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New Grub Street (1891)
by George Gissing



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
parish church struck eight; it was two miles away, but the
strokes were borne very distinctly on the west wind this autumn
morning. Jasper, listening before 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 pained
forehead.

'I don't know. It happened to catch my eye in the paper yesterday
that someone was to be hanged at Newgate this morning. There's a
certain satisfaction 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,
what better use could I make of it? I could curse the brutality
of an age that sanctioned such things; or I could grow doleful
over the misery of the poor--fellow. But those emotions would be
as little profitable to others as to myself. It just happened
that I saw the thing in a light of consolation. Things are bad
with me, but not so bad as THAT. I might be going out between
Jack Ketch and the Chaplain to be hanged; instead of that, 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
the world.--(Do try boiling the milk, mother.)--The tone in which
I spoke was spontaneous; being so, it needs no justification.'

He was a young man of five-and-twenty, well built, though a
trifle meagre, and of pale complexion. He had hair that was very
nearly black, and a clean-shaven face, best described, perhaps,
as of bureaucratic type. The clothes he wore were of expensive
material, but had seen a good 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 different character. Maud, who was twenty-two, had bold,
handsome features, and very beautiful hair of russet tinge; hers
was not a face that readily smiled. Their mother had the look and
manners of an invalid, though she sat at table in the ordinary
way. All were dressed as ladies, though very simply. The room,
which looked upon a small patch of garden, was furnished with
old-fashioned comfort, only one or two objects suggesting the
decorative spirit of 1882.

'A man who comes to be hanged,' pursued Jasper, impartially, 'has
the satisfaction of knowing that he has brought society to its
last resource. He is a man of such fatal importance that nothing
will serve against him but the supreme effort of law. In a way,
you know, that is success.'

'In a way,' repeated Maud, scornfully.

'Suppose we talk of something else,' suggested Dora, who seemed
to fear a conflict between her sister and Jasper.

Almost at the same moment a diversion was afforded by the arrival
of the post. There was a letter for Mrs Milvain, a letter and
newspaper for her son. Whilst the girls and their mother talked
of unimportant news communicated by the one correspondent, Jasper
read the missive addressed to himself.

'This is from Reardon,' he remarked to the younger girl. 'Things
are going badly with him. He is just the kind of fellow to end by
poisoning or shooting himself.'

'But why?'

'Can't get anything done; and begins to be sore troubled on his
wife's account.'

'Is he ill?'

'Overworked, I suppose. But it's just what I foresaw. He isn't
the kind of man to keep up literary production as a paying
business. In favourable circumstances he might write a fairly
good book once every two or three years. The failure of his last
depressed him, and now he is 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 at her mother.

'Not at all,' said Jasper. 'It's true I envied the fellow,
because he persuaded a handsome girl to believe in him and share
his risks, but I shall be very sorry if he goes to the--to the
dogs. He's my one serious friend. But it irritates me to see a
man making such large demands upon fortune. One must be more
modest--as I am. Because one book had a sort of success he
imagined his struggles were over. He got a hundred pounds for "On
Neutral Ground," and at once counted on a continuance of payments
in geometrical proportion. I hinted to him that he couldn't keep
it up, and he smiled with tolerance, no doubt thinking "He judges
me 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, and wait.'

'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
into modest rooms--they must furnish a flat. I rather wonder he
didn't start a 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 get as 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 in Marylebone Workhouse before he advanced sixpence, or I'm
much mistaken in him. Her mother has only just enough to live
upon; can't possibly help 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
the fatal thing. A man in his position, if he marry at all, must
take either a work-girl or an heiress, and in many ways the work-
girl is preferable.'

'How can you say that?' asked Dora. 'You never cease talking
about the advantages of money.'

'Oh, I don't mean that for ME the work-girl would be preferable;
by no means; but for a man like Reardon. He is absurd enough to
be conscientious, likes to be called an "artist," and so on. He
might possibly earn a hundred and fifty a year if his mind were
at rest, and that would be enough if he had married a decent
little dressmaker. He wouldn't desire superfluities, and the
quality of his work would be its own 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
because my 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-
absent way. '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 mean
everything to him.'

'No, no,' fell from Jasper, thoughtfully. 'I don't think you'd
get along very well with Mrs Reardon; and then, if her uncle is
coming to Mr Yule'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?'
asked Dora. '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
be lending 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 man like me. He is the old type of unpractical
artist; I am the literary man of 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 I do nothing; but that's a
great mistake, I am learning my business. Literature nowadays is
a trade. Putting aside men of genius, who may succeed by mere
cosmic force, your successful man of letters is your skilful
tradesman. He thinks first and foremost of the markets; when one
kind of goods begins to go off slackly, he is ready with
something new and appetising. He knows perfectly all the possible
sources of income. Whatever he has to sell he'll get payment for
it from all sorts of various quarters; none of your unpractical
selling for a lump sum to a middleman who will make six distinct
profits. Now, look you: if I had been 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 and newspapers and
foreign publishers, and--all sorts of people. Reardon can't do
that kind of thing, he's behind his age; he sells a manuscript as
if he lived in Sam Johnson's Grub Street. But our Grub Street of
to-day is quite a different place:  it is supplied with
telegraphic communication, it knows what literary fare is in
demand in every part of the 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 am slowly, 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 a pity, of course; there's a great deal of
money in it. But I have plenty of 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
decent income 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 Mr Yule'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,'
replied Jasper, meditatively. 'Mrs Reardon is only his niece. The
man's brother and sister will have the first helping, I suppose. 
And then, if it comes to the second generation, the literary Yule
has a daughter, and by her being 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
the London paper that had come by post.

'Had Mr Reardon any hopes of that kind at the time of his
marriage, do you 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
servant came to clear the table he strolled slowly away, humming
a tune.

The house was pleasantly situated by the roadside in a little
village named Finden. Opposite stood the church, a plain, low,
square-towered building. As it was cattle-market to-day in the
town of Wattleborough, droves of beasts and sheep occasionally
went by, or the rattle of a grazier's cart sounded for a moment. 
On ordinary days the road saw few vehicles, 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 widow enjoyed an annuity of two hundred and forty
pounds, terminable with her life; the children had nothing of
their own. Maud acted irregularly as a teacher of music; Dora had
an engagement as visiting governess in a Wattleborough family. 
Twice a year, as a rule, Jasper came down from London to spend a
fortnight with them; to-day marked the middle of his autumn
visit, and the strained relations between him and his sisters
which invariably made the second week rather trying for all in
the house had already become noticeable.

In the course of the morning Jasper had half an hour's private
talk with his mother, after which he set off to roam in the
sunshine. Shortly after he had left the house, Maud, her domestic
duties dismissed for the time, came into the parlour where Mrs
Milvain was reclining on the sofa.

'Jasper wants more money,' said the mother, when Maud had sat in
meditation 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
feeble tone of worry.

'Then you must leave the matter to me, that's all. There's no
money for him, and there's an end of it.'

Maud set her features in sullen determination. There was a brief
silence.

'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
food and lodging --'

'Don't be so quick-tempered. You know very well I am far from
grudging you anything, dear. But I only meant to say that Jasper
does earn something, you know.'

'It's a disgraceful thing that he doesn't earn as much as he
needs. We are sacrificed to him, as we always have been. Why
should we be pinching and stinting to keep him in idleness?'

'But you really can't call it idleness, Maud. He is studying his
profession.'

'Pray call it trade; he prefers it. How do I know that he's
studying anything? What does he mean by "studying"? And to hear
him speak scornfully of his friend Mr Reardon, who seems to work
hard all through the year! It's disgusting, mother. At this rate
he will never earn his own living. Who hasn't seen or heard of
such men? If we had another hundred a year, I would say nothing. 
But we can't live on what he leaves us, and I'm not going to let
you try. I shall tell Jasper plainly that he's got to work for
his own support.'

Another silence, and a longer one. Mrs Milvain furtively wiped a
tear from her cheek.

'It seems very cruel to refuse,' she said at length, 'when
another year may 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
think a bit, mother. Suppose anything were to happen to you, what
becomes of Dora and me? And what becomes of Jasper, too? It's the
truest kindness to him to compel him to earn a living. He gets
more and more incapable of it.'

'You can't say that, Maud. He earns a little more each year. But
for that, I should have my doubts. He has made thirty pounds
already this year, and he only made about twenty-five the whole
of last. We must be fair to him, you know. I can't help feeling
that he knows what he's about. 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 a year. 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 buying his 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 makes no progress.'

'Well, all I can say is,' exclaimed the girl impatiently, 'it's
very lucky for him that he's got a mother who willingly
sacrifices her daughters to him.'

'That's how you always break out. You don't care what unkindness
you say!'

'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 talk to you, Maud. The older I get, and the weaker I get, the
more unfeeling you are to me.'

Scenes of this kind were no uncommon thing. The clash of tempers
lasted for several minutes, then Maud flung out of the room. An
hour later, at dinner-time, she was rather more caustic in her
remarks than usual, but this 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'm
convinced you could make money if you tried. There's a tremendous
sale for 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. In your place, I'd make a speciality of Sunday-school
prize-books; you know the kind of thing I mean. They sell like
hot cakes. And there's so deuced 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
well as 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
earliest opportunity. I merely suggested what seemed practicable.

But I don't think you have genius, Maud. People have got that
ancient prejudice so firmly rooted in their heads--that one
mustn't write save at 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 upon new attractions;
then go to work methodically, so many pages a day. There's no
question of the divine afflatus; that belongs to another sphere
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. He thinks me a gross beast, often enough. What the devil--I
mean what on earth is there in typography to make everything it
deals with sacred? I don't advocate the propagation of vicious
literature; I speak only of good, coarse, marketable stuff for
the world's vulgar. You just give it a thought, Maud; talk it
over with Dora.'

He resumed presently:

'I maintain that we people of brains are justified in supplying
the mob with the food it likes. We are not geniuses, and if we
sit down in a spirit 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 our lives. If only I had the skill, I would
produce novels out-trashing the trashiest that ever sold fifty
thousand copies. But it needs skill, mind you: and to deny it is
a gross error of the literary pedants. To please the vulgar you
must, one way or another, incarnate the genius of vulgarity. For
my own part, I shan't be able to address the bulkiest multitude;
my talent doesn't lend itself to that form. I shall write for the
upper middle-class of intellect, the people who like to feel that
what they are reading has some special cleverness, but who can't
distinguish between stones and paste. That's why I'm so slow in
warming to the work. Every month I feel surer of myself, however.

That last thing of mine in The West End distinctly hit the mark;
it wasn't too flashy, it wasn't too solid. I heard fellows speak
of it in the train.'

Mrs Milvain kept glancing at Maud, with eyes which desired her
attention to these utterances. None the less, half an hour after
dinner, Jasper found himself encountered by his sister in the
garden, on her face a look which warned him of what was coming.

'I want you to tell me something, Jasper. How much longer shall
you look to mother for support? I mean it literally; let me have
an idea of how much 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 shall begin to pay my debts. My dear girl, I have the honour to
be a tolerably long-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 set off for a stroll along the lanes. On his countenance
was just a trace of solicitude, but for the most part he wore a
thoughtful smile. Now and then he stroked his smoothly-shaven
jaws with thumb and fingers. Occasionally he became observant of
wayside details--of the colour of a maple leaf, the shape of a
tall thistle, the consistency of a fungus. At the few people who
passed he looked keenly, surveying them from head to foot.

On turning, at the limit of his walk, he found himself almost
face to face 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 hat with a broad brim and a decent
suit of broadcloth. With him was a girl of perhaps two-and-
twenty, in a slate-coloured dress with very little ornament, and
a yellow straw hat of the shape originally appropriated to males;
her dark hair was cut short, and lay in innumerable crisp curls. 
Father and daughter, obviously. The girl, to a casual eye, was
neither pretty nor beautiful, but she had a grave and impressive
face, with a complexion of ivory tone; her walk was gracefully
modest, and she seemed to be enjoying the country air.

Jasper mused concerning them. When he had walked a few yards, he
looked back; at the same moment the unknown man also turned his
head.

'Where the deuce have I seen them--him and the girl too?' Milvain
asked himself.

And before he reached home the recollection he sought flashed
upon his mind.

'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 Maud were busy with plain needlework, 'I must have met Alfred
Yule and his daughter.'

'How did you recognise them?' Mrs Milvain inquired.

'I passed an old buffer and a pale-faced girl whom I know by
sight at the British Museum. It wasn't near Yule's house, but
they were taking a walk.'

'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't
remembered their faces. Both of them are obvious dwellers in the
valley of 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. I suppose you have the oddest old-fashioned ideas of such
people. No, I rather like the look of her. Simpatica, I should
think, as that ass Whelpdale would say. A very delicate, pure
complexion, though morbid; nice eyes; figure not spoilt yet. But
of course I may be wrong about their identity.'

Later in the afternoon Jasper's conjecture was rendered a
certainty. Maud had walked to Wattleborough, where she would meet
Dora on the latter's return from her teaching, and Mrs Milvain
sat alone, in a mood of depression; there was a ring at the
door-bell, and the servant admitted Miss Harrow. 

This lady acted as housekeeper to Mr John Yule, a wealthy
resident in this neighbourhood; she was the sister of his
deceased wife--a thin, soft-speaking, kindly woman of forty-five.
The greater part of her life she had spent as a governess; her
position now was more agreeable, and the removal of her anxiety
about the future had developed qualities of cheerfulness 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 of Wattleborough 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;
I hardly expected she would, you know. So very unfortunate when
there are difficulties 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 at home. She's a sweet girl, and I should so like you to
meet her. Do come and have tea with us to-morrow afternoon, will
you? Or would it be too much for you just now?'   

'Will you let the girls call? And then perhaps Miss Yule will be
so good as to come and see me?'

'I wonder whether Mr Milvain would like to meet her father? I
have thought that perhaps it might be some advantage to him. 
Alfred is so closely connected with literary people, you know.'

'I feel sure he would be glad,' replied Mrs Milvain. 'But--what
of Jasper's friendship with Mrs Edmund Yule and the Reardons? 
Mightn't it be a little awkward?'  

'Oh, I don't think so, unless he himself felt it so. There would
be no need to mention that, I should say. And, really, it would
be so much better if those estrangements came to an end. John
makes no scruple of speaking freely about everyone, and I don't
think Alfred regards Mrs Edmund with any serious unkindness. If
Mr Milvain would walk over with the 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 he is 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
were curious 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. It was only a quarter of an hour's walk to Mr Yule's
habitation, a small house in a large garden. Jasper was coming
hither for the first time; his sisters now and then visited Miss
Harrow, but very rarely saw Mr Yule himself who made no secret of
the fact that he cared little for female society. In
Wattleborough and the neighbourhood opinions varied greatly as to
this gentleman's character, but women seldom spoke very
favourably of him. Miss Harrow was reticent concerning her
brother-in-law; no one, however, had any reason to believe that
she found life under his roof disagreeable. That she lived with
him at all was of course occasionally matter for comment, certain
Wattleborough ladies having their doubts regarding the position
of a deceased wife's sister under such circumstances; but no one
was seriously exercised about the relations between this sober
lady of forty-five and a man of sixty-three in broken health.

A word of the family history.

John, Alfred, and Edmund Yule were the sons of a Wattleborough
stationer. Each was well educated, up to the age of seventeen, at
the town's grammar school. The eldest, who was a hot-headed lad,
but showed capacities for business, worked at first with his
father, endeavouring to add a bookselling department to the trade
in stationery; but the life of home was not much to his taste,
and at one-and-twenty he obtained a clerk's place in the office
of a London newspaper. Three years after, his father died, and
the small patrimony which fell to him he used in making himself
practically acquainted with the details of paper manufacture, his
aim being to establish himself in partnership with an
acquaintance who had started a small paper-mill in Hertfordshire.

His speculation succeeded, and as years went on he became a
thriving manufacturer. His brother Alfred, in the meantime, had
drifted from work at a London bookseller's into the modern Grub
Street, his adventures in which 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. But John's temper was a
difficult one; Edmund and he quarrelled, parted; and when the
younger died, aged about forty, he left but moderate provision
for his widow and two children.

Only when he had reached middle age did John marry; the
experiment could not be called successful, and Mrs Yule died
three years later, childless.

At fifty-four John Yule retired from active business; he came
back to the scenes of his early life, and began to take an
important part in the municipal affairs of Wattleborough. He was
then a remarkably robust man, fond of out-of-door exercise; he
made it one of his chief efforts to encourage the local Volunteer
movement, the cricket and football clubs, public sports of every
kind, showing no sympathy whatever with those persons 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
rumoured that he was going to present the town with a park. But
by presuming too far upon the bodily vigour which prompted these
activities, he passed of a sudden into the state of a confirmed
invalid. On an autumn expedition in the Hebrides he slept one
night under the open sky, with the result that he had an all but
fatal attack of rheumatic fever. After that, though the direction
of his interests was unchanged, he could no longer set the
example to Wattleborough youth of muscular manliness. The
infliction did not improve his temper; for the next year or two
he was constantly at warfare with one or other of his colleagues
and friends, ill brooking that the familiar control of various
local interests should fall out of his hands. But before long he
appeared to resign himself to his fate, and at present
Wattleborough saw little of him. It seemed likely 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 his will. It
was believed that he could not live much longer.

With his kinsfolk he held very little communication. Alfred Yule,
a battered man of letters, had visited Wattleborough only
twice(including the present occasion) since John's return hither.
Mrs Edmund Yule, with her daughter--now Mrs Reardon--had been
only once, three years ago. These two families, as you have
heard, were not on terms of amity with each other, owing to
difficulties between Mrs Alfred and Mrs Edmund; but John seemed
to regard both impartially. Perhaps the only real warmth of
feeling he had ever known was bestowed upon Edmund, and Miss
Harrow had remarked that he spoke with somewhat more interest of
Edmund's daughter, Amy, than of Alfred's daughter, Marian. But it
was doubtful whether the sudden disappearance from the earth of
all his relatives would greatly have troubled him. He lived a
life of curious self-absorption, reading newspapers (little
else), and talking with old friends who had stuck to him in spite
of his irascibility.

Miss Harrow received her visitors in a small and soberly
furnished drawing-room. She was nervous, probably because of
Jasper Milvain, whom she had met but once--last spring--and who
on that occasion had struck her as an alarmingly modern young
man. In the shadow of a window-curtain sat a slight, simply-
dressed girl, whose short curly hair and thoughtful countenance
Jasper again recognised. When it was his turn to be presented to
Miss Yule, he saw that she doubted for an instant whether or not
to give her hand; yet she decided to do so, and there was
something very pleasant to him in its warm softness. She smiled
with a slight 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 to some of us as the valley of the shadow of books. People
who often work there necessarily get to know each other by sight.

In the same way I knew Miss Yule's father when I happened to pass
him in the road yesterday.'

The three girls began to converse together, perforce of
trivialities. Marian Yule spoke in rather slow tones,
thoughtfully, gently; she had linked her fingers, and laid her
hands, palms downwards, upon her lap--a nervous action. Her
accent was pure, unpretentious; and she used none of the
fashionable turns of speech which would have suggested the habit
of intercourse with distinctly metropolitan society.

'You must wonder how we exist in this out-of-the-way place,'
remarked Maud.

'Rather, I envy you,' Marian answered, with a slight emphasis.

The door opened, and Alfred Yule presented himself. He was tall,
and his head seemed a disproportionate culmination to his meagre
body, it was so large and massively featured. Intellect and
uncertainty of temper were equally marked upon his visage; his
brows were knitted in a permanent expression of severity. He had
thin, smooth hair, grizzled whiskers, a shaven chin. In the
multitudinous wrinkles of his face lay a history of laborious and
stormy life; one readily divined in him a struggling and
embittered man. Though he looked older than his years, he had by
no means the appearance of being beyond the ripeness of his
mental vigour.

'It pleases me to meet you, Mr Milvain,' he said, as he stretched
out his bony hand. 'Your name reminds me of a paper in The
Wayside a month or two ago, which you will perhaps allow a
veteran to say was not ill done.'

'I am grateful to you for noticing it,' replied Jasper.

There was positively a touch of visible warmth upon his cheek. 
The allusion had come so unexpectedly that it caused him keen
pleasure.

Mr Yule seated himself awkwardly, crossed his legs, and began to
stroke the back of his left hand, which lay on his knee. He
seemed to have nothing more to say at present, and allowed Miss
Harrow and the girls to support conversation. Jasper listened
with a smile for a minute or two, then he addressed the
veteran.'Have you seen The Study this week, Mr Yule?'

'Yes.'

'Did you notice that it contains a very favourable review of a
novel which was tremendously abused in the same columns three
weeks ago?'

Mr Yule started, but Jasper could perceive at once that his
emotion was not disagreeable.

'You don't say so.'

'Yes. The novel is Miss Hawk's "On the Boards." How will the
editor get out of this?'

'H'm! Of course Mr Fadge is not immediately responsible; but
it'll be unpleasant for him, decidedly unpleasant.' He smiled
grimly. 'You hear this, Marian?'

'How is it explained, father?'

'May be accident, of course; but--well, there's no knowing. I
think it very likely this will be the end of Mr Fadge's tenure of
office. Rackett, the proprietor, only wants a plausible excuse
for making a change. The paper has been going downhill for the
last year; I know of two publishing houses who have withdrawn
their advertising from it, and who never send their books for
review. Everyone foresaw that kind of thing from the day Mr Fadge
became editor. The tone of his paragraphs has been detestable. 
Two reviews of the same novel, eh? And diametrically opposed? Ha!

ha!'

Gradually he had passed from quiet appreciation of the joke to
undisguised mirth and pleasure. His utterance of the name 'Mr
Fadge' sufficiently intimated that he had some cause of personal
discontent with the editor of The Study.

'The author,' remarked Milvain, 'ought to make a good thing out
of this.'

'Will, no doubt. Ought to write at once to the papers, calling
attention to this sample of critical impartiality. Ha! ha!'

He rose and went to the window, where for several minutes he
stood gazing at vacancy, the same grim smile still on his face. 
Jasper in the meantime amused the ladies (his sisters had heard
him on the subject already) with a description of the two
antagonistic notices. But he did not trust himself to express so
freely as he had done at home his opinion of reviewing in
general; it was more than probable that both Yule and his
daughter did a good deal of such work.

'Suppose we go into the garden,' suggested Miss Harrow,
presently. 'It seems a shame to sit indoors on such a lovely
afternoon.'

Hitherto there had been no mention of the master of the house. 
But Mr Yule now remarked to Jasper:

'My brother would be glad if you would come and have a word with
him. He isn't quite well enough to leave his room to-day.'

So, as the ladies went gardenwards, Jasper followed the man of
letters upstairs to a room on the first floor. Here, in a deep
cane chair, which was placed by the open window, sat John Yule. 
He was completely dressed, save that instead of coat he wore a
dressing-gown. The facial likeness between him and his brother
was very strong, but John's would universally have been judged
the finer countenance; illness notwithstanding, he had a
complexion which contrasted in its pure colour with Alfred's
parchmenty skin, and there was more finish about his features. 
His abundant hair was reddish, his long moustache and trimmed
beard 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 of slighting 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 to understand 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 a measure responsible for my depravity.'

'How's that?'

'I understand that you have devoted most of your life to the
making of paper. If that article were not so cheap and so
abundant, people wouldn'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 such paper as I chiefly made; it was a special kind of whitey-
brown, used by shopkeepers.'

He chuckled inwardly, and at the same time reached out for a box
of cigarettes on a table near him. His brother and Jasper each
took one as he 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 that even the business serves a good purpose.'

'What purpose?'

'It helps to spread civilisation.'

'Civilisation!' exclaimed John, scornfully. 'What do you mean by
civilisation? Do you call it civilising men to make them weak,
flabby creatures, with ruined eyes and dyspeptic stomachs? Who is
it that reads most of the stuff that's poured out daily by the
ton from the printing-press? Just the men and women who ought to
spend their leisure hours in open-air exercise; the people who
earn their bread by sedentary pursuits, and who need to live as
soon as they are free from the desk or the counter, not to moon
over small print. Your Board schools, your popular press, your
spread of education! Machinery for ruining the country, that's
what I call it.'

'You have done a good deal, I think, to counteract those
influences in Wattleborough.'

'I hope so; and if only I had kept the use of my limbs I'd have
done a good deal more. I have an idea of offering substantial
prizes to men and women engaged in sedentary work who take an
oath to abstain from all reading, and keep it for a certain
number of years. There's a good deal more need for that than for
abstinence from strong liquor. If I could have had my way I would
have revived prize-fighting.'

His brother laughed with contemptuous impatience.

'You would doubtless like to see military conscription introduced
into England?' said Jasper.

'Of course I should! You talk of civilising; there's no such way
of civilising the masses of the people as by fixed military
service. Before mental training must come training of the body. 
Go about the Continent, and see the effect of military service on
loutish peasants and the lowest classes of town population. Do
you know why it isn't even more successful? Because the damnable
education movement interferes. If Germany would shut up her
schools and universities for the next quarter of a century and go
ahead like blazes with military training there'd be a nation such
as the world has never seen. After that, they might begin a
little book-teaching again--say an hour and a half a day for
everyone above nine years old. Do you suppose, Mr Milvain, that
society is going to be reformed by you people who write for
money? Why, you are the very first class that will be swept from
the face of the earth as soon as the reformation really begins!'

Alfred puffed at his cigarette. His thoughts were occupied with
Mr Fadge and The Study. He was considering whether he could aid
in bringing public contempt upon that literary organ and its
editor. Milvain listened 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
whatever strikes my fancy.'

'Exactly! You don't even pretend that you've got anything to say.
You live by inducing people to give themselves mental
indigestion--and bodily, too, for that matter.'

'Do you know, Mr Yule, that you have suggested a capital idea to
me? If I were to take up your views, I think it isn't at all
unlikely that I might make a good thing of writing against
writing. It should be my literary specialty to rail against
literature. The reading public should pay me for telling them
that they oughtn't to read. I must think it over.'

'Carlyle has anticipated you,' threw in Alfred.

'Yes, but in an antiquated way. I would base my polemic on the
newest philosophy.'

He developed the idea facetiously, whilst John regarded him as he
might have watched a performing monkey.

'There again! your new philosophy!' exclaimed the invalid. 'Why,
it isn't even wholesome stuff, the kind of reading that most of
you force on the public. Now there's the man who has married one
of my nieces--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 "The Optimist." Of all the morbid trash I ever saw,
that beat everything. I thought of writing him a letter, advising
a couple of anti-bilious pills before 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'm not sure that it isn't my duty to offer him a couple of
hundred a year on condition that he writes no more.'

Milvain, with a clear vision of his friend in London, burst into
laughter. But at that point Alfred rose from his chair.

'Shall we rejoin the ladies?' he said, with a certain pedantry

of phrase and manner which often characterised him.

'Think over your ways whilst you're still young,' said John as he
shook hands with his visitor.

'Your brother speaks quite seriously, I suppose?' Jasper remarked
when he was in the garden with Alfred.

'I think so. It's amusing now and then, but gets rather tiresome
when you hear it often. By-the-bye, you are not personally
acquainted with Mr Fadge?'

'I didn't even know his name until you mentioned it.'

'The most malicious man in the literary world. There's no
uncharitableness in feeling a certain pleasure when he gets into
a scrape. I could tell you incredible stories about him; but that
kind of thing is probably as little to your taste as it is to
mine.'

Miss Harrow and her companions, having caught sight of the pair,
came towards them. Tea was to be brought out into the garden.

'So you can sit with us and smoke, if you like,' said Miss Harrow
to Alfred. '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
minutes he begged that the ladies would excuse his withdrawing;
he had two or three letters to write before post-time, which was
early at Finden.

Jasper, relieved by the veteran's departure, began at once to
make himself very agreeable company. When he chose to lay aside
the topic of his own difficulties and ambitions, he could
converse with a spontaneous gaiety which readily won the
good-will of listeners. Naturally he addressed himself very often
to Marian Yule, whose attention complimented him. She said
little, and evidently was at no time a free talker, 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 him a particular grace in the movement; her head and neck were
admirably formed, and the short hair drew attention to this.

It was agreed that Miss Harrow and Marian should come on the
second day after to have tea with the Milvains. And when Jasper
took leave of Alfred Yule, the latter expressed a wish that they
might have a walk together one of these mornings.



CHAPTER III. HOLIDAY

Jasper's favourite walk led him to a spot distant perhaps a mile
and a half from home. From a tract of common he turned into a
short lane which crossed the Great Western railway, and thence by
a stile into certain meadows forming a compact little valley. One
recommendation of this retreat was that it lay sheltered from all
winds; to Jasper a wind was objectionable.  Along the bottom ran
a clear, shallow stream, overhung with elder and hawthorn bushes;
and close by the wooden bridge which spanned it was a great ash
tree, making shadow for cows and sheep when the sun lay hot upon
the open field. It was rare for anyone to come along this path,
save farm labourers morning and evening.

But to-day--the afternoon that followed his visit to John Yule's
house--he saw from a distance that his lounging-place on the
wooden bridge was occupied. Someone else had discovered the
pleasure there was in watching the sun-flecked sparkle of the
water as it flowed over the clean sand and stones. A girl in a
yellow-straw hat; yes, and precisely the person he had hoped, at
the first glance, that it might be. He made no haste as he drew
nearer on the descending path. At length his footstep was heard;
Marian Yule turned her head and clearly recognised him.

She assumed an upright position, letting one of her hands rest
upon the rail. After the exchange of ordinary greetings, Jasper
leaned back against the same support and showed himself disposed
for talk.

'When I was here late in the spring,' he said, 'this ash was only
just budding, though everything else seemed in full leaf.'

'An ash, is it?' murmured Marian. 'I didn't know. I think an oak
is the only tree I can distinguish. Yet,' she added quickly, 'I
knew that the ash 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 a rule.'

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
have always lived here. But I am not very rural in temperament. I
have really no 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 it would be difficult for her to answer. 'I want to persuade
them to try their 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
looking at 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
faculty for such work; but as they certainly haven't for
teaching, that doesn't matter. It's a question of learning a
business. I am going through my apprenticeship, 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
help in everything.'

'Without it, one spends the best part of one's life in toiling
for that first foothold which money could at once purchase. To
have money is becoming of more and more importance in a literary
career; principally because to have money is to have friends. 
Year by year, such influence grows of more account. A lucky man
will still occasionally succeed by dint of his own honest
perseverance, but the chances are dead against anyone who can't
make private interest with influential people; his work is simply
overwhelmed by that of the men who have better opportunities.'

'Don't you think that, even to-day, really good work will sooner
or later be recognised?'

'Later, rather than sooner; and very likely the man can't wait;
he starves in the meantime. You understand that I am not speaking
of genius; I mean marketable literary work. The quantity turned
out is so great that there's no hope for the special attention of
the public unless one can afford to advertise hugely. Take the
instance of a successful all-round man of letters; take Ralph
Warbury, whose name you'll see in the first magazine you happen
to open. But perhaps he is a friend of yours?'

'Oh no!'

'Well, I wasn't going to abuse him. I was only going to ask:Is
there  any quality which distinguishes his work from that of
twenty struggling writers one could name? Of course not. He's a
clever, prolific man; so are they. But he began with money and
friends; he came from Oxford into the thick of advertised people;
his name was mentioned in print six times a week before he had
written a dozen articles. This kind of thing will become the
rule. Men won't succeed in literature that they may get into
society, but will get into society that they may succeed in
literature.'

'Yes, I know it is true,' said Marian, in a low voice.

'There's a friend of mine who writes novels,' Jasper pursued. 
'His books are not works of genius, but they are glaringly
distinct from the ordinary circulating novel. Well, after one or
two attempts, he made half a success; that is to say, the
publishers brought out a second edition of the book in a few
months. There was his opportunity. But he couldn't use it; he had
no friends, because he had no money. A book of half that merit,
if written by a man in the position of Warbury when he started,
would have established the reputation of a lifetime. His
influential friends would have referred to it in leaders, in
magazine articles, in speeches, in sermons. It would have run
through numerous editions, and the author would have had nothing
to do but to write another book and demand his price. But the
novel I'm speaking of was practically forgotten a year after its
appearance; it was whelmed beneath 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
make friends? Was money really indispensable?'

'Why, yes--because he chose to marry. As a bachelor he might
possibly have got into the right circles, though his character
would in any case have made it difficult for him to curry favour.

But as a married man, without means, the situation was hopeless. 
Once married you must live up to the standard of the society you
frequent; you can't be entertained without entertaining in
return. Now if his wife had brought him only a couple of thousand
pounds all might have been well. I should have advised him, in
sober seriousness, to live for two years at the rate of a
thousand a year. At the end of that time he would have been
earning enough to continue at pretty much the same rate of
expenditure.'

'Perhaps.'

'Well, I ought rather to say that the average man of letters
would be able 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's family. I have never met Mr Reardon. But I shouldn't
like you to think that the mention of his name is disagreeable to
me.'

'It made me slightly uncomfortable yesterday--the fact that I am
well acquainted with Mrs Edmund Yule, and that Reardon is my
friend. Yet I didn't see why that should prevent my making your
father's acquaintance.'

'Surely not. I shall say nothing about it; I mean, as you uttered
the name unintentionally.'

There was a pause in the dialogue. They had been speaking almost
confidentially, and Marian seemed to become suddenly aware of an
oddness in the situation. She turned towards the uphill path, as
if thinking of resuming her walk.

'You are tired of standing still,' said Jasper. 'May I walk back
a part of 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 at length 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 a
diffident smile in which lay that suggestion of humour so
delightful upon 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't it? I remember doing just the same thing once when I came
home from school and had an exciting story to tell, with
preservation of anonymities. 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 diplomatic character. 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. And I mean to succeed, you know. I feel that I am one of
the men who do succeed. But I beg your pardon; you asked me a
question. Really, I was only going to say of Reardon what I had
said before: that he hasn't the tact requisite for acquiring
popularity.'

'Then I may hope that it isn't his marriage with my cousin which
has proved a fatal misfortune?'

'In no case,' replied Milvain, averting his look, 'would he have
used his advantages.'

'And now? Do you think he has but poor prospects?'

'I wish I could see any chance of his being estimated at his
right value. 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
frankly at 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 the root of all social ills; its existence accounts even for
the ills that arise from wealth. The poor man is a man labouring
in fetters. I declare there 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.
Jasper looked at his watch.

'Will you indulge me in a piece of childishness?' he said. 'In
less than five minutes a London express goes by; I have often
watched it here, and it 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
hazel bushes and a few larger trees. Leaning upon the parapet of
the bridge, Jasper kept his eye in the westward direction, where
the gleaming rails were 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 looked
eagerly, and in a few moments saw it approaching. The front of
the engine blackened nearer and nearer, coming on with dread
force and speed. A blinding rush, and there burst against the
bridge a great volley of sunlit steam. Milvain and his companion
ran to the opposite parapet, but already the whole train had
emerged, and in a few seconds it had disappeared round a sharp
curve. The leafy branches that grew out over the line swayed
violently backwards and forwards in the perturbed air.

'If I were ten years younger,' said Jasper, laughing, 'I should
say that was jolly! It enspirits me. It makes me feel eager to go
back and plunge into the fight again.'

'Upon me it has just the opposite effect,' fell from Marian, in
very low tones.

'Oh, don't say that! Well, it only means that you haven't had
enough holiday yet. I have been in the country more than a week;
a few days more 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,'
Jasper remarked a propos of nothing. Then he returned to another
subject that was in his thoughts.

'It was by a train like that that I first went up to London. Not
really the 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 in London; think of it!'

'You went straight from school?'

'I was for two years at Redmayne College after leaving
Wattleborough Grammar School. Then my father died, and I spent
nearly half a year at home. I was meant to be a teacher, but the
prospect of entering a school by no means appealed to me. A
friend of mine was studying in London for some Civil Service
exam., so I declared that I would go and do the same thing.'

'Did you succeed?'

'Not I! I never worked properly for that kind of thing. I read
voraciously, and got to know London. I might have gone to the
dogs, you know; but by when I had been in London a year a pretty
clear purpose began to form in me. Strange to think that you were
growing up there all the 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
moment paying 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 be
accompanying Miss Yule.

'Shall I walk on with you, father?' Marian asked, scrutinising
his rugged 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; at once he offered leave-taking in the most natural way. 
Nothing was said on either side about another meeting.

The young man proceeded homewards, but, on arriving, did not at
once enter the house. Behind the garden was a field used for the
grazing of horses; he entered it by the unfastened gate, and
strolled idly hither and thither, now and then standing to
observe a poor worn-out beast, all skin and bone, which had
presumably been sent here in the hope that a little more labour
might still be exacted from it if it were suffered to repose for
a few weeks. There were sores upon its back and legs; it stood in
a fixed attitude of despondency, just flicking away troublesome
flies 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 sat down together. Each had an open book on the
table; throughout the meal they exchanged only a few words.

'Going to play a little?' Jasper suggested when they had gone
into the sitting-room.

'If you like.'

She sat down at the piano, whilst her brother lay on the sofa,
his hands clasped beneath his head. Dora did not play badly, but
an absentmindedness which was commonly observable in her had its
effect upon 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. But I tell you what; when I get back, I'll inquire into the
state of the market. I know a man who was once engaged at Jolly &
Monk's--the chief publishers of that kind of thing, you know; I
must look him up--what a mistake it is to neglect any
acquaintance!--and get some information out of him. But it's
obvious what an immense field there is for anyone who can 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
characteristics of that new generation; it may bring me a few
guineas, and it would be a help to you.'

'But what do you know about the subject?' asked Dora doubtfully.

'What a comical question! It is my business to know something
about every subject--or to know where to get the knowledge.'

'Well,' said Dora, after a pause, 'there's no doubt Maud and I
ought to think very seriously about the future. You are aware,
Jasper, that mother 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're thinking; but for me, it would have been possible. I don't
mind confessing 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 end which I am convinced will be most profitable.

I shall not desert you; you needn't fear that. But just put your
heads together, and cultivate your writing faculty. Suppose you
could both together earn about a hundred a year in Grub Street,
it would be better than 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 an hour's talk with her this afternoon.'

'Indeed?'

'Met her down in the Leggatt fields. I find she doesn't write
independently; just helps her father. What the help amounts to I
can't say. There's something very attractive about her. She
quoted a line or two of Tennyson; the first time I ever heard a
woman speak blank verse with any kind of decency.'

'She was walking alone?'

'Yes. On the way back we met old Yule; he seemed rather grumpy, I
thought. I don't think she's the kind of girl to make a paying
business of literature. Her qualities are personal. And it's
pretty clear to me that the valley of the shadow of books by no
means agrees with her disposition. Possibly old Yule is something
of a tyrant.'

'He doesn't impress me very favourably. Do you think you will
keep up their acquaintance in London?'

'Can't say. I wonder what sort of a woman that mother really is?
Can't be so very gross, I should think.'

'Miss Harrow knows nothing about her, except that she was a quite
uneducated girl.'

'But, dash it! by this time she must have got decent manners. Of
course there may be other objections. Mrs Reardon knows nothing
against her.'

Midway in the following morning, as Jasper sat with a book in the
garden, he was surprised to see Alfred Yule enter by the gate.

'I thought,' began the visitor, who seemed in high spirits, 'that
you might like to see something I received this morning.'

He unfolded a London evening paper, and indicated a long letter
from a casual correspondent. It was written by the authoress of
'On the Boards,' and drew attention, with much expenditure of
witticism, to the conflicting notices of that book which had
appeared in The Study. Jasper read 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 the man who looks after the minor notices. Fadge,more suo,
charged the other man with a design to damage him and the paper.
There's talk of  legal proceedings. 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 a moment?'

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 a laboured account of the blunder just committed by The
Study. It was Alfred's Yule's characteristic that he could do
nothing lighthandedly. He seemed always to converse with effort;
he took a seat with stiff ungainliness; he walked with a
stumbling or sprawling gait.

When he and Jasper set out for their ramble, his loquacity was in
strong contrast with the taciturn mood he had exhibited yesterday
and the day before. He fell upon the general aspects of
contemporary literature.

'. . . The evil of the time is the multiplication of ephemerides.
Hence a demand for essays, descriptive articles, fragments of
criticism, out of all proportion to the supply of even tolerable
work. The men who have an aptitude for turning out this kind of
thing in vast quantities are enlisted by every new periodical,
with the result that their productions are ultimately watered
down into worthlessness. . . . Well now, there's Fadge. Years ago
some of Fadge's work was not without a certain--a certain
conditional promise of--of comparative merit; but now his
writing, in my opinion, is altogether beneath consideration; how
Rackett could be so benighted as to give him The Study--
especially after a man like Henry Hawkridge--passes my
comprehension. Did you read a paper of his, a few months back, in
The Wayside, a preposterous rehabilitation of Elkanah Settle? Ha!

ha! That's what such men are driven to. Elkanah Settle! And he
hadn't even a competent acquaintance with his paltry subject. 
Will you credit that he twice or thrice referred to Settle's
reply to "Absalom and Achitophel" by the title of "Absalom
Transposed," when every schoolgirl knows that the thing was
called "Achitophel Transposed"! This was monstrous enough, but
there was something still more contemptible. He positively, I
assure you, attributed the play of "Epsom Wells" to Crowne! I
should have presumed that every student of even the most trivial
primer of literature was aware that "Epsom Wells" was written by
Shadwell. . . . Now, if one were to take Shadwell for the subject
of a paper, one might very well show how unjustly his name has
fallen into contempt. It has often occurred to me to do this. 
"But Shadwell never deviates into sense." The sneer, in my
opinion, is entirely unmerited. For my own part, I put Shadwell
very high among the dramatists of his time, and I think I could
show that his absolute worth is by no means inconsiderable. 
Shadwell has distinct vigour of dramatic conception; his
dialogue. . . .'

And as he talked the man kept describing imaginary geometrical
figures with the end of his walking-stick; he very seldom raised
his eyes from the ground, and the stoop in his shoulders grew
more and more pronounced, until at a little distance one might
have taken him for a hunchback. At one point Jasper made a pause
to speak of the pleasant wooded prospect that lay before them;
his companion regarded it absently, 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 from literature; yet one saw him to be a man of solid
understanding, and not without perception of humour. He had read
vastly; his memory was a literary cyclopaedia. His failings,
obvious enough, were the results of a strong and somewhat
pedantic individuality ceaselessly at conflict with unpropitious
circumstances.

Towards the young man his demeanour varied between a shy
cordiality and a dignified reserve which was in danger of seeming
pretentious. On the homeward part of the walk he made a few
discreet inquiries regarding Milvain's literary achievements and
prospects, and the frank self-confidence of the replies appeared
to interest him. But he expressed 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,'
Jasper remarked to his mother and sisters at dinner. 'I suspect
it's as much as he can do to keep a footing among the younger
tradesmen. But I think he might have said he was willing to help
me if he could.'

'Perhaps,' replied Maud, 'your large way of talking made him
think any such offer superfluous.'

'You have still to learn,' said Jasper, 'that modesty helps a man
in no department of modern life. People take you at your own
valuation. It's the men who declare boldly that they need no help
to whom practical help comes from all sides. As likely as not
Yule will mention my name to someone. "A young fellow who seems
to see his way pretty clear before him." The other man will
repeat it to somebody else, "A young fellow whose way is clear
before him," and so I come to the ears of a man who thinks "Just
the fellow I want; I must look him up and ask him if he'll do
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 the tea-table.

The Milvain girls were so far from effusive, even towards old
acquaintances, that even the people who knew them best spoke of
them as rather cold and perhaps a trifle condescending; there
were people in Wattleborough who declared their airs of
superiority ridiculous and insufferable. The truth was that
nature had endowed them with a larger share of brains than was
common in their circle, and had added that touch of pride which
harmonised so ill with the restrictions of poverty. Their life
had a tone of melancholy, the painful reserve which characterises
a certain clearly defined class in the present day. Had they been
born twenty years earlier, the children of that veterinary
surgeon would have grown up to a very different, and in all
probability a much happier, existence, for their education would
have been limited to the strictly needful, and--certainly in the
case of the girls--nothing would have encouraged them to look
beyond the simple life possible to a poor man's offspring.  But
whilst Maud and Dora were still with their homely schoolmistress,
Wattleborough saw fit to establish a Girls' High School, and the
moderateness of the fees enabled these sisters to receive an
intellectual training wholly incompatible with the material
conditions of their life. To the relatively poor (who are so much
worse off than the poor absolutely) education is in most cases a
mocking cruelty. The burden of their brother's support made it
very difficult for Maud and Dora even to dress as became their
intellectual station; amusements, holidays, the purchase of such
simple luxuries as were all but indispensable to them, could not
be thought of. It resulted that they held apart from the society
which would have welcomed them, for they could not bear to
receive without offering in turn. The necessity of giving lessons
galled them; they felt--and with every reason--that it made their
position ambiguous. So that, though they could not help knowing
many people, they had no intimates; they encouraged no one to
visit them, and visited other houses as little as might be.

In Marian Yule they divined a sympathetic nature. She was unlike
any girl with whom they had hitherto associated, and it was the
impulse of both to receive her with unusual friendliness. The
habit of reticence could not be at once overcome, and Marian's
own timidity was an obstacle in the way of free intercourse, but
Jasper's conversation at tea helped to smooth the course of
things.

'I wish you lived anywhere near us,' Dora said to their visitor,
as the three 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 my own 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,'
said Jasper, 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
here again before I go. But it's a pity she doesn't play the
piano,' he added, musingly.

For two days nothing was seen of the Yules. Jasper went each
afternoon to the stream in the valley, but did not again meet
Marian. In the meanwhile he was growing restless. A fortnight
always exhausted his capacity for enjoying the companionship of
his mother and sisters, and this time he seemed anxious to get to
the end of his holiday. For all that, there was no continuance of
the domestic bickering which had begun. Whatever the reason, Maud
behaved with unusual mildness to her brother, and Jasper in turn
was gently disposed to both the girls.

On the morning of the third day--it was Saturday--he kept silence
through breakfast, and just as all were about to rise from the
table, he made 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
her engagements in Wattleborough, her brother came into the hall
and took his 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 it
signify?'

'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 on their part that I should see them in London. No, I'll
just leave you to say good-bye for me.'

'But they expect to see us to-day or to-morrow. You told them you
were not going till Monday, and you don't know but Mr Yule might
mean to say something 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 shall keep clear of dangers. These days of holiday idleness
put all sorts of nonsense 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 of all, he loitered to watch a reaping-machine at work;
then he turned into a lane which led up the hill on which was
John Yule's house. Even if he had purposed making a farewell
call, it was still far too early; all he wanted to do was to pass
an hour of the morning, which threatened to lie heavy on his
hands. So he rambled on, and went past the house, and took the
field-path which would lead him circuitously home again.

His mother desired to speak to him. She was in the dining-room;
in the parlour Maud was practising music.

'I think I ought to tell you of something I did yesterday,
Jasper,' Mrs Milvain 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 your uncle William, and
told him that I must positively have that money. I must think of
my own children before his.'

The matter referred to was this. The deceased Mr Milvain had a
brother who was a struggling shopkeeper in a Midland town. Some
ten years ago, William Milvain, on the point of bankruptcy, had
borrowed a hundred and seventy pounds from his brother in
Wattleborough, and this debt was still unpaid; for on the death
of Jasper's father repayment of the loan was impossible for
William, and since then it had seemed hopeless that the sum would
ever be recovered. The poor shopkeeper had a large family, and
Mrs Milvain, notwithstanding her own position, had never felt
able to press him; her relative, however, often spoke of the
business, and declared 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
of honourable feeling, any more than of compassion. I'm sorry you
wrote like that. You won't get anything, and you might as well
have enjoyed the 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. 
If it were only myself I would make any sacrifice for you; but
you must remember--'

'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 be practicable, but I'll have a try. So don't
worry. If uncle writes that he can't pay, just explain why you
wrote, and keep him gently in mind of the thing, that's all. One
doesn't like to do brutal things if one can avoid them, you
know.'

The young man went to the parlour and listened to Maud's music
for awhile. But restlessness again drove him forth. Towards
eleven o'clock he was again ascending in the direction of John
Yule's house. Again he had no intention of calling, but when he
reached the iron gates he lingered.

'I will, by Jove!' he said within himself at last. 'Just to prove
I have complete command of myself. It's to be a display of
strength, not weakness.'

At the house door he inquired for Mr Alfred Yule. That gentleman
had gone in the carriage to Wattleborough, half an hour ago, with
his brother.

'Miss Yule?'

Yes, she was within. Jasper entered the sitting-room, waited a
few moments, and Marian appeared. She wore a dress in which
Milvain had not yet seen her, and it had the effect of making him
regard her attentively. The smile with which she had come towards
him passed from her face, which was perchance a little warmer of
hue than commonly.

'I'm sorry your father is away, Miss Yule,' Jasper began, in an
animated voice. 'I wanted to say good-bye to him. I return to
London in a few hours.'

'You are going sooner than you intended?'

'Yes, I feel I mustn't waste any more time. I think the country
air is doing you good; you certainly look better than when I
passed you that first day.'

'I feel better, much.'

'My sisters are anxious to see you again. I shouldn't wonder if
they come up this afternoon.'

Marian had seated herself on the sofa, and her hands were linked
upon her lap in the same way as when Jasper spoke with her here
before, the palms downward. The beautiful outline of her bent
head was relieved against a broad strip of sunlight on the wall
behind her.

'They deplore,' he continued in a moment, 'that they should come
to know you only to lose you again so soon.

'I have quite as much reason to be sorry,' she answered, looking
at him with the slightest possible smile. 'But perhaps they will
let me write to them, and hear from them now and then.'

'They would think it an honour. Country girls are not often
invited to correspond with literary ladies in London.'

He said it with as much jocoseness as civility allowed, then at
once rose.

'Father will be very sorry,' Marian began, with one quick glance
towards the window and then another towards the door. 'Perhaps he
might possibly be 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 at the 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
strode out 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
make a friend of her. Who knows but you may live in London some
day, and then she might be valuable--morally, I mean. For myself,
I shall do my best not to see her again for a long time; she's
dangerous.'

Jasper was unaccompanied when he went to the station. Whilst
waiting on the platform, he suffered from apprehension lest
Alfred Yule's seamed visage should present itself; but no
acquaintance approached him. Safe in the corner of his third-
class carriage, he smiled at the last glimpse of the familiar
fields, and began to think of something he had decided to 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 this arrangement. The ascent was trying, but then no one
could contest the respectability of the abode. In the flat
immediately beneath resided a successful musician, whose carriage
and pair came at a regular hour each afternoon to take him and
his wife for a most respectable drive. In this special building
no one else seemed at present to keep a carriage, but all the
tenants were gentlefolk.

And as to living up at the very top, why, there were distinct
advantages--as so many people of moderate income are nowadays
hastening to discover. The noise from the street was diminished
at this height; no possible tramplers could establish themselves
above your head; the air was bound to be purer than that of
inferior strata; finally, one had the flat roof whereon to sit or
expatiate in sunny weather. True that a gentle rain of soot was
wont to interfere with one's comfort out there in the open, but
such minutiae are easily forgotten in the fervour of domestic
description. It was undeniable that on a fine day one enjoyed
extensive views. The green ridge from Hampstead to Highgate, with
Primrose Hill and the foliage of Regent's Park in the foreground;
the suburban spaces of St John's Wood, Maida Vale, Kilburn;
Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, lying low by the
side of the hidden river, and a glassy gleam on far-off hills
which meant the Crystal Palace; then the clouded majesty of
eastern London, crowned by St Paul's dome. These things one's
friends were expected to admire. Sunset often afforded rich
effects, but they were for solitary musing.

A sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen. But the kitchen was called
dining-room, or even parlour at need; for the cooking-range lent
itself to concealment behind an ornamental screen, the walls
displayed pictures and bookcases, and a tiny scullery which lay
apart sufficed for the coarser domestic operations. This was
Amy's territory during the hours when her husband was working, or
endeavouring to work. Of necessity, Edwin Reardon used the front
room as his study. His writing-table stood against the window;
each wall had its shelves of serried literature; vases, busts,
engravings (all of the inexpensive kind) served for ornaments.

A maid-servant, recently emancipated from the Board school, came
at half-past seven each morning, and remained until two o'clock,
by which time the Reardons had dined; on special occasions, her
services were enlisted for later hours. But it was Reardon's
habit to begin the serious work of the day at about three
o'clock, and to continue with brief interruptions until ten or
eleven; in many respects an awkward arrangement, but enforced by
the man's temperament and his poverty.

One evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper
before him. It was the hour of sunset. His outlook was upon the
backs of certain large houses skirting Regent's Park, and lights
had begun to show here and there in the windows:in one room a man
was discoverable  dressing for dinner, he had not thought it
worth while to lower the  blind; in another, some people were
playing billiards. The higher  windows reflected a rich glow from
the western sky.

For two or three hours Reardon had been seated in much the same
attitude. Occasionally he dipped his pen into the ink and seemed
about to write: but each time the effort was abortive. At the
head of the paper 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; on his face was the pallor of mental suffering. Often he
fell into a fit of absence, and gazed at vacancy with wide,
miserable eyes. Returning to consciousness, he fidgeted nervously
on his chair, dipped his pen for the hundredth time, bent forward
in feverish determination to work. Useless; he scarcely knew what
he wished to put into words, and his brain refused to construct
the simplest sentence.

The colours faded from the sky, and night came quickly. Reardon
threw his arms upon the desk, let his head fall forward, and
remained so, as if 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
towards the open door.

'Come here, Amy.'

His wife approached. It was not quite dark in the room, for a
glimmer came 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 and sit 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 the
gloom.'

At once she went away, and quickly reappeared with a
reading-lamp, which she 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
rather broad 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 a superb crown to the beauty of her small,
refined head. Yet the face was not of distinctly feminine type;
with short hair and appropriate clothing, she would have passed
unquestioned as a handsome boy of seventeen, a spirited boy too,
and one much in the habit of giving orders to inferiors. Her nose
would have been perfect but for ever so slight a crook which made
it preferable to view her in full face than in profile; her lips
curved sharply out, and when she straightened them of a sudden,
the effect was not reassuring to anyone who had counted upon her
for facile humour. In harmony with the broad shoulders, she had a
strong neck; as she bore the lamp into the room a slight turn of
her head showed splendid muscles from the ear downward. It was a
magnificently clear-cut bust; one thought, in looking at her, of
the newly-finished head which some honest sculptor has wrought
with his own hand from the marble block; there was a suggestion
of 'planes' and of the chisel. The atmosphere was cold; ruddiness
would have been quite out of place on her cheeks, and a flush
must have been the rarest thing there.

Her age was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly
two years, and had a child ten months old.

As for her dress, it was unpretending in fashion and colour, but
of admirable fit. Every detail of her appearance denoted
scrupulous personal refinement. She walked well; you saw that the
foot, however gently, was firmly planted. When she seated herself
her posture was instantly graceful, and that of one who is
indifferent about support for the 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, not at all of tender solicitude.

Reardon had risen and wished to approach her, but could not do so
directly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round
to the back 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 of anything; if I get hold of an idea which seems
good, all the sap has gone out of it before I have got it into
working shape. In these last few months, I must have begun a
dozen different books; I have been ashamed to tell you of each
new beginning. I write twenty pages, perhaps, and then my courage
fails. I am disgusted with the thing, and can't go on with it--
can't! My fingers refuse to hold the pen. In mere writing, I have
done enough to make much more than three volumes; but it's all
destroyed.'

'Because of your morbid conscientiousness. There was no need to
destroy what 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
practical tones. 'However it was before, you must write for the
market now. You have 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 lie before me like an interminable desert. Impossible to
get through them. The idea is stupidly artificial, and I haven't
a living character in it.'

'The public don't care whether the characters are living or not.-
-Don't stand behind me, like that; it's such an awkward way of
talking. Come and sit down.'

He drew away, and came to a position whence he could see her
face, but kept 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
a little.

'That your disposition towards me is being affected by this
miserable failure. 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. I don't blame you; it's natural enough.'

'I'll tell you quite honestly what I do think,' she replied,
after a short silence. 'You are much weaker than I imagined. 
Difficulties crush you, 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 say you love me, and I try to believe it. But whilst you are
saying so, you let me get nearer and nearer to miserable, hateful
poverty. What is to become of me--of us? Shall you sit here day
after day until our last shilling is spent?'

'No; of course I must do something.'

'When shall you begin in earnest? In a day or two you must pay
this quarter's rent, and that will leave us just about fifteen
pounds in the world. 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 enough that we have had to stay here all the summer; no
holiday of any kind. I have done my best not to grumble about it,
but I begin to think that it would be very much wiser if I did
grumble.'

She squared her shoulders, and gave her head just a little shake,
as if a fly had troubled her.

'You bear everything very well and kindly,' said Reardon. 'My
behaviour is contemptible; I know that. Good heavens! if I only
had some business to go to, something I could work at in any
state of mind, and make money out of! Given this chance, I would
work myself to death rather than you should lack anything you
desire. But I am at the mercy of my brain; it is dry and
powerless. How I envy those clerks who go by to their offices in
the morning! There's the day's work cut out for them; no question
of mood and feeling; they have just to work at something, and
when the evening comes, they have earned their wages, they are
free to rest and enjoy themselves. What an insane thing it is to
make literature one's only means of support! When the most
trivial accident may at any time prove fatal to one's power of
work for weeks or months. No, that is the unpardonable sin! To
make a trade of an art! I am rightly served for attempting 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,
clearly critical. '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 but breakdown and wretchedness? 
The fact of the matter is, you could do fairly good work, and
work which would sell, if only you would bring yourself to look
at things in a more practical way. It's what Mr Milvain is always
saying, you know.'

'Milvain's temperament is very different from mine. He is
naturally light-hearted and hopeful; I am naturally the opposite.

What you and he say is true enough; the misfortune is that I
can't act upon it. I am no uncompromising artistic pedant; I am
quite willing to try and do the kind of work that will sell;
under the circumstances it would be a kind of insanity if I
refused. But power doesn't answer to the will. My efforts are
utterly vain; I suppose the prospect of pennilessness is itself a
hindrance; the fear haunts me. With such terrible real things
pressing upon me, my imagination can shape nothing substantial. 
When I have laboured out a story, I suddenly see it in a light of
such contemptible triviality that to work at it is an impossible
thing.'

'You are ill, that's the fact of the matter. You ought to have
had a holiday. 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 and leave 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 so unwillingly 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 long before 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
one side of my weakness. I am utterly dependent upon you. Your
kindness is the 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 of
disappointment. The mere fact of your urging me to do anything
that will sell is a proof of bitter disappointment. You would
have looked with scorn at anyone who talked to me like that two
years ago. You were proud of me because my work wasn't altogether
common, and because I had never written a line that was meant to
attract the vulgar. All that's over now. If you knew how dreadful
it is to see that you have lost your hopes of me!'

'Well, but I haven't--altogether,' Amy replied, meditatively.  'I
know very well that, if you had a lot of money, you would do
better things than ever.'

'Thank you a thousand times for saying that, my dearest.'

'But, you see, we haven't money, and there's little chance of our
getting any. That scrubby old uncle won't leave anything to us; I
feel too sure of it. I often feel disposed to go and beg him on
my knees to think of us in his will.' She laughed. 'I suppose
it's impossible, and would be useless; but I should be capable of
it if I knew it would bring money.'

Reardon said nothing.

'I didn't think so much of money when we were married,' Amy
continued. 'I had never seriously felt the want of it, you know. 
I did think--there's no harm in confessing it--that you were sure
to be rich some day; but I should have married you all the same
if I had known that you would win only reputation.'

'You are sure of that?'

'Well, I think so. But I know the value of money better now. I
know it is the most powerful thing in the world. If I had to
choose between a glorious reputation with poverty and a
contemptible popularity with wealth, 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, it
originates with a few score of people among the many millions who
would never have recognised the merit they at last applaud. 
That's the lot of a great genius. As for a mediocrity like me--
what ludicrous absurdity to fret myself in the hope that
half-a-dozen folks will say I am "above the average!" After all,
is there sillier vanity than this? A year after I have published
my last book, I shall be practically forgotten; ten years later,
I shall be as absolutely forgotten as one of those novelists of
the 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 of
reputation that one tries to do uncommon work. There's the
shrinking from conscious insincerity of workmanship--which most
of the writers nowadays seem never to feel. "It's good enough for
the market"; that satisfies them. And perhaps they are justified.

I can't pretend that I rule my life by absolute ideals; I admit
that everything is relative. There is no such thing as goodness
or badness, in the absolute sense, of course. Perhaps I am
absurdly inconsistent when--though knowing my work can't be first
rate--I strive to make it as good as possible. I don't say this
in irony, Amy; I really mean it. It may very well be that I am
just as foolish as the people I ridicule for moral and religious
superstition. This habit of mine is superstitious. How well I can
imagine the answer of some popular novelist if he heard me speak
scornfully of his books. "My dear fellow," he might say, "do you
suppose I am not aware that my books are rubbish? I know it just
as well as you do. But my vocation is to live comfortably. I have
a luxurious house, a wife and children who are happy and grateful
to me for their happiness. If you choose to live in a garret,
and, what's worse, make your wife and children share it with you,
that's your concern." The man would be abundantly right.'

'But,' said Amy, 'why should you assume that his books are
rubbish? Good work succeeds--now and then.'

'I speak of the common kind of success, which is never due to
literary merit. And if I speak bitterly, well, I am suffering
from my powerlessness. I am a failure, my poor girl, and it isn't
easy for me to look with charity on the success of men who
deserved it far less than I did, 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 you should fail to make a living with your pen. Now
let me advise you; put aside 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 a three-volume novel; very well, then
do a short story of a kind that's likely to be popular. You know
Mr Milvain is always saying that the long novel has had its day,
and that in future people will write shilling books. Why not try?

Give yourself a week to invent a sensational plot, and then a
fortnight for 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 have no 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 to write stories of this sort. The invention of a plot is
just the thing I find most difficult.'

'But the plot may be as silly as you like, providing it holds the
attention of vulgar readers. Think of "The Hollow Statue", what
could be more idiotic? Yet it sells by thousands.'

'I don't think I can bring myself to that,' Reardon said, in a
low voice.

'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
sheets of paper in an anguish of hopelessness.

'It will take you till Christmas,' said Amy, 'and then you will
get perhaps 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
cheaper rooms?'

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 year of 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 one of the outer districts. One might find three unfurnished
rooms for about eight-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
stand that! Surely you can see that I am driven to think of every
possible resource. To speak like that is to abandon me. Say you
can't or won't do it, 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 give up our home and position. That is open confession of
failure. It would be horrible.'

'I won't think of it. I have three months before Christmas, and I
will finish a book!'

'I really can't see why you shouldn't. Just do a certain number
of pages every day. Good or bad, never mind; let the pages be
finished. Now you have 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 and sold, and then do something better next time.'

'Give me to-night, just to think. Perhaps one of the old stories
I have thrown 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
to me--nothing! I can't bear that you should forget that. Have
patience with 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 a faint smile.

Then Reardon took his hat and stick and descended the eight
flights of stone steps, and walked in the darkness round the
outer circle of Regent's Park, racking his fagged brain in a
hopeless search for characters, situations, motives.



CHAPTER V. THE WAY HITHER

Even in mid-rapture of his marriage month he had foreseen this
possibility; but fate had hitherto rescued him in sudden ways
when he was on the brink of self-abandonment, and it was hard to
imagine that this culmination of triumphant joy could be a
preface to base miseries.

He was the son of a man who had followed many different pursuits,
and in none had done much more than earn a livelihood. At the age
of forty--when Edwin, his only child, was ten years old--Mr
Reardon established himself in the town of Hereford as a
photographer, and there he abode until his death, nine years
after, occasionally risking some speculation not inconsistent
with the photographic business, but always with the result of
losing the little capital he ventured. Mrs Reardon died when
Edwin had reached his fifteenth year. In breeding and education
she was superior to her husband, to whom, moreover, she had
brought something between four and five hundred pounds; her
temper was passionate in both senses of the word, and the
marriage could hardly be called a happy one, though it was never
disturbed by serious discord. The photographer was a man of whims
and idealisms; his wife had a strong vein of worldly ambition. 
They made few friends, and it was Mrs Reardon's frequently
expressed desire to go and live in London, where fortune, she
thought, might be kinder to them. Reardon had all but made up his
mind to try this venture when he suddenly became a widower; after
that he never summoned energy to embark on new enterprises.

The boy was educated at an excellent local school; at eighteen he
had a far better acquaintance with the ancient classics than most
lads who have been expressly prepared for a university, and,
thanks to an anglicised Swiss who acted as an assistant in Mr
Reardon's business, he not only read French, but could talk it
with a certain haphazard fluency. These attainments, however,
were not of much practical use; the best that could be done for
Edwin was to place him in the office of an estate agent. His
health was indifferent, and it seemed likely that open-air
exercise, of which he would have a good deal under the particular
circumstances of the case, might counteract the effects of study
too closely pursued.

At his father's death he came into possession (practically it was
put at his disposal at once, though he was little more than
nineteen) of about two hundred pounds--a life-insurance for five
hundred had been sacrificed to exigencies not very long before.
He had no difficulty in deciding how to use this money.  His
mother's desire to live in London had in him the force of an
inherited motive; as soon as possible he released himself from
his uncongenial occupations, converted into money all the
possessions of which he had not immediate need, and betook
himself 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 absolute loneliness. From a certain point of Tottenham
Court Road there is visible a certain garret window in a certain
street which runs parallel with that thoroughfare; for the
greater part of these four years the garret in question was
Reardon's home. He paid only three-and-sixpence a week for the
privilege of living there; his food cost him about a shilling a
day; on clothing and other unavoidable expenses he laid out some
five pounds yearly. Then he bought books--volumes which cost
anything between twopence and two shillings; further than that he
durst not go. A strange time, I assure you.

When he had completed his twenty-first year, he desired to
procure a reader's ticket for the British Museum. Now this was
not such a simple matter as you may suppose; it was necessary to
obtain the signature of some respectable householder, and Reardon
was acquainted with no such person. His landlady was a decent
woman enough, and a payer of rates and taxes, but it would look
odd, to say the least of it, to present oneself in Great Russell
Street armed with this person's recommendation. There was nothing
for it but to take a bold step, to force himself upon the
attention of a stranger--the thing from which his pride had
always shrunk. He wrote to a well-known novelist--a man with
whose works he had some sympathy. 'I am trying to prepare myself
for a literary career. I wish to study in the Reading-room of the
British Museum, but have no acquaintance to whom I can refer in
the ordinary way. Will you help me--I mean, in this particular
only?' That was the substance of his letter. For reply came an
invitation to a house in the West-end. With fear and trembling
Reardon answered the summons. He was so shabbily attired; he was
so diffident from the habit of living quite alone; he was
horribly afraid lest it should be supposed that he looked for
other assistance than he had requested. Well, the novelist was a
rotund and jovial man; his dwelling and his person smelt of
money; he was so happy himself that he could afford to be kind to
others.

'Have you published anything?' he inquired, for the young man's
letter had 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 and magazines. 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 much for 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 solid literary criticism; I will only mention, as a matter
of fact, that such work is indifferently paid and in very small
demand. It hasn't occurred to 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
the specified purpose, and add good wishes in abundance. Reardon
went home with his brain in a whirl. He had had his first glimpse
of what was meant by literary success. That luxurious study, with
its shelves of handsomely-bound books, its beautiful pictures,
its warm, fragrant air--great heavens! what might not a man do
who sat at his ease amid such surroundings!

He began to work at the Reading-room, but at the same time he
thought often of the novelist's suggestion, and before long had
written two or three short stories. No editor would accept them;
but he continued to practise 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. His intellectual temper was that
of the student, the scholar, but strongly blended with a love of
independence which had always made him think with distaste of a
teacher's life. The stories he wrote were scraps of immature
psychology--the last thing a magazine would accept from an
unknown man.

His money dwindled, and there came a winter during which he
suffered much from cold and hunger. What a blessed refuge it was,
there under the great dome, when he must else have sat in his
windy garret with the mere pretence of a fire! The Reading-room
was his true home; its warmth enwrapped him kindly; the peculiar
odour of its atmosphere--at first a cause of headache--grew dear
and delightful to him. But he could not sit here until his last
penny should be spent. Something practical must be done, and
practicality was not his strong point.

Friends in London he had none; but for an occasional conversation
with his landlady he would scarcely have spoken a dozen words in
a week. His disposition was the reverse of democratic, and he
could not make acquaintances below his own intellectual level. 
Solitude fostered a sensitiveness which to begin with was
extreme; the lack of stated occupation encouraged his natural
tendency to dream and procrastinate and 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 daily food.

Little by little he had ceased to hold any correspondence with
his former friends at Hereford. The only person to whom he still
wrote and from whom he still heard was his mother's father--an
old man who lived at Derby, retired from the business of a
draper, and spending his last years pleasantly enough with a
daughter who had remained single. Edwin had always been a
favourite with his grandfather, though they had met only once or
twice during the past eight years. But in writing he did not
allow it to be understood that he was in actual want, and he felt
that he must come to dire extremities before he could bring
himself to beg assistance.

He had begun to answer advertisements, but the state of his
wardrobe forbade his applying for any but humble positions. Once
or twice he presented himself personally at offices, but his
reception was so mortifying that death by hunger seemed
preferable to a continuance of such experiences. The injury to
his pride made him savagely arrogant; for days after the last
rejection he hid himself in his garret, hating the world.

He sold his little collection of books, and of course they
brought only a trifling sum. That exhausted, he must begin to
sell his clothes. And then--?

But help was at hand. One day he saw it advertised in a newspaper
that the secretary of a hospital in the north of London was in
need of a clerk; application was to be made by letter. He wrote,
and two days later, to his astonishment, received a reply asking
him to wait upon the secretary at a certain hour. In a fever of
agitation he kept the appointment, and found that his business
was with a young man in the very highest spirits, who walked up
and down a little office (the hospital was of the 'special'
order, a house of no great size), and treated the matter in hand
as an excellent joke.

'I thought, you know, of engaging someone much younger--quite a
lad, in fact. But look there! Those are the replies to my
advertisement.'

He pointed to a heap of five or six hundred letters, and laughed
consumedly.

'Impossible to read them all, you know. It seemed to me that the
fairest thing would be to shake them together, stick my hand in,
and take out one by chance. If it didn't seem very promising, I
would try a second time. But the first letter was yours, and I
thought the fair thing to do was at all events to see you, you
know. The fact is, I am only able to offer a pound a week.'

'I shall be very glad indeed to take that,' said Reardon, who was
bathed in 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;
the sudden relief from his miseries made him, for the first time,
sensible of the extreme physical weakness into which he had sunk.
For the next week he was very ill, but he did not allow this to
interfere with his new work, which was easily learnt and not
burdensome.

He held this position for three years, and during that time
important things happened. When he had recovered from his state
of semi-starvation, and was living in comfort (a pound a week is
a very large sum if you have previously had to live on ten
shillings), Reardon found that the impulse to literary production
awoke in him more strongly than 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 in two volumes; one publisher
refused it, but a second offered to bring it out on the terms of
half profits to the author. The book appeared, and was well
spoken of in one or two papers; but profits there were none to
divide. In the third year of his clerkship he wrote a novel in
three volumes; for this his publishers gave him twenty-five
pounds, with again a promise of half the profits after deduction
of the sum advanced. Again there was no pecuniary success. He had
just got to work upon a third book, when his grandfather at Derby
died and left him four hundred pounds.

He could not resist the temptation to recover his freedom. Four
hundred pounds, at the rate of eighty pounds a year, meant five
years of literary endeavour. In that period he could certainly
determine whether or not it was his destiny to live by the pen.

In the meantime his relations with the secretary of the hospital,
Carter by name, had grown very friendly. When Reardon began to
publish books, the high-spirited Mr Carter looked upon him with
something of awe; and when the literary man ceased to be a clerk,
there was nothing to prevent association on equal terms between
him and his former employer. They continued to see a good deal of
each other, and Carter made Reardon acquainted with certain of
his friends, among whom was one John Yule, an easy-going,
selfish, semi-intellectual young man who had a place in a
Government office. The time of solitude had gone by for Reardon. 
He began to develop the power that was in him.

Those two books of his were not of a kind to win popularity. They
dealt with no particular class of society (unless one makes a
distinct class of people who have brains), and they lacked local
colour. Their interest was almost purely psychological. It was
clear that the author had no faculty for constructing a story,
and that pictures of active life were not to be expected of him;
he could never appeal to the multitude. But strong
characterisation was within his scope, and an intellectual
fervour, appetising to a small section of refined readers, marked
all his best pages.

He was the kind of man who cannot struggle against adverse
conditions, but whom prosperity warms to the exercise of his
powers. Anything like the cares of responsibility would sooner or
later harass him into unproductiveness. That he should produce
much was in any case out of the question; possibly a book every
two or three years might not prove too great a strain upon his
delicate mental organism, but for him to attempt more than that
would certainly be fatal to the peculiar merit of his work. Of
this he was dimly conscious, and, on receiving his legacy, he put
aside for nearly twelve months the new novel he had begun. To
give his mind a rest he wrote several essays, much maturer than
those which had formerly failed to find acceptance, and two of
these appeared in magazines.

The money thus earned he spent--at a tailor's. His friend Carter
ventured to suggest this mode of outlay.

His third book sold for fifty pounds. It was a great improvement
on its predecessors, and the reviews were generally favourable. 
For the story which followed, 'On Neutral Ground,' he received a
hundred pounds. On the strength of that he spent six months
travelling in the South of Europe.

He returned to London at mid-June, and on the second day after
his arrival befell an incident which was to control the rest of
his life. Busy with the pictures in the Grosvenor Gallery, he
heard himself addressed in a familiar voice, and on turning he
was aware of Mr Carter, resplendent in fashionable summer attire,
and accompanied by a young lady of some charms. Reardon had
formerly feared encounters of this kind, too conscious of the
defects of his attire; but at present there was no reason why he
should shirk social intercourse. He was passably dressed, and the
half-year of travel had benefited his appearance in no slight
degree. Carter presented him to the young lady, of whom the
novelist had already heard as affianced to his friend.

Whilst they stood conversing, there approached two ladies,
evidently mother and daughter, whose attendant was another of
Reardon's acquaintances, Mr John Yule. This gentleman stepped
briskly forward and welcomed the returned wanderer.

'Let me introduce you,' he said, 'to my mother and sister. Your
fame has made them anxious to know you.'

Reardon found himself in a position of which the novelty was
embarrassing, but scarcely disagreeable. Here were five people
grouped around him, all of whom regarded him unaffectedly as a
man of importance; 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 an unmistakable author, one, too, who was fresh
from Italy and Greece. Mrs Yule, a lady rather too pretentious in
her tone to be attractive to a man of Reardon's refinement,
hastened to assure him how well his books were known in her
house, 'though for the run of ordinary novels we don't care
much.' Miss Yule, not at all pretentious in speech, and seemingly
reserved of disposition, was good enough to show frank interest
in the author. As for the poor author himself, well, he merely
fell in love with 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 region
of Westbourne Park. It was a small house, and rather showily than
handsomely furnished; no one after visiting it would be
astonished to hear that Mrs Edmund Yule had but a small income,
and that she was often put to desperate expedients to keep up the
gloss of easy circumstances. In the gauzy and fluffy and varnishy
little drawing-room Reardon found a youngish gentleman already in
conversation with the widow and her daughter. This proved to be
one Mr Jasper Milvain, also a man of letters. Mr Milvain was glad
to meet Reardon, whose books he had read with decided interest.

