingmight be recovered in the legal proceedings that would result, but therewere circumstances which made the outlook very doubtful. 

As Marian came to herself her father left the room. An hour afterwardsMrs Yule summoned him again to the girl's chamber; he went, and foundMarian lying on the bed, looking like one who had been long ill. 

'I wish to ask you a few questions, ' she said, without raising herself. 'Must my legacy necessarily be paid out of that investment?'

'It must. Those are the terms of the will. '

'If nothing can be recovered from those people, I have no remedy?'

'None whatever that I can see. '

'But when a firm is bankrupt they generally pay some portion of theirdebts?'

'Sometimes. I know nothing of the case. '

'This of course happens to me, ' Marian said, with intense bitterness. 'None of the other legatees will suffer, I suppose?'

'Someone must, but to a very small extent. '

'Of course. When shall I have direct information?'

'You can write to Mr Holden; you have his address. '

'Thank you. That's all. '

He was dismissed, and went quietly away. 

PART FIVE

CHAPTER XXX. WAITING ON DESTINY

Throughout the day Marian kept her room. Her intention to leave thehouse was, of course, abandoned; she was the prisoner of fate. Mrs Yulewould have tended her with unremitting devotion, but the girl desired tobe alone. At times she lay in silent anguish; frequently her tears brokeforth, and she sobbed until weariness overcame her. In the afternoon shewrote a letter to Mr Holden, begging that she might be kept constantlyacquainted with the progress of things. 

At five her mother brought tea. 

'Wouldn't it be better if you went to bed now, Marian?' she suggested. 

'To bed? But I am going out in an hour or two. '

'Oh, you can't, dear! It's so bitterly cold. It wouldn't be good foryou. '

'I have to go out, mother, so we won't speak of it. '

It was not safe to reply. Mrs Yule sat down, and watched the girl raisethe cup to her mouth with trembling hand. 

'This won't make any difference to you--in the end, my darling, ' themother ventured to say at length, alluding for the first time to theeffect of the catastrophe on Marian's immediate prospects. 

'Of course not, ' was the reply, in a tone of self-persuasion. 

'Mr Milvain is sure to have plenty of money before long. '

'Yes. '

'You feel much better now, don't you?'

'Much. I am quite well again. '

At seven, Marian went out. Finding herself weaker than she had thought, she stopped an empty cab that presently passed her, and so drove tothe Milvains' lodgings. In her agitation she inquired for Mr Milvain, instead of for Dora, as was her habit; it mattered very little, forthe landlady and her servants were of course under no misconceptionregarding this young lady's visits. 

Jasper was at home, and working. He had but to look at Marian to seethat something wretched had been going on at her home; naturally hesupposed it the result of his letter to Mr Yule. 

'Your father has been behaving brutally, ' he said, holding her hands andgazing anxiously at her. 

'There is something far worse than that, Jasper. '

'Worse?'

She threw off her outdoor things, then took the fatal letter from herpocket and handed it to him. Jasper gave a whistle of consternation, andlooked vacantly from the paper to Marian's countenance. 

'How the deuce comes this about?' he exclaimed. 'Why, wasn't your uncleaware of the state of things?'

'Perhaps he was. He may have known that the legacy was a mere form. '

'You are the only one affected?'

'So father says. It's sure to be the case. '

'This has upset you horribly, I can see. Sit down, Marian. When did theletter come?'

'This morning. '

'And you have been fretting over it all day. But come, we must keep upour courage; you may get something substantial out of the scoundrelsstill. '

Even whilst he spoke his eyes wandered absently. On the last word hisvoice failed, and he fell into abstraction. Marian's look was fixed uponhim, and he became conscious of it. He tried to smile. 

'What were you writing?' she asked, making involuntary diversion fromthe calamitous theme. 

'Rubbish for the Will-o'-the-Wisp. Listen to this paragraph aboutEnglish concert audiences. '

It was as necessary to him as to her to have a respite before the graverdiscussion began. He seized gladly the opportunity she offered, and readseveral pages of manuscript, slipping from one topic to another. To hearhim one would have supposed that he was in his ordinary mood; he laughedat his own jokes and points. 

'They'll have to pay me more, ' was the remark with which he closed. 'Ionly wanted to make myself indispensable to them, and at the end ofthis year I shall feel pretty sure of that. They'll have to give me twoguineas a column; by Jove! they will. '

'And you may hope for much more than that, mayn't you, before long?'

'Oh, I shall transfer myself to a better paper presently. It seems to meI must be stirring to some purpose. '

He gave her a significant look. 

'What shall we do, Jasper?'

'Work and wait, I suppose. '

'There's something I must tell you. Father said I had better sign thatHarrington article myself. If I do that, I shall have a right to themoney, I think. It will at least be eight guineas. And why shouldn't Igo on writing for myself--for us? You can help me to think of subjects. '

'First of all, what about my letter to your father? We are forgettingall about it. '

'He refused to answer. '

Marian avoided closer description of what had happened. It was partlythat she felt ashamed of her father's unreasoning wrath, and fearedlest Jasper's pride might receive an injury from which she in turnwould suffer; partly that she was unwilling to pain her lover by makingdisplay of all she had undergone. 

'Oh, he refused to reply! Surely that is extreme behaviour. '

What she dreaded seemed to be coming to pass. Jasper stood ratherstiffly, and threw his head back. 

'You know the reason, dear. That prejudice has entered into his verylife. It is not you he dislikes; that is impossible. He thinks of youonly as he would of anyone connected with Mr Fadge. '

'Well, well; it isn't a matter of much moment. But what I have in mindis this. Will it be possible for you, whilst living at home, to take aposition of independence, and say that you are going to work for yourown profit?'

'At least I might claim half the money I can earn. And I was thinkingmore of--'

'Of what?'

'When I am your wife, I may be able to help. I could earn thirty orforty pounds a year, I think. That would pay the rent of a small house. '

She spoke with shaken voice, her eyes fixed upon his face. 

'But, my dear Marian, we surely oughtn't to think of marrying so long asexpenses are so nicely fitted as all that?'

'No. I only meant--'

She faltered, and her tongue became silent as her heart sank. 

'It simply means, ' pursued Jasper, seating himself and crossing hislegs, 'that I must move heaven and earth to improve my position. Youknow that my faith in myself is not small; there's no knowing what Imight do if I used every effort. But, upon my word, I don't see muchhope of our being able to marry for a year or two under the mostfavourable circumstances. '

'No; I quite understand that. '

'Can you promise to keep a little love for me all that time?' he askedwith a constrained smile. 

'You know me too well to fear. '

'I thought you seemed a little doubtful. '

His tone was not altogether that which makes banter pleasant betweenlovers. Marian looked at him fearfully. Was it possible for him in truthso to misunderstand her? He had never satisfied her heart's desire ofinfinite love; she never spoke with him but she was oppressed with thesuspicion that his love was not as great as hers, and, worse still, thathe did not wholly comprehend the self-surrender which she strove to makeplain in every word. 

'You don't say that seriously, Jasper?'

'But answer seriously. '

'How can you doubt that I would wait faithfully for you for years if itwere necessary?'

'It mustn't be years, that's very certain. I think it preposterous for aman to hold a woman bound in that hopeless way. '

'But what question is there of holding me bound? Is love dependent onfixed engagements? Do you feel that, if we agreed to part, your lovewould be at once a thing of the past?'

'Why no, of course not. '

'Oh, but how coldly you speak, Jasper!'

She could not breathe a word which might be interpreted as fear lestthe change of her circumstances should make a change in his feeling. Yet that was in her mind. The existence of such a fear meant, ofcourse, that she did not entirely trust him, and viewed his character assomething less than noble. Very seldom indeed is a woman free from suchdoubts, however absolute her love; and perhaps it is just as rare fora man to credit in his heart all the praises he speaks of his beloved. Passion is compatible with a great many of these imperfections ofintellectual esteem. To see more clearly into Jasper's personality was, for Marian, to suffer the more intolerable dread lest she should losehim. 

She went to his side. Her heart ached because, in her great misery, hehad not fondled her, and intoxicated her senses with loving words. 

'How can I make you feel how much I love you?' she murmured. 

'You mustn't be so literal, dearest. Women are so desperatelymatter-of-fact; it comes out even in their love-talk. '

Marian was not without perception of the irony of such an opinion onJasper's lips. 

'I am content for you to think so, ' she said. 'There is only one fact inmy life of any importance, and I can never lose sight of it. '

'Well now, we are quite sure of each other. Tell me plainly, do youthink me capable of forsaking you because you have perhaps lost yourmoney?'

The question made her wince. If delicacy had held her tongue, it had nocontrol of HIS. 

'How can I answer that better, ' she said, 'than by saying I love you?'

It was no answer, and Jasper, though obtuse compared with her, understood that it was none. But the emotion which had prompted hiswords was genuine enough. Her touch, the perfume of her passion, hadtheir exalting effect upon him. He felt in all sincerity that to forsakeher would be a baseness, revenged by the loss of such a wife. 

'There's an uphill fight before me, that's all, ' he said, 'instead ofthe pretty smooth course I have been looking forward to. But I don'tfear it, Marian. I'm not the fellow to be beaten. 

You shall be my wife, and you shall have as many luxuries as if you hadbrought me a fortune. '

'Luxuries! Oh, how childish you seem to think me!'

'Not a bit of it. Luxuries are a most important part of life. I hadrather not live at all than never possess them. Let me give you a usefulhint; if ever I seem to you to flag, just remind me of the differencebetween these lodgings and a richly furnished house. Just hint to methat So-and-so, the journalist, goes about in his carriage, and can givehis wife a box at the theatre. Just ask me, casually, how I shouldlike to run over to the Riviera when London fogs are thickest. Youunderstand? That's the way to keep me at it like a steam-engine. '

'You are right. All those things enable one to live a better and fullerlife. Oh, how cruel that I--that we are robbed in this way! You can haveno idea how terrible a blow it was to me when I read that letter thismorning. '

She was on the point of confessing that she had swooned, but somethingrestrained her. 

'Your father can hardly be sorry, ' said Jasper. 

'I think he speaks more harshly than he feels. The worst was, that untilhe got your letter he had kept hoping that I would let him have themoney for a new review. '

'Well, for the present I prefer to believe that the money isn't alllost. If the blackguards pay ten shillings in the pound you will get twothousand five hundred out of them, and that's something. But how do youstand? Will your position be that of an ordinary creditor?'

'I am so ignorant. I know nothing of such things. '

'But of course your interests will be properly looked after. Putyourself in communication with this Mr Holden. I'll have a look into thelaw on the subject. Let us hope as long as we can. By Jove! There's noother way of facing it. '

'No, indeed. '

'Mrs Reardon and the rest of them are safe enough, I suppose?'

'Oh, no doubt. '

'Confound them!--It grows upon one. One doesn't take in the whole ofsuch a misfortune at once. We must hold on to the last rag of hope, andin the meantime I'll half work myself to death. Are you going to see thegirls?'

'Not to-night. You must tell them. '

'Dora will cry her eyes out. Upon my word, Maud'll have to draw in herhorns. I must frighten her into economy and hard work. '

He again lost himself in anxious reverie. 

'Marian, couldn't you try your hand at fiction?'

She started, remembering that her father had put the same question sorecently. 

'I'm afraid I could do nothing worth doing. '

'That isn't exactly the question. Could you do anything that would sell?With very moderate success in fiction you might make three times as muchas you ever will by magazine pot-boilers. A girl like you. Oh, you mightmanage, I should think. '

'A girl like me?'

'Well, I mean that love-scenes, and that kind of thing, would be verymuch in your line. 'Marian was not given to blushing; very few girls are, even on strong provocation. For the first time Jasper saw her cheekscolour deeply, and it was with anything but pleasure. His words werecoarsely inconsiderate, and wounded her. 

'I think that is not my work, ' she said coldly, looking away. 

'But surely there's no harm in my saying--' he paused in astonishment. 'I meant nothing that could offend you. '

'I know you didn't, Jasper. But you make me think that--'

'Don't be so literal again, my dear girl. Come here and forgive me. '

She did not approach, but only because the painful thought he hadexcited kept her to that spot. 

'Come, Marian! Then I must come to you. '

He did so and held her in his arms. 

'Try your hand at a novel, dear, if you can possibly make time. Put mein it, if you like, and make me an insensible masculine. The experimentis worth a try I'm certain. At all events do a few chapters, and letme see them. A chapter needn't take you more than a couple of hours Ishould think. '

Marian refrained from giving any promise. She seemed irresponsive tohis caresses. That thought which at times gives trouble to all women ofstrong emotions was working in her: had she been too demonstrative, andmade her love too cheap? Now that Jasper's love might be endangered, itbehoved her to use any arts which nature prompted. And so, for once, hewas not wholly satisfied with her, and at their parting he wondered whatsubtle change had affected her manner to him. 

'Why didn't Marian come to speak a word?' said Dora, when her brotherentered the girls' sitting-room about ten o'clock. 

'You knew she was with me, then?'

'We heard her voice as she was going away. '

'She brought me some enspiriting news, and thought it better I shouldhave the reporting of it to you. '

With brevity he made known what had befallen. 

'Cheerful, isn't it? The kind of thing that strengthens one's trust inProvidence. '

The girls were appalled. Maud, who was reading by the fireside, let herbook fall to her lap, and knit her brows darkly. 

'Then your marriage must be put off, of course?' said Dora. 

'Well, I shouldn't be surprised if that were found necessary, ' repliedher brother caustically. He was able now to give vent to the feelingwhich in Marian's presence was suppressed, partly out of considerationfor her, and partly owing to her influence. 

'And shall we have to go back to our old lodgings again?' inquired Maud. 

Jasper gave no answer, but kicked a footstool savagely out of his wayand paced the room. 

'Oh, do you think we need?' said Dora, with unusual protest againsteconomy. 

'Remember that it's a matter for your own consideration, ' Jasper repliedat length. 'You are living on your own resources, you know. '

Maud glanced at her sister, but Dora was preoccupied. 

'Why do you prefer to stay here?' Jasper asked abruptly of the youngergirl. 

'It is so very much nicer, ' she replied with some embarrassment. 

He bit the ends of his moustache, and his eyes glared at the impalpablethwarting force that to imagination seemed to fill the air about him. 

'A lesson against being over-hasty, ' he muttered, again kicking thefootstool. 

'Did you make that considerate remark to Marian?' asked Maud. 

'There would have been no harm if I had done. She knows that I shouldn'thave been such an ass as to talk of marriage without the prospect ofsomething to live upon. '

'I suppose she's wretched?' said Dora. 

'What else can you expect?'

'And did you propose to release her from the burden of her engagement?'Maud inquired. 

'It's a confounded pity that you're not rich, Maud, ' replied her brotherwith an involuntary laugh. 'You would have a brilliant reputation forwit. '

He walked about and ejaculated splenetic phrases on the subject of hisill-luck. 

'We are here, and here we must stay, ' was the final expression of hismood. 'I have only one superstition that I know of and that forbids meto take a step backward. If I went into poorer lodgings again I shouldfeel it was inviting defeat. I shall stay as long as the position istenable. Let us get on to Christmas, and then see how things look. Heavens! Suppose we had married, and after that lost the money!'

'You would have been no worse off than plenty of literary men, ' saidDora. 

'Perhaps not. But as I have made up my mind to be considerably betteroff than most literary men that reflection wouldn't console me much. Things are in statu quo, that's all. I have to rely upon my own efforts. What's the time? Half-past ten; I can get two hours' work before goingto bed. '

And nodding a good-night he left them. 

When Marian entered the house and went upstairs, she was followed by hermother. On Mrs Yule's countenance there was a new distress, she had beencrying recently. 

'Have you seen him?' the mother asked. 

'Yes. We have talked about it. '

'What does he wish you to do, dear?'

'There's nothing to be done except wait. '

'Father has been telling me something, Marian, ' said Mrs Yule after along silence. 'He says he is going to be blind. There's somethingthe matter with his eyes, and he went to see someone about it thisafternoon. He'll get worse and worse, until there has been an operation;and perhaps he'll never be able to use his eyes properly again. '

The girl listened in an attitude of despair. 

'He has seen an oculist?--a really good doctor?'

'He says he went to one of the best. '

'And how did he speak to you?'

'He doesn't seem to care much what happens. He talked of going to theworkhouse, and things like that. But it couldn't ever come to that, could it, Marian? Wouldn't somebody help him?'

'There's not much help to be expected in this world, ' answered the girl. 

Physical weariness brought her a few hours of oblivion as soon as shehad lain down, but her sleep came to an end in the early morning, whenthe pressure of evil dreams forced her back to consciousness of realsorrows and cares. A fog-veiled sky added its weight to crush herspirit; at the hour when she usually rose it was still all but as darkas midnight. Her mother's voice at the door begged her to lie andrest until it grew lighter, and she willingly complied, feeling indeedscarcely capable of leaving her bed. 

The thick black fog penetrated every corner of the house. It could besmelt and tasted. Such an atmosphere produces low-spirited languor evenin the vigorous and hopeful; to those wasted by suffering it is the veryreek of the bottomless pit, poisoning the soul. Her face colourless asthe pillow, Marian lay neither sleeping nor awake, in blank extremity ofwoe; tears now and then ran down her cheeks, and at times her body wasshaken with a throe such as might result from anguish of the torturechamber. 

Midway in the morning, when it was still necessary to use artificiallight, she went down to the sitting-room. The course of household lifehad been thrown into confusion by the disasters of the last day or two;Mrs Yule, who occupied herself almost exclusively with questions ofeconomy, cleanliness, and routine, had not the heart to pursue her roundof duties, and this morning, though under normal circumstances she wouldhave been busy in 'turning out' the dining-room, she moved aimlessly anddespondently about the house, giving the servant contradictory ordersand then blaming herself for her absent-mindedness. In the troubles ofher husband and her daughter she had scarcely greater share--so faras active participation went--than if she had been only a faithful oldhousekeeper; she could only grieve and lament that such discord had comebetween the two whom she loved, and that in herself was no power even tosolace their distresses. Marian found her standing in the passage, witha duster in one hand and a hearth-brush in the other. 

'Your father has asked to see you when you come down, ' Mrs Yulewhispered. 

'I'll go to him. '

Marian entered the study. Her father was not in his place at thewriting-table, nor yet seated in the chair which he used when he hadleisure to draw up to the fireside; he sat in front of one of thebookcases, bent forward as if seeking a volume, but his chin was proppedupon his hand, and he had maintained this position for a long time. Hedid not immediately move. When he raised his head Marian saw that helooked older, and she noticed--or fancied she did--that there was someunfamiliar peculiarity about his eyes. 

'I am obliged to you for coming, ' he began with distant formality. 'Since I saw you last I have learnt something which makes a change in myposition and prospects, and it is necessary to speak on the subject. Iwon't detain you more than a few minutes. '

He coughed, and seemed to consider his next words. 

'Perhaps I needn't repeat what I have told your mother. You have learntit from her, I dare say. '

'Yes, with much grief. '

'Thank you, but we will leave aside that aspect of the matter. For a fewmore months I may be able to pursue my ordinary work, but before longI shall certainly be disabled from earning my livelihood by literature. Whether this will in any way affect your own position I don't know. Willyou have the goodness to tell me whether you still purpose leaving thishouse?'

'I have no means of doing so. '

'Is there any likelihood of your marriage taking place, let us say, within four months?'

'Only if the executors recover my money, or a large portion of it. '

'I understand. My reason for asking is this. My lease of this houseterminates at the end of next March, and I shall certainly not bejustified in renewing it. If you are able to provide for yourself inany way it will be sufficient for me to rent two rooms after that. Thisdisease which affects my eyes may be only temporary; in due time anoperation may render it possible for me to work again. In hope of that Ishall probably have to borrow a sum of money on the security of my lifeinsurance, though in the first instance I shall make the most of what Ican get for the furniture of the house and a large part of my library;your mother and I could live at very slight expense in lodgings. If thedisease prove irremediable, I must prepare myself for the worst. WhatI wish to say is, that it will be better if from to-day you consideryourself as working for your own subsistence. So long as I remain herethis house is of course your home; there can be no question between usof trivial expenses. But it is right that you should understand what myprospects are. I shall soon have no home to offer you; you must look toyour own efforts for support. '

'I am prepared to do that, father. '

'I think you will have no great difficulty in earning enough foryourself. I have done my best to train you in writing for theperiodicals, and your natural abilities are considerable. If youmarry, I wish you a happy life. The end of mine, of many long years ofunremitting toil, is failure and destitution. '

Marian sobbed. 

'That's all I had to say, ' concluded her father, his voice tremulouswith self-compassion. 'I will only beg that there may be no furtherprofitless discussion between us. This room is open to you, as always, and I see no reason why we should not converse on subjects disconnectedwith our personal differences. '

'Is there no remedy for cataract in its early stages?' asked Marian. 

'None. You can read up the subject for yourself at the British Museum. Iprefer not to speak of it. '

'Will you let me be what help to you I can?'

'For the present the best you can do is to establish a connection foryourself with editors. Your name will be an assistance to you. My adviceis, that you send your "Harrington" article forthwith to Trenchard, writing him a note. If you desire my help in the suggestion of newsubjects, I will do my best to be of use. '

Marian withdrew. She went to the sitting-room, where an ochreousdaylight was beginning to diffuse itself and to render the lampsuperfluous. With the dissipation of the fog rain had set in; itssplashing upon the muddy pavement was audible. 

Mrs Yule, still with a duster in her hand, sat on the sofa. Marian tooka place beside her. They talked in low, broken tones, and wept togetherover their miseries. 