'Really,' exclaimed Mrs Yule, 'I don't know how it is that we
have had to wait so long for the pleasure of knowing you, Mr
Reardon. If John were not so selfish he would have allowed us a
share in your acquaintance long ago.'

Ten weeks thereafter, Miss Yule became Mrs Reardon.

It was a time of frantic exultation with the poor fellow. He had
always regarded the winning of a beautiful and intellectual wife
as the crown of a successful literary career, but he had not
dared to hope that such a 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 the prize of mortals supremely
blessed, had spent the fresh years of his youth 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 a hundred pounds or so left over from that little
inheritance, that his books sold for a trifle, that he had no
wealthy relatives from whom he could expect anything; yet she
hesitated not a moment when he asked her to marry him.

'I have loved you from the first.'

'How is that possible?' he urged. 'What is there lovable in me? I
am afraid of waking up and finding myself in my old garret, cold
and hungry.'

'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
of intolerable joy, made him desire to fling himself in
passionate humility at her feet, to weep hot tears, to cry to her
in insane worship. He thought her beautiful beyond anything his
heart had imagined; her warm gold hair was the rapture of his
eyes and of his reverent hand. Though slenderly fashioned, she
was so gloriously strong. 'Not a day of illness in 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 with eternity. In the simplest as in the greatest things she
saw his wish and acted frankly upon it. No pretty petulance, no
affectation of silly-sweet languishing, none of the weaknesses of
woman. And so exquisitely fresh in her twenty years of
maidenhood, with bright young eyes that seemed to bid defiance to
all the years to come.

He went about like one dazzled with excessive light. He talked as
he had never talked before, recklessly, exultantly, insolently--
in the nobler sense. He made friends on every hand; he welcomed
all the world to his bosom; he felt the benevolence of a god.

'I love you!' It breathed like music at his ears when he fell
asleep in weariness of joy; it awakened him on the morrow as with
a glorious ringing summons to renewed life.

Delay? Why should there be delay? Amy wished nothing but to
become his wife. Idle to think of his doing any more work until
he sat down in the home of which she was mistress. His brain
burned with visions of the books he would henceforth write, but
his hand was incapable of anything but a love-letter. And what
letters! Reardon never published anything equal 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 every word
on fire.

The hours of talk! It enraptured him to find how much she had
read, and with what clearness of understanding. Latin and Greek,
no. Ah! but she should learn them both, that there might be
nothing wanting in the communion between his thought and hers. 
For he loved the old writers with all his heart; they had been
such strength to him in his days of misery.

They would go together to the charmed lands of the South. No, not
now for their marriage holiday--Amy said that would be an
imprudent expense; but as soon as he had got a good price for a
book. Will not the publishers be kind? If they knew what
happiness lurked in embryo within their foolish cheque-books!

He woke of a sudden in the early hours of one morning, a week
before the wedding-day. You know that kind of awaking, so
complete in an instant, caused by the pressure of some
troublesome thought upon the dreaming brain. 'Suppose I should
not succeed henceforth? Suppose I could never get more than this
poor hundred pounds for one of the long books which cost me so
much labour? I shall perhaps have children to support; and Amy--
how would Amy bear poverty?'

He knew what poverty means. The chilling of brain and heart, the
unnerving of the hands, the slow gathering about one of fear and
shame and impotent wrath, the dread feeling of helplessness, of
the world's base indifference. Poverty! Poverty!

And for hours he could not sleep. His eyes kept filling with
tears, the beating of his heart was low; and in his solitude he
called upon Amy with 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 burst with happiness? The flat is taken, is furnished, up
there towards the sky, eight flights of stone steps.

'You're a confoundedly lucky fellow, Reardon,' remarked Milvain,
who had already 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 I admired her. She would never have cared for me in any
case; I am not sentimental 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. She was 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
completed my study of women yet. It is one of the things in which
I hope to be a specialist some day, though I don't think I shall
ever make use of it in novels--rather, perhaps, in life.'

Three days--two days--one day.

Now let every joyous sound which the great globe can utter ring
forth in one burst of harmony! Is it not well done to make the
village-bells chant merrily when a marriage is over? Here in
London we can have no such music; but for us, my dear one, all
the roaring life of the great city is wedding-hymn. Sweet, pure
face under its bridal-veil! The face which shall, if fate spare
it, be as dear to me many a long year hence as now at the
culminating moment of my life!

As he trudged on in the dark, his tortured memory was living
through that time again. The images forced themselves upon him,
however much he tried to think of quite other things--of some
fictitious story on which he might set to work. In the case of
his earlier books he had waited quietly until some suggestive
'situation,' some group of congenial characters, came with sudden
delightfulness before his mind and urged him to write; but
nothing so spontaneous could now be hoped for. His brain was too
weary with months of fruitless, harassing endeavour; moreover, he
was trying to devise a 'plot,' the kind of literary
Jack-in-the-box which might excite interest in the mass of
readers, and this was alien to the natural working of his
imagination. He suffered the torments of nightmare--an oppression
of the brain and heart which must soon be intolerable.



CHAPTER VI. THE PRACTICAL FRIEND

When her husband had set forth, Amy seated herself in the study
and took up a new library volume as if to read. But she had no
real intention of doing so; it was always disagreeable to her to
sit in the manner of one totally unoccupied, with hands on lap,
and even when she consciously gave herself up to musing an open
book was generally before her. She did not, in truth, read much
nowadays; since the birth of her child she had seemed to care
less than before for disinterested study. If a new novel that had
succeeded came into her hands she perused it in a very practical
spirit, commenting to Reardon on the features of the work which
had made it popular; formerly, she would have thought much more
of its purely literary merits, for which her eye was very keen.
How often she had given her husband a thrill of exquisite
pleasure by pointing to some merit or defect of which the common
reader would be totally insensible! Now she spoke less frequently
on such subjects. Her interests were becoming more personal; she
liked to hear details of the success of popular authors--about
their wives or husbands, as the case might be, their arrangements
with publishers, their methods of work. The gossip columns of
literary papers--and of some that were not literary--had an
attraction for her. She talked of questions such as international
copyright, was anxious to get an insight into the practical
conduct of journals and magazines, liked to know who 'read' for
the publishing-houses. To an impartial observer it might have
appeared that her intellect was growing more active and mature.

More than half an hour passed. It was not a pleasant train of
thought that now occupied her. Her lips were drawn together, her
brows were slightly wrinkled; the self-control which at other
times was agreeably expressed upon her features had become rather
too cold and decided. At one moment it seemed to her that she
heard a sound in the bedroom--the doors 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 then passed--
the swing of a hansom or the roll of a four-wheeler--and within
the buildings nothing whatever was audible.

Yes, a footstep, briskly mounting the stone stairs. Not like that
of the postman. 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-tat at the door. Amy rose immediately and
went to open.

Jasper Milvain raised his urban silk hat, then held out his hand
with the greeting of frank friendship. His inquiries were in so
loud a voice that Amy checked him with a forbidding gesture.

'You'll wake Willie!'

'By Jove! I always forget,' he exclaimed in subdued tones. 'Does
the infant flourish?'

'Oh, yes!'

'Reardon out? I got back on Saturday evening, but couldn't come
round before this.' It was Monday. 'How close it is in here! I
suppose the roof gets so heated during the day. Glorious weather
in the country! And I'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,
and glanced about as if he expected to see some change since he
was last here, three weeks ago.

'So you have been enjoying yourself?' said Amy as, after
listening for a moment at the door, she took a seat.

'Oh, a little freshening of the faculties. But whose acquaintance
do you think 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 a
blundering way I mentioned Reardon's name. But of course it
didn't matter in the least. She inquired about you with a good
deal of interest--asked if you were as beautiful as you promised
to be years ago.'

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 question
concerning 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--
rather plain.'

'I see.' Jasper threw back his head and seemed to contemplate an
object in memory. 'Well, I shouldn't wonder if most people called
her a trifle plain even now; and yet--no, that's hardly possible,
after all. She has no colour. Wears her hair short.'

'Short?'

'Oh, I don't mean the smooth, boyish hair with a parting--not the
kind of hair that would be lank if it grew long. Curly all over.
Looks uncommonly well, I assure you. She has a capital head. Odd
girl; very odd girl! Quiet, thoughtful--not very happy, I'm
afraid. Seems to think with 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
not very robust. Oh, I knew her by sight quite well--had seen her
at the Reading-room. She's the kind of girl that gets into one's
head, you know--suggestive; much more in her than comes out until
one knows her very 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
to come and see them in London.'

'I suppose Marian mentioned your acquaintance with this branch of
the family?'

'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--is a remarkable man; but I think he regarded me as a youth
of no particular importance. 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
really ill. He must go away before the fine weather is over. Do
persuade him to-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.
But can't you all manage a fortnight somewhere--Hastings,
Eastbourne?'

'It would be simply rash. One goes on saying, "What does a pound
or two matter?"--but it begins at length to matter a great deal.'

'I know, confound it all! Think how it would amuse some rich
grocer's son who pitches his half-sovereign to the waiter when he
has dined himself into good humour! But I tell you what it is: 
you must really try to 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. He was 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 the question for him at present. He writes so slowly, and is
so fastidious. It would be a fatal thing to hurry through
something weaker even than the 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 expected friend's appearance; Amy made no movement.

'Oh, there you are!' said Reardon, presenting himself with the
dazzled eyes of one who has been in darkness; he spoke in a voice
of genial welcome, though it still had the note of depression. 
'When did you get back?'

Milvain began to recount what he had told in the first part of
his conversation with Amy. As he did so, the latter withdrew, and
was absent for 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
conversation had to be carried on in a low tone because of the
proximity of the bedchamber in which lay the sleeping child. 
Jasper began to tell of certain things that had happened to him
since his arrival in town.

'It was a curious coincidence--but, by-the-bye, have you heard of
what The Study has been doing?'

'I should rather think so,' replied Reardon, his face lighting
up. 'With no small satisfaction.'

'Delicious, isn't it?' exclaimed his wife. 'I thought it too good
to be true when Edwin heard of it from Mr Biffen.'

All three laughed in subdued chorus. For the moment, Reardon
became a new man in his exultation over the contradictory
reviewers.

'Oh, Biffen told you, did he? Well,' continued Jasper, 'it was an
odd thing, but when I reached my lodgings on Saturday evening
there lay a note from Horace Barlow, inviting me to go and see
him on Sunday afternoon out at Wimbledon, the special reason
being that the editor of The 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 those precious reviews, but
because Alfred Yule had been telling me all about this same
editor, who rejoices in the name of Fadge. Your uncle, Mrs
Reardon, declares that Fadge is the most malicious man in the
literary profession; though that's saying such a very great deal
--well, never mind! Of course I was delighted to go and meet
Fadge. At Barlow's I found the queerest collection of people,
most of them women of the inkiest description. The great Fadge
himself surprised me; I expected to see a gaunt, bilious man, and
he was the rosiest and dumpiest little dandy you can imagine; a
fellow of forty-five, I dare say, with thin yellow hair and blue
eyes and a manner of extreme innocence. Fadge flattered me with
confidential chat, and I discovered at length why Barlow had
asked me to meet him; it's Fadge that is going to edit
Culpepper's new monthly--you've heard about it?--and he had
actually thought it worth while to enlist me among contributors! 
Now, how's that for a piece of news?'

The speaker looked from Reardon to Amy with a smile of vast
significance.

'I rejoice to hear it!' said Reardon, fervently.

'You see! you see!' cried Jasper, forgetting all about the infant
in the next room, 'all things come to the man who knows how to
wait. But I'm hanged if I expected a thing of this kind to come
so soon! Why, I'm a man of distinction! My doings have been
noted; the admirable qualities of my style have drawn attention;
I'm looked upon as one of the coming men! Thanks, I confess, in
some measure, to old Barlow; he seems to have amused himself with
cracking me up to all and sundry. That last thing of mine in The
West End has done me a vast amount of good, it seems. And Alfred
Yule himself had noticed that paper in The Wayside. That's how
things work, you know; reputation comes with a burst, just when
you're not 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
imagine a fellow saying "Have you seen the current Current?" At
all events, the tone 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 to do, for a start? A paper consisting of
sketches of typical readers of each of the principal daily and
weekly papers. A deuced good idea, you know--my own, of course --
but deucedly hard to carry out. I shall rise to the occasion, see
if I don't. I'll rival Fadge himself in maliciousness--though I
must confess I discovered no particular malice in the fellow's
way of talking. The article shall make a sensation. I'll spend 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 on Fluxions.'

''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 little experience go an immense way. Most people would
imagine I had been wasting my time these last few years, just
sauntering about, reading nothing but periodicals, making
acquaintance with loafers of every description. The truth is, I
have been collecting ideas, and ideas that are convertible into
coin of the realm, my boy; I have the special faculty of an
extempore writer. Never in my life shall I do anything of solid
literary value; I shall always despise the people I write for. 
But my path will be that of success. I have always said it, and
now I'm sure of it.'

'Does Fadge retire from The Study, then?' inquired Reardon, when
he had received this tirade with a friendly laugh.

'Yes, he does. Was going to, it seems, in any case. Of course I
heard nothing about the two reviews, and I was almost afraid to
smile whilst Fadge was talking with me, lest I should betray my
thought. Did you know anything about the fellow before?'

'Not I. Didn't know who edited The Study.'

'Nor I either. Remarkable what a number of illustrious obscure
are going about. But I have still something else to tell you. I'm
going to set my sisters afloat in literature.'

'How!'

'Well, I don't see why they shouldn't try their hands at a little
writing, instead of giving lessons, which doesn't suit them a
bit. Last night, when I got back from Wimbledon, I went to look
up Davies. Perhaps you don't remember my mentioning him; a fellow
who was at Jolly and Monk'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 had a long practical talk with him. I
wanted to find out the state of the market as to such wares as
Jolly and Monk dispose of. He gave me some very useful hints, and
the result was that I went off this morning and saw Monk himself
--no Jolly exists at present. "Mr Monk," I began, in my blandest
tone--you know it--"I am requested to call upon you by a lady who
thinks of preparing a little volume to be called 'A Child's
History of the English Parliament.' Her idea is, that"--and so
on. Well, I got on admirably with Monk, especially when he learnt
that I was to be connected with Culpepper's new venture; he
smiled upon the project, and said he should be very glad to see a
specimen chapter; if that pleased him, 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
certainly capable of doing the kind of thing I have in mind,
which will consist largely of anecdotes of prominent statesmen. I
myself shall write the specimen 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 few books that will be necessary they
can either get at a Wattleborough library, 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
something that 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
recent experiences and future prospects, led the way back to the
sitting-room. Not very long after this, Amy left the two friends
to their pipes; she was anxious that her husband should discuss
his affairs privately with Milvain, and give ear to the practical
advice which she knew would be tendered him.

'I hear that you are still stuck fast,' began Jasper, when they
had smoked 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't it, be any use if you took a seaside holiday?'

'Not the least. I am incapable of holiday, if the opportunity
were offered. 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
than about two hundred and seventy pages, and those well spaced
out.'

'This is refreshing. This is practical. But look now: let it be
something rather sensational. Couldn't we invent a good title--
something to catch eye and ear? The title would suggest the
story, you know.'

Reardon laughed contemptuously, but the scorn was directed rather
against 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 all sorts of things, both to the vulgar and the
educated. Nothing brutally clap-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
in blank misery.

'I have been trying,' he said at length, after an attempt to
speak which was checked by a huskiness in his throat, 'to explain
to myself how this state of things has come about. I almost think
I can do so.'

'How?'

'That half-year abroad, and the extraordinary shock of happiness
which followed 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 of conditions without being greatly affected; I
have never since been the man I was before I left England. The
stage I had then reached was the result of a slow and elaborate
building up; I could look back and see the processes by which I
had grown from the boy who was a mere bookworm to the man who had
all but succeeded as a novelist. It was a perfectly natural,
sober development. But in the last two years and a half I can
distinguish no order. In living through it, I have imagined from
time to time that my powers were coming to their ripest; but that
was mere delusion. Intellectually, I have fallen back. The
probability is that this wouldn't matter, if only I could live on
in peace of mind; I should recover my equilibrium, and perhaps
once more understand myself. But the due course of things is
troubled by my poverty.'

He spoke in a slow, meditative way, in a monotonous voice, and
without raising his eyes from the ground.

'I can understand,' put in Jasper, 'that there may be
philosophical truth in all this. All the same, it's a great pity
that you should occupy your mind with such thoughts.'

'A pity--no! I must remain a reasoning creature. Disaster may end
by driving me out of my wits, but till then I won't abandon my
heritage of thought.'

'Let us have it out, then. You think it was a mistake to spend
those months abroad?'

'A mistake from the practical point of view. That vast broadening
of my horizon lost me the command of my literary resources. I
lived in Italy and Greece as a student, concerned especially with
the old civilisations; I read little but Greek and Latin. That
brought me out of the track I had laboriously made for myself I
often thought with disgust of the kind of work I had been doing;
my novels seemed vapid stuff so wretchedly and shallowly modern. 
If I had had the means, I should have devoted myself to the life
of a scholar. That, I quite believe, is my natural life; it's
only the influence of recent circumstances that has made me a
writer of novels. A man who can't journalise, yet must earn his
bread by literature, nowadays inevitably turns to fiction, as the
Elizabethan men turned to the drama. Well, but I should have got
back, I think, into the old line of work. It was my marriage that
completed what the 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 I had died before my marriage-day. Then Amy would
have been saved. The Philistines are right: a man has no business
to marry unless he has a secured income equal to all natural
demands. I behaved with the grossest selfishness. I might have
known that such happiness was never meant for me.'

'Do you mean by all this that you seriously doubt whether you
will ever be 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 I never had done before.'

'Because you are the kind of man who is roused by necessity. I am
overcome by it. My nature is feeble and luxurious. I never in my
life encountered 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: do you think I might possibly get any kind of stated work to
do? Should I be fit for any place in a newspaper office, for
instance?'

'I fear not. You are the last man to have anything to do with
journalism.'

'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,
for such a story. I need a couple of hundred pounds at least. 
Even if I could finish a three-volume book, I doubt if they would
give me a hundred again, after the failure of "The Optimist"; no,
they wouldn't.'

'But to sit and look forward in this way is absolutely fatal, my
dear fellow. Get to work at your two-volume story. Call it "The
Weird Sisters," or anything better that you can devise; but get
it done, so many pages a day. If I go ahead as I begin to think I
shall, I shall soon be able to assure you good notices in a lot
of papers. Your misfortune has been that you had no influential
friends. By-the-bye, how has The Study been in the habit of
treating you?'

'Scrubbily.'

'I'll make an opportunity of talking about your books to Fadge. I
think  Fadge and I shall get on pretty well together. Alfred Yule
hates the man  fiercely, for some reason or other. By the way, I
may as well tell you  that I broke short off with the Yules on
purpose.'

'Oh?'

'I had begun to think far too much about the girl. Wouldn't do,
you know. 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
involve me in his savage feeling. You see how wisely I acted. I
have a scent for the 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. Talk was mere vanity and vexation of spirit, for the
spring of his volition seemed to be broken, and, whatever resolve
he might utter, he knew that everything 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
week later than that of Jasper Milvain--Marian Yule was working
one afternoon at her usual place in the Museum Reading-room. It
was three o'clock, and with the interval of half an hour at
midday, when she went away for a cup of tea and a sandwich, she
had been closely occupied since half-past nine. Her task at
present was to collect materials for a paper on 'French
Authoresses of the Seventeenth Century,' the kind of thing which
her father supplied on stipulated terms for anonymous
publication. Marian was by this time almost able to complete such
a piece of manufacture herself and her father's share in it was
limited to a few hints and corrections. The greater part of the
work by which Yule earned his moderate income was anonymous: 
volumes and articles which bore his signature dealt with much the
same subjects as his unsigned matter, but the writing was
laboured with a conscientiousness unusual in men of his position.
The result, unhappily, was not correspondent with the efforts.
Alfred Yule had made a recognisable name among the critical
writers of the day; seeing him in the title-lists of a
periodical, most people knew what to expect, but not a few
forbore the cutting open of the pages he occupied. He was
learned, copious, occasionally mordant in style; but grace had
been denied to him. He had of late begun to perceive the fact
that those passages of Marian's writing which were printed just
as they came from her pen had merit of a kind quite distinct from
anything of which he himself was capable, and it began to be a
question with him whether it would not be advantageous to let the
girl sign these compositions. A matter of business, to be sure--
at all events in the first instance.

For a long time Marian had scarcely looked up from the desk, but
at this moment she found it necessary to refer to the invaluable
Larousse. As so often happened, the particular volume of which
she had need was not upon the shelf she turned away, and looked
about her with a gaze of weary disappointment. At a little
distance were standing two young men, engaged, as their faces
showed, in facetious colloquy; as soon as she observed them,
Marian's eyes fell, but the next moment she looked again in that
direction. Her face had wholly changed; she wore a look of timid
expectancy.

The men were moving towards her, still talking and laughing. She
turned to 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 not recognised her? She followed him
with her eyes, and saw him take a seat not 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 no longer apply herself as before. Every now and then
she glanced at people who were passing; there were intervals when
she wholly lost herself in reverie. She was tired, and had even a
slight headache. When the hand of the clock pointed to half-past
three, she closed the volume from which she 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 of time. He had a broad, flabby face, the colour of an
ancient turnip, save where one of the cheeks was marked with a
mulberry stain; his eyes, grey-orbed in a yellow setting, glared
with good-humoured inquisitiveness, and his mouth was that of the
confirmed gossip. For eyebrows he had two little patches of
reddish stubble; for moustache, what looked like a bit of
discoloured tow, and scraps of similar material hanging beneath
his creasy chin represented a beard. His garb must 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
pockets coming unsewn, a pair of bronze-hued trousers which had
all run to knee. Necktie he had none, and his linen made distinct
appeal to the laundress.

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
running about all day, and couldn't get here before. Something
important--most important. At all events, I can tell you. But I
entreat that you won't breathe a word save to your father.'

Mr Quarmby--that was his name--had taken a vacant chair and drawn
it close to Marian's. He was in a state of joyous excitement, and
talked in thick, rather pompous tones, with a pant at the end of
a sentence. To emphasise the extremely confidential nature of his
remarks, he brought his 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--a talk of vast importance. You know Walker? No, no; how
should you? He's a man of business; close friend of Rackett's--
Rackett, you know, the owner of 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
leaves The 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 is falling off seriously. Well, now, when I came across Nat
Walker this afternoon, the first thing he said to me was, "You
know Alfred Yule pretty well, I think?" "Pretty well," I
answered; "why?" "I'll tell you," he said, "but it's between you
and me, you understand. Rackett is thinking about him in
connection with The Study." "I'm delighted to hear it." "To tell
you the truth," went on Nat, "I shouldn't wonder if Yule gets the
editorship; but you understand that it would be altogether
premature 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 years of 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 take things 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 paternal fervour, and waddled off to chatter with someone
else.

Marian replaced several books on the reference-shelves, returned
others to the central desk, and was just leaving the room, when
again a voice made demand upon her attention.

'Miss Yule! One moment, if you please!'

It was a tall, meagre, dry-featured man, dressed with the painful
neatness of self-respecting poverty: the edges of his coat-
sleeves were carefully darned; his black necktie and a skull-cap
which covered his baldness were evidently of home manufacture. He
smiled softly and timidly with blue, rheumy eyes. Two or three
recent cuts on his chin and neck were the result of conscientious
shaving with an unsteady hand.

'I have been looking for your father,' he said, as Marian turned.
'Isn't he 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
make apology 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
over there.'

He went off with long strides, and speedily came back panting, in
his hand a thin new volume.

'My kind regards to him, Miss Yule. You are quite well, I hope? I
won't detain 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,
and left the Museum. Some one passed out through the swing-door a
moment before her, and as soon as she had issued beneath the
portico, she saw that 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 he descended the steps he looked
to left and right, but not behind him. Marian followed at a
distance of two or three yards. Nearing the gateway, she
quickened her pace a little, so as to pass out into the street
almost at the same moment as Milvain. But he did not turn his
head.

He took to the right. Marian had fallen back again, but she still
followed at a very little distance. His walk was slow, and she
might easily have passed him in quite a natural way; in that case
he could not help seeing her. But there was an uneasy suspicion
in her mind that he really must have noticed her in the
Reading-room. This was the first time she had seen him since
their parting at Finden. Had he any reason for avoiding her? Did
he take it ill that her father had shown no desire to keep up his
acquaintance?

She allowed the interval between them to become greater. In a
minute or two Milvain turned up Charlotte Street, and so she lost
sight of him.

In Tottenham Court Road she waited for an omnibus that would take
her to the remoter part of Camden Town; obtaining a corner seat,
she drew as far back as possible, and paid no attention to her
fellow-passengers. At a point in Camden Road she at length
alighted, and after ten minutes' walk reached her destination in
a quiet by-way called St Paul's Crescent, consisting of small,
decent houses. That at which she paused had an exterior promising
comfort within; the windows were clean and neatly curtained, and
the polishable appurtenances of the door gleamed to perfection. 
She admitted herself with a latch-key, and went straight upstairs
without encountering anyone.

Descending again in a few moments, she entered the front room on
the ground-floor. This served both as parlour and dining-room; it
was comfortably furnished, without much attempt at adornment. On
the walls were a few autotypes and old engravings. A recess
between fireplace and window was fitted with shelves, which
supported hundreds of volumes, the overflow of Yule's library. 
The table was laid for a meal. It best suited the convenience of
the family to dine at five o'clock; a long evening, so necessary
to most literary people, was thus assured. Marian, as always when
she had spent a day at the Museum, was faint with weariness and
hunger; she cut a small piece of bread from a loaf on the table,
and sat down in an easy chair.

Presently appeared a short, slight woman of middle age, plainly
dressed in serviceable grey. Her face could never have been very
comely, and it expressed but moderate intelligence; its lines,
however, were those of gentleness and good feeling. She had the
look of one who is making a painful effort to understand
something; this was fixed upon her features, and probably
resulted from the peculiar conditions of her life.

'Rather early, aren't you, Marian?' she said, as she closed the
door and came 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 not flagrantly vulgar, but the accent of the London poor,
which brands as with hereditary baseness, still clung to her
words, rendering futile such propriety of phrase as she owed to
years of association with educated people. In the same degree did
her bearing fall short of that which distinguishes a lady. The
London work-girl is rarely capable of raising herself or being
raised, to a place in life above that to which she was born; she
cannot learn how to stand and sit and move like a woman bred to
refinement, any more than she can fashion her tongue to graceful
speech. Mrs Yule's behaviour to Marian was marked with a singular
diffidence; she looked and spoke affectionately, but not with a
mother's freedom; one might have taken her for a trusted servant
waiting upon her mistress. Whenever opportunity offered, she
watched the girl in a curiously furtive way, that puzzled look on
her face becoming very noticeable. Her consciousness was never
able to accept as a familiar and unimportant fact the vast
difference between herself and her daughter. Marian's superiority
in native powers, in delicacy of feeling, in the results of
education, could never be lost sight of. Under ordinary
circumstances she addressed the girl as if tentatively; however
sure of anything from her own point of view, she knew that
Marian, as often as not, had quite a different criterion. She
understood that the girl frequently expressed an opinion by mere
reticence, and hence the carefulness with which, when conversing,
she tried to discover the real effect of her words in Marian's
features.

'Hungry, too,' she said, seeing the crust Marian was nibbling. 
'You really must have more lunch, dear. It isn't right to go so
long; you'll make yourself ill.'

'Have you been out?' Marian asked.

'Yes; I went to Holloway.'

Mrs Yule sighed and looked very unhappy. By 'going to Holloway'
was always meant a visit to her own relatives--a married sister
with three children, and a brother who inhabited the same house. 
To her husband she scarcely ever ventured to speak of these
persons; Yule had no intercourse with them. But Marian was always
willing to listen sympathetically, and her mother often exhibited
a touching gratitude for this 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 him and Tom quarrel every night; there's no peace in the
'ouse.'

If ever Mrs Yule lapsed into gross errors of pronunciation or
phrase, it was when she spoke of her kinsfolk. The subject seemed
to throw her back into a former condition.

'He ought to go and live by himself' said Marian, referring to
her mother'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
and obstinate. And Susan, she only gets angry with me, and tells
me not to talk in a stuck-up way. I'm sure I never say a word
that could offend her; I'm too careful for that. And there's
Annie; no doing anything with her! She's about the streets at all
hours, and what'll be the end of it no one can say. They're
getting that ragged, all of them. It isn't Susan's fault; indeed
it isn't. She does all that woman can. But Tom hasn't brought
home ten shillings the last month, and it seems to me as if he
was getting careless. I gave her half-a-crown; it was all I could
do. And the worst of it is, they think I could do so much more if
I liked. They're always hinting that we are rich people, and it's
no good my trying to persuade them. They think I'm telling
falsehoods, and it's very hard to be looked at in that way; it
is, indeed, Marian.'

'You can't help it, mother. I suppose their suffering makes them
unkind and 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. Why there'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 news if 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 end of this year.'

Mrs Yule, of course, understood, in outline, these affairs of the
literary world; she thought of them only from the pecuniary point
of view, but that made no essential distinction between her and
the mass of literary 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
Mr Quarmby's prediction, when the sound of a postman's knock at
the house-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
several times, and the mutual liking between her and them had
been confirmed by opportunity of conversation. The promise of
correspondence had hitherto waited for fulfilment. It seemed
natural to Marian that the younger of the two girls should write;
Maud was attractive and agreeable, and probably clever, but Dora
had more spontaneity in friendship.

'It will amuse you to hear,' wrote Dora, 'that the literary
project our brother mentioned in a letter whilst you were still
here is really to come to something. He has sent us a specimen
chapter, written by himself of the "Child's History of
Parliament," and Maud thinks she could carry it on in that style,
if there's no hurry. She and I have both set to work on English
histories, and we shall be authorities before long. Jolly and
Monk offer thirty pounds for the little book, if it suits them
when finished, with certain possible profits in the future. Trust
Jasper for making a bargain! So perhaps our literary career will
be something more than a joke, after all. I hope it may; anything
rather than a life of teaching. We shall be so glad to hear from
you, if you still care to trouble about country girls.'

And so on. Marian read with a pleased smile, then acquainted her
mother with 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 a thoughtful 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
save those of everyday interest. In spite of the affection
between them, their exchange of confidence did not go very far;
Mrs Yule, who had never exercised maternal authority since
Marian's earliest childhood, claimed no maternal privileges, and
Marian's natural reserve had been strengthened by her mother's
respectful aloofness. The English fault of domestic reticence
could scarcely go further than it did in their case; its
exaggeration is, of course, one of the characteristics of those
unhappy families severed by differences of education between the
old and young.

'I think,' said Marian, in a forced tone, 'that father hasn't
much liking for Mr Milvain.'

She wished to know if her mother had heard any private remarks on
this subject, but she could not bring herself to ask directly.

'I'm sure I don't know,' replied Mrs Yule, smoothing her dress. 
'He hasn'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
thing for him to come home in a mood of silent moroseness, and
this evening the first glimpse of his face was sufficient
warning. He entered the dining-room and stood on the hearthrug
reading an evening paper. His wife made a pretence of
straightening things upon the table.

'Well?' he exclaimed irritably. 'It's after five; why isn't
dinner served?'

'It's just coming, Alfred.'

Even the average man of a certain age is an alarming creature
when dinner delays itself; the literary man in such a moment goes
beyond all parallel. If there be added the fact that he has just
returned from a very unsatisfactory interview with a publisher,
wife and daughter may indeed regard the situation as appalling. 
Marian came in, and at once observed her mother's frightened
face.

'Father,' she said, hoping to make a diversion, 'Mr Hinks has
sent you his new book, and wishes--'

'Then take Mr Hinks's new book back to him, and tell him that I
have quite enough to do without reading tedious trash. He needn't
expect that I'm going to write a notice of it. The simpleton
pesters me beyond endurance. 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, just tell 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 Mrs
Yule followed carrying dishes of vegetables. The man of letters
seated himself and carved angrily. He began his meal by drinking
half a glass of ale; then he ate a few mouthfuls in a quick,
hungry way, his head bent closely over the plate. It happened
commonly enough that dinner passed without a word of
conversation, and that seemed likely to be the case this evening.

To his wife Yule seldom addressed anything but a curt inquiry or
caustic comment; if he spoke humanly at table it was to Marian.

Ten minutes passed; then Marian resolved to try any means of
clearing the 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 offer you the editorship of The Study.'

Yule stopped in the act of mastication. He fixed his eyes
intently on the sirloin for half a minute; then, by way of the
beer-jug and the salt-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
half unwreathed itself; he continued to eat more slowly, and as
if with appreciation 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 scoffing
expression, but still his features relaxed.

'I don't credit Rackett with enough good sense for such a
proposal,' he said deliberately. 'And I'm not very sure that I
should accept it if it were made. That fellow Fadge has all but
ruined the paper. It will amuse me to see how long it takes him
to make Culpepper's new magazine a distinct 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
was regarded almost as a necessary part of table garnishing.

'I thought it would be bigger than this,' Yule muttered, as he
opened the volume in a way peculiar to bookish men.

A page was turned down, as if to draw attention to some passage.
Yule put on his eyeglasses, and soon made a discovery which had
the effect of completing the transformation of his visage. His
eyes glinted, his chin worked in pleasurable emotion. In a moment
he handed the book to Marian, indicating the small type of a
foot-note; it embodied an effusive eulogy--introduced a propos of
some literary discussion--of 'Mr Alfred Yule's critical acumen,
scholarly research, lucid style,' and sundry other 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
with that look of slow apprehension which is so pathetic when it
signifies the heart's good-will thwarted by the mind's defect.

'That'll be good for you, Alfred, won't it?' she said, glancing
at her husband.

'Certainly,' he replied, with a smile of contemptuous irony. 'If
Hinks goes on, he'll establish my reputation.'

And he took a draught of ale, like one who is reinvigorated for
the battle of life. Marian, regarding him askance, mused on what
seemed to her a strange anomaly in his character; it had often
surprised her that a man of his temperament and powers should be
so dependent upon the praise 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--averse to--did one ever come across such a mixture of antique
pedantry and modern 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 freely with 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 an article on contemporary style; it occurred to me this
afternoon.'

He smiled grimly. Mrs Yule's face exhibited much contentment,
which became radiant joy when her husband remarked casually that
the custard was very well made to-day. Dinner over, he rose
without ceremony and went off to his study.

The man had suffered much and toiled stupendously. It was not
inexplicable that dyspepsia, and many another ill that literary
flesh is heir to, racked him sore.

Go back to the days when he was an assistant at a bookseller's in
Holborn. Already ambition devoured him, and the genuine love of
knowledge goaded his brain. He allowed himself but three or four
hours of sleep; he wrought doggedly at languages, ancient and
modern; he tried his hand at metrical translations; he planned
tragedies. Practically he was living in a past age; his literary
ideals were formed on the study of Boswell.

The head assistant in the shop went away to pursue a business
which had come into his hands on the death of a relative; it was
a small publishing concern, housed in an alley off the Strand,
and Mr Polo (a singular name, to become well known in the course
of time) had his ideas about its possible extension. Among other
instances of activity he started a penny weekly paper, called All
Sorts, and in the pages of this periodical Alfred Yule first
appeared as an author. Before long he became sub-editor of All
Sorts, then actual director of the paper. He said 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
many consecutive hours as Alfred Yule. A faithful account of all
that the young man learnt and wrote from 1855 to 1860--that is,
from his twenty-fifth to his thirtieth year--would have the look
of burlesque exaggeration. He had set it before him to become a
celebrated man, and he was not unaware that the attainment of
that end would cost him quite exceptional labour, seeing that
nature had not favoured him with brilliant parts. No matter; his
name should be spoken among men unless he killed himself in the
struggle for success.

In the meantime he married. Living in a garret, and supplying
himself with the materials of his scanty meals, he was in the
habit of making purchases at a little chandler's shop, where he
was waited upon by a young girl of no beauty, but, as it seemed
to him, of amiable disposition. One holiday he met this girl as
she was walking with a younger sister in the streets; he made her
nearer acquaintance, and before long she consented to be his wife
and share his garret. His brothers, John and Edmund, cried out
that he had made an unpardonable fool of himself in marrying so
much beneath him; that he might well have waited until his income
improved. This was all very well, but they might just as
reasonably have bidden him reject plain food because a few years
hence he would be able to purchase luxuries; he could not do
without nourishment of some sort, and the time had come when he
could not do without a wife. Many a man with brains but no money
has been compelled to the same step. Educated girls have a
pronounced distaste for London garrets; not one in fifty thousand
would share poverty with the brightest genius ever born. Seeing
that marriage is so often indispensable to that very success
which would enable a man of parts to mate 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 himself united to a vulgar shrew, whereas the girl had the
great virtues of humility and kindliness. She endeavoured to
learn of him, but her dulness and his impatience made this
attempt a failure; her human qualities had to suffice. And they
did, until Yule began to lift his head above the literary mob. 
Previously, he often lost his temper with her, but never
expressed or felt repentance of his marriage; now he began to see
only the disadvantages of his position, and, forgetting the facts
of the case, to imagine that he might well have waited for a wife
who could share his intellectual existence. Mrs Yule had to pass
through a few years of much bitterness. Already a martyr to
dyspepsia, and often suffering from bilious headaches of extreme
violence, her husband now and then lost all control of his
temper, all sense of kind feeling, even of decency, and
reproached the poor woman with her ignorance, her stupidity, her
low origin. Naturally enough she defended herself with such
weapons as a sense of cruel injustice supplied. More than once
the two all but parted. It did not come to an actual rupture,
chiefly because Yule could not do without his wife; her tendance
had become indispensable. And then there was the child to
consider.

From the first it was Yule's dread lest Marian should be infected
with her mother's faults of speech and behaviour. He would
scarcely permit his wife to talk to the child. At the earliest
possible moment Marian was sent to a day-school, and in her tenth
year she went as weekly boarder to an establishment at Fulham;
any sacrifice of money to insure her growing up with the tongue
and manners of a lady. It can scarcely have been a light trial to
the mother to know that contact with her was regarded as her
child's greatest danger; but in her humility and her love for
Marian she offered no resistance. And so it came to pass that one
day the little girl, hearing her mother make some flagrant
grammatical error, turned to the other parent and asked gravely: 
'Why doesn't mother speak as properly as we do?' Well, that is
one of the results of such marriages, one of the myriad miseries
that result from poverty.

The end was gained at all hazards. Marian grew up everything that
her father desired. Not only had she the bearing of refinement,
but it  early became obvious that nature had well endowed her
with brains. From the nursery her talk was of books, and at the
age of twelve she  was already able to give her father some
assistance as an amanuensis.

At that time Edmund Yule was still living; he had overcome his
prejudices, and there was intercourse between his household and
that of the literary man. Intimacy it could not be called, for
Mrs Edmund (who was the daughter of a law-stationer) had much
difficulty in behaving to Mrs Alfred with show of suavity. Still,
the cousins Amy and Marian from time to time saw each other, and
were not unsuitable companions. It was the death of Amy's father
that brought these relations to an end; left to the control of
her own affairs Mrs Edmund was not long in giving offence to Mrs
Alfred, and so to Alfred himself. The man of letters might be
inconsiderate enough in his behaviour to his wife, but as soon as
anyone else treated her with disrespect that was quite another
matter. Purely on this account he quarrelled violently with his
brother'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, and he had an unhappy trick of exciting
the hostility of men who were most likely to be useful to him. 
With Mr Polo, for instance, who held him in esteem, and whose
commercial success made him a valuable connection, Alfred
ultimately broke on a trifling matter of personal dignity. Later
came the great quarrel with Clement Fadge, an affair of
considerable advantage in the way of advertisement to both the
men concerned. It happened in the year 1873. At that time Yule
was editor of a weekly paper called The Balance, a literary organ
which aimed high, and failed to hit the circulation essential to
its existence. Fadge, a younger man, did reviewing for The
Balance; he was in needy circumstances, and had wrought himself
into Yule's good opinion by judicious flattery. But with a clear
eye for the main chance Mr Fadge soon perceived that Yule could
only be of temporary use to him, and that the editor of a well-
established weekly which lost no opportunity of throwing scorn
upon Yule and all his works would be a much more profitable
conquest. He succeeded in transferring his services to the more
flourishing paper, and struck out a special line of work by the
free exercise of a malicious flippancy which was then without
rival in the periodical press. 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 'On Imagination as a
National Characteristic.' The notice was a masterpiece; its
exquisite virulence set the literary circles chuckling. 
Concerning the authorship there was no mystery, and Alfred Yule
had the indiscretion to make a violent reply, a savage assault
upon Fadge, in the columns of The Balance. Fadge desired nothing
better; the uproar which arose--chaff, fury, grave comments,
sneering spite--could only result in drawing universal attention
to his anonymous cleverness, and throwing ridicule upon the
heavy, conscientious man. Well, you probably remember all about
it. It ended in the disappearance of Yule's struggling paper, and
the establishment on a firm basis of Fadge's reputation.

It would be difficult to mention any department of literary
endeavour in which Yule did not, at one time or another, try his
fortune. Turn to his name in the Museum Catalogue; the list of
works appended to it will amuse you. In his thirtieth year he
published a novel; it failed completely, and the same result
awaited a similar experiment five years later. He wrote a drama
of modern life, and for some years strove to get it acted, but in
vain; finally it appeared 'for the closet'--giving Clement Fadge
such an opportunity as he seldom enjoyed. The one noteworthy
thing about these productions, and about others of equally
mistaken direction, was the sincerity of their workmanship. Had
Yule been content to manufacture a novel or a play with due
disregard for literary honour, he might perchance have made a
mercantile success; but the poor fellow had not pliancy enough
for this. He took his efforts au grand serieux; thought he was
producing works of art; pursued his ambition in a spirit of
fierce conscientiousness. In spite of all, he remained only a
journeyman. The kind of work he did best was poorly paid, and
could bring no fame. At the age of fifty he was still living in a
poor house in an obscure quarter. He earned enough for his actual
needs, and was under no pressing fear for the morrow, so long as
his faculties remained unimpaired; but there was no disguising
from himself that his life had been a failure. And the thought
tormented him.

Now there had come unexpectedly a gleam of hope. If indeed, the
man Rackett thought of offering him the editorship of The Study
he might even yet taste the triumphs for which he had so
vehemently longed. The Study was a weekly paper of fair repute. 
Fadge had harmed it, no doubt of that, by giving it a tone which
did not suit the majority of its readers--serious people, who
thought that the criticism of contemporary writing offered an
opportunity for something better than a display of malevolent
wit. But a return to the old earnestness would doubtless set all
right again. And the joy of sitting in that dictatorial chair! 
The delight of having his own organ once more, of making himself
a power in the world of letters, of emphasising to a large
audience his developed methods of criticism!

An embittered man is a man beset by evil temptations. The Study
contained each week certain columns of flying gossip, and when he
thought of this, Yule also thought of Clement Fadge, and sundry
other of his worst enemies. How the gossip column can be used for
hostile purposes, yet without the least overt offence, he had
learnt only too well. Sometimes the mere omission of a man's name
from a list of authors can mortify and injure. In our day the
manipulation of such paragraphs has become a fine art; but you
recall numerous illustrations. Alfred knew well enough how
incessantly the tempter would be at his ear; he said to himself
that in certain instances yielding would be no dishonour. He
himself had many a time been mercilessly treated; in the very
interest of the public it was good that certain men should suffer
a snubbing, 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 for
completion. His study--the only room on the ground level except
the dining-room--was small, and even a good deal of the floor was
encumbered with books, but he found space for walking nervously
hither and thither. He was doing this when, about half-past nine,
his wife appeared at the door, 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 had not come.

'She has one of her headaches again, I'm sorry to say,' Mrs Yule
replied. 'I persuaded her to go to bed early.'

Having placed the tray upon the table--books had to be pushed
aside--she did 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 with the 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
young ladies this afternoon.'

'What young ladies?' asked Yule, with impatience of this
circuitous approach.

'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 ask him to come here.'

Yule stared at her in slight surprise. He was still not angry,
and seemed quite willing to consider this matter suggested to him
so timorously.

'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 down there. 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
often thought it wasn't right to her.'

'H'm! But this lad Milvain is a very doubtful sort of customer. 
To begin with, he has nothing, and they tell me his mother for
the most part supports him. I don't quite approve of that. She
isn't well off, and he ought to have been making a living by now.

He has a kind of cleverness, may do something; but there's no
being sure of that.'

These thoughts were not coming into his mind for the first time. 
On the occasion when he met Milvain and Marian together in the
country road he had necessarily reflected upon the possibilities
of such intercourse, and with the issue that he did not care to
give any particular encouragement to its continuance. He of
course heard of Milvain's leave-taking call, and he purposely
refrained from seeing the young man after that. The matter took
no very clear shape in his meditations; he saw no likelihood that
either of the young people would think much of the other after
their parting, and time enough to trouble one's head with such
subjects when they could no longer be postponed. It would not
have been pleasant to him to foresee a life of spinsterhood for
his daughter; but she was young, and--she was a valuable
assistant.

How far did that latter consideration weigh with him? He put the
question pretty distinctly to himself now that his wife had
broached the matter thus unexpectedly. Was he prepared to behave
with deliberate selfishness? Never yet had any conflict been
manifested between his interests and Marian's; practically he was
in the habit of counting upon her aid for an indefinite period.

If indeed he became editor of The Study, why, in that case her
assistance would be less needful. And indeed it seemed probable
that young 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 do you 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--had him in mind?'

'Well, it was her way of speaking, you know. And then, she asked
if you had got a dislike to him.'

'She did? H'm! Well, I don't think Milvain is any good to Marian.
He's just the kind of man to make himself agreeable to a girl for
the fun of the thing.'

Mrs Yule looked alarmed.

'Oh, if you really think that, don't let him come. I wouldn't for
anything.'

'I don't say it for certain.' He took a sip of his coffee. 'I
have had no opportunity of observing him with much attention. But
he's not the kind 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
whether he 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
that short conversation which followed on Marian's reading the
letter, and there were still things she wished to put into words.

'If those young ladies go on writing to her, I dare say they'll
often speak 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
not make it worse by his tone.

The listener failed to understand him, and looked with her
familiar expression of mental effort.

'We can't help that,' he added, with reference to her suggestion.
'If he has any serious thoughts, well, let him go on and wait for
opportunities.'

'It's a great pity, isn't it, that she can't see more people--of
the right kind?'

'No use talking about it. Things are as they are. I can't see
that her life 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
use talking about what can't be helped. Now don't you go
encouraging her to think herself lonely, and so on. It's best for
her to keep close to work, 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.' Such allusions reminded her of a time unhappier than the
present, when she had been wont to hear plainer language. She
knew too well that, had she been a woman of education, her
daughter would not now be suffering from loneliness.

It was her own choice that she did not go with her husband and
Marian to John Yule's. She made an excuse that the house could
not be left to one servant; but in any case she would have
remained at home, for her presence must needs be an embarrassment
both to father and daughter. Alfred was always ashamed of her
before strangers; he could not conceal his feeling, either from
her or from other people who had reason for observing him. Marian
was not perhaps ashamed, but such companionship put 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 him
when 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 see that all was right, and it surprised him to find his wife
still sitting there.

'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
several were in the well-defined category of men with
unpresentable wives. There was Hinks, for instance, whom, though
in anger he spoke of him as a bore, Alfred held in some genuine
regard. Hinks made perhaps a hundred a year out of a kind of
writing which only certain publishers can get rid of and of this
income he spent about a third on books. His wife was the daughter
of a laundress, in whose house he had lodged thirty years ago,
when new to London but already long-acquainted with hunger; they
lived in complete harmony, but Mrs Hinks, who was four years the
elder, still spoke the laundress tongue, unmitigated and
immitigable. Another pair were Mr and Mrs Gorbutt. In this case
there were no narrow circumstances to contend with, for the wife,
originally a nursemaid, not long after her marriage inherited
house property from a relative. Mr Gorbutt deemed himself a poet;
since his accession to an income he had published, at his own
expense, a yearly volume of verses; the only result being to keep
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
wedded a man of letters, when by waiting so short a time she
would have been enabled to aim at a prosperous tradesman, who
kept his gig and had everything handsome about him. Mrs Yule
suspected, not without reason, that this lady had an inclination
to strong liquors. Thirdly came Mr and Mrs Christopherson, who
were poor as church mice. Even in a friend's house they wrangled
incessantly, and made tragi-comical revelations of their home
life. The husband worked casually at irresponsible journalism,
but his chosen study was metaphysics; for many years he had had a
huge and profound book on hand, which he believed would bring him
fame, though he was not so unsettled in mind as to hope for
anything else. When an article or two had earned enough money for
immediate necessities he went off to the British Museum, and then
the difficulty was to recall him to profitable exertions. Yet
husband and wife had an affection 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, and probably 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 ever do; in each case their failure to fulfil youthful
promise was largely explained by the unpresentable wife. They
should have waited; they might have married a social equal at
something between fifty and sixty.

Another old friend was Mr Quarmby. Unwedded he, and perpetually
exultant over men who, as he phrased it, had noosed themselves. 
He made a fair living, but, like Dr Johnson, had no passion for
clean linen.

Yule was not disdainful of these old companions, and the fact
that all had a habit of looking up to him increased his pleasure
in their occasional society. If, as happened once or twice in
half a year, several of them were gathered together at his house,
he tasted a sham kind of social and intellectual authority which
he could not help relishing. On such occasions he threw off his
habitual gloom and talked vigorously, making natural display of
his learning and critical ability. The topic, sooner or later,
was that which is inevitable in such a circle--the demerits, the
pretentiousness, the personal weaknesses of prominent
contemporaries in the world of letters.  Then did the room ring
with scornful laughter, with boisterous satire,  with shouted
irony, with fierce invective. After an evening of that  kind Yule
was unwell and miserable for several days.

It was not to be expected that Mr Quarmby, inveterate chatterbox
of the Reading-room and other resorts, should keep silence
concerning what he had heard of Mr Rackett's intentions. The
rumour soon spread that Alfred Yule was to succeed Fadge in the
direction of The Study, with the necessary consequence that Yule
found himself an object of affectionate interest to a great many
people of whom he knew little or nothing. At the same time the
genuine old friends pressed warmly about him, with
congratulations, with hints of their sincere readiness to assist
in filling the columns of the paper. All this was not
disagreeable, but in the meantime Yule had heard nothing whatever
from Mr Rackett himself and his doubts did not diminish as week
after week went by.

The event justified him. At the end of October appeared an
authoritative announcement that Fadge's successor would be--not
Alfred Yule, but a gentleman who till of late had been quietly
working as a sub-editor in the provinces, and who had neither
friendships nor enmities among the people of the London literary
press. A young man, comparatively fresh from the university, and
said to be strong in pure scholarship. The choice, as you are
aware, proved a good one, and The Study became an organ of more
repute than ever.

Yule had been secretly conscious that it was not to men such as
he that positions of this kind are nowadays entrusted. He tried
to persuade himself that he was not disappointed. But when Mr
Quarmby approached him with blank face, he spoke certain wrathful
words which long rankled in that 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 other pursuits, the press of energetic young men was
making it very hard for a veteran even to hold the little
grazing-plot he had won by hard fighting. Still, Quarmby's story
had not been without foundation; it was true that the proprietor
of The Study had for a moment thought of Alfred Yule, doubtless
as the natural contrast to Clement Fadge, whom he would have
liked to mortify if the thing were possible. But counsellors had
proved to Mr Rackett the disadvantages of such a choice.

Mrs Yule and her daughter foresaw but too well the results of
this disappointment, notwithstanding that Alfred announced it to
them with dry indifference. The month that followed was a time of
misery for all in the house. Day after day Yule sat at his meals
in sullen muteness; to his wife he scarcely spoke at all, and his
conversation with Marian did not go beyond necessary questions
and remarks on topics of business. His face became so strange a
colour that one would have thought him suffering from an attack
of jaundice; bilious headaches exasperated his savage mood. Mrs
Yule knew from long experience how worse than useless it was for
her to attempt consolation; in silence was her only safety. Nor
did Marian venture to speak directly of what had happened. But
one evening, when she had been engaged in the study and was now
saying 'Good-night,' she laid her cheek against her father's, an
unwonted caress which had a strange effect upon him. The
expression of sympathy caused his thoughts to reveal themselves
as they never yet had done before his daughter.

'It might have been very different with me,' he exclaimed
abruptly, as if they had already been conversing on the subject. 
'When you think of my failures--and you must often do so now you
are grown up and understand 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't be expected to succeed.  Look
at Fadge. He married a woman of good social position; she brought
him friends and influence. But for that he would never have been
editor of The Study, a place for which he wasn't in the least
fit. But he was able to give dinners; he and his wife went into
society; everybody knew him and talked of him. How has it been
with me? I live here like an animal in its hole, and go blinking
about if by chance I find myself among the people with whom I
ought naturally to associate. If I had been able to come in
direct contact with Rackett and other men of that kind, to dine
with them, and have them to dine with me, 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; there
was no money behind the paper; we couldn't hold out long enough.
But even then, if I could have assumed my proper social standing,
if I could have opened my house freely to the right kind of
people-- How was it possible?'

Marian could not raise her head. She recognised the portion of
truth in what he said, but it shocked her that he should allow
himself to speak thus. Her silence seemed to remind him how
painful it must be to her to hear these accusations of her
mother, and with a sudden 'Good-night' he dismissed her.

She went up to her room, and wept over the wretchedness of all
their lives. Her loneliness had seemed harder to bear than ever
since that last holiday. For a moment, in the lanes about Finden,
there had come to her a vision of joy such as fate owed her
youth; but it had faded, and she could no longer hope for its
return. She was not a woman, but a mere machine for reading and
writing. Did her father never think of this? He was not the only
one to suffer from the circumstances in which poverty had
involved him.

She had no friends to whom she could utter her thoughts. Dora
Milvain had written a second time, and more recently had come a
letter from Maud; but in replying to them she could not give a
true account of herself. Impossible, to them. From what she wrote
they would imagine her contentedly busy, absorbed in the affairs
of literature. To no one could she make known the aching sadness
of her heart, the dreariness of life as it lay before her.

That beginning of half-confidence between her and her mother had
led to nothing. Mrs Yule found no second opportunity of speaking
to her husband about Jasper Milvain, and purposely she refrained
from any further hint or question to Marian. Everything must go
on as hitherto.

The days darkened. Through November rains and fogs Marian went
her usual way to the Museum, and toiled there among the other
toilers. Perhaps once a week she allowed herself to stray about
the alleys of the Reading-room, scanning furtively those who sat
at the desks, but the face she might perchance have discovered
was not there.

One day at the end of the month she sat with books open before
her, but by no effort could fix her attention upon them. It was
gloomy, and one could scarcely see to read; a taste of fog grew
perceptible in the warm, headachy air. Such profound
discouragement possessed her that she could not even maintain the
pretence of study; heedless whether anyone observed her, she let
her hands fall and her head droop. She kept asking herself what
was the use and purpose of such a life as she was condemned to
lead. When already there was more good literature in the world
than any mortal could cope with in his lifetime, here was she
exhausting herself in the manufacture of printed stuff which no
one even pretended to be more than a commodity for the day's
market. What unspeakable folly! To write--was not that the joy
and the privilege of one who had an urgent message for the world?

Her father, she knew well, had no such message; he had abandoned
all thought of original production, and only wrote about writing.

She herself would throw away her pen with joy but for the need of
earning money. And all these people about her, what aim had they
save to make new books out of those already existing, that yet
newer books might in turn be made out of theirs? This huge
library, growing into unwieldiness, threatening to become a
trackless desert of print--how intolerably 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 sit here and support the paltry pretence of intellectual
dignity. A few days ago her startled eye had caught an
advertisement in the newspaper, headed 'Literary Machine'; had it
then been invented at last, some automaton to supply the place of
such poor creatures as herself to turn out books and articles? 
Alas! the machine was only one for holding volumes conveniently,
that the work of literary manufacture might be physically
lightened. But surely before long some Edison would make the true
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 and saw that they were a dusky yellow. Then her eye
discerned an official walking along the upper gallery, and in
pursuance of her grotesque humour, 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 the
great circle of the Catalogue? Darker, darker. From the towering
wall of volumes seemed to emanate visible motes, intensifying the
obscurity; in a moment the book-lined circumference of the room
would be but a featureless prison-limit.

But then flashed forth the sputtering whiteness of the electric
light, and its ceaseless hum was henceforth a new source of
headache. It reminded her how little work she had done to-day;
she must, she must force herself to think of the task in hand. A
machine has no business to refuse its duty. But the pages were
blue and green and yellow before her eyes; the uncertainty of the
light was intolerable. Right or wrong she would go home, and hide
herself, and let her heart unburden itself of tears.

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 up with unmistakable pleasure.

'At last we meet, as they say in the melodramas. Oh, do let me
help you with 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 I am to see you! Are you just going?'

'Yes.'

'I have scarcely been here half-a-dozen times since I came back
to London.'

'But you are writing still?'

'Oh yes! But I draw upon my genius, and my stores of observation,
and the living world.'

Marian received her vouchers for the volumes, and turned to face
Jasper again. 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
Mornington Road--up yonder, you know. I have only just come in to
waste half an hour, and after all I think I should be better at
home. Your father is all 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 would be a little better down at Finden.'

'A good deal better, I should think. If the weather were bad, it
would be bad in a natural way; but this is artificial misery.'

'I don't let it affect me much,' said Milvain. 'Just of late I
have been in remarkably good spirits. I'm doing a lot of work. No
end of work--more than I've ever done.'

'I am very glad.'

'Where are your out-of-door things? I think there's a ladies'
vestry somewhere, 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 my
company?'

'Why should it annoy me?'

'Good!'

Milvain had only to wait a minute or two. He surveyed Marian from
head to foot when she appeared--an impertinence as unintentional
as that occasionally noticeable in his speech--and smiled
approval. They went out into the fog, which was not one of
London's densest, but made walking 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
the end of the year. The bits they have sent me will do very well
indeed. I knew they had it in them to put sentences together. Now
I want them to think of patching up something or other for The
English Girl; you know the paper?'

'I have heard of it.'

'I happen to know Mrs Boston Wright, who edits it. Met her at a
house the other day, and told her frankly that she would have to
give my sisters something to do. It's the only way to get on; one
has to take it for granted that people are willing to help you. I
have made a host of new 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 new
magazine, 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
he very 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-
like individual, 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
thoroughly uncomfortable. The 'bus had to be waited for, and in
the meantime they talked 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 face rather near to Marian's. 'I wish to goodness we were
back in those quiet fields--you remember?--with the September sun
warm about us. Shall you go 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 at Christmas, 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
find you 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
The Current. Yule had once or twice referred to the forthcoming
magazine with 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 remarkably clever; 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. 
The subject was dismissed. In introducing it Yule had had his
purpose; there had always been an unnatural avoidance of
Milvain's name in conversation, and he wished to have an end of
this. Hitherto he had felt a troublesome uncertainty regarding
his position in the matter. From what his wife had told him it
seemed pretty certain that Marian was disappointed by the abrupt
closing of her brief acquaintance with the young man, and Yule's
affection for his daughter caused him to feel uneasy in the
thought that perhaps he had deprived her of a chance of
happiness. His conscience readily took hold of an excuse for
justifying the course he had followed. Milvain had gone over to
the enemy. Whether or not the young man understood how relentless
the hostility was between Yule and Fadge mattered little; the
probability was that he knew all about it. In any case intimate
relations with him could not have survived this alliance with
Fadge, so that, after all, there had been wisdom in letting the
acquaintance lapse. To be sure, nothing could have come of it. 
Milvain was the kind of man who weighed opportunities; every step
he took would be regulated by considerations of advantage; at all
events that was the impression his character had made upon Yule. 
Any hopes that Marian might have been induced to form would
assuredly have ended in disappointment. It was kindness to
interpose before things had gone so far.

Henceforth, if Milvain's name was unavoidable, it should be
mentioned just like that of any other literary man. It seemed
very unlikely indeed that Marian would continue to think of him
with any special and personal interest. The fact of her having
got into correspondence with his sisters was unfortunate, but
this kind of thing rarely went on for very long.

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
confident air 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 says anything--you understand--you can just let me know.'

Marian had already procured a copy of The Current, and read it
privately. Of the cleverness of Milvain's contribution there
could be no two opinions; it drew the attention of the public,
and all notices of the new magazine made special reference to
this article. With keen interest Marian sought after comments of
the press; when it was possible she cut them out and put them
carefully away.

January passed, and February. She saw nothing of Jasper. A letter
from Dora in the first week of March made announcement that the
'Child's History of the English Parliament' would be published
very shortly; it told her, too, that Mrs Milvain had been very
ill indeed, but that she seemed to recover a little strength as
the weather improved. Of Jasper there 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
ordinary one, and so little did Marian anticipate the nature of
its contents that at the first sight of the words she uttered an
exclamation of pain. Her father, who had turned from the table to
the fireside with his newspaper, 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 a few 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 sympathetic
inquiries, but Marian was very brief in her replies.

Ten days after that, on a Sunday afternoon when Marian and her
mother were alone in the sitting-room, they heard the knock of a
visitor at the front door. Yule was out, and there was no
likelihood of the visitor's wishing to see anyone but him. They
listened; the servant went to the door, 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
that proved how seldom callers presented themselves. 'He asked
for Mr Yule, and when I said he was out, then he asked for Miss
Yule.' Mother and daughter looked anxiously at each other. Mrs
Yule was nervous and helpless.

'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
the room, 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 first thing Marian's eye perceived on entering, and it gave
her assurance that her father would not be back for some hours.
Evidently he had intended it to go out; small economies of this
kind, unintelligible to people who have always lived at ease, had
been the life-long rule with him. With a sensation of gladness at
having free time before her, Marian turned to where Milvain was
standing, in front of one of the bookcases. He wore no symbol of
mourning, but his countenance was far graver than usual, and
rather 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 the last month that it must come before long, though there
was a deceptive improvement just before the end.'

'Please to sit down, Mr Milvain. Father went out not long ago,
and I don't think he will be back very soon.'

'It was not really Mr Yule I wished to see,' said Jasper,
frankly. 'If he had been at home I should have spoken with him
about what I have in mind, but if you will kindly give me a few
minutes it will be much better.'

Marian glanced at the expiring fire. Her curiosity as to what
Milvain had to say was mingled with an anxious doubt whether it
was not too late to put on fresh coals; already the room was
growing very chill, and this appearance of inhospitality troubled
her.

'Do you wish to save it?' Jasper asked, understanding her look
and movement.

'I'm afraid it has got too low.'

'I think not. Life in lodgings has made me skilful at this kind
of thing; let me try my hand.'

He took the tongs and carefully disposed small pieces of coal
upon the glow that remained. Marian stood apart with a feeling of
shame and annoyance. But it is so seldom that situations in life
arrange themselves with dramatic propriety; and, after all, this
vulgar necessity made the beginning of the conversation easier.

'That will be all right now,' said Jasper at length, as little
tongues of 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 a great deal to do and think about. Miss Harrow has been very
kind indeed to the girls; so have several of our old friends in
Wattleborough. It was necessary to decide at once what Maud and
Dora are going to do, and it 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 a bold step; I'm by no means sure that the result will
justify it. But I think 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
no chance of their earning enough to live upon for some time. But
the matter 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. In that 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 help them to keep body and soul
together.'

The money of which he spoke was the debt owed to their father by
William Milvain. In consequence of Mrs Milvain's pressing
application, half of this sum had at length been paid and the
remainder was promised in a year's time, greatly to Jasper's
astonishment. In addition, there would be the trifle realised by
the sale of furniture, though most of this might have to go in
payment of rent unless the house could be relet immediately.

'They have made a good beginning,' said Marian.

She spoke mechanically, for it was impossible to keep her
thoughts under control. If Maud and Dora came to live in London
it might bring about a most important change in her life; she
could scarcely imagine the happiness of having two such friends
always near. On the other hand, how would it be regarded by her
father? She was at a loss amid conflicting emotions.

'It's better than if they had done nothing at all,' Jasper
replied to her remark. 'And the way they knocked that trifle
together promises well. They did it very quickly, and in a far
more workmanlike way than I should have thought possible.'

'No doubt they share your own talent.'

'Perhaps so. Of course I know that I have talent of a kind,
though I don't rate it very high. We shall have to see whether
they can do anything 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 The English Girl, and no doubt I can hit
upon a second idea that will appeal to Jolly and Monk. At all
events, they'll have books within reach, and better 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, the respectable and intelligible path marked out for both
of them points to 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 the situation seriously enough--it is
desperately serious, no doubt of that. I told them fairly all the
hardships they would have to face--described the typical London
lodgings, and so on. Still, there's an adventurous vein in them,
and they decided for the risk. If it came to the worst I suppose
they could still find governess work.'

'Let us hope better things.'

'Yes. But now, I should have felt far more reluctant to let them
come here 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 all this, but I felt I should like to see you and--put
it in my own way. I think you'll understand this feeling, Miss
Yule. I wanted, in fact, to hear 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
expression of warm feeling. Emphasis was not her habit; it only
needed that she should put off her ordinary reserve, utter
quietly the emotional thought which so seldom might declare
itself, and her tones had an exquisite womanliness.

Jasper looked full into her face.

'In that case they won't miss the comfort of home so much. Of
course they will have to go into very modest lodgings indeed. I
have already been looking about. I should like to find rooms for
them somewhere near my 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 be possible to make a joint
establishment with me, but I'm afraid that's out of the question.

The lodgings we should want in that case, everything considered,
would cost 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 very well 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
condemn oneself against conscience? Maud is perhaps the hardest
to get along with. She has a sort of arrogance, an exaggeration
of something I am quite 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, I feel pretty sure that the girls won't seem quarrelsome
to you; they would 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
begun to talk to him about these purely private affairs. He knows
me so very slightly. 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
these things,' said Marian, with tact.

She thought uneasily of her mother in the next room. To her there
appeared no reason whatever why Jasper should not be introduced
to Mrs Yule, yet she could not venture to propose it. Remembering
her father's last remarks about Milvain in connection with
Fadge's magazine, she must wait for distinct permission before
offering the young man encouragement to repeat his visit. Perhaps
there was complicated trouble in store for her; impossible to say
how her father's deep-rooted and rankling antipathies might
affect her intercourse even with the two girls. But she was of
independent years; she must be allowed the choice of her own
friends. The pleasure she had in seeing Jasper under this roof,
in hearing him talk with such intimate friendliness, strengthened
her to resist timid thoughts.

'When will your sisters arrive?' she asked.

'I think in a very few days. When I have fixed upon lodgings for
them I must go back to Finden; then they will return with me as
soon as we can get the house emptied. It's rather miserable
selling things one has lived among from childhood. A friend in
Wattleborough will house for us what 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 are left in such a hard position?'

Marian looked at him with startled eyes. His tone was quite
unfamiliar to her.

'Mother had an annuity,' he continued. 'It ended with her life,
but if it hadn't been for me she could have saved a good deal out
of it. Until the last year or two I have earned nothing, and I
have spent more than was strictly necessary. Well, I didn't live
like that in mere recklessness; I knew I was preparing myself for
remunerative work. But it seems too bad now. I'm sorry for it. I
wish I had found some way of supporting myself. The end of
mother's life was made far more unhappy than 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 of
selfishness; 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 many another poor fellow whose worst features come out
under hardship. This isn'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. Just because 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. My sisters think of you in the
same way. I shall do many a base thing in life, just to get money
and reputation; I tell you this that you mayn't be surprised if
anything of that kind comes to your ears. I can't afford to 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
such things. 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
sisters in the hope that they may earn a living; but suppose I
can't even do it myself? 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
we were all at Finden last year, I told the girls that it would
be another twelve months before I could support myself. Now I am
forced to do it. And I don't like work; my nature is lazy. I
shall never write for writing's sake, only to make money. All my
plans and efforts will have money in view--all. I shan't allow
anything to come in the way of my material advancement.'

'I wish you every success,' said Marian, without looking at him,
and without a smile.

'Thank you. But that sounds too much like good-bye. I trust we
are to be friends, 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 a thing half done for the April number, but I've felt too
heavy-hearted to go 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 the front door. When it had closed, she went back into the
study for a few minutes before rejoining her mother.



CHAPTER IX. INVITA MINERVA

After all, there came a day when Edwin Reardon found himself
regularly at work once more, ticking off his stipulated quantum
of manuscript each four-and-twenty hours. He wrote a very small
hand; sixty written slips of the kind of paper he habitually used
would represent--thanks to the astonishing system which prevails
in such matters: large type, wide spacing, frequency of blank
pages--a passable three-hundred-page volume. On an average he
could write four such slips a day; so here we have fifteen days
for the volume, and forty-five for the completed book.

Forty-five days; an eternity in the looking forward. Yet the
calculation gave him a faint-hearted encouragement. At that rate
he might have his book sold by Christmas. It would certainly not
bring him a hundred pounds; seventy-five perhaps. But even that
small sum would enable him to pay the quarter's rent, and then
give him a short time, if only two or three weeks, of mental
rest. If such rest could not be obtained all was at an end with
him. He must either find some new means of supporting himself and
his family, or--have done with life and its responsibilities
altogether.

The latter alternative was often enough before him. He seldom
slept for more than two or three consecutive hours in the night,
and the time of wakefulness was often terrible. The various
sounds which marked the stages from midnight to dawn had grown
miserably familiar to him; worst torture to his mind was the
chiming and striking of clocks. Two of these were in general
audible, that of Marylebone parish church, and that of the
adjoining workhouse; the latter always sounded several minutes
after its ecclesiastical neighbour, and with a difference of note
which seemed to Reardon very appropriate--a thin, querulous
voice, reminding one of the community it represented. After lying
awake for awhile he would hear quarters sounding; if they ceased
before the fourth he was glad, for he feared to know what time it
was. If the hour was complete, he waited anxiously for its
number. Two, three, even four, were grateful; there was still a
long time before he need rise and face the dreaded task, the
horrible four blank slips of paper that had to be filled ere he
might sleep again. But such restfulness was only for a moment; no
sooner had the workhouse bell become silent than he began to toil
in his weary imagination, or else, incapable of that, to vision
fearful hazards of the future. The soft breathing of Amy at his
side, the contact of her warm limbs, often filled him with
intolerable dread. Even now he did not believe that Amy loved him
with the old love, and the suspicion was like a cold weight at
his heart that to retain even her wifely sympathy, her wedded
tenderness, he must achieve the impossible.

The impossible; for he could no longer deceive himself with a
hope of genuine 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 and the 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 a man of whose competency to maintain
her there would be no doubt. His own behaviour had been cowardly
selfishness. Oh yes, she had loved him, had been eager to believe
in him. But there was always that voice of warning in his mind;
he foresaw--he knew--

And if he killed himself? Not here; no lurid horrors for that
poor girl and her relatives; but somewhere at a distance, under
circumstances which would render the recovery of his body
difficult, yet would leave no 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 with what else might
lie before her. The burden of supporting her and Willie would 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 it
happened that sleep had pity upon him for an hour before the time
of rising.

Autumn was passing into winter. Dark days, which were always an
oppression to his mind, began to be frequent, and would soon
succeed each other remorselessly. Well, if only each of them
represented four written slips.

Milvain's advice to him had of course proved useless. The
sensational title suggested nothing, or only ragged shapes of
incomplete humanity that fluttered mockingly when he strove to
fix them. But he had decided upon a story of the kind natural to
him; a 'thin' story, and one which it would be difficult to spin
into three volumes. His own, at all events. The title was always
a matter for head-racking when the book was finished; he had
never yet chosen it before beginning.

For a week he got on at the desired rate; then came once more the
crisis he had anticipated.

A familiar symptom of the malady which falls upon outwearied
imagination. There were floating in his mind five or six possible
subjects for a book, all dating back to the time when he first
began novel-writing, when ideas came freshly to him. If he
grasped desperately at one of these, and did his best to develop
it, for a day or two he could almost content himself; characters,
situations, lines of motive, were laboriously schemed, and he
felt ready to begin writing. But scarcely had he done a chapter
or two when all the structure fell into flatness. He had made a
mistake. Not this story, but that other one, was what he should
have taken. The other one in question, left out of mind for a
time, had come back with a face of new possibility; it invited
him, tempted him to throw aside what he had already written. 
Good; now he was in more hopeful train. But a few days, and the
experience repeated itself. No, not this story, but that third
one, of which he had not thought for a long time. How could he
have rejected so hopeful a subject?

For months he had been living in this way; endless circling,
perpetual beginning, followed by frustration. A sign of
exhaustion, it of course made exhaustion more complete. At times
he was on the border-land of imbecility; his mind looked into a
cloudy chaos, a shapeless whirl of nothings. He talked aloud to
himself, not knowing that he did so. Little phrases which
indicated dolorously the subject of his preoccupation often
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 in surprise upon him; so young a man to be talking to
himself in evident distress!

The expected crisis came, even now that he was savagely
determined to go on at any cost, to write, let the result be what
it would. His will prevailed. A day or two of anguish such as
there is no describing to the inexperienced, and again he was
dismissing slip after slip, a sigh of thankfulness at the
completion of each one. It was a fraction of the whole, a
fraction, a fraction.

The ordering of his day was thus. At nine, after breakfast, he
sat down to 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 think over the remainder of the day's toil,
and companionship would have been fatal. At about half-past three
he again seated himself; and wrote until half-past six, when he
had a meal. Then once more to work from half-past seven to ten. 
Numberless were the experiments he had tried for the day's
division. The slightest interruption of the order for the time
being put him out of gear; Amy durst not open his door to ask
however necessary a question.

Sometimes the three hours' labour of a morning resulted in
half-a-dozen lines, corrected into illegibility. His brain would
not work; he could not recall the simplest synonyms; intolerable
faults of composition drove him mad. He would write a sentence
beginning thus: 'She took a book with a look of--;' or thus:  'A
revision of this decision would have made him an object of
derision.' Or, if the period were otherwise inoffensive, 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 noticeably good
in style. He had an appreciation of shapely prose which made him
scorn himself for the kind of stuff he was now turning out. 'I
can't help it; it must go; the time is passing.'

Things were better, as a rule, in the evening. Occasionally he
wrote a page with fluency which recalled his fortunate years; and
then his heart gladdened, 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 as much 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 of life.

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;
she feared he was going to lament his inability to work. Instead
of that, he told her joyfully that the first volume was finished.

'Thank goodness!' she exclaimed. 'Are you going to do any more
to-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 the
fireside, and allowed himself to forget the two volumes that had
still to be struggled through, in a grateful sense of the portion
that was achieved. In a few minutes it occurred to him that it
would be delightful to read a scrap of the 'Odyssey'; he went to
the shelves on which were his classical books, took the desired
volume, and opened it where Odysseus speaks to Nausicaa: 

'For never yet did I behold one of mortals like to thee, neither
man nor woman; I am awed as I look upon thee. In Delos once, hard
by the altar of 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
workhouse clock clanging its admonition at the poet's ear. How it
freshened the soul! How the eyes grew dim with a rare joy in the
sounding of those nobly sweet hexameters!

Amy came into the room again.

'Listen,' said Reardon, looking up at her with a bright smile. 
'Do you remember 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
had told the others that they must make shift with the dining-
room for that evening. And you pulled the book out of your pocket
unexpectedly. I laughed at your habit of always carrying little
books about.'

The cheerful news had brightened her. If she had been summoned to
hear lamentations her voice would not have rippled thus
soothingly. Reardon thought of this, and it made him silent for a
minute.

'The habit was ominous,' he said, looking at her with an
uncertain smile. 'A practical literary man doesn't do such
things.'

'Milvain, for instance. No.'

With curious frequency she mentioned the name of Milvain. Her
unconsciousness in doing so prevented Reardon from thinking about
the fact; 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 your lips, 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 than respect, but Amy was not in the habit of
doing so.

'I hadn't any such meaning just then,' he said. 'I meant quite
simply that my bookish habits didn't promise much for my success
as a novelist.'

'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
speaking in a discouraging way. Now, why should you do so? I
don't like it. It has one disagreeable effect on me, and that is,
when people ask me about you, how you are getting on, I don't
quite know how to answer. They can't help seeing that I am
uneasy. I speak so differently from what I used 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 I easily 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
was half joking, you know. But unfortunately it's true that I
can't be as light-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 that thing just now?'

'You're quite right. It was needless.'

'A few weeks ago I didn't expect you to be cheerful. Things began
to look about as bad as they could. But now that you've got a
volume finished, 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 through another half year, if indeed enough for that.'
He had learnt that Amy was 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 as one from whom facts
must be disguised. She says: 'Let us face the worst and talk of
it together, you and I.' No, Amy was not the ideal wife from that
point of view. But the moment after this half-reproach had
traversed his consciousness he condemned himself; and looked with
the joy 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 a long time since I delighted myself with listening to
you. What shall it be?'

'I feel rather too tired to-night.'

'Do you?'

'I have had to look after Willie so much. But read me some more
Homer; I shall be very glad to listen.'

Reardon reached for the book again, but not readily. His face
showed disappointment. Their evenings together had never been the
same since the birth of the child; Willie was always an excuse--
valid enough --for Amy'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 poverty is relative. Reardon could
not pass the subject without a remark, but he tried to speak
humorously.

'There ought to be a huge public creche in London. It's monstrous
that an educated mother should have to be nursemaid.'

'But you know very well I think nothing of that. A creche,
indeed! No child of mine should go to any such place.'

There it was. She grudged no trouble on behalf of the child. That
was love; 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
could name say if they were offered three hundred pounds for a
book? How much do 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
ceases to 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,
and Ajax stalking past him. Oh, I like that!'

So he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming. Amy sat
with folded 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 a delighted laugh, in which Amy joined.

When he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his
wife's chair, 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
proofs will be a martyrdom.'

'Oh, but why? why?'

'It's the best I can do, dearest. So you don't love me enough to
hear that calmly.'

'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin. It's
dreadful to 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
one of the notices unless it is forced upon your attention. Now,
promise me that. Neglect them absolutely, as I do. They're not
worth a glance of your eyes. And I shan't be able to bear it if I
know you read all the contempt that will be poured on me.'

'I'm sure I shall be glad enough to avoid it; but other people,
our friends, read it. That's the worst.'

'You know that their praise would be valueless, so have strength
to disregard 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 to disregard 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 and
opinions.'

'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
sensational story?'

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 far
from it.' He did not dare to make any reply to this. Amy was so
exasperatingly womanlike in avoiding the important issue to which
he tried to confine her; another moment, and his tone would be
that of irritation. So he turned away and sat down to his desk,
as if he had some 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 be thought out.'

'Edwin, I can't think this book will really be so poor. You
couldn't possibly 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 but the right mood to his work next morning. Amy's
anticipation of criticism had made it harder than ever for him to
labour at what he knew to be bad. And, as ill-luck would have it,
in a day or two he caught his first winter's cold. For several
years a succession of influenzas, sore-throats, lumbagoes, had
tormented him from October to May; in planning his present work,
and telling himself that it must be finished before Christmas, he
had not lost sight of these possible interruptions. But he said
to himself: 'Other men have worked hard in seasons of illness; I
must do the same.' All very well, but Reardon did not belong to
the heroic class. A feverish cold now put his powers and
resolution to the test. Through one hideous day he nailed himself
to the desk--and wrote a quarter of a page. The next day Amy
would not let him rise from bed; he was wretchedly ill. In the
night he had talked about his work deliriously, causing her no
slight alarm.

'If this goes on,' she said to him in the morning, 'you'll have
brain fever. 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
not write, but the result upon his mind was far worse than if he
had been at the desk. He looked a haggard creature when he again
sat down with the accustomed blank slip before him.

The second volume ought to have been much easier work than the
first; it proved far harder. Messieurs and mesdames the critics
are wont to point out the weakness of second volumes; they are
generally right, simply because a story which would have made a
tolerable book (the common run of stories) refuses to fill three
books. Reardon's story was in itself weak, and this second volume
had to consist almost entirely of laborious padding. 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. But to what purpose was all this? Impossible, now,
that the book should be finished 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
tell him the state of things, lest it should bring him to a dead
stop in his writing. But now they must needs discuss their
position.

'In three weeks I can get to the end,' said Reardon, with
unnatural calmness. 'Then I will go personally to the publishers,
and beg them to advance 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 to beg 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 sell some 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
seemed to 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
my work is of such doubtful value that they can't offer even a
guinea till the 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 dinner I'll ask a man to come and look at them. 
Don't worry yourself; I can finish in three weeks, I'm sure I
can. If I can get you three or four pounds 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't bring 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
loneliness in which her days were mostly spent. She had never
lived in a large circle of acquaintances; the narrowness of her
mother's means restricted the family to intercourse with a few
old friends and such new ones as were content with teacup
entertainment; but her tastes were social, and the maturing
process which followed upon her marriage made her more conscious
of this than she had been before. Already she had allowed her
husband to understand that one of her strongest motives in
marrying him was the belief that he would achieve distinction. At
the time she doubtless thought of his coming fame only--or
principally--as it concerned their relations to each other; her
pride in him was to be one phase of her love. Now she was well
aware that no degree of distinction in her husband would be of
much value to her unless she had the pleasure of witnessing its
effect upon others; she must shine with reflected light before an
admiring assembly.

The more conscious she became of this requirement of her nature,
the more clearly did she perceive that her hopes had been founded
on an error. Reardon would never be a great man; he would never
even occupy a prominent place in the estimation of the public. 
The two things, Amy knew, might be as different as light and
darkness; but in the grief of her disappointment she would rather
have had him flare into a worthless popularity than flicker down
into total extinction, which it almost seemed was to be his fate.

She knew so well how 'people' were talking of him and her. Even
her unliterary acquaintances understood that Reardon's last novel
had been anything but successful, and they must of course ask
each other how the Reardons were going to live if the business of
novel-writing proved unremunerative. Her pride took offence at
the mere thought of such conversations. Presently she would
become an object of pity; there would be talk of 'poor Mrs
Reardon.' It was intolerable.

So during the last half year she had withheld as much as possible
from the intercourse which might have been one of her chief
pleasures. And to disguise the true cause she made pretences
which were a satire upon her state of mind--alleging that she had
devoted herself to a serious course of studies, that the care of
house and child occupied all the time she could spare from her
intellectual pursuits. The worst of it was, she had little faith
in the efficacy of these fictions; in uttering them she felt an
unpleasant warmth upon her cheeks, and it was not difficult to
detect a look of doubt in the eyes of the listener. She grew
angry with herself for being dishonest, and with her husband for
making such dishonesty needful.

The female friend with whom she had most trouble was Mrs Carter. 
You remember that on the occasion of Reardon's first meeting with
his future wife, at the Grosvenor Gallery, there were present his
friend Carter and a young lady who was shortly to bear the name
of that spirited young man. The Carters had now been married
about a year; they lived in Bayswater, and saw much of a certain
world which imitates on a lower plane the amusements and
affectations of society proper. Mr Carter was still secretary to
the hospital where Reardon had once earned his twenty shillings a
week, but by voyaging in the seas of charitable enterprise he had
come upon supplementary sources of income; for instance, he held
the post of secretary to the Barclay Trust, a charity whose
moderate funds were largely devoted to the support of gentlemen
engaged in administering it. This young man, with his air of
pleasing vivacity, had early ingratiated himself with the kind of
people who were likely to be of use to him; he had his reward in
the shape of offices which are only procured through private
influence. His wife was a good-natured, lively, and rather clever
girl; she had a genuine regard for Amy, and much respect for
Reardon. Her ambition was to form a circle of distinctly
intellectual acquaintances, and she was constantly inviting the
Reardons to her house; a real live novelist is not easily drawn
into the world where Mrs Carter had her being, and it annoyed her
that all attempts to secure Amy and her husband for five-o'clock
teas and small parties had of late failed.

On the afternoon when Reardon had visited a second-hand
bookseller with a view of raising money--he was again shut up in
his study, dolorously at work--Amy was disturbed by the sound of
a visitor's rat-tat; the little servant went to the door, and
returned followed by Mrs Carter.

Under the best of circumstances it was awkward to receive any but
intimate friends during the hours when Reardon sat at his desk. 
The little dining-room (with its screen to conceal the kitchen
range) offered nothing more than homely comfort; and then the
servant had to be disposed of by sending her into the bedroom to
take care of Willie. Privacy, in the strict sense, was
impossible, for the servant might listen at the door (one room
led out of the other) to all the conversation that went on; yet
Amy could not request her visitors to speak in a low tone. For
the first year these difficulties had not been felt; Reardon made
a point of leaving the front room at his wife's disposal from
three to six; it was only when dread of the future began to press
upon him that he sat in the study all day long. You see how
complicated were the miseries of the situation; one torment
involved another, and in every quarter subjects of discontent
were multiplied.

Mrs Carter would have taken it ill had she known that Amy did not
regard her as strictly an intimate. They addressed each other by
their Christian names, and conversed without ceremony; but Amy
was always dissatisfied when the well-dressed young woman burst
with laughter and animated talk into this abode of concealed
poverty. Edith was not the kind of person with whom one can
quarrel; she had a kind heart, and was never disagreeably
pretentious. Had circumstances allowed it, Amy would have given
frank welcome to such friendship; she would have been glad to
accept as many invitations as Edith chose to offer. But at
present it 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 as Edith 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 of the 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;
an afternoon 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
comical person you are sometimes! I suppose you have been over
head and ears in books 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
for exhibition. Edith, who as yet had no child of her own, always
showed the most flattering admiration of this infant; it was so
manifestly sincere that the mother could not but be moved to a
grateful friendliness whenever she listened to its expression. 
Even this afternoon the usual effect followed when Edith had made
a pretty and tender fool of herself for 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
have expected 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 take possession 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.
The door of the flat was heard to close after him.

'Let us go into the study, then,' said Amy, again in rather a
cold voice.

On Reardon's desk were lying slips of blank paper. Edith,
approaching on tiptoe with what was partly make believe, partly
genuine, awe, looked at the literary apparatus, then turned with
a laugh to her friend.

'How delightful it must be to sit down and write about people one
has invented! Ever since I have known you and Mr Reardon I have
been tempted to 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
feel sure 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, and this darkened her humour again.

'One of my reasons for corning,' said Edith, 'was to beg and
entreat and implore you and Mr Reardon to dine with us next
Wednesday. Now, don't put 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 accept
invitations in future.'

Amy spoke thus at the prompting of a sudden impulse. A minute
ago, no such 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 had been. 'You see, one must either belong to
society or not. Married people can't accept an occasional
invitation from friends and never do their social duty in return.

We have decided to withdraw altogether--at all events for the
present. I shall 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 ask you 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, she found it hard to believe that her friends were
so straitened as to have a difficulty in supporting the ordinary
obligations of a civilised state.

'I know how precious your husband's time is,' she added, as if to
remove the effect of her last remark. 'Surely, there's no harm in
my saying --we know each other well enough--you wouldn't think it
necessary to devote an evening to entertaining us just because
you had given us the pleasure of 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 a
novelist to study all sorts of people. How can Mr Reardon do this
if he shuts himself up in the house? I should have thought he
would find it necessary to make new acquaintances.'

'As I said,' returned Amy, 'it won't be always like this. For the
present, Edwin has quite enough "material."'

She spoke distantly; it irritated her to have to invent excuses
for the sacrifice she had just imposed on herself. Edith sipped
the tea which had 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
always turn the conversation to novels, just for the sake of
asking them if they know your husband's books.'

She laughed merrily.

'Which is seldom the case, I should think,' said Amy, with a
smile of indifference.

'Well, my dear, you don't expect ordinary novel-readers to know
about Mr Reardon. I wish my acquaintances were a better kind of
people; then, of course, I should hear of his books more often. 
But one has to make the best of such society as offers. If you
and your husband forsake me, I shall 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
than she 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, we have decided not to accept any invitations at
all.'

'Then, so long as you let me come here now and then, I must give
in. I promise not to trouble you with any more complaining. But
how you can live such a life I don't know. I consider myself more
of a reader than women generally are, and I should be mortally
offended if anyone called me 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 could
interpret. It seemed slightly condescending.

'There's no knowing; perhaps if I had married a literary man---'
She paused, 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 if he didn't spend three-quarters of every day with
lively people.'

'That's rather a large portion. But then you count yourself among
the lively ones.'

They exchanged looks, and laughed together.

'Of course you think me rather silly to want to talk so much with
silly people,' Edith went on. 'But then there's generally some
amusement to be got, you know. I don't take life quite so
seriously as you do. People are people, after all; it's good fun
to see how they live and hear how they 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 Edith suspected the truth. She began to make inquiries
about common acquaintances, 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 upon him so that for the present he could do nothing. The
evening was spent gloomily, with very little conversation.

Next day came the bookseller to make his inspection. Reardon had
chosen out and ranged upon a table nearly a hundred volumes. With
a few exceptions, they had been purchased second-hand. The
tradesman examined them rapidly.

'What do you ask?' he inquired, putting his head aside.

'I prefer that you should make an offer,' Reardon replied, with
the helplessness 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 had
neither time nor spirit to test the possibilities of the market;
he was ashamed 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 them
skilfully in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that
was waiting.

Reardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves. Many of those
vanished volumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told
you where he had picked them up and when; to open them recalled a
past moment of intellectual growth, a mood of hope or
despondency, a stage of struggle. In most of them his name was
written, and there were often pencilled notes in the margin. Of
course he had chosen from among the most valuable he possessed;
such a multitude must else have been sold to make this sum of two
pounds ten. Books are cheap, you know. At need, one can buy a
Homer for fourpence, a Sophocles for sixpence. It was not rubbish
that he had accumulated at so small expenditure, but the library
of a poor student--battered bindings, stained pages, supplanted
editions. He loved his books, but there was something he loved
more, and when Amy glanced 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
money is nearly at an end again, and you shall have more. It's
all right; the novel 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
almost perforce, for the depressing influence of Sunday in London
made work too difficult. Then, it was the day on which he either
went to see his own particular 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 tried to laugh, but a woman with a child in her arms has no
keen relish for such 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
carry the child.

At five a familiar knock sounded through the flat; it was a heavy
rap followed by half-a-dozen light ones, like a reverberating
echo, the last stroke scarcely audible. Reardon laid down his
book, but kept his pipe in his mouth, and went to the door. A
tall, thin man stood there, with a slouch hat and long grey
overcoat. He shook hands silently, hung his hat in the passage,
and came forward into the study.

His name was Harold Biffen, and, to judge from his appearance, he
did not belong to the race of common mortals. His excessive
meagreness would all but have qualified him to enter an
exhibition in the capacity of living skeleton, and the garments
which hung upon this framework would perhaps have sold for
three-and-sixpence at an old-clothes dealer's. But the man was
superior to these accidents of flesh and raiment. He had a fine
face:  large, gentle eyes, nose slightly aquiline, small and
delicate mouth. Thick black hair fell to his coat-collar; he wore
a heavy moustache and a full beard. In his gait there was a
singular dignity; only a man of cultivated mind and graceful
character could move and 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 which he arranged carefully on a corner of the central
table. Then he drew forward 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
had no ordinary coat beneath the other. To have referred to this
fact would have 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 to know how you scan this chorus in the "Oedipus Rex."'

Reardon took the volume, considered, and began to read aloud with
metric emphasis.

'Choriambics, eh?' cried the other. 'Possible, of course; but
treat them as 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 his eyes gleamed. Having delivered a technical lecture, he
began to read in illustration, producing quite a different effect
from that of the rhythm as given by his friend. And the reading
was by no means that of a pedant, rather of a poet.

For half an hour the two men talked Greek metres as if they lived
in a world where the only hunger known could be satisfied by
grand or sweet cadences.

They had first met in an amusing way. Not long after the
publication of his book 'On Neutral Ground' Reardon was spending
a week at Hastings. A rainy day drove him to the circulating
library, and as he was looking along the shelves for something
readable a voice near at hand asked the attendant if he had
anything 'by Edwin Reardon.' The novelist turned in astonishment;
that any casual mortal should inquire for his books seemed
incredible. Of course there was nothing by that author in the
library, and he who had asked the question walked out again. On
the morrow Reardon encountered this same man at a lonely part of
the shore; he looked at him, and spoke a word or two of common
civility; they got into conversation, with the result that Edwin
told the story of yesterday. The stranger introduced himself as
Harold Biffen, an author in a small way, and a teacher whenever
he could get pupils; an abusive review had interested him in
Reardon's novels, but as yet he knew nothing of them but the
names.

Their tastes were found to be in many respects sympathetic, and
after returning to London they saw each other frequently. Biffen
was always in dire poverty, and lived in the oddest places; he
had seen harder trials than even Reardon himself. The teaching by
which he partly lived was of a kind quite unknown to the
respectable tutorial world. In these days of examinations,
numbers of men in a poor position--clerks chiefly--conceive a
hope that by 'passing' this, that, or the other formal test they
may open for themselves a new career. Not a few such persons
nourish preposterous ambitions; there are warehouse clerks
privately preparing (without any means or prospect of them) for a
call to the Bar, drapers' assistants who 'go in' for the
preliminary examination of the College of Surgeons, and untaught
men innumerable who desire to procure enough show of education to
be eligible for a curacy. Candidates of this stamp frequently
advertise in the newspapers for cheap tuition, or answer
advertisements which are intended to appeal to them; they pay
from sixpence to half-a-crown an hour--rarely as much as the
latter sum. Occasionally it happened that Harold Biffen had three
or four such pupils in hand, and extraordinary stories he could
draw from his large experience in this sphere.

Then as to his authorship.--But shortly after the discussion of
Greek metres he fell upon the subject of his literary projects,
and, by no means 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 an absolute realism in the sphere of the ignobly decent. The
field, as I understand it, is a new one; I don't know any writer
who has treated ordinary vulgar life with fidelity and
seriousness. Zola writes deliberate tragedies; his vilest figures
become heroic from the place they fill in a strongly imagined
drama. I want to deal with the essentially unheroic, with the
day-to-day life of that vast majority of people who are at the
mercy of paltry circumstance. Dickens understood the possibility
of such work, but his tendency to melodrama on the one hand, and
his humour on the other, prevented him from thinking of it. An
instance, now. As I came along by Regent's Park half an hour ago
a man and a girl were walking close in front of me, love-making;
I passed them slowly and heard a good deal of their talk--it was
part of the situation that they should pay no heed to a
stranger's proximity. Now, such a love-scene as that has
absolutely never been written down; it was entirely decent, yet
vulgar to the nth power. Dickens would have made it ludicrous--a
gross injustice. Other men who deal with low-class life would
perhaps have preferred idealising it--an absurdity. For my own
part, I am going to reproduce it verbatim, without one single
impertinent suggestion of any point of view save that of honest
reporting. The result will be something unutterably tedious. 
Precisely. That is the stamp of the ignobly decent life. If it
were anything but tedious it would be untrue. I speak, of course,
of its effect upon the ordinary reader.'

'I couldn't do it,' said Reardon.

'Certainly you couldn't. You--well, you are a psychological
realist in the 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.
This divergence is very interesting; but for that, we should have
resembled each 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 the
fateful power of trivial incidents. No one has yet dared to do
this seriously. It has often been done in farce, and that's why
farcical writing so often makes one melancholy. You know my stock
instances of the kind of thing I mean. There was poor Allen, who
lost the most valuable opportunity of his life because he hadn't
a clean shirt to put on; and Williamson, who would probably have
married that rich girl but for the grain of dust that got into
his eye, and made him unable to say or do anything at the
critical moment.'

Reardon burst into a roar of laughter.

'There you are!' cried Biffen, with friendly annoyance. 'You take
the conventional view. If you wrote of these things you would
represent them as laughable.'

'They are laughable,' asserted the other, 'however serious to the
persons concerned. The mere fact of grave issues in life
depending on such paltry things is monstrously ludicrous. Life is
a huge farce, and the advantage of possessing a sense of humour
is that it enables one to defy fate with mocking laughter.'

'That's all very well, but it isn't an original view. I am not
lacking in sense of humour, but I prefer to treat these aspects
of life from an impartial standpoint. The man who laughs takes
the side of a cruel omnipotence, if one can imagine such a thing.

I want to take no side at all; simply to say, Look, this is the
kind of thing that happens.'

'I admire your honesty, Biffen,' said Reardon, sighing. 'You will
never sell work of this kind, yet you have the courage to go on
with it because 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 a morsel of something. I'm rather hungry.'

In the early days of his marriage Reardon was wont to offer the
friends who looked in on Sunday evening a substantial supper; by
degrees the meal had grown simpler, until now, in the depth of
his poverty, he made no pretence of hospitable entertainment. It
was only because he knew that Biffen as often as not had nothing
whatever to eat that he did not hesitate to offer him a slice of
bread and butter and a cup of tea. They went into the back room,
and over the Spartan fare continued to discuss aspects 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 nothing to my purpose. Even when they happen,
by-the-bye, it is in a shape that would be useless to the
ordinary novelist; he would have to cut away this circumstance,
and add that. Why? I should like to know. Such conventionalism
results from stage necessities. Fiction hasn't yet outgrown the
influence of the stage on which it originated. Whatever a man
writes FOR EFFECT is wrong and bad.'

'Only in your view. There may surely exist such a thing as the
ART of fiction.'

'It is worked out. We must have a rest from it. You, now--the
best things you have done are altogether in conflict with
novelistic conventionalities. It was because that blackguard
review of "On Neutral Ground" 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 a great scene of passion, let it
all be frustrated by one or other of them having a bad cold in
the head, and so on. Let the pretty girl get a disfiguring pimple
on her nose just before the ball at which she is going to shine. 
Show the numberless repulsive features of common decent life. 
Seriously, coldly; not a hint of facetiousness, or the thing
becomes different.'

About eight o'clock Reardon heard his wife's knock at the door. 
On opening he saw not only Amy and the servant, the latter
holding Willie in her arms, but with them Jasper Milvain.

'I have been at Mrs Yule's,' Jasper explained as he came in. 
'Have you anyone 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
smoke of their pipes gathered thickly in the little room. It was
half an hour before Amy joined them. Tobacco was no disturbance
to her, and she enjoyed the kind of talk that was held on these
occasions; but it annoyed her that she could no longer play the
hostess at a merry supper-table.

'Why ever are you sitting in your overcoat, Mr Biffen?' were her
first words when she entered.

'Please excuse me, Mrs Reardon. It happens to be more convenient
this evening.'

She was puzzled, but a glance from her husband warned her not to
pursue the subject.

Biffen always behaved to Amy with a sincerity of respect which
had made him a favourite with her. To him, poor fellow, Reardon
seemed supremely blessed. That a struggling man of letters should
have been able to marry, and such a wife, was miraculous in
Biffen's eyes. A woman's love was to him the unattainable ideal;
already thirty-five years old, he had no prospect of ever being
rich enough to assure himself a daily dinner; marriage was wildly
out of the question. Sitting here, he found it very difficult not
to gaze at Amy with uncivil persistency. Seldom in his life had
he conversed with educated women, and the sound of this clear
voice was always more delightful to him than any music.

Amy took a place near to him, and talked in her most charming way
of such things as she knew interested him. Biffen's deferential
attitude as he listened and replied was in strong contrast with
the careless ease which marked Jasper Milvain. The realist would
never smoke in Amy's presence, but Jasper puffed jovial clouds
even whilst she was conversing with 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 a commission agent for some sewing-machine
people.'

'I can't understand how his book should be positively refused,'
said Reardon. 'The last wasn't altogether a failure.'

'Very nearly. And this one consists of nothing but a series of
conversations between two people. It is really a dialogue, not a
novel at all. He read me some twenty pages, and I no longer
wondered that he couldn't sell it.'

'Oh, but it has considerable merit,' put in Biffen. 'The talk is
remarkably 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
long as people are willing to read you. Whelpdale's a clever
fellow, but he can'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
in meditation, 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 of suffering oneself.'

Amy set her lips and sighed.



CHAPTER XI. RESPITE

The last volume was written in fourteen days. In this achievement
Reardon rose almost to heroic pitch, for he had much to contend
with beyond the mere labour of composition. Scarcely had he begun
when a sharp attack of lumbago fell upon him; for two or three
days it was torture to support himself at the desk, and he moved
about like a cripple. Upon this ensued headaches, sore-throat,
general enfeeblement. And before the end of the fortnight it was
necessary to think of raising another small sum of money; he took
his watch to the pawnbroker's (you can imagine that it would not
stand as security for much), and sold a few more books. All this
notwithstanding, here was the novel at length finished. 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 another
effort; after a few minutes' feeble search he simply took the
name of the 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 more about them.

'Amy, you will have to correct the proofs for me. Never as long
as I live will I look upon a page of this accursed novel. It has
all but killed me.'

'The point is,' replied Amy, 'that here we have it complete. Pack
it up and 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 of
the last volume would have been. Reardon had such superfluity of
sensitiveness that, for his own part, he would far rather have
gone hungry than ask for money not legally his due. To-day there
was no choice. In the ordinary course of business it would be
certainly a month before he heard the publishers' terms, and
perhaps the Christmas season might cause yet more delay. Without
borrowing, he could not provide for the expenses of more than
another week or two.

His parcel under his arm, he entered the ground-floor office, and
desired to see that member of the firm with whom he had
previously had personal relations. This gentleman was not in
town; he would be away for a few days. Reardon left the
manuscript, and came out into the street again.

He crossed, and looked up at the publishers' windows from the
opposite pavement. 'Do they suspect in what wretched
circumstances I am? Would it surprise them to know all that
depends upon that budget of paltry scribbling? 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 point of entering the public door of the flats when his
uneasiness became so great that he turned and walked past. If he
went in, he must at once write his appeal for money, and he felt
that he could not. The degradation 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 was only a question of buying food and fuel. Amy
had offered to ask her mother for a few pounds; it would be
cowardly to put this task upon her now that he had promised to
meet the difficulty himself. What man in all London could and
would lend him money? He reviewed the list of his acquaintances,
but there was only one to whom he could appeal with the slightest
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. The matron 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 had been wont to work, a young clerk was writing. If only all
the events of the last few years could be undone, and he, with no
soul dependent upon him, be once more earning his pound a week in
this room! What a happy man he was in those days!

Nearly half an hour passed. It is the common experience of
beggars to have to wait. Then Carter came in with quick step; he
wore a heavy ulster of the latest fashion, new gloves, a
resplendent silk hat; his cheeks 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
just getting out our Christmas appeals. You remember?'

He laughed gaily. There was a remarkable freedom from
snobbishness in this young man; the fact of Reardon's
intellectual superiority had long ago 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
flinging one of his legs over the other. 'You look rather seedy,
do you know. Why the 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
send scores 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
turned screws 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 ten pounds for a month--in fact, until I get the money for my
book?'

The secretary's countenance fell, though not to that expression
of utter coldness which would have come naturally under the
circumstances to a great many vivacious men. He seemed genuinely
embarrassed.

'By Jove! I--confound it! To tell you the truth, I haven't ten
pounds to lend. Upon my word, I haven't, Reardon! These infernal
housekeeping expenses! I don't mind telling you, old man, that
Edith and I have been pushing the pace rather.' He laughed, and
thrust his hands down into his trousers-pockets. 'We pay such a
darned rent, you know--hundred and twenty-five. We've only just
been saying we should have to draw it mild for the rest of the
winter. But I'm infernally sorry; upon my word I am.'

'And I am sorry to have annoyed you by the unseasonable request.'

'Devilish seasonable, Reardon, I assure you!' cried the
secretary, and roared at his joke. It put him into a better
temper than ever, and he said at length: 'I suppose a fiver
wouldn't be much use?--For a month, you say?--1 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 a
cheque?'

'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
when Carter again presented himself he never recalled a word. The
bit of paper was crushed together in his hand. Out in the street
again, he all but threw it away, dreaming for the moment that it
was a 'bus ticket or a patent medicine bill.

He reached home much after the dinner-hour. Amy was surprised at
his long absence.

'Got anything?' she asked.

'Yes.'

It was half his intention to deceive her, to say that the
publishers had advanced him five pounds. But that would be his
first word of untruth to Amy, and why should he be guilty of it? 
He told her all that had happened. The result of this frankness
was something that he had not anticipated; Amy exhibited profound
vexation.

'Oh, you SHOULDN'T have done that!' she exclaimed. 'Why didn't
you come home 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 so annoying 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
have your 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 face was a look more resembling bad temper than anything
Reardon had ever seen there. After dinner he went and sat alone
in the study. Amy did not come near him. He grew stubbornly
angry; remembering the pain he had gone through, he felt that
Amy's behaviour to him was cruel. She must come and speak when
she would.

At six o'clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he
would come 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 that he must send a note to the publishers, calling
their attention to the parcel he had left. He wrote it, and
closed with a request that they would let him hear as soon as
they conveniently could. As he was putting on his hat and coat to
go out and post the letter Amy opened the dining-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
into the study, but the thought of Amy alone in the other room
would not let him 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
closely engaged upon some sewing.

That strength of character which it had always delighted him to
read in her features was become an ominous hardness. He felt his
heart sink as he 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 it was necessary to go back from the general to the
particular.

'I'm afraid,' he said, 'that the Carters already knew pretty well
how things were going with us.'

'That's a very different thing. But when it comes to asking them
for money--'

'I'm very sorry. I would rather have done anything if I had known
how it would 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 was no possibility of avoiding so long as their life was
maintained on its present basis.

'However, you needn't trouble any more about it. I'll see to it. 
Now you are free from your book try to rest.'

'Come and sit by the fire. There's small chance of rest for me if
we are thinking unkindly of each other.'

A doleful Christmas. Week after week went by and Reardon knew
that Amy must have exhausted the money he had given her. But she
made no more demands upon him, and necessaries were paid for in
the usual way. He suffered from a sense of humiliation; sometimes
he found it difficult to look in his wife's face.

When the publishers' letter came it contained an offer of
seventy-five pounds for the copyright of 'Margaret Home,'
twenty-five more to be paid if the sale in three-volume form
should reach a certain number of copies.

Here was failure put into unmistakable figures. Reardon said to
himself that it was all over with his profession of authorship. 
The book could not possibly succeed even to the point of
completing his hundred pounds; it would meet with universal
contempt, and indeed deserved nothing better.

'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
as it was requested, and Reardon's face brightened for the
moment. Blessed money! 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
matter of fifty pounds to go on with.'



CHAPTER XII. WORK WITHOUT HOPE

The prudent course was so obvious that he marvelled at Amy's
failing to suggest it. For people in their circumstances to be
paying a rent of fifty pounds when a home could be found for half
the money was recklessness; there would be no difficulty in
letting the flat for this last year of their lease, and the cost
of removal would be trifling. The mental relief of such a change
might enable him to front with courage a problem in any case very
difficult, and, as things were, desperate. Three months ago, in a
moment of profoundest misery, he had proposed this step; courage
failed him to speak of it again, Amy's look and voice were too
vivid in his memory. Was she not capable of such a sacrifice for
his sake? Did she prefer to let him bear all the responsibility
of whatever might result from a futile struggle to keep up
appearances?

Between him and her there was no longer perfect confidence. Her
silence meant reproach, and--whatever might have been the case
before--there was no doubt that she now discussed him with her
mother, possibly with other people. It was not likely that she
concealed his own opinion of the book he had just finished; all
their acquaintances would be prepared to greet its publication
with private scoffing or with mournful shaking of the head. His
feeling towards Amy entered upon a new phase. The stability of
his love was a source of pain; condemning himself, he felt at the
same time that he was wronged. A coldness which was far from
representing the truth began to affect his manner and speech, and
Amy did not seem to notice it, at all events she made no kind of
protest. They no longer talked of the old subjects, but of those
mean concerns of material life which formerly they had agreed to
dismiss as quickly as possible. Their relations to each other--
not long ago an inexhaustible topic--would not bear spoken
comment; both were too conscious of the danger-signal when they
looked that way.

In the time of waiting for the publishers' offer, and now again
when he was asking himself how he should use the respite granted
him, Reardon spent 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 idling under Amy's glance. Sick of
imaginative writing, he turned to the studies which had always
been most congenial, and tried to shape out a paper or two like
those he had formerly disposed of to editors. Among his unused
material lay a mass of notes he had made in a reading of Diogenes
Laertius, and it seemed to him now that he might make something
salable out of these anecdotes of the philosophers. In a happier
mood he could have written delightfully on such a subject--not
learnedly, but in the strain of a modern man whose humour and
sensibility find free play among the classic ghosts; even now he
was able to recover something of the light touch which had given
value to his published essays.

Meanwhile the first number of The Current had appeared, and
Jasper Milvain had made a palpable hit. Amy spoke very often of
the article called 'Typical Readers,' and her interest in its
author was freely manifested. Whenever a mention of Jasper came
under her notice she read it Out to her husband. Reardon smiled
and appeared glad, but he did not care to discuss Milvain with
the same frankness as formerly.

One evening at the end of January he told Amy what he had been
writing at 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, I had 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 a page--'

'Where will you send it?' she interrupted.

'To The Wayside.'

'Why not try The Current? Ask Milvain to introduce you to Mr
Fadge. They pay much better, you know.'

'But this isn't so well suited for Fadge. And I much prefer to be
independent, as long as it's possible.'

'That's one of your faults, Edwin,' remarked his wife, mildly. 
'It's only the strongest men that can make their way
independently. You ought to 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
need all the help they can get. But I assure you, this thing
won't do for The Current.'

'What a pity you will go hack to those musty old times! Now think
of that 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 I know 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 on Amy's lips. 'Whoever he was, the mass of readers will
be frightened by his name.'

'Well, we have to recognise that the mass of readers will never
care for anything I do.'

'You will never convince me that you couldn't write in a popular
way if you 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
two

men 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
always regretting the difference between him and me. You lament
that I can't write in that attractive way. Well, I lament it
myself--for your sake. I wish I had Milvain's peculiar talent, so
that I could get reputation and money. But I haven't, and there's
an end of it. It irritates a man to be perpetually 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
given any cause for it.'

'Then we'll talk no more of the matter.'

Reardon threw his manuscript aside and opened a book. Amy never
asked him 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 had written another thing of the same gossipy kind, suggested
by Pliny's Letters. The pleasant occupation did him good, but
there was no possibility of pursuing this course. 'Margaret Home'
would be published in April; he might get the five-and-twenty
pounds contingent upon a certain sale, yet that could in no case
be paid until the middle of the year, and long before then he
would be penniless. His respite drew to an end.

But now he took counsel of no one; as far as it was possible he
lived in solitude, never seeing those of his acquaintances who
were outside the literary world, and seldom even his colleagues. 
Milvain was so busy that he had only been able to look in twice
or thrice since Christmas, and Reardon nowadays never went to
Jasper's lodgings.

He had the conviction that all was over with the happiness of his
married life, though how the events which were to express this
ruin would shape themselves he could not foresee. Amy was
revealing that aspect of her character to which he had been
blind, though a practical man would have perceived it from the
first; so far from helping him to support poverty, she perhaps
would even refuse to share it with him. He knew that she was
slowly drawing apart; already there was a divorce between their
minds, and he tortured himself in uncertainty as to how far he
retained her affections. A word of tenderness, a caress, no
longer met with response from her; her softest mood was that of
mere comradeship. All the warmth of her nature was expended upon
the child; Reardon learnt how easy it is for a mother to forget
that both parents have a share in her offspring.

He was beginning to dislike the child. But for Willie's existence
Amy would still love him with undivided heart; not, perhaps, so
passionately as once, but still with lover's love. And Amy
understoed --or, at all events, remarked--this change in him. 
She was aware that he seldom asked a question about Willie, and
that he listened with indifference when she spoke of the little
fellow's progress. In part offended, she was also in part
pleased.

But for the child, mere poverty, he said to himself, should never
have sundered them. In the strength of his passion he could have
overcome all her disappointments; and, indeed, but for that new
care, he would most likely never have fallen to this extremity of
helplessness. It is natural in a weak and sensitive man to dream
of possibilities disturbed by the force of circumstance. For one
hour which he gave to conflict with his present difficulties,
Reardon spent many in contemplation of the happiness that might
have been.

Even yet, it needed but a little money to redeem all. Amy had no
extravagant aspirations; a home of simple refinement and freedom
from anxiety would restore her to her nobler self. How could he
find fault with her? She knew nothing of such sordid life as he
had gone through, and to lack money for necessities seemed to her
degrading beyond endurance. Why, even the ordinary artisan's wife
does not suffer such privations as hers at the end of the past
year. For lack of that little money his life must be ruined. Of
late he had often thought about the rich uncle, John Yule, who
might perhaps leave something to Amy; but the hope was so
uncertain. And supposing such a thing were to happen; would it be
perfectly easy to live upon his wife's bounty--perhaps exhausting
a small capital, so that, some years hence, their position would
be no better than before? Not long ago, he could have taken
anything from Amy's hand; would it be so simple since the change
that had come between them?

Having written his second magazine-article (it was rejected by
two editors, and he had no choice but to hold it over until
sufficient time had elapsed to allow of his again trying The
Wayside), he saw that he must perforce plan another novel. But
this time he was resolute not to undertake three volumes. The
advertisements informed him that numbers of authors were
abandoning that procrustean system; hopeless as he was, he might
as well try his chance with a book which could be written in a
few weeks. And why not a glaringly artificial story with a
sensational title? It could not be worse than what he had last
written.

So, without a word to Amy, he put aside his purely intellectual
work and began once more the search for a 'plot.' This was
towards the end of February. The proofs of 'Margaret Home' were
coming in day by day; Amy had offered to correct them, but after
all he preferred to keep his shame to himself as long as
possible, and with a hurried reading he dismissed sheet after
sheet. His imagination did not work the more happily for this
repugnant task; still, he hit at length upon a conception which
seemed absurd enough for the purpose before him. Whether he could
persevere with it even to the extent of one volume was very
doubtful. But it should not be said of him that he abandoned his
wife and child to penury without one effort of the kind that
Milvain and Amy herself had recommended.

Writing a page or two of manuscript daily, and with several
holocausts to retard him, he had done nearly a quarter of the
story when there came a note from Jasper telling of Mrs Milvain's
death. He handed it across the breakfast-table to Amy, and
watched her as she read it.

'I suppose it doesn't alter his position,' Amy remarked, without
much interest.

'I suppose not appreciably. He told me once his mother had a
sufficient income; 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
Jasper himself; then he wrote, again from the country, saying
that he purposed bringing his sisters to live in London. Another
week, and one evening he appeared at the door.

A want of heartiness in Reardon's reception of him might have
been explained as gravity natural under the circumstances. But
Jasper had before this become conscious that he was not welcomed
here quite so cheerily as in the old days. He remarked it
distinctly on that evening when he accompanied Amy home from Mrs
Yule's; since then he had allowed his pressing occupations to be
an excuse for the paucity of his visits. It seemed to him
perfectly intelligible that Reardon, sinking into literary
insignificance, should grow cool to a man entering upon a
successful career; the vein of cynicism in Jasper enabled him to
pardon a weakness of this kind, which in some measure flattered
him. But he both liked and respected Reardon, and at present he
was in the mood to give expression to his warmer feelings.

'Your book is announced, I see,' he said with an accent of
pleasure, as soon as he had seated himself.

'I didn't know it.'

'Yes. "New novel by the author of 'On Neutral Ground.'" Down for
the sixteenth of April. And I have a proposal to make about it. 
Will you let me ask Fadge to have it noticed in "Books of the
Month," in the May Current?'

'I strongly advise you to let it take its chance. The book isn't
worth special notice, and whoever undertook to review it for
Fadge would either 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
in anything he writes there'll be something for a well-disposed
reviewer to make a good deal of. If Fadge will let me, I should
do the thing myself.'

Neither Reardon nor his wife spoke.

'Of course,' went on Milvain, looking at the former, 'if you had
rather I 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
from Mornington 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 get friends 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 a
silence as if of constraint. Reardon, glancing at his wife, said
with hesitation:

'When they care to see other visitors, I'm sure Amy would be very
glad--'

'Certainly!' his wife added.

'Thank you very much. Of course I knew I could depend on Mrs
Reardon to show 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 down there last year. Wouldn't that'--he
turned to Amy--'cause you a little awkwardness?'

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. We shall see. For the present they will be
fully occupied. Of course it's best that they should be. I shall
see them every day, and Miss Yule will come 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
well this didn't happen a year ago. The girls have no income;
only a little cash to go on with. We shall have our work set. 
It's a precious lucky thing 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 of
one-volume novels. You know of Jedwood, don't you? He was
Culpepper's manager; started business about half a year ago, and
it looks as if he would do well. He married that woman--what's
her name?--Who wrote "Mr Henderson's Wives"?'

'Never heard of it.'

'Nonsense!--Miss Wilkes, of course. Well, she married this fellow
Jedwood, and there was a great row about something or other
between him and her publishers. Mrs Boston Wright told me all
about it. An astonishing woman that; a cyclopaedia of the day's
small talk. I'm quite a 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 of yours? He's eager to get
hold of the new writers. Advertises hugely; he has the whole back
page of The Study about every other week. I suppose Miss Wilkes's
profits are paying for it. He has just given Markland two hundred
pounds for a paltry little tale that would scarcely swell out to
a volume. Markland told me himself. You know that I've scraped an
acquaintance with him? Oh! I suppose I haven't seen you since
then. He's a dwarfish fellow with only one eye. Mrs Boston Wright
cries him up at every 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 a sailor at fifteen. Was shipwrecked somewhere,
and only restored to life after terrific efforts;--her story
leaves it all rather vague. Then she turns up as a newspaper
correspondent at the Cape. Gave up that, and took to some kind of
farming, I forget where. Married again (first husband lost in
aforementioned shipwreck), this time a Baptist minister, and
began to devote herself to soup-kitchens in Liverpool. Husband
burned to death, somewhere. She's next discovered in the thick of
literary society in London. A wonderful woman, I assure you. Must
be nearly fifty, but she looks twenty-five.'

He paused, then added impulsively:

'Let me take you to one of her evenings--nine on Thursday. Do
persuade him, 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;
those you ought to have met long ago. Better still, let me ask
her to send an 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 solid qualities as well. No one has a word to say
against her. And it's a splendid advertisement to have her for a
friend. She'll talk about your books and articles till all is
blue.'

Amy gave a questioning look at her husband. But Reardon moved in
an uncomfortable way.

'We'll see about it,' he said. 'Some day, perhaps.'

'Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood: I
happen to know 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
my business to make acquaintances. Why, look you; a man who has
to live by miscellaneous writing couldn't get on without a vast
variety of acquaintances. One's own brain would soon run dry; a
clever fellow knows how 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
"literary adviser." He has an advertisement in The Study every
week. "To Young Authors and Literary Aspirants"--something of the
kind. "Advice given on choice of subjects, MSS. read, corrected,
and recommended to publishers. Moderate terms." A fact! And
what's more, he made six guineas in the first fortnight; so he
says, at all events. Now that's one of the finest jokes I ever
heard. A man who can't get anyone to publish his own books makes
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
"literary aspirants," and as for recommending to publishers--
well, anyone can recommend, 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 to my 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'll talk about it. And think about Mrs Boston Wright; oh, and
about that review in The Current. I wish you'd let me do it. Talk
it over with your guide, 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
burst out laughing.

'Well, there's the successful man, you see. Some day he'll live
in a mansion, 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
for you in several ways.'

'If the chance had come when I was publishing my best work, I
dare say I shouldn't have refused. But I certainly shall not
present myself as the author 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 was
made of a new work by Alfred Yule. It was called 'English Prose
in the Nineteenth Century,' and consisted of a number of essays
(several of which had already seen the light in periodicals)
strung into continuity. The final chapter dealt with contemporary
writers, more especially those who served to illustrate the
author's theme--that journalism is the destruction of prose
style: on certain popular writers of the day there was an
outpouring of gall which was not likely to be received as though
it were sweet ointment. The book met with rather severe treatment
in critical columns; it could scarcely be ignored (the safest
mode of attack when one's author has no expectant public), and
only the most skilful could write of it in a hostile spirit
without betraying that some of its strokes had told. An evening
newspaper which piqued itself on independence indulged in
laughing appreciation of the polemical chapter, and the next day
printed a scornful letter from a thinly-disguised correspondent
who assailed both book and reviewer. For the moment people talked
more of Alfred Yule than they had done since his memorable
conflict with Clement Fadge.

The publisher had hoped for this. Mr Jedwood was an energetic and
sanguine man, who had entered upon his business with a
determination to rival in a year or so the houses which had
slowly risen into commanding stability. He had no great capital,
but the stroke of fortune which had wedded him to a popular
novelist enabled him to count on steady profit from one source,
and boundless faith in his own judgment urged him to an initial
outlay which made the prudent shake their heads. He talked much
of 'the new era,' foresaw revolutions in publishing and
book-selling, planned every week a score of untried ventures
which should appeal to the democratic generation just maturing;
in the meantime, was ready to publish anything which seemed
likely to get talked about.

The May number of The Current, in its article headed 'Books of
the Month,' devoted about half a page to 'English Prose in the
Nineteenth Century.' This notice was a consummate example of the
flippant style of attack. Flippancy, the most hopeless form of
intellectual vice, was a characterising note of Mr Fadge's
periodical; his monthly comments on publications were already
looked for with eagerness by that growing class of readers who
care for nothing but what can be made matter of ridicule. The
hostility of other reviewers was awkward and ineffectual compared
with this venomous banter, which entertained by showing that in
the book under notice there was neither entertainment nor any
other kind of interest. To assail an author without increasing
the number of his readers is the perfection of journalistic
skill, and The Current, had it stood alone, would fully have
achieved this end. As it was, silence might have been better
tactics. But Mr Fadge knew that his enemy would smart under the
poisoned pin-points, and that was something gained.

On the day that The Current appeared, its treatment of Alfred
Yule was discussed in Mr Jedwood's private office. Mr Quarmby,
who had intimate relations with the publisher, happened to look
in just as a young man (one of Mr Jedwood's 'readers') was
expressing a doubt whether Fadge himself 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 by that fellow Milvain.'

'Think so?' asked the publisher.

'Well, I know with certainty that the notice of Markland's novel
is his writing, and I have reasons for suspecting that he did
Yule's book as well.'

'Smart youngster, that,' remarked Mr Jedwood. 'Who is he, by-the-
bye?'

'Somebody's illegitimate son, I believe,' replied the source of
trustworthy information, with a laugh. 'Denham says he met him in
New York 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, concerning
Milvain's history. Though in this instance a corrector, Mr
Quarmby took an opportunity, a few hours later, of informing Mr
Hinks that the attack on Yule in The Current was almost certainly
written by young Milvain, with the result that when the rumour
reached Yule's ears it was delivered as an undoubted and
well-known fact.

It was a month prior to this that Milvain made his call upon
Marian Yule, on the Sunday when her father was absent. When told
of the visit, Yule assumed a manner of indifference, but his
daughter understood that he was annoyed. With regard to the
sisters who would shortly be living in London, he merely said
that Marian must behave as discretion directed her. 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 be
disturbed.

As her habit was, Marian took refuge in silence. Nothing could
have been more welcome to her than the proximity of Maud and
Dora, but she foresaw that her own home would not be freely open
to them; perhaps it might be necessary to behave with simple
frankness, and let her friends know the embarrassments of the
situation. But that could not be done in the first instance; the
unkindness would seem too great. A day after the arrival of the
girls, she received a note from Dora, and almost at once replied
to it by calling at her friends' lodgings. A week after that,
Maud and Dora came to St Paul's Crescent; it was Sunday, and Mr
Yule purposely kept away from home. They had only been once to
the house since then, again without meeting Mr Yule. Marian,
however, visited them at their lodgings frequently; now and then
she met Jasper there. The latter never spoke of her father, and
there was no question of inviting him to repeat his 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 were coming 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
are sensible; they won't be offended with me.'

'But your father has never had anything to say against them,'
urged Mrs Yule. '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
with pleasure. Father has grown prejudiced against them all, and
he won't change. No, I shall just tell them.'

'It's very hard for you,' sighed her mother. 'If I thought I
could do any 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,
he called Marian's name from within the study. Marian had not
left the house to-day; her work had been set, in the shape of a
long task of copying from disorderly manuscript. She left the
sitting-room in obedience to her father's summons.

'Here's something that will afford you amusement,' he said,
holding to her the new number of The Current, and indicating the
notice of his book.

She read a few lines, then threw the thing on to the table.

'That kind of writing sickens me,' she exclaimed, with anger in
her eyes. 'Only base and heartless people can write in that way. 
You surely won't let it trouble you?'

'Oh, not for a moment,' her father answered, with exaggerated
show of calm. 'But I am surprised that you don't see the literary
merit of the work. I thought it would distinctly appeal to you.'

There was a strangeness in his voice, as well as in the words,
which caused her to look at him inquiringly. She knew him well
enough to understand that such a notice would irritate him
profoundly; but why should he go out of his way to show it her,
and with this peculiar acerbity 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
his young gentlemen has the credit of it.'

'You refer, of course, to Mr Milvain,' she replied quietly. 'But
I think that 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 was wont to be submissive.

'I was told,' he continued, hardening face and voice, 'by someone
who had it from Jedwood.'

Yule was conscious of untruth in this statement, but his mood
would not allow him to speak ingenuously, and he wished to note
the effect upon Marian 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 a perverse satisfaction in
convincing himself that it was Milvain who had caught so
successfully the master's manner. He was not the kind of man who
can resist an opportunity of justifying, to himself and others, a
course into which he has been led by mingled feelings, all more
or less unjustifiable.

'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 a mistake?'

'Because Mr Milvain is quite incapable of reviewing your book in
such a spirit.'

'There is your mistake, my girl. Milvain will do anything that's
asked of him, provided he's well enough paid.'

Marian reflected. When she raised her eyes again they were
perfectly calm.

'What has led you to think that?'

'Don't I know the type of man? Noscitur ex sociis--have you Latin
enough for that?'

'You'll find that you are misinformed,' Marian replied, and
therewith went from the room.

She could not trust herself to converse longer. A resentment such
as her father had never yet excited in her--such, indeed, as she
had seldom, if ever, conceived--threatened to force utterance for
itself in words which would change the current of her whole life.
She saw her father in his worst 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 had he to make this use of
it? His behaviour was spiteful. Suppose he entertained suspicions
which seemed to make it his duty to warn her against Milvain,
this was not the way to go about it. A father actuated by simple
motives of affection would never speak and look thus.

It was the hateful spirit of literary rancour that ruled him; the
spirit that made people eager to believe all evil, that blinded
and maddened. Never had she felt so strongly the unworthiness of
the existence to which she was condemned. That contemptible
review, and now her father's ignoble passion--such things were
enough to make all literature appear a morbid excrescence upon
human life.

Forgetful of the time, she sat in her bedroom until a knock at
the door, and her mother's voice, admonished her that dinner was
waiting. An impulse all but caused her to say that she would
rather not go down for the meal, that she wished to be left
alone. But this would be weak peevishness. She just looked at the
glass to see that her face bore no unwonted signs, and descended
to take her place as usual.

Throughout the dinner there passed no word of conversation. Yule
was at his blackest; he gobbled a few mouthfuls, then occupied
himself with the evening 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
that Marian, the still, gentle Marian, could be driven to revolt.
And it had come with the suddenness of a thunderclap. She wished
to ask what had taken place between father and daughter in the
brief interview before dinner; but Marian gave her no chance,
quitting the room upon those last trembling words.

The girl had resolved to visit her friends, the sisters, and tell
them that in future they must never come to see her at home. But
it was no easy thing for her to stifle her conscience, and leave
her father to toil over that copying which had need of being
finished. Not her will, but her exasperated feeling, had replied
to him that she would not do the work; already it astonished her
that she had really spoken such words. And as the throbbing of
her pulses subsided, she saw more clearly into the motives of
this wretched tumult which possessed her. Her mind was harassed
with a fear lest in defending Milvain she had spoken foolishly. 
Had he not himself said to her that he might be guilty of base
things, just to make his way? Perhaps it was the intolerable pain
of imagining that he had already made good his words, which
robbed her of self-control and made her meet her father's
rudeness with defiance.

Impossible to carry out her purpose; she could not deliberately
leave the house and spend some hours away with the thought of
such wrath and misery 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
shall go 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. 'Spend your 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
themselves savagely. Marian durst not, really durst not approach
him. She hesitated, 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
whither she would. But the freedom was only in theory; her
submissive and timid nature kept her at home--and upstairs in her
own room; for, if she went to sit with her mother, of necessity
she must talk about what had happened, and that she felt unable
to do. Some friend to whom she could unbosom all her sufferings
would now have been very precious to her, but Maud and Dora were
her only intimates, and to them she might not make the full
confession which gives solace.

Mrs Yule did not venture to intrude upon her daughter's privacy.
That Marian neither went out nor showed herself in the house
proved her troubled state, but the mother had no confidence in
her power to comfort. At the usual time she presented herself in
the study with her husband's coffee; the face which was for an
instant turned to her did not 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
interchange of words. But when Yule was pushing back his chair,
Marian--who looked pale and ill--addressed a question to him
about the work she would ordinarily have pursued to-day at the
Reading-room. He answered in a matter-of-fact tone, and for a few
minutes they talked on the subject much as at any other time. 
Half an hour after, Marian set forth for the Museum in the usual
way. Her father stayed at home.

It was the end of the episode for the present. Marian felt that
the best thing would be to ignore what had happened, as her
father evidently purposed doing. She had asked his forgiveness,
and it was harsh in him to have repelled her; but by now she was
able once more to take into consideration all his trials and
toils, his embittered temper and the new wound he had received. 
That he should resume his wonted manner was sufficient evidence
of regret on his part. Gladly she would have unsaid her resentful
words; she had been guilty of a childish outburst of temper, and
perhaps had prepared worse sufferings for the future.

And yet, perhaps it was as well that her father should be warned.
She was not all submission, he might try her beyond endurance;
there might come a day when perforce she must stand face to face
with him, and make it known she had her own claims upon life. It
was as well he should hold that possibility in view.

This evening no work was expected of her. Not long after dinner
she prepared for going out; to her mother she mentioned she
should be back about ten o'clock.

'Give my kind regards to them, dear--if you like to,' said Mrs
Yule just above her breath.

'Certainly I will.'



CHAPTER XIV. ECRUITS

Marian walked to the nearest point of Camden Road, and there
waited for an omnibus, which conveyed her to within easy reach of
the street where Maud and Dora Milvain had their lodgings. This
was at the north-east of Regent's Park, and no great distance
from Mornington Road, where Jasper still dwelt.

On learning that the young ladies were at home and alone, she
ascended to the second floor and knocked.

'That's right!' exclaimed Dora's pleasant voice, as the door
opened and the visitor showed herself And then came the friendly
greeting which warmed Marian's heart, the greeting which until
lately no house in London 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, for her fine figure was well displayed by the
dress of mourning, and her pale, handsome face had as little
congruence as possible with a background of humble circumstances.

Dora impressed one as a simpler nature, but she too had
distinctly the note 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 shed by both of them; it
was not easy to transfer themselves from the comfortable country
home to this bare corner of lodgers' London. Maud, as appeared at
the first glance, was less disposed than her sister to make the
best of things; her countenance wore an expression rather of
discontent than of sorrow, and she did not talk with the same
readiness as Dora.

On the round table lay a number of books; when disturbed, the
sisters had been engaged in studious reading.

'I'm not sure that I do right in coming again so soon,' said
Marian as she took off her things. 'Your time is precious.'

'So are you,' replied Dora, laughing. 'It's only under protest
that we work 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
uneasy chair.

'Good, I hope?'

'Someone called to see us yesterday. I dare say you can guess who
it was.'

'Amy, perhaps?'

'Yes.'

'And how did you like her?'

The sisters seemed to have a difficulty in answering. Dora was
the first to speak.

'We thought she was sadly out of spirits. Indeed she told us that
she hasn't been very well lately. But I think we shall like her
if we come to know her better.'

'It was rather awkward, Marian,' the elder sister explained. 'We
felt obliged to say something about Mr Reardon's books, but we
haven't read any of them yet, you know, so I just said that I
hoped soon to read his new 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 admitted that I had seen one or two
-- Jasper showed us them. She looked very much annoyed, 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 it isn't good, but I have seen many worse novels more
kindly reviewed.'

'Jasper says it's because Mr Reardon has no friends among the
journalists.'

'Still,' replied Marian, 'I'm afraid they couldn't have given the
book much 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
at their present address. And really. we can't feel sure whether
we should be welcome or not just now.'

Marian listened with bent head. She too had to make known to her
friends that they were not welcome in her own home; but she knew
not how to utter words which would sound so unkind.

'Your brother,' she said after a pause, 'will soon find suitable
friends for you.'

'Before long,' replied Dora, with a look of amusement, 'he's
going to take us to call on Mrs Boston Wright. I hardly thought
he was serious at first, but he says he really means it.'

Marian grew more and more silent. At home she had felt that it
would not be difficult to explain her troubles to these
sympathetic girls, but now the time had come for speaking, she
was oppressed by shame and anxiety. True, there was no absolute
necessity for making the confession this evening, and if she
chose to resist her father's prejudice, things might even go on
in a seemingly natural way. But the loneliness of her life had
developed in her a sensitiveness which could not endure
situations such as the present; difficulties which are of small
account to people who take their part in active social life,
harassed her to the destruction of all peace. Dora was not long
in noticing the dejected mood 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 of your friendship for me, and I should find it very hard to
go back to my old solitude.'

The girls gazed at her, in doubt at first whether she spoke
seriously.

'What can you mean?' Dora exclaimed. 'What crime have you been
committing?'

Maud, who leaned with her elbows on the table, searched Marian's
face curiously, but said nothing.

'Has Mr Milvain shown you the new number of The Current?' Marian
went on to 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 very
ill-natured one; it's written by the editor, Mr Fadge. Father and
he have been very unfriendly for a long time. Perhaps Mr Milvain
has told you something about it?'

Dora replied that he had.

'I don't know how it is in other professions,' Marian resumed,
'but I hope there is less envy, hatred and malice than in this of
ours. The name of literature is often made hateful to me by the
things I hear and read. My father has never been very fortunate,
and many things have happened to make him bitter against the men
who succeed; he has often quarrelled with people who were at
first his friends, but never so seriously with anyone as with Mr
Fadge. His feeling of enmity goes so far that it includes even
those who are in any way associated with Mr Fadge. I am sorry to
say'--she looked with painful anxiety from one to the 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,
though with friendliness.

'Why I speak of it at all,' Marian hastened to say, 'is because I
am so afraid 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
think it will be better if I don't ask you to come and see me. It
sounds ridiculous; it is ridiculous and shameful. I couldn't
complain if you refused to have anything more to do with me.'

'Don't let it trouble you,' urged Maud, with perhaps a trifle
more of magnanimity 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
assurances with any show of pleasure. Now that the step was taken
she felt that her behaviour had been very weak. Unreasonable
harshness such as her father's ought to have been met more
steadily; she had no right to make it an excuse for such
incivility to her friends. Yet only in some such way as this
could she make known to Jasper Milvain how her father regarded
him, which she felt it necessary to do. Now his sisters would
tell him, and henceforth there would be a clear understanding on
both sides. That state of things was painful to her, but it was
better than ambiguous 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
refuse opportunities.'

'Impossible; I know,' Marian replied earnestly. 'Don't think that
I wish to justify my father. But I can understand him, and it
must be very difficult for you to do so. You can't know, as I do,
how intensely he has suffered in these wretched, ignoble
quarrels. If only you will let me come here still, in the same
way, and still be as friendly to me. My home has never been a
place to which I could have invited friends with any comfort,
even if I had had any to invite. There were always reasons--but I
can't speak of them.'

'My dear Marian,' appealed Dora, 'don't distress yourself so! Do
believe that nothing whatever has happened to change our feeling
to you. Has there, 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 but choked her voice; she overcame them, however, and
presently was able to talk in pretty much her usual way, though
when she smiled it was but faintly. Maud tried to lead her
thoughts in another direction by speaking of work in which she
and Dora were engaged. Already the sisters were doing a new piece
of compilation for Messrs Jolly and Monk; it was more exacting
than their initial task for the book market, and would take a
much longer time.

A couple of hours went by, and Marian had just spoken of taking
her leave, when a man's step was heard rapidly ascending the
nearest flight of 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
before the lamplight.

'Well, girls! Ha! how do you do, Miss Yule? I had just the
vaguest sort of expectation that you might be here. It seemed a
likely night; I don't know why. I say, Dora, we really must get
two or three decent easy-chairs for your room. I've seen some
outside a second-hand furniture shop in Hampstead Road, about six
shillings apiece. There's no sitting on chairs such as these.'

That on which he tried to dispose himself, when he had flung
aside his trappings, 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 do in one day if I worked my hardest. Now just
listen; it deserves to be chronicled 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. By 10.30 the review was
written--three-quarters of a column of the Evening Budget.'

'Who is the unfortunate author?' interrupted Maud, caustically.

'Not unfortunate at all. I had to crack him up; otherwise I
couldn't have done the job so quickly. It's the easiest thing in
the world to write laudation; only an inexperienced grumbler
would declare it was easier to find fault. The book was
Billington's "Vagaries"; pompous idiocy, 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 day wasn't badly
begun. At eleven I was ready to write my Saturday causerie for
the Will o' the Wisp; it took me till close upon one o'clock,
which was rather too long. I can't afford more than an hour and a
half for that job. At one, I rushed out to a dirty little
eating-house in Hampstead Road. Was back again by a quarter to
two, having in the meantime sketched a paper for The West End.
Pipe in mouth, I sat down to leisurely artistic work; by five,
half the paper was done; the other half remains for to-morrow.
From five to half-past I read four newspapers and two magazines,
and from half-past to a quarter to six I jotted down several
ideas that had come to me whilst reading. At six I was again in
the dirty eating-house, satisfying a ferocious hunger. Home once
more at 6.45, and for two hours wrote steadily at a long affair I
have in hand for The Current. Then I came here, thinking hard all
the way. 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 a smile.

'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
any harm.'

'Honest journey-work!' cried Jasper. 'There are few men in London
capable of such a feat. Many a fellow could write more in
quantity, but they couldn't command my market. It's rubbish, but
rubbish of a very special kind, of fine quality.'

Marian had not yet spoken, save a word or two in reply to
Jasper's greeting; now and then she just glanced at him, but for
the most part her eyes were cast down. Now Jasper addressed her.

'A year ago, Miss Yule, I shouldn't have believed myself capable
of such activity. 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
likely do nothing but finish my West End article, in an easy two
or three hours. There's no knowing; I might perhaps keep up the
high pressure if I tried. But then I couldn't dispose of all the
work. Little by little--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 of the 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 a column out of what would fill six lines of respectable
prose. You call a cigar a "convoluted weed," and so on, you know;
that passes for facetiousness. I've never really tried my hand at
that style yet; I shouldn't wonder if I managed it brilliantly. 
Some day I'll write a few exercises; just take two lines of some
good prose writer, and expand them into twenty, in half-a-dozen
different ways. Excellent mental gymnastics!'

Marian listened to his flow of talk for a few minutes longer,
then took the opportunity of a brief silence to rise and put on
her hat. Jasper observed her, but without rising; he looked at
his sisters in a hesitating way. At length he stood up, and
declared that he too must be off. This coincidence had happened
once before when he met Marian here in 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
stimulant when he works so hard.'

Each of the girls gave Marian's hand a significant pressure as
she took leave of them, and begged her to come again as soon as
she had a free evening. 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
the house. '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 a good house, with plenty of servants. It's bad enough for a
civilised man 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, with a little experience?'

'Surely there's no doubt of it.'

'Maud would look really superb if she were handsomely dressed. 
She hasn'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, one doesn't like it to be known that they live in
such a crib; but I daren't advise them to go in for expense. One
can't be sure that it would repay them, though-- Now, in my own
case, if I could get hold of a few thousand pounds I should know
how to use it with the certainty of return; it would save me,
probably, a clear ten years of life; I mean, I should go at 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 is still so uncertain. One daren't speculate under the
circumstances.'

Marian made no reply.

'You think I talk of nothing but money?' Jasper said suddenly,
looking down 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 am rather despicable, you know; it's part of my business
to be so. But a friend needn't regard that. There is the man
apart from his necessities.'

The silence was then unbroken till they came to the lower end of
Park Street, the junction of roads which lead to Hampstead, to
Highgate, and to 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 the obscurity of Camden Road.

'Shall I be doing wrong, Mr Milvain,' Marian began in a very low
voice, 'if I ask you about the authorship of something in this
month's Current?'

'I'm afraid I know what you refer to. There's no reason why I
shouldn't answer 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 the thing so vilely well.'

'I suppose he was only replying to my father's attack upon him
and his friends.'

'Your father's attack is honest and straightforward and
justifiable and well put. I read that chapter of his book with
huge satisfaction. But has anyone suggested that another than
Fadge was capable of that masterpiece?'

'Yes. I am told that Mr Jedwood, the publisher, has somehow made
a mistake.'

'Jedwood? And what mistake?'

'Father heard that you were the writer.'

'I?' Jasper stopped short. They were in the rays of a street-
lamp, and could 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 the truth?'

'Perhaps you are right.'

Jasper was very grateful for the suggestion. In that moment he
had reflected how rash it would be to write to Alfred Yule on
such a subject, with whatever prudence in expressing himself. 
Such a letter, coming under the notice of the great Fadge, might
do its writer serious harm.

'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 done this, though I don't quite discern the motive. 
Thank you very much for telling me, and still more for refusing
to believe that I could treat Mr Yule in that way, even as a
matter of business. When I said that I was despicable, I didn't
mean that I could sink quite to such a point as that. If only
because it was your father--'

He checked himself and they walked on for several yards without
speaking.

'In that case,' Jasper resumed at length, 'your father doesn't
think of me in a very friendly way?'

'He scarcely could--'

'No, no. And I quite understand that the mere fact of my working
for Fadge would prejudice him against me. But that's no reason, I
hope, why you 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 own character. 'I shall go on as I have begun, and
fight for some of the good things of life. But your friendship is
valuable. If I am sure of it, I shall be at all events within
sight of the better ideals.'

Marian walked on with her eyes upon the ground. To her surprise
she discovered 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 left the 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 he held 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
what I like in my friend, because it contrasts with my own
habits. All the better that merriment lies below it.  Goodnight,
Miss Yule.'

He strode off and in a minute or two turned his head to look at
the slight figure passing into darkness.

Marian's hand trembled as she tried to insert her latch-key. When
she had closed the door very quietly behind her she went to the
sitting-room; Mrs Yule was just laying aside the sewing on which
she had occupied 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 her friends, though she had set out in such a different
mood. Her mind was relieved of two anxieties; she felt sure that
the girls had not taken ill what she told them, and there was no
longer the least doubt concerning the authorship of that review
in The Current.

She could confess to herself now that the assurance from Jasper's
lips was not superfluous. He might have weighed profit against
other considerations, and have written in that way of her father;
she had not felt that absolute confidence which defies every
argument from human frailty. And now she asked herself if faith
of that unassailable kind is ever possible; is it not only the
poet's dream, the far ideal?

Marian often went thus far in her speculation. Her candour was
allied with clear insight into the possibilities of falsehood;
she was not readily the victim of illusion; thinking much, and
speaking little, she had not come to her twenty-third year
without perceiving what a distance lay between a girl's dream of
life as it might be and life as it is. Had she invariably
disclosed her thoughts, she would have earned the repute of a
very sceptical and slightly cynical person.

But with what rapturous tumult of the heart she could abandon
herself to a belief in human virtues when their suggestion seemed
to promise her a future of happiness!

Alone in her room she sat down only to think of Jasper Milvain,
and extract from the memory of his words, his looks, new
sustenance for her hungry heart. Jasper was the first man who had
ever evinced a man's interest in her. Until she met him she had
not known a look of compliment or a word addressed to her
emotions. He was as far as possible from representing the lover
of her imagination, but from the day of that long talk in the
fields near Wattleborough the thought of him had supplanted
dreams. On that day she said to herself: I could love him if he
cared to seek my love. Premature, perhaps; why, yes, but one who
is starving is not wont to feel reluctance at the suggestion of
food. The first man who had approached her with display of
feeling and energy and youthful self-confidence; handsome too, it
seemed to her. Her womanhood went eagerly to meet him.

Since then she had made careful study of his faults. Each
conversation had revealed to her new weakness and follies. With
the result that her love had grown to a reality.

He was so human, and a youth of all but monastic seclusion had
prepared her 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 high intellect or great attainments; but
vivacity, courage, determination to succeed, were delightful to
her senses. Her ideal would not have been a literary man at all;
certainly not a man likely to be prominent in journalism; rather
a man of action, one who had no restraints of commerce or
official routine. But in Jasper she saw the qualities that
attracted her apart from the accidents of his position. Ideal
personages do not descend to girls who have to labour at the
British Museum; it seemed a marvel to her, and of good augury,
that even such a man as Jasper should have crossed her path.

It was as though years had passed since their first meeting. Upon
her return to London had followed such long periods of
hopelessness. Yet whenever they encountered each other he had
look and speech for her with which surely he did not greet every
woman. From the first his way of regarding her had shown frank
interest. And at length had come the confession of his 'respect,'
his desire to be something more to her than a mere acquaintance. 
It was scarcely possible that he should speak as he several 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 a time those words of his which one might think were spoken
as distinct warning; but they crept into the memory, unwelcome,
importunate, as soon as imagination had built its palace of joy. 
Why did he always recur to the subject of money? 'I shall allow
nothing to come in my way;' he once said that as if meaning,
'certainly not a love affair with a girl who is penniless.' He
emphasised the word 'friend,' as if to explain that he offered
and asked nothing more than friendship.

But it only meant that he would not be in haste to. declare
himself. Of a certainty there was conflict between his ambition
and his love, but she recognised her power over him and exulted
in it. She had observed his hesitancy this evening, before he
rose to accompany her from the house; her heart laughed within
her as the desire drew him. And henceforth such meetings would be
frequent, with each one her influence would increase. How kindly
fate had dealt with her in bringing Maud and Dora 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's advantage would she relinquish. He must choose her
in her poverty, and be content with what his talents could earn
for him. Her love gave her the right to demand this sacrifice;
let him ask for her love, and the sacrifice would no longer seem
one, so passionately would she reward him.

He would ask it. To-night she was full of a rich confidence,
partly, no doubt, the result of reaction from her miseries. He
had said at parting that her character was so well suited to his;
that he liked her. And then he had pressed her hand so warmly. 
Before long he would ask her love.

The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the
valley of the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine
might at any moment strike into its musty gloom.



CHAPTER XV. THE LAST RESOURCE

The past twelve months had added several years to Edwin Reardon's
seeming age; at thirty-three he would generally have been taken
for forty. His bearing, his personal habits, were no longer those
of a young man; he walked with a stoop and pressed noticeably on
the stick he carried; it was rare for him to show the countenance
which tells of present cheerfulness or glad onward-looking; there
was no spring in his step; his voice had fallen to a lower key,
and often he spoke with that hesitation in choice of words which
may be noticed in persons whom defeat has made self-distrustful. 
Ceaseless perplexity and dread gave a wandering, sometimes a
wild, expression to his eyes.

He seldom slept, in the proper sense of the word; as a rule he
was conscious all through the night of 'a kind of fighting'
between physical weariness and wakeful toil of the mind. It often
happened that some wholly imaginary obstacle in the story he was
writing kept him under a sense of effort throughout the dark
hours; now and again he woke, reasoned with himself, and
remembered clearly that the torment was without cause, but the
short relief thus afforded soon passed in the recollection of
real distress. In his unsoothing slumber he talked aloud,
frequently wakening Amy; generally he seemed to be holding a
dialogue with someone who had imposed an intolerable task upon
him; he protested passionately, appealed, argued in the strangest
way about the injustice of what was demanded. Once Amy heard him
begging for money--positively begging, like some poor wretch in
the street; it was horrible, and made her shed tears; when he
asked what he had been saying, she could not bring herself to
tell him.

When the striking clocks summoned him remorselessly to rise and
work he often reeled with dizziness. It seemed to him that the
greatest happiness attainable would be to creep into some dark,
warm corner, out of the sight and memory of men, and lie there
torpid, with a blessed half-consciousness that death was slowly
overcoming him. Of all the sufferings collected into each
four-and-twenty hours this of rising to a new day was the worst.

The one-volume story which he had calculated would take him four
or five weeks was with difficulty finished in two months. March
winds made an invalid of him; at one time he was threatened with
bronchitis, and for several days had to abandon even the effort
to work. In previous winters he had been wont to undergo a good
deal of martyrdom from the London climate, but never in such a
degree as now; mental illness seemed to have enfeebled his body.

It was strange that he succeeded in doing work of any kind, for
he had no hope from the result. This one last effort he would
make, just to complete the undeniableness of his failure, and
then literature should be thrown behind him; what other pursuit
was possible to him he knew not, 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 his
present position such an income would be useless. Could he take
Amy and the child to live in a garret? On less than a hundred a
year it was scarcely possible to maintain outward decency. 
Already his own clothing began to declare him poverty-stricken,
and but for gifts from her mother Amy would have reached the like
pass. They lived in dread of the pettiest casual expense, for the
day of pennilessness was again approaching.

Amy was oftener from home than had been her custom.

Occasionally she went away soon after breakfast, and spent the
whole day at her mother's house. 'It saves food,' she said with a
bitter laugh, when Reardon once expressed surprise that she
should be going again so soon.

'And gives you an opportunity of bewailing your hard fate,' he
returned coldly.

The reproach was ignoble, and he could not be surprised that Amy
left the house without another word to him. Yet he resented that,
as he had resented her sorrowful jest. The feeling of unmanliness
in his own position tortured him into a mood of perversity. 
Through the day he wrote only a few lines, and on Amy's return he
resolved not to speak to her. There was a sense of repose in this
change of attitude; he encouraged himself in the view that Amy
was treating him with cruel neglect. She, surprised that her
friendly questions elicited no answer, looked into his face and
saw a sullen anger of which hitherto Reardon had never seemed
capable. Her indignation took fire, and she left him to himself.