CHAPTER XXXI. A RESCUE AND A SUMMONS

The chances are that you have neither understanding nor sympathy for mensuch as Edwin Reardon and Harold Biffen. They merely provoke you. They seem to you inert, flabby, weakly envious, foolishly obstinate, impiously mutinous, and many other things. You are made angrilycontemptuous by their failure to get on; why don't they bestirthemselves, push and bustle, welcome kicks so long as halfpence follow, make place in the world's eye--in short, take a leaf from the book of MrJasper Milvain?

But try to imagine a personality wholly unfitted for the rough andtumble of the world's labour-market. From the familiar point of viewthese men were worthless; view them in possible relation to a humaneorder of Society, and they are admirable citizens. Nothing is easierthan to condemn a type of character which is unequal to the coarsedemands of life as it suits the average man. These two were richlyendowed with the kindly and the imaginative virtues; if fate threw themamid incongruous circumstances, is their endowment of less value? Youscorn their passivity; but it was their nature and their merit to bepassive. 

Gifted with independent means, each of them would have taken quitea different aspect in your eyes. The sum of their faults was theirinability to earn money; but, indeed, that inability does not call forunmingled disdain. 

It was very weak of Harold Biffen to come so near perishing of hunger ashe did in the days when he was completing his novel. But he would havevastly preferred to eat and be satisfied had any method of obtainingfood presented itself to him. He did not starve for the pleasure of thething, I assure you. Pupils were difficult to get just now, and writingthat he had sent to magazines had returned upon his hands. He pawnedsuch of his possessions as he could spare, and he reduced his meals tothe minimum. Nor was he uncheerful in his cold garret and with his emptystomach, for 'Mr Bailey, Grocer, ' drew steadily to an end. 

He worked very slowly. The book would make perhaps two volumes ofordinary novel size, but he had laboured over it for many months, patiently, affectionately, scrupulously. Each sentence was as good ashe could make it, harmonious to the ear, with words of precious meaningskilfully set. Before sitting down to a chapter he planned it minutelyin his mind; then he wrote a rough draft of it; then he elaborated thething phrase by phrase. He had no thought of whether such toil would berecompensed in coin of the realm; nay, it was his conviction that, ifwith difficulty published, it could scarcely bring him money. The workmust be significant, that was all he cared for. And he had no society ofadmiring friends to encourage him. Reardon understood the merit of theworkmanship, but frankly owned that the book was repulsive to him. To the public it would be worse than repulsive--tedious, utterlyuninteresting. No matter; it drew to its end. 

The day of its completion was made memorable by an event decidedly moreexciting, even to the author. 

At eight o'clock in the evening there remained half a page to bewritten. Biffen had already worked about nine hours, and on breakingoff to appease his hunger he doubted whether to finish to-night or topostpone the last lines till tomorrow. The discovery that only a smallcrust of bread lay in the cupboard decided him to write no more; hewould have to go out to purchase a loaf and that was disturbance. 

But stay; had he enough money? He searched his pockets. Two pence andtwo farthings; no more. 

You are probably not aware that at bakers' shops in the poor quartersthe price of the half-quartern loaf varies sometimes from week to week. At present, as Biffen knew, it was twopence three-farthings, acommon figure. But Harold did not possess three farthings, only two. Reflecting, he remembered to have passed yesterday a shop where thebread was marked twopence halfpenny; it was a shop in a very obscurelittle street off Hampstead Road, some distance from Clipstone Street. Thither he must repair. He had only his hat and a muffler to put on, foragain he was wearing his overcoat in default of the under one, and hisragged umbrella to take from the corner; so he went forth. 

To his delight the twopence halfpenny announcement was still in thebaker's window. He obtained a loaf wrapped it in the piece of paper hehad brought--small bakers decline to supply paper for this purpose--andstrode joyously homeward again. 

Having eaten, he looked longingly at his manuscript. But half a pagemore. Should he not finish it to-night? The temptation was irresistible. He sat down, wrought with unusual speed, and at half-past ten wrote withmagnificent flourish 'The End. '

His fire was out and he had neither coals nor wood. But his feet werefrozen into lifelessness. Impossible to go to bed like this; he musttake another turn in the streets. It would suit his humour to ramble awhile. Had it not been so late he would have gone to see Reardon, whoexpected the communication of this glorious news. 

So again he locked his door. Half-way downstairs he stumbled oversomething or somebody in the dark. 

'Who is that?' he cried. 

The answer was a loud snore. Biffen went to the bottom of the house andcalled to the landlady. 

'Mrs Willoughby! Who is asleep on the stairs?'

'Why, I 'spect it's Mr Briggs, ' replied the woman, indulgently. 'Don'tyou mind him, Mr Biffen. There's no 'arm: he's only had a little toomuch. I'll go up an' make him go to bed as soon as I've got my 'andsclean. '

'The necessity for waiting till then isn't obvious, ' remarked therealist with a chuckle, and went his way. 

He walked at a sharp pace for more than an hour, and about midnight drewnear to his own quarter again. He had just turned up by the MiddlesexHospital, and was at no great distance from Clipstone Street, when ayell and scamper caught his attention; a group of loafing blackguards onthe opposite side of the way had suddenly broken up, and as they rushedoff he heard the word 'Fire!' This was too common an occurrence todisturb his equanimity; he wondered absently in which street the firemight be, but trudged on without a thought of making investigation. Repeated yells and rushes, however, assailed his apathy. Two women cametearing by him, and he shouted to them: 'Where is it?'

'In Clipstone Street, they say, ' one screamed back. 

He could no longer be unconcerned. If in his own street theconflagration might be in the very house he inhabited, and in thatcase---- He set off at a run. Ahead of him was a thickening throng, itsposition indicating the entrance to Clipstone Street. Soon he found hisprogress retarded; he had to dodge this way and that, to force progress, to guard himself against overthrows by the torrent of ruffiandom whichalways breaks forth at the cry of fire. He could now smell the smoke, and all at once a black volume of it, bursting from upper windows, alarmed his sight. At once he was aware that, if not his own dwelling, it must be one of those on either side that was in flames. As yet noengine had arrived, and straggling policemen were only just beginning tomake their way to the scene of uproar. By dint of violent effort Biffenmoved forward yard by yard. A tongue of flame which suddenly illuminedthe fronts of the houses put an end to his doubt. 

'Let me get past!' he shouted to the gaping and swaying mass of peoplein front of him. 'I live there! I must go upstairs to save something!'

His educated accent moved attention. Repeating the demand again andagain he succeeded in getting forward, and at length was near enoughto see that people were dragging articles of furniture out on to thepavement. 

'That you, Mr Biffen?' cried someone to him. 

He recognised the face of a fellow-lodger. 

'Is it possible to get up to my room?' broke frantically from his lips. 

'You'll never get up there. It's that--Briggs'--the epithet wasalliterative--''as upset his lamp, and I 'ope he'll--well get roasted todeath. '

Biffen leaped on to the threshold, and crashed against Mrs Willoughby, the landlady, who was carrying a huge bundle of household linen. 

'I told you to look after that drunken brute;' he said to her. 'Can Iget upstairs?'

'What do I care whether you can or not!' the woman shrieked. 'My God!And all them new chairs as I bought--!'

He heard no more, but bounded over a confusion of obstacles, and in amoment was on the landing of the first storey. Here he encountered aman who had not lost his head, a stalwart mechanic engaged in slippingclothes on to two little children. 

'If somebody don't drag that fellow Briggs down he'll be dead, ' observedthe man. 'He's layin' outside his door. I pulled him out, but I can't dono more for him. '

Smoke grew thick on the staircase. Burning was as yet confined to thatfront room on the second floor tenanted by Briggs the disastrous, butin all likelihood the ceiling was ablaze, and if so it would be all butimpossible for Biffen to gain his own chamber, which was at the back onthe floor above. No one was making an attempt to extinguish the fire;personal safety and the rescue of their possessions alone occupied thethoughts of such people as were still in the house. Desperate with thedread of losing his manuscript, his toil, his one hope, the realistscarcely stayed to listen to a warning that the fumes were impassable;with head bent he rushed up to the next landing. There lay Briggs, perchance already stifled, and through the open door Biffen had ahorrible vision of furnace fury. To go yet higher would have beenmadness but for one encouragement: he knew that on his own storey was aladder giving access to a trap-door, by which he might issue on to theroof, whence escape to the adjacent houses would be practicable. Again aleap forward!

In fact, not two minutes elapsed from his commencing the ascent of thestairs to the moment when, all but fainting, he thrust the key into hisdoor and fell forward into purer air. Fell, for he was on his knees, andhad begun to suffer from a sense of failing power, a sick whirling ofthe brain, a terror of hideous death. His manuscript was on the table, where he had left it after regarding and handling it with joyfulself-congratulation; though it was pitch dark in the room, he could atonce lay his hand on the heap of paper. Now he had it; now it was jammedtight under his left arm; now he was out again on the landing, in smokemore deadly than ever. 

He said to himself: 'If I cannot instantly break out by the trap-doorit's all over with me. ' That the exit would open to a vigorous thrusthe knew, having amused himself not long ago by going on to the roof. Hetouched the ladder, sprang upwards, and felt the trap above him. But hecould not push it back. 'I'm a dead man, ' flashed across his mind, 'andall for the sake of "Mr Bailey, Grocer. "' A frenzied effort, the last ofwhich his muscles were capable, and the door yielded. His head was nowthrough the aperture, and though the smoke swept up about him, that gaspof cold air gave him strength to throw himself on the flat portion ofthe roof that he had reached. 

So for a minute or two he lay. Then he was able to stand, to surveyhis position, and to walk along by the parapet. He looked down upon thesurging and shouting crowd in Clipstone Street, but could see it only atintervals, owing to the smoke that rolled from the front windows belowhim. 

What he had now to do he understood perfectly. This roof was dividedfrom those on either hand by a stack of chimneys; to get round the endof these stacks was impossible, or at all events too dangerous a featunless it were the last resource, but by climbing to the apex of theslates he would be able to reach the chimney-pots, to drag himself upto them, and somehow to tumble over on to the safer side. To thisundertaking he forthwith addressed himself. Without difficulty hereached the ridge; standing on it he found that only by stretching hisarm to the utmost could he grip the top of a chimney-pot. Had he thestrength necessary to raise himself by such a hold? And suppose the potbroke?

His life was still in danger; the increasing volumes of smoke warned himthat in a few minutes the uppermost storey might be in flames. Hetook off his overcoat to allow himself more freedom of action; themanuscript, now an encumbrance, must precede him over the chimney-stack, and there was only one way of effecting that. With care he stowedthe papers into the pockets of the coat; then he rolled the garmenttogether, tied it up in its own sleeves, took a deliberate aim--and thebundle was for the present in safety. 

Now for the gymnastic endeavour. Standing on tiptoe, he clutched therim of the chimney-pot, and strove to raise himself. The hold was firmenough, but his arms were far too puny to perform such work, evenwhen death would be the penalty of failure. Too long he had lived oninsufficient food and sat over the debilitating desk. He swung this wayand that, trying to throw one of his knees as high as the top of thebrickwork, but there was no chance of his succeeding. Dropping on to theslates, he sat there in perturbation. 

He must cry for help. In front it was scarcely possible to stand by theparapet, owing to the black clouds of smoke, now mingled with sparks;perchance he might attract the notice of some person either in the yardsbehind or at the back windows of other houses. The night was so obscurethat he could not hope to be seen; voice alone must be depended upon, and there was no certainty that it would be heard far enough. Though hestood in his shirt-sleeves in a bitter wind no sense of cold affectedhim; his face was beaded with perspiration drawn forth by his futilestruggle to climb. He let himself slide down the rear slope, and, holding by the end of the chimney brickwork, looked into the yards. Atthe same instant a face appeared to him--that of a man who was trying toobtain a glimpse of this roof from that of the next house by thrustingout his head beyond the block of chimneys. 

'Hollo!' cried the stranger. 'What are you doing there?'

'Trying to escape, of course. Help me to get on to your roof. '

'By God! I expected to see the fire coming through already. Are youthe--as upset his lamp an' fired the bloomin' 'ouse?'

'Not I! He's lying drunk on the stairs; dead by this time. '

'By God! I wouldn't have helped you if you'd been him. How are youcoming round? Blest if I see! You'll break your bloomin' neck if you trythis corner. You'll have to come over the chimneys; wait till I get aladder. '

'And a rope, ' shouted Biffen. 

The man disappeared for five minutes. To Biffen it seemed half an hour;he felt, or imagined he felt, the slates getting hot beneath him, andthe smoke was again catching his breath. But at length there was a shoutfrom the top of the chimney-stack. The rescuer had seated himself on oneof the pots, and was about to lower on Biffen's side a ladder which hadenabled him to ascend from the other. Biffen planted the lowest rungvery carefully on the ridge of the roof, climbed as lightly as possible, got a footing between two pots; the ladder was then pulled over, andboth men descended in safety. 

'Have you seen a coat lying about here?' was Biffen's first question. 'Ithrew mine over. '

'What did you do that for?'

'There are some valuable papers in the pockets. '

They searched in vain; on neither side of the roof was the coatdiscoverable. 

'You must have pitched it into the street, ' said the man. 

This was a terrible blow; Biffen forgot his rescue from destructionin lament for the loss of his manuscript. He would have pursued thefruitless search, but his companion, who feared that the fire mightspread to adjoining houses, insisted on his passing through thetrap-door and descending the stairs. 'If the coat fell into the street, 'Biffen said, when they were down on the ground floor, 'of course it'slost; it would be stolen at once. But may not it have fallen into yourback yard?'

He was standing in the midst of a cluster of alarmed people, who staredat him in astonishment, for the reek through which he had fought his wayhad given him the aspect of a sweep. His suggestion prompted someone torun into the yard, with the result that a muddy bundle was brought inand exhibited to him. 

'Is this your coat, Mister?'

'Heaven be thanked! That's it! There are valuable papers in thepockets. '

He unrolled the garment, felt to make sure that 'Mr Bailey' was safe, and finally put it on. 

'Will anyone here let me sit down in a room and give me a drink ofwater?' he asked, feeling now as if he must drop with exhaustion. 

The man who had rescued him performed this further kindness, and forhalf an hour, whilst tumult indescribable raged about him, Biffen satrecovering his strength. By that time the firemen were hard at work, butone floor of the burning house had already fallen through, and it wasprobable that nothing but the shell would be saved. After giving a fullaccount of himself to the people among whom he had come, Harold declaredhis intention of departing; his need of repose was imperative, and hecould not hope for it in this proximity to the fire. As he had no money, his only course was to inquire for a room at some house in the immediateneighbourhood, where the people would receive him in a charitablespirit. 

With the aid of the police he passed to where the crowd was thinner, andcame out into Cleveland Street. Here most of the house-doors were open, and he made several applications for hospitality, but either his storywas doubted or his grimy appearance predisposed people against him. Atlength, when again his strength was all but at an end, he made appeal toa policeman. 

'Surely you can tell, ' he protested, after explaining his position, 'that I don't want to cheat anybody. I shall have money to-morrow. Ifno one will take me in you must haul me on some charge to thepolice-station; I shall have to lie down on the pavement in a minute. '

The officer recognised a man who was standing half-dressed on athreshold close by; he stepped up to him and made representationswhich were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of anunderground room furnished as a bedchamber, which he agreed to rent fora week. His landlord was not ungracious, and went so far as to supplyhim with warm water, that he might in a measure cleanse himself. Thisoperation rapidly performed, the hapless author flung himself into bed, and before long was fast asleep. 

When he went upstairs about nine o'clock in the morning he discoveredthat his host kept an oil-shop. 

'Lost everything, have you?' asked the man sympathetically. 

'Everything, except the clothes I wear and some papers that I managed tosave. All my books burnt!'

Biffen shook his head dolorously. 

'Your account-books!' cried the dealer in oil. 'Dear, dear!--and whatmight your business be?'

The author corrected this misapprehension. In the end he was invited tobreak his fast, which he did right willingly. Then, with assurancesthat he would return before nightfall, he left the house. His steps werenaturally first directed to Clipstone Street; the familiar abode was agruesome ruin, still smoking. Neighbours informed him that Mr Briggs'sbody had been brought forth in a horrible condition; but this was theonly loss of life that had happened. 

Thence he struck eastward, and at eleven came to Manville Street, Islington. He found Reardon by the fireside, looking very ill, andspeaking with hoarseness. 

'Another cold?'

'It looks like it. I wish you would take the trouble to go and buy mesome vermin-killer. That would suit my case. '

'Then what would suit mine? Behold me, undeniably a philosopher; in theliteral sense of the words omnia mea mecum porto. '

He recounted his adventures, and with such humorous vivacity that whenhe ceased the two laughed together as if nothing more amusing had everbeen heard. 

'Ah, but my books, my books!' exclaimed Biffen, with a genuine groan. 'And all my notes! At one fell swoop! If I didn't laugh, old friend, Ishould sit down and cry; indeed I should. All my classics, with years ofscribbling in the margins! How am I to buy them again?'

'You rescued "Mr Bailey. " He must repay you. '

Biffen had already laid the manuscript on the table; it was dirty andcrumpled, but not to such an extent as to render copying necessary. Lovingly he smoothed the pages and set them in order, then he wrappedthe whole in a piece of brown paper which Reardon supplied, and wroteupon it the address of a firm of publishers. 

'Have you note-paper? I'll write to them; impossible to call in mypresent guise. '

Indeed his attire was more like that of a bankrupt costermonger than ofa man of letters. Collar he had none, for the griminess of that he worelast night had necessitated its being thrown aside; round his throatwas a dirty handkerchief. His coat had been brushed, but its recentexperiences had brought it one stage nearer to that dissolution whichmust very soon be its fate. His grey trousers were now black, and hisboots looked as if they had not been cleaned for weeks. 

'Shall I say anything about the character of the book?' he asked, seating himself with pen and paper. 'Shall I hint that it deals with theignobly decent?'

'Better let them form their own judgment, ' replied Reardon, in hishoarse voice. 

'Then I'll just say that I submit to them a novel of modern life, thescope of which is in some degree indicated by its title. Pity they can'tknow how nearly it became a holocaust, and that I risked my life to saveit. If they're good enough to accept it I'll tell them the story. Andnow, Reardon, I'm ashamed of myself, but can you without inconveniencelend me ten shillings?'

'Easily. '

'I must write to two pupils, to inform them of my change ofaddress--from garret to cellar. And I must ask help from my prosperousbrother. He gives it me unreluctantly, I know, but I am always loth toapply to him. May I use your paper for these purposes?'

The brother of whom he spoke was employed in a house of business atLiverpool; the two had not met for years, but they corresponded, and were on terms such as Harold indicated. When he had finished hisletters, and had received the half-sovereign from Reardon, he went hisway to deposit the brown-paper parcel at the publishers'. The clerk whoreceived it from his hands probably thought that the author might havechosen a more respectable messenger. 

Two days later, early in the evening, the friends were again enjoyingeach other's company in Reardon's room. Both were invalids, for Biffenhad of course caught a cold from his exposure in shirt-sleeves on theroof, and he was suffering from the shock to his nerves; but the thoughtthat his novel was safe in the hands of publishers gave him energy toresist these influences. The absence of the pipe, for neither had anypalate for tobacco at present, was the only external peculiarity ofthis meeting. There seemed no reason why they should not meet frequentlybefore the parting which would come at Christmas; but Reardon was in amood of profound sadness, and several times spoke as if already he werebidding his friend farewell. 

'I find it difficult to think, ' he said, 'that you will always struggleon in such an existence as this. To every man of mettle there does comean opportunity, and it surely is time for yours to present itself. Ihave a superstitious faith in "Mr Bailey. " If he leads you to triumph, don't altogether forget me. '

'Don't talk nonsense. '

'What ages it seems since that day when I saw you in the library atHastings, and heard you ask in vain for my book! And how grateful I wasto you! I wonder whether any mortal ever asks for my books nowadays?Some day, when I am well established at Croydon, you shall go toMudie's, and make inquiry if my novels ever by any chance leave theshelves, and then you shall give me a true and faithful report of theanswer you get. "He is quite forgotten, " the attendant will say; be sureof it. '

'I think not. '

'To have had even a small reputation, and to have outlived it, is asort of anticipation of death. The man Edwin Reardon, whose name wassometimes spoken in a tone of interest, is really and actually dead. Andwhat remains of me is resigned to that. I have an odd fancy that it willmake death itself easier; it is as if only half of me had now to die. '

Biffen tried to give a lighter turn to the gloomy subject. 

'Thinking of my fiery adventure, ' he said, in his tone of drydeliberation, 'I find it vastly amusing to picture you as a witness atthe inquest if I had been choked and consumed. No doubt it would havebeen made known that I rushed upstairs to save some particular piece ofproperty--several people heard me say so--and you alone would be able toconjecture what this was. Imagine the gaping wonderment of the coroner'sjury! The Daily Telegraph would have made a leader out of me. "This poorman was so strangely deluded as to the value of a novel in manuscript, which it appears he had just completed, that he positively sacrificedhis life in the endeavour to rescue it from the flames. " Andthe Saturday would have had a column of sneering jocosity on theirrepressibly sanguine temperament of authors. At all events, I shouldhave had my day of fame. '

'But what an ignoble death it would have been!' he pursued. 'Perishingin the garret of a lodging-house which caught fire by the overturning ofa drunkard's lamp! One would like to end otherwise. '

'Where would you wish to die?' asked Reardon, musingly. 

'At home, ' replied the other, with pathetic emphasis. 'I have never hada home since I was a boy, and am never likely to have one. But to die athome is an unreasoning hope I still cherish. '

'If you had never come to London, what would you have now been?'

'Almost certainly a schoolmaster in some small town. And one might beworse off than that, you know. '

'Yes, one might live peaceably enough in such a position. And I--Ishould be in an estate-agent's office, earning a sufficient salary, andmost likely married to some unambitious country girl. 