For a day or two he persevered in his muteness, uttering a word
only when it could not be avoided. Amy was at first so resentful
that she contemplated leaving him to his ill-temper and dwelling
at her mother's house until he chose to recall her. But his face
grew so haggard in fixed misery that compassion at length
prevailed over her injured pride. Late in the evening she went to
the study, and found him sitting unoccupied.

'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
easily forget 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
embittered another man's temper, I think it deserved some return
of kindness from you.'

'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
utterly changed in your feeling to me. When we first came to live
here could you have imagined yourself leaving me alone for long,
miserable days, just because I was suffering under misfortunes? 
You have shown too plainly that you don't care to give me the
help even of a kind word. You get away from me as often as you
can, as if to remind me that we have no longer any interests in
common. Other people are your confidants; you speak of me to them
as if I were purposely dragging you down into a mean condition.'

'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 our
difficulties; 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
that I have made you poor and unhappy, and you are glad to have
their sympathy.'

'What you mean is, that I oughtn't to see anyone. There's no
other way of avoiding such a reproach as this. So long as I don't
laugh and sing before people, and assure them that things
couldn't be more hopeful, I shall be asking for their sympathy,
and against you. I can't understand your unreasonableness.'

'I'm afraid there is very little in me that you can understand. 
So long as my prospects seemed bright, you could sympathise
readily enough; as soon as ever they darkened, something came
between us. Amy, you haven't done 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 have had to bear that of
your growing coldness. I can't remember one instance when you
have spoken to me as a wife might--a wife who was something more
than a man's housekeeper.'

The passion in his voice and the harshness of the accusation made
her unable to reply.

'You said rightly,' he went on, 'that I have always been kind and
gentle. I never thought I could speak to you or feel to you in
any other way. But I have undergone too much, and you have
deserted me. Surely it was too soon to do that. So long as I
endeavoured my utmost, and loved you 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 him that he had the choice between two ways of uttering
his emotion--the tenderly appealing and the sternly reproachful:
he took the latter course because it was less natural to him than
the former. His desire was to impress Amy with the bitter
intensity of his sufferings; pathos and loving words seemed to
have lost their power upon her, but perhaps if he yielded to that
other form of passion she would be shaken out of her coldness.
The stress of injured love is always tempted to speech which
seems its contradiction. Reardon had the strangest mixture of
pain and pleasure in flinging out these first words of wrath that
he had ever addressed to Amy; they consoled him under the
humiliating sense of his weakness, and yet he watched with dread
his wife's countenance as she listened to him. He hoped to cause
her pain equal to his own, for then it would be in his power at
once to throw off this disguise and soothe her with every softest
word his heart could suggest. That she had really ceased to love
him he could not, durst not, believe; but his nature demanded
frequent assurance of affection. Amy had abandoned too soon the
caresses of their ardent time; she was absorbed in her maternity,
and thought it enough to be her husband's friend. Ashamed to make
appeal directly for the tenderness she no longer offered, he
accused her of utter indifference, of abandoning him and all but
betraying him, that in self-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
cold indignation. 'When did I refuse to share your poverty? When
did I grumble at what we have had to go through?'

'Ever since the troubles really began you have let me know what
your thoughts were, even if you didn't speak them. You have never
shared my lot willingly. I can't recall one word of encouragement
from you, but many, many which made the struggle harder for me.'

'Then it would be better for you if I went away altogether, and
left you free 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 me a home.'

'And you would leave me without regret? Your only care would be
that you were 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 to you simply in a bad temper without a cause?'

'To tell you the truth, that's just what I do think. I came here
to ask what I had done that you were angry with me, and you break
out furiously with all sorts of vague reproaches. You have much
to endure, I know that, but it's no reason why you should turn
against me. I have never neglected my duty. Is the duty all on my
side? I believe there are very few wives who would be as patient
as I have been.'

Reardon gazed at her for a moment, then turned away. The distance
between them was greater than he had thought, and now he repented
of having given way to an impulse so alien to his true feelings;
anger only estranged her, whereas by speech of a different kind
he might have won the 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 sat in 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 lost Amy's love, and all through the mental
impotence which would make it hard for him even to earn bread,
why should he still live? Affection for his 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 growing to
manhood.

He had just heard the workhouse clock strike two, when, without
the warning of a footstep, the door opened. Amy came in; she wore
her dressing-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 and swollen.

'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
it all?'

'I have never said that I didn't love you. Why do you accuse me
of such things?'

He took her in his arms and held her passionately and kissed her
face again and again. Amy's tears broke forth anew.

'Why should we come to such utter ruin?' she sobbed. 'Oh, try,
try if you can't save us even yet! You know without my saying it
that I do love you; it's dreadful to me to think all our happy
life should be at an end, when we thought of such a future
together. Is it impossible? Can't you 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, and then go away into some quiet country place, where you
can get back your health 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 at mother'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 to explain that your
health has failed, that you're obliged to go away for a 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
the burden whilst you are writing. And what is before us if we go
on in this way? You don't think you will get much for what you're
writing now, do you?'

Reardon shook his head.

'Then how can we live even till the end of the year? Something
must be done, you know. If we get into poor lodgings, what hope
is there that you'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
real holiday in this spring weather. Go to some seaside place. 
How is it possible that all your talent should have left you? 
It's only that you have 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, how you could save yourself. How can
you sink down to the position of a poor clerk in some office? 
That CAN'T be your fate, Edwin; it's incredible. Oh, after such
bright hopes, make one more effort! Have you forgotten that we
were to go to the South together--you were to take me to Italy
and Greece? How can that ever be if you fail utterly in
literature? How can you ever hope to earn more than bare
sustenance at any other kind of work?'

He all but lost consciousness of her words in gazing at the face
she held 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 to think of your becoming only an ordinary man--'

Reardon laughed.

'But I am NOT "only an ordinary man," Amy! If I never write
another line, 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 you think of me apart from all that I may do
or not do? If I had to earn my living 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 all you have gained in these long years of work. Let me plan
for you; do as I wish. You are to be what we hoped from the
first. Take all the summer months. 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 once
to find a tenant to take this place off our hands; that would be
twenty-five pounds saved for the rest of the year. You could live
on so little 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 a good one? When I came to you to-night I meant to speak
of this, but you were so cruel--'

'Forgive me, dearest love! I was half a madman. You have been so
cold to me for a long time.'

'I have been distracted. It was as if we were drawing nearer and
nearer to 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
laid against hers.

'I shall dread to part from you, Amy. That's such a dangerous
thing to do. 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
here till we have no money--what's before us then? Wretched
lodgings at the best. And I am afraid to think of that. I can't
trust myself if that should 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 I have 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 be the very worst that can befall us, and we are going to
try our utmost to escape from it. Was there ever a man who did as
much as you have done in literature 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 hears of hopeful beginnings, new reputations, and then--you
hear no more. Of course 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
miserable death.'

'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
weight were round their necks; it drags them lower and lower. The
world has no pity 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 on you you will starve by the roadside. 
Society is as blind and brutal as fate. I have no right to
complain of my own ill-fortune; it's my own fault (in a sense)
that I can't continue as well as I began; if I could write 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't know a trade.'

'It shan't be! I have only to look into your face to know that
you will succeed after all. Yours is the kind of face that people
come to know in portraits.'

He kissed her hair, and her eyes, and her mouth.

'How well I remember your saying that before! Why have you grown
so good to me all at once, my Amy? Hearing you speak like that I
feel there's nothing beyond my reach. But I dread to go away from
you. If I find that it is hopeless; if I am alone somewhere, and
know that the effort is all in vain--'

'Then?'

'Well, I can leave you free. If I can't support you, it will be
only just 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
shall do so.'

Amy had hidden her face, and lay silently in his arms for a
minute or two. 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
sunshine Amy accompanied her husband for his walk in the
afternoon; it was long since they had been out together. An open
carriage that passed, followed by two young girls on horseback,
gave a familiar direction to Reardon's thoughts.

'If one were as rich as those people! They pass so close to us;
they see us, and we see them; but the distance between is
infinity. They don't belong to the same world as we poor
wretches. They see everything in a different light; they have
powers which would seem supernatural if we were 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
no reasonable desire that occurred to one throughout the day need
remain ungratified! And that it would be the same, any day and
every day, to the end of one's life! Look at those houses; every
detail, within and without, 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, they all have free scope. I have often stood staring
at houses like these until I couldn't believe that the people
owning them were mere human beings like myself. The power of
money is so hard to realise; one who has never had it marvels at
the completeness with which it transforms every detail of life. 
Compare what we call our home with that of rich people; it moves
one to scornful laughter. I have no sympathy with the stoical
point of view; between wealth and poverty is just the difference
between the whole man and the maimed. If my lower limbs are
paralysed I may still be able to think, but then there is such a
thing in life as walking. As a poor devil I may live nobly; but
one happens to be made with faculties of enjoyment, and those
have to fall into atrophy. To be sure, 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
not have chosen this subject to dilate upon.

'The difference,' he went on, 'between the man with money and the
man without is simply this: the one thinks, "How shall I use my
life?" and the other, "How shall I keep myself alive?" A
physiologist ought to be able to discover some curious
distinction between the brain of a person who has never given a
thought to the means of subsistence, and that of one who has
never known a day free from such cares. There must be some
special cerebral development representing the mental anguish kept
up by poverty.'

'I should say,' put in Amy, 'that it affects every function of
the brain. It isn't a special point of suffering, but a misery
that colours every thought.'

'True. Can I think of a single subject in all the sphere of my
experience without the consciousness that I see it through the
medium of poverty? I have no enjoyment which isn't tainted by
that thought,. and I can suffer no pain which it doesn't
increase. The curse of poverty is to the modern world just what
that of slavery was to the ancient. Rich and destitute stand to
each other as free man and bond. You remember the line of Homer I
have often quoted about the demoralising effect of enslavement;
poverty degrades in the same way.'

'It has had its effect upon me--I know that too well,' said Amy,
with bitter frankness.

Reardon glanced at her, and wished to make some reply, but he
could not say 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
containing the six copies to which an author is traditionally
entitled. Reardon was not so old in authorship that he could open
the packet without a slight flutter of his pulse. The book was
tastefully got up; Amy exclaimed with pleasure as she caught
sight of the cover and lettering:

'It may succeed, Edwin. It doesn't look like a book that fails,
does it?'

She laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one
of the volumes, 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 the lamp. It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read
the words. And to think that people will skim over it without a
suspicion of what it cost the writer!--What execrable style! A
potboy could write better narrative.'

'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
for it. Poor old Biffen, of course; though it'll make him despise
me. Then one for ourselves. That leaves two--to light the fire
with. We have been rather short of fire-paper since we couldn't
afford our daily newspaper.'

'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
stood on a topmost shelf Amy laid her hand upon his shoulder and
contemplated the 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," and yet had you with me! How full my mind
was in those days! Then I had only to look, and I saw something;
now I strain my eyes, but can make out nothing more than nebulous
grotesques. I used to sit down knowing so well what I had to say;
now I strive to invent, and never come at anything. Suppose you
pick up a needle with warm, supple fingers; try to do it when
your hand is stiff and numb with cold; there's the difference
between 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
than ever.'

'We shall see. Of course there was a great deal of miserable
struggle even then, but I remember it as insignificant compared
with the hours of contented work. I seldom did anything in the
mornings except think and prepare; towards evening I felt myself
getting ready, and at last I sat down with the first lines
buzzing in my head. And I used to read a great deal at the same
time. Whilst I was writing "On Neutral Ground" I went solidly
through the "Divina Commedia," a canto each day. Very often I
wrote till after midnight, but occasionally I got my quantum
finished much earlier, and then I used to treat myself to a
ramble about the streets. I can recall exactly the places where
some of my best ideas came to me. You remember the scene in
Prendergast's lodgings? That flashed on me late one night as I
was turning out of Leicester Square into the slum that leads to
Clare Market; ah, how well I remember! And I went home to my
garret in a state of delightful fever, and scribbled notes
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 and see provision for my needs. I never asked myself what
I should get for the book; I assure you, that never came into my
head--never. The work was done for its own sake. No hurry to
finish it; if I felt that I wasn't up to the mark, I just waited
till the better mood returned. "On Neutral Ground" took me seven
months; now I have to write three volumes in 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 two of my books with a certain interest. If only I could
encounter him and tell him plainly what a cursed state I am in,
perhaps he would help me to some means of earning a couple of
pounds a week. One has heard of such things.'

'In the old days.'

'Yes. I doubt if it ever happens now. Coleridge wouldn't so
easily meet with his Gillman nowadays. Well, I am not a
Coleridge, and I don't ask to be lodged under any man's roof; but
if I could earn money enough to leave 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 ten o'clock in the evening.

'I'm not going to stay,' he announced. 'But where's my copy of
"Margaret Home"? 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 day of publication; I had a suspicion that you wouldn't send
me a copy. But I must possess your opera omnia.'

'Here it is. Hide it away somewhere.--You may as well sit down
for a few minutes.'

'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. The misfortune was that you had to make three volumes of
it. If I had leave to 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
the three-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 of things and people literary in a facetious
spirit. It would be caviare to the general, but might be
supported, I should think. The editor would probably be
assassinated, though.'

'For anyone in my position,' said Reardon, 'how is it possible to
abandon the three volumes? It is a question of payment. An author
of moderate repute may live on a yearly three-volume novel--I
mean the man who is obliged to sell his book out and out, and who
gets from one to two hundred pounds for it. But he would have to
produce four one-volume novels to obtain the same income; and I
doubt whether he could get so many published within the twelve
months. And here comes in the benefit of the libraries; from the
commercial point of view the libraries are indispensable. Do you
suppose the public would support the present number of novelists
if each book had to be purchased? A sudden change to that system
would throw three-fourths of the novelists out of work.'

'But there's no reason why the libraries shouldn't circulate
novels in one volume.'

'Profits would be less, I suppose. People would take the minimum
subscription.'

'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 very decent fellow, I believe.'

Milvain stayed only half an hour. The days when he was wont to
sit and talk at large through a whole evening were no more;
partly because of his diminished leisure, but also for a less
simple reason--the growth of something like estrangement between
him and Reardon.

'You didn't mention your plans,' said Amy, when the visitor had
been gone some time.

'No.'

Reardon was content with the negative, and his wife made no
further remark.

The result of advertising the flat was that two or three persons
called to make inspection. One of them, a man of military
appearance, showed himself anxious to come to terms; he was
willing to take the tenement from next quarter-day (June), but
wished, if possible, to enter upon possession sooner than that.

'Nothing could be better,' said Amy in colloquy with her husband.
'If he will pay for the extra time, we shall be only too glad.'

Reardon mused and looked gloomy. He could not bring himself to
regard the experiment before him with hopefulness, and his heart
sank at the thought 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
know very 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,
and that alone would keep you for three months. Think--three
months of the best 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
durst speak of selling it; that would have sounded too ominous. 
As for the locality of Reardon's retreat, Amy herself had
suggested Worthing, which she knew from a visit a few years ago;
the advantages were its proximity to London, and the likelihood
that very cheap lodgings could be found either in the town or
near it. One room would suffice for the hapless author, and his
expenses, beyond a trifling rent, would be confined to mere 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
to have convinced herself that there was no doubt of the issue of
this perilous scheme; that her husband would write a notable
book, receive a satisfactory price for it, and so re-establish
their home. Yet her moods varied greatly. After all, there was
delay in the letting of the flat, and this caused her annoyance. 
It was whilst the negotiations were still pending that she made
her call upon Maud and Dora Milvain; Reardon did not 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, 'and I 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 it already, I should think, from your mother.'

'From mother? But it's the rarest thing for him to go there. Do
you imagine he is a constant visitor? I thought it better to say
nothing until 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
chance he might come upon a review of 'Margaret Home.' Since the
publication of his first book he had avoided as far as possible
all knowledge of what the critics had to say about him; his
nervous temperament could not bear the agitation of reading these
remarks, which, however inept, define an author and his work to
so many people incapable of judging for themselves. No man or
woman could tell him anything in the way of praise or blame which
he did not already know quite well; commendation was pleasant,
but it so often aimed amiss, and censure was for the most part so
unintelligent. In the case of this latest novel he dreaded the
sight of a review as he would have done a gash from a rusty
knife. The judgments could not but be damnatory, and their
expression in journalistic phrase would disturb his mind with
evil rancour. No one would have insight enough to appreciate the
nature and cause of his book's demerits; every comment would be
wide of the mark; sneer, ridicule, trite objection, would but
madden him with a sense of injustice.

His position was illogical--one result of the moral weakness
which was allied with his aesthetic sensibility. Putting aside
the worthlessness of current reviewing, the critic of an isolated
book has of course nothing to do with its author's state of mind
and body any more than with the condition of his purse.  Reardon
would have granted this, but he could not command his emotions.
He was in passionate revolt against the base necessities which
compelled him to put forth work in no way representing his
healthy powers, his artistic criterion. Not he had written this
book, but his accursed poverty. To assail him as the author was,
in his feeling, to be guilty of brutal insult.  When by ill-hap a
notice in one of the daily papers came under his eyes, it made
his blood boil with a fierceness of hatred only possible to him
in a profoundly morbid condition; he could not steady his hand
for half an hour after. Yet this particular critic only said what
was quite true--that the novel contained not a single striking
scene and not one living character; Reardon had expressed himself
about it in almost identical terms. But he saw himself in the
position of one sickly and all but destitute man against a
relentless world, and every blow directed against him appeared
dastardly. He could have cried 'Coward!' to the writer who
wounded him.

The would-be sensational story which was now in Mr Jedwood's
hands had perhaps more merit than 'Margaret Home'; its brevity,
and the fact that nothing more was aimed at than a concatenation
of brisk events, made it not unreadable. But Reardon thought of
it with humiliation. If it were published as his next work it
would afford final proof to such sympathetic readers as he might
still retain that he had hopelessly written himself out, and was
now endeavouring to adapt himself to an inferior public. In spite
of his dire necessities he now and then hoped that Jedwood might
refuse the thing.

At moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or four
months he was about to spend in retirement, but such impulses
were the mere outcome of his nervous disease. He had no faith in
himself under present conditions; the permanence of his
sufferings would mean the sure destruction of powers he still
possessed, though they were not at his command. Yet he believed
that his mind was made up as to the advisability of trying this
last resource; he was impatient for the day of 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 next book; the
delusion that his mind was resting made an excuse to him for the
barrenness of day after day. His 'Pliny' article had been
despatched to The Wayside, and would possibly be accepted. But he
did not trouble himself about this or other details; it was as
though his mind could do nothing more than grasp the bald fact of
impending destitution; with the steps towards that final stage he
seemed to have little concern.

One evening he set forth to make a call upon Harold Biffen, whom
he had not seen since the realist called to acknowledge the
receipt of a copy of 'Margaret Home' left at his lodgings when he
was out. Biffen resided in Clipstone Street, a thoroughfare
discoverable in the dim district which lies between Portland
Place and Tottenham Court Road. On knocking at the door of the
lodging-house, Reardon learnt that his friend was at home. He
ascended to the third storey and tapped at a door which allowed
rays of lamplight to issue from great gaps above and below. A
sound of voices came from within, and on entering he perceived
that Biffen was engaged with a pupil.

'They didn't tell me you had a visitor,' he said. 'I'll call
again later.'

'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
lodger could only just stand upright with safety; perhaps three
inches intervened 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 of a round table, which kept
such imperfect balance on its central support that the lamp
entrusted to it looked in a dangerous position, of three small
cane-bottomed chairs, a small wash-hand-stand with sundry rude
appurtenances, and a chair-bedstead which the tenant opened at
the hour of repose and spread with certain primitive trappings at
present kept in a cupboard. There was no bookcase, but a few
hundred battered volumes were arranged some on the floor and some
on a rough chest. The weather was too characteristic of an
English spring to make an empty grate agreeable to the eye, but
Biffen held it an axiom that fires were unseasonable after the
first of May.

The individual referred to as Mr Baker, who sat at the table in
the attitude of a student, was a robust, hard-featured,
black-haired young man of two-or three-and-twenty; judging from
his weather-beaten cheeks and huge hands, as well as from the
garb he wore, one would have presumed that study was not his
normal occupation. There was something of 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 sat down 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 all you had to say into three appalling periods,
whereas you ought to have made about a dozen.'

'There it is, sir; there it is!' exclaimed the man, smoothing his
wiry hair. 'I can't break it up. The thoughts come in a lump, if
I may say so. 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 an explanation of the difficulties with which the
student was struggling.

'Mr Baker is preparing for the examination of the outdoor Customs
Department. One of the subjects is English composition, and
really, you know, 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 the table lightly with his clenched fist. 'There's
handwriting, there's orthography, there's arithmetic; I'm not
afraid of one of 'em, as Mr Biffen 'll tell you, sir. But when it
comes to compersition, that brings out 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
many would 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 on a 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 of the steam-hammer cracking a nut.

The lesson proceeded for about ten minutes, Reardon, under
pretence of reading, following it with as much amusement as
anything could excite in him nowadays. At length Mr Baker stood
up, collected his papers and books, and seemed about to depart;
but, after certain uneasy movements and 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
sounds of muffled conversation. In a minute or two a heavy
footstep descended the stairs, and Biffen re-entered the room.

'Now that's a good, honest fellow,' he said, in an amused tone.
'It's my pay-night, but he didn't like to fork out money before
you. A very unusual delicacy in a man of that standing. He pays
me sixpence for an hour's lesson; that brings me two shillings a
week. I sometimes feel a little ashamed to take his money, but
then the fact is he's a good deal better 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 him so 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 my pocket. There was a poor consumptive lad came
to me not long ago and wanted Latin lessons; talked about going
in for the London Matric., on his way to the pulpit. I couldn't
stand it. After a lesson or two I told him his cough was too bad,
and he had no right to study until he got into better health;
that was better, I think, than saying plainly he had no 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 any
difference to him that I live in a garret like this; I'm a man of
education, 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
credentials nor conventional clothing. For the same reason I
couldn't get a private tutorship 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 book called "Mr Bailey,
Grocer."'

'What's the idea?'

'An objectionable word, that. Better say: "What's the reality?"
Well, Mr Bailey is a grocer in a little street by here. I have
dealt with him for a long time, and as he's a talkative fellow
I've come to know a good deal about him and his history. He's
fond of talking about the struggle he had in his first year of
business. He had no money of his own, but he married a woman who
had saved forty-five pounds out of a cat's-meat business. 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
his progress 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--as I've so often said. The thing'll take me a year at
least. I shall do it slowly, lovingly. One volume, of course; the
length of the ordinary French novel. There's something fine in
the title, don't you think? "Mr Bailey, Grocer"!'

'I envy you, old fellow,' said Reardon, sighing. 'You have the
right fire in you; you have zeal and energy. Well, what do you
think I have decided 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 set to work at once it seems to me very doubtful.'

'Never mind. For Heaven's sake don't discourage me! If this fails
I think--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 Mrs
Reardon this morning, but she didn't see me. It was in Tottenham
Court Road, and Milvain was with her. I felt myself too seedy in
appearance to stop and speak.'

'In Tottenham Court Road?'

That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon's
attention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His
mind involuntarily played this trick.

'I only saw them just as they were passing,' pursued Biffen. 'Oh,
I knew I had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale
is going to be married?'

Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way.

'I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to
look him up to-night, and he'd let me know all about it. Let's go
together, shall we?'

'I don't feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I'll walk with
you, and go on home.'

'No, no; come and see him. It'll do you good to talk a little.--
But I must positively eat a mouthful before we go. I'm afraid you
won't care to join?'

He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a
saucer of dripping, with salt and pepper.

'Better dripping this than I've had for a long time. I get it at
Mr Bailey's--that isn't his real name, of course. He assures me
it comes from a large hotel where his wife's sister is a
kitchen-maid, and that it's perfectly pure; they very often mix
flour with it, you know, and perhaps more obnoxious things that
an economical man doesn't care to reflect upon. Now, with a
little pepper and salt, this bread and dripping 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
Cleveland Street, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent
faggots they have there, 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 the fare seem more substantial.

'Is it very cold out?' he asked, rising from the table. 'Need I
put my overcoat on?'

This overcoat, purchased second-hand three years ago, hung on a
door-nail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to the
realist his ordinary indoor garment--a morning coat of the cloth
called diagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation
than the other articles of his attire.

Reardon judging the overcoat necessary, his friend carefully
brushed it and drew it on with a caution which probably had
reference to starting seams. Then he put into the pocket his
pipe, his pouch, his tobacco-stopper, and his matches, murmuring
to himself a Greek iambic line which had come into his head a
propos of nothing obvious.

'Go out,' he said, 'and then I'll extinguish the lamp. Mind the
second step down, as usual.'

They issued into Clipstone Street, turned northward, crossed
Euston Road, and came into Albany Street, where, in a house of
decent exterior, Mr Whelpdale had his present abode. A girl who
opened the door requested them to walk up to the topmost storey.

A cheery voice called to them from within the room at which they
knocked. This lodging spoke more distinctly of civilisation than
that inhabited by Biffen; it contained the minimum supply of
furniture needed to give it somewhat the appearance of a study,
but the articles were in good condition. One end of the room was
concealed by a chintz curtain; scrutiny would have discovered
behind the draping the essential equipments of a bedchamber.

Mr Whelpdale sat by the fire, smoking a cigar. He was a plain-
featured but graceful and refined-looking man of thirty, with
wavy chestnut hair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At
present he wore a dressing-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 it here and there--uncommonly good.'

Whelpdale had the weakness of being unable to tell a disagreeable
truth, and a tendency to flattery which had always made Reardon
rather uncomfortable in his society. Though there was no need
whatever of his mentioning 'Margaret Home,' he preferred to frame
smooth fictions rather than keep a silence which might be
construed as unfavourable criticism.

'In the last volume,' he went on, 'I think there are one or two
things as good as you ever did; I do indeed.'

Reardon made no acknowledgment of these remarks. They irritated
him, for he 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 serious
marriage. Light your pipes, and I'll tell you all about it. 
Startled you, I suppose, Biffen? Unlikely news, eh? Some people
would call it a rash 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 guineas a week, and I have plans without
end that are pretty sure to bring in coin.'

Reardon did not care to smoke, but Biffen lit his pipe and waited
with grave interest for the romantic narrative. Whenever he heard
of a poor man'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 had just puffed from the cigar, 'you know all about my
literary advisership. The business goes on reasonably well. I'm
going to extend it in ways I'll explain to you presently. About
six weeks ago I received a letter from a lady who referred to my
advertisements, and said she had the manuscript of a novel which
she would like to offer for my opinion. Two publishers had
refused it, but one with complimentary phrases, and she hoped 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
of the things I have been asked to recommend to publishers!  It
wasn't hopelessly bad by any means, and I gave serious thought to
it. After exchange of several letters I asked the authoress to
come and see me, that we might save postage stamps and talk
things over. She hadn't given me her address: I had to direct to
a stationer's in Bayswater. She agreed to come, and did come. I
had formed a sort of idea, but of course I was quite wrong.
Imagine my excitement when there came in a very beautiful girl, a
tremendously interesting girl, about one-and-twenty--just the
kind of girl that most strongly appeals to me; dark, pale, rather
consumptive-looking, slender--no, there's no describing her;
there really isn't! You must wait till you see her.'

'I hope the consumption was only a figure of speech,' remarked
Biffen in his grave way.

'Oh, there's nothing serious the matter, I think. A slight cough,
poor girl.'

'The deuce!' interjected Reardon.

'Oh, nothing, nothing! It'll be all right. Well, now, of course
we talked over the story--in good earnest, you know. Little by
little I induced her to speak of herself--this, after she'd come
two or three times--and she told me lamentable things. She was
absolutely alone in London, and hadn't had sufficient food for
weeks; had sold all she could of her clothing; and so on. Her
home was in Birmingham; she had been driven away by the brutality
of a stepmother; a friend lent her a few pounds, 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 she
began to express a fear that I was giving too much time to her,
that she wouldn't be able to pay my fees, and so on, I could
restrain myself no longer. On the spot I asked her to marry me. I
didn't practise any deception, mind. I told her I was a poor
devil who had failed as a realistic novelist and was earning
bread in haphazard ways; and I explained frankly that I thought
we might carry on various kinds of business 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 her as much,
plainly.'

Biffen smiled.

'This would be exciting,' he said, 'if we didn't know the end of
the story.'

'Yes. Pity I didn't keep it a secret. Well, she wouldn't say yes,
but I 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 night for you. I'll do my utmost to get your novel
accepted." And I implored her to let me lend her a little money. 
It was very difficult to persuade her, but at last she accepted a
few shillings. I could see in her face that 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
almost every day, and at last--she consented! Did indeed! I can
hardly believe it 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 and tell him all about the affair. I agreed with her it
was as well; the old fellow isn't badly off; and he may forgive
her for running away, though he's under his wife's thumb, it
appears. I had a note yesterday. She had gone to a friend's house
for the first day. I hoped to have heard again this 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 wedding
present, 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 the kind of thing; they sell splendidly. Of
course I shall make it a good advertisement of my business. Then
I have a splendid idea. I'm going to advertise: "Novel-writing
taught in ten lessons!" What do you think of that? No swindle;
not a bit of it. I am quite capable of giving the ordinary man or
woman ten very useful lessons. I've been working out the scheme;
it would amuse you vastly, Reardon. The first lesson deals with
the question of subjects, local colour--that kind of thing. I
gravely advise people, if they possibly can, to write of the
wealthy middle class; that's the popular subject, you know. Lords
and ladies are all very well, but the real thing to take is a
story about people who have no titles, but live in good
Philistine style. I urge study of horsey matters especially;
that's very important. You must be well up, too, in military
grades, know about Sandhurst, and so on. Boating is an important
topic. You see? Oh, I shall make a great thing of this. I shall
teach my wife carefully, and then let her advertise lessons to
girls; 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 be made 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
exquisite hand she writes!'

He tore open the envelope. In delicacy Reardon and Biffen averted
their eyes. There was silence for a minute, then a strange
ejaculation from Whelpdale caused his friends to look up at him. 
He had gone pale, and was 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. 'If
this isn't monstrously unkind! I never heard anything so gross as
this--never!'

The two waited, trying not to smile.

'She writes--that she has met an old lover--in Birmingham--that
it was with him she had quarrelled-not with her father at all--
that she ran away to annoy him and frighten him--that she has
made it up again, and they're going to be married!'

He let the sheet fall, and looked so utterly woebegone that his
friends at once exerted themselves to offer such consolation as
the case admitted of. Reardon thought better of Whelpdale for
this emotion; he had 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 and penitence--she does indeed. Oh, the devil! Why did I
let her go to Birmingham? A fortnight more, and I should have had
her safe. But it's just like my luck. Do you know that this is
the third time I've been engaged to be married?--no, by Jove, the
fourth! And every time the girl has got out of it at the last
moment. What an unlucky beast I am! A girl who was positively my
ideal! I haven't even a photograph of her to show you; but you'd
be astonished at her face. Why, in the devil's name, did I let
her go to Birmingham?'

The visitors had risen. They felt uncomfortable, for it seemed as
if Whelpdale might find vent for his distress in tears.

'We had better leave you,' suggested Biffen. 'It's very hard--it
is indeed.'

'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
of farcical deceiving--not a bit of it! She implores me to
forgive her, and blames herself no end. Just my luck! The third--
no, the fourth time, by Jove! Never was such an unlucky fellow
with women. It's because I'm so damnably poor; that's it, of
course!'

Reardon and his companion succeeded at length in getting away,
though not till they had heard the virtues and beauty of the
vanished girl described again and again in much detail. Both were
in a state of depression as they left the house.

'What think you of this story?' asked Biffen. 'Is this possible
in a woman of any merit?'

'Anything is possible in a woman,' Reardon replied, harshly.

They walked in silence as far as Portland Road Station. There,
with an assurance 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
to resist 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 angry effort to command himself he ran through
the communication, then held it out to Amy.

She read, and her countenance fell. Mr Jedwood regretted that the
story offered to him did not seem likely to please that
particular public to whom his series of one-volume novels made
appeal. He hoped it would be understood that, in declining, he by
no means expressed an adverse judgment 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 not vulgar 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
slipped from Amy's lap to the ground.

'So,' said Reardon, presently, 'I don't see how our plan is to be
carried out.'

'Oh, it must be!'

'But how?'

'You'll get seven or eight pounds from The Wayside. And--hadn't
we better sell the furniture, instead of--'

His look checked her.

'It seems to me, Amy, that your one desire is to get away from
me, on whatever terms.'

'Don't begin that over again!' she exclaimed, fretfully. 'If you
don't believe what I say--'

They were both in a state of intolerable nervous tension. Their
voices quivered, and their eyes had an unnatural brightness.

'If we sell the furniture,' pursued Reardon, 'that means you'll
never come back to me. You wish to save yourself and the child
from the hard life that seems to be before us.'

'Yes, I do; but not by deserting you. I want you to go and work
for us all, so that we may live more happily before long. Oh, how
wretched this is!'

She burst into hysterical weeping. But Reardon, instead of
attempting to soothe her, went into the next room, where he sat
for a long time in the dark. When he returned Amy was calm again;
her face expressed a cold misery.

'Where did you go this morning?' he asked, as if wishing to talk
of common 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
Reardon observed 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 their course in every detail.



CHAPTER XVII. THE PARTING

Amy did not go to church. Before her marriage she had done so as
a mere matter of course, accompanying her mother, but Reardon's
attitude with regard to the popular religion speedily became her
own; she let the subject lapse from her mind, and cared neither
to defend nor to attack where dogma was concerned. She had no
sympathies with mysticism; her nature was strongly practical,
with something of zeal for intellectual attainment superadded.

This Sunday morning she was very busy with domestic minutiae.
Reardon noticed what looked like preparations for packing, and
being as little disposed for conversation as his wife, he went
out and walked for a couple of hours in the Hampstead region. 
Dinner over, Amy at once made ready 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 till you have settled everything.'

It was half a year since he had met Mrs Yule. She never came to
their dwelling, 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 from The 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 I am to go there for good on Tuesday? I mean, of course,
for the summer months.'

'I suppose so.'

Then he turned suddenly upon her.

'Do you really imagine that at the end of the summer I shall be a
rich man? What do you mean by talking in this way? If the
furniture is sold to supply me with a few pounds for the present,
what prospect is there that I shall be able to buy new?'

'How can we look forward at all?' replied Amy. 'It has come to
the question of how we are to subsist. I thought you would rather
get money in this way than borrow of mother--when she has the
expense of keeping me and Willie.'

'You are right,' muttered Reardon. 'Do as you think best.' Amy
was in her most practical mood, and would not linger for
purposeless talk. A few minutes, and Reardon was left alone.

He stood before his bookshelves and began to pick out the volumes
which he would take away with him. Just a few, the indispensable
companions of a 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. All together 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 there was no object in burdening himself with winter
garments, for, if he lived through the summer at all, he would be
able to repurchase such few poor things as were needful; at
present he could only think of how to get together a few coins. 
So he made a heap of such things as might be sold.

The furniture? If it must go, the price could scarcely be more
than ten or twelve pounds; well, perhaps fifteen. To be sure, in
this way his summer's living would be abundantly provided for.

He thought of Biffen enviously. Biffen, if need be, could support
life on three or four shillings a week, happy in the thought that
no mortal had a claim upon him. If he starved to death--well,
many another lonely man has come to that end. If he preferred to
kill himself, who would be distressed? Spoilt child of fortune!

The bells of St Marylebone began to clang for afternoon service. 
In the idleness of dull pain his thoughts followed their summons,
and he marvelled that there were people who could imagine it a
duty or find it a solace to go and sit in that twilight church
and listen to the droning of prayers. He thought of the wretched
millions of mankind to whom life is so barren that they must
needs believe in a recompense beyond the grave. For that he
neither looked nor longed. The bitterness of his lot was that
this world might be a sufficing paradise to him if only he could
clutch a poor little share of current coin. He had won the
world's greatest prize--a woman's love --but could not retain it
because his pockets were empty.

That he should fail to make a great name, this was grievous
disappointment to Amy, but this alone would not have estranged
her. It was the dread and shame of penury that made her heart
cold to him. And he could not in his conscience scorn her for
being thus affected by the vulgar circumstances of life; only a
few supreme natures stand unshaken under such a trial, and though
his love of Amy was still passionate, he knew that her place was
among a certain class of women, and not on the isolated pinnacle
where he had at first visioned her. It was entirely natural that
she shrank at the test of squalid suffering. A little money, and
he could have rested secure in her love, for then he would have
been able to keep ever before her the best qualities of his heart
and brain. Upon him, too, penury had its debasing effect; as he
now presented himself he was not a man to be admired or loved. It
was all simple and intelligible enough--a situation that would be
misread only by shallow idealism.

Worst of all, she was attracted by Jasper Milvain's energy and
promise of success. He had no ignoble suspicions of Amy, but it
was impossible for him not to see that she habitually contrasted
the young journalist, who laughingly made his way among men, with
her grave, dispirited husband, who was not even capable of
holding such position as he had gained. She enjoyed Milvain's
conversation, it put her into a good humour; she liked him
personally, and there could be no doubt that she had observed a
jealous tendency in Reardon's attitude to his former friend--
always a harmful suggestion to a woman. Formerly she had
appreciated her husband's superiority; she had smiled at
Milvain's commoner stamp of mind and character. But tedious
repetition of failure had outwearied her, and now she saw Milvain
in the sunshine of progress, dwelt upon the worldly advantages of
gifts and a temperament such as his. Again, simple and
intelligible enough.

Living apart from her husband, she could not be expected to
forswear society, and doubtless she would see Milvain pretty
often. He called occasionally at Mrs Yule's, and would not do so
less often when he knew that Amy was to be met there. There would
be chance encounters like that of yesterday, of which she had
chosen to keep silence.

A dark fear began to shadow him. In yielding thus passively to
stress of circumstances, was he not exposing his wife to a danger
which outweighed all the ills of poverty? As one to whom she was
inestimably dear, was he right in allowing her to leave him, if
only for a few months? He knew very well that a man of strong
character would never have entertained this project. He had got
into the way of thinking of himself as too weak to struggle
against the obstacles on which Amy insisted, and of looking for
safety in retreat; but what was to be the end of this weakness if
the summer did not at all advance him? He knew better than Amy
could how unlikely it was that he should recover the energies of
his mind in so short a time and under such circumstances; only
the feeble man's temptation to postpone effort had made him
consent to this step, and now that he was all but beyond turning
back, the perils of which he had thought too little forced
themselves upon his mind.

He rose in anguish, and stood looking about him as if aid might
somewhere be visible.

Presently there was a knock at the front door, and on opening he
beheld the vivacious Mr Carter. This gentleman had only made two
or three calls here since Reardon's marriage; his appearance was
a surprise.

'I hear you are leaving town for a time,' he exclaimed. 'Edith
told me yesterday, so I thought I'd look you up.'

He was in spring costume, and exhaled fresh odours. The contrast
between his prosperous animation and Reardon's broken-spirited
quietness could not 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
thought of 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--that kind of thing. You'd come back a new man. Edith and
I had a turn up there 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. You don't look at all well, that's the fact. A winter in
London tries any man--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, and I think it isn't a bad idea; but I'm
so confoundedly busy. In the autumn we shall go to Norway, I
think; it seems to be the right thing to do nowadays.  Why
shouldn't you have a run over to Norway? They say it can be done
very cheaply; the steamers take you for next to nothing.'

He talked on with the joyous satisfaction of a man whose income
is assured, and whose future teems with a succession of lively
holidays. Reardon could make no answer to such suggestions; he
sat with a fixed smile on his face.

'Have you heard,' said Carter, presently, 'that we're opening a
branch of 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
evenings alternately.'

'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, and of 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
to take 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't stick at writing for more than a month or two at a time. 
It's because I have tried to do so that--well, practically, I
have broken down. If you will give me this clerkship, it will
relieve me from the necessity of perpetually writing novels; I
shall be better for it in every way. You know that I'm equal to
the job; you can trust me; and I dare say I shall be more useful
than most clerks you could get.'

It was done, most happily done, on the first impulse. A minute
more of pause, and he could not have faced the humiliation. His
face burned, his tongue 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 a new way. An old way, too; I shall enjoy it.'

He laughed merrily, relieved beyond measure at having come to
what seemed an end of his difficulties. For half an hour they
continued to talk over the affair.

'Well, it's a comical idea,' said Carter, as he took his leave,
'but you know your own business best.'

When Amy returned, Reardon allowed her to put the child to bed
before he sought 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 a change 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're opening 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 he promised it me.'

The last words were hurried, though he had resolved to speak with
deliberation. No more feebleness; he had taken a decision, and
would act upon 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 to have--registering patients, receiving their "letters,"
and so on. The pay 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
three evenings. In my free time I shall do literary work, and no
doubt I can earn 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; in Islington, I think. We have been living
far beyond our means; that must come to an end. We'll have no
more keeping up of sham appearances. If I can make my way in
literature, well and good; in that case our position and
prospects will of course change. But for the present we are poor
people, and must live in a poor way. If our friends like to come
and see us, they must put aside all snobbishness, and take us as
we are. If they prefer 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 in a 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 be taken, and our furniture transferred to them.'

'To me that will make no difference,' returned his wife, in the
same voice as before. 'I have decided--as you told me to--to go
with Willie to mother's next Tuesday. You, of course, must do as
you please. I should have thought a summer at the seaside would
have been more helpful to 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's opposition would take. For himself he meant to be gently
resolute, calmly regardless of protest. But in a man to whom such
self-assertion is a matter of conscious effort, tremor of the
nerves will always interfere 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 the note of absolutism, and, as is wont
to be the case, the sound of these strange tones instigated him
to further utterances of the same kind. He lost control of
himself. Amy's last reply went through him like an electric
shock, and for the moment he was a mere husband defied by his
wife, the male stung to exertion of his brute force against the
physically weaker sex.

'However you regard me, you will do what I think fit. I shall not
argue with you. If I choose to take lodgings in Whitechapel,
there you will come and live.'

He met Amy's full look, and was conscious of that in it which
corresponded to his own brutality. She had become suddenly a much
older woman; her cheeks were tight drawn into thinness, her lips
were bloodlessly hard, there was an unknown furrow along her
forehead, and she 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
accent he had heard a wrangling woman retort upon her husband at
the street corner. Is there then no essential difference between
a woman of this world and one of that? Does the same nature lie
beneath such unlike surfaces?

He had but to do one thing: to seize her by the arm, drag her up
from the chair, dash her back again with all his force--there,
the transformation would be complete, they would stand towards
each other on the natural footing. With an added curse perhaps--
Instead of that, he choked, struggled for breath, and shed tears.

Amy turned scornfully away from him. Blows and a curse would have
overawed 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
tears moved her to a feeling cruelly exultant; they were the sign
of her superiority. It was she who should have wept, and never in
her life had she been further from such display of weakness.

This could not be the end, however, and she had no wish to
terminate the scene. They stood for a minute without regarding
each other, then Reardon 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 to declare to everyone that you had deserted him?'

'I shall "declare to everyone" the simple truth. You have the
opportunity of making one more effort to save us from
degradation. You refuse to take the trouble; you prefer to drag
me down into a lower rank of life. I can't and won't consent to
that. The disgrace is yours; it's fortunate for me that I have a
decent home to go to.'

'Fortunate for you!--you make yourself unutterably contemptible.
I have done nothing that justifies you in leaving me. It is for
me to judge what I can do and what I can't. A good woman would
see no degradation in what I ask of you. But to run away from me
just because I am poorer than you ever thought I should be--'

He was incoherent. A thousand passionate things that he wished to
say clashed together in his mind and confused his speech. 
Defeated in the attempt to act like a strong man, he could not
yet recover standing-ground, knew not how to tone his utterances.

'Yes, of course, that's how you will put it,' said Amy. 'That's
how you will represent me to your friends. My friends will see it
in a different light.'

'They will regard you as a martyr?'

'No one shall make a martyr of me, you may be sure. I was
unfortunate enough to marry a man who had no delicacy, no regard
for my feelings.--I am not the first woman who has made a mistake
of this kind.'

'No delicacy? No regard for your feelings?--Have I always utterly
misunderstood you? Or has poverty changed you to a woman I can't
recognise?'

He came nearer, and gazed desperately into her face. Not a muscle
of it showed susceptibility to the old influences.

'Do you know, Amy,' he added in a lower voice, 'that if we part
now, we part 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
nothing but 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 the
position we have come to. When I consented to leave you for a
time, to go 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 time when I should have to say
plainly: "I can't live by literature, so I must look out for some
other employment." I shouldn't have been so weak but that I knew
how you would regard such a decision as that. I was afraid to
tell the truth--afraid. Now, when Carter of a sudden put this
opportunity before me, I saw all the absurdity of the
arrangements we had made. It didn't take me a moment to make up
my mind. Anything was to be chosen rather than a parting from you
on false pretences, a ridiculous 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 very well when I first saw how dark the future was. I
was driven even to say that we ought to change our mode of
living; I asked you if you would be willing to leave this place
and go into cheaper rooms. And you know what your answer was. Not
a sign in you that you would stand by me if the worst came. I
knew then what I had to look forward to, but I durst not believe
it. I kept saying to myself: "She loves me, and as soon as she
really understands--"  That was all self-deception. If I had been
a wise man, I should have spoken to you in a way you couldn't
mistake. I should have told you that we were living recklessly,
and that I had determined to alter it. I have no delicacy? No
regard for your feelings? Oh, if I had had less! I doubt whether
you can even understand some of the considerations that weighed
with me, and made me cowardly--though I once thought there was no
refinement of sensibility that you couldn't enter into. Yes, I
was absurd enough to say to myself: "It will look as if I had
consciously deceived her; she may suffer from the thought that I
won her at all hazards, knowing that I should soon expose her to
poverty and all sorts of humiliation." Impossible to speak of
that again; I had to struggle 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. You knew that I was almost mad with anxiety at times. 
Surely, any woman must have had the impulse to give what help was
in her power. How could you hesitate? Had you no suspicion of
what a relief and encouragement it would be to me, if you said: 
"Yes, we must go and live in a simpler way?" If only as a proof
that you loved me, how I should have welcomed that! You helped me
in nothing. You threw all the responsibility upon me--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
know so bitterly that they are true. It takes a long time to see
you as such a different woman from the one I worshipped. In
passion, I can fling out violent words, but they don't yet answer
to my actual feeling. It will be long enough yet before I think
contemptuously of you. You know that when a light is suddenly
extinguished, the image of it still shows before 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. Do so, 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 from humiliation.'

'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
a chance is offered you now of working in a better way. Till that
is tried, you have no right to give all up and try to drag me
down with you.'

'I don't know how to answer. I have told you so often-- You can't
understand me!'

'I can! I can!' Her voice trembled for the first time. 'I know
that you are so ready to give in to difficulties. Listen to me,
and do as I bid you.' She spoke in the strangest tone of command.

It was command, not exhortation, but there was no harshness in
her voice. 'Go at once to Mr Carter. Tell him you have made a
ludicrous mistake--in a fit of low spirits; anything you like to
say. Tell him you of course couldn't dream of becoming his clerk.
To-night; at once! You understand me, Edwin? Go now, this
moment.'

'Have you determined to see how weak I am? Do you wish to be able
to despise me more completely still?'

'I am determined to be your friend, and to save you from
yourself. Go at once! Leave all the rest to me. If I have let
things take their course till now, it shan't be so in future. The
responsibility shall be with me. 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 we are parting; no one has any such idea yet. You are going
away for your health, just three summer months. I have been far
more careful of appearances than you imagine, but you give me
credit for so little. I will find the money you need, until you
have written another book. I promise; I undertake it. Then I will
find another home for us, of the proper kind. You shall have no
trouble. You shall give yourself entirely to intellectual things.

But Mr Carter must be told at once, before he can spread a
report. If he has spoken, he must contradict what he has said.'

'But you amaze me, Amy. Do you mean to say that you look upon it
as a veritable disgrace, my taking this clerkship?'

'I do. I can't help my nature. I am ashamed through and through
that you should 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. It
doesn'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 the position you now have, and to take weekly wages
--you surely can't know how people of my world regard that.'

'Of your world? I had thought your world was the same as mine,
and knew nothing whatever of these imbecilities.'

'It is getting late. Go and see Mr Carter, and afterwards I will
talk as much as you like.'

He might perhaps have yielded, but the unemphasised contempt in
that last sentence was more than he could bear. It demonstrated
to him more completely than set terms could have done what a
paltry weakling he would appear in Amy's eyes if he took his hat
down from the peg and set out to obey her orders.

'You are asking too much,' he said, with unexpected coldness. 'If
my opinions are so valueless to you that you dismiss them like
those of a troublesome child, I wonder you think it worth while
to try and keep up appearances about me. It is very simple: make
known to everyone that you are in no way connected with the
disgrace I have brought upon myself. Put an advertisement in the
newspapers to that effect, if you like--as men do about their
wives' debts. I have chosen my part. I can't stultify myself to
please you.'

She knew that this was final. His voice had the true ring of
shame in revolt.

'Then go your way, and I will go mine!'

Amy left the room.

When Reardon went into the bedchamber an hour later, he unfolded
a chair-bedstead that stood there, threw some rugs upon it, and
so lay down to pass the night. He did not close his eyes. Amy
slept for an hour or two before dawn, and on waking she started
up and looked anxiously about the room. But neither spoke.

There was a pretence of ordinary breakfast; the little servant
necessitated that. When she saw her husband preparing to go out,
Amy asked 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
stepped quickly 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
out without 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 for one person's meal.

He went into the bedroom. Amy's trunks had disappeared. The
child's cot was covered over. In the study, he saw that the
sovereign he had thrown on 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
sat reading a torn portion of a newspaper, and became quite
interested in the report of a commercial meeting in the City, a
thing he would never have glanced at under ordinary
circumstances. The fragment fell at length 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 were to go with him, and of such other things as could be
enclosed in box or portmanteau. After a couple of hours of this
occupation he could no longer resist his weariness, so he went to
bed. Before falling asleep he heard the two familiar clocks
strike eight; this evening they were in unusual accord, and the
querulous notes from the workhouse sounded between the deeper
ones from St Marylebone. Reardon tried to remember when he had
last observed this; the matter seemed to have a peculiar interest
for him, and in dreams he worried himself with a grotesque
speculation thence derived.



CHAPTER XVIII. THE OLD HOME

Before her marriage Mrs Edmund Yule was one of seven motherless
sisters who constituted the family of a dentist slenderly
provided in the matter of income. The pinching and paring which
was a chief employment of her energies in those early days had
disagreeable effects upon a character disposed rather to
generosity than the reverse; during her husband's lifetime she
had enjoyed rather too eagerly all the good things which he put
at her command, sometimes forgetting that a wife has duties as
well as claims, and in her widowhood she indulged a
pretentiousness and querulousness which were the natural, but not
amiable, results of suddenly restricted circumstances.

Like the majority of London people, she occupied a house of which
the rent absurdly exceeded the due proportion of her income, a
pleasant foible turned to such good account by London landlords. 
Whereas she might have lived with a good deal of modest comfort,
her existence was a perpetual effort to conceal the squalid
background of what was meant for the eyes of her friends and
neighbours. She kept only two servants, who were so ill paid and
so relentlessly overworked that it was seldom they remained with
her for more than three months. In dealings with other people
whom she perforce employed, she was often guilty of incredible
meanness; as, for instance, when she obliged her half-starved
dressmaker to purchase material for her, and then postponed
payment alike for that and for the work itself to the last
possible moment. This was not heartlessness in the strict sense
of the word; the woman not only knew that her behaviour was
shameful, she was in truth ashamed of it and sorry for her
victims. But life was a battle. She must either crush or be
crushed. With sufficient means, she would have defrauded no one,
and would have behaved generously to many; with barely enough for
her needs, she set her face and defied her feelings, inasmuch as
she believed there was no choice.

She would shed tears over a pitiful story of want, and without
shadow of hypocrisy. It was hard, it was cruel; such things
oughtn't to be allowed in a world where there were so many rich
people. The next day she would argue with her charwoman about
halfpence, and end by paying the poor creature what she knew was
inadequate and unjust. For the simplest reason: she hadn't more
to give, without submitting to privations which she considered
intolerable.

But whilst she could be a positive hyena to strangers, to those
who were akin to her, and those of whom she was fond, her
affectionate kindness was remarkable. One observes this
peculiarity often enough; it reminds one how savage the social
conflict is, in which those little groups of people stand serried
against their common enemies; relentless to all others, among
themselves only the more tender and zealous because of the
ever-impending danger. No mother was ever more devoted. Her son,
a gentleman of quite noteworthy selfishness, had board and
lodging beneath her roof on nominal terms, and under no stress of
pecuniary trouble had Mrs Yule called upon him to make the
slightest sacrifice on her behalf. Her daughter she loved with
profound tenderness, and had no will that was opposed to Amy's. 
And it was characteristic of her that her children were never
allowed to understand of what baseness she often became guilty in
the determination to support appearances. John Yule naturally
suspected what went on behind the scenes; on one occasion--since
Amy's marriage--he had involuntarily overheard a dialogue between
his mother and a servant on the point of departing which made
even him feel ashamed. But from Amy every paltriness and meanness
had always been concealed with the utmost care; Mrs Yule did not
scruple to lie heroically when in danger of being detected by her
daughter.

Yet this energetic lady had no social ambitions that pointed
above her own stratum. She did not aim at intimacy with her
superiors; merely at superiority among her intimates. Her circle
was not large, but in that circle she must be regarded with the
respect due to a woman of refined tastes and personal
distinction. Her little dinners might be of rare occurrence, but
to be invited must be felt a privilege. 'Mrs Edmund Yule' must
sound well on people's lips; never be the occasion of those
peculiar smiles which she herself was rather fond of indulging at
the mention of other people's names.

The question of Amy's marriage had been her constant thought from
the time when the little girl shot into a woman grown. For Amy no
common match, no acceptance of a husband merely for money or
position. Few men who walked the earth were mates for Amy. But
years went on, and the man of undeniable distinction did not yet
present himself. Suitors offered, but Amy smiled coldly at their
addresses, in private not seldom scornfully, and her mother,
though growing anxious, approved. Then of a sudden appeared Edwin
Reardon.

A literary man? Well, it was one mode of distinction. Happily, a
novelist; novelists now and then had considerable social success.

Mr Reardon, it was true, did not impress one as a man likely to
push forward where the battle called for rude vigour, but Amy
soon assured herself that he would have a reputation far other
than that of the average successful storyteller. The best people
would regard him; he would be welcomed in the penetralia of
culture; superior persons would say: '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 could appreciate 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 'my
son-in-law, Mr Edwin Reardon.' Next, she never uttered his name
save when inquiries necessitated it. Then, the most intimate of
her intimates received little hints which were not quite easy to
interpret. 'Mr Reardon is growing so very eccentric--has an odd
distaste for society--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 curious eccentricities!' Many were the tears she
wept after her depressing colloquies with Amy; and, as was to be
expected, she thought severely of the cause of these sorrows. On
the last occasion when he came to her house she received him with
such extreme civility that Reardon thenceforth disliked her,
whereas before he had only thought her a good-natured and silly
woman.

Alas for Amy's marriage with a man of distinction! From step to
step of descent, till here was downright catastrophe. Bitter
enough in itself, but most lamentable with reference to the
friends of the family. How was it to be explained, this return of
Amy to her home for several months, whilst her husband was no
further away than Worthing? The bald, horrible truth--impossible!
Yet Mr Milvain knew it, and the Carters must guess it. What
colour could be thrown upon such vulgar distress?

The worst was not yet. It declared itself this May morning, when,
quite unexpectedly, 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 a few 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 a
dangerous state. 'Nothing worse can happen, that's one
consolation.'

'Oh, it's disgraceful! disgraceful!' sobbed Mrs Yule. 'What we
are to say I can NOT think.'

'I shall say nothing whatever. People can scarcely have the
impertinence to ask us questions when we have shown that they are
unwelcome.'

'But there are some people I can't help giving some explanation
to. My dear child, he is not in his right mind. I'm convinced of
it, there! He is 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 know you have, Amy. That talking in his sleep; I've thought a
great deal of it 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 his ways that--'

'I can't have that,' replied Amy with decision. 'Don't you see
that in that 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 mental derangement. You have done your utmost for
him. And this would be some sort of explanation, you know. I am
so convinced that there is truth in it, too.'

'Of course I can't prevent you from saying what you like, but I
think it would be very wrong to start a rumour of this kind.'

There was less resolve in this utterance. Amy mused, and looked
wretched.

'Come up to the drawing-room, dear,' said her mother, for they
had held their conversation in the room nearest to the
house-door. 'What a state your mind must be in! Oh dear! Oh
dear!'

She was a slender, well-proportioned woman, still pretty in face,
and dressed in a way that emphasised her abiding charms. Her
voice had something of plaintiveness, and altogether she was of
frailer type than her 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
difficulties with the domestic slaves. But Mrs Yule would prove
equal to the occasion. On Amy's behalf she would have worked her
servants till they perished of exhaustion before her eyes.

'Use my room for the present,' she added. 'I think the girl has
finished up there. But wait here; I'll just go and see to
things.'

'Things' were not quite satisfactory, as it proved. You should
have heard the change that came in that sweetly plaintive voice
when it addressed the luckless housemaid. It was not brutal; not
at all. But so sharp, hard, unrelenting--the voice of the goddess
Poverty herself perhaps sounds like that.

Mad? Was he to be spoken of in a low voice, and with finger
pointing to the forehead? There was something ridiculous, as well
as repugnant, in such a thought; but it kept possession of Amy's
mind. She was brooding upon 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
his behaviour.'

'I don't think it unaccountable,' replied Amy. 'It's weak and
selfish, that's all. He takes the first miserable employment that
offers rather than face the hard work of writing another book.'

She was quite aware that this did not truly represent her
husband's position. But an uneasiness of conscience impelled her
to harsh speech.

'But just fancy!' exclaimed her mother. 'What can he mean by
asking you to 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 get rid of you.'

Amy shook her head.

'You mean,' asked Mrs Yule, 'that he really thinks it possible
for all of 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 has purposely cast you off.'

Amy laughed, thinking of her husband in the light of the latter
alternative.

'There's no need to seek so far for explanations,' she said. 'He
has failed, that's all; just like a man might fail in any other
business. He can't write like he used to. It may be all the
result of ill-health; I don't know. His last book, you see, is
positively refused. He has made up his mind that there's nothing
but poverty before him, and he can't understand 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
difficult position. If he had gone away to Worthing for the
summer we might have made it seem natural; people are always
ready to allow literary men to do rather odd things--up to a
certain point. We should have behaved as if there were nothing
that called for explanation. But what are we to do now?'

Like her multitudinous kind, Mrs Yule lived only in the opinions
of other 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 only possible in the case of very eccentric
persons, or of such as were altogether out of society. Amy had
advanced, intellectually, far beyond this standpoint, but lack of
courage disabled her from acting upon her convictions.

'People must know the truth, I suppose,' she answered
dispiritedly.

Now, confession of the truth was the last thing that would occur
to Mrs Yule when social relations were concerned. Her whole
existence was based on bold denial of actualities. And, as is
natural in such persons, she had the ostrich instinct strongly
developed; though very acute in the discovery of her friends'
shams and lies, she deceived herself ludicrously in the matter of
concealing her own embarrassments.

'But the fact is, my dear,' she answered, 'we don't know the
truth ourselves. You had better let yourself be directed by me. 
It will be better, at first, if you see as few people as
possible. I suppose you must say something or other to two or
three of your own friends; if you take my advice you'll be rather
mysterious. Let them think what they like; anything is better
than to say plainly. "My husband can't support me, 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
the day. In the afternoon two ladies paid a call, but Amy kept
out of sight. Between six and seven John Yule returned from his
gentlemanly occupations. As he was generally in a touchy temper
before dinner had soothed him, nothing was said to him of the
latest development of his sister's affairs until late in the
evening; he was allowed to suppose that Reardon's departure for
the seaside had taken place a day sooner than had been arranged.

Behind the dining-room was a comfortable little chamber set apart
as John's sanctum; here he smoked and entertained his male
friends, and contemplated the portraits of those female ones who
would not have been altogether at their ease in Mrs Yule's
drawing-room. Not long after dinner 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 she had picked up.

'Well, I see nothing to be surprised at,' was John's first
remark. 'It was pretty certain he'd come to this. But what I want
to know is, how long 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, I suppose, that Amy should go and live in a back street at
Islington, and be 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
what is to be the end of it all? I've no doubt it's uncommonly
pleasant for Reardon to shift his responsibilities on to our
shoulders. At this rate I think I shall get married, and live
beyond my means until I can hold out no longer, and then hand my
wife over to her relatives, with my compliments. It's about the
coolest business that ever came under my notice.'

'But what is to be done?' asked Mrs Yule. 'It's no use talking
sarcastically, John, or making yourself disagreeable.'

'We are not called upon to find a way out of the difficulty. The
fact of the matter is, Reardon must get a decent berth. Somebody
or other must pitch him into the kind of place that suits men who
can do nothing in particular. Carter ought to be able to help, I
should think.'

'You know very well,' said Amy, 'that places of that kind are not
to be had for the asking. It may be years before any such
opportunity offers.'

'Confound the fellow! Why the deuce doesn't he go on with his
novel-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 he can keep it up if he likes. He might write his two novels a
year easily enough, just like twenty other men and women. Look
here, I could do it myself 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
too ridiculous to say that he couldn't write some kind of novels
if he chose. Look at Miss Blunt's last book; why, anybody could
have written that. I'm sure there isn't a thing in it I couldn't
have imagined myself.'

'Well, all I want to know is, what's Amy going to do if things
don't alter?'

'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 find
fault with everyone all round, himself maintaining a position of
irresponsibility.

'It's all very well, mother, but when a girl gets married she
takes her husband, I have always understood, for better or worse,
just as a man takes his wife. To tell the truth, it seems to me
Amy has put herself in the wrong. It's deuced unpleasant to go
and live in back streets, and to go without dinner now and then,
but girls mustn't marry if they're afraid to face these things.'

'Don't talk so monstrously, John!' exclaimed his mother. 'How
could Amy possibly foresee such things? The case is quite an
extraordinary one.'

'Not so uncommon, I assure you. Some one was telling me the other
day of a married lady--well educated and blameless--who goes to
work at a shop somewhere 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't unexampled. It's very fortunate for her that she has
good-natured relatives.'

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 own
business.'

'By jingo! precisely what you would be doing. I think you ought
to see him and give him to understand that he's behaving in a
confoundedly ungentlemanly way. Evidently he's the kind of fellow
that wants stirring up. I've half a mind to go and see him
myself. Where is this slum that he'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
of catching 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
have come to this pass!'

The conversation was, of course, profitless. John could only
return again 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 soon as she was gone.

'I am afraid so.'

'Well, you must do as you please. But it's confounded hard lines
that you should have to keep her and the kid. You know I can't
afford to contribute.'

'My dear, I haven't asked you to.'

'No, but you'll have the devil's own job to make ends meet; I
know that well 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 suppose he has transferred all their furniture to the
slum?'

'He can't have removed yet. It was only this morning that he went
to search for lodgings.'

'Oh, then I tell you what it is: I shall look in there the first
thing to-morrow morning, and just talk to him in a fatherly way. 
You needn't say 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's five-and-twenty shillings for the rest of his life, and
never trouble his head about how Amy is living.'

To this proposal Mrs Yule readily assented. On going upstairs she
found that 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, and have a good long sleep.'

'Yes, I will.'

The neat, fresh bedchamber seemed to Amy a delightful haven of
rest. She turned the key in the door with an enjoyment of the
privacy thus secured such as she had never known in her life; for
in maidenhood safe solitude was a matter of course to her, and
since marriage she had not passed a night 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 and covered
his face with kisses too gentle to awaken him.

How clean and sweet everything was! It is often said, by people
who are exquisitely ignorant of the matter, that cleanliness is a
luxury within reach even of the poorest. Very far from that; only
with the utmost difficulty, with wearisome exertion, with
harassing sacrifice, can people who are pinched for money
preserve a moderate purity in their persons and their
surroundings. By painful degrees Amy had accustomed herself to
compromises in this particular which in the early days of her
married life would have seemed intensely disagreeable, if not
revolting. A housewife who lives in the country, and has but a
patch of back garden, or even a good-sized kitchen, can, if she
thinks fit, take her place at the wash-tub and relieve her mind
on laundry matters; but to the inhabitant of a miniature flat in
the heart of London anything of that kind is out of the question.

When Amy began to cut down her laundress's bill, she did it with
a sense of degradation. One grows accustomed, however, to such
unpleasant necessities, and already she had learnt what was the
minimum of expenditure for one who is troubled with a lady's
instincts.

No, no; cleanliness is a costly thing, and a troublesome thing
when appliances and means have to be improvised. It was, in part,
the understanding she had gained of this side of the life of
poverty that made Amy shrink in dread from the still narrower
lodgings to which Reardon invited her. She knew how subtly one's
self-respect can be undermined by sordid conditions. The
difference between the life of well-to-do educated people and
that of the uneducated poor is not greater in visible details
than in the minutiae of privacy, and Amy must have submitted to
an extraordinary change before it would have been possible for
her to live at ease in the circumstances which satisfy a decent
working-class woman. She was prepared for final parting from her
husband 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 to be alone!

And in a quarter of an hour she was sleeping as peacefully as the
child who shared her room.

At breakfast in the morning she showed a bright, almost a happy
face. It was long, long since she had enjoyed such a night's
rest, so undisturbed with unwelcome thoughts on the threshold of
sleep and on awaking. Her life was perhaps wrecked, but the
thought of that did not press upon her; for the present she must
enjoy her freedom. It was like a recovery of girlhood. There are
few married women who would not, sooner or later, accept with joy
the offer of some months of a maidenly liberty. Amy would 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 that do
not immediately concern her, she tasted the relief of the present
and let the future lie unregarded. Reardon would get out of his
difficulties sooner or later; somebody or other would help him;
that was the dim background 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 her his new address--he could scarcely neglect to
do that--she would send a not unfriendly letter, and hint to him
that now was his opportunity for writing a book, as good a book
as those which formerly issued from his garret-solitude. If he
found that literature was in truth a thing of the past with him,
then he must exert himself to obtain a position worthy of an
educated man. Yes, in this way she would write to him, without a
word that 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
thin and pale.'

'Quite consumptive,' remarked John, looking up from his
newspaper. 'Shall I make arrangements for a daily landau at the
livery stables round here?'

'You can if you like,' replied his sister; 'it would do both
mother and me 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
an unwonted 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 day wholly disconsolate. He too had slept unusually well, and
with returning consciousness the sense of a burden removed was
more instant than that of his loss and all the dreary
circumstances attaching to it. He had no longer to fear the
effects upon Amy of such a grievous change as from their 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 had
happened and the uneasiness which troubled him when he reflected
that his wife was henceforth a charge to her mother.

Of course for the moment only. He had no sooner begun to move
about, to prepare his breakfast (amid the relics of last
evening's meal), to think of all the detestable work he had to do
before to-morrow night, than his heart sank again. His position
was well-nigh as dolorous as that of any man who awoke that
morning to the brutal realities of life. If only for the shame of
it! How must they be speaking of him, Amy's relatives, and her
friends? A novelist who couldn't write novels; a husband who
couldn't support his wife and child; a literate who made eager
application for illiterate work at paltry wages--how interesting
it would all sound in humorous gossip! And what hope had he that
things would ever be better with him?

Had he done well? Had he done wisely? Would it not have been
better to have made that one last effort? There came before him a
vision of quiet nooks beneath the Sussex cliffs, of the long
lines of green breakers bursting into foam; he heard the
wave-music, and tasted the briny freshness of the sea-breeze. 
Inspiration, after all, would perchance have come to him.

If Amy's love had but been of more enduring quality; if she had
strengthened him for this last endeavour with the brave
tenderness of an ideal wife! But he had seen such hateful things
in her eyes. Her love was dead, and she regarded him as the man
who had spoilt her hopes of happiness. 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 so easily to women. But to have him dead and out of her way;
to be saved from her anomalous position; to see once more a
chance in life; she would welcome it.

But there was no time for brooding. To-day he had to sell all the
things that were superfluous, and to make arrangements for the
removal of his effects 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 would have 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 had consented to come, could he have
met the expenses of their living out of his weekly twenty-five
shillings? How could he have pretended to do literary work in
such cramped quarters, he who had never been able to write a line
save in strict seclusion? In his despair he had faced the
impossible. 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
who would purchase his books and old clothing and other
superfluities; but before he could close the door behind him, an
approaching step on the stairs caught his attention. He saw the
shining silk hat of a well-equipped gentleman. It was John Yule.

'Ha! Good-morning!' John exclaimed, looking up. 'A minute or two
and I should have been too late, I see.'

He spoke in quite a friendly way, and, on reaching the landing,
shook hands.

'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
no reference 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're on the point of moving, I suppose?'

'Yes, I am.'

Reardon tried to speak in quite a simple way, with no admission
of embarrassment. He was not successful, and to his visitor the
tone seemed rather 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 for granted that--that the rupture was final, I thought.'

There had never been any intimacy between these two men. Reardon
regarded his wife's brother as rather snobbish and disagreeably
selfish; John Yule looked upon the novelist as a prig, and now of
late as a shuffling, untrustworthy fellow. It appeared to John
that his brother-in-law was assuming a manner wholly
unjustifiable, and he had a difficulty in behaving to him with
courtesy. Reardon, on the other hand, felt injured by the turn
his visitor's remarks were taking, and began to resent the visit
altogether.

'I take nothing for granted,' he said coldly. 'But I'm afraid
nothing is to be gained by a discussion of our difficulties. The
time for that is over.

'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 so
astonished at what is happening that it was necessary for one or
other of us to see you.'

'I think it is all between Amy and myself.'

'Difficulties between husband and wife are generally best left to
the people themselves, I know. But the fact is, there are
peculiar circumstances in the present case. It can't be necessary
for me to explain further.'

Reardon could find no suitable words of reply. He understood what
Yule referred 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
Amy shall remain with her mother.'

John was perfectly self-possessed; it took much to disturb his
equanimity. He smoked his cigarette, which was in an amber
mouthpiece, and seemed to enjoy its flavour. Reardon found
himself observing the perfection 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 the
well-dressed man who made him feel so.

'But really, Reardon,' began the other, uncrossing and recrossing
his legs, 'do you tell me in seriousness that you expect Amy to
live in such lodgings 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
know it's impossible, of course.'

Either he must speak thus, or break into senseless wrath. It was
hard to hold back the angry words that were on his lips, but he
succeeded, and he 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 an indefinite time?'

To John, whose perspicacity was not remarkable, Reardon's changed
tone conveyed simply an impression of bland impudence. He eyed
his brother-in-law rather haughtily.

'I can only say,' returned the other, who was become wearily
indifferent, 'that as soon as I can afford a decent home I shall
give my wife 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,' Reardon
exclaimed. 'With Mrs Yule I should have done my best to be
patient if she had asked these questions; but you are not
justified in putting them, at all events not in this way.'

'I'm very sorry you speak like this, Reardon,' said the other,
with calm insolence. 'It confirms unpleasant ideas, you know.'

'What do you mean?'

'Why, one can't help thinking that you are rather too much at
your ease under 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 me and my position, utterly! It would be useless to
defend myself. You must take 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 question decidedly concerns me; and I'll add that I
think it ought to concern you a 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
clearly enough to me, and you shan't have spoken in vain. Is
there anything else you wish to say?'

'Thank you; I think not.'

They parted with distant civility, and Reardon closed the door
behind his visitor.

He knew that his character was seen through a distorting medium
by Amy's relatives, to some extent by Amy herself; but hitherto
the reflection that this must always be the case when a man of
his kind is judged by people of the world had strengthened him in
defiance. An endeavour to explain himself would be maddeningly
hopeless; even Amy did not understand aright the troubles through
which his intellectual and moral nature was passing, and to speak
of such experiences to Mrs Yule or to John would be equivalent to
addressing them in alien tongues; he and they had no common
criterion by reference to which he could make himself
intelligible. The practical tone in which John had explained the
opposing view of the situation made it impossible for him to
proceed as he had purposed. Amy would never come to him in his
poor lodgings; her mother, her brother, all her advisers would
regard such a thing as out of the question. Very well;
recognising this, he must also recognise his wife's claim upon
him for material support. It was not in his power to supply her
with means sufficient to live upon, but what he could afford she
should have.

When he went out, it was with a different purpose from that of
half an hour ago. After a short search in the direction of
Edgware Road, he found a dealer in second-hand furniture, whom he
requested to come as soon as possible to the flat on a matter of
business. An hour later the man kept his appointment. Having
brought him into the study, Reardon said:

'I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions
that I'll point 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
well enough. The dealer was a rough and rather dirty fellow, with
the distrustful glance which distinguishes his class. Men of
Reardon's type, when hapless enough to be forced into vulgar
commerce, are doubly at a disadvantage; not only their ignorance,
but their sensitiveness, makes them ready victims of even the
least subtle man of business. To deal on equal terms with a
person you must be able to assert with calm confidence that you
are not to be cheated; Reardon was too well aware that he would
certainly be cheated, and shrank scornfully from the higgling of
the market. Moreover, he was in a half-frenzied state of mind,
and cared for little but to be done with the hateful details of
this process of ruin.

He pencilled a list of the articles he must retain for his own
use; it would of course be cheaper to take a bare room than
furnished lodgings, and every penny he could save was of
importance to him. The chair-bedstead, with necessary linen and
blankets, a table, two chairs, a looking-glass--strictly the
indispensable things; no need to complete the list. Then there
were a few valuable wedding-presents, which belonged rather to
Amy than to him; these he would get packed and send to 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 who understood 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
would you do it for?'

This bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way.
Thereupon Reardon set to work to dispose of his books; by
half-past one he had sold them for a couple of guineas. At two
came the cart that was to take away the furniture, and at four
o'clock nothing remained in the flat save what had to be removed
on the morrow.

The next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a
week's rent for the two rooms he had taken, and find a single
room at the lowest possible cost. On the way, he entered an
eating-house and satisfied his hunger, for he had had nothing
since breakfast. It took him a couple of hours to discover the
ideal garret; it was found at length in a narrow little by-way
running out of Upper Street. The rent was half-a-crown a week.

At seven o'clock he sat down in what once was called his study,
and wrote the following letter:

'Enclosed in this envelope you will find twenty pounds. I have
been reminded 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 all the money I can spare at present. You will receive
to-morrow a box containing several things I did not feel
justified in selling. As soon as I begin to have my payment from
Carter, half of it shall be sent to 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 to his wife. She must receive it this very night, and he
knew not how to ensure that save by delivering it himself. So he
went to Westbourne Park by train, and walked to Mrs Yule's house.

At this hour the family were probably at dinner; yes, the window
of the dining-room showed lights within, whilst those of the
drawing-room were in shadow. After a little hesitation he rang
the servants' bell. When the door opened, he handed his letter to
the girl, and requested that it might be given to Mrs Reardon as
soon as possible. With one more hasty glance at the window--Amy
was perhaps enjoying her unwonted comfort--he walked quickly
away.

As he re-entered what had been his home, its bareness made his
heart sink. An hour or two had sufficed for this devastation;
nothing remained upon the uncarpeted floors but the needments he
would carry with him into the wilderness, such few evidences of
civilisation as the poorest cannot well dispense with. Anger,
revolt, a sense of outraged love--all manner of confused passions
had sustained him throughout this day of toil; now he had leisure
to know how faint he was. He threw himself upon his
chair-bedstead, and lay for more than an hour in torpor of body
and mind.

But before he could sleep he must eat. Though it was cold, he
could not exert himself to light a fire; there was some food
still in the cupboard, and he consumed it in the fashion of a
tired labourer, with the plate on his lap, using his fingers and
a knife. What had he to do with delicacies?

He felt utterly alone in the world. Unless it were Biffen, what
mortal would give him kindly welcome under any roof? These
stripped rooms were symbolical of his life; losing money, he had
lost everything. 'Be thankful that you exist, that these morsels
of food are still granted you. 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 is one of the first things to
be frightened away by poverty. Go and live upon 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 wedding
holiday. 'Shall you always love me as you do now?'--'For ever! 
for ever!'--'Even if I disappointed you? If I failed?'--'How
could that affect 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
expect others to have time to look back upon him or pity him if
he sink under the stress of conflict. Those behind will trample
over his body; they can'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
it revealed his desolation.

The morning's post brought him a large heavy envelope, the aspect
of which for a moment puzzled him. But he recognised the
handwriting, and understood. The editor of The Wayside, in a
pleasantly-written note, begged to return the paper on Pliny's
Letters which had recently been submitted to him; he was sorry it
did not strike him as quite so interesting as the other
contributions from Reardon's pen.

This was a trifle. For the first time he received a rejected
piece of writing without distress; he even laughed at the
artistic completeness of the situation. The money would have been
welcome, but on that very account he might have known it would
not come.

The cart that was to transfer his property to the room in
Islington arrived about mid-day. By that time he had dismissed
the last details of business in relation to the flat, and was
free to go back to the obscure world whence he had risen. He felt
that for two years and a half he had been a pretender. It was not
natural to him to live in the manner of people who enjoy an
assured income; he belonged to the class of casual wage-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
Pentonville Hill to Upper Street and his own little by-way. 
Manville Street was not unreasonably squalid; the house in which
he had found a home was not alarming in its appearance, and the
woman who kept it had an honest face. Amy would have shrunk in
apprehension, but to one who had experience of London garrets
this was a rather favourable specimen of its kind. The door
closed more satisfactorily than poor Biffen's, for instance, and
there were not many of those knot-holes in the floor which gave
admission to piercing little draughts; not a pane of the window
was cracked, not one. A man might live here comfortably--could
memory be destroyed.

'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
knew his address. Yes, and its contents were these:

'As you have really sold the furniture, I shall accept half this
money that you send. I must buy clothing for myself and Willie. 
But the other ten pounds I shall return to you as soon as
possible. As for your offer of half what you are to receive from
Mr Carter, that seems to me ridiculous; in any case, I cannot
take it. If you seriously abandon all further hope from
literature, I think it is your duty to make every effort to
obtain a position suitable to a man of your education.--AMY
REARDON.'

Doubtless Amy thought it was her duty to write in this way. Not a
word of 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
back to me I shall send it again. If you refuse to make use of
it, you will have the kindness to put it aside and consider it as
belonging to Willie. The other money of which I spoke will be
sent to you once a month. As our concerns are no longer between
us alone, I must protect myself against anyone who would be
likely to accuse me of not giving you what I could afford. For
your advice I thank you, but remember that in withdrawing from me
your affection you have lost all right to offer me counsel.'

He went out and posted this at once.

By three o'clock the furniture of his room was arranged. He had
not kept a carpet; that was luxury, and beyond his due. His score
of volumes must rank 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 everything was 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. 
On returning, he lit as small a fire as possible, put on his
kettle, and sat down to meditate.

How familiar it all was to him! And not unpleasant, for it
brought back the days when he had worked to such good purpose. It
was like a restoration of youth.

Of Amy he would not think. Knowing his bitter misery, she could
write to him in cold, hard words, without a touch even of womanly
feeling. If ever they were to meet again, the advance must be
from her side. He had no more tenderness for her until she strove
to revive it.

Next morning he called at the hospital to see Carter. The
secretary's peculiar look and smile seemed to betray a knowledge
of what had been going on since Sunday, and his first words
confirmed this impression  of Reardon'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
subject would 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 the City Road and talk things over on the spot.'

The vivacious young man was not quite so genial as of wont, but
he evidently strove to show that the renewal of their relations
as  employer and clerk would make no difference in the friendly
intercourse which had since been established; the invitation to
lunch evidently had this purpose.

'I suppose,' said Carter, when they were seated in a restaurant,
'you wouldn'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
going on with writing, of course?'

'Not for the present, I think.'

'Then you would like me to keep a look-out? I haven't anything in
view--nothing whatever. But one hears of things sometimes.'

'I should be obliged to you if you could help me to anything
satisfactory.'

Having brought himself to this admission, Reardon felt more at
ease. To what purpose should he keep up transparent pretences? It
was manifestly his duty to earn as much money as he could, in
whatever way. Let the man 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
glad of it. After paying half-a-crown for rent, there would be
left ten shillings. Something like three pounds that still
remained to him he would not reckon; this must be for casualties.

Half-a-sovereign was enough for his needs; in the old times he
had counted it a competency which put his mind quite at rest.

The day came, and he entered upon his duties in City Road. It
needed but an hour or two, and all the intervening time was
cancelled; he was back once more in the days of no reputation, a
harmless clerk, a decent wage-earner.



CHAPTER XX. THE END OF WAITING

It was more than a fortnight after Reardon's removal to Islington
when Jasper Milvain heard for the first time of what had
happened. He was coming 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's causerie which had been
complained of as libellous, and which would probably lead to the
'case' so much desired by everyone connected with the paper, when
someone descending from a higher storey of the building overtook
him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Whelpdale.

'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
has half 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 general
information column. "Will you be so good as to inform me, through
the medium of your invaluable paper, what was the exact area
devastated by the Great Fire of London?"--that kind of thing, you
know. Hopburn--that's the fellow's name--tells me that his
predecessor always called the paper Chat-moss, because of the
frightful difficulty he had in filling it up each week.
By-the-bye, what a capital column that is of yours 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 the office.

'It may cost a couple of thousands, but the advertisement is
worth that, Patwin thinks. Barlow is delighted; he wouldn't mind
paying double the money to make those people a laughing-stock for
a week or two.'

They issued into the street, and walked on together; Milvain,
with his keen eye and critical smile, unmistakably the modern
young man who cultivates the art of success; his companion of a
less pronounced type, but distinguished by a certain subtlety of
countenance, a blending of the 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
doing clerk's work at a hospital somewhere in the East-end, and
his wife has gone to live at her mother's house.'

'Ho, ho!' exclaimed Jasper, thoughtfully. 'Then the crash has
come. Of course 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 most men would be savage and cynical, wouldn't they, now? 
I'm nothing of the kind. I think no worse of women--not a bit.  I
reverence them as much as ever. 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 have
seen the letter I wrote to that girl at Birmingham--all charity
and forgiveness. I meant it, every word of it. I shouldn't talk
to everyone like this, you know; but it's as well to show a
friend one's best qualities now and then.'

'Is Reardon still living at the old place?'

'No, no. They sold up everything and let the flat. He's in
lodgings somewhere or other. I'm not quite intimate enough with
him to go and see him under the circumstances. But I'm surprised
you know nothing about it.'

'I haven't seen much of them this year. Reardon--well, I'm afraid
he hasn't very much of the virtue you claim for yourself.  It
rather annoys him 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't explain 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 job again?'

'Don't know. Biffen doesn't talk very freely about it; there's a
good deal 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
foresaw all this from the very beginning. The first hour's talk I
ever had with him was enough to convince me that he'd never hold
his own. But he really believed that the future was clear before
him; he imagined he'd go on getting more and more for his books. 
An extraordinary thing that that girl had such faith in him!'

They parted soon after this, and Milvain went homeward, musing
upon what he had heard. It was his purpose to spend the whole
evening on some work which pressed for completion, but he found
an unusual difficulty in settling to it. About eight o'clock he
gave up the effort, arrayed himself in the costume of black and
white, and journeyed to Westbourne Park, where his destination
was the house of Mrs Edmund Yule. Of the servant who opened to
him he inquired if Mrs Yule was at home, and received 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
lady of the house, her son, and Mrs Carter. For Mrs Reardon his
eye sought in vain.

'I'm so glad you have come,' said Mrs Yule, in a confidential
tone. 'I have 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 he
impressed you.'

'How he impressed me?'

'My mother has got hold of the notion,' put in John Yule, 'that
he's not exactly compos mentis. I'll admit that he went on in a
queer sort of way the 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,'
replied Mrs Yule. 'And he's living in a dreadful place--one of
the most shocking alleys 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 so strangely.'

'Between ourselves,' said John, 'there's no use in exaggerating.
He's living in a vile hole, that's true, and Carter says he looks
miserably ill, 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 she has been obliged to keep her room. You can imagine
what a shock it has been to her. It came with such extraordinary
suddenness. Without a word of warning, her husband announced that
he had taken a clerkship and was going to remove immediately to
the East-end. Fancy! And this when he had already arranged, as
you know, to go to the South Coast and write his next 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 the
summer at the seaside. It seemed better that he should go alone;
Mrs Reardon 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 dreadful way! I cannot believe that this is the behaviour
of a sane man!'

Jasper understood that an explanation of the matter might have
been given in much more homely terms; it was natural that Mrs
Yule should leave out of sight the sufficient, but ignoble, cause
of her son-in-law's behaviour.

'You see in what a painful position we are placed,' continued the
euphemistic lady. 'It is so terrible even to hint that Mr Reardon
is not responsible for his actions, yet how are we to explain to
our friends this extraordinary state of things?'

'My husband is afraid Mr Reardon may fall seriously ill,' said
Mrs Carter. 'And how dreadful! In such a place as that!'

'It would be so kind of you to go and see him, Mr Milvain,' urged
Mrs Yule. '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 was
discussed 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 to hear of some position that would be suitable. It seems a
most shocking thing that a successful author should abandon his
career in this deliberate way; who could have imagined anything
of the kind two years ago? But it is clearly quite impossible for
him to go on as at present--if there is really no reason for
believing his mind disordered.'

A cab was summoned for Mrs Carter, and she took her leave,
suppressing her native cheerfulness to the tone of the occasion. 
A minute or two after, Milvain left the house.

He had walked perhaps twenty yards, almost to the end of the
silent street in which his friends' house was situated, when a
man came round the corner and approached him. At once he
recognised the figure, and in a moment he was face to face with
Reardon. Both stopped. Jasper held out his 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's look with fixedness.

'Yes, I am. The fact is, I went there to hear of your address. 
Why haven'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
walk slowly; Jasper kept beside him.

'I'm afraid there's something amiss between us, Reardon,' said
the latter, just glancing at his companion.

'There's something amiss between me and everyone,' was the reply,
in an unnatural voice.

'You look at things too gloomily. Am I detaining you, by-the-bye?
You were going--'

'Nowhere.'

'Then come to my rooms, and let us see if we can't talk more in
the old way.'

'Your old way of talk isn't much to my taste, Milvain. It has
cost me too much.'Jasper gazed at him. Was there some foundation
for Mrs Yule's seeming extravagance? This reply sounded so
meaningless, and so unlike Reardon's manner of speech, that the
younger man experienced a sudden alarm.

'Cost you too much? I don't understand you.'

They had turned into a broader thoroughfare, which, however, was
little frequented at this hour. Reardon, his hands thrust into
the pockets of a 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 in an unsteady voice:

'Your way of talking has always been to glorify success, to
insist upon it as the one end a man ought to keep in view. If you
had talked so to me alone, it wouldn't have mattered. But there
was generally someone else present. Your words had their effect;
I can see that now. It's very much owing to you that I am
deserted, now that there's no hope of my ever succeeding.'

Jasper's first impulse was to meet this accusation with indignant
denial, but a sense of compassion prevailed. It was so painful to
see the defeated man wandering at night near the house where his
wife and child were comfortably sheltered; and the tone in which
he spoke revealed such profound misery.

'That's a most astonishing thing to say,' Jasper replied. 'Of
course I know nothing of what has passed between you and your
wife, but I feel certain that I have no more to do with what has
happened than any other of your acquaintances.'

'You may feel as certain as you will, but your words and your
example have influenced my wife against me. You didn't intend
that; I don't suppose it for a moment. It's my misfortune, that's
all.'

'That I intended nothing of the kind, you need hardly say, I
should think. But you are deceiving yourself in the strangest
way. I'm afraid to speak plainly; I'm afraid of offending you. 
But can you recall something that I said about the time of your
marriage? You didn't like it 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 are unfortunate, there's no
need to examine into other people's influence for 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 in time of need?'

'I don't care to answer a question put in that way. If we are no
longer to talk with the old friendliness, it's far better we
shouldn't discuss things such as this.'

'Well, practically you have answered. Of course I remember those
words of yours that you refer to. Whether you were right or wrong
doesn't affect what I say.'

He spoke with a dull doggedness, as though mental fatigue did not
allow him to say more.

'It's impossible to argue against such a charge,' said Milvain. 
'I am convinced it isn't true, and that's all I can answer. But
perhaps you think this extraordinary influence of mine is still
being used against you?'

'I know nothing about it,' Reardon replied, in the same
unmodulated voice.

'Well, as I have told you, this was my first visit to Mrs Yule's
since your 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 all events, as your wife remains with
them. Of course I shan't tell anyone why; that would be
impossible. But you shan't have to fear that I am decrying 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
have said. 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 not maliciously so, also fell into silence; he did not
believe that his conversations with Amy had seriously affected
the course of events, but he knew that he had often said things
to her in private which would scarcely have fallen from his lips
if her husband had been present--little depreciatory phrases,
wrong rather in tone than in terms, which came of his
irresistible desire to assume superiority whenever it was
possible. He, too, was weak, but with quite another kind of
weakness than Reardon's. His was the weakness of vanity, which
sometimes leads a man to commit treacheries of which he would
believe himself incapable. Self-accused, he took refuge in the
pretence of misconception, 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
you going by train?'

'No. You said my wife was ill?'

'Oh, not ill. At least, I didn't understand that it was anything
serious. 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 say
good-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
he had seen Reardon; he did not describe the circumstances under
which the interview had taken place, but gave it as his opinion
that Reardon was in a state of nervous illness, and made by
suffering quite unlike himself. That he might be on the way to
positive mental disease seemed likely enough. 'Unhappily, I
myself can be of no use to him; he has not the same friendly
feeling for me as he used to have. But it is very certain that
those of his friends who have the power should exert themselves
to raise him out of this fearful slough of despond. If he isn't
effectually helped, there's no saying what may happen. One thing
is certain, I think: he is past helping himself. Sane literary
work cannot be expected from him. It seems a monstrous thing that
so good a fellow, and one with such excellent brains too, should
perish by the way when influential people would have no
difficulty in restoring him to health and usefulness.'

All the months of summer went by. Jasper kept his word, and never
visited Mrs Yule's house; but once in July he met that lady at
the Carters', and heard then, what he knew from other sources,
that the position of things was unchanged. In August, Mrs Yule
spent a fortnight at the seaside, and Amy accompanied her. 
Milvain and his sisters accepted an invitation to visit friends
at Wattleborough, and were out of town about three weeks, the
last ten days being passed in the Isle of Wight; it was an
extravagant holiday, but Dora had been ailing, and her brother
declared that they would all work better for the change. Alfred
Yule, with his wife and daughter, rusticated somewhere in Kent. 
Dora and Marian exchanged letters, and here is a passage from one
written by the former:

'Jasper has shown himself in an unusually amiable light since we
left town. I looked forward to this holiday with some misgivings,
as I know by 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, he has a good deal of it--comes out in a
way we don't appreciate. But I have never known him so
forbearing. To me he is particularly kind, on account of my
headaches and general shakiness. It isn't impossible that this
young man, if all goes well with him, may turn out far better
than Maud and I ever expected. But things will have to go very
well, if the improvement is to be permanent. I only hope he may
make a lot of money before long. If this sounds rather gross to
you, I can only say that Jasper's moral nature will never be safe
as long as he is exposed to the risks of poverty. There are such
people, you know. As a poor man, I wouldn't trust him out of my
sight; with money, he will be a tolerable creature--as men go.'

Dora, no doubt, had her reasons for writing in this strain. She
would not have made such remarks in conversation with her friend,
but took the opportunity of being at a distance to communicate
them in writing.

On their return, the two girls made good progress with the book
they were manufacturing for Messrs Jolly and Monk, and early in
October it was finished. Dora was now writing little things for
The English Girl, and Maud had begun to review an occasional
novel for an illustrated paper. In spite of their poor lodgings,
they had been brought into social relations with Mrs Boston
Wright and a few of her friends; their position was understood,
and in accepting invitations they had no fear lest unwelcome
people should pounce down upon them in their shabby little
sitting-room. The younger sister cared little for society such as
Jasper procured them; with Marian Yule for a companion she would
have been quite content to spend her evenings at home. But Maud
relished the introduction to strangers. She was admired, and knew
it. Prudence could not restrain her from buying a handsomer dress
than those she had brought from her country home, and it irked
her sorely that she might not reconstruct all her equipment to
rival the appearance of well-to-do girls whom she studied and
envied. Her disadvantages, for the present, were insuperable. She
had no one to chaperon her; she could not form intimacies because
of her poverty. A rare invitation to luncheon, a permission to
call at the sacred hour of small-talk--this was all she could
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 you live without conventional protection, but it
necessitates your being very careful. These people you are
getting to know are not rigid about social observances, and they
won't exactly despise you for poverty; all the same, their
charity mustn't be tested too severely. Be very quiet for the
present; let it be seen that you understand that your position
isn't quite regular--I mean, of course, do so in a modest and
nice way. As soon as ever it's possible, we'll arrange for you to
live with someone who will preserve appearances. All this is
contemptible, of course; but we belong to a contemptible society,
and can't help ourselves. For Heaven's sake, don't spoil your
chances by rashness; be content to wait a little, till some more
money comes in.'

Midway in October, about half-past eight one evening, Jasper
received an unexpected visit from Dora. He was in his
sitting-room, smoking and reading 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
were in.

'Where's Maud, then?'

'She went to see the Lanes this afternoon, and Mrs Lane invited
her to go to the Gaiety to-night; she said a friend whom she had
invited couldn't come, and the ticket would be wasted. Maud went
back to dine with them. She'll come home in a cab.'

'Why is Mrs Lane so affectionate all at once? Take your things
off; I have 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
writes for 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
to assume when they touch on doubtful subjects.

'Harm, no. Idiocy and lively music, that's all. It's too late, or
I'd have taken you, for the joke of the thing. Confound it! she
ought to have 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. Lane is 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
Milvain was 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 than when Milvain was alone; on his visage was a grave
respectfulness, his step was light, his whole bearing expressed
diffidence and pleasurable anticipation.

'My younger sister, Whelpdale,' said Jasper, with subdued
amusement.

The dealer in literary advice made a bow which did him no
discredit, and began to speak in a low, reverential tone not at
all disagreeable to the ear. His breeding, in truth, had been
that of a gentleman, and it was only of late years that he had
fallen into the hungry region of New Grub Street.

'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
book with 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 the chapter 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
might have spared me this evening. But unfortunately it's quite
true, Miss Milvain. 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,'
interposed Dora.

'What news of Biffen?' asked Jasper, presently.

'He says he shall finish "Mr Bailey, Grocer," in about a month. 
He read me 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 he can't get it published; it will, indeed.'

'I do hope he may!' said Dora, laughing. 'I have heard so much of
"Mr Bailey," that it will be a great disappointment if I am never
to read it.'

'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
quite decent; only rather depressing. The decently ignoble--or,
the ignobly decent? Which is Biffen's formula? I saw him a week
ago, and he looked hungrier 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't the courage to stop him. He's the ghost of his old self He
can't live long.'

Dora and her brother exchanged a glance. It was a long time since
Jasper had spoken to his sisters about the Reardons; nowadays he
seldom heard either of husband or wife.

The conversation that went on was so agreeable to Whelpdale, that
he lost consciousness of time. It was past eleven o'clock when
Jasper felt obliged to remind him.

'Dora, I think I must be taking you home.'

The visitor at once made ready for departure, and his
leave-taking was as respectful as his entrance had been. Though
he might not say what he thought, there was very legible upon his
countenance a hope that he would again be privileged to meet Miss
Dora Milvain.

'Not a bad fellow, in his way,' said Jasper, when Dora and he
were alone again.

'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
of twenty pounds a year, and makes perhaps fifty or sixty more. 
If I were in his position, I should go in for some kind of
regular business; he has people who could help him. Good-natured
fellow; but what's the use of that if you've no money?'

They set out together, and walked to the girls' lodgings. Dora
was about to use her latch-key, but Jasper checked her. 'No.
There's a light in the 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; the darkness of the second-floor windows had shown that
Maud was not yet back.

'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
recognised the handwriting as that of a Wattleborough friend.

'There must be some news here,' she said. 'Mrs Haynes wouldn't
write unless she had something special to say.

Just upon midnight, a cab drew up before the house. Dora ran down
to open the door to her sister, who came in with very bright eyes
and more colour than usual on her cheeks.

'How late for you to be here!' she exclaimed, on entering the
sitting-room and seeing Jasper.

'I shouldn't have felt comfortable till I knew that you were back
all right.'

'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
Mrs Haynes got to say, I wonder?'

She opened the envelope, and began to glance hurriedly over the
sheet of paper. 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 a fit of some kind at a public meeting, was taken to the
hospital because it was nearest, and died in a few hours. So that
has come, at last! Now what'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 should think.'

'Ought I to write to Marian?' asked Dora.

'No; I wouldn't,' was Jasper's reply. 'Better wait till she lets
you hear. That's sure to be soon. She may have gone to
Wattleborough this afternoon, or be going to-morrow morning.'

The letter from Mrs Haynes was passed from hand to hand. 
'Everybody feels sure,' it said, 'that a great deal of his money
will be left for public purposes. The ground for the park being
already purchased, he is sure to have made provision for carrying
out his plans connected with it. But I hope your friends in
London may benefit.'

It was some time before Jasper could put an end to the
speculative conversation and betake himself homewards. And even
on getting back to his lodgings he was little disposed to go to
bed. This event of John Yule's death had been constantly in his
mind, but there was always a fear that it might not happen for
long enough; the sudden announcement excited him almost as much
as if he were a relative of the deceased.

'Confound his public purposes!' was the thought upon which he at
length slept.



CHAPTER XXI. MR YULE LEAVES TOWN

Since the domestic incidents connected with that unpleasant
review in The Current, the relations between Alfred Yule and his
daughter had suffered a permanent change, though not in a degree
noticeable by any one but the two concerned. To all appearances,
they worked together and conversed very much as they had been
wont to do; but Marian was made to feel in many subtle ways that
her father no longer had complete confidence in her, no longer
took the same pleasure as formerly in the skill and
conscientiousness of her work, and Yule on his side perceived too
clearly that the girl was preoccupied with something other than
her old wish to aid and satisfy him, that she had a new life of
her own alien to, and in some respects irreconcilable with, the
existence in which he desired to confirm her. There was no
renewal of open disagreement, but their conversations frequently
ended by tacit mutual consent, at a point which threatened
divergence; and in Yule's case every such warning was a cause of
intense irritation. He feared to provoke Marian, and this fear
was again a torture to his pride.

Beyond the fact that his daughter was in constant communication
with the Miss Milvains, he knew, and could discover, nothing of
the terms on which she stood with the girls' brother, and this
ignorance was harder to bear than full assurance of a
disagreeable fact would have been. That a man like Jasper
Milvain, whose name was every now and then forced upon his notice
as a rising periodicalist and a faithful henchman of the
unspeakable Fadge--that a young fellow of such excellent
prospects should seriously attach himself to a girl like Marian
seemed to him highly improbable, save, indeed, for the one
consideration, that Milvain, who assuredly had a very keen eye to
chances, might regard the girl as a niece of old John Yule, and
therefore worth holding in view until it was decided whether or
not she would benefit by her uncle's decease. Fixed in his
antipathy to the young man, he would not allow himself to admit
any but a base motive on Milvain's side, if, indeed, Marian and
Jasper were more to each other than slight acquaintances; and he
persuaded himself that anxiety for the girl's welfare was at
least as strong a motive with him as mere prejudice against the
ally of Fadge, and, it might be, the reviewer of 'English Prose.'
Milvain was quite capable of playing fast and loose with a girl,
and Marian, owing to the peculiar circumstances of her position,
would easily be misled by the pretence of a clever speculator.

That she had never spoken again about the review in The Current
might receive several explanations. Perhaps she had not been able
to convince herself either for or against Milvain's authorship;
perhaps she had reason to suspect that the young man was the
author; perhaps she merely shrank from reviving a discussion in
which she might betray what she desired to keep secret. This last
was the truth. Finding that her father did not recur to the
subject, Marian concluded that he had found himself to be
misinformed. But Yule, though he heard the original rumour denied
by people whom in other matters he would have trusted, would not
lay aside the doubt that flattered his prejudices. If Milvain
were not the writer of the review, he very well might have been;
and what certainty could be arrived at in matters of literary
gossip?

There was an element of jealousy in the father's feeling. If he
did not love Marian with all the warmth of which a parent is
capable, at least he had more affection for her than for any
other person, and of this he became 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 considered his wife of no account.

Intellectually again, he demanded an entire allegiance from his
daughter; he could not bear to think that her zeal on his behalf
was diminishing, that perhaps she was beginning to regard his
work as futile and antiquated in comparison with that of the new
generation. Yet this must needs be the result of frequent
intercourse with such a man as Milvain. 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 a sarcasm which
would have led to trouble.

Had he been in the habit of dealing harshly with Marian, as with
her mother, of course his position would have been simpler. But
he had always respected her, and he feared to lose that measure
of respect with which she repaid him. Already he had suffered in
her esteem, perhaps more than he liked to think, and the
increasing embitterment of his temper kept him always in danger
of the conflict he dreaded. Marian was not like her mother; she
could not submit to tyrannous usage. Warned of that, he did his
utmost to avoid an outbreak of discord, constantly hoping that he
might come to understand his daughter's position, and perhaps
discover that his greatest fear was unfounded.

Twice in the course of the summer he inquired of his wife whether
she knew anything about the Milvains. But Mrs Yule was not in
Marian's confidence.

'I only know that she goes to see the young ladies, and that they
do writing 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
Miss Milvains weren't coming here again.'

He was not sorry that Marian had taken the decision to keep her
friends away 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 not have been thus completely in the
dark as to her intercourse with Jasper; scraps of information
must now and then have been gathered by his wife from the girls'
talk.

Throughout the month of July he suffered much from his wonted
bilious attacks, and Mrs Yule had to endure a double share of his
ill-temper, that which was naturally directed against her, and
that of which Marian was the cause. In August things were
slightly better; but with the return to labour came a renewal of
Yule's sullenness and savageness. Sundry pieces of ill-luck of a
professional kind--warnings, as he too well understood, that it
was growing more and more difficult for him to hold his own
against the new writers--exasperated his quarrel with destiny. 
The gloom of a cold and stormy September was doubly wretched in
that house on the far borders of Camden Town, but in October the
sun reappeared and it seemed to mollify the literary man's mood. 
Just when Mrs Yule and Marian began to hope that this long
distemper must surely come to an end, there befell an incident
which, at the best of times, would have occasioned misery, and
which in the present juncture proved disastrous.

It was one morning about eleven. Yule was in his study; Marian
was at the Museum; Mrs Yule had gone shopping. There came a sharp
knock at the front door, and the servant, on opening, was
confronted with a decently-dressed woman, who asked in a
peremptory voice if Mrs Yule was at 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
at once.'

The servant, not without apprehensions, delivered this message at
the door of the study.

'Mrs Goby? Who is Mrs Goby?' exclaimed the man of letters, irate
at the disturbance.

There sounded an answer out of the passage, for the visitor had
followed close.

'I am Mrs Goby, of the 'Olloway Road, wife of Mr C. 0. Goby,
'aberdasher. I just want to speak to you, Mr Yule, if you please,
seeing that Mrs Yule isn't in.'

Yule started up in fury, and stared at the woman, to whom the
servant had reluctantly given place.

'What business can you have with me? If you wish to see Mrs Yule,
come again 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 behaving to people, though you do wear better clothes,
and--I s'pose--call yourself a gentleman. I won't come again, and
you shall just hear what I've got to say.

She closed the door violently, and stood in an attitude of robust
defiance.

'What's all this about?' asked the enraged author, overcoming an
impulse to take Mrs Goby by the shoulders and throw her out--
though he might have found some difficulty in achieving this
feat. 'Who are you? And why do you come here with your brawling?'

'I'm the respectable wife of a respectable man--that's who I am,
Mr Yule, 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 any more 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 behaves himself very much like
what he pretends to be. But I can't say as much for her relations
in Perker Street, 'Olloway, which I s'pose they're your relations
as well, at least by marriage. And if they think they're going to
insult me, and use their blackguard tongues--'

'What are you talking about?' shouted Yule, who was driven to
frenzy by the mention of his wife's humble family. 'What have I
to do with these people?'

'What have you to do with them? I s'pose they're your relations,
ain't they? And I s'pose the girl Annie Rudd is your niece, ain't
she? At least, she's your wife's niece, and that comes to the
same thing, I've always understood, though I dare say a gentleman
as has so many books about him can correct me if I've made a
mistake.'

She looked scornfully, though also with some surprise, round the
volumed walls.

'And what of this girl? Will you have the goodness to say what
your business is?'

'Yes, I will have the goodness! I s'pose you know very well that
I took your niece Annie Rudd as a domestic servant'--she repeated
this precise definition--'as a domestic servant, because Mrs Yule
'appened to 'arst me if I knew of a place for a girl of that
kind, as hadn't been out before, but could be trusted to do her
best to give satisfaction to a good 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
it was. And nicely she's paid me out, has your niece, Miss Rudd. 
Of all the trouble 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 and abused 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 she is, to be sure? If I
was to repeat the language--but there, I wouldn't lower myself.
And I've been a brute of a mistress; I ill-use my servants, and I
don't give 'em enough to eat, and I pay 'em worse than any woman
in London! That's what I've learnt about myself by going to
Perker Street, 'Olloway. And when I come here to ask Mrs Yule
what she means by recommending such a creature, from such a 'ome,
I get insulted by her gentleman husband.'

Yule was livid with rage, but the extremity of his scorn withheld
him from utterance of what he felt.

'As I said, all this has nothing to do with me. I will let Mrs
Yule know that 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 in ostentatious disregard o{her. Finally, the
exasperated woman flung open the door, railed in a loud voice
along the passage, and left the house with 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 she learnt from the servant what had happened during
her absence. Fear and trembling possessed her--the sick, faint
dread always excited by her husband's wrath--but she felt obliged
to go at once to the study. The scene that took place there was
one of ignoble violence on Yule's part, and, on that of his wife,
of terrified self-accusation, changing at length to dolorous
resentment of the harshness with which she was treated.  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
the afternoon, came back from the Museum, he was still absent.

Not finding her mother in the parlour, Marian called at the head
of the kitchen stairs. The servant answered, saying that Mrs Yule
was up in her bedroom, and that she didn't seem well. Marian at
once went up and knocked 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 her lamentations.

'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 of it, but he couldn't speak to me worse if I did him all
the harm I could on purpose. It's all about Annie, because I
found a place for her at Mrs Goby's in the 'Olloway Road; and now
Mrs Goby's been here and seen your father, and told him she's
been insulted by the Rudds, because Annie went off home, and she
went after her to make inquiries. And your father's in such a
passion about it as never was. That woman Mrs Goby rushed into
the study when he was working; it was this morning, when I
happened to be out. And she throws all the blame on me for
recommending her such a girl. And I did it for the best, that I
did! Annie promised me faithfully she'd behave well, and never
give me trouble, and she seemed thankful to me, because she
wasn't happy at home. And now to think of her causing all this
disturbance! I oughtn't to have done such a thing without
speaking about it to your father; but you know how afraid I am to
say a word to him about those people. And my sister's told me so
often I ought to be ashamed of myself never helping her and her
children; she thinks I could do such a lot if I only liked. And
now that I did try to do something, see what comes of it!'

Marian listened with a confusion of wretched feelings. But her
sympathies were strongly with her mother; as well as she could
understand the broken story, her father seemed to have no just
cause for his pitiless rage, though such an occasion would be
likely enough to bring 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. I feel as if I must do something; I can't bear with it,
Marian. He tells me 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 to do my best, but it gets harder and
harder for me. But for me he'd never be in these bad tempers;
it's because he can't look at me without getting angry.  He says
I've kept him back all through his life; but for me he might have
been far better off than he is. It may be true; I've often 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 do
something. 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 see that you did anything blameworthy; it seems to me that
it was your duty to try and help Annie, and if it turned out
unfortunately, that can't be helped. 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 to heart, mother.'

'I've tried my best, Marian,' sobbed the poor woman, who felt
that even her child's sympathy could not be perfect, owing to the
distance put between them by Marian's education and refined
sensibilities. 'I've always thought it wasn't right to talk to
you about such things, but he's been too hard with me to-day.'

'I think it was better you should tell me. It can't go on like
this; I feel that just as you do. I must tell father that he is
making our lives a burden to us.'

'Oh, you mustn't speak to him like that, Marian! I wouldn't for
anything make unkindness between you and your father; that would
be the worst thing I'd done yet. I'd rather go away and work for
my own living than make trouble between you and him.'

'It isn't you who make trouble; it's father. I ought to have
spoken to him before this; I had no right to stand by and see how
much you suffered from his ill-temper.'

The longer they talked, the firmer grew Marian's resolve to front
her father's tyrannous ill-humour, and in one way or another to
change the intolerable state of things. She had been weak to hold
her peace so long; at her age it was a simple duty to interfere
when her mother was treated with such flagrant injustice. Her
father's behaviour was unworthy of a thinking man, and he must be
made to feel that.

Yule did not return. Dinner was delayed for half an hour, then
Marian declared that they would wait no longer. They two made a
sorry meal, and afterwards went together into the sitting-room. 
At eight o'clock they heard the front door open, and Yule's
footstep in the passage. Marian rose.

'Don't speak till to-morrow!' whispered her mother, catching at
the girl'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
behind him. Yule, seeing her enter, glared with bloodshot eyes;
shame and sullen anger were blended on his countenance.

'Will you tell me what is wrong, father?' Marian asked, in a
voice which betrayed her nervous suffering, yet indicated the
resolve with which she had come.

'I am not at all disposed to talk of the matter,' he replied,
with the awkward rotundity of phrase which distinguished him in
his worst humour. 'For information you had better go to Mrs Goby-
-or a person of some such name--in Holloway Road. I have nothing
more to do with it.'

'It was very unfortunate that the woman came and troubled you
about such things. But I can't see that mother was to blame; I
don't think you ought 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 if strength must fail her even to stand.

'You can't see that she was to blame? Isn't it entirely against
my wish that she keeps up any intercourse with those low people? 
Am I to be exposed to insulting disturbance in my very study,
because she chooses to introduce girls of bad character as
servants to vulgar women?'

'I don't think Annie Rudd can be called a girl of bad character,
and it was very natural that mother should try to do something
for her. You have never actually forbidden her to see her
relatives.'

'A thousand times I have given her to understand that I utterly
disapproved of such association. She knew perfectly well that
this girl was as likely as not to discredit her. If she had
consulted me, I should at once have forbidden anything of the
kind; she was aware of that. She kept it secret from me, knowing
that it would excite my displeasure. I will not be drawn into
such squalid affairs; I won't have my name spoken in such
connection. Your mother has only herself to blame if I am angry
with her.'

'Your anger goes beyond all bounds. At the very worst, mother
behaved imprudently, and with a very good motive. It is cruel
that you should make her suffer as she is doing.'

Marian was being strengthened to resist. Her blood grew hot; the
sensation which once before had brought her to the verge of
conflict with 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.
For months our home has been almost ceaselessly wretched, because
of the ill-temper you are always in. Mother and I must defend
ourselves; we can't bear it any longer. You must surely feel how
ridiculous it is to make such a thing as happened this morning
the excuse for violent anger. How can I help judging your
behaviour? When mother is brought to the point of saying that she
would rather leave home and everything than endure her misery any
longer, I should be wrong if I didn't speak to you. Why are you
so unkind? What serious cause has mother ever given you?'

'I refuse to argue such questions with you.'

'Then you are very unjust. I am not a child, and there's nothing
wrong in my asking you why home is made a place of misery,
instead of being what home ought to be.'

'You prove that you are a child, in asking for explanations which
ought to 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
his daughter. If you cannot see the impropriety of it, be so good
as to go away and reflect, and leave me to my occupations.'

Marian came to a pause. But she knew that his rebuke was mere
unworthy evasion; she saw that her father could not meet her
look, and this perception 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
suffer too much from your unkindness; you ask too much
endurance.'

'You mean that I exact too much work from you?' asked her father,
with a look which might have been directed to a recalcitrant
clerk.

'No. But that you make the conditions of my work too hard. I live
in constant 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 bear than an unchanging gloom which always seems on the point
of breaking into 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 I should have thought that your knowledge of what
my life has been would have gone far to excuse a lack of
cheerfulness in me.'

The irony of this laborious period was full of self-pity. His
voice quavered at the close, and a tremor was noticeable in his
stiff frame.

'It isn't lack of cheerfulness that I mean, father. That could
never have brought me to speak like this.'

'If you wish me to admit that I am bad-tempered, surly,
irritable--I make no difficulty about that. The charge is true
enough. I can only ask you again: What are the circumstances that
have ruined my temper? When you present yourself here with a
general accusation of my behaviour, I am at a loss to understand
what you ask of me, what you wish me to say or do. I must beg you
to speak plainly. Are you suggesting that I should make provision
for the support of you and your mother away from my intolerable
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
my best 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
was before you were subjected to the influence of strangers.'

In his perverse frame of mind he was ready to give utterance to
any thought which confused the point at issue. This last allusion
was suggested to him by a sudden pang of regret for the pain he
was causing Marian; he defended himself against self-reproach by
hinting at the true reason 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
to deceive yourself.'

'Of course I know what you refer to, and I can assure you that I
don't deceive myself.'

Yule flashed a searching glance at her.

'Can you deny that you are on terms of friendship with a--a
person who would at any moment rejoice to injure me?'

'I am friendly with no such person. Will you say whom you are
thinking of?'

'It would be useless. I have no wish to discuss a subject on
which we should 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
so far from understanding each other. If you think that Mr
Milvain is your enemy, that he would rejoice to injure you, you
are grievously mistaken.'

'When I see a man in close alliance with my worst enemy, and
looking to that enemy for favour, I am justified in thinking that
he would injure me if the right kind of opportunity offered. One
need not be very deeply read 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
general principles; but I know that they don't apply in this
case.'

'I have no doubt you sincerely think so. I repeat that nothing
can be gained by such a discussion as this.'

'One thing I must tell you. There was no truth in your suspicion
that Mr Milvain wrote that review in The Current. He assured me
himself that he was not the writer, that he had nothing to do
with it.'

Yule looked askance at her, and his face displayed solicitude,
which soon 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
sudden flashed stormily. 'Would Mr Milvain tell me a lie?'

'I shouldn't like to say that it is impossible,' replied her
father in the 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
him or any other man, provided I do it honestly. I beg you not to
strike attitudes and address me in the language of the stage. You
insist on my speaking plainly, and I have spoken plainly. I
warned you that we were not likely to agree on this topic.'

'Literary quarrels have made you incapable of judging honestly in
things such as this. I wish I could have done for ever with the
hateful profession that so poisons men's minds.'

'Believe me, my girl,' said her father, incisively, 'the simpler
thing would be to hold aloof from such people as use the
profession in a spirit of unalloyed selfishness, who seek only
material advancement, and who, whatever connection they form,
have nothing but self-interest in view.'

And he glared at her with much meaning. Marian--both had remained
standing all through the dialogue--cast down her eyes and became
lost in brooding.

'I speak with profound conviction,' pursued her father, 'and,
however little you credit me with such a motive, out of desire to
guard you against the dangers to which your inexperience is
exposed. It is perhaps as well that you have afforded me this-- '

There sounded at the house-door that duplicated double-knock
which generally announces the bearer of a telegram. Yule
interrupted himself, and stood in an attitude of waiting. The
servant was heard to go along the passage, to open the door, and
then return towards the study. Yes, it was a telegram. Such
despatches rarely came to this house; Yule tore the envelope,
read its contents, and stood with gaze fixed upon the slip of
paper until the servant inquired if there was any reply for the
boy to take with him.

'No reply.'

He slowly crumpled the envelope, and stepped aside to throw it
into the paper-basket. The telegram he laid on his desk. Marian
stood all the time with bent head; he now looked at her with an
expression of meditative displeasure.

'I don't know that there's much good in resuming our
conversation,' he said, in quite a changed tone, as if something
of more importance had taken possession of his thoughts and had
made him almost indifferent to the past dispute. 'But of course I
am quite willing to hear anything you would 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
a burden to us.'

'I shall have to leave town to-morrow for a few days; no doubt it
will be 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 which yet had something tremulous, emotional, making it
quite different from the voice he had hitherto used, 'that will
be entirely a matter for your own judgment. I have felt for some
time that you assisted me with less good-will than formerly, and
now that you have frankly admitted it, I shall of course have
very little satisfaction in requesting your aid. I must leave it
to you; consult your own inclination.'

It was resentful, but not savage; between the beginning and the
end of his speech he softened to a sort of self-satisfied pathos.

'I can't pretend,' replied Marian, 'that I have as much pleasure
in the work as I should have if your mood were gentler.'

'I am sorry. I might perhaps have made greater efforts to appear
at ease when I was suffering.'

'Do you mean physical suffering?'

'Physical and mental. But that can't concern you. During my
absence I will 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
were fixed in a direction away from Marian.

'I suppose you had dinner somewhere?' Marian asked, after
catching a glimpse 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 of martyrdom just now. At the same time he was becoming more
absorbed in thought.

'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 on the telegram. Marian observed this movement, and examined
his face; it was 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
nothing more.'

'I understand you very well--too well. That you should
misunderstand and mistrust me, I suppose, is natural. You are
young, and I am old. You are still full of hope, and I have been
so often deceived and defeated that I dare not let a ray of hope
enter my mind. Judge me; judge me as hardly as you like. My life
has been one long, bitter struggle, and if now--. I say,' he
began a new sentence, 'that only the hard side of life has been
shown 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
leaned upon the table trembled violently. After a moment's pause
he added, in a thick voice:

'Leave me. I will speak to you again in the morning.'

Impressed in a way she did not understand, Marian at once obeyed,
and rejoined her mother in the parlour. Mrs Yule gazed anxiously
at her as she entered.

'Don't be afraid,' said Marian, with difficulty bringing herself
to speak. '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 to leave 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
went early to bed; she even slept later than usual in the
morning, and on descending she found her father already at the
breakfast-table. No greeting passed, and there was no
conversation during the meal. Marian noticed 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 a distant 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
down this morning, and of course remain till after the funeral. I
see no necessity for your going, unless, of course, it is your
desire to do so.'

'No; I should do as you wish.'

'I think you had better not go to the Museum whilst I am away. 
You will occupy 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 to wear; you must consult with your mother about that. That
is all I wished to say.'

His tone was dismissal. Marian had a struggle with herself but
she could find nothing to reply to his cold phrases. And an hour
or two afterwards Yule 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 Marian assisted her mother to bear the vigorous onslaughts
of the haberdasher's wife. For more than two hours Mrs Goby
related her grievances, against the fugitive servant, against Mrs
Yule, against Mr Yule; meeting with no irritating opposition, she
was able in this space of time to cool down to the temperature of
normal intercourse, and when she went forth from the house again
it was in a mood of dignified displeasure which she felt to be
some recompense for the injuries of yesterday.

A result of this annoyance was to postpone conversation between
mother and daughter on the subject of John Yule's death until a
late hour of the afternoon. Marian was at work in the study, or
endeavouring to work, for her thoughts would not fix themselves
on the matter in hand for many minutes together, and Mrs Yule
came in with more than her customary diffidence.

'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
something which scarcely at all concerned her, of vague
possibilities which did not affect her habits of thought.

'If that happens,' continued Mrs Yule, in a low tone of distress,
'I don'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, for his sake and for yours; but I don't know what I shall
do. He'd think me more in his way than ever. He'd wish to have a
large house, and live in quite a different way; and how could I
manage then? I couldn't show myself; he'd be too much ashamed of
me. I shouldn't be in my place; even you'd feel ashamed of me.'

'You mustn't say that, mother. I have never given you cause to
think that.'

'No, my dear, you haven't; but it would be only natural. I
couldn't live the kind of life that you're fit for. I shall be
nothing but a hindrance and a shame to both of you.'

'To me you would never be either hindrance or shame; be quite
sure of that. 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 is poverty that has made him worse than he
naturally is; it has that effect on almost everybody. Money does
harm, too, sometimes; but never, I think, to people who have a
good heart and a strong mind. Father is naturally a warm-hearted
man; riches would bring out all the best in him. He would be
generous again, which he has almost forgotten how to be among all
his disappointments and battlings. Don't be afraid of that
change, but hope for it.'

Mrs Yule gave a troublous sigh, and for a few minutes pondered
anxiously.

'I wasn't thinking so much about myself' she said at length. 
'It's the hindrance I should be to father. Just because of me, he
mightn't be able to use his money as he'd wish. He'd always be
feeling that if it wasn't for 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't care to make such great changes. His home life, I feel
sure, wouldn't be so very different from what it is now; he would
prefer to use his money in starting a paper or magazine. I know
that would be his first thought. If more acquaintances came to
his house, what would that matter? It isn't as if he wished for
fashionable society. They would be literary people, 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, he knew 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 this anxious way, mother. If we are to be
rich, it will be better for all of us.'

Marian had every reason for seeking to persuade herself that this
was true. In her own heart there was a fear of how wealth might
affect her father, but she could not bring herself to face the
darker prospect. For her so much depended on that hope of a
revival of generous feeling under sunny influences.

It was only after this conversation that she began to reflect on
all the possible consequences of her uncle's death. As yet she
had been too much disturbed to grasp as a reality the event to
which she had often looked forward, though as to something still
remote, and of quite uncertain results. Perhaps at this moment,
though she could not know it, the course of her life had
undergone the most important change. Perhaps there was no more
need for her to labour upon this 'article' she was manufacturing.

She did not think it probable that she herself would benefit
directly by John Yule's will. There was no certainty that even
her father would, for he and his brother had never been on
cordial terms. But on the whole it seemed likely that he would
inherit money enough to free him from the toil of writing for
periodicals. He himself anticipated that. What else could be the
meaning of those words in which (and it was before the arrival of
the news) he had warned her against 'people who made connections
only with self-interest in view?' This threw a sudden light upon
her father's attitude towards Jasper Milvain. Evidently he
thought that Jasper regarded her as a possible heiress, sooner or
later. That suspicion was rankling in his mind; doubtless it
intensified the prejudice which originated in literary animosity.

Was there any truth in his suspicion? She did not shrink from
admitting that 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 her father inherited substantial property,
would it induce Jasper to declare himself 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 that Jasper could not think
of marrying until his position and prospects were greatly
improved; practically, his sisters depended upon him. What folly
it would be to draw back if circumstances led him to avow what
hitherto he had so slightly disguised! She had the conviction
that he valued her for 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
her father's side? If Yule were able to found a magazine?

Had she read or heard of a girl who went so far in concessions,
Marian would have turned away, her delicacy offended. In her own
case she could indulge to the utmost that practicality which
colours a woman's thought even in mid passion. The cold
exhibition of ignoble scheming will repel many a woman who, for
her own heart's desire, is capable of that same compromise with
her strict sense of honour.

Marian wrote to Dora Milvain, telling her what had happened. But
she refrained from visiting her friends.

Each night found her more restless, each morning less able to
employ herself. She shut herself in the study merely to be alone
with her thoughts, to be able to walk backwards and forwards, or
sit for hours in feverish reverie. From her father came no news. 
Her mother was suffering dreadfully from suspense, and often had
eyes red with weeping. Absorbed in her own hopes and fears,
whilst every hour harassed her more intolerably, Marian was
unable to play the part of an encourager; she had never known
such exclusiveness of self-occupation.

Yule's return was unannounced. Early in the afternoon, when he
had been absent five days, he entered the house, deposited his
travelling-bag in the passage, and went upstairs. Marian had come
out of the study just in time to see him up on the first landing;
at the same moment Mrs Yule ascended 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 into the 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 the passage, 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
from Wattleborough or from Marian Yule. He exhibited no
impatience, spoke of the matter in a disinterested tone; still,
he came daily.

One afternoon he found Dora working alone. Maud, he was told, had
gone to lunch at Mrs Lane's.

'So soon again? She's getting very thick with those people. And
why don'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
write anything 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
to stick at work if people begin to send her invitations. But I
tell you what 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 the worst of it; they'll merely waste her
time, and make her discontented.'

His sister executed an elaborate bit of cross-hatching on some
waste paper. Her lips were drawn together, and her brows
wrinkled. At length she broke the silence by saying:

'Marian hasn't been yet.'

Jasper seemed to pay no attention; she looked up at him, and saw
that he was 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
seemed at a loss.

'Who is Miss Rupert?'

'Didn't I tell you about her? I thought I did. Oh, I met her
first of all at Barlow's, just after we got back from the
seaside. Rather an interesting girl. She's a daughter of Manton
Rupert, the advertising agent. 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
enormously wealthy, and has a magnificent house at Chislehurst. 
The girl goes about with 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 long talk with her--Miss Rupert, I
mean--last night. She told me she was going to stay next week
with the Barlows, so I shall have a run out to Wimbledon 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 a quick glance at the listener, 'but fairly intellectual. 
Plays very well, and has a nice contralto voice; she sang that
new thing of Tosti's--what do you call it? I thought her rather
masculine when I first saw her, but the impression wears off when
one knows her better. She rather takes to me, 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't afford to lose any opportunity. If Miss Rupert is so good
as to take an interest in me, I have no objection. She's old
enough to make friends for 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,
with some 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 and smiled at the wall.

'With regard to Marian, you mean?'

'Of course I do.'

'But Marian understands me perfectly. I have never for a moment
tried to make her think that--well, to put it plainly, that I was
in love with her. In all our conversations it has been my one
object to afford her insight into my character, and to explain my
position. She has no excuse whatever for misinterpreting me. And
I feel assured that she has done nothing 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
way home with Marian, when she and I have happened to go from
here at the same time; now there was nothing whatever in our talk
at such times that anyone mightn't have listened to. We are both
intellectual people, and we talk in an intellectual way. You seem
to have rather old-fashioned ideas--provincial ideas. A girl like
Marian Yule claims the new privileges of woman; she would resent
it if you supposed that she couldn't be friendly with a man
without attributing "intentions" to him--to use the old word. We
don't live in Wattleborough, where liberty is rendered impossible
by the cackling of gossips.'

'No, but--'

'Well?'

'It seems to me rather strange, that's all. We had better not
talk about it any more.'

'But I have only just begun to talk about it; I must try to make
my position intelligible to you. Now, suppose--a quite impossible
thing--that Marian inherited some twenty or thirty thousand
pounds; I should 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, and leading 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 or
other--and I see no other way than by marriage--is necessary to
me, and that with as little delay as possible. I am not at all
likely to get a big editorship for some years to come, and I
don't feel disposed to make myself prematurely old by toiling for
a few hundreds per annum in the meantime. Now all this I have
frankly and fully explained to Marian. I dare say she suspects
what I should do if she came into possession of money; there's no
harm in that. But she knows perfectly well that, as things are,
we remain intellectual friends.'

'Then listen to me, Jasper. If we hear that Marian gets nothing
from her uncle, you had better behave honestly, and let her see
that you haven't as much interest in her as before.'

'That would be brutality.'

'It would be honest.'

'Well, no, it wouldn't. Strictly speaking, my interest in Marian
wouldn't suffer at all. I should know that we could be nothing
but friends, 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 Marian understand that, if anything, I am more her
friend than ever, seeing that henceforth there can be no
ambiguities.'

'I can only tell you that Maud would agree with me in what I have
been saying.'

'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
more above-board, more straightforward?'

'You have been talking nonsense, Jasper.'

'Nonsense? Oh, this female lack of logic! Then my argument has
been utterly 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 so can 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
herself appeared.

'What an odd thing!' exclaimed Jasper, lowering his voice. 'I was
that moment 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 sad things 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
suffered much from grief at her uncle's death; practically John
Yule was a stranger 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, who expressed a regret that he
was obliged to take his leave.

'Maud is becoming a young lady of society,' he said--just for the
sake of saying something--as he moved towards the door. 'If she
comes back whilst you are here, Miss Yule, warn her that that is
the path of destruction for literary people.'

'You should bear that in mind yourself' remarked Dora, with a
significant 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
before she had quite looked round to him. The phrase he uttered
last appeared to have affected her in some way; her eyes fell,
and an expression of pain was on her brows for a moment.

'I can only stay a few minutes,' she said, bending with a faint
smile towards Dora, as soon as they were alone. 'I have come on
my way from the 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 is too much troubled. Have you heard anything about my
uncle's will?'

'Nothing whatever.'

'I thought it might have been spoken of in Wattleborough, and
some friend might have written to you. But I suppose there has
hardly been time 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
ten thousand pounds.'

'Good gracious! What a difference that will make!'

'Yes, indeed. And her brother John has six thousand. But nothing
to their mother. There are a good many other legacies, but most
of the property goes to the Wattleborough park--"Yule Park" it
will be called--and to the volunteers, and things of that kind. 
They say he wasn'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,
so wrong. Amy and her brother to have sixteen thousand pounds and
father nothing! I can't understand it. There was no unkind
feeling between him and father. He knew what a hard life father
has had. Doesn't it seem heartless?'

'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 where mother and I were, and sat down, and
began to tell us about the will just as if he were speaking to
strangers about something he had read in the newspaper--that's
the only way I can describe it. Then he got up and went 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. I
tried to tell him how sorry I was, but I couldn't say anything. I
began to cry foolishly. He spoke kindly to me, far more kindly
than he has done for a long time; but he wouldn't talk about the
will, and I had to go away and leave him. Poor mother! for all
she was afraid that we were going 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,
and feared 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 to her. But there's no telling yet what the result
of this may be. I feel guilty 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
his own--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, I wonder? 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 she greeted Marian but coldly. Throwing off her hat and
gloves and mantle she 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
the brother he liked best. Yet at her wedding he gave her
nothing, and spoke contemptuously 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 rewarded her for quarrelling with Mr Reardon.'

This excited a laugh.

'I don't know when the will was made,' said Marian. 'And I don't
know whether uncle had even heard of the Reardons' misfortunes. I
suppose he must have done. My cousin John was at the funeral, but
not my aunt. I think 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 of Wattleborough people; there was an
enormous procession, of course.'

Maud kept glancing at her sister. The ill-humour had not
altogether passed from her face, but it was now blended with
reflectiveness.

A few moments more, and Marian had to hasten home. When she was
gone the sisters looked at each other.

'Five thousand pounds,' murmured the elder. 'I suppose that is
considered 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
you were 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't turn up. And--well, it doesn't matter.'

She rose and glanced at herself in the little oblong mirror over
the mantelpiece.

'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
see why Marian should think of him as anything but the most
ordinary friend--said he had never given her reason to think
anything else.'

'Indeed! And Miss Rupert is someone who has the honour of his
preference?'

'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
know everything he says. Otherwise you help to deceive her. He
has no sense of honour in such things.'

Dora was so impatient to let her brother have the news that she
left the house as soon as she had had tea on the chance of
finding Jasper at home. She had not gone a dozen yards before she
encountered him in person.

'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 thousand
pounds.'

Jasper walked on with bent head. He said nothing more until he
was upstairs 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'm glad; by Jove, I am. I should have liked it better if Marian
had had the ten thousand and he the five, but it's an excellent
joke. Perhaps the next thing will be that he'll refuse to have
anything to do with his wife's money; that would be just like
him.' After amusing himself with this subject for a few minutes
more, he turned to the window and stood there 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
answered absently:

'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 also was in an abstracted mood, tea passed almost in
silence. On the point of departing 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
had begun this morning, and on reaching home he spread out his
papers in the usual businesslike fashion. The subject out of
which he was manufacturing 'copy' had its difficulties, and was
not altogether congenial to him; this morning he had laboured
with unwonted effort to produce about a page of manuscript, and
now that he tried to resume the task his thoughts would not
centre upon it. Jasper was too young to have thoroughly mastered
the art of somnambulistic composition; to write, he was still
obliged to give exclusive attention to the matter under
treatment. Dr Johnson's saying, that a man may write at any time
if he will set himself doggedly to it, was often upon his lips,
and had even been of help to him, as no doubt it has to many
another man obliged to compose amid distracting circumstances;
but the formula had no efficacy this evening. Twice or thrice he
rose from his chair, paced the room with a determined brow, and
sat down again with vigorous clutch of the pen; still he failed
to excogitate a single sentence that would serve his purpose.

'I must have it out with myself before I can do anything,' was
his thought 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
smoke cigarettes. Some dozen of these aids to reflection only
made him so nervous that he could no longer remain alone. He put
on his hat and overcoat and went out--to find that it was raining
heavily. He returned for 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 familiar restaurant, where the day's
papers were to be seen, and perchance an acquaintance might be
met. Only half-a-dozen men were there, reading and smoking, 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 bad weather.

After all it was better to go home. Everything he encountered had
an unsettling effect upon him, so that he was further than ever
from the decision at which he wished to arrive. In Mornington
Road he came upon Whelpdale, 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
unusual diffidence.

Reassured, he gladly returned to the house. Milvain acquainted
him with the fact of John Yule's death, and with its result so
far as it concerned the Reardons. They talked of how the couple
would probably behave under this decisive change of
circumstances.

'Biffen professes to know nothing about Mrs Reardon,' said
Whelpdale. 'I suspect he keeps his knowledge to himself, out of
regard for Reardon. It wouldn'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,
repents her marriage bitterly, and I doubt whether Reardon cares
much for his wife.'

'As there's no way of getting divorced they'll make the best of
it. Ten thousand pounds produce about four hundred a year; it's
enough to live on.'

'And be miserable on--if they no longer love each other.'

'You're such a sentimental fellow!' cried Jasper. 'I believe you
seriously think that love--the sort of frenzy you understand by
it--ought to endure throughout married life. How has a man come
to your age with such primitive ideas?'

'Well, I don't know. Perhaps you err a little in the opposite
direction.'   

'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 each other. Reardon and his wife perhaps were an
instance; perhaps--I'm not quite sure about her. As a rule,
marriage is the result of a mild preference, encouraged by
circumstances, and deliberately heightened into strong sexual
feeling. You, of all men, know well enough that the same kind of
feeling could be produced for almost any woman who wasn't
repulsive.'

'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 the point of frenzy people may strictly be said to be in love;
and, as I tell you, I think that comes to pass very rarely
indeed. For my own part, 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
for aught I know--a dozen times. How the deuce you can attach any
importance to such feeling where marriage is concerned I don't
understand.'

'Well, now,' said Whelpdale, 'I have never upheld the theory--at
least not since I was sixteen--that a man can be in love only
once, or that there 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 us talk about compatibility. Now, I should say that, no
doubt, and speaking scientifically, there is one particular woman
supremely fitted to each man. I put aside consideration of
circumstances; we know that circumstances will disturb any degree
of abstract fitness. But in the nature of things there must be
one woman whose nature is specially well adapted to harmonise
with mine, or with yours. If there were any means of discovering
this woman in each case, then I have no doubt it would be worth a
man's utmost effort to do so, and any amount of erotic jubilation
would be reasonable when the discovery was made. But the thing is
impossible, and, what's more, we know what ridiculous fallibility
people display when they imagine they have found the best
substitute for that indiscoverable. This is what makes me
impatient with sentimental talk about marriage. An educated man
mustn't play so into the 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, though
discontentedly.

'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 put an end to that kind of self-deception. Romantic
love was inextricably blended with all sorts of superstitions--
belief in personal immortality, in superior beings, in--all the
rest of it. What we think of now is moral and intellectual and
physical compatibility; I mean, if we are reasonable people.'

'And if we are not so unfortunate as to fall in love with an
incompatible,' added Whelpdale, laughing.

'Well, that is a form of unreason--a blind desire which science
could explain in each case. I rejoice that I am not subject to
that form of epilepsy.'

'You positively never were in love!'

'As you understand it, never. But I have felt a very distinct
preference.'

'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
be heightened into emotion, if one chooses. In the case of which
I am thinking it easily might be. And I think it very improbable
indeed that I 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
for whom 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, looking
disconsolately about the room.

'Courage, my boy! I have every hope that I shall see you marry
and repent.'

'I admit the danger of that. But shall I tell you something I
have observed? Each woman I fall in love with is of a higher type
than the one before.'

Jasper roared irreverently, and his companion looked hurt.

'But I am perfectly serious, I assure you. To go back only three
or four years. There was the daughter of my landlady in Barham
Street; well, a nice girl enough, but limited, decidedly limited.

Next came that girl at the stationer's--you remember? She was
distinctly an 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
that girl 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 from my point of view. And that's everything, you know. 
It's the effect a woman 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 into a long silence.

When left to himself Jasper walked about a little, then sat down
at his writing-table, for he felt easier in mind, and fancied
that he might still do a couple of hours' work before going to
bed. He did in fact write 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 anxious mental debate.

He sat till after midnight, and when he went to his bedroom it
was with a 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
that even for him the uses of adversity could be sweet. On the
day after his return home he displayed a most unwonted mildness
in such remarks as he addressed to his wife, and his bearing
towards Marian was gravely gentle. At meals he conversed, or
rather monologised, on literary topics, with occasionally one of
his grim jokes, pointed for Marian's appreciation. He became
aware that the girl had been overtaxing her strength of late, and
suggested a few weeks of recreation among new novels. The
coldness and gloom which had possessed him when he made a formal
announcement of the news appeared to have given way before the
sympathy manifested by his wife and daughter; he was now
sorrowful, but resigned.

He explained to Marian the exact nature of her legacy. It was to
be paid out of her uncle's share in a wholesale stationery
business, with which John Yule had been connected for the last
twenty years, but from which he had not long ago withdrawn a
large portion of his invested capital. This house was known as
'Turberville & Co.,' a name which Marian now heard for the first
time.

'I knew nothing of his association with them,' said her father.
'They tell me that seven or eight thousand pounds will be
realised from that source; 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
former partner 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. Before long came a second visitor, Mr Quarmby, who joined
Yule and Hinks. The three had all sat together for some time,
when Marian, who happened to be coming down stairs, saw her
father at the study door.

'Ask your mother to let us have some supper at a quarter to ten,'
he said urbanely. 'And come in, won't you? We are only
gossiping.'

It had not often happened that Marian was invited to join parties
of this 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
then went to the study. Mr Quarmby was smoking a pipe; Mr Hinks,
who on grounds of economy had long since given up tobacco, sat
with his hands in his trouser pockets, and his long, thin legs
tucked beneath the chair; both rose and greeted Marian with more
than ordinary warmth.

'Will you allow me five or six more puffs?' asked Mr Quarmby,
laying one hand on his ample stomach and elevating his pipe as if
it were a glass of 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 this courtesy, and her father apprised her of the topic
they were discussing.

'What's your view, Marian? Is there anything to be said for the
establishment of a literary academy in England?'

Mr Quarmby beamed benevolently upon her, and Mr Hinks, his
scraggy neck at full length, awaited her reply with a look of the
most respectful attention.

'I really think we have quite enough literary quarrelling as it
is,' the girl replied, casting down her eyes and smiling.

Mr Quarmby uttered a hollow chuckle, Mr Hinks laughed thinly and
exclaimed, 'Very good indeed! Very good!' Yule affected to
applaud with impartial 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 were unanimous in an opinion that no existing
monthly or quarterly could be considered as representing the best
literary opinion.

'We want,' remarked Mr Quarmby, 'we want a monthly review which
shall deal exclusively with literature. The Fortnightly, the
Contemporary--they are very well in their way, but then they are
mere miscellanies. You will find one solid literary article amid
a confused mass of politics and economics and general clap-trap.'

'Articles on the currency and railway statistics and views of
evolution,' said Mr Hinks, with a look as if something were
grating between his teeth.

'The quarterlies?' put in Yule. 'Well, the original idea of the
quarterlies was that there are not enough important books
published to occupy solid reviewers more than four times a year. 
That may be true, but then a literary monthly would include much
more than professed reviews. Hinks's essays on the historical
drama would have come out in it very well; or  your "Spanish
Poets," Quarmby.'

'I threw out the idea to Jedwood the other day,' said Mr Quarmby,
'and he 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 doubt he's the man, if some capitalist would join him.'

'No enormous capital needed,' opined Mr Quarmby. 'The thing would
pay its way almost from the first. It would take a place between
the literary weeklies and the quarterlies. The former are too
academic, the latter too massive, for multitudes of people who
yet have strong literary tastes. Foreign publications should be
liberally dealt with. But, as Hinks says, no meddling with the
books that are no books--biblia abiblia; nothing about essays on
bimetallism and treatises for or against vaccination.' 

Even here, in the freedom of a friend's study, he laughed his
Reading-room laugh, folding both hands upon his expansive
waistcoat.

'Fiction? I presume a serial of the better kind might be
admitted?' said Yule.

'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
committee planning a review of which the first number was shortly
to appear. It occupied them until Mrs Yule announced at the door
that supper was ready.

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 was to her taste, and kept an eye on her progress. Mr
Hinks talked to her in a tone of respectful sympathy, and Mr
Quarmby was paternally jovial when he addressed her. Mrs Yule
would have kept silence, in her ordinary way, but this evening
her husband made several remarks which he had adapted to her
intellect, and even showed that a reply would be graciously
received.

Mother and daughter remained together when the men withdrew to
their tobacco and toddy. Neither made allusion to the wonderful
change, but they talked more light-heartedly than for a long
time.

On the morrow Yule began by consulting Marian with regard to the
disposition of matter in an essay he was writing. What she said
he weighed carefully, and seemed to think that she had set his
doubts at rest.

'Poor old Hinks!' he said presently, with a sigh. 'Breaking up,
isn't he? He positively totters in his walk. I'm afraid he's the
kind of man to have a paralytic stroke; it wouldn't astonish me
to hear at any moment 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
would become 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
lowered tone, 'though I don't wish you to take it too seriously. 
I'm beginning to 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't care to face a prospect of failing sight, perhaps of
cataract, or something of that kind; still, it's better to know
the facts, I should say.'

'By all means go to an oculist,' said Marian, earnestly.

'Don't disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all. But
in any case I must change my glasses.'

He rustled over some slips of manuscript, whilst Marian regarded
him anxiously.

'Now, I appeal to you, Marian,' he continued: 'could I possibly
save money out of an income that has never exceeded two hundred
and fifty pounds, 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
five hundred pounds. But that is no provision for possible
disablement. If I could no longer earn money with my pen, what
would become of me?'

Marian could have made an encouraging reply, but did not venture
to utter her thoughts.

'Sit down,' said her father. 'You are not to work for a few days,
and I myself 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, is comparatively flourishing. Well, we have
been companions for a quarter of a century, we three. When I
first met Quarmby I was a Grub Street gazetteer, and I think he
was even poorer than I. A life of toil! A life of toil!'

'That it has been, indeed.'

'By-the-bye'--he threw an arm over the back of his chair--'what
did you think of our imaginary review, the thing we were talking
about last night?'

'There are so many periodicals,' replied Marian, doubtfully.

 'So many? My dear child, if we live another ten years we shall
see the number trebled.'

'Is it desirable?'

'That there should be such growth of periodicals? Well, from one
point of view, no. No doubt they take up the time which some
people would give to solid literature. But, on the other hand,
there's a far greater number of people who would probably not
read at all, but for the temptations of these short and new
articles; and they may be induced to pass on to substantial
works. Of course it all depends on the quality of the periodical
matter you offer. Now, magazines like'--he named two or three of
popular stamp--'might very well be dispensed with, unless one
regards them as an alternative to the talking of scandal or any
other vicious result of total idleness. But such a monthly as we
projected would be of distinct literary value. There can be no
doubt that someone or other will shortly establish it.'

'I am afraid,' said Marian, 'I haven't so much sympathy with
literary undertakings as you would like me to have.'

Money is a great fortifier of self-respect. Since she had become
really conscious of her position as the owner of five thousand
pounds, Marian spoke with a steadier voice, walked with firmer
step; mentally she felt herself altogether a less dependent
being. She might have confessed this lukewarmness towards
literary enterprise in the anger which her father excited eight
or nine days ago, but at that time she could not have uttered her
opinion calmly, deliberately, as now. The smile which accompanied
the words was also new; it signified deliverance from pupilage.

'I have felt that,' returned her father, after a slight pause to
command his voice, that it might be suave instead of scornful. 'I
greatly fear that I have made your life something of a martyrdom
----'

'Don't think I meant that, father. I am speaking only of the
general question. I can't be quite so zealous as you are, that's
all. I love books, but I could wish people were content for a
while with those we already 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 a livelihood! How gladly I would have spent much
more of my time among the great authors, with no thought of
making money of them! If I speak approvingly of a scheme for a
new periodical, it is greatly because of my 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 disagreeable
suspicion than she had ever entertained of her father. Was this
the meaning of his softened behaviour? Was he capable of
calculated hypocrisy? That did not seem consistent with his
character, as she knew it.

'Let us talk it over,' said Yule. He was in visible agitation and
his voice shook. 'The idea may well startle you at first. It will
seem to you that I propose to make away with your property before
you have even come into possession of it.' He laughed. 'But, in
fact, what I have in mind is merely an investment for your
capital, and that an admirable one. Five thousand pounds at three
per cent.--one doesn't care to reckon on more--represents a
hundred and fifty a year. Now, there can be very little doubt
that, if it were invested in literary property such as I have in
mind, it would bring you five times that interest, and before
long perhaps much more. Of course I am now speaking in the
roughest outline. I should have to get trustworthy advice;
complete and detailed estimates would be submitted to you. At
present I merely suggest to you this form of investment.'

He watched her face eagerly, greedily. When Marian's eyes rose to
his he looked away.

'Then, of course,' she said, 'you don't expect me to give any
decided answer.'

'Of course not--of course not. I merely put before you the chief
advantages of such an investment. As I am a selfish old fellow,
I'll talk about the benefit to myself first of all. I should be
editor of the new review; I should draw a stipend sufficient to
all my needs--quite content, at first, to take far less than
another man would ask, and to progress with the advance of the
periodical. This position would enable me to have done with mere
drudgery; I should only write when I felt called to do so--when
the spirit moved me.' Again he laughed, as though desirous of
keeping his listener in good humour. 'My eyes would be greatly
spared henceforth.'

He dwelt on that point, waiting its effect on Marian. As she said
nothing he proceeded:

'And suppose I really were doomed to lose my sight in the course
of a few years, am I wrong in thinking that the proprietor of
this periodical would willingly grant a small annuity to the man
who had firmly established it?'

'I see the force of all that,' said Marian; 'but it takes for
granted that the periodical will be successful.'

'It does. In the hands of a publisher like Jedwood--a vigorous
man of the new school--its success could scarcely be doubtful.'

'Do you think five thousand pounds would be enough to start such
a review?'

'Well, I can say nothing definite on that point. For one thing,
the coat must be made according to the cloth; expenditure can be
largely controlled without endangering success. Then again, I
think Jedwood would take a share in the venture. These are
details. At present I only want to familiarise you with the
thought that an investment of this sort will very probably offer
itself to you.'

'It would be better if we called it a speculation,' said Marian,
smiling uneasily.

Her one object at present was to oblige her father to understand
that the suggestion by no means lured her. She could not tell him
that what he proposed was out of the question, though as yet that
was the light in which she saw it. His subtlety of approach had
made her feel justified in dealing with him in a matter-of-fact
way. He must see that she was not to be cajoled. Obviously, and
in the nature of the case, he was urging a proposal in which he
himself had all faith; but Marian knew his judgment was far from
infallible. It mitigated her sense of behaving unkindly to
reflect that in all likelihood this disposal of her money would
be the worst possible for her own interests, and therefore for
his. If, indeed, his dark forebodings were warranted, then upon
her would fall the care of him, and the steadiness with which she
faced that responsibility came from a hope of which she could not
speak.

'Name it as you will,' returned her father, hardly suppressing a
note of irritation. 'True, every commercial enterprise is a
speculation. But let me ask you one question, and beg you to
reply frankly. Do you distrust my ability to conduct this
periodical?'

She did. She knew that he was not in touch with the interests of
the day, and that all manner of considerations akin to the prime
end of selling 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 say
anything 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
a project that would mean so much to me?'

'But I am afraid to encourage you,' she replied, frankly. 'It is
impossible for me to say whether I can do as you wish, or not.'

'Yes, yes; I perfectly understand that. Heaven forbid that I
should regard you as a child to be led independently of your own
views and wishes! With so large a sum of money at stake, it would
be monstrous if I acted rashly, and tried to persuade you to do
the same. The matter will have to be most gravely considered.'

'Yes.' She spoke mechanically.

'But if only it should come to something! You don't know what it
would mean 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 of
emotion. 'If I could see myself the editor of an influential
review, all my bygone toils and sufferings would be as nothing; I
should rejoice in them as the steps to this triumph. Meminisse
juvabit! My dear, I am not a man fitted for subordinate places. 
My nature is framed for authority. The failure of all my
undertakings rankles so in my heart that sometimes I feel capable
of every brutality, every meanness, every hateful cruelty. To you
I have behaved shamefully. Don't interrupt me, Marian. I have
treated you abominably, my child, my dear daughter--and all the
time with a full sense of what I was doing. That's the punishment
of faults such as mine. I hate myself for every harsh word and
angry look I have given you; at the time, I hated myself!'

'Father--'

'No, no; let me speak, Marian. You have forgiven me; I know it. 
You were always ready to forgive, dear. Can I ever forget that
evening when I spoke like a brute, and you came afterwards and
addressed me as if the wrong had been on your side? It burns in
my memory. It wasn't I who spoke; it was the demon of failure, of
humiliation. My enemies sit in triumph, and scorn at me; the
thought of it is infuriating. Have I deserved this? Am I the
inferior of--of those men who have succeeded and now try to
trample on me? No! I am not! I have a better brain and a better
heart!'

Listening to this strange outpouring, Marian more than forgave
the hypocrisy of the last day or two. Nay, could it be called
hypocrisy? It was 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 a great 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
unspeakably petty. But I am not much of a philosopher.' He
laughed, with a break in his voice. 'Defeat in life is defeat,
after all; and unmerited failure is a bitter curse. You see, I am
not too old to do something yet. My sight is failing, but I can
take care of it. If I had my own review, I would 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 at it, but
he wasn't so far wrong. I have many of those qualities. A man is
conscious of his own merits as well as of his defects. I have
done a few admirable things. You remember my paper on Lord
Herbert of Cherbury? No one ever wrote a more subtle piece of
criticism; but it was swept aside among the rubbish of the
magazines. And it's just because of my pungent phrases that I
have excited so much enmity. Wait! Wait! Let me have my own
review, and leisure, and satisfaction of mind--heavens! what I
will write! 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
betrayed personal feeling.'