I should have lived an intelligible life, instead of only trying tolive, aiming at modes of life beyond my reach. My mistake was that ofnumberless men nowadays. Because I was conscious of brains, I thoughtthat the only place for me was London. It's easy enough to understandthis common delusion. We form our ideas of London from old literature;we think of London as if it were still the one centre of intellectuallife; we think and talk like Chatterton. But the truth is thatintellectual men in our day do their best to keep away from London--whenonce they know the place. There are libraries everywhere; papers andmagazines reach the north of Scotland as soon as they reach Brompton;it's only on rare occasions, for special kinds of work, that one isbound to live in London. And as for recreation, why, now that no Englishtheatre exists, what is there in London that you can't enjoy in almostany part of England? At all events, a yearly visit of a week would bequite sufficient for all the special features of the town. London isonly a huge shop, with an hotel on the upper storeys. To be sure, if youmake it your artistic subject, that's a different thing. But neither younor I would do that by deliberate choice. '

'I think not. '

'It's a huge misfortune, this will-o'-the-wisp attraction exercisedby London on young men of brains. They come here to be degraded, or toperish, when their true sphere is a life of peaceful remoteness. Thetype of man capable of success in London is more or less callous andcynical. If I had the training of boys, I would teach them to think ofLondon as the last place where life can be lived worthily. '

'And the place where you are most likely to die in squalidwretchedness. '

'The one happy result of my experiences, ' said Reardon, is that theyhave cured me of ambition. What a miserable fellow I should be if I werestill possessed with the desire to make a name! I can't even recallvery clearly that state of mind. My strongest desire now is for peacefulobscurity. I am tired out; I want to rest for the remainder of my life. '

'You won't have much rest at Croydon. '

'Oh, it isn't impossible. My time will be wholly occupied in a round ofall but mechanical duties, and I think that will be the best medicinefor my mind. I shall read very little, and that only in the classics. I don't say that I shall always be content in such a position; in a fewyears perhaps something pleasanter will offer. But in the meantimeit will do very well. Then there is our expedition to Greece to lookforward to. I am quite in earnest about that. The year after next, if weare both alive, assuredly we go. '

'The year after next. ' Biffen smiled dubiously. 

'I have demonstrated to you mathematically that it is possible. '

'You have; but so are a great many other things that one does not dareto hope for. '

Someone knocked at the door, opened it, and said:

'Here's a telegram for you, Mr Reardon. '

The friends looked at each other, as if some fear had entered the mindsof both. Reardon opened the despatch. It was from his wife, and ranthus:

'Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am stayingwith Mrs Carter, at her mother's, at Brighton. '

The full address was given. 

'You hadn't heard of her going there?' said Biffen, when he had read thelines. 

'No. I haven't seen Carter for several days, or perhaps he wouldhave told me. Brighton, at this time of year? But I believe there'sa fashionable "season" about now, isn't there? I suppose that wouldaccount for it. '

He spoke in a slighting tone, but showed increasing agitation. 

'Of course you will go?'

'I must. Though I'm in no condition for making a journey. '

His friend examined him anxiously. 

'Are you feverish at all this evening?'

Reardon held out a hand that the other might feel his pulse. The beatwas rapid to begin with, and had been heightened since the arrival ofthe telegram. 

'But go I must. The poor little fellow has no great place in my heart, but, when Amy sends for me, I must go. Perhaps things are at the worst. '

'When is there a train? Have you a time table?'

Biffen was despatched to the nearest shop to purchase one, and in themeanwhile Reardon packed a few necessaries in a small travelling-bag, ancient and worn, but the object of his affection because it hadaccompanied him on his wanderings in the South. When Harold returned, his appearance excited Reardon's astonishment--he was white from head tofoot. 

'Snow?'

'It must have been falling heavily for an hour or more. '

'Can't be helped; I must go. '

The nearest station for departure was London Bridge, and the next trainleft at 7. 20. By Reardon's watch it was now about five minutes to seven. 

'I don't know whether it's possible, ' he said, in confused hurry, 'but Imust try. There isn't another train till ten past nine. Come with me tothe station, Biffen. '

Both were ready. They rushed from the house, and sped through the soft, steady fall of snowflakes into Upper Street. Here they were severalminutes before they found a disengaged cab. Questioning the driver, they learnt what they would have known very well already but for theirexcitement: impossible to get to London Bridge Station in a quarter ofan hour. 

'Better to go on, all the same, ' was Reardon's opinion. 'If the snowgets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all. But you hadbetter not come; I forgot that you are as much out of sorts as I am. '

'How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you!'

'Diphtheria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age, isn'tit?' Reardon asked when they were speeding along City Road. 

'I'm afraid there's much danger. '

'Why did she send?'

'What an absurd question! You seem to have got into a thoroughly morbidstate of mind about her. Do be human, and put away your obstinatefolly. '

'In my position you would have acted precisely as I have done. I havehad no choice. '

'I might; but we have both of us too little practicality. The artof living is the art of compromise. We have no right to fostersensibilities, and conduct ourselves as if the world allowed of idealrelations; it leads to misery for others as well as ourselves. Genialcoarseness is what it behoves men like you and me to cultivate. Yourreply to your wife's last letter was preposterous. You ought to havegone to her of your own accord as soon as ever you heard she wasrich; she would have thanked you for such common-sense disregard ofdelicacies. Let there be an end of this nonsense, I implore you!'

Reardon stared through the glass at the snow that fell thicker andthicker. 

'What are we--you and I?' pursued the other. 'We have no belief inimmortality; we are convinced that this life is all; we know that humanhappiness is the origin and end of all moral considerations. Whatright have we to make ourselves and others miserable for the sake of anobstinate idealism? It is our duty to make the best of circumstances. Why will you go cutting your loaf with a razor when you have aserviceable bread-knife?'

Still Reardon did not speak. The cab rolled on almost silently. 

'You love your wife, and this summons she sends is proof that herthought turns to you as soon as she is in distress. '

'Perhaps she only thought it her duty to let the child's father know--'

'Perhaps--perhaps--perhaps!' cried Biffen, contemptuously. 'There goesthe razor again! Take the plain, human construction of what happens. Askyourself what the vulgar man would do, and do likewise; that's the onlysafe rule for you. '

They were both hoarse with too much talking, and for the last half ofthe drive neither spoke. 

At the railway-station they ate and drank together, but with poorpretence of appetite. As long as possible they kept within the warmedrooms. Reardon was pale, and had anxious, restless eyes; he could notremain seated, though when he had walked about for a few minutes thetrembling of his limbs obliged him to sink down. It was an unutterablerelief to both when the moment of the train's starting approached. 

They clasped hands warmly, and exchanged a few last requests andpromises. 

'Forgive my plain speech, old fellow, ' said Biffen. 'Go and be happy!'

Then he stood alone on the platform, watching the red light on the lastcarriage as the train whirled away into darkness and storm. 

CHAPTER XXXII. REARDON BECOMES PRACTICAL

Reardon had never been to Brighton, and of his own accord never wouldhave gone; he was prejudiced against the place because its name hasbecome suggestive of fashionable imbecility and the snobbishness whichtries to model itself thereon; he knew that the town was a mere portionof London transferred to the sea-shore, and as he loved the strand andthe breakers for their own sake, to think of them in such connectioncould be nothing but a trial of his temper. Something of this species ofirritation affected him in the first part of his journey, and disturbedthe mood of kindliness with which he was approaching Amy; but towardsthe end he forgot this in a growing desire to be beside his wife in hertrouble. His impatience made the hour and a half seem interminable. 

The fever which was upon him had increased. He coughed frequently; hisbreathing was difficult; though constantly moving, he felt as if, inthe absence of excitement, his one wish would have been to lie down andabandon himself to lethargy. Two men who sat with him in the third-classcarriage had spread a rug over their knees and amused themselves withplaying cards for trifling sums of money; the sight of their foolishfaces, the sound of their laughs, the talk they interchanged, exasperated him to the last point of endurance; but for all that hecould not draw his attention from them. He seemed condemned by somespiritual tormentor to take an interest in their endless games, and toobserve their visages until he knew every line with a hateful intimacy. One of the men had a moustache of unusual form; the ends curved upwardwith peculiar suddenness, and Reardon was constrained to speculate asto the mode of training by which this singularity had been produced. Hecould have shed tears of nervous distraction in his inability to turnhis thoughts upon other things. 

On alighting at his journey's end he was seized with a fit of shivering, an intense and sudden chill which made his teeth chatter. In anendeavour to overcome this he began to run towards the row of cabs, buthis legs refused such exercise, and coughing compelled him to pause forbreath. Still shaking, he threw himself into a vehicle and was driven tothe address Amy had mentioned. The snow on the ground lay thick, but nomore was falling. 

Heedless of the direction which the cab took, he suffered his physicaland mental unrest for another quarter of an hour, then a stoppage toldhim that the house was reached. On his way he had heard a clock strikeeleven. 

The door opened almost as soon as he had rung the bell. He mentionedhis name, and the maid-servant conducted him to a drawing-room on theground-floor. The house was quite a small one, but seemed to be wellfurnished. One lamp burned on the table, and the fire had sunk to a redglow. Saying that she would inform Mrs Reardon at once, the servant lefthim alone. 

He placed his bag on the floor, took off his muffler, threw back hisovercoat, and sat waiting. The overcoat was new, but the garmentsbeneath it were his poorest, those he wore when sitting in his garret, for he had neither had time to change them, nor thought of doing so. 

He heard no approaching footstep but Amy came into the room in a waywhich showed that she had hastened downstairs. She looked at him, thendrew near with both hands extended, and laid them on his shoulders, andkissed him. Reardon shook so violently that it was all he could do toremain standing; he seized one of her hands, and pressed it against hislips. 

'How hot your breath is!' she said. 'And how you tremble! Are you ill?'

'A bad cold, that's all, ' he answered thickly, and coughed. 'How isWillie?'

'In great danger. The doctor is coming again to-night; we thought thatwas his ring. '

'You didn't expect me to-night?'

'I couldn't feel sure whether you would come. '

'Why did you send for me, Amy? Because Willie was in danger, and youfelt I ought to know about it?'

'Yes--and because I--'

She burst into tears. The display of emotion came very suddenly; herwords had been spoken in a firm voice, and only the pained knitting ofher brows had told what she was suffering. 

'If Willie dies, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?' broke forthbetween her sobs. 

Reardon took her in his arms, and laid his hand upon her head in the oldloving way. 

'Do you wish me to go up and see him, Amy?'

'Of course. But first, let me tell you why we are here. Edith--MrsCarter--was coming to spend a week with her mother, and she pressedme to join her. I didn't really wish to; I was unhappy, and felt howimpossible it was to go on always living away from you. Oh, that I hadnever come! Then Willie would have been as well as ever. '

'Tell me when and how it began. '

She explained briefly, then went on to tell of other circumstances. 

'I have a nurse with me in the room. It's my own bedroom, and this houseis so small it will be impossible to give you a bed here, Edwin. Butthere's an hotel only a few yards away. '

'Yes, yes; don't trouble about that. '

'But you look so ill--you are shaking so. Is it a cold you have hadlong?'

'Oh, my old habit; you remember. One cold after another, all through theaccursed winter. What does that matter when you speak kindly to me oncemore? I had rather die now at your feet and see the old gentleness whenyou look at me, than live on estranged from you. No, don't kiss me, Ibelieve these vile sore-throats are contagious. '

'But your lips are so hot and parched! And to think of your coming thisjourney, on such a night!'

'Good old Biffen came to the station with me. He was angry because I hadkept away from you so long. Have you given me your heart again, Amy?'

'Oh, it has all been a wretched mistake! But we were so poor. Now allthat is over; if only Willie can be saved to me! I am so anxious forthe doctor's coming; the poor little child can hardly draw a breath. Howcruel it is that such suffering should come upon a little creature whohas never done or thought ill!'

'You are not the first, dearest, who has revolted against nature'scruelty. '

'Let us go up at once, Edwin. Leave your coat and things here. MrsWinter--Edith's mother--is a very old lady; she has gone to bed. And Idare say you wouldn't care to see Mrs Carter to-night?'

'No, no! only you and Willie. '

'When the doctor comes hadn't you better ask his advice for yourself?'

'We shall see. Don't trouble about me. '

They went softly up to the first floor, and entered a bedroom. Fortunately the light here was very dim, or the nurse who sat by thechild's bed must have wondered at the eccentricity with which herpatient's father attired himself. Bending over the little sufferer, Reardon felt for the first time since Willie's birth a strong fatherlyemotion; tears rushed to his eyes, and he almost crushed Amy's hand ashe held it during the spasm of his intense feeling. 

He sat here for a long time without speaking. The warmth of the chamberhad the reverse of an assuaging effect upon his difficult breathing andhis frequent short cough--it seemed to oppress and confuse his brain. Hebegan to feel a pain in his right side, and could not sit upright on thechair. 

Amy kept regarding him, without his being aware of it. 

'Does your head ache?' she whispered. 

He nodded, but did not speak. 

'Oh, why doesn't the doctor come? I must send in a few minutes. '

But as soon as she had spoken a bell rang in the lower part of thehouse. Amy had no doubt that it announced the promised visit. 

She left the room, and in a minute or two returned with the medicalman. When the examination of the child was over, Reardon requested a fewwords with the doctor in the room downstairs. 

'I'll come back to you, ' he whispered to Amy. 

The two descended together, and entered the drawing-room. 

'Is there any hope for the little fellow?' Reardon asked. 

Yes, there was hope; a favourable turn might be expected. 

'Now I wish to trouble you for a moment on my own account. I shouldn'tbe surprised if you tell me that I have congestion of the lungs. '

The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his interlocutorwith curiosity. He now asked the necessary questions, and made anexamination. 

'Have you had any lung trouble before this?' he inquired gravely. 

'Slight congestion of the right lung not many weeks ago. '

'I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your symptomsto go so far without--'

'I have just come down from London, ' interrupted Reardon. 

'Tut, tut, tut! To bed this moment, my dear sir! There is inflammation, and--'

'I can't have a bed in this house; there is no spare room. I must go tothe nearest hotel. '

'Positively? Then let me take you. My carriage is at the door. '

'One thing--I beg you won't tell my wife that this is serious. Wait tillshe is out of her anxiety about the child. '

'You will need the services of a nurse. A most unfortunate thing thatyou are obliged to go to the hotel. '

'It can't be helped. If a nurse is necessary, I must engage one. '

He had the strange sensation of knowing that whatever was needful couldbe paid for; it relieved his mind immensely. To the rich, illness hasnone of the worst horrors only understood by the poor. 

'Don't speak a word more than you can help, ' said the doctor as hewatched Reardon withdraw. 

Amy stood on the lower stairs, and came down as soon as her husbandshowed himself. 

'The doctor is good enough to take me in his carriage, ' he whispered. 'It is better that I should go to bed, and get a good night's rest. Iwish I could have sat with you, Amy. '

'Is it anything? You look worse than when you came, Edwin. '

'A feverish cold. Don't give it a thought, dearest. Go to Willie. Good-night!'

She threw her arms about him. 

'I shall come to see you if you are not able to be here by nine in themorning, ' she said, and added the name of the hotel to which he was togo. 

At this establishment the doctor was well known. By midnight Reardonlay in a comfortable room, a huge cataplasm fixed upon him, and otherneedful arrangements made. A waiter had undertaken to visit him atintervals through the night, and the man of medicine promised to returnas soon as possible after daybreak. 

What sound was that, soft and continuous, remote, now clearer, nowconfusedly murmuring? He must have slept, but now he lay in suddenperfect consciousness, and that music fell upon his ears. Ah! of courseit was the rising tide; he was near the divine sea. 

The night-light enabled him to discern the principal objects in theroom, and he let his eyes stray idly hither and thither. But this momentof peacefulness was brought to an end by a fit of coughing, and hebecame troubled, profoundly troubled, in mind. Was his illness reallydangerous? He tried to draw a deep breath, but could not. He found thathe could only lie on his right side with any ease. And with the effortof turning he exhausted himself; in the course of an hour or two allhis strength had left him. Vague fears flitted harassingly through histhoughts. If he had inflammation of the lungs--that was a disease ofwhich one might die, and speedily. Death? No, no, no; impossible at sucha time as this, when Amy, his own dear wife, had come back to him, andhad brought him that which would insure their happiness through all theyears of a long life. 

He was still quite a young man; there must be great reserves of strengthin him. And he had the will to live, the prevailing will, the passionateall-conquering desire of happiness. 

How he had alarmed himself! Why, now he was calmer again, and againcould listen to the music of the breakers. Not all the folly andbaseness that paraded along this strip of the shore could change thesea's eternal melody. In a day or two he would walk on the sands withAmy, somewhere quite out of sight of the repulsive town. But Willie wasill; he had forgotten that. Poor little boy! In future the child shouldbe more to him; though never what the mother was, his own love, wonagain and for ever. 

Again an interval of unconsciousness, brought to an end by that achingin his side. He breathed very quickly; could not help doing so. He hadnever felt so ill as this, never. Was it not near morning?

Then he dreamt. He was at Patras, was stepping into a boat to be rowedout to the steamer which would bear him away from Greece. A magnificentnight, though at the end of December; a sky of deep blue, thick set withstars. No sound but the steady splash of the oars, or perhaps a voicefrom one of the many vessels that lay anchored in the harbour, eachshowing its lantern-gleams. The water was as deep a blue as the sky, andsparkled with reflected radiance. 

And now he stood on deck in the light of early morning. Southward laythe Ionian Islands; he looked for Ithaca, and grieved that it had beenpassed in the hours of darkness. But the nearest point of the main shorewas a rocky promontory; it reminded him that in these waters was foughtthe battle of Actium. 

The glory vanished. He lay once more a sick man in a hired chamber, longing for the dull English dawn. 

At eight o'clock came the doctor. He would allow only a word or two tobe uttered, and his visit was brief. Reardon was chiefly anxious to havenews of the child, but for this he would have to wait. 

At ten Amy entered the bedroom. Reardon could not raise himself, but hestretched out his hand and took hers, and gazed eagerly at her. She musthave been weeping, he felt sure of that, and there was an expression onher face such as he had never seen there. 

'How is Willie?'

'Better, dear; much better. '

He still searched her face. 

'Ought you to leave him?'

'Hush! You mustn't speak. '

Tears broke from her eyes, and Reardon had the conviction that the childwas dead. 

'The truth, Amy!'

She threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and pressed her wet cheekagainst his hand. 

'I am come to nurse you, dear husband, ' she said a moment after, standing up again and kissing his forehead. 'I have only you now. '

His heart sank, and for a moment so great a terror was upon him that heclosed his eyes and seemed to pass into utter darkness. But thoselast words of hers repeated themselves in his mind, and at length theybrought a deep solace. Poor little Willie had been the cause of thefirst coldness between him and Amy; her love for him had given place toa mother's love for the child. Now it would be as in the first days oftheir marriage; they would again be all in all to each other. 

'You oughtn't to have come, feeling so ill, ' she said to him. 'Youshould have let me know, dear. '

He smiled and kissed her hand. 

'And you kept the truth from me last night, in kindness. '

She checked herself, knowing that agitation must be harmful to him. Shehad hoped to conceal the child's death, but the effort was too much forher overstrung nerves. And indeed it was only possible for her to remainan hour or two by this sick-bed, for she was exhausted by her nightof watching, and the sudden agony with which it had concluded. Shortlyafter Amy's departure, a professional nurse came to attend upon what thedoctor had privately characterised as a very grave case. 

By the evening its gravity was in no respect diminished. The suffererhad ceased to cough and to make restless movements, and had becomelethargic; later, he spoke deliriously, or rather muttered, for hiswords were seldom intelligible. Amy had returned to the room at fouro'clock, and remained till far into the night; she was physicallyexhausted, and could do little but sit in a chair by the bedsideand shed silent tears, or gaze at vacancy in the woe of her suddendesolation. Telegrams had been exchanged with her mother, who was toarrive in Brighton to-morrow morning; the child's funeral would probablybe on the third day from this. 

When she rose to go away for the night, leaving the nurse in attendance, Reardon seemed to lie in a state of unconsciousness, but just as she wasturning from the bed, he opened his eyes and pronounced her name. 

'I am here, Edwin, ' she answered, bending over him. 

'Will you let Biffen know?' he said in low but very clear tones. 

'That you are ill dear? I will write at once, or telegraph, if you like. What is his address?'

He had closed his eyes again, and there came no reply. Amy repeated herquestion twice; she was turning from him in hopelessness when his voicebecame audible. 

'I can't remember his new address. I know it, but I can't remember. '

She had to leave him thus. 

The next day his breathing was so harassed that he had to be raisedagainst pillows. But throughout the hours of daylight his mind wasclear, and from time to time he whispered words of tenderness in replyto Amy's look. He never willingly relinquished her hand, and repeatedlyhe pressed it against his cheek or lips. Vainly he still endeavoured torecall his friend's address. 

'Couldn't Mr Carter discover it for you?' Amy asked. 

'Perhaps. You might try. '

She would have suggested applying to Jasper Milvain, but that name mustnot be mentioned. Whelpdale, also, would perchance know where Biffenlived, but Whelpdale's address he had also forgotten. 

At night there were long periods of delirium; not mere confusedmuttering, but continuous talk which the listeners could followperfectly. 