'Well, well; you are of course right, my good girl. And I believe
I should do injustice to myself if I made you think that those
ignoble motives are the strongest in me. No; it isn't so. From my
boyhood I have had a passionate desire of literary fame, deep
down below all the surface faults of my character. The best of my
life has gone by, and it drives me to despair when I feel that I
have not gained the position due to me. There is only one way of
doing this now, and that is by becoming the editor of an
important periodical. Only in that way shall I succeed in forcing
people to pay attention to my claims. Many a man goes to his
grave unrecognised, just because he has never had a fair
judgment. Nowadays it is the unscrupulous men of business who
hold the attention of the public; they blow their trumpets so
loudly that the voices of honest men have no chance of being
heard.'

Marian was pained by the humility of his pleading with her--for
what was all this but an endeavour to move her sympathies?--and
by the necessity she was under of seeming to turn a deaf ear. She
believed that there was some truth in his estimate of his own
powers; though as an editor he would almost certainly fail, as a
man of letters he had probably done far better work than some who
had passed him by on their way to popularity. Circumstances might
enable her to assist him, though not in the way he proposed. The
worst of it was that she could not let him see what was in her
mind. He must think that she was simply balancing her own
satisfaction against his, when in truth she suffered from the
conviction that to yield would be as unwise in regard to her
father's future 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
over to me?' she said, after a silence.

'Yes. Don't suppose I wish to influence you by dwelling on my own
hardships. That would be contemptible. I have only taken this
opportunity of making myself better known to you. I don't readily
talk of myself and in general my real feelings are hidden by the
faults of my temper. In suggesting how you could do me a great
service, and at the same time reap advantage for yourself I
couldn't but remember how little reason you have to think kindly
of me. But we will postpone further talk. You will think over
what I have said?'

Marian promised that she would, and was glad to bring the
conversation to an end.

When Sunday came, Yule inquired of his daughter if she had any
engagement for the afternoon.

'Yes, I have,' she replied, with an effort to disguise her
embarrassment.

'I'm sorry. I thought of asking you to come with me to Quarmby's.
Shall you 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
Marian saw the shadow that passed over his countenance. This was
just after breakfast. For the remainder of the morning she did
not meet him, and at the mid-day dinner he was silent, though he
brought no book to the table with him, as he was wont to do when
in his dark moods. Marian talked with her mother, doing her best
to preserve the appearance of cheerfulness which was natural
since the change in Yule's demeanour.

She chanced to meet her father in the passage just as she was
going out. He smiled (it was more like a grin of pain) and
nodded, but said nothing.

When the front door closed, he went into the parlour. Mrs Yule
was reading, or, at all events, turning over a volume of an
illustrated magazine.

'Where do you suppose she has gone?' he asked, in a voice which
was only distant, 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 in his 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 who is anxious that Jedwood should start a magazine, and it
would be useful for her to hear practical opinions. There'd be no
harm if you just spoke to her about it now and then. Of course if
she has made up her mind to refuse me it's no use troubling
myself any more. I should think you might find out what's really
going on.'

Only dire stress of circumstances could have brought Alfred Yule
to make distinct appeal for his wife's help. There was no
underhand plotting between them to influence their daughter; Mrs
Yule had as much desire for the happiness of her husband as for
that of Marian, but she felt powerless 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
that remark, familiar to his wife in substance, though the tone
of it was less caustic than usual, he rose and sauntered from the
room. He spent a gloomy hour in the study, then went off to join
the literary circle at Mr Quarmby's.



CHAPTER XXIV. JASPER'S MAGNANIMITY

Occasionally Milvain met his sisters as they came out of church
on Sunday morning, and walked home to have dinner with them. He
did so to-day, though the sky was cheerless and a strong
north-west wind made it anything but agreeable to wait about in
open spaces.

'Are you going to Mrs Wright's this afternoon?' he asked, as they
went on 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
with Dora in the sitting-room for a few minutes, he turned with a
peculiar smile 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 a quarter to three you two shall start, and as you go out you
can tell the landlady that if Miss Yule comes she is to wait for
you, as you won't be long. 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
magnanimous mood.'

'Very, I've no doubt.'

'Well, you'll do this? One of the results of poverty, you see;
one can't even have a private conversation with a friend without
plotting to get the 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 her sister.

The device was put into execution, and Jasper saw his sisters
depart knowing that they were not likely to return for some three
hours. He seated himself comfortably by the fire and mused. Five
minutes had hardly gone by when he looked at his watch, thinking
Marian must be unpunctual. He was nervous, though he had believed
himself secure against such weakness. His presence here with the
purpose he had in his mind seemed to him distinctly a concession
to impulses he ought to have controlled; but to this resolve he
had come, and it was now too late to recommence the arguments
with himself. Too late? Well, not strictly so; he had committed
himself to nothing; up to the last moment of freedom he could
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 to his former seat. Then the door opened and Marian came
in.

She was not surprised; the landlady had mentioned to her that Mr
Milvain was upstairs, waiting the return of his sisters.

'I am to make 'Dora's excuses,' Jasper said. 'She begged you
would forgive her--that you would wait.'

'Oh yes.'

'And you were to be sure to take off your hat,' he added in a
laughing tone; '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 her short, soft, curly hair. As he watched her uncovering it,
he was pleased with 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 regular
habits in these matters. In Biffen's garret I used to have the
most uncomfortable chair it was ever my lot to sit upon; still, I
came to feel an affection for it. At Reardon's I always had what
was supposed to be the most luxurious seat, but it was too small
for me, and I eyed it resentfully 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 a boys' home, or something of the kind, at Croydon. But I
suppose there'll be 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 for
herself.'

Marian laughed. It was very rarely that Jasper had heard her
laugh at all, 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 Reardon quarrelled with me on her account.'

Marian was astonished at this unlooked-for explanation of the
rupture between Milvain and his friend. That they had not seen
each other for some months she knew from Jasper himself but no
definite cause had been assigned.

'I may as well let you know all about it,' Milvain continued,
seeing that he had disconcerted the girl, as he meant to. 'I met
Reardon not long after they had parted, and he charged me with
being in great part the cause of his troubles.'

The listener did not raise her eyes.

'You would never imagine what my fault was. Reardon declared that
the tone of my conversation had been morally injurious to his
wife. He said I was always glorifying worldly success, and that
this had made her discontented 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
the truth, I fear there may have been something in his complaint.

I told him at once that I should henceforth keep away from Mrs
Edmund Yule's; and so I have done, with the result, of course,
that they suppose 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 a time. I simply declare my opinion that the end of literary
work-- unless one is a man of genius--is to secure comfort and
repute. This doesn't seem to me very scandalous. But Mrs Reardon
was perhaps too urgent in repeating such views to her husband. 
She saw that in my case they were likely to have solid results,
and it was a misery to her that Reardon couldn'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
make think as I do, but most feel obliged to adopt a false tone,
to talk about literary conscientiousness, and so on. I simply say
what I think, with no pretences. I should like to be
conscientious, but it's a luxury I 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
dealt with her less frankly? Had he been mistaken in thinking
that the unusual openness of his talk was attractive to her? She
spoke with quite unaccustomed decision; indeed, he had noticed
from her entrance that there was something unfamiliar in her way
of conversing. She was so much more self-possessed than of wont,
and did not seem to treat him with the same deference, the same
subdual of her own personality.

'You don't like it?' he repeated calmly. 'It has become rather
tiresome to you?'

'I feel sorry that you should always represent yourself in an
unfavourable light.'

He was an acute man, but the self-confidence with which he had
entered upon this dialogue, his conviction that he had but to
speak when he wished to receive assurance of Marian's devotion,
prevented him from understanding the tone of independence she had
suddenly adopted. With more modesty he would have felt more
subtly at this juncture, would have divined that the girl had an
exquisite pleasure in drawing back now that she saw him
approaching her with unmistakable purpose, that she wished to be
wooed in less off-hand fashion before confessing what was in her
heart. For the moment he was disconcerted. Those last words of
hers had a slight tone of superiority, the last thing he would
have expected upon her 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 as you speak.'

'So I do. I think that there is no choice for a man who can't
bear poverty. I have never said, though, that I had pleasure in
mean necessities; I accept them because I can't help it.'

It was a delight to Marian to observe the anxiety with which he
turned to self-defence. Never in her life had she felt this joy
of holding a position of command. It was nothing to her that
Jasper valued her more because of her money; impossible for it to
be otherwise. Satisfied that he did value her, to begin with, for
her own sake, she was very willing to accept money as her ally in
the winning of his love. He scarcely loved her yet, as she
understood the feeling, but she perceived her power 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 to nobly unremunerative work?'

There was a note of irony here. It caused her a tremor, but she
held her position.

'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,' Jasper
finished her sentence. 'I shouldn't have thought it would make
you think so.'

Instead of replying she turned her look towards the door. There
was a footstep 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
Jasper with a slight smile.

'But you said--?'

'I sent her to Mrs Boston Wright's that I might have an
opportunity of talking to you. Will you forgive the stratagem?'

Marian resumed her former attitude, the faintest smile hovering
about her lips.

'I'm glad there's plenty of time,' he continued. 'I begin to
suspect that 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 whom I esteem have a very poor opinion of me, but I can't
allow you to be one of them. What do I seem to you? What is the
result on your mind of all our 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 a very small one.''Good! Then I am not among the basest. But
that doesn't give me very distinguished claims upon your
consideration. Whatever I am, I am high in some of my ambitions.'

'Which of them?'

'For instance, I have been daring enough to hope that you might
love me.'

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
woman who is worthy of a man's love is higher than he, and
condescends in giving herself to him.'

His voice was not convincing; the phrase did not sound natural on
his lips. It was not thus that she had hoped to hear him speak. 
Whilst he expressed himself thus conventionally he did not love
her as she desired to be loved.

'I don't hold that view,' she said.

'It doesn't surprise me. You are very reserved on all subjects,
and we have never spoken of this, but of course I know that your
thought is never commonplace. Hold what view you like of woman's
position, that doesn't affect mine.'

'Is yours commonplace, then?'

'Desperately. Love is a very old and common thing, and I believe
I love you in the old and common way. I think you beautiful, you
seem to me womanly in the best sense, full of charm and
sweetness. I know myself a coarse being in comparison. All this
has been felt and said in the same way by men infinite in
variety. Must I find some new expression before you can believe
me?'

Marian kept silence.

'I know what you are thinking,' he said. 'The thought is as
inevitable as my consciousness of it.'

For an instant she looked at him.

'Yes, you look the thought. Why have I not spoken to you in this
way before? Why have I waited until you are obliged to suspect my
sincerity?'

'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
your real feeling towards me--that I had spoken a fortnight ago.
You would wish that of any man in my position, merely because it
is painful to you to see a possible insincerity. Well, I am not
insincere. I have thought of you as of no other woman for some
time. But--yes, you shall have the plain, coarse truth, which is
good in its way, no doubt. I was afraid to say that I loved you.
You don't flinch; so far, so good. Now what harm is there in this
confession? In the common course of things I shouldn't be in a
position to marry for perhaps three or four years, and even then
marriage would mean difficulties, restraints, obstacles. I have
always dreaded 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
the Reardons. They were in love with each other, if ever two
people were; but poverty ruined everything. I am not in the
confidence of either of them, but I feel sure each has wished the
other dead. What else was to be expected? Should I have dared to
take a wife in my present circumstances--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
have confidence in your future?'

'It's all so uncertain. It may be another ten years before I can
count on an income of five or six hundred pounds--if I have to
struggle on in the common way.'

'But tell me, what is your aim in life? What do you understand by
success?'

'Yes, I will tell you. My aim is to have easy command of all the
pleasures desired by a cultivated man. I want to live among
beautiful things, and never to be troubled by a thought of vulgar
difficulties. I want to travel and enrich my mind in foreign
countries. I want to associate on equal terms with refined and
interesting people. I want to be known, to be familiarly referred
to, to feel when I enter a room that people 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
feeling myself at a disadvantage. My instincts are strongly
social, yet I can't be 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, though I might be superior to them in
most things. I am ignorant in many ways, and merely because I am
poor. Imagine my never having been out of England! It shames me
when people talk familiarly of the Continent. So with regard to
all manner of amusements and pursuits at home. Impossible for me
to appear among my acquaintances at the theatre, at concerts. I
am perpetually at a disadvantage; I haven't fair play. Suppose me
possessed of money enough to live a full and active life for the
next five years; why, at the end of that time my position would
be secure. To him 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
you asked 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 have
believed me? Such phrases are always untrue; I don't know how it
can give anyone pleasure to hear them. But if I say to you: All
the satisfactions I have described would be immensely heightened
if they were 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 have preferred that he should utter the poor, common
falsehoods. Hungry for passionate love, she heard with a sense of
desolation all this calm reasoning. That Jasper was of cold
temperament she had often feared; yet there was always the
consoling thought that she did not see with perfect clearness
into his nature. Now and then had come a flash, a hint of
possibilities. She had looked forward with trembling eagerness to
some sudden revelation; but it seemed as if he knew no word of
the language which would have called such joyous response from
her expectant soul.

'We have talked for a long time,' she said, turning her head as
if his last words were of no significance. 'As Dora is not
coming, I think I will go now.'

She rose, and went towards the chair on which lay her out-of-door
things. 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 far more than friendliness?'

'How was it possible I should know that? You have explained to me
why you would not let your real feelings be understood.'

The reproach was merited, and not easy to be outfaced. He turned
away for 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
no account now. I love you, Marian. I want you to be my wife. I
have never seen any other girl who impressed me as you did from
the first. If I had been weak enough to try to win anyone but
you, I should have known that I had turned aside from the path of
my true happiness. Let us forget for a moment all our
circumstances. I hold your hands, and look into your face, 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 of her distress that the love she had so long nurtured
seemed shrinking together into some far corner of her being
whilst she listened to the discourses which prefaced Jasper's
declaration. She was nervous, painfully self-conscious, touched
with maidenly shame, but could not abandon herself to that
delicious emotion which ought to have been the fulfilment of all
her secret imaginings. Now at length there began a throbbing 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 love
you.' She felt a change in the hands that held hers--a warmth, a
moist softness; it caused a shock through her veins.

He was trying to draw her nearer, but she kept at full arm's
length and looked 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 of
speaking?'

Persisting, she at length withdrew her hands. Jasper's face
expressed something like dismay.

'You have not offended me,' she said. 'But I am not sure that you
don't deceive yourself in thinking, for the moment, that I am
necessary to your happiness.'

The emotional current which had passed from her flesh to his
whilst their hands were linked, made him incapable of standing
aloof from her. He saw that her face and neck were warmer hued,
and her beauty became more desirable to him than ever yet.

'You are more to me than anything else in the compass of life!'
he exclaimed, again pressing forward. 'I think of nothing but
you--you yourself--my beautiful, gentle, thoughtful Marian!'

His arm captured her, and she did not resist. A sob, then a
strange little 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 first
utterance--a subdued music, often interrupted, ever returning
upon the same 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 away like a cumbrous garment; she was
clad only in her womanhood. Once or twice a shudder of strange
self-consciousness went through her, and she felt guilty,
immodest; but upon that sensation followed a surge of passionate
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
under the open sky, but Marian could not go to his lodgings, and
it seemed impossible 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 this new 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 use my 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 it
disrespectfully; I mean that he doesn't seem to me to have that
kind of aptitude. 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
myself independent of Fadge and a few other men, and your father
shall see how heartily I wish to be of use to him. He will miss
your help, I'm afraid?'

'Yes. I shall feel it a cruelty when I have to leave him. He has
only just told me that his sight is beginning to fail. Oh, why
didn't his brother leave him a little money? It was such
unkindness! Surely he had a much better right than Amy, or than
myself either. But literature has been a curse to father all his
life. My uncle hated it, and I suppose that was why he left
father nothing.'

'But how am I to see you often? That's the first question. I know
what I shall do. I must take new lodgings, for the girls and
myself, all in the same house. We must have two sitting-rooms;
then you will come to my room without any difficulty. These
astonishing proprieties are so easily satisfied after all.'

'You will really do that?'

'Yes. I shall go and look for rooms to-morrow. Then when you come
you can always ask for Maud or Dora, you know. They will be very
glad of a change to more respectable quarters.'

'I won't stay to see them now, Jasper,' said Marian, her thoughts
turning to the girls.

'Very well. You are safe for another hour, but to make certain
you shall go 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
tell your 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 in ill 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 my legacy is only in name mine as yet. The will hasn't been
proved. And then the money will have to be realised.'

She informed him of the details; Jasper listened with his eyes on
the ground.

They were now sitting on chairs drawn close to each other. It was
with a sense of relief that Jasper had passed from dithyrambs to
conversation on practical points; Marian's excited sensitiveness
could not but observe this, and she kept watching the motions of
his countenance. At length he even let go her hand.

'You would prefer,' he said reflectively, 'that nothing should be
said to 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 for another answer than this. Jasper fell again into
thought, and clearly it was 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, but turned and approached him again.

'Do you really love me?' she asked, taking one of his hands and
folding it 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 the evening.'

Her touch had the same effect as before. His blood warmed again,
and he pressed her to his side, stroking her hair and kissing her
forehead.

'Are you sorry I wear my hair short?' she asked, longing for more
praise than he had bestowed on her.

'Sorry? It is perfect. Everything else seems vulgar compared with
this way of yours. How strange you would look with plaits and
that kind of thing!'

'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 till now, and I can't believe yet that it has come to
me.'

She at length attired herself, and they left the house together,
of course not unobserved by the landlady. Jasper walked about
half the way to St Paul's Crescent. It was arranged that he
should address a letter for her to the care of his sisters; but
in a day or two the change of lodgings would be effected.

When they had parted, Marian looked back. But Jasper was walking
quickly away, his head bent, in profound meditation.



CHAPTER XXV. A FRUITLESS MEETING

Refuge from despair is often found in the passion of self-pity
and that spirit of obstinate resistance which it engenders. In
certain natures the extreme of self-pity is intolerable, and
leads to self-destruction; but there are less fortunate beings
whom the vehemence of their revolt against fate strengthens to
endure in suffering. These latter are rather imaginative than
passionate; the stages of their woe impress them as the acts of a
drama, which they cannot bring themselves to cut short, so
various are the possibilities of its dark motive. The
intellectual man who kills himself is most often brought to that
decision by conviction of his insignificance; self-pity merges in
self-scorn, and the humiliated soul is intolerant of existence. 
He who survives under like conditions does so because misery
magnifies him in his own estimate.

It was by force of commiserating his own lot that Edwin Reardon
continued to live through the first month after his parting from
Amy. Once or twice a week, sometimes early in the evening,
sometimes at midnight or later, he haunted the street at
Westbourne Park where his wife was dwelling, and on each occasion
he returned to his garret with a fortified sense of the injustice
to which he was submitted, of revolt against the circumstances
which had driven him into outer darkness, of bitterness against
his wife for saving her own comfort rather than share his
downfall. At times he was not far from that state of sheer
distraction which Mrs Edmund Yule preferred to suppose that he
had reached. An extraordinary arrogance now and then possessed
him; he stood amid his poor surroundings with the sensations of
an outraged exile, and laughed aloud in furious contempt of all
who censured or pitied him.

On hearing from Jasper Milvain that Amy had fallen ill, or at all
events was suffering in health from what she had gone through, he
felt a momentary pang which all but determined him to hasten to
her side. The reaction was a feeling of distinct pleasure that
she had her share of pain, and even a hope that her illness might
become grave; he pictured himself summoned to her sick chamber,
imagined her begging his forgiveness. But it was not merely, nor
in great part, a malicious satisfaction; he succeeded in
believing that Amy suffered because she still had a remnant of
love for him. As the days went by and he heard nothing,
disappointment and resentment occupied him. At length he ceased
to haunt the neighbourhood. His desires grew sullen; he became
fixed in the resolve to hold entirely apart and doggedly await
the issue.

At the end of each month he sent half the money he had received
from Carter, simply enclosing postal orders in an envelope
addressed to his wife. The first two remittances were in no way
acknowledged; the third brought a short note from Amy:

'As you continue to send these sums of money, I had perhaps
better let you know that I cannot use them for any purposes of my
own. Perhaps a sense of duty leads you to make this sacrifice,
but I am afraid it is more likely that you wish to remind me
every month that you are undergoing privations, and to pain me in
this way. What you have sent I have deposited in the Post Office
Savings' Bank in Willie's name, and I shall continue to do so.--
A.R.'

For a day or two Reardon persevered in an intention of not
replying, but the desire to utter his turbid feelings became in
the end too strong. He wrote:

'I regard it as quite natural that you should put the worst
interpretation on whatever I do. As for my privations, I think
very little of them; they are a trifle in comparison with the
thought that I am forsaken just because my pocket is empty. And I
am far indeed from thinking that you can be pained by whatever I
may undergo; that would suppose some generosity in your nature.'

This was no sooner posted than he would gladly have recalled it. 
He knew that it was undignified, that it contained as many
falsehoods as lines, and he was ashamed of himself for having
written so. But he could not pen a letter of retractation, and
there remained with him a new cause of exasperated wretchedness.

Excepting the people with whom he came in contact at the
hospital, he had no society but that of Biffen. The realist
visited him once a week, and this friendship grew closer than it
had been in the time of Reardon's prosperity. Biffen was a man of
so much natural delicacy, that there was a pleasure in imparting
to him the details of private sorrow; though profoundly
sympathetic, he did his best to oppose Reardon's harsher
judgments of Amy, and herein he gave his friend a satisfaction
which might not be avowed.

'I really do not see,' he exclaimed, as they sat in the garret
one night of midsummer, 'how your wife could have acted
otherwise. Of course I am quite unable to judge the attitude of
her mind, but I think, I can't help thinking, from what I knew of
her, that there has been strictly a misunderstanding between you.

It was a hard and miserable thing that she should have to leave
you for a time, and you couldn't face the necessity in a just
spirit. Don't you think there's some truth in this way of looking
at it?'

'As a woman, it was her part to soften the hateful necessity; she
made it worse.'

'I'm not sure that you don't demand too much of her. Unhappily, I
know little or nothing of delicately-bred women, but I have a
suspicion that one oughtn't to expect heroism in them, any more
than in the women of the lower classes. I think of women as
creatures to be protected. Is a man justified in asking them to
be stronger than himself?'

'Of course,' replied Reardon, 'there's no use in demanding more
than a character is capable of. But I believed her of finer
stuff. My bitterness comes of the disappointment.'

'I suppose there were faults of temper on both sides, and you saw
at last only each other's weaknesses.'

'I saw the truth, which had always been disguised from me.'
Biffen persisted in looking doubtful, and in secret Reardon
thanked him for it.

As the realist progressed with his novel, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' he
read the chapters to Reardon, not only for his own satisfaction,
but in great part because he hoped that this example of
productivity might in the end encourage the listener to resume
his own literary tasks. Reardon found much to criticise in his
friend's work; it was noteworthy that he objected and condemned
with much less hesitation than in his better days, for sensitive
reticence is one of the virtues wont to be assailed by suffering,
at all events in the weaker natures. Biffen purposely urged these
discussions as far as possible, and doubtless they benefited
Reardon for the time; but the defeated novelist could not be
induced to undertake another practical illustration of his own
views. Occasionally he had an impulse to plan a story, but an
hour's turning it over in his mind sufficed to disgust him. His
ideas seemed barren, vapid; it would have been impossible for him
to write half a dozen pages, and the mere thought of a whole book
overcame him with the dread of insurmountable difficulties,
immeasurable toil.

In time, however, he was able to read. He had a pleasure in
contemplating the little collection of sterling books that alone
remained to him from his library; the sight of many volumes would
have been a weariness, but these few--when he was again able to
think of books at all--were as friendly countenances. He could
not read continuously, but sometimes he opened his Shakespeare,
for instance, and dreamed over a page or two. From such glimpses
there remained in his head a line or a short passage, which he
kept repeating to himself wherever he went; generally some
example of sweet or sonorous metre which had a soothing effect
upon him.

With odd result on one occasion. He was walking in one of the
back streets of Islington, and stopped idly to gaze into the
window of some small shop. Standing thus, he forgot himself and
presently recited aloud:

'Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster: An argument that he is pluck'd,
when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, Which had
superfluous kings for messengers Not many moons gone by.'

The last two lines he uttered a second time, enjoying their
magnificent sound, and then was brought back to consciousness by
the loud mocking laugh of two men standing close by, who
evidently looked upon him as a strayed 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 poverty at every point; it had been discarded
before he left the old abode. In his present state of mind he
cared nothing how disreputable he looked to passers-by. These
seedy habiliments were the token of his degradation, and at times
he regarded them (happening to see himself in a shop mirror) with
pleasurable contempt. The same spirit often led him for a meal to
the poorest of eating-houses, places where he rubbed elbows with
ragged creatures who had somehow obtained the price of a cup of
coffee and a slice of bread and butter. He liked to contrast
himself with these comrades in misfortune. 'This is the rate at
which the world esteems me; I am worth no better provision than
this.' Or else, instead of emphasising the contrast, he defiantly
took a place among the miserables of 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
difficult to support that feeling. Carter, the vivacious, though
at first perfectly unembarrassed in his relations with the City
Road clerk, gradually exhibited a change of demeanour. Reardon
occasionally found the young man's eye fixed upon him with a
singular expression, and the secretary's talk, though still as a
rule genial, was wont to suffer curious interruptions, during
which he seemed to be musing on something Reardon had said, or on
some point of his behaviour. The explanation of this was that
Carter had begun to think there might be a foundation for Mrs
Yule's hypothesis--that the novelist was not altogether in his
sound senses. At first he scouted the idea, but as time went on
it seemed to him that Reardon's countenance certainly had a gaunt
wildness which suggested disagreeable things. Especially did he
remark this after his return from an August holiday in Norway. On
coming for the first time to the City Road branch he sat down and
began to favour Reardon with a lively description of how he had
enjoyed himself abroad; it never occurred to him that such talk
was not likely to inspirit the man who had passed his August
between the garret and the hospital, but he observed before long
that his listener was glancing hither and thither in 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 you to have a fortnight off, you know, this month.'

'I have no wish for it,' said Reardon. 'I'll imagine I have been
to Norway. 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,
as having a run somewhere yourself.'

'Oh, much better! To enjoy myself may be mere selfishness, but to
enjoy another'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
is that it won't grow unless you have just twice as much faith in
it as is required for assent to the Athanasian Creed.'

'Oh!'

Carter went away more than puzzled. He told his wife that evening
that Reardon had been talking to him in the most extraordinary
fashion--no understanding a word he said.

All this time he was on the look-out for employment that would be
more suitable to his unfortunate clerk. Whether slightly demented
or not, Reardon gave no sign of inability to discharge his
duties; he was conscientious as ever, and might, unless he
changed greatly, be relied upon in positions of more
responsibility than his present one. And at length, early in
October, there came to the secretary's knowledge an opportunity
with which he lost no time in acquainting Reardon. The latter
repaired that evening to Clipstone Street, and climbed to
Biffen'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
London lodging-house like the human body?'

Biffen looked with some concern at his friend, so unwonted was a
sally of 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
general public would fail to see the point, I'm afraid. But what
has come to you?'

'Good tidings. Carter has offered me a place which will be a
decided improvement. A house found--or rooms, at all events--and
salary a hundred 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 of a 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 present holder is a burly fellow over
six feet high, delighting in gymnastics, and rather fond of a
fight now and then when opportunity offers. But he is departing
at Christmas--going somewhere as a missionary; and I can have 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 was agitated 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
fifty a year, without rent to pay. Why, that's affluence!'

'The rooms I might occupy are in the home itself. Amy won't take
very readily to a dwelling of that kind. And Croydon isn't the
most inviting locality.'

'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 lose the chance of setting all right again! If only you could
be put into my position for a moment, and then be offered the
companionship of such a wife as yours!'

Reardon listened with a face of lowering excitement.

'I should be perfectly within my rights,' he said sternly, 'if I
merely told her when I have taken the position, and let her ask
me to take her back--if she wishes.'

'You have changed a great deal this last year,' replied Biffen,
shaking his head, 'a great deal. I hope to see you your old self
again before long. 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
between two people who have misunderstood each other. Go to
Westbourne Park to-morrow. And be reasonable; be more than
reasonable. The happiness of your life depends on what you do
now. Be content to forget whatever wrong has been done you. To
think that a man should need persuading to win back such a wife!'

In truth, there needed little persuasion. Perverseness, one of
the forms or issues of self-pity, made him strive against his
desire, and caused him to adopt a tone of acerbity in excess of
what he felt; but already he had made up his mind to see Amy. 
Even if this excuse had not presented itself he must very soon
have yielded to the longing for a sight of his wife's face which
day by day increased among all the conflicting passions of which
he was the victim. A month or two ago, when the summer sunshine
made his confinement to the streets a daily torture, he convinced
himself that there remained in him no trace of his love for Amy;
there were moments when he thought of her with repugnance, as a
cold, selfish woman, who had feigned affection when it seemed her
interest to do so, but brutally declared her true self when there
was no longer anything to be hoped from him. That was the self-
deception of misery. 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 had risen 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 to appoint 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, and
doubtless would let him hear in reply some time in the afternoon.
Impatience allowed him little sleep, and the next day was a long
weariness of waiting. The evening he would have to spend at the
hospital; if there came no reply before the time of his leaving
home, he knew 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 at once to Westbourne Park, but reason
prevailed with him. When he again entered 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, and when he
struck a match he found that one of his feet was upon the white
envelope.

Amy wrote that she would be at home at eleven to-morrow morning. 
Not another word.

In all probability she knew of the offer that had been made to
him; Mrs Carter would have told her. Was it of good or of ill
omen that she wrote only these half-dozen words? Half through the
night he plagued himself with 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 had to be killed
before he could start on his walk westward. He would have
wandered about the streets, but it rained.

He had made himself as decent as possible in appearance, but he
must necessarily 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, and stained round the band with perspiration. His
necktie was discoloured and worn. Coat and waistcoat might pass
muster, but of the trousers the less said the better. One of his
boots was patched, and both were all but heelless.

Very well; let her see him thus. Let her understand what it meant
to live on twelve and sixpence a week.

Though it was cold and wet he could not put on his overcoat. 
Three years ago it had been a fairly good ulster; at present, the
edges of the sleeves were frayed, two buttons were missing, and
the original hue of the cloth was indeterminable.

At half-past nine he set out and struggled with his shabby
umbrella against wind and rain. Down Pentonville Hill, up Euston
Road, all along Marylebone Road, then north-westwards towards the
point of his destination. 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 until the cessation of bell-clanging and the
striking of clocks told him it was eleven. Then he presented
himself at the familiar door.

On his asking for Mrs Reardon, he was at once admitted and led up
to the drawing-room; the servant did not ask his name.

Then he waited for a minute or two, feeling himself a squalid
wretch amid the dainty furniture. The door opened. Amy, in a
simple but very becoming dress, approached to within a yard of
him; after the first glance 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
his voice, and it sounded rough, hostile.

'I think so,' Amy answered, seating herself gracefully. She would
have spoken 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, and Reardon 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 wish me to understand?'

'Won't it be better if you tell me why you have come here? As you
are resolved 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 a little distance.

Both had come to this meeting prepared for a renewal of amity,
but in these first few moments each was so disagreeably impressed
by the look and language of the other that a revulsion of feeling
undid all the more hopeful effects of their long severance. On
entering, Amy had meant to offer her hand, but the unexpected
meanness of Reardon's aspect shocked and restrained her. All but
every woman would have experienced that shrinking from the livery
of poverty. Amy had but to reflect, and she understood that her
husband could in no wise help this shabbiness; when he parted
from her his wardrobe was already in a long-suffering condition,
and how was he to have purchased new garments since then? None
the less such attire degraded him in her eyes; it symbolised the
melancholy decline which he had suffered intellectually. On
Reardon his wife's elegance had the same repellent effect, though
this would not have been the case but for the expression of her
countenance. Had it been possible for them to remain together
during the first five minutes without exchange of words,
sympathies might have prevailed on both sides; the first speech
uttered would most likely have harmonised with their gentler
thoughts. But the mischief was done so speedily.

A man must indeed be graciously endowed if his personal
appearance can defy the disadvantage of cheap modern clothing
worn into shapelessness. Reardon had no such remarkable physique,
and it was not wonderful that his wife felt ashamed of him. 
Strictly ashamed; he seemed to her a social inferior; the
impression was so strong that it resisted all memory of his
spiritual qualities. She might have anticipated this state of
things, and have armed herself to encounter it, but somehow she
had not done so. For more than five months she had been living
among people who dressed well; the contrast was too suddenly
forced upon her. She was especially susceptible in such matters,
and had become none the less so under the demoralising influence
of her misfortunes. True, she soon began to feel ashamed of her
shame, but that could not annihilate the natural feeling and its
results.

'I don't love him. I can't love him.' Thus she spoke to herself,
with immutable decision. She had been doubtful till now, but all
doubt was at an end. Had Reardon been practical man enough to
procure by hook or by crook a decent suit of clothes for this
interview, that ridiculous trifle 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 he is 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. 
'I shall have a dwelling rent free, and a hundred and fifty
pounds a year--perhaps it would be more in keeping with my
station if I say that I shall have something less than three
pounds a week. You can either accept from me half this money, as
up to now, or come and take your place 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 to do 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
come to me. You know the circumstances; there is no reason why
you should consult 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 for a moment the supposition that his wits were
unsettled, but none the less the constant recurrence of that idea
in her mother's talk had subtly influenced her against her
husband. It had confirmed her in thinking that his behaviour was
inexcusable. And now it seemed to her that anyone might be
justified in holding him demented, so reckless was his utterance.

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 formal
separation. 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 world and penniless.'

'A kind wish, all things considered.'

'Yes, it is a kind wish. Then your marriage with me would have
been binding; you would have known that my lot was yours, and the
knowledge would have helped your weakness. I begin to see how
much right there is on the side of those people who would keep
women in subjection. You have been allowed to act with
independence, and the result is that you have ruined my life and
debased your own. If I had been strong enough to treat you as a
child, and bid you follow me wherever my own fortunes led, 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
earning your own livelihood you would have thought that even such
a poor home might be made tolerable. There were possibilities in
you of better things than will ever come out now.'

There followed a silence. Amy sat with her eyes gloomily fixed on
the carpet; Reardon looked about the room, but saw nothing. He
had thrown his hat into a chair, and his fingers worked nervously
together behind his back.

'Will you tell me,' he said at length, 'how your position is
regarded by these friends of yours? I don't mean your mother and
brother, but the people 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
your intercourse 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 am thought of by people of this kind, but one doesn't like to
be reviled without cause. Have you allowed it to be supposed that
I have made life with me intolerable for you?'

'No, I have not. You insult me by asking the question, but as you
don't seem to understand feelings of that kind I may as well
answer you simply.'

'Then have you told them the truth? That I became so poor you
couldn't live 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 have helped you out of your difficulties.'

'What step?'

She reminded him of his intention to spend half a year in working
at the seaside.

'I had utterly forgotten it,' he returned with a mocking laugh.
'That shows 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 of that sort?'

This was in a changed voice. It reminded her so strongly of her
husband before his disasters that she could not frame a reply.

'Do you think I am able to occupy myself with the affairs of
imaginary people?'

'I didn't necessarily mean fiction.'

'That I can forget myself, then, in the study of literature?--I
wonder whether you really think of me like that. How, in Heaven's
name, do you suppose 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 due to considerations of social propriety; but she would
not avow this, and did not like to make admission of it to
herself. Before her friends she frequently affected to conceal a
profound sorrow; but so long as her child was left to her she was
in no danger of falling a victim to sentimental troubles.

'And certainly I can't believe it,' he continued, 'now you
declare your wish to be formally separated from me.'

'I have declared no such wish.'

'Indeed you have. If you can hesitate a moment about returning to
me when difficulties are at an end, that tells me you would
prefer final separation.'

'I hesitate for this reason,' Amy said after reflecting. 'You are
so very greatly changed from what you used to be, that I think it
doubtful if I could live with you.'

'Changed?--Yes, that is true, I am afraid. But how do you think
this change 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
of temper which I couldn't bear. I have my own faults. I can't
behave as meekly 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 of our married life?' he asked gently.

'No,' she admitted.

'They began to afflict you when I was so hard driven by
difficulties that I needed all your sympathy, all your
forbearance. Did I receive much 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,
and hardened me against you, was that I saw you didn't care to
exert your influence. There was never a time when I could have
resisted a word of yours spoken out of your love for me. But even
then, I am afraid, you no longer 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
words all 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
you again?'

'If you wish me to come and live with you when you go to Croydon
I will do 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 of pity 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, 
compared with you. It is you, who loved me, who became my wife--
you only I care about. Tell me you will try to be as you used to 
be. Give me only that hope, Amy; I will ask nothing except that,
now.'

'I can't say anything except that I will come to Croydon if you
wish it.'

'And reproach me always because you have to live in such a place,
away from your friends, without a hope of the social success
which was your dearest ambition?'

Her practical denial that she loved him wrung this taunt from his
anguished heart. He repented the words as soon as they were
spoken.

'What is the good?' exclaimed Amy in irritation, rising and
moving away from him. 'How can I pretend that I look forward to
such a life with any hope?'

He stood in mute misery, inwardly cursing himself and his fate.

'I have said I will come,' she continued, her voice shaken with
nervous tension. '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
dragging out a weary life with me. Either you are my willing
wife, or you are nothing to me.'

'I am married to you, and that can't be undone. I repeat that I
shan't refuse 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 will die in utter loneliness rather than ask
you again.'

He lingered a few moments, watching her; she did not move. Then
he took his 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 an omnibus. But it was a long time before one passed which
was any use to him. When he reached home he was in cheerless
plight enough; to make things 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. A day or two of influenza or sore throat always made him so
weak that with difficulty he supported the least physical
exertion; but at present he must go to his work at the hospital. 
Why stay at home? To what purpose spare himself? It was not as if
life had any promise for him. He was a machine for earning so
much money a week, and would at least give faithful 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
plasters and all the rest of it. Go home and take care of
yourself--I insist upon it.'

Before leaving the office, Reardon wrote a few lines to Biffen,
whom he had visited on the Monday. 'Come and see me if you can. I
am down with a bad 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 exhilarating romance.'



CHAPTER XXVI. MARRIED WOMAN'S PROPERTY

On her return from church that Sunday Mrs Edmund Yule was anxious
to learn the result of the meeting between Amy and her husband. 
She hoped fervently that Amy's anomalous position would come to
an end now that Reardon had the offer of something better than a
mere clerkship. John Yule never ceased to grumble at his sister's
permanence in the house, especially since he had learnt that the
money sent by Reardon each month was not made use of; why it
should not be applied for household expenses passed his
understanding.

'It seems to me,' he remarked several times, 'that the fellow
only does his bare duty in sending it. What is it to anyone else
whether he lives on twelve shillings a week or twelve pence? It
is his business to support his wife; if he can't do that, to
contribute as much to her support as possible. Amy's scruples are
all very fine, if she could afford them; it's very nice to pay
for your delicacies of feeling out of other people's pockets.'

'There'll have to be a formal separation,' was the startling
announcement with which Amy answered her mother's inquiry as to
what had passed.

'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?
And then, you know it will be impossible for him to make you a
sufficient allowance.'

'I shall have to live as well as I can on the seventy-five pounds
a year. If you can't afford to let me stay with you for that, I
must go into cheap lodgings in the country, like poor Mrs Butcher
did.'

This was wild talking for Amy. The interview had upset her, and
for the rest of the day she kept apart in her own room. On the
morrow Mrs Yule succeeded in eliciting a clear account of the
conversation which had ended so hopelessly.

'I would rather spend the rest of my days in the workhouse than
beg him to take me back,' was Amy's final comment, uttered with
the earnestness which 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
things go 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 be useless, and there is nothing to say from me.'

Mrs Yule kept her own counsel. She had a full month before her
during which to consider the situation, but it was clear to her
that these young people must be brought together again. Her
estimate of Reardon's mental condition had undergone a sudden
change from the moment when she heard that a respectable post was
within his reach; she decided that he was 'strange,' but then all
men of literary talent had marked singularities, and doubtless
she had been too hasty in interpreting the peculiar features
natural to a character such as his.

A few days later arrived the news of their relative's death at
Wattleborough.

This threw Mrs Yule into a commotion. At first she decided to
accompany her son and be present at the funeral; after changing
her mind twenty times, she determined not to go. John must send
or bring back the news as soon as possible. That it would be of a
nature sensibly to affect her own position, if not that of her
children, she had little doubt; her husband had been the
favourite brother of the deceased, and on that account there was
no saying how handsome a legacy she might receive. She dreamt of
houses in South Kensington, of social ambitions gratified even
thus late.

On the morning after the funeral came a postcard announcing
John's return 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
circumstances blurred them. Mother and daughter were walking
about the platform half an hour before the train was due; their
agitation would have been manifest to anyone observing them. When
at length the train rolled in and John was discovered, they
pressed eagerly upon him.

'Don't you excite yourself,' he said gruffly to his mother. 
'There's no reason whatever.'

Mrs Yule glanced in dismay at Amy. They followed John to a cab,
and took places 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 length
informed Amy of the extent to which she profited by her uncle's
decease, then made known what was bequeathed to himself. His
temper grew worse every moment, and he replied savagely to each
successive question concerning the other items of the will.

'What have you to grumble about?' asked Amy, whose face was
exultant notwithstanding the drawbacks attaching to her good
fortune. 'If Uncle Alfred receives nothing at all, and mother has
nothing, you ought to think 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's Property Act. The will was executed in January this year,
and I dare say the old curmudgeon destroyed a former one.

'What a splendid Act of Parliament that is!' cried Amy. 'The only
one worth anything that I ever heard of.'

'But my dear--' began her mother, in a tone of protest.  However,
she reserved 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 with a smile of security.

'Why the deuce he should have left you so much in any case is
more than I can understand,' growled her brother. 'What's the use
to me of a paltry thousand or two? It isn't enough to invest;
isn't enough to do anything with.'

'You may depend upon it your cousin Marian thinks her five
thousand good for something,' said Mrs Yule. 'Who was at the
funeral? Don't be so surly, Jack; tell us all about it. I'm sure
if anyone has cause to be ill-tempered it's poor me.'

Thus they talked, amid the rattle of the cab-wheels. By when they
reached home silence had fallen upon them, and each one was
sufficiently occupied with private thoughts.

Mrs Yule's servants had a terrible time of it for the next few
days. Too affectionate to turn her ill-temper against John and
Amy, she relieved herself by severity to the domestic slaves, as
an English matron is of course justified in doing. Her daughter's
position caused her even more concern than before; she constantly
lamented to herself: 'Oh, why didn't he die before she was
married!'--in which case Amy would never have dreamt of wedding a
penniless author. Amy declined to discuss the new aspect of
things until twenty-four hours after John's return; then she
said:

'I shall do nothing whatever until the money is paid to me. And
what I shall 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
was not without its softening effect on Amy's feelings. Generous
impulses alternated with moods of discontent. The thought of her
husband in his squalid lodgings tempted her to forget injuries
and disillusions, and to play the part of a generous wife. It
would be possible now for them to go abroad and spend a year or
two in healthful travel; the result in Reardon's case might be
wonderful. He might recover all the energy of his imagination,
and resume his literary career from the point he had reached at
the time of his marriage.

On the other hand, was it not more likely that he would lapse
into a life of scholarly self-indulgence, such as he had often
told her was his ideal? In that event, what tedium and regret lay
before her! Ten thousand pounds sounded well, but what did it
represent in reality? A poor 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 would not be able to take a
place in society. Life would be supported without struggle;
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 had now become what she always desired to be, Amy's
intimate friend; they saw each other very frequently, and
conversed of most things with much frankness. It was between
eleven and twelve in the morning when Amy paid her 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 of what 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
about it, even with you.'

They went into Mrs Carter's boudoir, a tiny room full of such
pretty things as can be purchased nowadays by anyone who has a
few shillings to spare, and tolerable taste either of their own
or at second-hand. Had she been left to her instincts, Edith
would have surrounded herself with objects representing a much
earlier stage of artistic development; but she was quick to
imitate what fashion declared becoming. Her husband regarded her
as a remarkable authority in all matters of personal or domestic
ornamentation.

'And what are you going to do?' she inquired, examining Amy from
head to foot, as if she thought that the inheritance of so
substantial a sum must 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 was thinking.

'Isn't it a most ridiculous thing that married people who both
wish to separate 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
have been thought twenty years ago of a proposal to make all
married women independent of their husbands in money matters? All
sorts of absurd dangers 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--at all events in some of the States--
and does any harm come of it? Just the opposite I should think.'

Edith mused. Such speculations were daring, but she had grown
accustomed to think of Amy as an 'advanced' woman, and liked to
imitate her in this respect.

'It does seem reasonable,' she murmured.

'The law ought to encourage such separations, instead of
forbidding them,' Amy pursued. 'If a husband and wife find that
they have made a mistake, what useless cruelty it is to condemn
them to suffer the consequences 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 the sooner such a profitless law is altered the better. Isn't
there some society for getting that kind of reform? I would
subscribe fifty pounds a 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
understand the position of those who are not that there's so much
difficulty in reforming marriage laws.'

'But I understand you, Amy, and I grieve about you. What you are
to do I can't think.'

'Oh, it's easy to see what I shall do. Of course I have no choice
really. And I ought to have a choice; that's the hardship and the
wrong of it. Perhaps if I had, I should find a sort of pleasure
in sacrificing myself.'

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
after book,' 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
really important things of life? Some of the French novelists do;
several of Balzac's, for instance. I have just been reading his
"Cousin Pons," a terrible book, but I enjoyed it ever so much
because it was nothing like a 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
as indisputable! That about love being a woman's whole life; who
believes it 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 doubt if 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 will never 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 and women; how many pages are devoted to their love affairs? 
Compare those books with novels which profess to be biographies,
and you see how false such pictures are. Think of the very words
"novel," "romance"--what do they 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
of it. Why do poor people care only for stories about the rich? 
The same principle.'

'How clever you are, Amy!'

'Am I? It's very nice to be told so. Perhaps I have some
cleverness of a kind; but what use is it to me? My life is being
wasted. I ought to have a place in the society of clever people. 
I was never meant to live quietly in the background. Oh, if I
hadn't been in such a hurry, and so inexperienced!'

'Oh, I wanted to ask you,' said Edith, soon after this. 'Do you
wish Albert 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 Amy a
noticeable maturing of intellect. Probably the one thing was a
consequence of the other. During that last year in the flat her
mind was held captive by material cares, and this arrest of her
natural development doubtless had much to do with the appearance
of acerbity in a character which had displayed so much sweetness,
so much womanly grace. Moreover, it was arrest at a critical
point. When she fell in love with Edwin Reardon her mind had
still to undergo the culture of circumstances; though a woman in
years she had seen nothing of life but a few phases of artificial
society, and her education had not progressed beyond the final
schoolgirl stage. Submitting herself to Reardon's influence, she
passed through what was a highly useful training of the
intellect; but with the result that she became clearly conscious
of the divergence between herself and her husband. In
endeavouring to imbue her with his own literary tastes, Reardon
instructed Amy as to the natural tendencies of her mind, which
till then she had not clearly understood. When she ceased to read
with the eyes of passion, most of the things which were Reardon's
supreme interests lost their value for her. A sound intelligence
enabled her to think and feel in many directions, but the special
line of her growth lay apart from that in which the novelist and
classical scholar had directed her.

When she found herself alone and independent, her mind acted like
a spring when pressure is removed. After a few weeks of
desoeuvrement she obeyed the impulse to occupy herself with a
kind of reading alien to Reardon's sympathies. The solid
periodicals attracted her, and especially those articles which
dealt with themes of social science. Anything that savoured of
newness and boldness in philosophic thought had a charm for her
palate. She read a good deal of that kind of literature which may
be defined as specialism popularised; writing which addresses
itself to educated, but not strictly studious, persons, and which
forms the reservoir of conversation for society above the sphere
of turf and west-endism. Thus, for instance, though she could not
undertake the volumes of Herbert Spencer, she was intelligently
acquainted with the tenor of their contents; and though she had
never opened one of Darwin's books, her knowledge of his main
theories and illustrations was respectable. She was becoming a
typical woman of the new time, the woman who has developed
concurrently with journalistic enterprise.

Not many days after that conversation with Edith Carter, she had
occasion to visit Mudie's, for the new number of some periodical
which contained an appetising title. As it was a sunny and warm
day she walked to New Oxford Street from the nearest Metropolitan
station. Whilst waiting at the library counter, she heard a
familiar voice in her proximity; it was that of Jasper Milvain,
who stood talking with a middle-aged lady. As Amy turned to look
at him his eye met hers; clearly he had been aware of her. The
review she desired was handed to her; she moved aside, and turned
over the pages. Then Milvain walked up.

He was armed cap-a-pie in the fashions of suave society; no
Bohemianism of garb or person, for Jasper knew he could not
afford that kind of economy. On her part, Amy was much better
dressed than usual, a costume suited to her position of bereaved
heiress.

'What a time since we met!' said Jasper, taking her delicately
gloved hand 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 end of 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's all.'

'But I suppose you write as much as ever?'

'Yes; but chiefly in weekly papers just now. You don't see the
Will-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 the old freedom.

'I walked from Gower Street station, and I think, as it's so
fine, I shall walk back again.'

He accompanied her. They turned up Museum Street, and Amy, after
a short silence, made inquiry concerning his sisters.

'I am sorry I saw them only once, but no doubt you thought it
better to let the acquaintance end there.'

'I really didn't think of it in that way at all,' Jasper
replied.'We naturally understood it so, when you even ceased to
call, yourself.'

'But don't you feel that there would have been a good deal of
awkwardness 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 went to 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 my companionship 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 been informed by a Wattleborough correspondent, even if no
one in London had told him.

'Do your sisters keep up their friendship with my cousin Marian?'
she asked, 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 of Amy and her husband.

'Everything is still quite uncertain. But tell me something about
our old acquaintances. How does Mr Biffen get on?'

'I scarcely ever see him, but I think he pegs away at an
interminable novel, which no one will publish when it's done. 
Whelpdale I meet occasionally.'

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 lately
received 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, now
almost bare of foliage; then her eyes met Jasper's, and she
smiled significantly.

'I should have thought your aim would have been far more
ambitious,' she said, 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
be married soon?'

'Probably before the end of the year. I see that you are
criticising my motives. I am quite prepared for that in everyone
who knows me and the circumstances. But you must remember that I
couldn't foresee anything of this kind. It enables us to marry
sooner, that's all.'

'I am sure your motives are unassailable,' replied Amy, still
with a smile. 'I imagined that you wouldn't marry for years, and
then some distinguished 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. I haven't seen her for years and years. She may be
admirably suited to you.'

'Depend upon it, I think so.'

'She's likely to shine in society? She is a brilliant girl, full
of tact and 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 a tendency that way.'

'The news surprised me a little, I confess. But I see that I am
in danger of offending you.'

'Let us wait another five years, and then I will ask your opinion
as to the success of my marriage. I don't take a step of this
kind without maturely 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, we shall see.'

In the length of Gower Street they talked of several other things
less personal. By degrees the tone of their conversation had
become what it was used to be, now and then almost confidential.

'You are still at the same lodgings?' asked Amy, as they drew
near to the railway station.

'I moved yesterday, so that the girls and I could be under the
same roof--until the next change.'

'You will let us know when that takes place?'

He promised, and with exchange of smiles which were something
like a challenge they took leave of each other.



CHAPTER XXVII. THE LONELY MAN

A touch of congestion in the right lung was a warning to Reardon
that his half-year of insufficient food and general waste of
strength would make the coming winter a hard time for him, worse
probably than the last. Biffen, responding in person to the
summons, found him in bed, waited upon by a gaunt, dry,
sententious woman of sixty--not the landlady, but a lodger who
was glad to earn one meal a day by any means that 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 a comfortable room, at least. Why, I don't know. I dreamt
last night that I was in a ship that had struck something and was
going down; and it wasn't the thought of death that most
disturbed me, but a horror of being plunged in the icy water. In
fact, I have had just the same feeling on shipboard. I remember
waking up midway between Corfu and Brindisi, on that shaky tub of
a Greek boat; we were rolling a good deal, and I heard a sort of
alarmed rush and shouting up on deck. It was so warm and
comfortable in the berth, and I thought with intolerable horror
of the possibility of sousing into the black depths.'

'Don't talk, my boy,' advised Biffen. 'Let me read you the new
chapter of "Mr Bailey." It may induce a refreshing slumber.'

Reardon was away from his duties for a week; he returned to them
with a feeling of extreme shakiness, an indisposition to exert
himself, and a complete disregard of the course that events were
taking. It was fortunate that he had kept aside that small store
of money designed for emergencies; he was able to draw on it now
to pay his doctor, and provide himself with better nourishment
than usual. He purchased new boots, too, and some articles of
warm clothing of which he stood in need--an alarming outlay.

A change had come over him; he was no longer rendered miserable
by thoughts of Amy--seldom, indeed, turned his mind to her at
all. His secretaryship at Croydon was a haven within view; the
income of seventy-five pounds (the other half to go to his wife)
would support him luxuriously, and for anything beyond that he
seemed to care little. Next Sunday he was to go over to Croydon
and see the institution.

One evening of calm weather he made his way to Clipstone Street
and greeted his friend with more show of light-heartedness than
he had been capable 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's no saying if the mood will last, but if it does
all is well with me. I regret 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.
One must have a rest from misery somehow. Another kind of man
would have taken to drinking; that has tempted me now and then, I
assure you. But I couldn't afford it. Did you ever feel tempted
to drink merely for the sake of forgetting trouble?'

'Often enough. I have done it. I have deliberately spent a
certain proportion of the money that ought to have gone for food
in the cheapest kind of strong liquor.'

'Ha! that's interesting. But it never got the force of a habit
you had to break?'

'No. Partly, I dare say, because I had the warning of poor Sykes
before my eyes.'

'You never see that poor fellow?'

'Never. He must be dead, I think. He would die either in the
hospital or the workhouse.'

'Well,' said Reardon, musing cheerfully, 'I shall never become a
drunkard; I haven't that diathesis, to use your expression. 
Doesn't it strike you that you and I are very respectable
persons? We really have no vices. Put us on a social pedestal,
and we should be shining lights of morality. I sometimes wonder
at our inoffensiveness. Why don't we run amuck against law and
order? Why, at the least, don't we become savage revolutionists,
and harangue in Regent's Park of a Sunday?'

'Because we are passive beings, and were meant to enjoy life very
quietly. 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 of Euripides. Did you ever go through the Fragments?'

This made a diversion for half an hour. Then Reardon returned to
his former line of thought.

'As I was entering patients yesterday, there came up to the table
a tall, good-looking, very quiet girl, poorly dressed, but as
neat as could be. She gave me her name, then I asked
"Occupation?" She said at once, "I'm unfortunate, sir." I
couldn't help looking up at her in surprise; I had taken it for
granted she was a dressmaker or something of the kind. And, do
you know, I never felt so strong an impulse to shake hands, to
show sympathy, and even respect, in some way. I should have liked
to say, "Why, I am unfortunate, too!" such a good, patient face
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.
And there was no need whatever for her to make such a
declaration; she might just as well have said anything else; it's
the merest form. I shall always hear her voice saying, "I'm
unfortunate, sir." She made me feel what a mistake it was for me
to marry such a girl as Amy. I ought to have looked about for
some simple, kind-hearted work-girl; that was the kind of wife
indicated for me by circumstances. If I had earned a hundred a
year she would have thought we were well-to-do. I should have
been an authority to her on everything under the sun--and above
it. No ambition would have unsettled her. We should have lived in
a couple of poor rooms somewhere, and--we should have loved each
other.'

'What a shameless idealist you are!' said Biffen, shaking his
head. 'Let me sketch the true issue of such a marriage. To begin
with, the girl would have married you in firm persuasion that you
were a "gentleman" in temporary difficulties, and that before
long you would have plenty of money to dispose of. Disappointed
in this hope, she would have grown sharp-tempered, querulous,
selfish. All your endeavours to make her understand you would
only have resulted in widening the impassable gulf. She would
have misconstrued your every sentence, found food for suspicion
in every harmless joke, tormented you with the vulgarest forms of
jealousy. The effect upon your nature would have been degrading. 
In the end, you must have abandoned every effort to raise her to
your own level, and either have sunk to hers or made a rupture. 
Who doesn't know the story of such attempts? I myself ten years
ago, was on the point of committing 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 have chosen the wrong girl, but I am supposing that I had
been fortunate. In any case there would have been a much better
chance than in the marriage that I made.'

'Your marriage was sensible enough, and a few years hence you
will be a happy 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. I
am quite free from sexual bias. I can see that Amy was not my fit
intellectual companion, and all emotion at the thought of her has
gone from me. The word "love" is a weariness to me. If only our
idiotic laws permitted us to break the legal bond, how glad both
of us would be!'

'You are depressed and anaemic. Get yourself in flesh, and view
things like a man of this world.'

'But don't you think it the best thing that can happen to a man
if he outgrows passion?'

'In certain circumstances, no doubt.'

'In all and any. The best moments of life are those when we
contemplate beauty in the purely artistic spirit--objectively.  I
have had such moments in Greece and Italy; times when I was a
free spirit, utterly remote from the temptations and harassings
of sexual emotion. What we call love is mere turmoil. Who
wouldn't release himself from it for ever, 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? I was on the Pnyx; had been rambling about there the
whole afternoon. For I dare say a couple of hours I had noticed a
growing rift of light in the clouds to the west; it looked as if
the dull day might have a rich ending. That rift grew broader and
brighter--the only bit of light in the sky. On Parnes there were
white strips of ragged mist, hanging very low; the same on
Hymettus, and even the peak of Lycabettus was just hidden. Of a
sudden, the sun's rays broke out. They showed themselves first in
a strangely beautiful way, striking from behind the seaward hills
through the pass that leads to Eleusis, and so gleaming on the
nearer slopes of Aigaleos, making the clefts black and the
rounded parts of the mountain wonderfully brilliant with golden
colour. All the rest of the landscape, remember, was untouched
with a ray of light. This lasted only a minute or two, then the
sun itself sank into the open patch of sky and shot glory in
every direction; broadening beams smote upwards over the dark
clouds, and made them a lurid yellow. To the left of the sun, the
gulf of Aegina was all golden mist, the islands floating in it
vaguely. To the right, over black Salamis, lay delicate strips of
pale blue--indescribably pale and delicate.'

'You remember it very clearly.'

'As if I saw it now! But wait. I turned eastward, and there to my
astonishment was a magnificent rainbow, a perfect semicircle,
stretching from the foot of Parnes to that of Hymettus, framing
Athens and its hills, which grew brighter and brighter--the
brightness for which there is no name among colours. Hymettus was
of a soft misty warmth, a something tending to purple, its ridges
marked by exquisitely soft and indefinite shadows, the rainbow
coming right down in front. The Acropolis simply glowed and
blazed. As the sun descended all these colours grew richer and
warmer; for a moment the landscape was nearly crimson. Then
suddenly the sun passed into the lower stratum of cloud, and the
splendour died almost at once, except that there remained the
northern half of the rainbow, which had become double. In the
west, the clouds were still glorious for a time; there were two
shaped like great expanded wings, edged with refulgence.'

'Stop!' cried Biffen, 'or I shall clutch you by the throat. I
warned you before that I can't stand those reminiscences.'

'Live in hope. Scrape together twenty pounds, and go there, if
you die of 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 I don'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 any woman 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 to sexual emotion. It leaves, no doubt, no bitterness
of any kind. Poverty can't rob me of those memories. I have lived
in an ideal world that was not deceitful, a world which seems to
me, when I recall it, beyond the human sphere, bathed in diviner
light.'

It was four or five days after this that Reardon, on going to his
work in City Road, found a note from Carter. It requested him to
call at the main hospital at half-past eleven the next morning. 
He supposed the appointment had something to do with his business
at Croydon, whither he had been in the mean time. Some
unfavourable news, perhaps; any misfortune was likely.

He answered the summons punctually, and on entering the general
office was requested by the clerk to wait in Mr Carter's private
room; the secretary had not yet arrived. His waiting lasted some
ten minutes, then the door opened and admitted, not Carter, but
Mrs Edmund Yule.

Reardon stood up in perturbation. He was anything but prepared,
or disposed, for an interview with this lady. She came towards
him with hand 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 so very 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 Mr Carter 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 to me that it was really my duty to do
whatever I could in these sad, sad circumstances.'

Reardon listened respectfully, but without sign of feeling.

'I had better tell you at once that Amy's uncle at Wattleborough
is dead, 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 eyebrows twitched.

'I am glad to hear of her good fortune,' he said distantly and in
even tones.

'You will feel, I am sure,' continued his mother-in-law, 'that
this must put 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
for your distressing circumstances, I am sure there would never
have been such unpleasantness--never. Neither you nor Amy is the
kind of person to take 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 I have come to see you, and she
mustn't on any account be told, for her worst fault is that
sensitive pride of hers. And I'm sure you won't be 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 which
repelled Reardon. He could not even put faith in her assurance
that Amy knew nothing of this intercession. In any case it was
extremely distasteful to him to discuss such matters with Mrs
Yule.

'Under no circumstances could I do more than I already have
done,' he replied. 'And after what you have told me, it is
impossible for me to go and 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 the cause of our parting; but if Amy is no longer poor, that
is very far from 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--
some provocation was given by you first of all. I am so very,
very far from wishing to say anything disagreeable--I am sure you
feel that--but wasn't there some little ground for complaint on
Amy's part? Wasn't there, now?'

Reardon was tortured with nervousness. He wished to be alone, to
think over what had happened, and Mrs Yule's urgent voice rasped
upon his ears. Its very smoothness made it worse.

'There may have been ground for grief and concern,' he answered,
'but for complaint, no, I think not.'

'But I understand'--the voice sounded rather irritable now--'that
you positively reproached and upbraided her because she was
reluctant to go and live in some very shocking place.'

'I may have lost my temper after Amy had shown-- But I can't
review our troubles in this way.'

'Am I to plead in vain?'

'I regret very much that I can't possibly do as you wish. It is
all between Amy and myself. Interference by other people cannot
do any good.'

'I am sorry you should use such a word as "interference,"'
replied Mrs Yule, bridling a little. 'Very sorry, indeed. I
confess it didn't occur to 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 good
feeling?'

'I am obliged to, and Amy would understand perfectly why I say
so.'

His earnestness was so unmistakable that Mrs Yule had no choice
but to rise and bring the interview to an end. She commanded
herself sufficiently 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
hospital  and walked at a rapid pace in no particular direction.

Ah! if this had happened in the first year of his marriage, what
more blessed man than he would have walked the earth! But it came
after irreparable harm. No amount of wealth could undo the ruin
caused by poverty.

It was natural for him, as soon as he could think with
deliberation, to turn towards his only friend. But on calling at
the house in Clipstone Street he found the garret empty, and no
one could tell him when its occupant was likely to be back. He
left a note, and made his way back to Islington. The evening had
to be spent at the hospital, but on his return 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--
that I should have spoken of Sykes the other night. Last night I
came upon a crowd in Oxford Street, and the nucleus of it was no
other than Sykes himself very drunk and disorderly, in the grip
of two policemen. Nothing could be done for him; I was useless as
bail; he e'en had to sleep in the cell. But I went this morning
to see what would become of him. Such a spectacle when they
brought him forward! It was only five shillings fine, and to my
astonishment he produced the money. I joined him outside--it
required a little courage--and had a long talk with him. He's
writing a London Letter for some provincial daily, and the first
payment 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 eyes widened.

'So,' Reardon cried with exultation, 'there is the last burden
off my mind! Henceforth I haven't a care! The only thing that
still troubled me was my inability to give Amy enough to live
upon. Now she is provided for 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 her
money? 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
devote herself to bringing the boy up. And I--but I shall be rich
on my own account. A hundred and fifty a year; it would be a
farce to offer Amy her share of it. By all the gods of Olympus,
we will go to Greece together, you and I!'

'Pooh!'

'I swear it! Let me save for a couple of years, and then get a
good month's holiday, or more if possible, and, as Pallas Athene
liveth! we shall find ourselves at Marseilles, going aboard some
boat of the Messageries.  I can't believe yet that this is true. 
Come, we will have a supper to-night. Come out into Upper Street,
and let us eat, drink, and be 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
come a long time ago, in the happy days! Then she, too, would
have gone to Greece, 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 hated me then, never. Biffen, am I base or
contemptible? She thinks so. That's how poverty has served me. If
you had seen her, how she looked at me, when we met the other
day, you would understand well enough why I couldn't live with
her now, not if she entreated me to. That would make me base if
you like. Gods! how ashamed I should be if I yielded to such a
temptation! And once--'

He had worked himself to such intensity of feeling that at length
his voice 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 which trickled 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 just finished a meal, and was now
nodding into slumber over his plate and cup. Reardon ordered
fried ham and eggs, the luxury of the poor, and when the
attendant woman was gone away to execute the order, he burst into
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
squalid feast! They have never known struggle; not they. They are
public-school men, University men, club men, society men. An
income of less than three or four hundred a year is inconceivable
to them; that seems the minimum for an educated man's support. It
would be small-minded to think of them with rancour, but, by
Apollo! I know that we should change places with them if the work
we have done were justly weighed against theirs.'

'What does it matter? We are different types of intellectual
workers. I think of them savagely now and then, but only when
hunger gets a trifle too keen. Their work answers a demand; ours-
-or mine at all events--doesn't. They are in touch with the
reading multitude; they have the sentiments of the respectable;
they write for their class. Well, you had your circle of readers,
and, if things hadn't gone against you, by this time you
certainly could have counted on your three or four hundred a
year.'

'It's unlikely that I should ever have got more than two hundred
pounds for a book; and, to have kept at my best, I must have been
content to publish once every two or three years. The position
was untenable with no private income. And I must needs marry a
wife of dainty instincts! What astounding impudence! No wonder
Fate pitched me aside into the gutter.'

They ate their ham and eggs, and exhilarated themselves with a
cup of chicory--called coffee. Then Biffen drew from the pocket
of his venerable overcoat the volume of Euripides he had brought,
and their talk turned once more to the land of the sun. Only when
the coffee-shop was closed did they go forth again into the foggy
street, and at the top of Pentonville Hill they stood for ten
minutes debating a metrical effect in one of the Fragments.

Day after day Reardon went about with a fever upon him. By
evening his pulse was always rapid, and no extremity of weariness
brought him a refreshing sleep. In conversation he seemed either
depressed or excited, more often the latter. Save when attending
to his duties at the hospital, he made no pretence of employing
himself; if at home, he sat for hours without opening a book, and
his walks, excepting when they led him to Clipstone Street, were
aimless.

The hours of postal delivery found him waiting in an anguish of
suspense. At eight o'clock each morning he stood by his window,
listening for the postman's knock in the street. As it approached
he went out to the head of the stairs, and if the knock sounded
at the door of his house, he leaned over the banisters, trembling
in expectation. But the letter was never for him. When his
agitation had subsided he felt glad of the disappointment, and
laughed and sang.

One day Carter appeared at the City Road establishment, and made
an opportunity of speaking to his clerk in private.

'I suppose,' he said with a smile, 'they'll have to look out for
someone else 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 private
circumstances, the secretary said no more, and went away
convinced that misfortunes had turned the poor fellow's brain.

Wandering in the city, about this time, Reardon encountered his
friend the realist.

'Would you like to meet Sykes?' asked Biffen. 'I am just going to
see him.'

'Where does he live?'

'In some indiscoverable hole. To save fuel, he spends his
mornings at some reading-rooms; the admission is only a penny,
and there he can see all the papers and do his writing and enjoy
a grateful temperature.'

They repaired to the haunt in question. A flight of stairs
brought them to a small room in which were exposed the daily
newspapers; another ascent, and they were in a room devoted to
magazines, chess, and refreshments; yet another, and they reached
the department of weekly publications; lastly, at the top of the
house, they found a lavatory, and a chamber for the use of those
who desired to write. The walls of this last retreat were of blue
plaster and sloped inwards from the floor; along them stood
school desks with benches, and in one place was suspended a
ragged and dirty card announcing that paper and envelopes could
be purchased downstairs. An enormous basket full of waste-paper,
and a small stove, occupied two corners; ink blotches, satirical
designs, and much scribbling in pen and pencil served for mural
adornment. From the adjacent lavatory came sounds of splashing
and spluttering, 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-work clerk, evidently engaged in replying to advertisements;
in front of him lay two or three finished letters, and on the
ground at his feet were several crumpled sheets of note-paper,
representing abortive essays in composition. The other man, also
occupied with the pen, looked about forty years old, and was clad
in a very rusty suit of tweeds; on the bench beside him lay a
grey overcoat and a silk hat which had for some time been
moulting. His face declared the habit to which he was a victim,
but it had nothing repulsive in its lineaments and expression; on
the contrary, it was pleasing, amiable, and rather quaint. At
this moment no one would have doubted his sobriety. With
coat-sleeve turned back, so as to give free play to his right
hand and wrist, revealing meanwhile a flannel shirt of singular
colour, and with his collar unbuttoned (he wore no tie) to leave
his throat at ease as he bent myopically over the paper, he was
writing at express speed, evidently in the full rush of the
ardour of composition. The veins of his forehead were dilated,
and his chin pushed forward in a way that made one think of 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. 'For the 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
than the requested time had elapsed. They went up, and found Mr
Sykes in an attitude of melancholy meditation. He had turned back
his coat sleeve, had buttoned his collar, and was eyeing the
slips of completed manuscript. Biffen presented his companion,
and Mr Sykes greeted the novelist with much geniality.

'What do you think this is?' he exclaimed, pointing to his work.
'The first instalment of my autobiography for the "Shropshire
Weekly Herald." Anonymous, of course, but strictly veracious,
with the omission of sundry little personal failings which are
nothing to the point. I call it "Through the Wilds of Literary
London." An old friend of mine edits the "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
power enough to write fiction anything like it. I have published
novels, Mr Reardon, but my experience in that branch of
literature was peculiar --as I may say it has been in most others
to which I have applied myself. My first stories were written for
"The Young Lady's Favourite," and most remarkable productions
they were, I promise you. That was fifteen years ago, in the days
of my versatility. I could throw off my supplemental novelette of
fifteen thousand words without turning a hair, and immediately
after it fall to, fresh as a daisy, on the "Illustrated History
of the United States," which I was then doing for Edward Coghlan.
But presently I thought myself too good for the "Favourite"; in
an evil day I began to write three-volume novels, aiming at
reputation. It wouldn't do. I persevered for five years, and made
about five failures. Then I went back to Bowring. "Take me on
again, old man, will you?" Bowring was a man of few words; he
said, "Blaze away, my boy." And I tried to. But it was no use; I
had got out of the style; my writing was too literary by a long
chalk. For a whole year I deliberately strove to write badly, but
Bowring was so pained with the feebleness of my efforts that at
last he sternly bade me avoid his sight. "What the devil," he
roared one day, "do you mean by sending me stories about men and
women? You ought to know better than that, a fellow of your
experience!" So I had to give it up, and there was an end of my
career as a writer of fiction.'

He shook his head sadly.

'Biffen,' he continued, 'when I first made his acquaintance, had
an idea of writing for the working classes; and what do you think
he was going to offer them? Stories about the working classes! 
Nay, never hang your head 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 working men or women to read
stories that treat of their own world. They are the most consumed
idealists in creation, especially the women. Again and again
work-girls have said to me: "Oh, I don't like that book; it's
nothing 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 working
classes. Now, educated people like to read of scenes that are
familiar to them, though I grant you that the picture must be
idealised if you're to appeal to more than one in a thousand. The
working classes detest anything that tries to represent their
daily life. It isn't because that life is too painful; no, no;
it's downright snobbishness. Dickens goes down only with the best
of them, and then solely because of his strength in farce and his
melodrama.'

Presently the three went out together, and had dinner at an a la
mode beef shop. Mr Sykes ate little, but took copious libations
of porter at twopence 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--at Aldgate station.'

They parted from him.

'Now he'll go and soak till he's unconscious,' said Biffen. 'Poor
fellow! Pity he ever earns anything at all. The workhouse would
be better, I should think.'

'No, no! Let a man drink himself to death rather. I have a horror
of the workhouse. 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 forced society 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
length came to Manville Street a letter addressed in Amy's hand. 
It arrived at three one afternoon; Reardon heard the postman, but
he had ceased to rush out on every such occasion, and to-day he
was feeling ill. Lying upon the bed, he had just raised his head
wearily when he became aware that someone was mounting to his
room. He sprang up, his face and neck flushing.

This time Amy began 'Dear Edwin'; the sight of those words made
his brain swim.

'You must, of course, have heard [she wrote] that my uncle John
has left me ten thousand pounds. It has not yet come into my
possession, and I had decided that I would not write to you till
that happened, but perhaps you may altogether misunderstand my
silence.

'If this money had come to me when you were struggling so hard to
earn a living for us, we should never have spoken the words and
thought the thoughts which now make it so difficult for me to
write to you. What I wish to say is that, although the property
is legally my own, I quite recognise that you have a right to
share in it. Since we have lived apart you have sent me far more
than you could really afford, believing it your duty to do so;
now that things are so different I wish you, as well as myself,
to benefit by the change.

'I said at our last meeting that I should be quite prepared to
return to you if you took that position at Croydon. There is now
no need for you to pursue a kind of work for which you are quite
unfitted, and I repeat that I am willing to live with you as
before. If you will tell me where you would like to make a new
home I shall gladly agree. I do not think you would care to leave
London permanently, and certainly I should not.

'Please to let me hear from you as soon as possible. In writing
like this I feel that I have done what you expressed a wish that
I should do. I have asked you to put an end to our separation,
and I trust that I have not asked in vain.

'Yours always,

'AMY REARDON.'

The letter fell from his hand. It was such a letter as he might
have expected, but the beginning misled him, and as his agitation
throbbed itself away he suffered an encroachment of despair which
made him for a time unable to move or even think.

His reply, written by the dreary twilight which represented
sunset, ran thus.

'Dear Amy,--I thank you for your letter, and I appreciate your
motive in writing it. But if you feel that you have "done what I
expressed a wish that you should do," you must have strangely
misunderstood me.

'The only one thing that I wished was, that by some miracle your
love for me might be revived. Can I persuade myself that this is
the letter of 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 express yourself.

'You have written because it seemed your duty to do so. But,
indeed, a sense 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 necessitate your living with me again. But have
more courage; refuse to act falsehoods; tell society it is base
and brutal, and that you prefer to live an honest life.

'I cannot share your wealth, dear. But as you have no longer need
of my help--as we are now quite independent of each other--I
shall cease to send the money which hitherto I have considered
yours. In this way I shall have enough, and more than enough, for
my necessities, so that you will never have to trouble yourself
with the thought that I am suffering privations. At Christmas I
go to Croydon, and I will then write to you again.