For the most part the sufferer's mind was occupied with revival of thedistress he had undergone whilst making those last efforts to writesomething worthy of himself. Amy's heart was wrung as she heard himliving through that time of supreme misery--misery which she might havedone so much to alleviate, had not selfish fears and irritated pridecaused her to draw further and further from him. Hers was the kind ofpenitence which is forced by sheer stress of circumstances on a naturewhich resents any form of humiliation; she could not abandon herself tounreserved grief for what she had done or omitted, and the sense of thisdefect made a great part of her affliction. When her husband lay in mutelethargy, she thought only of her dead child, and mourned the loss; buthis delirious utterances constrained her to break from that bittersweetpreoccupation, to confuse her mourning with self-reproach and withfears. 

Though unconsciously, he was addressing her: 'I can do no more, Amy. Mybrain seems to be worn out; I can't compose, I can't even think. Look! Ihave been sitting here for hours, and I have done only that little bit, half a dozen lines. Such poor stuff too! I should burn it, only I can'tafford. I must do my regular quantity every day, no matter what it is. '

The nurse, who was present when he talked in this way, looked to Amy foran explanation. 

'My husband is an author, ' Amy answered. 'Not long ago he was obliged towrite when he was ill and ought to have been resting. '

'I always thought it must be hard work writing books, ' said the nursewith a shake of her head. 

'You don't understand me, ' the voice pursued, dreadful as a voice alwaysis when speaking independently of the will. 'You think I am only a poorcreature, because I can do nothing better than this. If only I had moneyenough to rest for a year or two, you should see. Just because I have nomoney I must sink to this degradation. And I am losing you as well; youdon't love me!'

He began to moan in anguish. 

But a happy change presently came over his dreaming. He fell intoanimated description of his experiences in Greece and Italy, and aftertalking for a long time, he turned his head and said in a perfectlynatural tone:

'Amy, do you know that Biffen and I are going to Greece?'

She believed he spoke consciously, and replied:

'You must take me with you, Edwin. '

He paid no attention to this remark, but went on with the same deceptiveaccent. 

'He deserves a holiday after nearly getting burnt to death to savehis novel. Imagine the old fellow plunging headlong into the flames torescue his manuscript! Don't say that authors can't be heroic!'

And he laughed gaily. 

Another morning broke. It was possible, said the doctors (a second hadbeen summoned), that a crisis which drew near might bring the favourableturn; but Amy formed her own opinion from the way in which thenurse expressed herself. She felt sure that the gravest fears wereentertained. Before noon Reardon awoke from what had seemed naturalsleep--save for the rapid breathing--and of a sudden recollected thenumber of the house in Cleveland Street at which Biffen was now living. He uttered it without explanation. Amy at once conjectured his meaning, and as soon as her surmise was confirmed she despatched a telegram toher husband's friend. 

That evening, as Amy was on the point of returning to the sick-roomafter having dined at her friend's house, it was announced thata gentleman named Biffen wished to see her. She found him in thedining-room, and, even amid her distress, it was a satisfaction to herthat he presented a far more conventional appearance than in the olddays. All the garments he wore, even his hat, gloves, and boots, were new; a surprising state of things, explained by the fact of hiscommercial brother having sent him a present of ten pounds, a practicalexpression of sympathy with him in his recent calamity. Biffen couldnot speak; he looked with alarm at Amy's pallid face. In a few words shetold him of Reardon's condition. 

'I feared this, ' he replied under his breath. 'He was ill when I saw himoff at London Bridge. But Willie is better, I trust?'

Amy tried to answer, but tears filled her eyes and her head drooped. Harold was overcome with a sense of fatality; grief and dread held himmotionless. 

They conversed brokenly for a few minutes, then left the house, Biffencarrying the hand-bag with which he had travelled hither. When theyreached the hotel he waited apart until it was ascertained whether hecould enter the sick-room. Amy rejoined him and said with a faint smile:

'He is conscious, and was very glad to hear that you had come. But don'tlet him try to speak much. '

The change that had come over his friend's countenance was to Harold, ofcourse, far more gravely impressive than to those who had watched at thebedside. In the drawn features, large sunken eyes, thin and discolouredlips, it seemed to him that he read too surely the presage of doom. After holding the shrunken hand for a moment he was convulsed with anagonising sob, and had to turn away. 

Amy saw that her husband wished to speak to her; she bent over him. 

'Ask him to stay, dear. Give him a room in the hotel. '

'I will. '

Biffen sat down by the bedside, and remained for half an hour. Hisfriend inquired whether he had yet heard about the novel; the answer wasa shake of the head. When he rose, Reardon signed to him to bend down, and whispered:

'It doesn't matter what happens; she is mine again. '

The next day was very cold, but a blue sky gleamed over land and sea. The drives and promenades were thronged with people in exuberant healthand spirits. Biffen regarded this spectacle with resentful scorn; atanother time it would have moved him merely to mirth, but not even thesound of the breakers when he had wandered as far as possible from humancontact could help him to think with resignation of the injustice whichtriumphs so flagrantly in the destinies of men. Towards Amy he had noshadow of unkindness; the sight of her in tears had impressed him asprofoundly, in another way, as that of his friend's wasted features. Sheand Reardon were again one, and his love for them both was stronger thanany emotion of tenderness he had ever known. 

In the afternoon he again sat by the bedside. Every symptom of thesufferer's condition pointed to an approaching end: a face that hadgrown cadaverous, livid lips, breath drawn in hurrying gasps. Harolddespaired of another look of recognition. But as he sat with hisforehead resting on his hand Amy touched him; Reardon had turned hisface in their direction, and with a conscious gaze. 

'I shall never go with you to Greece, ' he said distinctly. 

There was silence again. Biffen did not move his eyes from the deathlymask; in a minute or two he saw a smile soften its lineaments, andReardon again spoke:

'How often you and I have quoted it!--"We are such stuff as dreams aremade on, and our--"'

The remaining words were indistinguishable, and, as if the effort ofutterance had exhausted him, his eyes closed, and he sank into lethargy. 

When he came down from his bedroom on the following morning, Biffen wasinformed that his friend had died between two and three o'clock. At thesame time he received a note in which Amy requested him to come and seeher late in the afternoon. He spent the day in a long walk along theeastward cliffs; again the sun shone brilliantly, and the sea wasflecked with foam upon its changing green and azure. It seemed to himthat he had never before known solitude, even through all the years ofhis lonely and sad existence. 

At sunset he obeyed Amy's summons. He found her calm, but with the signsof long weeping. 

'At the last moment, ' she said, 'he was able to speak to me, and youwere mentioned. He wished you to have all that he has left in his roomat Islington. When I come back to London, will you take me there and letme see the room just as when he lived in it? Let the people in the houseknow what has happened, and that I am responsible for whatever will beowing. '

Her resolve to behave composedly gave way as soon as Harold's brokenvoice had replied. Hysterical sobbing made further speech from herimpossible, and Biffen, after holding her hand reverently for a moment, left her alone. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SUNNY WAY

On an evening of early summer, six months after the death of EdwinReardon, Jasper of the facile pen was bending over his desk, writingrapidly by the warm western light which told that sunset was near. Notfar from him sat his younger sister; she was reading, and the book inher hand bore the title, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer. '

'How will this do?' Jasper exclaimed, suddenly throwing down his pen. 

And he read aloud a critical notice of the book with which Dora wasoccupied; a notice of the frankly eulogistic species, beginning with:'It is seldom nowadays that the luckless reviewer of novels can drawthe attention of the public to a new work which is at once powerful andoriginal;' and ending: 'The word is a bold one, but we do not hesitateto pronounce this book a masterpiece. '

'Is that for The Current?' asked Dora, when he had finished. 

'No, for The West End. Fadge won't allow anyone but himself to be laudedin that style. I may as well do the notice for The Current now, as I'vegot my hand in. '

He turned to his desk again, and before daylight failed him had produceda piece of more cautious writing, very favourable on the whole, but withreserves and slight censures. This also he read to Dora. 

'You wouldn't suspect they were written by the same man, eh?'

'No. You have changed the style very skilfully. '

'I doubt if they'll be much use. Most people will fling the book downwith yawns before they're half through the first volume. If I knew adoctor who had many cases of insomnia in hand, I would recommend "MrBailey" to him as a specific. '

'Oh, but it is really clever, Jasper!'

'Not a doubt of it. I half believe what I have written. And if only wecould get it mentioned in a leader or two, and so on, old Biffen's famewould be established with the better sort of readers. But he won'tsell three hundred copies. I wonder whether Robertson would let me do anotice for his paper?'

'Biffen ought to be grateful to you, if he knew, ' said Dora, laughing. 

'Yet, now, there are people who would cry out that this kind of thing isdisgraceful. It's nothing of the kind. Speaking seriously, we know thata really good book will more likely than not receive fair treatment fromtwo or three reviewers; yes, but also more likely than not it will beswamped in the flood of literature that pours forth week after week, andwon't have attention fixed long enough upon it to establish its repute. The struggle for existence among books is nowadays as severe as amongmen. If a writer has friends connected with the press, it is the plainduty of those friends to do their utmost to help him. What matter ifthey exaggerate, or even lie? The simple, sober truth has no chancewhatever of being listened to, and it's only by volume of shouting thatthe ear of the public is held. What use is it to Biffen if his workstruggles to slow recognition ten years hence? Besides, as I say, thegrowing flood of literature swamps everything but works of primarygenius. If a clever and conscientious book does not spring to successat once, there's precious small chance that it will survive. Suppose itwere possible for me to write a round dozen reviews of this book, in asmany different papers, I would do it with satisfaction. Depend uponit, this kind of thing will be done on that scale before long. Andit's quite natural. A man's friends must be helped, by whatever means, quocunque modo, as Biffen himself would say. '

'I dare say he doesn't even think of you as a friend now. '

'Very likely not. It's ages since I saw him. But there's muchmagnanimity in my character, as I have often told you. It delights me tobe generous, whenever I can afford it. '

Dusk was gathering about them. As they sat talking, there came a tap atthe door, and the summons to enter was obeyed by Mr Whelpdale. 

'I was passing, ' he said in his respectful voice, 'and couldn't resistthe temptation. '

Jasper struck a match and lit the lamp. In this clearer light Whelpdalewas exhibited as a young man of greatly improved exterior; he wore acream-coloured waistcoat, a necktie of subtle hue, and delicate gloves;prosperity breathed from his whole person. It was, in fact, only amoderate prosperity to which he had as yet attained, but the futurebeckoned to him flatteringly. 

Early in this year, his enterprise as 'literary adviser' had broughthim in contact with a man of some pecuniary resources, who proposed toestablish an agency for the convenience of authors who were not skilledin disposing of their productions to the best advantage. Under the nameof Fleet & Co. , this business was shortly set on foot, and Whelpdale'sservices were retained on satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicatesystem had given new scope to literary agencies, and Mr Fleet was a manof keen eye for commercial opportunities. 

'Well, have you read Biffen's book?' asked Jasper. 

'Wonderful, isn't it! A work of genius, I am convinced. Ha! you have itthere, Miss Dora. But I'm afraid it is hardly for you. '

'And why not, Mr Whelpdale?'

'You should only read of beautiful things, of happy lives. This bookmust depress you. '

'But why will you imagine me such a feeble-minded person?' asked Dora. 'You have so often spoken like this. I have really no ambition to be adoll of such superfine wax. '

The habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned. 

'Pray forgive me!' he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards the girlwith eyes which deprecated her displeasure. 'I am very far indeed fromattributing weakness to you. It was only the natural, unreflectingimpulse; one finds it so difficult to associate you, even as merely areader, with such squalid scenes. 

The ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from thatsphere in which you are naturally at home. '

There was some slight affectation in his language, but the tone attestedsincere feeling. Jasper was watching him with half an eye, and glancingoccasionally at Dora. 

'No doubt, ' said the latter, 'it's my story in The English Girl thatinclines you to think me a goody-goody sort of young woman. '

'So far from that, Miss Dora, I was only waiting for an opportunity totell you how exceedingly delighted I have been with the last two weeks'instalments. In all seriousness, I consider that story of yours the bestthing of the kind that ever came under my notice. You seem to me tohave discovered a new genre; such writing as this has surely never beenoffered to girls, and all the readers of the paper must be immenselygrateful to you. I run eagerly to buy the paper each week; I assure youI do. The stationer thinks I purchase it for a sister, I suppose. Buteach section of the story seems to be better than the last. Mark theprophecy which I now make: when this tale is published in a volume itssuccess will be great. You will be recognised, Miss Dora, as the newwriter for modern English girls. '

The subject of this panegyric coloured a little and laughed. Unmistakably she was pleased. 

'Look here, Whelpdale, ' said Jasper, 'I can't have this; Dora's conceit, please to remember, is, to begin with, only a little less than my own, and you will make her unendurable. Her tale is well enough in its way, but then its way is a very humble one. '

'I deny it!' cried the other, excitedly. 'How can it be called a humbleline of work to provide reading, which is at once intellectual andmoving and exquisitely pure, for the most important part of thepopulation--the educated and refined young people who are just passingfrom girlhood to womanhood?'

'The most important fiddlestick!'

'You are grossly irreverent, my dear Milvain. I cannot appeal to yoursister, for she's too modest to rate her own sex at its true value, butthe vast majority of thoughtful men would support me. You yourself do, though you affect this profane way of speaking. And we know, ' he lookedat Dora, 'that he wouldn't talk like this if Miss Yule were present. '

Jasper changed the topic of conversation, and presently Whelpdale wasable to talk with more calmness. The young man, since his associationwith Fleet & Co. , had become fertile in suggestions of literaryenterprise, and at present he was occupied with a project of specialhopefulness. 

'I want to find a capitalist, ' he said, 'who will get possession of thatpaper Chat, and transform it according to an idea I have in my head. Thething is doing very indifferently, but I am convinced it might be madesplendid property, with a few changes in the way of conducting it. '

'The paper is rubbish, ' remarked Jasper, 'and the kind of rubbish--oddlyenough--which doesn't attract people. '

'Precisely, but the rubbish is capable of being made a very valuablearticle, if it were only handled properly. I have talked to the peopleabout it again and again, but I can't get them to believe what I say. Now just listen to my notion. In the first place, I should slightlyalter the name; only slightly, but that little alteration would initself have an enormous effect. Instead of Chat I should call itChit-Chat!'

Jasper exploded with mirth. 

'That's brilliant!' he cried. 'A stroke of genius!'

'Are you serious? Or are you making fun of me? I believe it is a strokeof genius. Chat doesn't attract anyone, but Chit-Chat would sell likehot cakes, as they say in America. I know I am right; laugh as youwill. '

'On the same principle, ' cried Jasper, 'if The Tatler were changed toTittle-Tattle, its circulation would be trebled. '

Whelpdale smote his knee in delight. 

'An admirable idea! Many a true word uttered in joke, and this is aninstance! Tittle-Tattle--a magnificent title; the very thing to catchthe multitude. '

Dora was joining in the merriment, and for a minute or two nothing butbursts of laughter could be heard. 

'Now do let me go on, ' implored the man of projects, when the noisesubsided. 'That's only one change, though a most important one. WhatI next propose is this:--I know you will laugh again, but I willdemonstrate to you that I am right. No article in the paper is tomeasure more than two inches in length, and every inch must be brokeninto at least two paragraphs. '

'Superb!'

'But you are joking, Mr Whelpdale!' exclaimed Dora. 

'No, I am perfectly serious. Let me explain my principle. I would havethe paper address itself to the quarter-educated; that is to say, thegreat new generation that is being turned out by the Board schools, theyoung men and women who can just read, but are incapable of sustainedattention. People of this kind want something to occupy them in trainsand on 'buses and trams. As a rule they care for no newspapers exceptthe Sunday ones; what they want is the lightest and frothiest ofchit-chatty information--bits of stories, bits of description, bits ofscandal, bits of jokes, bits of statistics, bits of foolery. Am I notright? Everything must be very short, two inches at the utmost; theirattention can't sustain itself beyond two inches. Even chat is too solidfor them: they want chit-chat. '

Jasper had begun to listen seriously. 

'There's something in this, Whelpdale, ' he remarked. 

'Ha! I have caught you?' cried the other delightedly. 'Of course there'ssomething in it?'

'But--' began Dora, and checked herself. 

'You were going to say--' Whelpdale bent towards her with deference. 

'Surely these poor, silly people oughtn't to be encouraged in theirweakness. '

Whelpdale's countenance fell. He looked ashamed of himself. But Jaspercame speedily to the rescue. 

'That's twaddle, Dora. Fools will be fools to the world's end. Answera fool according to his folly; supply a simpleton with the reading hecraves, if it will put money in your pocket. You have discouraged poorWhelpdale in one of the most notable projects of modern times. '

'I shall think no more of it, ' said Whelpdale, gravely. 'You are right, Miss Dora. '

Again Jasper burst into merriment. His sister reddened, and lookeduncomfortable. She began to speak timidly:

'You said this was for reading in trains and 'buses?'

Whelpdale caught at hope. 

'Yes. And really, you know, it may be better at such times to readchit-chat than to be altogether vacant, or to talk unprofitably. I amnot sure; I bow to your opinion unreservedly. '

'So long as they only read the paper at such times, ' said Dora, stillhesitating. 'One knows by experience that one really can't fix one'sattention in travelling; even an article in a newspaper is often toolong. '

'Exactly! And if you find it so, what must be the case with the massof untaught people, the quarter-educated? It might encourage in some ofthem a taste for reading--don't you think?'

'It might, ' assented Dora, musingly. 'And in that case you would bedoing good!'

'Distinct good!'

They smiled joyfully at each other. Then Whelpdale turned to Jasper:

'You are convinced that there is something in this?'

'Seriously, I think there is. It would all depend on the skill of thefellows who put the thing together every week. There ought always to beone strongly sensational item--we won't call it article. For instance, you might display on a placard: "What the Queen eats!" or "HowGladstone's collars are made!"--things of that kind. '

'To be sure, to be sure. And then, you know, ' added Whelpdale, glancinganxiously at Dora, 'when people had been attracted by these devices, they would find a few things that were really profitable. We would givenicely written little accounts of exemplary careers, of heroicdeeds, and so on. Of course nothing whatever that could be reallydemoralising--cela va sans dire. Well, what I was going to say was this:would you come with me to the office of Chat, and have a talk with myfriend Lake, the sub-editor? I know your time is very valuable, butthen you're often running into the Will-o'-the-Wisp, and Chat is justupstairs, you know. '

'What use should I be?'

'Oh, all the use in the world. Lake would pay most respectful attentionto your opinion, though he thinks so little of mine. You are a man ofnote, I am nobody. I feel convinced that you could persuade theChat people to adopt my idea, and they might be willing to give me acontingent share of contingent profits, if I had really shown them theway to a good thing. '

Jasper promised to think the matter over. Whilst their talk still ran onthis subject, a packet that had come by post was brought into the room. Opening it, Milvain exclaimed:

'Ha! this is lucky. There's something here that may interest you, Whelpdale. '

'Proofs?'

'Yes. A paper I have written for The Wayside. ' He looked at Dora, whosmiled. 'How do you like the title?--"The Novels of Edwin Reardon!"'

'You don't say so!' cried the other. 'What a good-hearted fellow youare, Milvain! Now that's really a kind thing to have done. By Jove!I must shake hands with you; I must indeed! Poor Reardon! Poor oldfellow!'

His eyes gleamed with moisture. Dora, observing this, looked at him sogently and sweetly that it was perhaps well he did not meet her eyes;the experience would have been altogether too much for him. 

'It has been written for three months, ' said Jasper, 'but we have heldit over for a practical reason. When I was engaged upon it, I went tosee Mortimer, and asked him if there was any chance of a new edition ofReardon's books. He had no idea the poor fellow was dead, and the newsseemed really to affect him. He promised to consider whether it would beworth while trying a new issue, and before long I heard from him thathe would bring out the two best books with a decent cover and so on, provided I could get my article on Reardon into one of the monthlies. This was soon settled. The editor of The Wayside answered at once, whenI wrote to him, that he should be very glad to print what I proposed, as he had a real respect for Reardon. Next month the books will beout--"Neutral Ground, " and "Hubert Reed. " Mortimer said he was surethese were the only ones that would pay for themselves. But we shallsee. He may alter his opinion when my article has been read. '

'Read it to us now, Jasper, will you?' asked Dora. 

The request was supported by Whelpdale, and Jasper needed no pressing. He seated himself so that the lamplight fell upon the pages, and readthe article through. It was an excellent piece of writing (see TheWayside, June 1884), and in places touched with true emotion. Anyintelligent reader would divine that the author had been personallyacquainted with the man of whom he wrote, though the fact was nowherestated. The praise was not exaggerated, yet all the best points ofReardon's work were admirably brought out. One who knew Jasper mightreasonably have doubted, before reading this, whether he was capable ofso worthily appreciating the nobler man. 

'I never understood Reardon so well before, ' declared Whelpdale, at theclose. 'This is a good thing well done. It's something to be proud of, Miss Dora. '

'Yes, I feel that it is, ' she replied. 

'Mrs Reardon ought to be very grateful to you, Milvain. By-the-by, doyou ever see her?'

'I have met her only once since his death--by chance. '

'Of course she will marry again. I wonder who'll be the fortunate man?'

'Fortunate, do you think?' asked Dora quietly, without looking at him. 

'Oh, I spoke rather cynically, I'm afraid, ' Whelpdale hastened to reply. 'I was thinking of her money. Indeed, I knew Mrs Reardon only veryslightly. '

'I don't think you need regret it, ' Dora remarked. 

'Oh, well, come, come!' put in her brother. 'We know very well thatthere was little enough blame on her side. '

'There was great blame!' Dora exclaimed. 'She behaved shamefully!

I wouldn't speak to her; I wouldn't sit down in her company!'

'Bosh! What do you know about it? Wait till you are married to a manlike Reardon, and reduced to utter penury. '

'Whoever my husband was, I would stand by him, if I starved to death. '

'If he ill-used you?'