'For we may at all events be friendly. My mind is relieved from
ceaseless anxiety on your account. I know now that you are safe
from that accursed poverty which is to blame for all our
sufferings. You I do not blame, though I have sometimes done so. 
My own experience teaches me how kindness can be embittered by
misfortune. Some great and noble sorrow may have the effect of
drawing hearts together, but to struggle against destitution, to
be crushed by care about shillings and sixpences--that must
always degrade.

'No other reply than this is possible, so I beg you not to write
in this way again. Let me know if you go to live elsewhere. I
hope Willie is well, 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
him pause as he read the lines over. Should he not obliterate it,
and even in such a way that Amy might see what he had done? His
pen was dipped in the ink for that purpose, but after all he held
his hand. Amy was still dear to him, say what he might, and if
she noted the word--if she pondered over it--

A street gas lamp prevented the room from becoming absolutely
dark. When he had closed the envelope he lay down on his bed
again, and watched the flickering yellowness upon the ceiling. He
ought to have some tea before going to the hospital, but he cared
so little for it that the trouble of boiling water was too great.

The flickering light grew fainter; he understood at length that
this was caused by fog that had begun to descend. The fog was his
enemy; it would be wise to purchase a respirator if this hideous
weather continued, for sometimes his throat burned, and there was
a rasping in his chest which gave disagreeable admonition.

He fell asleep for half an hour, and on awaking he was feverish,
as usual 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
were modest, but more expensive than their old quarters. As the
change was on his account he held himself responsible for the
extra outlay. But for his immediate prospects this step would
have been unwarrantable, as his earnings were only just
sufficient for his needs on the previous footing. He had resolved
that his marriage must take place before Christmas; 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 the same roof. The trio had had supper in the girls'
sitting-room, and it was a moment for frank conversation. Dora
rejoiced in the coming marriage; her brother had behaved
honourably, and Marian, she trusted, would be very happy,
notwithstanding disagreement with her father, which seemed
inevitable. Maud was by no means so well pleased, though she
endeavoured to wear smiles. It looked to her as if Jasper had
been guilty of a kind of weakness not to be expected in him. 
Marian, as an individual, could not be considered an appropriate
wife for such a man with such a future; and as for her five
thousand pounds, that was ridiculous. Had it been ten-- something
can be made of ten thousand; but a paltry five! Maud's ideas on
such subjects had notably expanded of late, and one of the
results was that she did not live so harmoniously with her sister
as for the first few months of their London career.

'I have been thinking a good deal about that,' replied Jasper to
the younger girl's question. He stood with his back to the fire
and smoked a cigarette. 'I thought at first of taking a flat; but
then a flat of the kind I should want would be twice the rent of
a large house. If we have a house with plenty of room in it you
might come and live with us after a time. At first I must find
you decent lodgings in our neighbourhood.'

'You show a good deal of generosity, Jasper,' said Maud, 'but
pray remember 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 a year for ten years--that's how I look at it. My own
income will make it something between six or seven hundred at
first, and before long probably more like a thousand. I am quite
cool and collected. I understand exactly where I am, and where I
am likely to be ten years hence. 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 of thing; but no one would
offer me an editorship, or any other serious help. Wait till I
show that I have helped myself and hands will be stretched to me
from every side. 'Tis the way of the world. I shall belong to a
club; I shall give nice, quiet little dinners to selected people;
I shall let it be understood by all and sundry that I have a
social position. Thenceforth I am quite a different man, a man to
be taken into account. And what will you bet me that I don't
stand in the foremost 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 or three years wouldn't suffice to draw out the mean
qualities in the kind of 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
think good.'

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 not presuming on any wonderful development of powers. Such as
I am now, I need only to be put on the little pedestal of a
decent independence and plenty of people will point fingers of
admiration at me. You don't fully appreciate this. Mind, it
wouldn't do if I had no qualities. I have the qualities; they
only need bringing into prominence. If I am an unknown man, and
publish a wonderful book, it will make its way very slowly, or
not at all. If I, become a known man, publish that very same
book, its praise will echo over both hemispheres. I should be
within the truth if I had said "a vastly inferior book," But I am
in a bland mood at present. Suppose poor Reardon's novels had
been published in the full light of reputation instead of in the
struggling dawn which was never to become day, wouldn't they have
been magnified by every critic? You have to become famous before
you can secure the attention which would give fame.'

He delivered this apophthegm with emphasis, and repeated it in
another form.

'You have to obtain reputation before you can get a fair hearing
for that which would justify your repute. It's the old story of
the French publisher who said to Dumas: "Make a name, and I'll
publish anything you write." "But how the diable," cries the
author, "am I to make a name if I can't get published?" If a man
can't hit upon any other way of attracting attention, let him
dance on his head in the middle of the street; after that he may
hope to get consideration for his volume of poems. I am speaking
of men who wish to win reputation before they are toothless. 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
shout that you have been monstrously neglected, as you have. But
that happens when you are hoary and sapless, and when nothing
under the sun delights you.'

He lit a new cigarette.

'Now I, my dear girls, am not a man who can afford to wait. First
of all, my qualities are not of the kind which demand the
recognition of posterity. My writing is for to-day, most
distinctly hodiernal. It has no value save in reference to
to-day. The question is: How can I get the eyes of men fixed upon
me? The answer: By pretending I am quite independent 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 was about to do as he wished his sisters to believe. The
impulse to which he had finally yielded still kept its force;
indeed, was stronger than ever since the intimacy of lovers'
dialogue had revealed to him more of Marian's heart and mind. 
Undeniably he was in love. Not passionately, not with the
consuming desire which makes every motive seem paltry compared
with its own satisfaction; but still quite sufficiently in love
to have a great difficulty in pursuing his daily tasks. This did
not still the voice which bade him remember all the opportunities
and hopes he was throwing aside. Since the plighting of troth
with Marian he had been over to Wimbledon, to the house of his
friend and patron Mr Horace Barlow, and there he had again met
with Miss Rupert. This lady had no power whatever over his
emotions, but he felt assured that she regarded him with strong
interest. When he imagined the possibility of contracting a
marriage with Miss Rupert, who would make him at once a man of
solid means, his head drooped, and he wondered at his
precipitation. It had to be confessed that he was the victim of a
vulgar weakness. He had declared himself not of the first order
of progressive men.

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 dispose of! She, he felt sure, did not view him with
indifference. Was there not a touch of pique in the elaborate
irony with which she had spoken of his choice?--But it was idle
to look in that direction.

He was anxious on his sisters' account. They were clever girls,
and with energy might before long earn a bare subsistence; but it
began to be doubtful whether they would persevere in literary
work. Maud, it was clear, had conceived hopes of quite another
kind. Her intimacy with Mrs Lane was effecting a change in her
habits, her dress, even her modes of speech. A few days after
their establishment in the new lodgings, Jasper spoke 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 jacket in 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
this expenditure?'

'I really can't say, Jasper.'

'That's ambiguous, you know. Perhaps it means you won't allow
yourself to say?'

'No, Maud doesn't tell me about things of that kind.'

He took opportunities of investigating the matter, with the
result that some ten days after he sought private colloquy with
Maud herself. She had asked his opinion of a little paper she was
going to send to a ladies' illustrated weekly, and he summoned
her to his own room.

'I think this will do pretty well,' he said. 'There's rather too
much thought in it, perhaps. Suppose you knock out one or two of
the less obvious reflections, and substitute a wholesome
commonplace? You'll have a better chance, I assure you.'

'But I shall make it worthless.'

'No; you'll probably make it worth a guinea or so. You must
remember that the people who read women's papers are irritated,
simply irritated, by anything that isn't glaringly obvious. They
hate an unusual thought. The art of writing for such papers--
indeed, for the public in general--is to express vulgar thought
and feeling in a way that flatters the vulgar thinkers and
feelers. Just abandon your mind to it, and then let me see it
again.'

Maud took up the manuscript and glanced over it with a
contemptuous smile. Having observed her for a moment, Jasper
threw himself back in the 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
towards the 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,
but that way isn't yours. I believe he has a good deal of money,
but he has neither brains nor principle. There's no harm in your
observing the nature and habits of such individuals, but don't
allow yourself to forget that they are altogether beneath you.'

'There's no need whatever for you to teach me self-respect,'
replied the girl.

'I'm quite sure of that; but you are inexperienced. On the whole,
I do rather wish that you would go less frequently to Mrs Lane's.

It was rather an unfortunate choice of yours. Very much better if
you could have got on a good footing with the Barnabys. If you
are generally looked upon as belonging to the Lanes' set it will
make it difficult for you to get in with the better people.'

Maud was not to be drawn into argument, and Jasper could only
hope that his words would have some weight with her. The Mr
Dolomore in question was a young man of rather offensive type--
athletic, dandiacal, and half-educated. It astonished Jasper that
his sister could tolerate such an empty creature for a moment;
who has not felt the like surprise with regard to women's
inclinations? He talked with Dora about it, but she was 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 would be 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. He could not work so persistently as usual, and with wise
tactics he used the seasons of enforced leisure to extend his
acquaintance. Marian and he were together twice a week, in the
evening.

Of his old Bohemian associates he kept up intimate relations with
one only, and that was Whelpdale. This was in a measure
obligatory, for Whelpdale frequently came to see him, and it
would have been difficult to repel a man who was always making
known how highly he esteemed the privilege of Milvain's
friendship, and whose company on the whole was agreeable enough. 
At the present juncture Whelpdale's cheery flattery was a
distinct assistance; it helped to support Jasper in his
self-confidence, and to keep the brightest complexion on the
prospect to which he had committed himself.

'Whelpdale is anxious to make Marian's acquaintance,' Jasper said
to his sisters 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't be afraid; I shan't. I'll ask him to come for an hour, and
trust to his discretion not to bore us by staying too long.'

A note was posted to Whelpdale; he was invited to present himself
at eight o'clock, by which time Marian would have arrived. 
Jasper's room was to be the scene of the assembly, and punctual
to the minute the literary adviser appeared. He was dressed with
all the finish his wardrobe allowed, and his face beamed with
gratification; it was rapture to 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 at Jasper's old
lodgings. His eyes melted with tenderness as he approached Dora
and saw her smile of gracious recognition. By Maud he was
profoundly impressed. Marian inspired him with no awe, but he
fully appreciated the charm of her features and her modest
gravity. After all, it was to Dora that his eyes turned again
most naturally. He thought her exquisite, and, rather than be
long without a glimpse of her, he contented himself with fixing
his eyes on the hem of her dress and the boot-toe that
occasionally peeped from beneath it.

As was to be expected in such a circle, conversation soon turned
to the subject of literary struggles.

'I always feel it rather humiliating,' said Jasper, 'that I have
gone through no very serious hardships. It must be so gratifying
to say to young fellows who are just beginning:

"Ah, I remember when I was within an ace of starving to death,"
and then 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 few cents' worth of pea-nuts in the States.'

'What are pea-nuts, Mr Whelpdale?' asked Dora.

Delighted with the question, Whelpdale described that undesirable
species of food.

'It was in Troy,' he went on, 'Troy, N.Y. To think that a man
should live on pea-nuts in a town called Troy!'

'Tell us those adventures,' cried Jasper. 'It's a long time since
I heard them, and the girls will enjoy it vastly.'

Dora looked at him with such good-humoured interest that the
traveller needed no further persuasion.

'It came to pass in those days,' he began, 'that I inherited from
my godfather a small, a very small, sum of money. I was making
strenuous efforts to write for magazines, with absolutely no
encouragement. As everybody was talking just then of the
Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia, I conceived the brilliant
idea of crossing the Atlantic, in the hope that I might find
valuable literary material at the Exhibition--or Exposition, as
they called it--and elsewhere. I won't trouble 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, and thought
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, and I should like you to imagine what a journey of
a thousand miles by an emigrant train meant at that season. The
cars were deadly cold, and what with 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 would have burst with the
need of sleeping. At Cleveland, in Ohio, we had to wait several
hours in the night; I left the station and wandered about till I
found myself on the edge of a great cliff that looked over Lake
Erie. A magnificent picture! Brilliant moonlight, and all the
lake away to the horizon frozen and covered with snow. The clocks
struck two as I stood there.'

He was interrupted by the entrance of a servant who brought
coffee.

'Nothing could be more welcome,' cried Dora. 'Mr Whelpdale makes
one feel 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, with a courage which I now marvel at, I paid immediately
four dollars and a half for a week's board and lodging. "Well," I
said to myself, "for a week I am safe. If I earn nothing in that
time, at least I shall owe nothing when I have to turn out into
the streets." It was a rather dirty little boarding-house, in
Wabash Avenue, and occupied, as I soon found, almost entirely by
actors. There was no fireplace in my bedroom, and if there had
been I couldn't have afforded a fire. But that mattered little;
what I had to do was to set forth and discover some way of making
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 was
pleasant to be in this new region of the earth, and I went about
the town 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, and as I happened to light upon the biggest of them
first of all, I put on a bold face, marched in, asked if I could
see the editor. There was no difficulty whatever about this; I
was told to ascend by means of the "elevator" to an upper storey,
and there I walked into a comfortable little room where a
youngish man sat smoking a cigar at a table covered with print
and manuscript. I introduced myself, stated my business. "Can you
give me work of any kind on your paper?" "Well, what experience
have you had?" "None whatever." The editor smiled. "I'm very much
afraid you would 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 glad of a short story, if it's
good." This was a big daily paper; they have weekly supplements
of all conceivable kinds of matter. "Well," I said, "if I write a
story of English life, will you consider it?" "With pleasure." I
left him, and went out as if my existence were henceforth
provided for.'

He laughed heartily, and was joined by his hearers.

'It was a great thing to be permitted to write a story, but then-
-what story? I went down to the shore of Lake Michigan; walked
there for half an hour in an icy wind. Then I looked for a
stationer's shop, and laid out a few of my remaining cents in the
purchase of pen, ink, and paper--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, the temperature was below
zero; there was no choice but to sit down in the common room, a
place like the smoke-room of a poor commercial hotel in England.
A dozen men were gathered about the fire, smoking, talking,
quarrelling. Favourable conditions, you see, for literary effort.
But the story had to be written, and write it I did, sitting
there at the end of a deal table; I finished it in less than a
couple of days, a good long story, enough to fill three columns
of the huge paper. I stand amazed 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 to come 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 think your story will do. I'll put it into the Saturday
supplement. Call on Saturday morning and I'll remunerate you."
How well I remember that word "remunerate"! I have had an
affection for the word ever since. And remunerate me he did;
scribbled something on a scrap of paper, which I presented to the
cashier. The sum was eighteen dollars. Behold me saved!'

He sipped his coffee again.

'I have never come across an English editor who treated me with
anything like that consideration and general kindliness. How the
man had time, in his 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 a London newspaper! To begin with, one
couldn't see the editor at all. I shall always think with
profound gratitude of that man with the peaked brown 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,
writing for that same paper, and for others. But at length the
flow of my inspiration was checked; I had written myself out. And
I began to grow home-sick, wanted to get back to England. The
result was that I found myself one day in New York again, but
without money enough to pay for a passage home. I tried to write
one more story. But it happened, as I was looking over newspapers
in a reading-room, that I saw one of my Chicago tales copied into
a paper published at Troy. Now Troy was not very far off; and it
occurred to me that, if I went there, the editor of this paper
might be disposed to employ me, seeing he had a taste for my
fiction. And I went, up the Hudson by steamboat. On landing at
Troy I was 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 treated me 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 loathsome pea-nuts, buying a
handful in the street now and then. And I assure you I looked
starvation in the face.'

'What sort of a town is Troy?' asked Marian, speaking for the
first time.

'Don't ask me. They make straw hats there principally, and they
sell pea-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-
looking old man, sitting with an open Bible on his knees. He
explained to me that 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, "to such-and-such a boarding-house, and ask for Mr
Freeman Sterling. He is just starting on a business tour, and
wants a young man to accompany him." I didn't dream of asking
what the business was, but sped, as fast as my trembling limbs
would carry me, to the address he had mentioned. I asked for Mr
Freeman Sterling, and found him. He was a photographer, and his
business at present was to go about getting orders for the
reproducing of old portraits. A good-natured young fellow. He
said he liked the look of me, and on the spot engaged me to
assist him in a house-to-house visitation. He would pay for my
board and lodging, and give me a commission on all the orders I
obtained. Forthwith I sat down to a "square meal," and ate--my
conscience, how I ate!'

'You were not eminently successful in that pursuit, I think?'
said Jasper.

'I don't think I got half-a-dozen orders. Yet that good Samaritan
supported me for five or six weeks, whilst we travelled from Troy
to Boston. It couldn't go on; I was ashamed of myself; at last I
told him that we must part. Upon my word, I believe he would have
paid my expenses for another month; why, I can't understand. But
he had a vast respect for me because I had written in newspapers,
and I do seriously think that he didn't like to tell me I was a
useless fellow. We parted on 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,
begging the loan of just enough money to enable me to get home. 
The money came a day after I had seen Sterling off by train.'

An hour and a half quickly passed, and Jasper, who wished to have
a few minutes of Marian's company before it was time for her to
go, cast a significant 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
five minutes was gone, his face at the last moment expressing
blended delight and pain.

'Too good of you to have asked me to come,' he said with
gratitude to Jasper, who went to the door with him. 'You are a
happy man, by Jove! A happy man!'

When Jasper returned to the room his sisters had vanished. Marian
stood by the fire. He drew near to her, took her hands, and
repeated laughingly 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
had better 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 the
hundredth 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
like profanity. She hid her face against him, and whispered the
words that would have enraptured her had they but come from his
lips. The young man found it pleasant enough to be worshipped,
but he could not reply as she desired. A few phrases of
tenderness, and his love-vocabulary was exhausted; he even grew
weary when something more--the indefinite something--was vaguely
required of him.

'You are a dear, good, tender-hearted girl,' he said, stroking
her short, soft hair, which was exquisite to the hand. 'Now go
and get ready.'

She left him, but stood for a few moments on the landing before
going to the 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 rain strengthened his inclination to sit by the
study fire and talk at large in a tone of flattering benignity.

'Those paragraphs on the Rota Club strike me as singularly
happy,' he

said, tapping the manuscript with the mouthpiece of his pipe.
'Perhaps you might say a word or two more about Cyriac Skinner;
one mustn't be too allusive with general readers, their ignorance
is incredible. But there is so little to add to this paper--so
little to alter--that I couldn't feel justified in sending it as
my own work. I think it is altogether too good to appear
anonymously. You must sign it, Marian, and have the credit that
is due to you.'

'Oh, do you think it's worth while?' answered the girl, who was
far from easy under this praise. Of late there had been too much
of it; it made her regard her father with suspicions which
increased her sense of trouble in keeping a momentous secret from
him.

'Yes, yes; you had better sign it. I'll undertake there's no
other girl of your age who could turn out such a piece of work. I
think we may fairly say that your apprenticeship is at an end. 
Before long,' he smiled anxiously, 'I may be counting upon you as
a valued contributor. And that reminds me; would you be disposed
to call with me on the Jedwoods at their house next Sunday?'

Marian understood the intention that lay beneath this proposal. 
She saw that her father would not allow himself to seem
discouraged by the silence she maintained on the great subject
which awaited her decision. He was endeavouring gradually to
involve her in his ambitions, to carry her forward by insensible
steps. It pained her to observe the suppressed eagerness 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 her novels, but she is a woman of some intellect. Let me book
you for next Sunday; surely I have a claim to your companionship
now and then.'

Marian kept silence. Yule puffed at his pipe, then said with a
speculative air:

'I suppose it has never even occurred to you to try your hand at
fiction?'

'I haven't the least inclination that way.'

'You would probably do something rather good if you tried. But I
don't urge it. My own efforts in that line were a mistake, I'm
disposed to think. Not that the things were worse than multitudes
of books which nowadays go down with the many-headed. But I never
quite knew what I wished to be at in fiction. I wasn't content to
write a mere narrative of the exciting kind, yet I couldn't hit
upon subjects of intellectual cast that altogether satisfied me. 
Well, well; I have tried my hand at most kinds of literature. 
Assuredly I merit the title of man of letters.'

'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 of that, when was the word
"literature" first used in our modern sense to signify a body of
writing? In Johnson's day it was pretty much the equivalent of
our "culture." You remember his saying, "It is surprising how
little literature people have." His dictionary, I believe,
defines the word as "learning, skill in letters"--nothing else.'

It was characteristic of Yule to dwell with gusto on little
points such as this; he prosed for a quarter of an hour, with a
pause every now and then whilst he kept his pipe alight.

'I think Letters wouldn't be amiss,' he said at length, returning
to the suggestion which he wished to keep before Marian's mind. 
'It would clearly indicate our scope. No articles on bimetallism,
as Quarmby said--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
his mind to write to her father. Since it was determined that her
money could not be devoted to establishing a review, the truth
ought to be confessed 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 her reply could no longer be
postponed; to hold the money merely for her own benefit would
have seemed to her too selfish, however slight her faith in the
project on which her father built so exultantly. When it was
declared that she had accepted an offer of marriage, a sacrifice
of that kind could no longer be expected of her. Opposition must
direct itself against 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. 
He observed her with the closest study day after day. Her health
seemed to have improved; after a long spell of work she had not
the air of despondent weariness which had sometimes irritated
him, sometimes made him uneasy. She was more womanly in her
bearing and speech, and exercised an independence, appropriate
indeed to her years, but such as had not formerly declared itself
The question with her father was whether these things resulted
simply from her consciousness of possessing what to her seemed
wealth, or something else had happened of the nature that he
dreaded. An alarming symptom was the increased attention she paid
to her personal appearance; its indications were not at all
prominent, but Yule, on the watch for such things, did not
overlook them. True, this also might mean nothing but a sense of
relief from narrow means; a girl would naturally adorn herself a
little under the circumstances.

His doubts came to an end two days after that proposal of a title
for the new review. As he sat in his study the servant brought
him a letter delivered 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
frankness and as simply as I can on a subject which has the
deepest interest for me, and which I trust you will consider in
that spirit of kindness with which you received me when we first
met at Finden.

'On the occasion of that meeting I had the happiness of being
presented to Miss Yule. She was not totally a stranger to me; at
that time I used to work pretty regularly in the Museum Reading-
room, and there I had seen Miss Yule, had ventured to observe her
at moments with a young man's attention, and had felt my interest
aroused, though I did not know her name. To find her at Finden
seemed to me a very unusual and delightful piece of good fortune.

When I came back from my holiday I was conscious of a new purpose
in life, 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.
Already there had been friendly correspondence between Miss Yule
and the two girls, and now that the opportunity offered they
began to see each other frequently. As I was often at my sisters'
lodgings it came about that I met Miss Yule there from time to
time. In this way was confirmed my attachment to your daughter. 
The better I knew her, the more worthy I found her of reverence
and love.

'Would it not have been natural for me to seek a renewal of the
acquaintance with yourself which had been begun in the country?
Gladly I should have done so. Before my sisters' coming to London
I did call one day at your house with the desire of seeing you,
but unfortunately you were not at home. Very soon after that I
learnt to my extreme regret that my connection with The Current
and its editor would make any repetition of my visit very
distasteful to you. I was conscious of nothing in my literary
life that could justly offend you--and at this day 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 most
desired in life had become unattainable. My means were very
slight; I had no choice but to take such work as offered, and
mere chance had put me into a position which threatened ruin to
the hope that you would some day regard me as a not unworthy
suitor for your daughter's hand.

'Circumstances have led me to a step which at that time seemed
impossible. Having discovered that Miss Yule returned the feeling
I entertained for her, I have asked her to be my wife, and she
has consented. 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 her plead for me, seeing that only by an unhappy
chance have I been kept aloof from you? Marian and I are equally
desirous that you should approve our union; without that
approval, indeed, something will be lacking 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 the
gloomiest brooding by Marian's entrance. She came towards him
timidly, with pale countenance. He had glanced round to see who
it was, but at once 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 it is 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 any schemer who takes your fancy. It would be
folly in me to discuss the question. I recognise your right to
have as many secrets as may seem good to you. To talk of
forgiveness is the merest affectation.'

'No, I spoke sincerely. If it had seemed possible I should gladly
have let you know about this from the first. That would have been
natural and right. But you know what prevented me.'

'I do. I will try to hope that even a sense of shame had
something to do with it.'

'That had nothing to do with it,' said Marian, coldly. 'I have
never had reason to feel ashamed.'

'Be it so. I trust you may never have reason to feel repentance. 
May I ask 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
piece of 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 that is my reply to his letter.'

'I don't think that is the behaviour of a gentleman,' said
Marian, her eyes 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 the practical result of my dislike. From the day of your
marriage with that man you are nothing to me. I shall distinctly
forbid you to enter my house. You make your choice, and go your
own way. I shall hope never to see 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 shaking
voice, '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
be nothing to me how soon you go. You have given proof that I am
of less than no account to you, and doubtless the sooner we cease
to afflict each other the better.'

It seemed as if the effect of these conflicts with her father
were to develop in Marian a vehemence of temper which at length
matched that of which Yule was the victim. Her face, outlined to
express a gentle gravity, was now haughtily passionate; nostrils
and lips thrilled with wrath, and her eyes were magnificent in
their dark fieriness.

'You shall not need to tell me that again,' she answered, and
immediately left him.

She went into the sitting-room, where Mrs Yule was awaiting the
result of the interview.

'Mother,' she said, with stern gentleness, 'this house can no
longer be a home for me. I shall go away to-morrow, and live in
lodgings until the time 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 to me, darling--tell me what he's said--don't look like
that!'

She clung to the girl despairingly, terrified by a transformation
she would 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 same to each other as always. But father has treated me
too unjustly. I can't live near him after this.'

'He doesn't mean it,' sobbed her mother. 'He says what he's sorry
for as soon as the words are spoken. He loves you too much, my
darling, to drive you away like that. It's his disappointment,
Marian; that's all it is. 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 the disappointment makes him that he
doesn't know what he's saying. Only wait and see; he'll tell you
he didn't mean it, I know he will. Only leave him alone till he's
had time to get over it. Do forgive him this once.'

'It's like a madman to talk in that way,' said the girl,
releasing herself. 'Whatever his disappointment, I can't endure
it. I have worked hard for him, very hard, ever since I was old
enough, and he owes me some kindness, some respect. It would be
different if he had the least reason for his hatred of Jasper. It
is nothing but insensate prejudice, the result of his quarrels
with other people. What right has he to insult 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
rights nor feelings. However wrong the choice I had made, this
was not the way to behave to me. His disappointment? Is there a
natural law, then, that a daughter must be sacrificed to her
father? My husband will have as much need of that money as my
father has, and he will be able to make far better use of it. It
was wrong even to ask me to give my money away like that. I have
a right to happiness, as well as other women.'

She was shaken with hysterical passion, the natural consequence
of this outbreak in a nature such as hers. Her mother, in the
meantime, grew stronger by force of profound love that at length
had found its opportunity of expression. Presently she persuaded
Marian to come upstairs with her, and before long the
overburdened breast was relieved by a flow of tears. But Marian's
purpose remained unshaken.

'It is impossible for us to see each other day after day,' she
said when calmer. 'He can't control his anger against me, and I
suffer too much when I am made to feel like this. I shall take a
lodging not far off where 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
comes to me! Dora Milvain can lend me all I shall want; it won't
make the least difference to her. I must have my money very soon
now.'

At about half-past eleven Mrs Yule went downstairs, and entered
the study.

'If you are coming to speak about Marian,' said her husband,
turning upon her with savage eyes, 'you can save your breath. I
won't hear her name mentioned.'

She faltered, but overcame her weakness.

'You are driving her away from us, Alfred. It isn't right! Oh, it
isn't right!'

'If she didn't go I should, so understand that! And if I go, you
have seen the last of me. Make your choice, make your choice!'

He had yielded himself to that perverse frenzy which impels a man
to acts and utterances most wildly at conflict with reason. His
sense of the monstrous irrationality to which he was committed
completed what was begun in him by the bitterness of a great
frustration.

'If I wasn't a poor, helpless woman,' replied his wife, sinking
upon a chair and crying without raising her hands to her face,
'I'd go and live with her till she was married, and then make a
home for myself. But I haven't a penny, and I'm too old to earn
my own living; I should only be a burden to her.'

'That shall be no hindrance,' cried Yule. 'Go, by all means; you
shall have a sufficient allowance as long as I can continue to
work, and when I'm past that, your lot will be no harder than
mine. Your daughter had the 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 to make what I can of the
rest of my life; perhaps I may save a few years still from the
curse brought upon me by my own folly.'

It was idle to address him. Mrs Yule went into the sitting-room,
and there sat weeping for an hour. Then she extinguished the
lights, and crept upstairs in silence.

Yule passed the night in the study. Towards morning he slept for
an hour or two, just long enough to let the fire go out and to
get thoroughly chilled. When he opened his eyes a muddy twilight
had begun to show at the window; the sounds of a clapping door
within the house, which had probably awakened him, made him aware
that the servant was already up.

He drew up the blind. There seemed to be a frost, for the
moisture of last night had all disappeared, and the yard upon
which the window looked was unusually clean. With a glance at the
black grate he extinguished 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 the
same time to shake off if possible, the nightmare of his rage and
hopelessness. He had no distinct feeling with regard to his
behaviour of the past evening; he neither justified nor condemned
himself; he did not ask himself whether Marian would to-day leave
her home, or if her mother would take him at his word and also
depart. These seemed to be details which his brain was too weary
to consider. But he wished to be away from the wretchedness of
his house, and to let things go as they would whilst he was
absent. As he closed the front door he felt as if he were
escaping from an atmosphere that threatened to stifle him.

His steps directing themselves more by habit than with any
deliberate choice, he walked towards Camden Road. When he had
reached Camden Town railway-station he was attracted by a coffee-
stall; a draught of the steaming liquid, no matter its quality,
would help his blood to circulate. He laid down his penny, and
first warmed his hands by holding them round the cup. Whilst
standing thus he noticed that the objects at which he looked had
a blurred appearance; his eyesight seemed to have become worse
this morning. Only a result of his insufficient sleep perhaps. He
took up a scrap of newspaper that lay on the stall; he could read
it, but one of his eyes was certainly weaker than the other;
trying to see with that one alone, he found that everything
became misty.

He laughed, as if the threat of new calamity were an amusement in
his present state of mind. And at the same moment his look
encountered that of a man who had drawn near to him, a shabbily-
dressed man of middle age, whose face did not correspond with his
attire.

'Will you give me a cup of coffee?' asked the stranger, in a low
voice and with shamefaced manner. 'It would be a great kindness.'

The accent was that of good breeding. Yule hesitated in surprise
for a moment, 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 of those solid slices of bread and butter.'

The stall-keeper was just extinguishing his lights; the frosty
sky showed a pale gleam of sunrise.

'Hard times, I'm afraid,' remarked Yule, as his beneficiary began
to eat the luncheon with much appearance of grateful appetite.

'Very hard times.' He had a small, thin, colourless countenance,
with large, pathetic eyes; a slight moustache and curly beard. 
His clothes were such as would be worn by some very poor clerk. 
'I came here an hour ago,' he continued, 'with the hope of
meeting an acquaintance who generally goes from this station at a
certain time. I have missed him, and in doing so I missed what I
had thought my one chance of a breakfast. 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
know worse.'

'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 are usually at these places; they certainly have no money
to spare. I was thinking of making an appeal at a baker's shop,
but it is very likely I should have been handed over to a
policeman. Indeed I don't know what I should have done; the last
point of endurance was almost reached. I have no 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,
but with a sort of detached curiosity concerning the difficulties
of his position.

'You can find nothing to do?' said the man of letters.

'Positively nothing. By profession I am a surgeon, but it's a
long time since I practised. Fifteen years ago I was comfortably
established at Wakefield; I was married and had one child. But my
capital ran out, and my practice, never anything to boast of,
fell to nothing. I succeeded in getting a place as an assistant
to a man at Chester. We sold up, and started 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
near Crewe in that year--it was 1869? I and my wife and child
were alone in a carriage that was splintered. One moment I was
talking with them, in fairly 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 a broken arm, that was
all. Well, they were killed on the instant; they didn'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,'
continued the man. 'Unhappily, I didn't lose my senses at the
moment; it took two or three weeks to bring me to that pass. But
I recovered, and there has been no return of the disease. Don't
suppose that I am still of unsound mind. There can be little
doubt that poverty will bring me to that again in the end; but as
yet I am perfectly sane. I have supported myself in various ways.

No, I don't drink; I see the question in your face. But I am
physically weak, and, to quote Mrs Gummidge, "things go contrairy
with me." There's no use lamenting; this breakfast has helped me
on, and I feel in much better 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 with
cataract, 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
certain questions with reference to his visual sensations.

'I hardly like to propose it,' he said at length, 'but if you
were willing to accompany me to a very poor room that I have not
far from here, I could make the examination formally.'

'I will go with you.'

They turned away from the stall, and the ex-surgeon led into a
by-street. Yule wondered at himself for caring to seek such a
singular consultation, but he had a pressing desire to hear some
opinion as to the state of his eyes. Whatever the stranger might
tell him, he would afterwards have recourse to a man of
recognised standing; but just now companionship of any kind was
welcome, and the poor hungry fellow, with his dolorous life-
story, had made appeal to his sympathies. To give money 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't inviting, but the people are honest, so far as I know. My
room is at the top.'

'Lead on,' answered Yule.

In the room they entered was nothing noticeable; it was only the
poorest possible kind of bed-chamber, or all but the poorest
possible. Daylight had now succeeded to dawn, yet the first thing
the stranger did was to strike a match and light a candle.

'Will you kindly place yourself with your back to the window?' he
said. 'I am going to apply what is called the catoptric test. You
have probably 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's eye it was possible, he said, to decide whether
cataract had taken hold upon the organ.

For a minute or two he conducted his experiment carefully, and
Yule was at no loss to read the result upon his face.

'How long have you suspected that something was wrong?' the
surgeon asked, 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 have
discovered.'

'The back of the right lens is affected beyond a doubt.'

'That means, I take it, that before very long I shall be
practically blind?'

'I don't like to speak with an air of authority. After all, I am
only a surgeon who has bungled himself into pauperdom. You must
see a competent man; 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
would have gone far, for the moment, to counteract his trouble. 
But not even this poor satisfaction was to be granted him; to his
hearer the name evidently conveyed nothing.

'See a competent man, Mr Yule. Science has advanced rapidly since
the days when I was a student; I am only able to assure you of
the existence of disease.'

They talked for half an hour, until both were shaking with cold.
Then Yule thrust his hand into his pocket.

'You will of course allow me to offer such return as I am able,'
he said. '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. The stranger expressed his gratitude.

'My name is Duke,' he said, 'and I was christened Victor--
possibly because I was doomed to defeat in life. I wish you could
have associated the 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 had
disappeared; 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. He never questioned the accuracy of
the stranger's judgment, and he hoped for no mitigation of the
doom it threatened. His life was over--and wasted.

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 to whosoever had pity on him.

It was a curious effect of the imagination that since coming into
the open air again his eyesight seemed to be far worse than
before. He irritated his nerves of vision by incessant tests,
closing first one eye then the other, comparing his view of
nearer objects with the appearance of others more remote,
fancying an occasional pain--which could have had no connection
with his disease. The literary projects which had stirred so
actively in his mind twelve hours ago were become an
insubstantial memory; to the one crushing blow had succeeded a
second, which was fatal. He could hardly recall what special
piece of work he had been engaged upon last night. His thoughts
were such as if actual blindness had really fallen upon him.

At half-past eight he entered the house. Mrs Yule was standing at
the foot of the stairs; she looked at him, then turned away
towards the kitchen. He went upstairs. On coming down again he
found breakfast ready as usual, and seated himself at the table. 
Two letters waited for him there; he opened them.

When Mrs Yule came into the room a few moments later she was
astonished by a burst of loud, mocking laughter from her husband,
excited, as it appeared, 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
bidden enter, and found Marian packing clothes in a trunk. The
girl looked as if 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 of
apprehension, 'and he says you are to read this letter.'

Marian took the sheet, unfolded it, and read. As soon as she had
reached the end she looked wildly at her mother, seemed to
endeavour vainly to speak, then fell to the floor in
unconsciousness. The mother was only just able to break the
violence of her fall. Having snatched a pillow and placed it
beneath Marian's head, she rushed to the door and called loudly
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 I do what to do when a person faints.'

The swoon lasted for several minutes.

'What's in the letter?' asked Mrs Yule whilst chafing the
lifeless hands.

'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's
executors. It seemed likely that the demand upon Turberville &
Co. for an account of the deceased partner's share in their
business had helped to bring about a crisis in affairs that were
already unstable. Something might be recovered in the legal
proceedings that would result, but there were circumstances which
made the outlook very doubtful.

As Marian came to herself her father left the room. An hour
afterwards Mrs Yule summoned him again to the girl's chamber; he
went, and found Marian 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
their debts?'

'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
the house was, of course, abandoned; she was the prisoner of
fate. Mrs Yule would have tended her with unremitting devotion,
but the girl desired to be alone. At times she lay in silent
anguish; frequently her tears broke forth, and she sobbed until
weariness overcame her. In the afternoon she wrote a letter to Mr
Holden, begging that she might be kept constantly acquainted 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
for you.'

'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
raise the cup to her mouth with trembling hand.

'This won't make any difference to you--in the end, my darling,'
the mother ventured to say at length, alluding for the first time
to the effect 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 to the Milvains' lodgings. In her agitation she inquired
for Mr Milvain, instead of for Dora, as was her habit; it
mattered very little, for the landlady and her servants were of
course under no misconception regarding this young lady's visits.

Jasper was at home, and working. He had but to look at Marian to
see that something wretched had been going on at her home;
naturally he supposed it the result of his letter to Mr Yule.

'Your father has been behaving brutally,' he said, holding her
hands and gazing anxiously at her.

'There is something far worse than that, Jasper.'

'Worse?'

She threw off her outdoor things, then took the fatal letter from
her pocket and handed it to him. Jasper gave a whistle of
consternation, and looked vacantly from the paper to Marian's
countenance.

'How the deuce comes this about?' he exclaimed. 'Why, wasn't your
uncle aware 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 the letter come?'

'This morning.'

'And you have been fretting over it all day. But come, we must
keep up our courage; you may get something substantial out of the
scoundrels still.'

Even whilst he spoke his eyes wandered absently. On the last word
his voice failed, and he fell into abstraction. Marian's look was
fixed upon him, and he became conscious of it. He tried to smile.

'What were you writing?' she asked, making involuntary diversion
from the calamitous theme.

'Rubbish for the Will-o'-the-Wisp. Listen to this paragraph about
English concert audiences.'

It was as necessary to him as to her to have a respite before the
graver discussion began. He seized gladly the opportunity she
offered, and read several pages of manuscript, slipping from one
topic to another. To hear him one would have supposed that he was
in his ordinary mood; he laughed at his own jokes and points.

'They'll have to pay me more,' was the remark with which he
closed. 'I only wanted to make myself indispensable to them, and
at the end of this year I shall feel pretty sure of that. They'll
have to give me two guineas 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 me I 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
that Harrington article myself. If I do that, I shall have a
right to the money, I think. It will at least be eight guineas. 
And why shouldn't I go 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
forgetting all about it.'

'He refused to answer.'

Marian avoided closer description of what had happened. It was
partly that she felt ashamed of her father's unreasoning wrath,
and feared lest Jasper's pride might receive an injury from which
she in turn would suffer; partly that she was unwilling to pain
her lover by making display 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 rather
stiffly, and threw his head back.

'You know the reason, dear. That prejudice has entered into his
very life. It is not you he dislikes; that is impossible. He
thinks of you only as he would of anyone connected with Mr
Fadge.'

'Well, well; it isn't a matter of much moment. But what I have in
mind is this. Will it be possible for you, whilst living at home,
to take a position of independence, and say that you are going to
work for your own profit?'

'At least I might claim half the money I can earn. And I was
thinking more of--'

'Of what?'

'When I am your wife, I may be able to help. I could earn thirty
or forty 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 as expenses 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
his legs, 'that I must move heaven and earth to improve my
position. You know that my faith in myself is not small; there's
no knowing what I might do if I used every effort. But, upon my
word, I don't see much hope of our being able to marry for a year
or two under the most favourable circumstances.'

'No; I quite understand that.'

'Can you promise to keep a little love for me all that time?' he
asked with 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
between lovers. Marian looked at him fearfully. Was it possible
for him in truth so to misunderstand her? He had never satisfied
her heart's desire of infinite love; she never spoke with him but
she was oppressed with the suspicion that his love was not as
great as hers, and, worse still, that he did not wholly
comprehend the self-surrender which she strove to make plain 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 it were necessary?'

'It mustn't be years, that's very certain. I think it
preposterous for a man to hold a woman bound in that hopeless
way.'

'But what question is there of holding me bound? Is love
dependent on fixed engagements? Do you feel that, if we agreed to
part, your love would 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
lest the change of her circumstances should make a change in his
feeling. Yet that was in her mind. The existence of such a fear
meant, of course, that she did not entirely trust him, and viewed
his character as something less than noble. Very seldom indeed is
a woman free from such doubts, however absolute her love; and
perhaps it is just as rare for a man to credit in his heart all
the praises he speaks of his beloved. Passion is compatible with
a great many of these imperfections of intellectual esteem. To
see more clearly into Jasper's personality was, for Marian, to
suffer the more intolerable dread lest she should lose him.

She went to his side. Her heart ached because, in her great
misery, he had 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 desperately
matter-of-fact; it comes out even in their love-talk.'

Marian was not without perception of the irony of such an opinion
on Jasper's lips.

'I am content for you to think so,' she said. 'There is only one
fact in my 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
you think me capable of forsaking you because you have perhaps
lost your money?'

The question made her wince. If delicacy had held her tongue, it
had no control 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
his words was genuine enough. Her touch, the perfume of her
passion, had their exalting effect upon him. He felt in all
sincerity that to forsake her 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 of the pretty smooth course I have been looking forward
to. But I don't fear 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 had brought 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
had rather not live at all than never possess them. Let me give
you a useful hint; if ever I seem to you to flag, just remind me
of the difference between these lodgings and a richly furnished
house. Just hint to me that So-and-so, the journalist, goes about
in his carriage, and can give his wife a box at the theatre. Just
ask me, casually, how I should like to run over to the Riviera
when London fogs are thickest. You understand? 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
fuller life. Oh, how cruel that I--that we are robbed in this
way! You can have no idea how terrible a blow it was to me when I
read that letter this morning.'

She was on the point of confessing that she had swooned, but
something restrained her.

'Your father can hardly be sorry,' said Jasper.

'I think he speaks more harshly than he feels. The worst was,
that until he got your letter he had kept hoping that I would let
him have the money for a new review.'

'Well, for the present I prefer to believe that the money isn't
all lost. If the blackguards pay ten shillings in the pound you
will get two thousand five hundred out of them, and that's
something. But how do you stand? 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. Put
yourself in communication with this Mr Holden. I'll have a look
into the law on the subject. Let us hope as long as we can. By
Jove! There's no other 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
of such a misfortune at once. We must hold on to the last rag of
hope, and in the meantime I'll half work myself to death.  Are
you going to see the girls?'

'Not to-night. You must tell them.'

'Dora will cry her eyes out. Upon my word, Maud'll have to draw
in her horns. 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 so recently.

'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 much as you ever will by magazine pot-boilers. A
girl like you. Oh, you might manage, I should think.'

'A girl like me?'

'Well, I mean that love-scenes, and that kind of thing, would be
very much in your line.'Marian was not given to blushing; very
few girls are, even on strong provocation. For the first time
Jasper saw her cheeks colour deeply, and it was with anything but
pleasure. His words were coarsely 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 had
excited 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 me in it, if you like, and make me an insensible masculine. 
The experiment is worth a try I'm certain. At all events do a few
chapters, and let me see them. A chapter needn't take you more
than a couple of hours I should think.'

Marian refrained from giving any promise. She seemed irresponsive
to his caresses. That thought which at times gives trouble to all
women of strong emotions was working in her: had she been too
demonstrative, and made her love too cheap? Now that Jasper's
love might be endangered, it behoved her to use any arts which
nature prompted. And so, for once, he was not wholly satisfied
with her, and at their parting he wondered what subtle change had
affected her manner to him.

'Why didn't Marian come to speak a word?' said Dora, when her
brother entered 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
should have 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 in Providence.'

The girls were appalled. Maud, who was reading by the fireside,
let her book 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,'
replied her brother caustically. He was able now to give vent to
the feeling which in Marian's presence was suppressed, partly out
of consideration for 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
way and paced the room.

'Oh, do you think we need?' said Dora, with unusual protest
against economy.

'Remember that it's a matter for your own consideration,' Jasper
replied at 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
younger girl.

'It is so very much nicer,' she replied with some embarrassment.

He bit the ends of his moustache, and his eyes glared at the
impalpable thwarting force that to imagination seemed to fill the
air about him.

'A lesson against being over-hasty,' he muttered, again kicking
the footstool.

'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't have been such an ass as to talk of marriage without
the prospect of something 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
brother with an involuntary laugh. 'You would have a brilliant
reputation for wit.'

He walked about and ejaculated splenetic phrases on the subject
of his ill-luck.

'We are here, and here we must stay,' was the final expression of
his mood. 'I have only one superstition that I know of and that
forbids me to take a step backward. If I went into poorer
lodgings again I should feel it was inviting defeat. I shall stay
as long as the position is tenable. 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,'
said Dora.

'Perhaps not. But as I have made up my mind to be considerably
better off 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 going to bed.'

And nodding a good-night he left them.

When Marian entered the house and went upstairs, she was followed
by her mother. On Mrs Yule's countenance there was a new
distress, she had been crying 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 a long silence. 'He says he is going to be blind. There's
something the matter with his eyes, and he went to see someone
about it this afternoon. 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
the workhouse, 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
she had lain down, but her sleep came to an end in the early
morning, when the pressure of evil dreams forced her back to
consciousness of real sorrows and cares. A fog-veiled sky added
its weight to crush her spirit; at the hour when she usually rose
it was still all but as dark as midnight. Her mother's voice at
the door begged her to lie and rest until it grew lighter, and
she willingly complied, feeling indeed scarcely capable of
leaving her bed.

The thick black fog penetrated every corner of the house. It
could be smelt and tasted. Such an atmosphere produces low-
spirited languor even in the vigorous and hopeful; to those
wasted by suffering it is the very reek of the bottomless pit,
poisoning the soul. Her face colourless as the pillow, Marian lay
neither sleeping nor awake, in blank extremity of woe; tears now
and then ran down her cheeks, and at times her body was shaken
with a throe such as might result from anguish of the torture
chamber.

Midway in the morning, when it was still necessary to use
artificial light, she went down to the sitting-room. The course
of household life had been thrown into confusion by the disasters
of the last day or two; Mrs Yule, who occupied herself almost
exclusively with questions of economy, cleanliness, and routine,
had not the heart to pursue her round of duties, and this
morning, though under normal circumstances she would have been
busy in 'turning out' the dining-room, she moved aimlessly and
despondently about the house, giving the servant contradictory
orders and then blaming herself for her absent-mindedness. In the
troubles of her husband and her daughter she had scarcely greater
share--so far as active participation went--than if she had been
only a faithful old housekeeper; she could only grieve and lament
that such discord had come between the two whom she loved, and
that in herself was no power even to solace their distresses. 
Marian found her standing in the passage, with a duster in one
hand and a hearth-brush in the other.

'Your father has asked to see you when you come down,' Mrs Yule
whispered.

'I'll go to him.'

Marian entered the study. Her father was not in his place at the
writing-table, nor yet seated in the chair which he used when he
had leisure to draw up to the fireside; he sat in front of one of
the bookcases, bent forward as if seeking a volume, but his chin
was propped upon his hand, and he had maintained this position
for a long time. He did not immediately move. When he raised his
head Marian saw that he looked older, and she noticed--or fancied
she did--that there was some unfamiliar 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 my position and prospects, and it is necessary
to speak on the subject. I won'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
learnt it from her, I dare say.'

'Yes, with much grief.'

'Thank you, but we will leave aside that aspect of the matter. 
For a few more months I may be able to pursue my ordinary work,
but before long I shall certainly be disabled from earning my
livelihood by literature. Whether this will in any way affect
your own position I don't know. Will you have the goodness to
tell me whether you still purpose leaving this house?'

'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
house terminates at the end of next March, and I shall certainly
not be justified in renewing it. If you are able to provide for
yourself in any way it will be sufficient for me to rent two
rooms after that. This disease which affects my eyes may be only
temporary; in due time an operation may render it possible for me
to work again. In hope of that I shall probably have to borrow a
sum of money on the security of my life insurance, though in the
first instance I shall make the most of what I can 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
the disease prove irremediable, I must prepare myself for the
worst. What I wish to say is, that it will be better if from
to-day you consider yourself as working for your own subsistence.
So long as I remain here this house is of course your home; there
can be no question between us of trivial expenses. But it is
right that you should understand what my prospects are. I shall
soon have no home to offer you; you must look to your own efforts
for support.'

'I am prepared to do that, father.'

'I think you will have no great difficulty in earning enough for
yourself. I have done my best to train you in writing for the
periodicals, and your natural abilities are considerable. If you
marry, I wish you a happy life. The end of mine, of many long
years of unremitting toil, is failure and destitution.'

Marian sobbed.

'That's all I had to say,' concluded her father, his voice
tremulous with self-compassion. 'I will only beg that there may
be no further profitless discussion between us. This room is open
to you, as always, and I see no reason why we should not converse
on subjects disconnected with 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. I prefer 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
for yourself with editors. Your name will be an assistance to
you. My advice is, that you send your "Harrington" article
forthwith to Trenchard, writing him a note. If you desire my help
in the suggestion of new subjects, I will do my best to be of
use.'

Marian withdrew. She went to the sitting-room, where an ochreous
daylight was beginning to diffuse itself and to render the lamp
superfluous. With the dissipation of the fog rain had set in; its
splashing upon the muddy pavement was audible.

Mrs Yule, still with a duster in her hand, sat on the sofa. 
Marian took a place beside her. They talked in low, broken tones,
and wept together over their miseries.



CHAPTER XXXI. A RESCUE AND A SUMMONS

The chances are that you have neither understanding nor sympathy
for men such 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 angrily contemptuous by their failure to get on; why
don't they bestir themselves, 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 Mr Jasper Milvain?

But try to imagine a personality wholly unfitted for the rough
and tumble of the world's labour-market. From the familiar point
of view these men were worthless; view them in possible relation
to a humane order of Society, and they are admirable citizens. 
Nothing is easier than to condemn a type of character which is
unequal to the coarse demands of life as it suits the average
man. These two were richly endowed with the kindly and the
imaginative virtues; if fate threw them amid incongruous
circumstances, is their endowment of less value? You scorn their
passivity; but it was their nature and their merit to be passive.

Gifted with independent means, each of them would have taken
quite a different aspect in your eyes. The sum of their faults
was their inability to earn money; but, indeed, that inability
does not call for unmingled disdain.

It was very weak of Harold Biffen to come so near perishing of
hunger as he did in the days when he was completing his novel. 
But he would have vastly preferred to eat and be satisfied had
any method of obtaining food presented itself to him. He did not
starve for the pleasure of the thing, I assure you. Pupils were
difficult to get just now, and writing that he had sent to
magazines had returned upon his hands. He pawned such of his
possessions as he could spare, and he reduced his meals to the
minimum. Nor was he uncheerful in his cold garret and with his
empty stomach, for 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' drew steadily to an end.

He worked very slowly. The book would make perhaps two volumes of
ordinary novel size, but he had laboured over it for many months,
patiently, affectionately, scrupulously. Each sentence was as
good as he could make it, harmonious to the ear, with words of
precious meaning skilfully set. Before sitting down to a chapter
he planned it minutely in his mind; then he wrote a rough draft
of it; then he elaborated the thing phrase by phrase. He had no
thought of whether such toil would be recompensed in coin of the
realm; nay, it was his conviction that, if with difficulty
published, it could scarcely bring him money. The work must be
significant, that was all he cared for. And he had no society of
admiring friends to encourage him. Reardon understood the merit
of the workmanship, but frankly owned that the book was repulsive
to him. To the public it would be worse than repulsive--tedious,
utterly uninteresting. No matter; it drew to its end.

The day of its completion was made memorable by an event
decidedly more exciting, even to the author.

At eight o'clock in the evening there remained half a page to be
written. Biffen had already worked about nine hours, and on
breaking off to appease his hunger he doubted whether to finish
to-night or to postpone the last lines till tomorrow. The
discovery that only a small crust of bread lay in the cupboard
decided him to write no more; he would have to go out to purchase
a loaf and that was disturbance.

But stay; had he enough money? He searched his pockets. Two pence
and two farthings; no more.

You are probably not aware that at bakers' shops in the poor
quarters the price of the half-quartern loaf varies sometimes
from week to week. At present, as Biffen knew, it was twopence
three-farthings, a common figure. But Harold did not possess
three farthings, only two. Reflecting, he remembered to have
passed yesterday a shop where the bread was marked twopence
halfpenny; it was a shop in a very obscure little street off
Hampstead Road, some distance from Clipstone Street. Thither he
must repair. He had only his hat and a muffler to put on, for
again he was wearing his overcoat in default of the under one,
and his ragged umbrella to take from the corner; so he went
forth.

To his delight the twopence halfpenny announcement was still in
the baker's window. He obtained a loaf wrapped it in the piece of
paper he had brought--small bakers decline to supply paper for
this purpose--and strode joyously homeward again.

Having eaten, he looked longingly at his manuscript. But half a
page more. Should he not finish it to-night? The temptation was
irresistible. He sat down, wrought with unusual speed, and at
half-past ten wrote with magnificent flourish 'The End.'

His fire was out and he had neither coals nor wood. But his feet
were frozen into lifelessness. Impossible to go to bed like this;
he must take another turn in the streets. It would suit his
humour to ramble a while. Had it not been so late he would have
gone to see Reardon, who expected the communication of this
glorious news.

So again he locked his door. Half-way downstairs he stumbled over
something or somebody in the dark.

'Who is that?' he cried.

The answer was a loud snore. Biffen went to the bottom of the
house and called to the landlady.

'Mrs Willoughby! Who is asleep on the stairs?'

'Why, I 'spect it's Mr Briggs,' replied the woman, indulgently.
'Don't you mind him, Mr Biffen. There's no 'arm: he's only had a
little too much. I'll go up an' make him go to bed as soon as
I've got my 'ands clean.'

'The necessity for waiting till then isn't obvious,' remarked the
realist with a chuckle, and went his way.

He walked at a sharp pace for more than an hour, and about
midnight drew near to his own quarter again. He had just turned
up by the Middlesex Hospital, and was at no great distance from
Clipstone Street, when a yell and scamper caught his attention; a
group of loafing blackguards on the opposite side of the way had
suddenly broken up, and as they rushed off he heard the word
'Fire!' This was too common an occurrence to disturb his
equanimity; he wondered absently in which street the fire might
be, but trudged on without a thought of making investigation. 
Repeated yells and rushes, however, assailed his apathy. Two
women came tearing 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 the
conflagration might be in the very house he inhabited, and in
that case--   He set off at a run. Ahead of him was a thickening
throng, its position indicating the entrance to Clipstone Street.
Soon he found his progress retarded; he had to dodge this way and
that, to force progress, to guard himself against overthrows by
the torrent of ruffiandom which always 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 no engine had
arrived, and straggling policemen were only just beginning to
make their way to the scene of uproar. By dint of violent effort
Biffen moved forward yard by yard. A tongue of flame which
suddenly illumined the fronts of the houses put an end to his
doubt.

'Let me get past!' he shouted to the gaping and swaying mass of
people in front of him. 'I live there! I must go upstairs to save
something!'

His educated accent moved attention. Repeating the demand again
and again he succeeded in getting forward, and at length was near
enough to see that people were dragging articles of furniture out
on to the pavement.

'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 was
alliterative--''as upset his lamp, and I 'ope he'll--well get
roasted to death.'

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 I get 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 a moment was on the landing of the first storey. Here he
encountered a man who had not lost his head, a stalwart mechanic
engaged in slipping clothes on to two little children.

'If somebody don't drag that fellow Briggs down he'll be dead,'
observed the man. 'He's layin' outside his door. I pulled him
out, but I can't do no more for him.'

Smoke grew thick on the staircase. Burning was as yet confined to
that front room on the second floor tenanted by Briggs the
disastrous, but in all likelihood the ceiling was ablaze, and if
so it would be all but impossible for Biffen to gain his own
chamber, which was at the back on the floor above. No one was
making an attempt to extinguish the fire; personal safety and the
rescue of their possessions alone occupied the thoughts of such
people as were still in the house. Desperate with the dread of
losing his manuscript, his toil, his one hope, the realist
scarcely 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 a horrible vision of furnace fury. To go yet
higher would have been madness but for one encouragement: he knew
that on his own storey was a ladder giving access to a trap-door,
by which he might issue on to the roof, whence escape to the
adjacent houses would be practicable. Again a leap forward!

In fact, not two minutes elapsed from his commencing the ascent
of the stairs to the moment when, all but fainting, he thrust the
key into his door and fell forward into purer air. Fell, for he
was on his knees, and had begun to suffer from a sense of failing
power, a sick whirling of the brain, a terror of hideous death. 
His manuscript was on the table, where he had left it after
regarding and handling it with joyful self-congratulation; though
it was pitch dark in the room, he could at once lay his hand on
the heap of paper. Now he had it; now it was jammed tight under
his left arm; now he was out again on the landing, in smoke more
deadly than ever.

He said to himself: 'If I cannot instantly break out by the trap-
door it's all over with me.' That the exit would open to a
vigorous thrust he knew, having amused himself not long ago by
going on to the roof. He touched the ladder, sprang upwards, and
felt the trap above him. But he could not push it back. 'I'm a
dead man,' flashed across his mind, 'and all for the sake of "Mr
Bailey, Grocer."' A frenzied effort, the last of which his
muscles were capable, and the door yielded. His head was now
through the aperture, and though the smoke swept up about him,
that gasp of cold air gave him strength to throw himself on the
flat portion of the roof that he had reached.

So for a minute or two he lay. Then he was able to stand, to
survey his position, and to walk along by the parapet. He looked
down upon the surging and shouting crowd in Clipstone Street, but
could see it only at intervals, owing to the smoke that rolled
from the front windows below him.

What he had now to do he understood perfectly. This roof was
divided from those on either hand by a stack of chimneys; to get
round the end of these stacks was impossible, or at all events
too dangerous a feat unless it were the last resource, but by
climbing to the apex of the slates he would be able to reach the
chimney-pots, to drag himself up to them, and somehow to tumble
over on to the safer side. To this undertaking he forthwith
addressed himself. Without difficulty he reached the ridge;
standing on it he found that only by stretching his arm to the
utmost could he grip the top of a chimney-pot. Had he the
strength necessary to raise himself by such a hold? And suppose
the pot broke?

His life was still in danger; the increasing volumes of smoke
warned him that in a few minutes the uppermost storey might be in
flames. He took off his overcoat to allow himself more freedom of
action; the manuscript, now an encumbrance, must precede him over
the chimney-stack, and there was only one way of effecting that. 
With care he stowed the papers into the pockets of the coat; then
he rolled the garment together, tied it up in its own sleeves,
took a deliberate aim--and the bundle was for the present in
safety.

Now for the gymnastic endeavour. Standing on tiptoe, he clutched
the rim of the chimney-pot, and strove to raise himself. The hold
was firm enough, but his arms were far too puny to perform such
work, even when death would be the penalty of failure. Too long
he had lived on insufficient food and sat over the debilitating
desk. He swung this way and that, trying to throw one of his
knees as high as the top of the brickwork, but there was no
chance of his succeeding. Dropping on to the slates, he sat there
in perturbation.

He must cry for help. In front it was scarcely possible to stand
by the parapet, owing to the black clouds of smoke, now mingled
with sparks; perchance he might attract the notice of some person
either in the yards behind or at the back windows of other
houses. The night was so obscure that 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 he stood in
his shirt-sleeves in a bitter wind no sense of cold affected him;
his face was beaded with perspiration drawn forth by his futile
struggle to climb. He let himself slide down the rear slope, and,
holding by the end of the chimney brickwork, looked into the
yards. At the same instant a face appeared to him--that of a man
who was trying to obtain a glimpse of this roof from that of the
next house by thrusting out 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
you the-- 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
you coming round? Blest if I see! You'll break your bloomin' neck
if you try this corner. You'll have to come over the chimneys;
wait till I get a ladder.'

'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, and the smoke was again catching his breath. But at
length there was a shout from the top of the chimney-stack. The
rescuer had seated himself on one of the pots, and was about to
lower on Biffen's side a ladder which had enabled him to ascend
from the other. Biffen planted the lowest rung very carefully on
the ridge of the roof, climbed as lightly as possible, got a
footing between two pots; the ladder was then pulled over, and
both men descended in safety.

'Have you seen a coat lying about here?' was Biffen's first
question. 'I threw 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 coat
discoverable.

'You must have pitched it into the street,' said the man.

This was a terrible blow; Biffen forgot his rescue from
destruction in lament for the loss of his manuscript. He would
have pursued the fruitless search, but his companion, who feared
that the fire might spread to adjoining houses, insisted on his
passing through the trap-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's lost; it would be stolen at
once. But may not it have fallen into your back yard?'

He was standing in the midst of a cluster of alarmed people, who
stared at him in astonishment, for the reek through which he had
fought his way had given him the aspect of a sweep. His
suggestion prompted someone to run into the yard, with the result
that a muddy bundle was brought in and exhibited to him.

'Is this your coat, Mister?'

'Heaven be thanked! That's it! There are valuable papers in the
pockets.'

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
of water?' he asked, feeling now as if he must drop with
exhaustion.

The man who had rescued him performed this further kindness, and
for half an hour, whilst tumult indescribable raged about him,
Biffen sat recovering his strength. By that time the firemen were
hard at work, but one floor of the burning house had already
fallen through, and it was probable that nothing but the shell
would be saved. After giving a full account of himself to the
people among whom he had come, Harold declared his intention of
departing; his need of repose was imperative, and he could 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
immediate neighbourhood, where the people would receive him in a
charitable spirit.

With the aid of the police he passed to where the crowd was
thinner, and came out into Cleveland Street. Here most of the
house-doors were open, and he made several applications for
hospitality, but either his story was doubted or his grimy
appearance predisposed people against him. At length, when again
his strength was all but at an end, he made appeal to a
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. If no one will take me in you must haul me on some
charge to the police-station; I shall have to lie down on the
pavement in a minute.'

The officer recognised a man who was standing half-dressed on a
threshold close by; he stepped up to him and made representations
which were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of
an underground room furnished as a bedchamber, which he agreed to
rent for a week. His landlord was not ungracious, and went so far
as to supply him with warm water, that he might in a measure
cleanse himself. This operation 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
discovered that 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 to save. All my books burnt!'

Biffen shook his head dolorously.

'Your account-books!' cried the dealer in oil. 'Dear, dear!--and
what might your business be?'

The author corrected this misapprehension. In the end he was
invited to break his fast, which he did right willingly. Then,
with assurances that he would return before nightfall, he left
the house. His steps were naturally first directed to Clipstone
Street; the familiar abode was a gruesome ruin, still smoking. 
Neighbours informed him that Mr Briggs's body had been brought
forth in a horrible condition; but this was the only 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,
and speaking with hoarseness.

'Another cold?'

'It looks like it. I wish you would take the trouble to go and
buy me some vermin-killer. That would suit my case.'

'Then what would suit mine? Behold me, undeniably a philosopher;
in the literal sense of the words omnia mea mecum porto.'

He recounted his adventures, and with such humorous vivacity that
when he ceased the two laughed together as if nothing more
amusing had ever been 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, I should sit down and cry; indeed I should. All my
classics, with years of scribbling 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
and crumpled, but not to such an extent as to render copying
necessary. Lovingly he smoothed the pages and set them in order,
then he wrapped the whole in a piece of brown paper which Reardon
supplied, and wrote upon it the address of a firm of publishers.

'Have you note-paper? I'll write to them; impossible to call in
my present guise.'

Indeed his attire was more like that of a bankrupt costermonger
than of a man of letters. Collar he had none, for the griminess
of that he wore last night had necessitated its being thrown
aside; round his throat was a dirty handkerchief. His coat had
been brushed, but its recent experiences had brought it one stage
nearer to that dissolution which must very soon be its fate. His
grey trousers were now black, and his boots 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 the ignobly decent?'

'Better let them form their own judgment,' replied Reardon, in
his hoarse voice.

'Then I'll just say that I submit to them a novel of modern life,
the scope of which is in some degree indicated by its title. Pity
they can't know how nearly it became a holocaust, and that I
risked my life to save it. If they're good enough to accept it
I'll tell them the story. And now, Reardon, I'm ashamed of
myself, but can you without inconvenience lend me ten shillings?'

'Easily.'

'I must write to two pupils, to inform them of my change of
address--from garret to cellar. And I must ask help from my
prosperous brother. He gives it me unreluctantly, I know, but I
am always loth to apply to him. May I use your paper for these
purposes?'

The brother of whom he spoke was employed in a house of business
at Liverpool; the two had not met for years, but they
corresponded, and were on terms such as Harold indicated. When he
had finished his letters, and had received the half-sovereign
from Reardon, he went his way to deposit the brown-paper parcel
at the publishers'. The clerk who received it from his hands
probably thought that the author might have chosen a more
respectable messenger.

Two days later, early in the evening, the friends were again
enjoying each other's company in Reardon's room. Both were
invalids, for Biffen had of course caught a cold from his
exposure in shirt-sleeves on the roof, and he was suffering from
the shock to his nerves; but the thought that his novel was safe
in the hands of publishers gave him energy to resist these
influences. The absence of the pipe, for neither had any palate
for tobacco at present, was the only external peculiarity of this
meeting. There seemed no reason why they should not meet
frequently before the parting which would come at Christmas; but
Reardon was in a mood of profound sadness, and several times
spoke as if already he were bidding his friend farewell.

'I find it difficult to think,' he said, 'that you will always
struggle on in such an existence as this. To every man of mettle
there does come an opportunity, and it surely is time for yours
to present itself. I have 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
at Hastings, and heard you ask in vain for my book! And how
grateful I was to you! I wonder whether any mortal ever asks for
my books nowadays? Some day, when I am well established at
Croydon, you shall go to Mudie's, and make inquiry if my novels
ever by any chance leave the shelves, and then you shall give me
a true and faithful report of the answer you get. "He is quite
forgotten," the attendant will say; be sure of it.'

'I think not.'

'To have had even a small reputation, and to have outlived it, is
a sort of anticipation of death. The man Edwin Reardon, whose
name was sometimes spoken in a tone of interest, is really and
actually dead. And what remains of me is resigned to that. I have
an odd fancy that it will make 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 dry
deliberation, 'I find it vastly amusing to picture you as a
witness at the inquest if I had been choked and consumed. No
doubt it would have been made known that I rushed upstairs to
save some particular piece of property--several people heard me
say so--and you alone would be able to conjecture what this was.
Imagine the gaping wonderment of the coroner's jury! The Daily
Telegraph would have made a leader out of me. "This poor man was
so strangely deluded as to the value of a novel in manuscript,
which it appears he had just completed, that he positively
sacrificed his life in the endeavour to rescue it from the
flames." And the Saturday would have had a column of sneering
jocosity on the irrepressibly sanguine temperament of authors. At
all events, I should have had my day of fame.'

'But what an ignoble death it would have been!' he pursued.
'Perishing in the garret of a lodging-house which caught fire by
the overturning of a 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 had a home since I was a boy, and am never likely to have
one. But to die at home 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 be worse off than that, you know.'

'Yes, one might live peaceably enough in such a position. And I--
I should be in an estate-agent's office, earning a sufficient
salary, and most likely married to some unambitious country girl.

I should have lived an intelligible life, instead of only trying
to live, aiming at modes of life beyond my reach. My mistake was
that of numberless men nowadays. Because I was conscious of
brains, I thought that the only place for me was London. It's
easy enough to understand this common delusion. We form our ideas
of London from old literature; we think of London as if it were
still the one centre of intellectual life; we think and talk like
Chatterton. But the truth is that intellectual men in our day do
their best to keep away from London--when once they know the
place. There are libraries everywhere; papers and magazines reach
the north of Scotland as soon as they reach Brompton; it's only
on rare occasions, for special kinds of work, that one is bound
to live in London. And as for recreation, why, now that no
English theatre exists, what is there in London that you can't
enjoy in almost any part of England? At all events, a yearly
visit of a week would be quite sufficient for all the special
features of the town. London is only a huge shop, with an hotel
on the upper storeys. To be sure, if you make it your artistic
subject, that's a different thing. But neither you nor I would do
that by deliberate choice.'

'I think not.'

'It's a huge misfortune, this will-o'-the-wisp attraction
exercised by London on young men of brains. They come here to be
degraded, or to perish, when their true sphere is a life of
peaceful remoteness. The type of man capable of success in London
is more or less callous and cynical. If I had the training of
boys, I would teach them to think of London as the last place
where life can be lived worthily.'

'And the place where you are most likely to die in squalid
wretchedness.'

'The one happy result of my experiences,' said Reardon, is that
they have cured me of ambition. What a miserable fellow I should
be if I were still possessed with the desire to make a name! I
can't even recall very clearly that state of mind. My strongest
desire now is for peaceful obscurity. 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 of all but mechanical duties, and I think that will be the
best medicine for 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 few years perhaps something pleasanter
will offer. But in the meantime it will do very well. Then there
is our expedition to Greece to look forward to. I am quite in
earnest about that. The year after next, if we are 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
dare to 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
minds of both. Reardon opened the despatch. It was from his wife,
and ran thus:

'Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am
staying with 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 the lines.

'No. I haven't seen Carter for several days, or perhaps he would
have told me. Brighton, at this time of year? But I believe
there's a fashionable "season" about now, isn't there? I suppose
that would account 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
beat was rapid to begin with, and had been heightened since the
arrival of the 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
the meanwhile Reardon packed a few necessaries in a small
travelling-bag, ancient and worn, but the object of his affection
because it had accompanied him on his wanderings in the South. 
When Harold returned, his appearance excited Reardon's
astonishment--he was white from head to foot.

'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
train left 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 I must try. There isn't another train till ten past nine. 
Come with me to the 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
several minutes before they found a disengaged cab. Questioning
the driver, they learnt what they would have known very well
already but for their excitement: impossible to get to London
Bridge Station in a quarter of an hour.

'Better to go on, all the same,' was Reardon's opinion. 'If the
snow gets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all. 
But you had better 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't it?' 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
morbid state of mind about her. Do be human, and put away your
obstinate folly.'

'In my position you would have acted precisely as I have done. I
have had no choice.'

'I might; but we have both of us too little practicality. The art
of living is the art of compromise. We have no right to foster
sensibilities, and conduct ourselves as if the world allowed of
ideal relations; it leads to misery for others as well as
ourselves. Genial coarseness is what it behoves men like you and
me to cultivate. Your reply to your wife's last letter was
preposterous. You ought to have gone to her of your own accord as
soon as ever you heard she was rich; she would have thanked you
for such common-sense disregard of delicacies. Let there be an
end of this nonsense, I implore you!'

Reardon stared through the glass at the snow that fell thicker
and thicker.

'What are we--you and I?' pursued the other. 'We have no belief
in immortality; we are convinced that this life is all; we know
that human happiness is the origin and end of all moral
considerations. What right have we to make ourselves and others
miserable for the sake of an obstinate idealism? It is our duty
to make the best of circumstances. Why will you go cutting your
loaf with a razor when you have a serviceable 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 her
thought 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
goes the razor again! Take the plain, human construction of what
happens. Ask yourself what the vulgar man would do, and do
likewise; that's the only safe rule for you.'

They were both hoarse with too much talking, and for the last
half of the drive neither spoke.

At the railway-station they ate and drank together, but with poor
pretence of appetite. As long as possible they kept within the
warmed rooms. Reardon was pale, and had anxious, restless eyes;
he could not remain seated, though when he had walked about for a
few minutes the trembling of his limbs obliged him to sink down. 
It was an unutterable relief to both when the moment of the
train's starting approached.

They clasped hands warmly, and exchanged a few last requests and
promises.

'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 last carriage 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
would have gone; he was prejudiced against the place because its
name has become suggestive of fashionable imbecility and the
snobbishness which tries to model itself thereon; he knew that
the town was a mere portion of London transferred to the
sea-shore, and as he loved the strand and the breakers for their
own sake, to think of them in such connection could be nothing
but a trial of his temper. Something of this species of
irritation affected him in the first part of his journey, and
disturbed the mood of kindliness with which he was approaching
Amy; but towards the end he forgot this in a growing desire to be
beside his wife in her trouble. His impatience made the hour and
a half seem interminable.

The fever which was upon him had increased. He coughed
frequently; his breathing was difficult; though constantly
moving, he felt as if, in the absence of excitement, his one wish
would have been to lie down and abandon himself to lethargy. Two
men who sat with him in the third-class carriage had spread a rug
over their knees and amused themselves with playing cards for
trifling sums of money; the sight of their foolish faces, the
sound of their laughs, the talk they interchanged, exasperated
him to the last point of endurance; but for all that he could not
draw his attention from them. He seemed condemned by some
spiritual tormentor to take an interest in their endless games,
and to observe their visages until he knew every line with a
hateful intimacy. One of the men had a moustache of unusual form;
the ends curved upward with peculiar suddenness, and Reardon was
constrained to speculate as to the mode of training by which this
singularity had been produced. He could have shed tears of
nervous distraction in his inability to turn his 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 an endeavour to overcome this he began to run towards
the row of cabs, but his legs refused such exercise, and coughing
compelled him to pause for breath. Still shaking, he threw
himself into a vehicle and was driven to the address Amy had
mentioned. The snow on the ground lay thick, but no more was
falling.

Heedless of the direction which the cab took, he suffered his
physical and mental unrest for another quarter of an hour, then a
stoppage told him that the house was reached. On his way he had
heard a clock strike eleven.

The door opened almost as soon as he had rung the bell. He
mentioned his name, and the maid-servant conducted him to a
drawing-room on the ground-floor. The house was quite a small
one, but seemed to be well furnished. One lamp burned on the
table, and the fire had sunk to a red glow. Saying that she would
inform Mrs Reardon at once, the servant left him alone.

He placed his bag on the floor, took off his muffler, threw back
his overcoat, and sat waiting. The overcoat was new, but the
garments beneath 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
way which showed that she had hastened downstairs. She looked at
him, then drew near with both hands extended, and laid them on
his shoulders, and kissed him. Reardon shook so violently that it
was all he could do to remain standing; he seized one of her
hands, and pressed it against his lips.

'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
is Willie?'

'In great danger. The doctor is coming again to-night; we thought
that was 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
you felt I ought to know about it?'

'Yes--and because I--'

She burst into tears. The display of emotion came very suddenly;
her words had been spoken in a firm voice, and only the pained
knitting of her brows had told what she was suffering.

'If Willie dies, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?' broke
forth between her sobs.

Reardon took her in his arms, and laid his hand upon her head in
the old loving 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--
Mrs Carter--was coming to spend a week with her mother, and she
pressed me to join her. I didn't really wish to; I was unhappy,
and felt how impossible it was to go on always living away from
you. Oh, that I had never 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 house is so small it will be impossible to give you a bed
here, Edwin. But there'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
had long?'