'I am not talking of such cases. Mrs Reardon had never anything of thekind to fear. It was impossible for a man such as her husband to behaveharshly. Her conduct was cowardly, faithless, unwomanly!'

'Trust one woman for thinking the worst of another, ' observed Jasperwith something like a sneer. 

Dora gave him a look of strong disapproval; one might have suspectedthat brother and sister had before this fallen into disagreement on thedelicate topic. Whelpdale felt obliged to interpose, and had of courseno choice but to support the girl. 

'I can only say, ' he remarked with a smile, 'that Miss Dora takes a verynoble point of view. One feels that a wife ought to be staunch. Butit's so very unsafe to discuss matters in which one cannot know all thefacts. '

'We know quite enough of the facts, ' said Dora, with delightfulpertinacity. 

'Indeed, perhaps we do, ' assented her slave. Then, turning to herbrother, 'Well, once more I congratulate you. I shall talk of yourarticle incessantly, as soon as it appears. And I shall pester every oneof my acquaintances to buy Reardon's books--though it's no use to him, poor fellow. Still, he would have died more contentedly if he could haveforeseen this. By-the-by, Biffen will be profoundly grateful to you, I'msure. '

'I'm doing what I can for him, too. Run your eye over these slips. '

Whelpdale exhausted himself in terms of satisfaction. 

'You deserve to get on, my dear fellow. In a few years you will be theAristarchus of our literary world. '

When the visitor rose to depart, Jasper said he would walk a shortdistance with him. As soon as they had left the house, the futureAristarchus made a confidential communication. 

'It may interest you to know that my sister Maud is shortly to bemarried. '

'Indeed! May I ask to whom?'

'A man you don't know. His name is Dolomore--a fellow in society. '

'Rich, then, I hope?'

'Tolerably well-to-do. I dare say he has three or four thousand a year!'

'Gracious heavens! Why, that's magnificent. '

But Whelpdale did not look quite so much satisfaction as his wordsexpressed. 

'Is it to be soon?' he inquired. 

'At the end of the season. Make no difference to Dora and me, ofcourse. '

'Oh? Really? No difference at all? You will let me come and seeyou--both--just in the old way, Milvain?'

'Why the deuce shouldn't you?'

'To be sure, to be sure. By Jove! I really don't know how I should geton if I couldn't look in of an evening now and then. I have got so muchinto the habit of it. And--I'm a lonely beggar, you know. I don't gointo society, and really--'

He broke off, and Jasper began to speak of other things. 

When Milvain re-entered the house, Dora had gone to her ownsitting-room. It was not quite ten o'clock. Taking one set of the proofsof his 'Reardon' article, he put it into a large envelope; then hewrote a short letter, which began 'Dear Mrs Reardon, ' and ended 'Verysincerely yours, ' the communication itself being as follows:

'I venture to send you the proofs of a paper which is to appear in nextmonth's Wayside, in the hope that it may seem to you not badly done, andthat the reading of it may give you pleasure. If anything occurs to youwhich you would like me to add, or if you desire any omission, will youdo me the kindness to let me know of it as soon as possible, and yoursuggestion shall at once be adopted. I am informed that the new editionof "On Neutral Ground" and "Hubert Reed" will be ready next month. NeedI say how glad I am that my friend's work is not to be forgotten?'

This note he also put into the envelope, which he made ready forposting. Then he sat for a long time in profound thought. 

Shortly after eleven his door opened, and Maud came in. She had beendining at Mrs Lane's. Her attire was still simple, but of quality whichwould have signified recklessness, but for the outlook whereof Jasperspoke to Whelpdale. The girl looked very beautiful. There was a flush ofhealth and happiness on her cheek, and when she spoke it was in a voicethat rang quite differently from her tones of a year ago; the pridewhich was natural to her had now a firm support; she moved and utteredherself in queenly fashion. 

'Has anyone been?' she asked. 

'Whelpdale. '

'Oh! I wanted to ask you, Jasper: do you think it wise to let him comequite so often?'

'There's a difficulty, you see. I can hardly tell him to sheer off. Andhe's really a decent fellow. '

'That may be. But--I think it's rather unwise. Things are changed. In afew months, Dora will be a good deal at my house, and will see all sortsof people. '

'Yes; but what if they are the kind of people she doesn't care anythingabout? You must remember, old girl, that her tastes are quite differentfrom yours. I say nothing, but--perhaps it's as well they should be. '

'You say nothing, but you add an insult, ' returned Maud, with a smile ofsuperb disregard. 'We won't reopen the question. '

'Oh dear no! And, by-the-by, I have a letter from Dolomore. It came justafter you left. '

'Well?'

'He is quite willing to settle upon you a third of his income fromthe collieries; he tells me it will represent between seven and eighthundred a year. I think it rather little, you know; but I congratulatemyself on having got this out of him. '

'Don't speak in that unpleasant way! It was only your abruptness thatmade any kind of difficulty. '

'I have my own opinion on that point, and I shall beg leave to keep it. Probably he will think me still more abrupt when I request, as I am nowgoing to do, an interview with his solicitors. '

'Is that allowable?' asked Maud, anxiously. 'Can you do that with anydecency?'

'If not, then I must do it with indecency. You will have the goodnessto remember that if I don't look after your interests, no one else will. It's perhaps fortunate for you that I have a good deal of the man ofbusiness about me. Dolomore thought I was a dreamy, literary fellow. I don't say that he isn't entirely honest, but he shows something of adisposition to play the autocrat, and I by no means intend to lethim. If you had a father, Dolomore would have to submit his affairs toexamination. 

I stand to you in loco parentis, and I shall bate no jot of my rights. '

'But you can't say that his behaviour hasn't been perfectlystraightforward. '

'I don't wish to. I think, on the whole, he has behaved more honourablythan was to be expected of a man of his kind. But he must treat me withrespect. My position in the world is greatly superior to his. And, bythe gods! I will be treated respectfully! It wouldn't be amiss, Maud, ifyou just gave him a hint to that effect. '

'All I have to say is, Jasper, don't do me an irreparable injury. Youmight, without meaning it. '

'No fear whatever of it. I can behave as a gentleman, and I only expectDolomore to do the same. '

Their conversation lasted for a long time, and when he was again leftalone Jasper again fell into a mood of thoughtfulness. 

By a late post on the following day he received this letter:

'DEAR MR MILVAIN, --I have received the proofs, and have just read them;I hasten to thank you with all my heart. No suggestion of mine couldpossibly improve this article; it seems to me perfect in taste, instyle, in matter. No one but you could have written this, for no oneelse understood Edwin so well, or had given such thought to his work. Ifhe could but have known that such justice would be done to his memory!But he died believing that already he was utterly forgotten, that hisbooks would never again be publicly spoken of. This was a cruel fate. Ihave shed tears over what you have written, but they were not only tearsof bitterness; it cannot but be a consolation to me to think that, whenthe magazine appears, so many people will talk of Edwin and his books. I am deeply grateful to Mr Mortimer for having undertaken to republishthose two novels; if you have an opportunity, will you do me the greatkindness to thank him on my behalf? At the same time, I must rememberthat it was you who first spoke to him on this subject. You say that itgladdens you to think Edwin will not be forgotten, and I am very surethat the friendly office you have so admirably performed will in itselfreward you more than any poor expression of gratitude from me. I writehurriedly, anxious to let you hear as soon as possible. 

'Believe me, dear Mr Milvain, 'Yours sincerely, 'AMY REARDON. '

CHAPTER XXXIV. A CHECK

Marian was at work as usual in the Reading-room. She did her best, during the hours spent here, to convert herself into the literarymachine which it was her hope would some day be invented forconstruction in a less sensitive material than human tissue. Her eyesseldom strayed beyond the limits of the desk; and if she had occasion torise and go to the reference shelves, she looked at no one on the way. Yet she herself was occasionally an object of interested regard. Severalreaders were acquainted with the chief facts of her position; they knewthat her father was now incapable of work, and was waiting till hisdiseased eyes should be ready for the operator; it was surmised, moreover, that a good deal depended upon the girl's literary exertions. Mr Quarmby and his gossips naturally took the darkest view of things;they were convinced that Alfred Yule could never recover his sight, and they had a dolorous satisfaction in relating the story of Marian'slegacy. Of her relations with Jasper Milvain none of these persons hadheard; Yule had never spoken of that matter to any one of his friends. 

Jasper had to look in this morning for a hurried consultation of certainencyclopaedic volumes, and it chanced that Marian was standing beforethe shelves to which his business led him. He saw her from a littledistance, and paused; it seemed as if he would turn back; for a momenthe wore a look of doubt and worry. But after all he proceeded. At thesound of his 'Good-morning, ' Marian started--she was standing with anopen book in hand--and looked up with a gleam of joy on her face. 

'I wanted to see you to-day, ' she said, subduing her voice to the toneof ordinary conversation. 'I should have come this evening. '

'You wouldn't have found me at home. From five to seven I shall befrantically busy, and then I have to rush off to dine with some people. '

'I couldn't see you before five?'

'Is it something important?'

'Yes, it is. '

'I tell you what. If you could meet me at Gloucester Gate at four, thenI shall be glad of half an hour in the park. But I mustn't talk now; I'mdriven to my wits' end. Gloucester Gate, at four sharp. I don't thinkit'll rain. '

He dragged out a tome of the 'Britannica. ' Marian nodded, and returnedto her seat. 

At the appointed hour she was waiting near the entrance of Regent'sPark which Jasper had mentioned. Not long ago there had fallen a lightshower, but the sky was clear again. At five minutes past four shestill waited, and had begun to fear that the passing rain might haveled Jasper to think she would not come. Another five minutes, and from ahansom that rattled hither at full speed, the familiar figure alighted. 

'Do forgive me!' he exclaimed. 'I couldn't possibly get here before. Letus go to the right. '

They betook themselves to that tree-shadowed strip of the park whichskirts the canal. 

'I'm so afraid that you haven't really time, ' said Marian, who waschilled and confused by this show of hurry. She regretted having madethe appointment; it would have been much better to postpone what she hadto say until Jasper was at leisure. Yet nowadays the hours of leisureseemed to come so rarely. 

'If I get home at five, it'll be all right, ' he replied. 'What have youto tell me, Marian?'

'We have heard about the money, at last. '

'Oh?' He avoided looking at her. 'And what's the upshot?'

'I shall have nearly fifteen hundred pounds. '

'So much as that? Well, that's better than nothing, isn't it?'

'Very much better. '

They walked on in silence. Marian stole a glance at her companion. 

'I should have thought it a great deal, ' she said presently, 'before Ihad begun to think of thousands. '

'Fifteen hundred. Well, it means fifty pounds a year, I suppose. '

He chewed the end of his moustache. 

'Let us sit down on this bench. Fifteen hundred--h'm! And nothing moreis to be hoped for?'

'Nothing. I should have thought men would wish to pay their debts, evenafter they had been bankrupt; but they tell us we can't expect anythingmore from these people. '

'You are thinking of Walter Scott, and that kind of thing'--Jasperlaughed. 'Oh, that's quite unbusinesslike; it would be setting apernicious example nowadays. Well, and what's to be done?'

Marian had no answer for such a question. The tone of it was a new stabto her heart, which had suffered so many during the past half-year. 

'Now, I'll ask you frankly, ' Jasper went on, 'and I know you will replyin the same spirit: would it be wise for us to marry on this money?'

'On this money?'

She looked into his face with painful earnestness. 

'You mean, ' he said, 'that it can't be spared for that purpose?'

What she really meant was uncertain even to herself. She had wished tohear how Jasper would receive the news, and thereby to direct her owncourse. Had he welcomed it as offering a possibility of their marriage, that would have gladdened her, though it would then have been necessaryto show him all the difficulties by which she was beset; for some timethey had not spoken of her father's position, and Jasper seemed willingto forget all about that complication of their troubles. But marriagedid not occur to him, and he was evidently quite prepared to hear thatshe could no longer regard this money as her own to be freely disposedof. This was on one side a relief but on the other it confirmed herfears. She would rather have heard him plead with her to neglect herparents for the sake of being his wife. Love excuses everything, and hisselfishness would have been easily lost sight of in the assurance thathe still desired her. 

'You say, ' she replied, with bent head, 'that it would bring us fiftypounds a year. If another fifty were added to that, my father and motherwould be supported in case the worst comes. I might earn fifty pounds. '

'You wish me to understand, Marian, that I mustn't expect that you willbring me anything when we are married. '

His tone was that of acquiescence; not by any means of displeasure. Hespoke as if desirous of saying for her something she found a difficultyin saying for herself. 

'Jasper, it is so hard for me! So hard for me! How could I helpremembering what you told me when I promised to be your wife?'

'I spoke the truth rather brutally, ' he replied, in a kind voice. 'Letall that be unsaid, forgotten. We are in quite a different position now. Be open with me, Marian; surely you can trust my common sense and goodfeeling. Put aside all thought of things I have said, and don't berestrained by any fear lest you should seem to me unwomanly--you can'tbe that. What is your own wish? What do you really wish to do, now thatthere is no uncertainty calling for postponements?'

Marian raised her eyes, and was about to speak as she regarded him; butwith the first accent her look fell. 

'I wish to be your wife. '

He waited, thinking and struggling with himself. 

'Yet you feel that it would be heartless to take and use this money forour own purposes?'

'What is to become of my parents, Jasper?'

'But then you admit that the fifteen hundred pounds won't support them. You talk of earning fifty pounds a year for them. '

'Need I cease to write, dear, if we were married? Wouldn't you let mehelp them?'

'But, my dear girl, you are taking for granted that we shall have enoughfor ourselves. '

'I didn't mean at once, ' she explained hurriedly. 'In a short time--ina year. You are getting on so well. You will soon have a sufficientincome, I am sure. '

Jasper rose. 

'Let us walk as far as the next seat. Don't speak. I have something tothink about. '

Moving on beside him, she slipped her hand softly within his arm; butJasper did not put the arm into position to support hers, and her handfell again, dropped suddenly. They reached another bench, and againbecame seated. 

'It comes to this, Marian, ' he said, with portentous gravity. 'Supportyou, I could--I have little doubt of that. Maud is provided for, andDora can make a living for herself. I could support you and leave youfree to give your parents whatever you can earn by your own work. But--'

He paused significantly. It was his wish that Marian should supply theconsequence, but she did not speak. 

'Very well, ' he exclaimed. 'Then when are we to be married?'

The tone of resignation was too marked. Jasper was not good as acomedian; he lacked subtlety. 

'We must wait, ' fell from Marian's lips, in the whisper of despair. 

'Wait? But how long?' he inquired, dispassionately. 

'Do you wish to be freed from your engagement, Jasper?'

He was not strong enough to reply with a plain 'Yes, ' and so have donewith his perplexities. He feared the girl's face, and he feared his ownsubsequent emotions. 

'Don't talk in that way, Marian. The question is simply this: Are weto wait a year, or are we to wait five years? In a year's time, I shallprobably be able to have a small house somewhere out in the suburbs. Ifwe are married then, I shall be happy enough with so good a wife, but mycareer will take a different shape. I shall just throw overboard certainof my ambitions, and work steadily on at earning a livelihood. If wewait five years, I may perhaps have obtained an editorship, and in thatcase I should of course have all sorts of better things to offer you. '

'But, dear, why shouldn't you get an editorship all the same if you aremarried?'

'I have explained to you several times that success of that kind isnot compatible with a small house in the suburbs and all the ties of anarrow income. As a bachelor, I can go about freely, make acquaintances, dine at people's houses, perhaps entertain a useful friend now andthen--and so on. It is not merit that succeeds in my line; it is meritplus opportunity. Marrying now, I cut myself off from opportunity, that's all. '

She kept silence. 

'Decide my fate for me, Marian, ' he pursued, magnanimously. 'Let us makeup our minds and do what we decide to do. Indeed, it doesn't concern meso much as yourself. Are you content to lead a simple, unambitious life?Or should you prefer your husband to be a man of some distinction?'

'I know so well what your own wish is. But to wait for years--you willcease to love me, and will only think of me as a hindrance in your way. '

'Well now, when I said five years, of course I took a round number. Three--two might make all the difference to me. '

'Let it be just as you wish. I can bear anything rather than lose yourlove. '

'You feel, then, that it will decidedly be wise not to marry whilst weare still so poor?'

'Yes; whatever you are convinced of is right. '

He again rose, and looked at his watch. 

'Jasper, you don't think that I have behaved selfishly in wishing to letmy father have the money?'

'I should have been greatly surprised if you hadn't wished it. Icertainly can't imagine you saying: "Oh, let them do as best they can!"That would have been selfish with a vengeance. '

'Now you are speaking kindly! Must you go, Jasper?'

'I must indeed. Two hours' work I am bound to get before seven o'clock. '

'And I have been making it harder for you, by disturbing your mind. '

'No, no; it's all right now. I shall go at it with all the more energy, now we have come to a decision. '

'Dora has asked me to go to Kew on Sunday. Shall you be able to come, dear?'

'By Jove, no! I have three engagements on Sunday afternoon. I'll try andkeep the Sunday after; I will indeed. '

'What are the engagements?' she asked timidly. 

As they walked back towards Gloucester Gate, he answered her question, showing how unpardonable it would be to neglect the people concerned. Then they parted, Jasper going off at a smart pace homewards. 

Marian turned down Park Street, and proceeded for some distance alongCamden Road. The house in which she and her parents now lived was notquite so far away as St Paul's Crescent; they rented four rooms, oneof which had to serve both as Alfred Yule's sitting-room and forthe gatherings of the family at meals. Mrs Yule generally sat inthe kitchen, and Marian used her bedroom as a study. About half thecollection of books had been sold; those that remained were still arespectable library, almost covering the walls of the room where theirdisconsolate possessor passed his mournful days. 

He could read for a few hours a day, but only large type, and fear ofconsequences kept him well within the limit of such indulgence laid downby his advisers. Though he inwardly spoke as if his case were hopeless, Yule was very far from having resigned himself to this conviction;indeed, the prospect of spending his latter years in darkness andidleness was too dreadful to him to be accepted so long as a glimmer ofhope remained. He saw no reason why the customary operation should notrestore him to his old pursuits, and he would have borne it ill if hiswife or daughter had ever ceased to oppose the despair which it pleasedhim to affect. 

On the whole, he was noticeably patient. At the time of their removal tothese lodgings, seeing that Marian prepared herself to share the changeas a matter of course, he let her do as she would without comment; norhad he since spoken to her on the subject which had proved so dangerous. Confidence between them there was none; Yule addressed his daughter ina grave, cold, civil tone, and Marian replied gently, but withouttenderness. For Mrs Yule the disaster to the family was distinctly again; she could not but mourn her husband's affliction, yet he no longervisited her with the fury or contemptuous impatience of former days. Doubtless the fact of needing so much tendance had its softeninginfluence on the man; he could not turn brutally upon his wife whenevery hour of the day afforded him some proof of her absolute devotion. Of course his open-air exercise was still unhindered, and in this seasonof the returning sun he walked a great deal, decidedly to the advantageof his general health--which again must have been a source of benefitto his temper. Of evenings, Marian sometimes read to him. He neverrequested this, but he did not reject the kindness. 

This afternoon Marian found her father examining a volume of printswhich had been lent him by Mr Quarmby. The table was laid for dinner(owing to Marian's frequent absence at the Museum, no change had beenmade in the order of meals), and Yule sat by the window, his bookpropped on a second chair. A whiteness in his eyes showed how thedisease was progressing, but his face had a more wholesome colour than ayear ago. 

'Mr Hinks and Mr Gorbutt inquired very kindly after you to-day, ' saidthe girl, as she seated herself. 

'Oh, is Hinks out again?'

'Yes, but he looks very ill. '

They conversed of such matters until Mrs Yule--now her ownservant--brought in the dinner. After the meal, Marian was in herbedroom for about an hour; then she went to her father, who sat inidleness, smoking. 

'What is your mother doing?' he asked, as she entered. 

'Some needlework. '

'I had perhaps better say'--he spoke rather stiffly, and with avertedface--'that I make no exclusive claim to the use of this room. As Ican no longer pretend to study, it would be idle to keep up the showof privacy that mustn't be disturbed. Perhaps you will mention to yourmother that she is quite at liberty to sit here whenever she chooses. '

It was characteristic of him that he should wish to deliver thispermission by proxy. But Marian understood how much was implied in suchan announcement. 

'I will tell mother, ' she said. 'But at this moment I wished to speak toyou privately. How would you advise me to invest my money?'

Yule looked surprised, and answered with cold dignity. 

'It is strange that you should put such a question to me. I should havesupposed your interests were in the hands of--of some competent person. '

'This will be my private affair, father. I wish to get as high a rate ofinterest as I safely can. '

'I really must decline to advise, or interfere in any way. But, as youhave introduced this subject, I may as well put a question which isconnected with it. Could you give me any idea as to how long you arelikely to remain with us?'

'At least a year, ' was the answer, 'and very likely much longer. '

'Am I to understand, then, that your marriage is indefinitelypostponed?'

'Yes, father. '

'And will you tell me why?'

'I can only say that it has seemed better--to both of us. '

Yule detected the sorrowful emotion she was endeavouring to suppress. His conception of Milvain's character made it easy for him to form ajust surmise as to the reasons for this postponement; he was gratifiedto think that Marian might learn how rightly he had judged her wooer, and an involuntary pity for the girl did not prevent his hoping thatthe detestable alliance was doomed. With difficulty he refrained fromsmiling. 

'I will make no comment on that, ' he remarked, with a certain emphasis. 'But do you imply that this investment of which you speak is to besolely for your own advantage?'

'For mine, and for yours and mother's. '

There was a silence of a minute or two. As yet it had not been necessaryto take any steps for raising money, but a few months more would see thefamily without resources, save those provided by Marian, who, withoutdiscussion, had been simply setting aside what she received for herwork. 

'You must be well aware, ' said Yule at length, 'that I cannot consent tobenefit by any such offer. When it is necessary, I shall borrow on thesecurity of--'

'Why should you do that, father?' Marian interrupted. 'My money isyours. If you refuse it as a gift, then why may not I lend to youas well as a stranger? Repay me when your eyes are restored. For thepresent, all our anxieties are at an end. We can live very well untilyou are able to write again. '

For his sake she put it in his way. Supposing him never able to earnanything, then indeed would come a time of hardship; but she couldnot contemplate that. The worst would only befall them in case she wasforsaken by Jasper, and if that happened all else would be of littleaccount. 

'This has come upon me as a surprise, ' said Yule, in his most reservedtone. 'I can give no definite reply; I must think of it. '

'Should you like me to ask mother to bring her sewing here now?' askedMarian, rising. 

'Yes, you may do so. '

In this way the awkwardness of the situation was overcome, and whenMarian next had occasion to speak of money matters no serious objectionwas offered to her proposal. 

Dora Milvain of course learnt what had come to pass; to anticipatecriticism, her brother imparted to her the decision at which Marian andhe had arrived. She reflected with an air of discontent. 

'So you are quite satisfied, ' was her question at length, 'that Marianshould toil to support her parents as well as herself?'

'Can I help it?'

'I shall think very ill of you if you don't marry her in a year atlatest. '

'I tell you, Marian has made a deliberate choice. She understands meperfectly, and is quite satisfied with my projects. You will have thekindness, Dora, not to disturb her faith in me. '

'I agree to that; and in return I shall let you know when she begins tosuffer from hunger. It won't be very long till then, you may be sure. How do you suppose three people are going to live on a hundred a year?And it's very doubtful indeed whether Marian can earn as much as fiftypounds. Never mind; I shall let you know when she is beginning tostarve, and doubtless that will amuse you. '

At the end of July Maud was married. Between Mr Dolomore andJasper existed no superfluous kindness, each resenting the other'sself-sufficiency; but Jasper, when once satisfied of his proposedbrother-in-law's straightforwardness, was careful not to give offence toa man who might some day serve him. Provided this marriage resulted inmoderate happiness to Maud, it was undoubtedly a magnificent stroke ofluck. Mrs Lane, the lady who has so often been casually mentioned, tookupon herself those offices in connection with the ceremony whichthe bride's mother is wont to perform; at her house was held thewedding-breakfast, and such other absurdities of usage as recommendthemselves to Society. Dora of course played the part of a bridesmaid, and Jasper went through his duties with the suave seriousness of a manwho has convinced himself that he cannot afford to despise anything thatthe world sanctions. 

About the same time occurred another event which was to have moreimportance for this aspiring little family than could as yet beforeseen. Whelpdale's noteworthy idea triumphed; the weekly paper calledChat was thoroughly transformed, and appeared as Chit-Chat. From thefirst number, the success of the enterprise was beyond doubt; in amonth's time all England was ringing with the fame of this noblenew development of journalism; the proprietor saw his way to a solidfortune, and other men who had money to embark began to scheme imitativepublications. It was clear that the quarter-educated would soon beabundantly provided with literature to their taste. 

Whelpdale's exultation was unbounded, but in the fifth week of the lifeof Chit-Chat something happened which threatened to overturn his soberreason. Jasper was walking along the Strand one afternoon, when hesaw his ingenious friend approaching him in a manner scarcely to beaccounted for, unless Whelpdale's abstemiousness had for once given waybefore convivial invitation. The young man's hat was on the back of hishead, and his coat flew wildly as he rushed forwards with perspiringface and glaring eyes. He would have passed without observing Jasper, had not the latter called to him; then he turned round, laughedinsanely, grasped his acquaintance by the wrists, and drew him asideinto a court. 

'What do you think?' he panted. 'What do you think has happened?'

'Not what one would suppose, I hope. You seem to have gone mad. '

'I've got Lake's place on Chit-Chat!' cried the other hoarsely. 'Twohundred and fifty a year! Lake and the editor quarrelled--pummelled eachother--neither know nor care what it was about. My fortune's made!'

'You're a modest man, ' remarked Jasper, smiling. 

'Certainly I am. I have always admitted it. But remember that there'smy connection with Fleet as well; no need to give that up. Presently Ishall be making a clear six hundred, my dear sir!

A clear six hundred, if a penny!'

'Satisfactory, so far. '

'But you must remember that I'm not a big gun, like you! Why, my dearMilvain, a year ago I should have thought an income of two hundred aglorious competence. I don't aim at such things as are fit for you. Youwon't be content till you have thousands; of course I know that. But I'ma humble fellow. Yet no; by Jingo, I'm not! In one way I'm not--I mustconfess it. '

'In what instance are you arrogant?'

'I can't tell you--not yet; this is neither time nor place. I say, when will you dine with me? I shall give a dinner to half a dozen of myacquaintances somewhere or other. Poor old Biffen must come. When canyou dine?'

'Give me a week's notice, and I'll fit it in. '

That dinner came duly off. On the day that followed, Jasper and Doraleft town for their holiday; they went to the Channel Islands, and spentmore than half of the three weeks they had allowed themselves in Sark. Passing over from Guernsey to that island, they were amused to see acopy of Chit-Chat in the hands of an obese and well-dressed man. 

'Is he one of the quarter-educated?' asked Dora, laughing. 

'Not in Whelpdale's sense of the word. But, strictly speaking, no doubthe is. The quarter-educated constitute a very large class indeed; howlarge, the huge success of that paper is demonstrating. I'll write toWhelpdale, and let him know that his benefaction has extended even toSark. '

This letter was written, and in a few days there came a reply. 

'Why, the fellow has written to you as well!' exclaimed Jasper, takingup a second letter; both were on the table of their sitting-room whenthey came to their lodgings for lunch. 'That's his hand. '

'It looks like it. '

Dora hummed an air as she regarded the envelope, then she took it awaywith her to her room upstairs. 

'What had he to say?' Jasper inquired, when she came down again andseated herself at the table. 

'Oh, a friendly letter. What does he say to you?'

Dora had never looked so animated and fresh of colour since leavingLondon; her brother remarked this, and was glad to think that the air ofthe Channel should be doing her so much good. He read Whelpdale's letteraloud; it was facetious, but oddly respectful. 

'The reverence that fellow has for me is astonishing, ' he observed witha laugh. 'The queer thing is, it increases the better he knows me. '

Dora laughed for five minutes. 

'Oh, what a splendid epigram!' she exclaimed. 'It is indeed a queerthing, Jasper! Did you mean that to be a good joke, or was it betterstill by coming out unintentionally?'

'You are in remarkable spirits, old girl. By-the-by, would you mindletting me see that letter of yours?'

He held out his hand. 

'I left it upstairs, ' Dora replied carelessly. 

'Rather presumptuous in him, it seems to me. '

'Oh, he writes quite as respectfully to me as he does to you, ' shereturned, with a peculiar smile. 

'But what business has he to write at all? It's confounded impertinence, now I come to think of it. I shall give him a hint to remember hisposition. '

Dora could not be quite sure whether he spoke seriously or not. As bothof them had begun to eat with an excellent appetite, a few moments wereallowed to pass before the girl again spoke. 

'His position is as good as ours, ' she said at length. 

'As good as ours? The "sub. " of a paltry rag like Chit-Chat, andassistant to a literary agency!'

'He makes considerably more money than we do. '

'Money! What's money?'

Dora was again mirthful. 

'Oh, of course money is nothing! We write for honour and glory. Don'tforget to insist on that when you reprove Mr Whelpdale; no doubt it willimpress him. '

Late in the evening of that day, when the brother and sister hadstrolled by moonlight up to the windmill which occupies the highestpoint of Sark, and as they stood looking upon the pale expanse of sea, dotted with the gleam of light-houses near and far, Dora broke thesilence to say quietly:

'I may as well tell you that Mr Whelpdale wants to know if I will marryhim. '

'The deuce he does!' cried Jasper, with a start. 'If I didn't halfsuspect something of that kind! What astounding impudence!'

'You seriously think so?'

'Well, don't you? You hardly know him, to begin with. And then--oh, confound it!'

'Very well, I'll tell him that his impudence astonishes me. '

'You will?'

'Certainly. Of course in civil terms. But don't let this make anydifference between you and him. Just pretend to know nothing about it;no harm is done. '

'You are speaking in earnest?'

'Quite. He has written in a very proper way, and there's no reasonwhatever to disturb our friendliness with him. I have a right to givedirections in a matter like this, and you'll please to obey them. '

Before going to bed Dora wrote a letter to Mr Whelpdale, not, indeed, accepting his offer forthwith, but conveying to him with muchgracefulness an unmistakable encouragement to persevere. This was postedon the morrow, and its writer continued to benefit most remarkably bythe sun and breezes and rock-scrambling of Sark. 

Soon after their return to London, Dora had the satisfaction of payingthe first visit to her sister at the Dolomores' house in OvingtonSquare. Maud was established in the midst of luxuries, and talked withlaughing scorn of the days when she inhabited Grub Street; her literarytastes were henceforth to serve as merely a note of distinction, anadded grace which made evident her superiority to the well-attired andsmooth-tongued people among whom she was content to shine. On the onehand, she had contact with the world of fashionable literature, onthe other with that of fashionable ignorance. Mrs Lane's house was ameeting-point of the two spheres. 

'I shan't be there very often, ' remarked Jasper, as Dora and hediscussed their sister's magnificence. 'That's all very well in its way, but I aim at something higher. '

'So do I, ' Dora replied. 

'I'm very glad to hear that. I confess it seemed to me that you wererather too cordial with Whelpdale yesterday. '

'One must behave civilly. Mr Whelpdale quite understands me. '

'You are sure of that? He didn't seem quite so gloomy as he ought tohave been. '

'The success of Chit-Chat keeps him in good spirits. '

It was perhaps a week after this that Mrs Dolomore came quiteunexpectedly to the house by Regent's Park, as early as eleven o'clockin the morning. She had a long talk in private with Dora. Jasper was notat home; when he returned towards evening, Dora came to his room with acountenance which disconcerted him. 

'Is it true, ' she asked abruptly, standing before him with her handsstrained together, 'that you have been representing yourself as nolonger engaged to Marian?'

'Who has told you so?'

'That doesn't matter. I have heard it, and I want to know from you thatit is false. '

Jasper thrust his hands into his pockets and walked apart. 

'I can take no notice, ' he said with indifference, 'of anonymousgossip. '

'Well, then, I will tell you how I have heard. Maud came this morning, and told me that Mrs Betterton had been asking her about it. MrsBetterton had heard from Mrs Lane. '

'From Mrs Lane? And from whom did she hear, pray?'

'That I don't know. Is it true or not?'

'I have never told anyone that my engagement was at an end, ' repliedJasper, deliberately. 

The girl met his eyes. 

'Then I was right, ' she said. 'Of course I told Maud that it wasimpossible to believe this for a moment. But how has it come to besaid?'

'You might as well ask me how any lie gets into circulation among peopleof that sort. I have told you the truth, and there's an end of it. '

Dora lingered for a while, but left the room without saying anythingmore. 

She sat up late, mostly engaged in thinking, though at times an openbook was in her hand. It was nearly half-past twelve when a very lightrap at the door caused her to start. She called, and Jasper came in. 

'Why are you still up?' he asked, avoiding her look as he moved forwardand took a leaning attitude behind an easy-chair. 

'Oh, I don't know. Do you want anything?'

There was a pause; then Jasper said in an unsteady voice:

'I am not given to lying, Dora, and I feel confoundedly uncomfortableabout what I said to you early this evening. I didn't lie in theordinary sense; it's true enough that I have never told anyone thatmy engagement was at an end. But I have acted as if it were, and it'sbetter I should tell you. '

His sister gazed at him with indignation. 

'You have acted as if you were free?'

'Yes. I have proposed to Miss Rupert. How Mrs Lane and that lot havecome to know anything about this I don't understand. I am not aware ofany connecting link between them and the Ruperts, or the Barlows either. Perhaps there are none; most likely the rumour has no foundation intheir knowledge. Still, it is better that I should have told you. MissRupert has never heard that I was engaged, nor have her friends theBarlows--at least I don't see how they could have done. She may havetold Mrs Barlow of my proposal--probably would; and this may somehowhave got round to those other people. But Maud didn't make any mentionof Miss Rupert, did she?'

Dora replied with a cold negative. 

'Well, there's the state of things. It isn't pleasant, but that's what Ihave done. '

'Do you mean that Miss Rupert has accepted you?'

'No. I wrote to her. She answered that she was going to Germany for afew weeks, and that I should have her reply whilst she was away. I amwaiting. '

'But what name is to be given to behaviour such as this?'

'Listen: didn't you know perfectly well that this must be the end ofit?'

'Do you suppose I thought you utterly shameless and cruel beyond words?'

'I suppose I am both. It was a moment of desperate temptation, though. I had dined at the Ruperts'--you remember--and it seemed to me there wasno mistaking the girl's manner. '

'Don't call her a girl!' broke in Dora, scornfully. 'You say she isseveral years older than yourself. '

'Well, at all events, she's intellectual, and very rich. I yielded tothe temptation. '

'And deserted Marian just when she has most need of help andconsolation? It's frightful!'

Jasper moved to another chair and sat down. He was much perturbed. 

'Look here, Dora, I regret it; I do, indeed. And, what's more, if thatwoman refuses me--as it's more than likely she will--I will go to Marianand ask her to marry me at once. I promise that. '

His sister made a movement of contemptuous impatience. 

'And if the woman doesn't refuse you?'

'Then I can't help it. But there's one thing more I will say. Whether Imarry Marian or Miss Rupert, I sacrifice my strongest feelings--in theone case to a sense of duty, in the other to worldly advantage. I wasan idiot to write that letter, for I knew at the time that there was awoman who is far more to me than Miss Rupert and all her money--a womanI might, perhaps, marry. Don't ask any questions; I shall not answerthem. As I have said so much, I wished you to understand my positionfully. You know the promise I have made. Don't say anything to Marian;if I am left free I shall marry her as soon as possible. '

And so he left the room. 

For a fortnight and more he remained in uncertainty. His life was veryuncomfortable, for Dora would only speak to him when necessity compelledher; and there were two meetings with Marian, at which he had to acthis part as well as he could. At length came the expected letter. Verynicely expressed, very friendly, very complimentary, but--a refusal. 

He handed it to Dora across the breakfast-table, saying with a pinchedsmile:

'Now you can look cheerful again. I am doomed. '

CHAPTER XXXV. FEVER AND REST

Milvain's skilful efforts notwithstanding, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer, ' had nosuccess. By two publishers the book had been declined; the firm whichbrought it out offered the author half profits and fifteen pounds onaccount, greatly to Harold Biffen's satisfaction. But reviewers ingeneral were either angry or coldly contemptuous. 'Let Mr Biffen bear inmind, ' said one of these sages, 'that a novelist's first duty is to tella story. ' 'Mr Biffen, ' wrote another, 'seems not to understand thata work of art must before everything else afford amusement. ' 'Apretentious book of the genre ennuyant, ' was the brief comment of aSociety journal. A weekly of high standing began its short notice in arage: 'Here is another of those intolerable productions for which weare indebted to the spirit of grovelling realism. This author, let it besaid, is never offensive, but then one must go on to describe his workby a succession of negatives; it is never interesting, never profitable, never--' and the rest. The eulogy in The West End had a few timidechoes. That in The Current would have secured more imitators, butunfortunately it appeared when most of the reviewing had alreadybeen done. And, as Jasper truly said, only a concurrence of powerfultestimonials could have compelled any number of people to affect aninterest in this book. 'The first duty of a novelist is to tell astory:' the perpetual repetition of this phrase is a warning to allmen who propose drawing from the life. Biffen only offered a slice ofbiography, and it was found to lack flavour. 

He wrote to Mrs Reardon: 'I cannot thank you enough for this very kindletter about my book; I value it more than I should the praises of allthe reviewers in existence. You have understood my aim. Few peoplewill do that, and very few indeed could express it with such clearconciseness. '

If Amy had but contented herself with a civil acknowledgment of thevolumes he sent her! She thought it a kindness to write to him soappreciatively, to exaggerate her approval. The poor fellow was solonely. Yes, but his loneliness only became intolerable when a beautifulwoman had smiled upon him, and so forced him to dream perpetually ofthat supreme joy of life which to him was forbidden. 

It was a fatal day, that on which Amy put herself under his guidanceto visit Reardon's poor room at Islington. In the old times, Harold hadbeen wont to regard his friend's wife as the perfect woman; seldom inhis life had he enjoyed female society, and when he first met Amy itwas years since he had spoken with any woman above the rank of alodging-house keeper or a needle-plier. Her beauty seemed to him of avery high order, and her mental endowments filled him with an exquisitedelight, not to be appreciated by men who have never been in hisposition. When the rupture came between Amy and her husband, Haroldcould not believe that she was in any way to blame; held to Reardon bystrong friendship, he yet accused him of injustice to Amy. And whathe saw of her at Brighton confirmed him in this judgment. When heaccompanied her to Manville Street, he allowed her, of course, to remainalone in the room where Reardon had lived; but Amy presently summonedhim, and asked him questions. Every tear she shed watered a growth ofpassionate tenderness in the solitary man's heart. Parting from her atlength, he went to hide his face in darkness and think of her--think ofher. 

A fatal day. There was an end of all his peace, all his capacityfor labour, his patient endurance of penury. Once, when he was aboutthree-and-twenty, he had been in love with a girl of gentle nature andfair intelligence; on account of his poverty, he could not even hopethat his love might be returned, and he went away to bear the misery asbest he might. Since then the life he had led precluded the forming ofsuch attachments; it would never have been possible for him to supporta wife of however humble origin. At intervals he felt the full weightof his loneliness, but there were happily long periods during which hisGreek studies and his efforts in realistic fiction made him indifferentto the curse laid upon him. But after that hour of intimate speech withAmy, he never again knew rest of mind or heart. 

Accepting what Reardon had bequeathed to him, he removed the books andfurniture to a room in that part of the town which he had found mostconvenient for his singular tutorial pursuits. The winter did not passwithout days of all but starvation, but in March he received his fifteenpounds for 'Mr Bailey, ' and this was a fortune, putting him beyond thereach of hunger for full six months. Not long after that he yielded toa temptation that haunted him day and night, and went to call upon Amy, who was still living with her mother at Westbourne Park. When heentered the drawing-room Amy was sitting there alone; she rose with anexclamation of frank pleasure. 

'I have often thought of you lately, Mr Biffen. How kind to come and seeme!'

He could scarcely speak; her beauty, as she stood before him in thegraceful black dress, was anguish to his excited nerves, and her voicewas so cruel in its conventional warmth. When he looked at her eyes, he remembered how their brightness had been dimmed with tears, and thesorrow he had shared with her seemed to make him more than an ordinaryfriend. When he told her of his success with the publishers, she wasdelighted. 

'Oh, when is it to come out? I shall watch the advertisements soanxiously. '

'Will you allow me to send you a copy, Mrs Reardon?'

'Can you really spare one?'

Of the half-dozen he would receive, he scarcely knew how to dispose ofthree. And Amy expressed her gratitude in the most charming way. She hadgained much in point of manner during the past twelve months; her tenthousand pounds inspired her with the confidence necessary to a perfectdemeanour. That slight hardness which was wont to be perceptible inher tone had altogether passed away; she seemed to be cultivatingflexibility of voice. 

Mrs Yule came in, and was all graciousness. Then two callers presentedthemselves. Biffen's pleasure was at an end as soon as he had to adapthimself to polite dialogue; he escaped as speedily as possible. 

He was not the kind of man that deceives himself as to his own aspectin the eyes of others. Be as kind as she might, Amy could not set himstrutting Malvolio-wise; she viewed him as a poor devil who often hadto pawn his coat--a man of parts who would never get on in the world--afriend to be thought of kindly because her dead husband had valuedhim. Nothing more than that; he understood perfectly the limits of herfeeling. But this could not put restraint upon the emotion with whichhe received any most trifling utterance of kindness from her. He did notthink of what was, but of what, under changed circumstances, might be. To encourage such fantasy was the idlest self-torment, but he had gonetoo far in this form of indulgence. He became the slave of his inflamedimagination. 

In that letter with which he replied to her praises of his book, perchance he had allowed himself to speak too much as he thought. 

He wrote in reckless delight, and did not wait for the prudence of alater hour. When it was past recall, he would gladly have softenedmany of the expressions the letter contained. 'I value it more than thepraises of all the reviewers in existence'--would Amy be offended atthat? 'Yours in gratitude and reverence, ' he had signed himself--thekind of phrase that comes naturally to a passionate man, when he wouldfain say more than he dares. To what purpose this half-revelation?Unless, indeed, he wished to learn once and for ever, by the gentlestof repulses, that his homage was only welcome so long as it kept wellwithin conventional terms. 

He passed a month of distracted idleness, until there came a daywhen the need to see Amy was so imperative that it mastered everyconsideration. He donned his best clothes, and about four o'clockpresented himself at Mrs Yule's house. By ill luck there happened to beat least half a dozen callers in the drawing-room; the strappado wouldhave been preferable, in his eyes, to such an ordeal as this. Moreover, he was convinced that both Amy and her mother received him with far lesscordiality than on the last occasion. He had expected it, but he bithis lips till the blood came. What business had he among people of thiskind? No doubt the visitors wondered at his comparative shabbiness, andasked themselves how he ventured to make a call without the regulationchimney-pot hat. It was a wretched and foolish mistake. 

Ten minutes saw him in the street again, vowing that he would neverapproach Amy more. Not that he found fault with her; the blame wasentirely his own. 

He lived on the third floor of a house in Goodge Street, above a baker'sshop. The bequest of Reardon's furniture was a great advantage to him, as he had only to pay rent for a bare room; the books, too, came as agodsend, since the destruction of his own. He had now only one pupil, and was not exerting himself to find others; his old energy had forsakenhim. 

For the failure of his book he cared nothing. It was no more than heanticipated. The work was done--the best he was capable of--and thissatisfied him. 

It was doubtful whether he loved Amy, in the true sense of exclusivedesire. She represented for him all that is lovely in womanhood; to hisstarved soul and senses she was woman, the complement of his frustratebeing. Circumstance had made her the means of exciting in him thatnatural force which had hitherto either been dormant or had yielded tothe resolute will. 

Companionless, inert, he suffered the tortures which are so ludicrousand contemptible to the happily married. Life was barren to him, andwould soon grow hateful; only in sleep could he cast off the unchangingthoughts and desires which made all else meaningless. And rightlymeaningless: he revolted against the unnatural constraints forbiddinghim to complete his manhood. 

By what fatality was he alone of men withheld from the winning of awoman's love?

He could not bear to walk the streets where the faces of beautiful womenwould encounter him. When he must needs leave the house, he went aboutin the poor, narrow ways, where only spectacles of coarseness, andwant, and toil would be presented to him. Yet even here he was too oftenreminded that the poverty-stricken of the class to which poverty isnatural were not condemned to endure in solitude. Only he who belongedto no class, who was rejected alike by his fellows in privation and byhis equals in intellect, must die without having known the touch of aloving woman's hand. 

The summer went by, and he was unconscious of its warmth and light. Howhis days passed he could not have said. 

One evening in early autumn, as he stood before the book-stall at theend of Goodge Street, a familiar voice accosted him. It was Whelpdale's. A month or two ago he had stubbornly refused an invitation to dinewith Whelpdale and other acquaintances--you remember what the occasionwas--and since then the prosperous young man had not crossed his path. 

'I've something to tell you, ' said the assailer, taking hold of hisarm. 'I'm in a tremendous state of mind, and want someone to share mydelight. You can walk a short way, I hope? Not too busy with some newbook?'

Biffen gave no answer, but went whither he was led. 

'You are writing a new book, I suppose? Don't be discouraged, oldfellow. "Mr Bailey" will have his day yet; I know men who consider it anundoubted work of genius. What's the next to deal with?'

'I haven't decided yet, ' replied Harold, merely to avoid argument. Hespoke so seldom that the sound of his own voice was strange to him. 

'Thinking over it, I suppose, in your usual solid way. Don't be hurried. But I must tell you of this affair of mine. You know Dora Milvain? Ihave asked her to marry me, and, by the Powers! she has given me anencouraging answer. Not an actual yes, but encouraging! She's away inthe Channel Islands, and I wrote--'

He talked on for a quarter of an hour. Then, with a sudden movement, thelistener freed himself. 

'I can't go any farther, ' he said hoarsely. 'Good-bye!'

Whelpdale was disconcerted. 

'I have been boring you. That's a confounded fault of mine; I know it. '

Biffen had waved his hand, and was gone. 

A week or two more would see him at the end of his money. He had nolessons now, and could not write; from his novel nothing was to beexpected. He might apply again to his brother, but such dependence wasunjust and unworthy. And why should he struggle to preserve a life whichhad no prospect but of misery?

It was in the hours following his encounter with Whelpdale that he firstknew the actual desire of death, the simple longing for extinction. Onemust go far in suffering before the innate will-to-live is thus trulyovercome; weariness of bodily anguish may induce this perversion ofthe instincts; less often, that despair of suppressed emotion whichhad fallen upon Harold. Through the night he kept his thoughts fixed ondeath in its aspect of repose, of eternal oblivion. And herein he hadfound solace. 

The next night it was the same. Moving about among common needs andoccupations, he knew not a moment's cessation of heart-ache, but whenhe lay down in the darkness a hopeful summons whispered to him. Night, which had been the worst season of his pain, had now grown friendly; itcame as an anticipation of the sleep that is everlasting. 

A few more days, and he was possessed by a calm of spirit such as he hadnever known. His resolve was taken, not in a moment of supreme conflict, but as the result of a subtle process by which his imagination hadbecome in love with death. Turning from contemplation of life's onerapture, he looked with the same intensity of desire to a state that hadneither fear nor hope. 

One afternoon he went to the Museum Reading-room, and was busy for a fewminutes in consultation of a volume which he took from the shelvesof medical literature. On his way homeward he entered two or threechemists' shops. Something of which he had need could be procured onlyin very small quantities; but repetition of his demand in differentplaces supplied him sufficiently. When he reached his room, he emptiedthe contents of sundry little bottles into one larger, and put this inhis pocket. Then he wrote rather a long letter, addressed to his brotherat Liverpool. 

It had been a beautiful day, and there wanted still a couple of hoursbefore the warm, golden sunlight would disappear. Harold stood andlooked round his room. As always, it presented a neat, orderly aspect, but his eye caught sight of a volume which stood upside down, and thisfault--particularly hateful to a bookish man--he rectified. He puthis blotting-pad square on the table, closed the lid of the inkstand, arranged his pens. Then he took his hat and stick, locked the doorbehind him, and went downstairs. At the foot he spoke to his landlady, and told her that he should not return that night. As soon as possibleafter leaving the house he posted his letter. 

His direction was westward; walking at a steady, purposeful pace, withcheery countenance and eyes that gave sign of pleasure as often as theyturned to the sun-smitten clouds, he struck across Kensington Gardens, and then on towards Fulham, where he crossed the Thames to Putney. Thesun was just setting; he paused a few moments on the bridge, watchingthe river with a quiet smile, and enjoying the splendour of the sky. Up Putney Hill he walked slowly; when he reached the top it was growingdark, but an unwonted effect in the atmosphere caused him to turn andlook to the east. An exclamation escaped his lips, for there before himwas the new-risen moon, a perfect globe, vast and red. He gazed at itfor a long time. 

When the daylight had entirely passed, he went forward on to the heath, and rambled, as if idly, to a secluded part, where trees and bushes madea deep shadow under the full moon. It was still quite warm, and scarcelya breath of air moved among the reddening leaves. 

Sure at length that he was remote from all observation, he pressed intoa little copse, and there reclined on the grass, leaning against thestem of a tree. The moon was now hidden from him, but by looking upwardhe could see its light upon a long, faint cloud, and the blue of theplacid sky. His mood was one of ineffable peace. Only thoughts ofbeautiful things came into his mind; he had reverted to an earlierperiod of life, when as yet no mission of literary realism had beenimposed upon him, and when his passions were still soothed by naturalhope. The memory of his friend Reardon was strongly present with him, but of Amy he thought only as of that star which had just come into hisvision above the edge of dark foliage--beautiful, but infinitely remote. 

Recalling Reardon's voice, it brought to him those last words whisperedby his dying companion. He remembered them now:

We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is roundedwith a sleep. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. JASPER'S DELICATE CASE

Only when he received Miss Rupert's amiably-worded refusal to become hiswife was Jasper aware how firmly he had counted on her accepting him. Hetold Dora with sincerity that his proposal was a piece of foolishness;so far from having any regard for Miss Rupert, he felt towards her withsomething of antipathy, and at the same time he was conscious of ardentemotions, if not love, for another woman who would be no bad match evenfrom the commercial point of view. Yet so strong was the effect upon himof contemplating a large fortune, that, in despite of reason and desire, he lived in eager expectation of the word which should make him rich. And for several hours after his disappointment he could not overcome theimpression of calamity. 

A part of that impression was due to the engagement which he must nowfulfil. He had pledged his word to ask Marian to marry him withoutfurther delay. To shuffle out of this duty would make him too ignobleeven in his own eyes. Its discharge meant, as he had expressed it, thathe was 'doomed'; he would deliberately be committing the very erroralways so flagrant to him in the case of other men who had crippledthemselves by early marriage with a penniless woman. But events hadenmeshed him; circumstances had proved fatal. Because, in his saladdays, he dallied with a girl who had indeed many charms, step by stephe had come to the necessity of sacrificing his prospects to that rawattachment. And, to make it more irritating, this happened just when theway began to be much clearer before him. 

Unable to think of work, he left the house and wandered gloomily aboutRegent's Park. For the first time in his recollection the confidencewhich was wont to inspirit him gave way to an attack of sullendiscontent. He felt himself ill-used by destiny, and therefore byMarian, who was fate's instrument. It was not in his nature that thismood should last long, but it revealed to him those darker possibilitieswhich his egoism would develop if it came seriously into conflict withovermastering misfortune. A hope, a craven hope, insinuated itself intothe cracks of his infirm resolve. He would not examine it, but consciousof its existence he was able to go home in somewhat better spirits. 

He wrote to Marian. If possible she was to meet him at half-pastnine next morning at Gloucester Gate. He had reasons for wishing thisinterview to take place on neutral ground. 

Early in the afternoon, when he was trying to do some work, therearrived a letter which he opened with impatient hand; the writing wasMrs Reardon's, and he could not guess what she had to communicate. 

'DEAR MR MILVAIN, --I am distressed beyond measure to read in thismorning's newspaper that poor Mr Biffen has put an end to his life. Doubtless you can obtain more details than are given in this bare reportof the discovery of his body. Will you let me hear, or come and see me?'

He read and was astonished. Absorbed in his own affairs, he had notopened the newspaper to-day; it lay folded on a chair. Hastily he ranhis eye over the columns, and found at length a short paragraph whichstated that the body of a man who had evidently committed suicide bytaking poison had been found on Putney Heath; that papers in his pocketsidentified him as one Harold Biffen, lately resident in Goodge Street, Tottenham Court Road; and that an inquest would be held, &c. He wentto Dora's room, and told her of the event, but without mentioning theletter which had brought it under his notice. 

'I suppose there was no alternative between that and starvation. Iscarcely thought of Biffen as likely to kill himself. If Reardon haddone it, I shouldn't have felt the least surprise. '

'Mr Whelpdale will be bringing us information, no doubt, ' said Dora, who, as she spoke, thought more of that gentleman's visit than of theevent that was to occasion it. 

'Really, one can't grieve. There seemed no possibility of his everearning enough to live decently upon. But why the deuce did he go allthe way out there? Consideration for the people in whose house he lived, I dare say; Biffen had a good deal of native delicacy. '

Dora felt a secret wish that someone else possessed more of thatdesirable quality. 

Leaving her, Jasper made a rapid, though careful, toilet, and waspresently on his way to Westbourne Park. It was his hope that he shouldreach Mrs Yule's house before any ordinary afternoon caller couldarrive; and so he did. He had not been here since that evening when heencountered Reardon on the road and heard his reproaches. To his greatsatisfaction, Amy was alone in the drawing-room; he held her hand atrifle longer than was necessary, and returned more earnestly the lookof interest with which she regarded him. 

'I was ignorant of this affair when your letter came, ' he began, 'and Iset out immediately to see you. '

'I hoped you would bring me some news. What can have driven the poor manto such extremity?'

'Poverty, I can only suppose. But I will see Whelpdale. I hadn't comeacross Biffen for a long time. '

'Was he still so very poor?' asked Amy, compassionately. 

'I'm afraid so. His book failed utterly. '

'Oh, if I had imagined him still in such distress, surely I might havedone something to help him!'--So often the regretful remark of one'sfriends, when one has been permitted to perish. 

With Amy's sorrow was mingled a suggestion of tenderness which came ofher knowledge that the dead man had worshipped her. Perchance his deathwas in part attributable to that hopeless love. 

'He sent me a copy of his novel, ' she said, 'and I saw him once or twiceafter that. But he was much better dressed than in former days, and Ithought--'

Having this subject to converse upon put the two more quickly at easethan could otherwise have been the case. Jasper was closely observantof the young widow; her finished graces made a strong appeal to hisadmiration, and even in some degree awed him. He saw that her beauty hadmatured, and it was more distinctly than ever of the type to which hepaid reverence. Amy might take a foremost place among brilliant women. At a dinner-table, in grand toilet, she would be superb; at politereceptions people would whisper: 'Who is that?'

Biffen fell out of the dialogue. 

'It grieved me very much, ' said Amy, 'to hear of the misfortune thatbefell my cousin. '

'The legacy affair? Why, yes, it was a pity. Especially now that herfather is threatened with blindness. '

'Is it so serious? I heard indirectly that he had something the matterwith his eyes, but I didn't know--'

'They may be able to operate before long, and perhaps it will besuccessful. But in the meantime Marian has to do his work. '

'This explains the--the delay?' fell from Amy's lips, as she smiled. 

Jasper moved uncomfortably. It was a voluntary gesture. 

'The whole situation explains it, ' he replied, with some show ofimpulsiveness. 'I am very much afraid Marian is tied during her father'slife. '

'Indeed? But there is her mother. '

'No companion for her father, as I think you know. Even if Mr Yulerecovers his sight, it is not at all likely that he will be able to workas before. Our difficulties are so grave that--'

He paused, and let his hand fail despondently. 

'I hope it isn't affecting your work--your progress?'

'To some extent, necessarily. I have a good deal of will, you remember, and what I have set my mind upon, no doubt, I shall some day achieve. But--one makes mistakes. '

There was silence. 

'The last three years, ' he continued, 'have made no slight differencein my position. Recall where I stood when you first knew me. I have donesomething since then, I think, and by my own steady effort. '

'Indeed, you have. '

'Just now I am in need of a little encouragement. You don't notice anyfalling off in my work recently?'

'No, indeed. '

'Do you see my things in The Current and so on, generally?'

'I don't think I miss many of your articles. Sometimes I believe I havedetected you when there was no signature. '

'And Dora has been doing well. Her story in that girls' paper hasattracted attention. It's a great deal to have my mind at rest aboutboth the girls. But I can't pretend to be in very good spirits. ' Herose. 'Well, I must try to find out something more about poor Biffen. '

'Oh, you are not going yet, Mr Milvain?'

'Not, assuredly, because I wish to. But I have work to do. ' He steppedaside, but came back as if on an impulse. 'May I ask you for your advicein a very delicate matter?'

Amy was a little disturbed, but she collected herself and smiled in away that reminded Jasper of his walk with her along Gower Street. 

'Let me hear what it is. '

He sat down again, and bent forward. 

'If Marian insists that it is her duty to remain with her father, am Ijustified or not in freely consenting to that?'

'I scarcely understand. Has Marian expressed a wish to devote herself inthat way?'

'Not distinctly. But I suspect that her conscience points to it. I am inserious doubt. On the one hand, ' he explained in a tone of candour, 'whowill not blame me if our engagement terminates in circumstances such asthese? On the other--you are aware, by-the-by, that her father objectsin the strongest way to this marriage?'

'No, I didn't know that. '

'He will neither see me nor hear of me. Merely because of my connectionwith Fadge. Think of that poor girl thus situated. And I could so easilyput her at rest by renouncing all claim upon her. '

'I surmise that--that you yourself would also be put at rest by such adecision?'

'Don't look at me with that ironical smile, ' he pleaded. 'What you havesaid is true. And really, why should I not be glad of it? I couldn't goabout declaring that I was heartbroken, in any event; I must be contentfor people to judge me according to their disposition, and judgments arepretty sure to be unfavourable. What can I do? In either case I must toa certain extent be in the wrong. To tell the truth, I was wrong fromthe first. '

There was a slight movement about Amy's lips as these words wereuttered: she kept her eyes down, and waited before replying. 

'The case is too delicate, I fear, for my advice. '

'Yes, I feel it; and perhaps I oughtn't to have spoken of it at all. Well, I'll go back to my scribbling. I am so very glad to have seen youagain. '

'It was good of you to take the trouble to come--whilst you have so muchon your mind. '

Again Jasper held the white, soft hand for a superfluous moment. 

The next morning it was he who had to wait at the rendezvous; he waspacing the pathway at least ten minutes before the appointed time. When Marian joined him, she was panting from a hurried walk, and thisaffected Jasper disagreeably; he thought of Amy Reardon's air of repose, and how impossible it would be for that refined person to fall into suchdisorder. He observed, too, with more disgust than usual, the signs inMarian's attire of encroaching poverty--her unsatisfactory gloves, hermantle out of fashion. Yet for such feelings he reproached himself, andthe reproach made him angry. 

They walked together in the same direction as when they met here before. Marian could not mistake the air of restless trouble on her companion'ssmooth countenance. She had divined that there was some grave reasonfor this summons, and the panting with which she had approached was halfcaused by the anxious beats of her heart. Jasper's long silence againwas ominous. He began abruptly:

'You've heard that Harold Biffen has committed suicide?'

'No!' she replied, looking shocked. 

'Poisoned himself. You'll find something about it in today's Telegraph. '

He gave her such details as he had obtained, then added:

'There are two of my companions fallen in the battle. I ought to thinkmyself a lucky fellow, Marian. What?'

'You are better fitted to fight your way, Jasper. '

'More of a brute, you mean. '

'You know very well I don't. You have more energy and more intellect. '

'Well, it remains to be seen how I shall come out when I am weightedwith graver cares than I have yet known. '

She looked at him inquiringly, but said nothing. 

'I have made up my mind about our affairs, ' he went on presently. 'Marian, if ever we are to be married, it must be now. '

The words were so unexpected that they brought a flush to her cheeks andneck. 

'Now?'

'Yes. Will you marry me, and let us take our chance?'

Her heart throbbed violently. 

'You don't mean at once, Jasper? You would wait until I know whatfather's fate is to be?'

'Well, now, there's the point. You feel yourself indispensable to yourfather at present?'

'Not indispensable, but--wouldn't it seem very unkind? I should be soafraid of the effect upon his health, Jasper. So much depends, we aretold, upon his general state of mind and body. It would be dreadful if Iwere the cause of--'

She paused, and looked up at him touchingly. 

'I understand that. But let us face our position. Suppose the operationis successful; your father will certainly not be able to use his eyesmuch for a long time, if ever; and perhaps he would miss you as muchthen as now. Suppose he does not regain his sight; could you then leavehim?'

'Dear, I can't feel it would be my duty to renounce you because myfather had become blind. And if he can see pretty well, I don't think Ineed remain with him. '

'Has one thing occurred to you? Will he consent to receive an allowancefrom a person whose name is Mrs Milvain?'

'I can't be sure, ' she replied, much troubled. 

'And if he obstinately refuses--what then? What is before him?'

Marian's head sank, and she stood still. 

'Why have you changed your mind so, Jasper?' she inquired at length. 

'Because I have decided that the indefinitely long engagement would beunjust to you--and to myself. Such engagements are always dangerous;sometimes they deprave the character of the man or woman. '

She listened anxiously and reflected. 

'Everything, ' he went on, 'would be simple enough but for your domesticdifficulties. As I have said, there is the very serious doubt whetheryour father would accept money from you when you are my wife. Thenagain, shall we be able to afford such an allowance?'

'I thought you felt sure of that?'

'I'm not very sure of anything, to tell the truth. I am harassed. 

I can't get on with my work. '

'I am very, very sorry. '

'It isn't your fault, Marian, and--Well, then, there's only one thingto do. Let us wait, at all events, till your father has undergone theoperation. Whichever the result, you say your own position will be thesame. '

'Except, Jasper, that if father is helpless, I must find means ofassuring his support. '

'In other words, if you can't do that as my wife, you must remain MarianYule. '

After a silence, Marian regarded him steadily. 

'You see only the difficulties in our way, ' she said, in a colder voice. 'They are many, I know. Do you think them insurmountable?'

'Upon my word, they almost seem so, ' Jasper exclaimed, distractedly. 

'They were not so great when we spoke of marriage a few years hence. '

'A few years!' he echoed, in a cheerless voice. 'That is just what Ihave decided is impossible. Marian, you shall have the plain truth. Ican trust your faith, but I can't trust my own. I will marry you now, but--years hence--how can I tell what may happen? I don't trust myself. '

'You say you "will" marry me now; that sounds as if you had made up yourmind to a sacrifice. '

'I didn't mean that. To face difficulties, yes. '

Whilst they spoke, the sky had grown dark with a heavy cloud, and nowspots of rain began to fall. Jasper looked about him in annoyance as hefelt the moisture, but Marian did not seem aware of it. 

'But shall you face them willingly?'

'I am not a man to repine and grumble. Put up your umbrella, Marian. '

'What do I care for a drop of rain, ' she exclaimed with passionatesadness, 'when all my life is at stake! How am I to understand you?Every word you speak seems intended to dishearten me. Do you no longerlove me? Why need you conceal it, if that is the truth? Is that what youmean by saying you distrust yourself?

If you do so, there must be reason for it in the present. Could Idistrust myself? Can I force myself in any manner to believe that Ishall ever cease to love you?'

Jasper opened his umbrella. 

'We must see each other again, Marian. We can't stand and talk in therain--confound it! Cursed climate, where you can never be sure of aclear sky for five minutes!'

'I can't go till you have spoken more plainly, Jasper! How am I to livean hour in such uncertainty as this? Do you love me or not? Do you wishme to be your wife, or are you sacrificing yourself?'

'I do wish it!' Her emotion had an effect upon him, and his voicetrembled. 'But I can't answer for myself--no, not for a year. And howare we to marry now, in face of all these--'

'What can I do? What can I do?' she sobbed. 'Oh, if I were but heartlessto everyone but to you! If I could give you my money, and leave myfather and mother to their fate! Perhaps some could do that. There isno natural law that a child should surrender everything for her parents. You know so much more of the world than I do; can't you advise me? Isthere no way of providing for my father?'

'Good God! This is frightful, Marian. I can't stand it. Live as you aredoing. Let us wait and see. '

'At the cost of losing you?'

'I will be faithful to you!'

'And your voice says you promise it out of pity. '

He had made a pretence of holding his umbrella over her, but Marianturned away and walked to a little distance, and stood beneath theshelter of a great tree, her face averted from him. Moving to follow, hesaw that her frame was shaken by soundless sobbing. When his footstepscame close to her, she again looked at him. 

'I know now, ' she said, 'how foolish it is when they talk of love beingunselfish. In what can there be more selfishness? I feel as if I couldhold you to your promise at any cost, though you have made me understandthat you regard our engagement as your great misfortune. I have felt itfor weeks--oh, for months! But I couldn't say a word that would seem toinvite such misery as this. You don't love me, Jasper, and that's an endof everything. 

I should be shamed if I married you. '

'Whether I love you or not, I feel as if no sacrifice would be too greatthat would bring you the happiness you deserve. '

'Deserve!' she repeated bitterly. 'Why do I deserve it? Because I longfor it with all my heart and soul? There's no such thing as deserving. Happiness or misery come to us by fate. '

'Is it in my power to make you happy?'

'No; because it isn't in your power to call dead love to life again. Ithink perhaps you never loved me. Jasper, I could give my right hand ifyou had said you loved me before--I can't put it into words; it soundstoo base, and I don't wish to imply that you behaved basely. But if youhad said you loved me before that, I should have it always to remember. '

'You will do me no wrong if you charge me with baseness, ' he repliedgloomily. 'If I believe anything, I believe that I did love you. But Iknew myself and I should never have betrayed what I felt, if for once inmy life I could have been honourable. '

The rain pattered on the leaves and the grass, and still the skydarkened. 

'This is wretchedness to both of us, ' Jasper added. 'Let us part now, Marian. Let me see you again. '

'I can't see you again. What can you say to me more than you have saidnow? I should feel like a beggar coming to you. I must try and keep somelittle self-respect, if I am to live at all. '

'Then let me help you to think of me with indifference. Remember me as aman who disregarded priceless love such as yours to go and make himselfa proud position among fools and knaves--indeed that's what it comes to. It is you who reject me, and rightly. One who is so much at the mercyof a vulgar ambition as I am, is no fit husband for you. Soon enough youwould thoroughly despise me, and though I should know it was merited, my perverse pride would revolt against it. Many a time I have tried toregard life practically as I am able to do theoretically, but it alwaysends in hypocrisy. It is men of my kind who succeed; the conscientious, and those who really have a high ideal, either perish or struggle on inneglect. '

Marian had overcome her excess of emotion. 

'There is no need to disparage yourself' she said. 'What can be simplerthan the truth? You loved me, or thought you did, and now you love meno longer. It is a thing that happens every day, either in man or woman, and all that honour demands is the courage to confess the truth. Whydidn't you tell me as soon as you knew that I was burdensome to you?'

'Marian, will you do this?--will you let our engagement last for anothersix months, but without our meeting during that time?'

'But to what purpose?'

'Then we would see each other again, and both would be able to speakcalmly, and we should both know with certainty what course we ought topursue. '

'That seems to me childish. It is easy for you to contemplate months ofpostponement. There must be an end now; I can bear it no longer. '

The rain fell unceasingly, and with it began to mingle an autumnal mist. Jasper delayed a moment, then asked calmly:

'Are you going to the Museum?'

'Yes. '

'Go home again for this morning, Marian. You can't work--'

'I must; and I have no time to lose. Good-bye!'

She gave him her hand. They looked at each other for an instant, thenMarian left the shelter of the tree, opened her umbrella, and walkedquickly away. Jasper did not watch her; he had the face of a man who issuffering a severe humiliation. 

A few hours later he told Dora what had come to pass, and withoutextenuation of his own conduct. His sister said very little, for sherecognised genuine suffering in his tones and aspect. But when it wasover, she sat down and wrote to Marian. 

'I feel far more disposed to congratulate you than to regret what hashappened. Now that there is no necessity for silence, I will tell yousomething which will help you to see Jasper in his true light. A fewweeks ago he actually proposed to a woman for whom he does not pretendto have the slightest affection, but who is very rich, and who seemedlikely to be foolish enough to marry him. Yesterday morning he receivedher final answer--a refusal. I am not sure that I was right in keepingthis a secret from you, but I might have done harm by interfering. Youwill understand (though surely you need no fresh proof) how utterlyunworthy he is of you. You cannot, I am sure you cannot, regard it as amisfortune that all is over between you. Dearest Marian, do not cease tothink of me as your friend because my brother has disgraced himself. Ifyou can't see me, at least let us write to each other. You are the onlyfriend I have of my own sex, and I could not bear to lose you. '

And much more of the same tenor. 

Several days passed before there came a reply. It was written withundisturbed kindness of feeling, but in few words. 

'For the present we cannot see each other, but I am very far fromwishing that our friendship should come to an end. I must only ask thatyou will write to me without the least reference to these troubles; tellme always about yourself, and be sure that you cannot tell me too much. I hope you may soon be able to send me the news which was foreshadowedin our last talk--though "foreshadowed" is a wrong word to use of cominghappiness, isn't it? That paper I sent to Mr Trenchard is accepted, andI shall be glad to have your criticism when it comes out; don't sparemy style, which needs a great deal of chastening. I have been thinking:couldn't you use your holiday in Sark for a story? To judge from yourletters, you could make an excellent background of word-painting. '

Dora sighed, and shook her little head, and thought of her brother withunspeakable disdain. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. REWARDS

When the fitting moment arrived, Alfred Yule underwent an operationfor cataract, and it was believed at first that the result would befavourable. This hope had but short duration; though the utmost prudencewas exercised, evil symptoms declared themselves, and in a few months'time all prospect of restoring his vision was at an end. Anxiety, andthen the fatal assurance, undermined his health; with blindness, therefell upon him the debility of premature old age. 

The position of the family was desperate. Marian had suffered much allthe winter from attacks of nervous disorder, and by no effort of willcould she produce enough literary work to supplement adequately theincome derived from her fifteen hundred pounds. In the summer of 1885things were at the worst; Marian saw no alternative but to draw upon hercapital, and so relieve the present at the expense of the future. Shehad a mournful warning before her eyes in the case of poor Hinks and hiswife, who were now kept from the workhouse only by charity. But at thisjuncture the rescuer appeared. Mr Quarmby and certain of his friendswere already making a subscription for the Yules' benefit, when one oftheir number--Mr Jedwood, the publisher--came forward with a proposalwhich relieved the minds of all concerned. Mr Jedwood had a brother whowas the director of a public library in a provincial town, and by thismeans he was enabled to offer Marian Yule a place as assistant in thatinstitution; she would receive seventy-five pounds a year, and thus, adding her own income, would be able to put her parents beyond the reachof want. The family at once removed from London, and the name of Yulewas no longer met with in periodical literature. 

By an interesting coincidence, it was on the day of this departure thatthere appeared a number of The West End in which the place of honour, that of the week's Celebrity, was occupied by Clement Fadge. A colouredportrait of this illustrious man challenged the admiration of all whohad literary tastes, and two columns of panegyric recorded his careerfor the encouragement of aspiring youth. This article, of courseunsigned, came from the pen of Jasper Milvain. 

It was only by indirect channels that Jasper learnt how Marian and herparents had been provided for. Dora's correspondence with her friendsoon languished; in the nature of things this could not but happen; andabout the time when Alfred Yule became totally blind the girls ceased tohear anything of each other. An event which came to pass in the springsorely tempted Dora to write, but out of good feeling she refrained. 

For it was then that she at length decided to change her name forthat of Whelpdale. Jasper could not quite reconcile himself to thiscondescension; in various discourses he pointed out to his sister howmuch higher she might look if she would only have a little patience. 

'Whelpdale will never be a man of any note. A good fellow, I admit, butborne in all senses. Let me impress upon you, my dear girl, that I havea future before me, and that there is no reason--with your charm ofperson and mind--why you should not marry brilliantly. Whelpdale cangive you a decent home, I admit, but as regards society he will be adrag upon you. '

'It happens, Jasper, that I have promised to marry him, ' replied Dora, in a significant tone. 

'Well, I regret it, but--you are of course your own mistress. I shallmake no unpleasantness. I don't dislike Whelpdale, and I shall remain onfriendly terms with him. '

'That is very kind of you, ' said his sister suavely. 

Whelpdale was frantic with exultation. When the day of the wedding hadbeen settled, he rushed into Jasper's study and fairly shed tears beforehe could command his voice. 

'There is no mortal on the surface of the globe one-tenth so happy asI am!' he gasped. 'I can't believe it! Why in the name of sense andjustice have I been suffered to attain this blessedness? Think of thedays when I all but starved in my Albany Street garret, scarcely betteroff than poor, dear old Biffen! Why should I have come to this, andBiffen have poisoned himself in despair? He was a thousand times abetter and cleverer fellow than I. And poor old Reardon, dead in misery!Could I for a moment compare with him?'

'My dear fellow, ' said Jasper, calmly, 'compose yourself and be logical. In the first place, success has nothing whatever to do with moraldeserts; and then, both Reardon and Biffen were hopelessly unpractical. In such an admirable social order as ours, they were bound to go to thedogs. Let us be sorry for them, but let us recognise causas rerum, asBiffen would have said. You have exercised ingenuity and perseverance;you have your reward. '

'And when I think that I might have married fatally on thirteen orfourteen different occasions. By-the-by, I implore you never to tellDora those stories about me. I should lose all her respect. Do youremember the girl from Birmingham?' He laughed wildly. 'Heaven bepraised that she threw me over! Eternal gratitude to all and sundry ofthe girls who have plunged me into wretchedness!'

'I admit that you have run the gauntlet, and that you have hadmarvellous escapes. But be good enough to leave me alone for thepresent. I must finish this review by midday. '

'Only one word. I don't know how to thank Dora, how to express myinfinite sense of her goodness. Will you try to do so for me? You canspeak to her with calmness. Will you tell her what I have said to you?'

'Oh, certainly. --I should recommend a cooling draught of some kind. Lookin at a chemist's as you walk on. '

The heavens did not fall before the marriage-day, and the wedded pairbetook themselves for a few weeks to the Continent. They had been backagain and established in their house at Earl's Court for a month, whenone morning about twelve o'clock Jasper dropped in, as though casually. Dora was writing; she had no thought of entirely abandoning literature, and had in hand at present a very pretty tale which would probablyappear in The English Girl. Her boudoir, in which she sat, couldnot well have been daintier and more appropriate to the charmingcharacteristics of its mistress. 

Mrs Whelpdale affected no literary slovenliness; she was dressed inlight colours, and looked so lovely that even Jasper paused on thethreshold with a smile of admiration. 

'Upon my word, ' he exclaimed, 'I am proud of my sisters! What did youthink of Maud last night? Wasn't she superb?'

'She certainly did look very well. But I doubt if she's very happy. '

'That is her own look out; I told her plainly enough my opinion ofDolomore. But she was in such a tremendous hurry. '

'You are detestable, Jasper! Is it inconceivable to you that a man orwoman should be disinterested when they marry?'

'By no means. '

'Maud didn't marry for money any more than I did. '

'You remember the Northern Farmer: "Doan't thou marry for money, butgo where money is. " An admirable piece of advice. Well, Maud made amistake, let us say. Dolomore is a clown, and now she knows it. Why, if she had waited, she might have married one of the leading men of theday. She is fit to be a duchess, as far as appearance goes; but I wasnever snobbish. I care very little about titles; what I look to isintellectual distinction. '

'Combined with financial success. '

'Why, that is what distinction means. ' He looked round the room with asmile. 'You are not uncomfortable here, old girl. I wish mother couldhave lived till now. '

'I wish it very, very often, ' Dora replied in a moved voice. 

'We haven't done badly, drawbacks considered. Now, you may speak ofmoney as scornfully as you like; but suppose you had married a man whocould only keep you in lodgings! How would life look to you?'

'Who ever disputed the value of money? But there are things one mustn'tsacrifice to gain it. '

'I suppose so. Well, I have some news for you, Dora. I am thinking offollowing your example. '

Dora's face changed to grave anticipation. 

'And who is it?'

'Amy Reardon. '

His sister turned away, with a look of intense annoyance. 

'You see, I am disinterested myself, ' he went on. 'I might find a wifewho had wealth and social standing. But I choose Amy deliberately. '

'An abominable choice!'

'No; an excellent choice. I have never yet met a woman so well fittedto aid me in my career. She has a trifling sum of money, which will beuseful for the next year or two--'

'What has she done with the rest of it, then?'

'Oh, the ten thousand is intact, but it can't be seriously spoken of. Itwill keep up appearances till I get my editorship and so on. We shall bemarried early in August, I think. I want to ask you if you will go andsee her. '

'On no account! I couldn't be civil to her. '

Jasper's brows blackened. 

'This is idiotic prejudice, Dora. I think I have some claim upon you; Ihave shown some kindness--'

'You have, and I am not ungrateful. But I dislike Mrs Reardon, and Icouldn't bring myself to be friendly with her. '

'You don't know her. '

'Too well. You yourself have taught me to know her. Don't compel me tosay what I think of her. '

'She is beautiful, and high-minded, and warm-hearted. I don't knowa womanly quality that she doesn't possess. You will offend me mostseriously if you speak a word against her. '

'Then I will be silent. But you must never ask me to meet her. '

'Never?'

'Never!'

'Then we shall quarrel. I haven't deserved this, Dora. If you refuseto meet my wife on terms of decent friendliness, there's no moreintercourse between your house and mine. You have to choose. Persist inthis fatuous obstinacy, and I have done with you!'

'So be it!'

'That is your final answer?'

Dora, who was now as angry as he, gave a short affirmative, and Jasperat once left her. 

But it was very unlikely that things should rest at this pass. Thebrother and sister were bound by a strong mutual affection, andWhelpdale was not long in effecting a compromise. 

'My dear wife, ' he exclaimed, in despair at the threatened calamity, 'you are right, a thousand times, but it's impossible for you to beon ill terms with Jasper. There's no need for you to see much of MrsReardon--'

'I hate her! She killed her husband; I am sure of it. '

'My darling!'

'I mean by her base conduct. She is a cold, cruel, unprincipledcreature! Jasper makes himself more than ever contemptible by marryingher. '

All the same, in less than three weeks Mrs Whelpdale had called uponAmy, and the call was returned. The two women were perfectly consciousof reciprocal dislike, but they smothered the feeling beneathconventional suavities. Jasper was not backward in making known hisgratitude for Dora's concession, and indeed it became clear to all hisintimates that this marriage would be by no means one of mere interest;the man was in love at last, if he had never been before. 

Let lapse the ensuing twelve months, and come to an evening at the endof July, 1886. Mr and Mrs Milvain are entertaining a small and selectparty of friends at dinner. Their house in Bayswater is neither largenor internally magnificent, but it will do very well for the temporarysojourn of a young man of letters who has much greater things inconfident expectation, who is a good deal talked of, who can gatherclever and worthy people at his table, and whose matchless wife wouldattract men of taste to a very much poorer abode. 

Jasper had changed considerably in appearance since that last holidaythat he spent in his mother's house at Finden. At present he would havebeen taken for five-and-thirty, though only in his twenty-ninth year;his hair was noticeably thinning; his moustache had grown heavier;a wrinkle or two showed beneath his eyes; his voice was softer, yetfirmer. It goes without saying that his evening uniform lacked no pointof perfection, and somehow it suggested a more elaborate care than thatof other men in the room. He laughed frequently, and with a throwingback of the head which seemed to express a spirit of triumph. 

Amy looked her years to the full, but her type of beauty, as youknow, was independent of youthfulness. That suspicion of masculinityobservable in her when she became Reardon's wife impressed one now onlyas the consummate grace of a perfectly-built woman. You saw that atforty, at fifty, she would be one of the stateliest of dames. When shebent her head towards the person with whom she spoke, it was an act ofqueenly favour. Her words were uttered with just enough deliberation togive them the value of an opinion; she smiled with a delicious shadeof irony; her glance intimated that nothing could be too subtle for herunderstanding. 

The guests numbered six, and no one of them was insignificant. Two ofthe men were about Jasper's age, and they had already made their markin literature; the third was a novelist of circulating fame, spirallycrescent. The three of the stronger sex were excellent modern types, with sweet lips attuned to epigram, and good broad brows. 

The novelist at one point put an interesting question to Amy. 

'Is it true that Fadge is leaving The Current?'

'It is rumoured, I believe. '

'Going to one of the quarterlies, they say, ' remarked a lady. 'He isgetting terribly autocratic. Have you heard the delightful story ofhis telling Mr Rowland to persevere, as his last work was one ofconsiderable promise?'

Mr Rowland was a man who had made a merited reputation when Fadge wasstill on the lower rungs of journalism. Amy smiled and told anotheranecdote of the great editor. Whilst speaking, she caught her husband'seye, and perhaps this was the reason why her story, at the close, seemedrather amiably pointless--not a common fault when she narrated. 

When the ladies had withdrawn, one of the younger men, in a conversationabout a certain magazine, remarked:

'Thomas always maintains that it was killed by that solemn old stager, Alfred Yule. By the way, he is dead himself, I hear. '

Jasper bent forward. 

'Alfred Yule is dead?'

'So Jedwood told me this morning. He died in the country somewhere, blind and fallen on evil days, poor old fellow. '

All the guests were ignorant of any tie of kindred between their hostand the man spoken of. 

'I believe, ' said the novelist, 'that he had a clever daughter who usedto do all the work he signed. That used to be a current bit of scandalin Fadge's circle. '

'Oh, there was much exaggeration in that, ' remarked Jasper, blandly. 'His daughter assisted him, doubtless, but in quite a legitimate way. One used to see her at the Museum. '

The subject was dropped. 

An hour and a half later, when the last stranger had taken his leave, Jasper examined two or three letters which had arrived since dinner-timeand were lying on the hall table. With one of them open in his hand, hesuddenly sprang up the stairs and leaped, rather than stepped, into thedrawing-room. Amy was reading an evening paper. 

'Look at this!' he cried, holding the letter to her. 

It was a communication from the publishers who owned The Current; theystated that the editorship of that review would shortly be resignedby Mr Fadge, and they inquired whether Milvain would feel disposed toassume the vacant chair. 

Amy sprang up and threw her arms about her husband's neck, uttering acry of delight. 

'So soon! Oh, this is great! this is glorious!'

'Do you think this would have been offered to me but for the spaciouslife we have led of late? Never! Was I right in my calculations, Amy?'

'Did I ever doubt it?'

He returned her embrace ardently, and gazed into her eyes with profoundtenderness. 

'Doesn't the future brighten?'

'It has been very bright to me, Jasper, since I became your wife. '

'And I owe my fortune to you, dear girl. Now the way is smooth!'

They placed themselves on a settee, Jasper with an arm about his wife'swaist, as if they were newly plighted lovers. When they had talked for along time, Milvain said in a changed tone:

'I am told that your uncle is dead. '

He mentioned how the news had reached him. 

'I must make inquiries to-morrow. I suppose there will be a notice inThe Study and some of the other papers. I hope somebody will make it anopportunity to have a hit at that ruffian Fadge. By-the-by, it doesn'tmuch matter now how you speak of Fadge; but I was a trifle anxious whenI heard your story at dinner. '

'Oh, you can afford to be more independent. --What are you thinkingabout?'

'Nothing. '

'Why do you look sad?--Yes, I know, I know. I'll try to forgive you. '

'I can't help thinking at times of the poor girl, Amy. Life will beeasier for her now, with only her mother to support. Someone spoke ofher this evening, and repeated Fadge's lie that she used to do all herfather's writing. '

'She was capable of doing it. I must seem to you rather a poor-brainedwoman in comparison. Isn't it true?'

'My dearest, you are a perfect woman, and poor Marian was only a cleverschool-girl. Do you know, I never could help imagining that she hadink-stains on her fingers. Heaven forbid that I should say it unkindly!It was touching to me at the time, for I knew how fearfully hard sheworked. '

'She nearly ruined your life; remember that. '

Jasper was silent. 

'You will never confess it, and that is a fault in you. '

'She loved me, Amy. '

'Perhaps! as a school-girl loves. But you never loved her. '

'No. '

Amy examined his face as he spoke. 

'Her image is very faint before me, ' Jasper pursued, 'and soon I shallscarcely be able to recall it. Yes, you are right; she nearly ruinedme. And in more senses than one. Poverty and struggle, under suchcircumstances, would have made me a detestable creature. As it is, I amnot such a bad fellow, Amy. '

She laughed, and caressed his cheek. 

'No, I am far from a bad fellow. I feel kindly to everyone who deservesit. I like to be generous, in word and deed. Trust me, there's manya man who would like to be generous, but is made despicably mean bynecessity. What a true sentence that is of Landor's: "It has beenrepeated often enough that vice leads to misery; will no man declarethat misery leads to vice?" I have much of the weakness that mightbecome viciousness, but I am now far from the possibility of beingvicious. Of course there are men, like Fadge, who seem only to growmeaner the more prosperous they are; but these are exceptions. Happinessis the nurse of virtue. '

'And independence the root of happiness. '

'True. "The glorious privilege of being independent"--yes, Burnsunderstood the matter. Go to the piano, dear, and play me something. If I don't mind, I shall fall into Whelpdale's vein, and talk about my"blessedness". Ha! isn't the world a glorious place?'

'For rich people. '

'Yes, for rich people. How I pity the poor devils!--Play anything. Better still if you will sing, my nightingale!'

So Amy first played and then sang, and Jasper lay back in dreamy bliss.