'Oh, my old habit; you remember. One cold after another, all
through the accursed winter. What does that matter when you speak
kindly to me once more? I had rather die now at your feet and see
the old gentleness when you look at me, than live on estranged
from you. No, don't kiss me, I believe these vile sore-throats
are contagious.'

'But your lips are so hot and parched! And to think of your
coming this journey, on such a night!'

'Good old Biffen came to the station with me. He was angry
because I had kept 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
all that is over; if only Willie can be saved to me! I am so
anxious for the doctor's coming; the poor little child can hardly
draw a breath. How cruel it is that such suffering should come
upon a little creature who has never done or thought ill!'

'You are not the first, dearest, who has revolted against
nature's cruelty.'

'Let us go up at once, Edwin. Leave your coat and things here. 
Mrs Winter--Edith's mother--is a very old lady; she has gone to
bed. And I dare 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
the child's bed must have wondered at the eccentricity with which
her patient's father attired himself. Bending over the little
sufferer, Reardon felt for the first time since Willie's birth a
strong fatherly emotion; tears rushed to his eyes, and he almost
crushed Amy's hand as he held it during the spasm of his intense
feeling.

He sat here for a long time without speaking. The warmth of the
chamber had the reverse of an assuaging effect upon his difficult
breathing and his frequent short cough--it seemed to oppress and
confuse his brain. He began to feel a pain in his right side, and
could not sit upright on the chair.

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
the house. Amy had no doubt that it announced the promised visit.

She left the room, and in a minute or two returned with the
medical man. When the examination of the child was over, Reardon
requested a few words 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't be surprised if you tell me that I have congestion of
the lungs.'

The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his
interlocutor with curiosity. He now asked the necessary
questions, and made an examination.

'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
symptoms to 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 to the 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 till she is out of her anxiety about the child.'

'You will need the services of a nurse. A most unfortunate thing
that you 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
could be paid for; it relieved his mind immensely. To the rich,
illness has none of the worst horrors only understood by the
poor.

'Don't speak a word more than you can help,' said the doctor as
he watched Reardon withdraw.

Amy stood on the lower stairs, and came down as soon as her
husband showed 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. I wish 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 the morning,' she said, and added the name of the hotel to
which he was to go.

At this establishment the doctor was well known. By midnight
Reardon lay in a comfortable room, a huge cataplasm fixed upon
him, and other needful arrangements made. A waiter had undertaken
to visit him at intervals through the night, and the man of
medicine promised to return as soon as possible after daybreak.

What sound was that, soft and continuous, remote, now clearer,
now confusedly murmuring? He must have slept, but now he lay in
sudden perfect consciousness, and that music fell upon his ears. 
Ah! of course it was the rising tide; he was near the divine sea.

The night-light enabled him to discern the principal objects in
the room, and he let his eyes stray idly hither and thither. But
this moment of peacefulness was brought to an end by a fit of
coughing, and he became troubled, profoundly troubled, in mind. 
Was his illness really dangerous? He tried to draw a deep breath,
but could not. He found that he could only lie on his right side
with any ease. And with the effort of turning he exhausted
himself; in the course of an hour or two all his strength had
left him. Vague fears flitted harassingly through his thoughts. 
If he had inflammation of the lungs--that was a disease of which
one might die, and speedily. Death? No, no, no; impossible at
such a time as this, when Amy, his own dear wife, had come back
to him, and had brought him that which would insure their
happiness through all the years of a long life.

He was still quite a young man; there must be great reserves of
strength in him. And he had the will to live, the prevailing
will, the passionate all-conquering desire of happiness.

How he had alarmed himself! Why, now he was calmer again, and
again could listen to the music of the breakers. Not all the
folly and baseness that paraded along this strip of the shore
could change the sea's eternal melody. In a day or two he would
walk on the sands with Amy, somewhere quite out of sight of the
repulsive town. But Willie was ill; he had forgotten that. Poor
little boy! In future the child should be more to him; though
never what the mother was, his own love, won again and for ever.

Again an interval of unconsciousness, brought to an end by that
aching in his side. He breathed very quickly; could not help
doing so. He had never 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
rowed out to the steamer which would bear him away from Greece. A
magnificent night, though at the end of December; a sky of deep
blue, thick set with stars. No sound but the steady splash of the
oars, or perhaps a voice from one of the many vessels that lay
anchored in the harbour, each showing its lantern-gleams. The
water was as deep a blue as the sky, and sparkled with reflected
radiance.

And now he stood on deck in the light of early morning. Southward
lay the Ionian Islands; he looked for Ithaca, and grieved that it
had been passed in the hours of darkness. But the nearest point
of the main shore was a rocky promontory; it reminded him that in
these waters was fought the 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 to be uttered, and his visit was brief. Reardon was chiefly
anxious to have news of the child, but for this he would have to
wait.

At ten Amy entered the bedroom. Reardon could not raise himself,
but he stretched out his hand and took hers, and gazed eagerly at
her. She must have been weeping, he felt sure of that, and there
was an expression on her 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 child was dead.

'The truth, Amy!'

She threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and pressed her
wet cheek against 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 he closed his eyes and seemed to pass into utter darkness. 
But those last words of hers repeated themselves in his mind, and
at length they brought a deep solace. Poor little Willie had been
the cause of the first coldness between him and Amy; her love for
him had given place to a mother's love for the child. Now it
would be as in the first days of their marriage; they would again
be all in all to each other.

'You oughtn't to have come, feeling so ill,' she said to him. 
'You should 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. She had hoped to conceal the child's death, but the effort
was too much for her overstrung nerves. And indeed it was only
possible for her to remain an hour or two by this sick-bed, for
she was exhausted by her night of watching, and the sudden agony
with which it had concluded. Shortly after Amy's departure, a
professional nurse came to attend upon what the doctor had
privately characterised as a very grave case.

By the evening its gravity was in no respect diminished. The
sufferer had ceased to cough and to make restless movements, and
had become lethargic; later, he spoke deliriously, or rather
muttered, for his words were seldom intelligible. Amy had
returned to the room at four o'clock, and remained till far into
the night; she was physically exhausted, and could do little but
sit in a chair by the bedside and shed silent tears, or gaze at
vacancy in the woe of her sudden desolation. Telegrams had been
exchanged with her mother, who was to arrive in Brighton
to-morrow morning; the child's funeral would probably be 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 was turning 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 her question twice; she was turning from him in
hopelessness when his voice became 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
raised against pillows. But throughout the hours of daylight his
mind was clear, and from time to time he whispered words of
tenderness in reply to Amy's look. He never willingly
relinquished her hand, and repeatedly he pressed it against his
cheek or lips. Vainly he still endeavoured to recall 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 must not be mentioned. Whelpdale, also, would perchance know
where Biffen lived, but Whelpdale's address he had also
forgotten.

At night there were long periods of delirium; not mere confused
muttering, but continuous talk which the listeners could follow
perfectly.

For the most part the sufferer's mind was occupied with revival
of the distress he had undergone whilst making those last efforts
to write something worthy of himself. Amy's heart was wrung as
she heard him living through that time of supreme misery--misery
which she might have done so much to alleviate, had not selfish
fears and irritated pride caused her to draw further and further
from him. Hers was the kind of penitence which is forced by sheer
stress of circumstances on a nature which resents any form of
humiliation; she could not abandon herself to unreserved grief
for what she had done or omitted, and the sense of this defect
made a great part of her affliction. When her husband lay in mute
lethargy, she thought only of her dead child, and mourned the
loss; but his delirious utterances constrained her to break from
that bittersweet preoccupation, to confuse her mourning with
self-reproach and with fears.

Though unconsciously, he was addressing her: 'I can do no more,
Amy. My brain seems to be worn out; I can't compose, I can't even
think. Look! I have 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't afford. 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 for an explanation.

'My husband is an author,' Amy answered. 'Not long ago he was
obliged to write when he was ill and ought to have been resting.'

'I always thought it must be hard work writing books,' said the
nurse with a shake of her head.

'You don't understand me,' the voice pursued, dreadful as a voice
always is when speaking independently of the will. 'You think I
am only a poor creature, because I can do nothing better than
this. If only I had money enough to rest for a year or two, you
should see. Just because I have no money I must sink to this
degradation. And I am losing you as well; you don't love me!'

He began to moan in anguish.

But a happy change presently came over his dreaming. He fell into
animated description of his experiences in Greece and Italy, and
after talking for a long time, he turned his head and said in a
perfectly natural 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
deceptive accent.

'He deserves a holiday after nearly getting burnt to death to
save his novel. Imagine the old fellow plunging headlong into the
flames to rescue 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 had been summoned), that a crisis which drew near might
bring the favourable turn; but Amy formed her own opinion from
the way in which the nurse expressed herself. She felt sure that
the gravest fears were entertained. Before noon Reardon awoke
from what had seemed natural sleep--save for the rapid breathing-
-and of a sudden recollected the number 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 to her
husband's friend.

That evening, as Amy was on the point of returning to the sick-
room after having dined at her friend's house, it was announced
that a gentleman named Biffen wished to see her. She found him in
the dining-room, and, even amid her distress, it was a
satisfaction to her that he presented a far more conventional
appearance than in the old days. All the garments he wore, even
his hat, gloves, and boots, were new; a surprising state of
things, explained by the fact of his commercial brother having
sent him a present of ten pounds, a practical expression of
sympathy with him in his recent calamity. Biffen could not speak;
he looked with alarm at Amy's pallid face. In a few words she
told him of Reardon's condition.

'I feared this,' he replied under his breath. 'He was ill when I
saw him off 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 him motionless.

They conversed brokenly for a few minutes, then left the house,
Biffen carrying the hand-bag with which he had travelled hither.
When they reached the hotel he waited apart until it was
ascertained whether he could 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't let him try to speak much.'

The change that had come over his friend's countenance was to
Harold, of course, far more gravely impressive than to those who
had watched at the bedside. In the drawn features, large sunken
eyes, thin and discoloured lips, 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 an agonising 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. 
His friend inquired whether he had yet heard about the novel; the
answer was a 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 health and spirits. Biffen regarded this spectacle with
resentful scorn; at another time it would have moved him merely
to mirth, but not even the sound of the breakers when he had
wandered as far as possible from human contact could help him to
think with resignation of the injustice which triumphs so
flagrantly in the destinies of men. Towards Amy he had no shadow
of unkindness; the sight of her in tears had impressed him as
profoundly, in another way, as that of his friend's wasted
features. She and Reardon were again one, and his love for them
both was stronger than any emotion of tenderness he had ever
known.

In the afternoon he again sat by the bedside. Every symptom of
the sufferer's condition pointed to an approaching end: a face
that had grown cadaverous, livid lips, breath drawn in hurrying
gasps. Harold despaired of another look of recognition. But as he
sat with his forehead resting on his hand Amy touched him;
Reardon had turned his face 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
deathly mask; in a minute or two he saw a smile soften its
lineaments, and Reardon again spoke:

'How often you and I have quoted it!--"We are such stuff as
dreams are made on, and our--"'

The remaining words were indistinguishable, and, as if the effort
of utterance had exhausted him, his eyes closed, and he sank into
lethargy.

When he came down from his bedroom on the following morning,
Biffen was informed that his friend had died between two and
three o'clock. At the same time he received a note in which Amy
requested him to come and see her late in the afternoon. He spent
the day in a long walk along the eastward cliffs; again the sun
shone brilliantly, and the sea was flecked with foam upon its
changing green and azure. It seemed to him that he had never
before known solitude, even through all the years of his lonely
and sad existence.

At sunset he obeyed Amy's summons. He found her calm, but with
the signs of long weeping.

'At the last moment,' she said, 'he was able to speak to me, and
you were mentioned. He wished you to have all that he has left in
his room at Islington. When I come back to London, will you take
me there and let me see the room just as when he lived in it? Let
the people in the house know what has happened, and that I am
responsible for whatever will be owing.'

Her resolve to behave composedly gave way as soon as Harold's
broken voice had replied. Hysterical sobbing made further speech
from her impossible, 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
Edwin Reardon, Jasper of the facile pen was bending over his
desk, writing rapidly by the warm western light which told that
sunset was near. Not far from him sat his younger sister; she was
reading, and the book in her 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
was occupied; a notice of the frankly eulogistic species,
beginning with: 'It is seldom nowadays that the luckless reviewer
of novels can draw the attention of the public to a new work
which is at once powerful and original;' and ending: 'The word is
a bold one, but we do not hesitate to 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
lauded in that style. I may as well do the notice for The Current
now, as I've got my hand in.'

He turned to his desk again, and before daylight failed him had
produced a piece of more cautious writing, very favourable on the
whole, but with reserves 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
down with yawns before they're half through the first volume. If
I knew a doctor who had many cases of insomnia in hand, I would
recommend "Mr Bailey" 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 we could get it mentioned in a leader or two, and so on, old
Biffen's fame would be established with the better sort of
readers. But he won't sell three hundred copies. I wonder whether
Robertson would let me do a notice 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 is disgraceful. It's nothing of the kind. Speaking
seriously, we know that a really good book will more likely than
not receive fair treatment from two or three reviewers; yes, but
also more likely than not it will be swamped in the flood of
literature that pours forth week after week, and won't have
attention fixed long enough upon it to establish its repute. The
struggle for existence among books is nowadays as severe as among
men. If a writer has friends connected with the press,. it is the
plain duty of those friends to do their utmost to help him. What
matter if they exaggerate, or even lie? The simple, sober truth
has no chance whatever of being listened to, and it's only by
volume of shouting that the ear of the public is held. What use
is it to Biffen if his work struggles to slow recognition ten
years hence? Besides, as I say, the growing flood of literature
swamps everything but works of primary genius. If a clever and
conscientious book does not spring to success at once, there's
precious small chance that it will survive. Suppose it were
possible for me to write a round dozen reviews of this book, in
as many different papers, I would do it with satisfaction. Depend
upon it, this kind of thing will be done on that scale before
long. And it'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 much
magnanimity in my character, as I have often told you. It
delights me to be generous, whenever I can afford it.'

Dusk was gathering about them. As they sat talking, there came a
tap at the door, and the summons to enter was obeyed by Mr
Whelpdale.

'I was passing,' he said in his respectful voice, 'and couldn't
resist the temptation.'

Jasper struck a match and lit the lamp. In this clearer light
Whelpdale was exhibited as a young man of greatly improved
exterior; he wore a cream-coloured waistcoat, a necktie of subtle
hue, and delicate gloves; prosperity breathed from his whole
person. It was, in fact, only a moderate prosperity to which he
had as yet attained, but the future beckoned to him flatteringly.

Early in this year, his enterprise as 'literary adviser' had
brought him in contact with a man of some pecuniary resources,
who proposed to establish an agency for the convenience of
authors who were not skilled in disposing of their productions to
the best advantage. Under the name of Fleet & Co., this business
was shortly set on foot, and Whelpdale's services were retained
on satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicate system had
given new scope to literary agencies, and Mr Fleet was a man of
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 it there, 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
book must 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 a doll of such superfine wax.'

The habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned.

'Pray forgive me!' he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards
the girl with eyes which deprecated her displeasure. 'I am very
far indeed from attributing weakness to you. It was only the
natural, unreflecting impulse; one finds it so difficult to
associate you, even as merely a reader, with such squalid scenes.

The ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from
that sphere in which you are naturally at home.'

There was some slight affectation in his language, but the tone
attested sincere feeling. Jasper was watching him with half an
eye, and glancing occasionally at Dora.

'No doubt,' said the latter, 'it's my story in The English Girl
that inclines you to think me a goody-goody sort of young woman.'

'So far from that, Miss Dora, I was only waiting for an
opportunity to tell you how exceedingly delighted I have been
with the last two weeks' instalments. In all seriousness, I
consider that story of yours the best thing of the kind that ever
came under my notice. You seem to me to have discovered a new
genre; such writing as this has surely never been offered to
girls, and all the readers of the paper must be immensely
grateful to you. I run eagerly to buy the paper each week; I
assure you I do. The stationer thinks I purchase it for a sister,
I suppose. But each section of the story seems to be better than
the last. Mark the prophecy which I now make: when this tale is
published in a volume its success will be great. You will be
recognised, Miss Dora, as the new writer 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
humble line of work to provide reading, which is at once
intellectual and moving and exquisitely pure, for the most
important part of the population--the educated and refined young
people who are just passing from girlhood to womanhood?'

'The most important fiddlestick!'

'You are grossly irreverent, my dear Milvain. I cannot appeal to
your sister, for she's too modest to rate her own sex at its true
value, but the vast majority of thoughtful men would support me. 
You yourself do, though you affect this profane way of speaking. 
And we know,' he looked at Dora, 'that he wouldn't talk like this
if Miss Yule were present.'

Jasper changed the topic of conversation, and presently Whelpdale
was able to talk with more calmness. The young man, since his
association with Fleet & Co., had become fertile in suggestions
of literary enterprise, and at present he was occupied with a
project of special hopefulness.

'I want to find a capitalist,' he said, 'who will get possession
of that paper Chat, and transform it according to an idea I have
in my head. The thing is doing very indifferently, but I am
convinced it might be made splendid property, with a few changes
in the way of conducting it.'

'The paper is rubbish,' remarked Jasper, 'and the kind of
rubbish--oddly enough--which doesn't attract people.'

'Precisely, but the rubbish is capable of being made a very
valuable article, if it were only handled properly. I have talked
to the people about 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 slightly alter the name; only slightly, but that
little alteration would in itself have an enormous effect. 
Instead of Chat I should call it Chit-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
stroke of genius. Chat doesn't attract anyone, but Chit-Chat
would sell like hot cakes, as they say in America. I know I am
right; laugh as you will.'

'On the same principle,' cried Jasper, 'if The Tatler were
changed to Tittle-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
an instance! Tittle-Tattle--a magnificent title; the very thing
to catch the multitude.'

Dora was joining in the merriment, and for a minute or two
nothing but bursts of laughter could be heard.

'Now do let me go on,' implored the man of projects, when the
noise subsided. 'That's only one change, though a most important
one. What I next propose is this:--I know you will laugh again,
but I will demonstrate to you that I am right. No article in the
paper is to measure more than two inches in length, and every
inch must be broken into 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
have the paper address itself to the quarter-educated; that is to
say, the great new generation that is being turned out by the
Board schools, the young men and women who can just read, but are
incapable of sustained attention. People of this kind want
something to occupy them in trains and on 'buses and trams. As a
rule they care for no newspapers except the Sunday ones; what
they want is the lightest and frothiest of chit-chatty
information--bits of stories, bits of description, bits of
scandal, bits of jokes, bits of statistics, bits of foolery. Am I
not right? Everything must be very short, two inches at the
utmost; their attention can't sustain itself beyond two inches. 
Even chat is too solid for 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's something 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
their weakness.'

Whelpdale's countenance fell. He looked ashamed of himself. But
Jasper came speedily to the rescue.

'That's twaddle, Dora. Fools will be fools to the world's end.
Answer a fool according to his folly; supply a simpleton with the
reading he craves, if it will put money in your pocket. You have
discouraged poor Whelpdale 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
looked uncomfortable. 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
read chit-chat than to be altogether vacant, or to talk
unprofitably. I am not sure; I bow to your opinion unreservedly.'

'So long as they only read the paper at such times,' said Dora,
still hesitating. 'One knows by experience that one really can't
fix one's attention in travelling; even an article in a newspaper
is often too long.'

'Exactly! And if you find it so, what must be the case with the
mass of untaught people, the quarter-educated? It might encourage
in some of them a taste for reading--don't you think?'

'It might,' assented Dora, musingly. 'And in that case you would
be doing 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
the fellows who put the thing together every week. There ought
always to be one strongly sensational item--we won't call it
article. For instance, you might display on a placard: "What the
Queen eats!" or "How Gladstone's collars are made!"--things of
that kind.'

'To be sure, to be sure. And then, you know,' added Whelpdale,
glancing anxiously at Dora, 'when people had been attracted by
these devices, they would find a few things that were really
profitable. We would give nicely written little accounts of
exemplary careers, of heroic deeds, and so on. Of course nothing
whatever that could be really demoralising--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 my friend Lake, the sub-
editor? I know your time is very valuable, but then you're often
running into the Will-o'-the-Wisp, and Chat is just upstairs, you
know.'

'What use should I be?'

'Oh, all the use in the world. Lake would pay most respectful
attention to your opinion, though he thinks so little of mine. 
You are a man of note, I am nobody. I feel convinced that you
could persuade the Chat people to adopt my idea, and they might
be willing to give me a contingent share of contingent profits,
if I had really shown them the way to a good thing.'

Jasper promised to think the matter over. Whilst their talk still
ran on this 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,
who smiled. 'How do you like the title?--"The Novels of Edwin
Reardon!"'

'You don't say so!' cried the other. 'What a good-hearted fellow
you are, 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 old fellow!'

His eyes gleamed with moisture. Dora, observing this, looked at
him so gently 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
held it over for a practical reason. When I was engaged upon it,
I went to see Mortimer, and asked him if there was any chance of
a new edition of Reardon's books. He had no idea the poor fellow
was dead, and the news seemed really to affect him. He promised
to consider whether it would be worth while trying a new issue,
and before long I heard from him that he 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, when I 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 be
out--"Neutral Ground," and "Hubert Reed." Mortimer said he was
sure these were the only ones that would pay for themselves. But
we shall see. 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 read the article through. It was an excellent piece of
writing (see The Wayside, June 1884), and in places touched with
true emotion. Any intelligent reader would divine that the author
had been personally acquainted with the man of whom he wrote,
though the fact was nowhere stated. The praise was not
exaggerated, yet all the best points of Reardon's work were
admirably brought out. One who knew Jasper might reasonably have
doubted, before reading this, whether he was capable of so
worthily appreciating the nobler man.

'I never understood Reardon so well before,' declared Whelpdale,
at the close. '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, do you 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 very slightly.'

'I don't think you need regret it,' Dora remarked.

'Oh, well, come, come!' put in her brother. 'We know very well
that there 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
man like 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 the kind to fear. It was impossible for a man such as her
husband to behave harshly. Her conduct was cowardly, faithless,
unwomanly!'

'Trust one woman for thinking the worst of another,' observed
Jasper with something like a sneer.

Dora gave him a look of strong disapproval; one might have
suspected that brother and sister had before this fallen into
disagreement on the delicate topic. Whelpdale felt obliged to
interpose, and had of course no choice but to support the girl.

'I can only say,' he remarked with a smile, 'that Miss Dora takes
a very noble point of view. One feels that a wife ought to be
staunch. But it's so very unsafe to discuss matters in which one
cannot know all the facts.'

'We know quite enough of the facts,' said Dora, with delightful
pertinacity.

'Indeed, perhaps we do,' assented her slave. Then, turning to her
brother, 'Well, once more I congratulate you. I shall talk of
your article incessantly, as soon as it appears. And I shall
pester every one of 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 have foreseen this. By-the-by,
Biffen will be profoundly grateful to you, I'm sure.'

'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 the Aristarchus of our literary world.'

When the visitor rose to depart, Jasper said he would walk a
short distance with him. As soon as they had left the house, the
future Aristarchus made a confidential communication.

'It may interest you to know that my sister Maud is shortly to be
married.'

'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
words expressed.

'Is it to be soon?' he inquired.

'At the end of the season. Make no difference to Dora and me, of
course.'

'Oh? Really? No difference at all? You will let me come and see
you--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 get on if I couldn't look in of an evening now and then. I
have got so much into the habit of it. And--I'm a lonely beggar,
you know. I don't go into 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 own
sitting-room. It was not quite ten o'clock. Taking one set of the
proofs of his 'Reardon' article, he put it into a large envelope;
then he wrote a short letter, which began 'Dear Mrs Reardon,' and
ended 'Very sincerely yours,' the communication itself being as
follows:

'I venture to send you the proofs of a paper which is to appear
in next month's Wayside, in the hope that it may seem to you not
badly done, and that the reading of it may give you pleasure. If
anything occurs to you which you would like me to add, or if you
desire any omission, will you do me the kindness to let me know
of it as soon as possible, and your suggestion shall at once be
adopted. I am informed that the new edition of "On Neutral
Ground" and "Hubert Reed" will be ready next month. Need I 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 for
posting. Then he sat for a long time in profound thought.

Shortly after eleven his door opened, and Maud came in. She had
been dining at Mrs Lane's. Her attire was still simple, but of
quality which would have signified recklessness, but for the
outlook whereof Jasper spoke to Whelpdale. The girl looked very
beautiful. There was a flush of health and happiness on her
cheek, and when she spoke it was in a voice that rang quite
differently from her tones of a year ago; the pride which was
natural to her had now a firm support; she moved and uttered
herself in queenly fashion.

'Has anyone been?' she asked.

'Whelpdale.'

'Oh! I wanted to ask you, Jasper: do you think it wise to let him
come quite so often?'

'There's a difficulty, you see. I can hardly tell him to sheer
off. And he's really a decent fellow.'

'That may be. But--I think it's rather unwise. Things are
changed. In a few months, Dora will be a good deal at my house,
and will see all sorts of people.'

'Yes; but what if they are the kind of people she doesn't care
anything about? You must remember, old girl, that her tastes are
quite different from 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 of superb disregard. 'We won't reopen the question.'

'Oh dear no! And, by-the-by, I have a letter from Dolomore. It
came just after you left.'

'Well?'

'He is quite willing to settle upon you a third of his income
from the collieries; he tells me it will represent between seven
and eight hundred a year. I think it rather little, you know; but
I congratulate myself on having got this out of him.'

'Don't speak in that unpleasant way! It was only your abruptness
that made 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 now going to do, an interview with his
solicitors.'

'Is that allowable?' asked Maud, anxiously. 'Can you do that with
any decency?'

'If not, then I must do it with indecency. You will have the
goodness to 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 of business 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 a disposition to play the
autocrat, and I by no means intend to let him. If you had a
father, Dolomore would have to submit his affairs to examination.

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 perfectly
straightforward.'

'I don't wish to. I think, on the whole, he has behaved more
honourably than was to be expected of a man of his kind. But he
must treat me with respect. My position in the world is greatly
superior to his. And, by the gods! I will be treated
respectfully! It wouldn't be amiss, Maud, if you just gave him a
hint to that effect.'

'All I have to say is, Jasper, don't do me an irreparable injury.
You might, without meaning it.'

'No fear whatever of it. I can behave as a gentleman, and I only
expect Dolomore to do the same.'

Their conversation lasted for a long time, and when he was again
left alone 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 could possibly improve this article; it seems to me perfect
in taste, in style, in matter. No one but you could have written
this, for no one else understood Edwin so well, or had given such
thought to his work. If he could but have known that such justice
would be done to his memory! But he died believing that already
he was utterly forgotten, that his books would never again be
publicly spoken of. This was a cruel fate. I have shed tears over
what you have written, but they were not only tears of
bitterness; it cannot but be a consolation to me to think that,
when the magazine appears, so many people will talk of Edwin and
his books. I am deeply grateful to Mr Mortimer for having
undertaken to republish those two novels; if you have an
opportunity, will you do me the great kindness to thank him on my
behalf? At the same time, I must remember that it was you who
first spoke to him on this subject. You say that it gladdens you
to think Edwin will not be forgotten, and I am very sure that the
friendly office you have so admirably performed will in itself
reward you more than any poor expression of gratitude from me. I
write hurriedly, 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
literary machine which it was her hope would some day be invented
for construction in a less sensitive material than human tissue. 
Her eyes seldom strayed beyond the limits of the desk; and if she
had occasion to rise and go to the reference shelves, she looked
at no one on the way. Yet she herself was occasionally an object
of interested regard. Several readers were acquainted with the
chief facts of her position; they knew that her father was now
incapable of work, and was waiting till his diseased 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's legacy. Of her relations with Jasper Milvain none of
these persons had heard; 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
certain encyclopaedic volumes, and it chanced that Marian was
standing before the shelves to which his business led him. He saw
her from a little distance, and paused; it seemed as if he would
turn back; for a moment he wore a look of doubt and worry. But
after all he proceeded. At the sound of his 'Good-morning,'
Marian started--she was standing with an open 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
tone of ordinary conversation. 'I should have come this evening.'

'You wouldn't have found me at home. From five to seven I shall
be frantically 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, then I shall be glad of half an hour in the park. But I
mustn't talk now; I'm driven to my wits' end. Gloucester Gate, at
four sharp. I don't think it'll rain.'

He dragged out a tome of the 'Britannica.' Marian nodded, and
returned to her seat.

At the appointed hour she was waiting near the entrance of
Regent's Park which Jasper had mentioned. Not long ago there had
fallen a light shower, but the sky was clear again. At five
minutes past four she still waited, and had begun to fear that
the passing rain might have led Jasper to think she would not
come. Another five minutes, and from a hansom that rattled hither
at full speed, the familiar figure alighted.

'Do forgive me!' he exclaimed. 'I couldn't possibly get here
before. Let us go to the right.'

They betook themselves to that tree-shadowed strip of the park
which skirts the canal.

'I'm so afraid that you haven't really time,' said Marian, who
was chilled and confused by this show of hurry. She regretted
having made the appointment; it would have been much better to
postpone what she had to say until Jasper was at leisure. Yet
nowadays the hours of leisure seemed to come so rarely.

'If I get home at five, it'll be all right,' he replied. 'What
have you to 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 I had 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
more is to be hoped for?'

'Nothing. I should have thought men would wish to pay their
debts, even after they had been bankrupt; but they tell us we
can't expect anything more from these people.'

'You are thinking of Walter Scott, and that kind of thing'--
Jasper laughed. 'Oh, that's quite unbusinesslike; it would be
setting a pernicious example nowadays. Well, and what's to be
done?'

Marian had no answer for such a question. The tone of it was a
new stab to 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
reply in 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 to hear how Jasper would receive the news, and thereby to
direct her own course. Had he welcomed it as offering a
possibility of their marriage, that would have gladdened her,
though it would then have been necessary to show him all the
difficulties by which she was beset; for some time they had not
spoken of her father's position, and Jasper seemed willing to
forget all about that complication of their troubles. But
marriage did not occur to him, and he was evidently quite
prepared to hear that she could no longer regard this money as
her own to be freely disposed of. This was on one side a relief
but on the other it confirmed her fears. She would rather have
heard him plead with her to neglect her parents for the sake of
being his wife. Love excuses everything, and his selfishness
would have been easily lost sight of in the assurance that he
still desired her.

'You say,' she replied, with bent head, 'that it would bring us
fifty pounds a year. If another fifty were added to that, my
father and mother would 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 will bring me anything when we are married.'

His tone was that of acquiescence; not by any means of
displeasure. He spoke as if desirous of saying for her something
she found a difficulty in saying for herself.

'Jasper, it is so hard for me! So hard for me! How could I help
remembering what you told me when I promised to be your wife?'

'I spoke the truth rather brutally,' he replied, in a kind voice.
'Let all 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 good feeling. Put aside all thought of things I
have said, and don't be restrained by any fear lest you should
seem to me unwomanly--you can't be that. What is your own wish? 
What do you really wish to do, now that there is no uncertainty
calling for postponements?'

Marian raised her eyes, and was about to speak as she regarded
him; but with 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 for our 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 me help them?'

'But, my dear girl, you are taking for granted that we shall have
enough for ourselves.'

'I didn't mean at once,' she explained hurriedly. 'In a short
time--in a year. You are getting on so well. You will soon have a
sufficient income, I am sure.'

Jasper rose.

'Let us walk as far as the next seat. Don't speak. I have
something to think about.'

Moving on beside him, she slipped her hand softly within his arm;
but Jasper did not put the arm into position to support hers, and
her hand fell again, dropped suddenly. They reached another
bench, and again became seated.

'It comes to this, Marian,' he said, with portentous gravity.
'Support you, I could--I have little doubt of that. Maud is
provided for, and Dora can make a living for herself. I could
support you and leave you free to give your parents whatever you
can earn by your own work. But--'

He paused significantly. It was his wish that Marian should
supply the consequence, 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 a
comedian; 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
done with his perplexities. He feared the girl's face, and he
feared his own subsequent emotions.

'Don't talk in that way, Marian. The question is simply this: Are
we to wait a year, or are we to wait five years? In a year's
time, I shall probably be able to have a small house somewhere
out in the suburbs. If we are married then, I shall be happy
enough with so good a wife, but my career will take a different
shape. I shall just throw overboard certain of my ambitions, and
work steadily on at earning a livelihood. If we wait five years,
I may perhaps have obtained an editorship, and in that case 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 are married?'

'I have explained to you several times that success of that kind
is not compatible with a small house in the suburbs and all the
ties of a narrow income. As a bachelor, I can go about freely,
make acquaintances, dine at people's houses, perhaps entertain a
useful friend now and then--and so on. It is not merit that
succeeds in my line; it is merit plus 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 make up our minds and do what we decide to do. Indeed, it
doesn't concern me so 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
will cease 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
your love.'

'You feel, then, that it will decidedly be wise not to marry
whilst we are 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 let my father have the money?'

'I should have been greatly surprised if you hadn't wished it. I
certainly 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 and keep 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
along Camden Road. The house in which she and her parents now
lived was not quite so far away as St Paul's Crescent; they
rented four rooms, one of which had to serve both as Alfred
Yule's sitting-room and for the gatherings of the family at
meals. Mrs Yule generally sat in the kitchen, and Marian used her
bedroom as a study. About half the collection of books had been
sold; those that remained were still a respectable library,
almost covering the walls of the room where their disconsolate
possessor passed his mournful days.

He could read for a few hours a day, but only large type, and
fear of consequences kept him well within the limit of such
indulgence laid down by 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 and idleness was too dreadful to him to
be accepted so long as a glimmer of hope remained. He saw no
reason why the customary operation should not restore him to his
old pursuits, and he would have borne it ill if his wife or
daughter had ever ceased to oppose the despair which it pleased
him to affect.

On the whole, he was noticeably patient. At the time of their
removal to these lodgings, seeing that Marian prepared herself to
share the change as a matter of course, he let her do as she
would without comment; nor had he since spoken to her on the
subject which had proved so dangerous. Confidence between them
there was none; Yule addressed his daughter in a grave, cold,
civil tone, and Marian replied gently, but without tenderness. 
For Mrs Yule the disaster to the family was distinctly a gain;
she could not but mourn her husband's affliction, yet he no
longer visited her with the fury or contemptuous impatience of
former days. Doubtless the fact of needing so much tendance had
its softening influence on the man; he could not turn brutally
upon his wife when every hour of the day afforded him some proof
of her absolute devotion. Of course his open-air exercise was
still unhindered, and in this season of the returning sun he
walked a great deal, decidedly to the advantage of his general
health--which again must have been a source of benefit to his
temper. Of evenings, Marian sometimes read to him. He never
requested this, but he did not reject the kindness.

This afternoon Marian found her father examining a volume of
prints which 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 been made in the order of meals), and Yule sat by the
window, his book propped on a second chair. A whiteness in his
eyes showed how the disease was progressing, but his face had a
more wholesome colour than a year ago.

'Mr Hinks and Mr Gorbutt inquired very kindly after you to-day,'
said the 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 own
servant--brought in the dinner. After the meal, Marian was in her
bedroom for about an hour; then she went to her father, who sat
in idleness, smoking.

'What is your mother doing?' he asked, as she entered.

'Some needlework.'

'I had perhaps better say'--he spoke rather stiffly, and with
averted face--'that I make no exclusive claim to the use of this
room. As I can no longer pretend to study, it would be idle to
keep up the show of privacy that mustn't be disturbed. Perhaps
you will mention to your mother that she is quite at liberty to
sit here whenever she chooses.'

It was characteristic of him that he should wish to deliver this
permission by proxy. But Marian understood how much was implied
in such an announcement.

'I will tell mother,' she said. 'But at this moment I wished to
speak to you 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 have supposed 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 of interest as I safely can.'

'I really must decline to advise, or interfere in any way. But,
as you have introduced this subject, I may as well put a question
which is connected with it. Could you give me any idea as to how
long you are likely 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 indefinitely
postponed?'

'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 a just surmise as to the reasons for this
postponement; he was gratified to think that Marian might learn
how rightly he had judged her wooer, and an involuntary pity for
the girl did not prevent his hoping that the detestable alliance
was doomed. With difficulty he refrained from smiling.

'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 be solely 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
necessary to take any steps for raising money, but a few months
more would see the family without resources, save those provided
by Marian, who, without discussion, had been simply setting aside
what she received for her work.

'You must be well aware,' said Yule at length, 'that I cannot
consent to benefit by any such offer. When it is necessary, I
shall borrow on the security of--'

'Why should you do that, father?' Marian interrupted. 'My money
is yours. If you refuse it as a gift, then why may not I lend to
you as well as a stranger? Repay me when your eyes are restored. 
For the present, all our anxieties are at an end. We can live
very well until you are able to write again.'

For his sake she put it in his way. Supposing him never able to
earn anything, then indeed would come a time of hardship; but she
could not contemplate that. The worst would only befall them in
case she was forsaken by Jasper, and if that happened all else
would be of little account.

'This has come upon me as a surprise,' said Yule, in his most
reserved tone. 'I can give no definite reply; I must think of
it.'

'Should you like me to ask mother to bring her sewing here now?'
asked Marian, rising.

'Yes, you may do so.'

In this way the awkwardness of the situation was overcome, and
when Marian next had occasion to speak of money matters no
serious objection was offered to her proposal.

Dora Milvain of course learnt what had come to pass; to
anticipate criticism, her brother imparted to her the decision at
which Marian and he had arrived. She reflected with an air of
discontent.

'So you are quite satisfied,' was her question at length, 'that
Marian should 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
at latest.'

'I tell you, Marian has made a deliberate choice. She understands
me perfectly, and is quite satisfied with my projects. You will
have the kindness, Dora, not to disturb her faith in me.'

'I agree to that; and in return I shall let you know when she
begins to suffer 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 fifty pounds. Never mind; I shall let
you know when she is beginning to starve, and doubtless that will
amuse you.'

At the end of July Maud was married. Between Mr Dolomore and
Jasper existed no superfluous kindness, each resenting the
other's self-sufficiency; but Jasper, when once satisfied of his
proposed brother-in-law's straightforwardness, was careful not to
give offence to a man who might some day serve him. Provided this
marriage resulted in moderate happiness to Maud, it was
undoubtedly a magnificent stroke of luck. Mrs Lane, the lady who
has so often been casually mentioned, took upon herself those
offices in connection with the ceremony which the bride's mother
is wont to perform; at her house was held the wedding-breakfast,
and such other absurdities of usage as recommend themselves to
Society. Dora of course played the part of a bridesmaid, and
Jasper went through his duties with the suave seriousness of a
man who has convinced himself that he cannot afford to despise
anything that the world sanctions.

About the same time occurred another event which was to have more
importance for this aspiring little family than could as yet be
foreseen. Whelpdale's noteworthy idea triumphed; the weekly paper
called Chat was thoroughly transformed, and appeared as Chit-
Chat. From the first number, the success of the enterprise was
beyond doubt; in a month's time all England was ringing with the
fame of this noble new development of journalism; the proprietor
saw his way to a solid fortune, and other men who had money to
embark began to scheme imitative publications. It was clear that
the quarter-educated would soon be abundantly provided with
literature to their taste.

Whelpdale's exultation was unbounded, but in the fifth week of
the life of Chit-Chat something happened which threatened to
overturn his sober reason. Jasper was walking along the Strand
one afternoon, when he saw his ingenious friend approaching him
in a manner scarcely to be accounted for, unless Whelpdale's
abstemiousness had for once given way before convivial
invitation. The young man's hat was on the back of his head, and
his coat flew wildly as he rushed forwards with perspiring face
and glaring eyes. He would have passed without observing Jasper,
had not the latter called to him; then he turned round, laughed
insanely, grasped his acquaintance by the wrists, and drew him
aside into 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. 
'Two hundred and fifty a year! Lake and the editor quarrelled--
pummelled each other--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's my connection with Fleet as well; no need to give that
up. Presently I shall 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
dear Milvain, a year ago I should have thought an income of two
hundred a glorious competence. I don't aim at such things as are
fit for you. You won't be content till you have thousands; of
course I know that. But I'm a humble fellow. Yet no; by Jingo,
I'm not! In one way I'm not--I must confess 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 my acquaintances somewhere or other. Poor old Biffen
must come. When can you 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
Dora left town for their holiday; they went to the Channel
Islands, and spent more than half of the three weeks they had
allowed themselves in Sark. Passing over from Guernsey to that
island, they were amused to see a copy 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
doubt he is. The quarter-educated constitute a very large class
indeed; how large, the huge success of that paper is
demonstrating. I'll write to Whelpdale, and let him know that his
benefaction has extended even to Sark.'

This letter was written, and in a few days there came a reply.

'Why, the fellow has written to you as well!' exclaimed Jasper,
taking up a second letter; both were on the table of their
sitting-room when they 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
away with her to her room upstairs.

'What had he to say?' Jasper inquired, when she came down again
and seated 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
leaving London; her brother remarked this, and was glad to think
that the air of the Channel should be doing her so much good. He
read Whelpdale's letter aloud; it was facetious, but oddly
respectful.

'The reverence that fellow has for me is astonishing,' he
observed with a 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
queer thing, Jasper! Did you mean that to be a good joke, or was
it better still by coming out unintentionally?'

'You are in remarkable spirits, old girl. By-the-by, would you
mind letting 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,'
she returned, 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 his position.'

Dora could not be quite sure whether he spoke seriously or not. 
As both of them had begun to eat with an excellent appetite, a
few moments were allowed 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, and
assistant 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't forget to insist on that when you reprove Mr Whelpdale; no
doubt it will impress him.'

Late in the evening of that day, when the brother and sister had
strolled by moonlight up to the windmill which occupies the
highest point 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 the silence to say quietly:

'I may as well tell you that Mr Whelpdale wants to know if I will
marry him.'

'The deuce he does!' cried Jasper, with a start. 'If I didn't
half suspect 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 any
difference 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
reason whatever to disturb our friendliness with him. I have a
right to give directions 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
much gracefulness an unmistakable encouragement to persevere. 
This was posted on the morrow, and its writer continued to
benefit most remarkably by the sun and breezes and
rock-scrambling of Sark.

Soon after their return to London, Dora had the satisfaction of
paying the first visit to her sister at the Dolomores' house in
Ovington Square. Maud was established in the midst of luxuries,
and talked with laughing scorn of the days when she inhabited
Grub Street; her literary tastes were henceforth to serve as
merely a note of distinction, an added grace which made evident
her superiority to the well-attired and smooth-tongued people
among whom she was content to shine. On the one hand, she had
contact with the world of fashionable literature, on the other
with that of fashionable ignorance. Mrs Lane's house was a
meeting-point of the two spheres.

'I shan't be there very often,' remarked Jasper, as Dora and he
discussed 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
were rather 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
to have been.'

'The success of Chit-Chat keeps him in good spirits.'

It was perhaps a week after this that Mrs Dolomore came quite
unexpectedly to the house by Regent's Park, as early as eleven
o'clock in the morning. She had a long talk in private with Dora.
Jasper was not at home; when he returned towards evening, Dora
came to his room with a countenance which disconcerted him.

'Is it true,' she asked abruptly, standing before him with her
hands strained together, 'that you have been representing
yourself as no longer engaged to Marian?'

'Who has told you so?'

'That doesn't matter. I have heard it, and I want to know from
you that it is false.'

Jasper thrust his hands into his pockets and walked apart.

'I can take no notice,' he said with indifference, 'of anonymous
gossip.'

'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. Mrs Betterton 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,'
replied Jasper, deliberately.

The girl met his eyes.

'Then I was right,' she said. 'Of course I told Maud that it was
impossible to believe this for a moment. But how has it come to
be said?'

'You might as well ask me how any lie gets into circulation among
people of 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
anything more.

She sat up late, mostly engaged in thinking, though at times an
open book was in her hand. It was nearly half-past twelve when a
very light rap 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
forward and 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
uncomfortable about what I said to you early this evening. I
didn't lie in the ordinary sense; it's true enough that I have
never told anyone that my engagement was at an end. But I have
acted as if it were, and it's better 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
have come to know anything about this I don't understand. I am
not aware of any connecting link between them and the Ruperts, or
the Barlows either. Perhaps there are none; most likely the
rumour has no foundation in their knowledge. Still, it is better
that I should have told you. Miss Rupert has never heard that I
was engaged, nor have her friends the Barlows--at least I don't
see how they could have done. She may have told Mrs Barlow of my
proposal--probably would; and this may somehow have got round to
those other people. But Maud didn't make any mention of 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 I have done.'

'Do you mean that Miss Rupert has accepted you?'

'No. I wrote to her. She answered that she was going to Germany
for a few weeks, and that I should have her reply whilst she was
away. I am waiting.'

'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
of it?'

'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 was no mistaking the girl's manner.'

'Don't call her a girl!' broke in Dora, scornfully. 'You say she
is several years older than yourself.'

'Well, at all events, she's intellectual, and very rich. I
yielded to the temptation.'

'And deserted Marian just when she has most need of help and
consolation? 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
that woman refuses me--as it's more than likely she will--I will
go to Marian and 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 I marry Marian or Miss Rupert, I sacrifice my strongest
feelings--in the one case to a sense of duty, in the other to
worldly advantage. I was an idiot to write that letter, for I
knew at the time that there was a woman who is far more to me
than Miss Rupert and all her money--a woman I might, perhaps,
marry. Don't ask any questions; I shall not answer them. As I
have said so much, I wished you to understand my position fully. 
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
very uncomfortable, for Dora would only speak to him when
necessity compelled her; and there were two meetings with Marian,
at which he had to act his part as well as he could. At length
came the expected letter. Very nicely expressed, very friendly,
very complimentary, but--a refusal.

He handed it to Dora across the breakfast-table, saying with a
pinched smile:

'Now you can look cheerful again. I am doomed.'



CHAPTER XXXV. FEVER AND REST

Milvain's skilful efforts notwithstanding, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,'
had no success. By two publishers the book had been declined; the
firm which brought it out offered the author half profits and
fifteen pounds on account, greatly to Harold Biffen's
satisfaction. But reviewers in general were either angry or
coldly contemptuous. 'Let Mr Biffen bear in mind,' said one of
these sages, 'that a novelist's first duty is to tell a story.'
'Mr Biffen,' wrote another, 'seems not to understand that a work
of art must before everything else afford amusement.' 'A
pretentious book of the genre ennuyant,' was the brief comment of
a Society journal. A weekly of high standing began its short
notice in a rage: 'Here is another of those intolerable
productions for which we are indebted to the spirit of grovelling
realism. This author, let it be said, is never offensive, but
then one must go on to describe his work by a succession of
negatives; it is never interesting, never profitable, never--'
and the rest. The eulogy in The West End had a few timid echoes. 
That in The Current would have secured more imitators, but
unfortunately it appeared when most of the reviewing had already
been done. And, as Jasper truly said, only a concurrence of
powerful testimonials could have compelled any number of people
to affect an interest in this book. 'The first duty of a novelist
is to tell a story:' the perpetual repetition of this phrase is a
warning to all men who propose drawing from the life. Biffen only
offered a slice of biography, and it was found to lack flavour.

He wrote to Mrs Reardon: 'I cannot thank you enough for this very
kind letter about my book; I value it more than I should the
praises of all the reviewers in existence. You have understood my
aim. Few people will do that, and very few indeed could express
it with such clear conciseness.'

If Amy had but contented herself with a civil acknowledgment of
the volumes he sent her! She thought it a kindness to write to
him so appreciatively, to exaggerate her approval. The poor
fellow was so lonely. Yes, but his loneliness only became
intolerable when a beautiful woman had smiled upon him, and so
forced him to dream perpetually of that supreme joy of life which
to him was forbidden.

It was a fatal day, that on which Amy put herself under his
guidance to visit Reardon's poor room at Islington. In the old
times, Harold had been wont to regard his friend's wife as the
perfect woman; seldom in his life had he enjoyed female society,
and when he first met Amy it was years since he had spoken with
any woman above the rank of a lodging-house keeper or a
needle-plier. Her beauty seemed to him of a very high order, and
her mental endowments filled him with an exquisite delight, not
to be appreciated by men who have never been in his position.
When the rupture came between Amy and her husband, Harold could
not believe that she was in any way to blame; held to Reardon by
strong friendship, he yet accused him of injustice to Amy. And
what he saw of her at Brighton confirmed him in this judgment. 
When he accompanied her to Manville Street, he allowed her, of
course, to remain alone in the room where Reardon had lived; but
Amy presently summoned him, and asked him questions. Every tear
she shed watered a growth of passionate tenderness in the
solitary man's heart. Parting from her at length, he went to hide
his face in darkness and think of her--think of her.

A fatal day. There was an end of all his peace, all his capacity
for labour, his patient endurance of penury. Once, when he was
about three-and-twenty, he had been in love with a girl of gentle
nature and fair intelligence; on account of his poverty, he could
not even hope that his love might be returned, and he went away
to bear the misery as best he might. Since then the life he had
led precluded the forming of such attachments; it would never
have been possible for him to support a wife of however humble
origin. At intervals he felt the full weight of his loneliness,
but there were happily long periods during which his Greek
studies and his efforts in realistic fiction made him indifferent
to the curse laid upon him. But after that hour of intimate
speech with Amy, he never again knew rest of mind or heart.

Accepting what Reardon had bequeathed to him, he removed the
books and furniture to a room in that part of the town which he
had found most convenient for his singular tutorial pursuits. The
winter did not pass without days of all but starvation, but in
March he received his fifteen pounds for 'Mr Bailey,' and this
was a fortune, putting him beyond the reach of hunger for full
six months. Not long after that he yielded to a temptation that
haunted him day and night, and went to call upon Amy, who was
still living with her mother at Westbourne Park. When he entered
the drawing-room Amy was sitting there alone; she rose with an
exclamation of frank pleasure.

'I have often thought of you lately, Mr Biffen. How kind to come
and see me!'

He could scarcely speak; her beauty, as she stood before him in
the graceful black dress, was anguish to his excited nerves, and
her voice was so cruel in its conventional warmth. When he looked
at her eyes, he remembered how their brightness had been dimmed
with tears, and the sorrow he had shared with her seemed to make
him more than an ordinary friend. When he told her of his success
with the publishers, she was delighted.

'Oh, when is it to come out? I shall watch the advertisements so
anxiously.'

'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 of three. And Amy expressed her gratitude in the most
charming way. She had gained much in point of manner during the
past twelve months; her ten thousand pounds inspired her with the
confidence necessary to a perfect demeanour. That slight hardness
which was wont to be perceptible in her tone had altogether
passed away; she seemed to be cultivating flexibility of voice.

Mrs Yule came in, and was all graciousness. Then two callers
presented themselves. Biffen's pleasure was at an end as soon as
he had to adapt himself to polite dialogue; he escaped as
speedily as possible.

He was not the kind of man that deceives himself as to his own
aspect in the eyes of others. Be as kind as she might, Amy could
not set him strutting Malvolio-wise; she viewed him as a poor
devil who often had to pawn his coat--a man of parts who would
never get on in the world--a friend to be thought of kindly
because her dead husband had valued him. Nothing more than that;
he understood perfectly the limits of her feeling. But this could
not put restraint upon the emotion with which he received any
most trifling utterance of kindness from her. He did not think of
what was, but of what, under changed circumstances, might be. To
encourage such fantasy was the idlest self-torment, but he had
gone too far in this form of indulgence. He became the slave of
his inflamed imagination.

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 a later hour. When it was past recall, he would gladly have
softened many of the expressions the letter contained. 'I value
it more than the praises of all the reviewers in existence'--
would Amy be offended at that? 'Yours in gratitude and
reverence,' he had signed himself--the kind of phrase that comes
naturally to a passionate man, when he would fain say more than
he dares. To what purpose this half-revelation? Unless, indeed,
he wished to learn once and for ever, by the gentlest of
repulses, that his homage was only welcome so long as it kept
well within conventional terms.

He passed a month of distracted idleness, until there came a day
when the need to see Amy was so imperative that it mastered every
consideration. He donned his best clothes, and about four o'clock
presented himself at Mrs Yule's house. By ill luck there happened
to be at least half a dozen callers in the drawing-room; the
strappado would have 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 less cordiality than on the last
occasion. He had expected it, but he bit his lips till the blood
came. What business had he among people of this kind? No doubt
the visitors wondered at his comparative shabbiness, and asked
themselves how he ventured to make a call without the regulation
chimney-pot hat. It was a wretched and foolish mistake.

Ten minutes saw him in the street again, vowing that he would
never approach Amy more. Not that he found fault with her; the
blame was entirely his own.

He lived on the third floor of a house in Goodge Street, above a
baker's shop. 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 a godsend, since the destruction of his own. 
He had now only one pupil, and was not exerting himself to find
others; his old energy had forsaken him.

For the failure of his book he cared nothing. It was no more than
he anticipated. The work was done--the best he was capable of--
and this satisfied him.

It was doubtful whether he loved Amy, in the true sense of
exclusive desire. She represented for him all that is lovely in
womanhood; to his starved soul and senses she was woman, the
complement of his frustrate being. Circumstance had made her the
means of exciting in him that natural force which had hitherto
either been dormant or had yielded to the resolute will.

Companionless, inert, he suffered the tortures which are so
ludicrous and contemptible to the happily married. Life was
barren to him, and would soon grow hateful; only in sleep could
he cast off the unchanging thoughts and desires which made all
else meaningless. And rightly meaningless: he revolted against
the unnatural constraints forbidding him to complete his manhood.

By what fatality was he alone of men withheld from the winning of
a woman's love?

He could not bear to walk the streets where the faces of
beautiful women would encounter him. When he must needs leave the
house, he went about in the poor, narrow ways, where only
spectacles of coarseness, and want, and toil would be presented
to him. Yet even here he was too often reminded that the
poverty-stricken of the class to which poverty is natural were
not condemned to endure in solitude. Only he who belonged to no
class, who was rejected alike by his fellows in privation and by
his equals in intellect, must die without having known the touch
of a loving woman's hand.

The summer went by, and he was unconscious of its warmth and
light. How his days passed he could not have said.

One evening in early autumn, as he stood before the book-stall at
the end of Goodge Street, a familiar voice accosted him. It was
Whelpdale's. A month or two ago he had stubbornly refused an
invitation to dine with Whelpdale and other acquaintances--you
remember what the occasion was--and since then the prosperous
young man had not crossed his path.

'I've something to tell you,' said the assailer, taking hold of
his arm. 'I'm in a tremendous state of mind, and want someone to
share my delight. You can walk a short way, I hope? Not too busy
with some new book?'

Biffen gave no answer, but went whither he was led.

'You are writing a new book, I suppose? Don't be discouraged, old
fellow. "Mr Bailey" will have his day yet; I know men who
consider it an undoubted work of genius. What's the next to deal
with?'

'I haven't decided yet,' replied Harold, merely to avoid
argument. He spoke 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? I have asked her to marry me, and, by the Powers! 
she has given me an encouraging answer. Not an actual yes, but
encouraging! She's away in the Channel Islands, and I wrote--'

He talked on for a quarter of an hour. Then, with a sudden
movement, the listener 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
no lessons now, and could not write; from his novel nothing was
to be expected. He might apply again to his brother, but such
dependence was unjust and unworthy. And why should he struggle to
preserve a life which had no prospect but of misery?

It was in the hours following his encounter with Whelpdale that
he first knew the actual desire of death, the simple longing for
extinction. One must go far in suffering before the innate will-
to-live is thus truly overcome; weariness of bodily anguish may
induce this perversion of the instincts; less often, that despair
of suppressed emotion which had fallen upon Harold. Through the
night he kept his thoughts fixed on death in its aspect of
repose, of eternal oblivion. And herein he had found solace.

The next night it was the same. Moving about among common needs
and occupations, he knew not a moment's cessation of heart-ache,
but when he 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; it came 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 had never known. His resolve was taken, not in a moment of
supreme conflict, but as the result of a subtle process by which
his imagination had become in love with death. Turning from
contemplation of life's one rapture, he looked with the same
intensity of desire to a state that had neither fear nor hope.

One afternoon he went to the Museum Reading-room, and was busy
for a few minutes in consultation of a volume which he took from
the shelves of medical literature. On his way homeward he entered
two or three chemists' shops. Something of which he had need
could be procured only in very small quantities; but repetition
of his demand in different places supplied him sufficiently. When
he reached his room, he emptied the contents of sundry little
bottles into one larger, and put this in his pocket. Then he
wrote rather a long letter, addressed to his brother at
Liverpool.

It had been a beautiful day, and there wanted still a couple of
hours before the warm, golden sunlight would disappear. Harold
stood and looked round his room. As always, it presented a neat,
orderly aspect, but his eye caught sight of a volume which stood
upside down, and this fault--particularly hateful to a bookish
man--he rectified. He put his blotting-pad square on the table,
closed the lid of the inkstand, arranged his pens. Then he took
his hat and stick, locked the door behind 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 possible after
leaving the house he posted his letter.

His direction was westward; walking at a steady, purposeful pace,
with cheery countenance and eyes that gave sign of pleasure as
often as they turned to the sun-smitten clouds, he struck across
Kensington Gardens, and then on towards Fulham, where he crossed
the Thames to Putney. The sun was just setting; he paused a few
moments on the bridge, watching the 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 growing dark, but an
unwonted effect in the atmosphere caused him to turn and look to
the east. An exclamation escaped his lips, for there before him
was the new-risen moon, a perfect globe, vast and red. He gazed
at it for 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 made a deep shadow under the full moon. It was still
quite warm, and scarcely a breath of air moved among the
reddening leaves.

Sure at length that he was remote from all observation, he
pressed into a little copse, and there reclined on the grass,
leaning against the stem of a tree. The moon was now hidden from
him, but by looking upward he could see its light upon a long,
faint cloud, and the blue of the placid sky. His mood was one of
ineffable peace. Only thoughts of beautiful things came into his
mind; he had reverted to an earlier period of life, when as yet
no mission of literary realism had been imposed upon him, and
when his passions were still soothed by natural hope. 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 his
vision above the edge of dark foliage--beautiful, but infinitely
remote.

Recalling Reardon's voice, it brought to him those last words
whispered by his dying companion. He remembered them now:

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.



CHAPTER XXXVI. JASPER'S DELICATE CASE

Only when he received Miss Rupert's amiably-worded refusal to
become his wife was Jasper aware how firmly he had counted on her
accepting him. He told Dora with sincerity that his proposal was
a piece of foolishness; so far from having any regard for Miss
Rupert, he felt towards her with something of antipathy, and at
the same time he was conscious of ardent emotions, if not love,
for another woman who would be no bad match even from the
commercial point of view. Yet so strong was the effect upon him
of 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 the impression of calamity.

A part of that impression was due to the engagement which he must
now fulfil. He had pledged his word to ask Marian to marry him
without further delay. To shuffle out of this duty would make him
too ignoble even in his own eyes. Its discharge meant, as he had
expressed it, that he was 'doomed'; he would deliberately be
committing the very error always so flagrant to him in the case
of other men who had crippled themselves by early marriage with a
penniless woman. But events had enmeshed him; circumstances had
proved fatal. Because, in his salad days, he dallied with a girl
who had indeed many charms, step by step he had come to the
necessity of sacrificing his prospects to that raw attachment. 
And, to make it more irritating, this happened just when the way
began to be much clearer before him.

Unable to think of work, he left the house and wandered gloomily
about Regent's Park. For the first time in his recollection the
confidence which was wont to inspirit him gave way to an attack
of sullen discontent. He felt himself ill-used by destiny, and
therefore by Marian, who was fate's instrument. It was not in his
nature that this mood should last long, but it revealed to him
those darker possibilities which his egoism would develop if it
came seriously into conflict with overmastering misfortune. A
hope, a craven hope, insinuated itself into the cracks of his
infirm resolve. He would not examine it, but conscious of 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-past
nine next morning at Gloucester Gate. He had reasons for wishing
this interview to take place on neutral ground.

Early in the afternoon, when he was trying to do some work, there
arrived a letter which he opened with impatient hand; the writing
was Mrs Reardon's, and he could not guess what she had to
communicate.

'DEAR MR MILVAIN,--I am distressed beyond measure to read in this

morning'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 report of 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
not opened the newspaper to-day; it lay folded on a chair. 
Hastily he ran his eye over the columns, and found at length a
short paragraph which stated that the body of a man who had
evidently committed suicide by taking poison had been found on
Putney Heath; that papers in his pockets identified him as one
Harold Biffen, lately resident in Goodge Street, Tottenham Court
Road; and that an inquest would be held, &c. He went to Dora's
room, and told her of the event, but without mentioning the
letter which had brought it under his notice.

'I suppose there was no alternative between that and starvation. 
I scarcely thought of Biffen as likely to kill himself. If
Reardon had done 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 the event that was to occasion it.

'Really, one can't grieve. There seemed no possibility of his
ever earning enough to live decently upon. But why the deuce did
he go all the 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 that
desirable quality.

Leaving her, Jasper made a rapid, though careful, toilet, and was
presently on his way to Westbourne Park. It was his hope that he
should reach Mrs Yule's house before any ordinary afternoon
caller could arrive; and so he did. He had not been here since
that evening when he encountered Reardon on the road and heard
his reproaches. To his great satisfaction, Amy was alone in the
drawing-room; he held her hand a trifle longer than was
necessary, and returned more earnestly the look of interest with
which she regarded him.

'I was ignorant of this affair when your letter came,' he began,
'and I set out immediately to see you.'

'I hoped you would bring me some news. What can have driven the
poor man to such extremity?'

'Poverty, I can only suppose. But I will see Whelpdale. I hadn't
come across 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
have done something to help him!'--So often the regretful remark
of one's friends, when one has been permitted to perish.

With Amy's sorrow was mingled a suggestion of tenderness which
came of her knowledge that the dead man had worshipped her. 
Perchance his death was in part attributable to that hopeless
love.

'He sent me a copy of his novel,' she said, 'and I saw him once
or twice after that. But he was much better dressed than in
former days, and I thought--'

Having this subject to converse upon put the two more quickly at
ease than could otherwise have been the case. Jasper was closely
observant of the young widow; her finished graces made a strong
appeal to his admiration, and even in some degree awed him. He
saw that her beauty had matured, and it was more distinctly than
ever of the type to which he paid reverence. Amy might take a
foremost place among brilliant women. At a dinner-table, in grand
toilet, she would be superb; at polite receptions people would
whisper: 'Who is that?'

Biffen fell out of the dialogue.

'It grieved me very much,' said Amy, 'to hear of the misfortune
that befell my cousin.'

'The legacy affair? Why, yes, it was a pity. Especially now that
her father is threatened with blindness.'

'Is it so serious? I heard indirectly that he had something the
matter with his eyes, but I didn't know--'

'They may be able to operate before long, and perhaps it will be
successful. 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 of
impulsiveness. 'I am very much afraid Marian is tied during her
father's life.'

'Indeed? But there is her mother.'

'No companion for her father, as I think you know. Even if Mr
Yule recovers his sight, it is not at all likely that he will be
able to work as 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
difference in my position. Recall where I stood when you first
knew me. I have done something 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 any falling 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 have detected you when there was no signature.'

'And Dora has been doing well. Her story in that girls' paper has
attracted attention. It's a great deal to have my mind at rest
about both the girls. But I can't pretend to be in very good
spirits.' He rose. '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
stepped aside, but came back as if on an impulse. 'May I ask you
for your advice in a very delicate matter?'

Amy was a little disturbed, but she collected herself and smiled
in a way 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 I justified or not in freely consenting to that?'

'I scarcely understand. Has Marian expressed a wish to devote
herself in that way?'

'Not distinctly. But I suspect that her conscience points to it. 
I am in serious doubt. On the one hand,' he explained in a tone
of candour, 'who will not blame me if our engagement terminates
in circumstances such as these? On the other--you are aware, by-
the-by, that her father objects in 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
connection with Fadge. Think of that poor girl thus situated. And
I could so easily put her at rest by renouncing all claim upon
her.'

'I surmise that--that you yourself would also be put at rest by
such a decision?'

'Don't look at me with that ironical smile,' he pleaded. 'What
you have said is true. And really, why should I not be glad of
it? I couldn't go about declaring that I was heartbroken, in any
event; I must be content for people to judge me according to
their disposition, and judgments are pretty sure to be
unfavourable. What can I do? In either case I must to a certain
extent be in the wrong. To tell the truth, I was wrong from the
first.'

There was a slight movement about Amy's lips as these words were
uttered: 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 you again.'

'It was good of you to take the trouble to come--whilst you have
so much on 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
was pacing the pathway at least ten minutes before the appointed
time. When Marian joined him, she was panting from a hurried
walk, and this affected Jasper disagreeably; he thought of Amy
Reardon's air of repose, and how impossible it would be for that
refined person to fall into such disorder. He observed, too, with
more disgust than usual, the signs in Marian's attire of
encroaching poverty--her unsatisfactory gloves, her mantle out of
fashion. Yet for such feelings he reproached himself, and the
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's smooth countenance. She had divined that there
was some grave reason for this summons, and the panting with
which she had approached was half caused by the anxious beats of
her heart. Jasper's long silence again was 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
think myself 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
weighted with 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 and neck.

'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 what
father's fate is to be?'

'Well, now, there's the point. You feel yourself indispensable to
your father at present?'

'Not indispensable, but--wouldn't it seem very unkind? I should
be so afraid of the effect upon his health, Jasper. So much
depends, we are told, upon his general state of mind and body. It
would be dreadful if I were the cause of--'

She paused, and looked up at him touchingly.

'I understand that. But let us face our position. Suppose the
operation is successful; your father will certainly not be able
to use his eyes much for a long time, if ever; and perhaps he
would miss you as much then as now. Suppose he does not regain
his sight; could you then leave him?'

'Dear, I can't feel it would be my duty to renounce you because
my father had become blind. And if he can see pretty well, I
don't think I need remain with him.'

'Has one thing occurred to you? Will he consent to receive an
allowance from 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 be unjust 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
domestic difficulties. As I have said, there is the very serious
doubt whether your father would accept money from you when you
are my wife. Then again, 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
thing to do. Let us wait, at all events, till your father has
undergone the operation. Whichever the result, you say your own
position will be the same.'

'Except, Jasper, that if father is helpless, I must find means of
assuring his support.'

'In other words, if you can't do that as my wife, you must remain
Marian Yule.'

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 I have decided is impossible. Marian, you shall have the
plain truth. I can 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 your mind 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
now spots of rain began to fall. Jasper looked about him in
annoyance as he felt 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
passionate sadness, '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 longer love me? Why need you conceal it, if that is
the truth? Is that what you mean by saying you distrust yourself?

If you do so, there must be reason for it in the present. Could I
distrust myself? Can I force myself in any manner to believe that
I shall ever cease to love you?'

Jasper opened his umbrella.

'We must see each other again, Marian. We can't stand and talk in
the rain--confound it! Cursed climate, where you can never be
sure of a clear sky for five minutes!'

'I can't go till you have spoken more plainly, Jasper! How am I
to live an hour in such uncertainty as this? Do you love me or
not? Do you wish me to be your wife, or are you sacrificing
yourself?'

'I do wish it!' Her emotion had an effect upon him, and his voice
trembled. 'But I can't answer for myself--no, not for a year. 
And how are we to marry now, in face of all these--'

'What can I do? What can I do?' she sobbed. 'Oh, if I were but
heartless to everyone but to you! If I could give you my money,
and leave my father and mother to their fate! Perhaps some could
do that. There is no 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? Is there no way of providing for
my father?'

'Good God! This is frightful, Marian. I can't stand it. Live as
you are doing. 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
Marian turned away and walked to a little distance, and stood
beneath the shelter of a great tree, her face averted from him. 
Moving to follow, he saw that her frame was shaken by soundless
sobbing. When his footsteps came close to her, she again looked
at him.

'I know now,' she said, 'how foolish it is when they talk of love
being unselfish. In what can there be more selfishness? I feel as
if I could hold you to your promise at any cost, though you have
made me understand that you regard our engagement as your great
misfortune. I have felt it for weeks--oh, for months! But I
couldn't say a word that would seem to invite such misery as
this. You don't love me, Jasper, and that's an end of everything.

I should be shamed if I married you.'

'Whether I love you or not, I feel as if no sacrifice would be
too great that would bring you the happiness you deserve.'

'Deserve!' she repeated bitterly. 'Why do I deserve it? Because I
long for 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. I think perhaps you never loved me. Jasper, I could give
my right hand if you had said you loved me before--I can't put it
into words; it sounds too base, and I don't wish to imply that
you behaved basely. But if you had 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
replied gloomily. 'If I believe anything, I believe that I did
love you. But I knew myself and I should never have betrayed what
I felt, if for once in my life I could have been honourable.'

The rain pattered on the leaves and the grass, and still the sky
darkened.

'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
said now? I should feel like a beggar coming to you. I must try
and keep some little self-respect, if I am to live at all.'

'Then let me help you to think of me with indifference. Remember
me as a man who disregarded priceless love such as yours to go
and make himself a 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 mercy of a vulgar ambition as I am, is
no fit husband for you. Soon enough you would thoroughly despise
me, and though I should know it was merited, my perverse pride
would revolt against it. Many a time I have tried to regard life
practically as I am able to do theoretically, but it always ends
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 in neglect.'

Marian had overcome her excess of emotion.

'There is no need to disparage yourself' she said. 'What can be
simpler than the truth? You loved me, or thought you did, and now
you love me no 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. Why didn'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
another six 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
speak calmly, and we should both know with certainty what course
we ought to pursue.'

'That seems to me childish. It is easy for you to contemplate
months of postponement. 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,
then Marian left the shelter of the tree, opened her umbrella,
and walked quickly away. Jasper did not watch her; he had the
face of a man who is suffering a severe humiliation.

A few hours later he told Dora what had come to pass, and without
extenuation of his own conduct. His sister said very little, for
she recognised genuine suffering in his tones and aspect. But
when it was over, she sat down and wrote to Marian.

'I feel far more disposed to congratulate you than to regret what
has happened. Now that there is no necessity for silence, I will
tell you something which will help you to see Jasper in his true
light. A few weeks ago he actually proposed to a woman for whom
he does not pretend to have the slightest affection, but who is
very rich, and who seemed likely to be foolish enough to marry
him. Yesterday morning he received her final answer--a refusal. 
I am not sure that I was right in keeping this a secret from you,
but I might have done harm by interfering. You will understand
(though surely you need no fresh proof) how utterly unworthy he
is of you. You cannot, I am sure you cannot, regard it as a
misfortune that all is over between you. Dearest Marian, do not
cease to think of me as your friend because my brother has
disgraced himself. If you can't see me, at least let us write to
each other. You are the only friend 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
with undisturbed kindness of feeling, but in few words.

'For the present we cannot see each other, but I am very far from
wishing that our friendship should come to an end. I must only
ask that you will write to me without the least reference to
these troubles; tell me 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 foreshadowed in our last talk--though
"foreshadowed" is a wrong word to use of coming happiness, isn't
it? That paper I sent to Mr Trenchard is accepted, and I shall be
glad to have your criticism when it comes out; don't spare my
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 your letters, you could make an excellent background
of word-painting.'

Dora sighed, and shook her little head, and thought of her
brother with unspeakable disdain.



CHAPTER XXXVII. REWARDS

When the fitting moment arrived, Alfred Yule underwent an
operation for cataract, and it was believed at first that the
result would be favourable. This hope had but short duration;
though the utmost prudence was exercised, evil symptoms declared
themselves, and in a few months' time all prospect of restoring
his vision was at an end. Anxiety, and then the fatal assurance,
undermined his health; with blindness, there fell upon him the
debility of premature old age.

The position of the family was desperate. Marian had suffered
much all the winter from attacks of nervous disorder, and by no
effort of will could she produce enough literary work to
supplement adequately the income derived from her fifteen hundred
pounds. In the summer of 1885 things were at the worst; Marian
saw no alternative but to draw upon her capital, and so relieve
the present at the expense of the future. She had a mournful
warning before her eyes in the case of poor Hinks and his wife,
who were now kept from the workhouse only by charity. But at this
juncture the rescuer appeared. Mr Quarmby and certain of his
friends were already making a subscription for the Yules'
benefit, when one of their number--Mr Jedwood, the publisher--
came forward with a proposal which relieved the minds of all
concerned. Mr Jedwood had a brother who was the director of a
public library in a provincial town, and by this means he was
enabled to offer Marian Yule a place as assistant in that
institution; she would receive seventy-five pounds a year, and
thus, adding her own income, would be able to put her parents
beyond the reach of want. The family at once removed from London,
and the name of Yule was no longer met with in periodical
literature.

By an interesting coincidence, it was on the day of this
departure that there 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 coloured portrait of this illustrious man
challenged the admiration of all who had literary tastes, and two
columns of panegyric recorded his career for the encouragement of
aspiring youth. This article, of course unsigned, came from the
pen of Jasper Milvain.

It was only by indirect channels that Jasper learnt how Marian
and her parents had been provided for. Dora's correspondence with
her friend soon languished; in the nature of things this could
not but happen; and about the time when Alfred Yule became
totally blind the girls ceased to hear anything of each other. An
event which came to pass in the spring sorely tempted Dora to
write, but out of good feeling she refrained.

For it was then that she at length decided to change her name for
that of Whelpdale. Jasper could not quite reconcile himself to
this condescension; in various discourses he pointed out to his
sister how much 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, but borne in all senses. Let me impress upon you, my dear
girl, that I have a future before me, and that there is no
reason--with your charm of person and mind--why you should not
marry brilliantly. Whelpdale can give you a decent home, I admit,
but as regards society he will be a drag 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
shall make no unpleasantness. I don't dislike Whelpdale, and I
shall remain on friendly terms with him.'

'That is very kind of you,' said his sister suavely. 

Whelpdale was frantic with exultation. When the day of the
wedding had been settled, he rushed into Jasper's study and
fairly shed tears before he could command his voice.

'There is no mortal on the surface of the globe one-tenth so
happy as I am!' he gasped. 'I can't believe it! Why in the name
of sense and justice have I been suffered to attain this
blessedness? Think of the days when I all but starved in my
Albany Street garret, scarcely better off than poor, dear old
Biffen! Why should I have come to this, and Biffen have poisoned
himself in despair? He was a thousand times a better 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 moral deserts; and then, both Reardon and Biffen were
hopelessly unpractical. In such an admirable social order as
ours, they were bound to go to the dogs. Let us be sorry for
them, but let us recognise causas rerum,  as Biffen 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
or fourteen different occasions. By-the-by, I implore you never
to tell Dora those stories about me. I should lose all her
respect. Do you remember the girl from Birmingham?' He laughed
wildly. 'Heaven be praised that she threw me over! Eternal
gratitude to all and sundry of the girls who have plunged me into
wretchedness!'

'I admit that you have run the gauntlet, and that you have had
marvellous escapes. But be good enough to leave me alone for the
present. I must finish this review by midday.'

'Only one word. I don't know how to thank Dora, how to express my
infinite sense of her goodness. Will you try to do so for me? You
can speak 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. Look in at a chemist's as you walk on.'

The heavens did not fall before the marriage-day, and the wedded
pair betook themselves for a few weeks to the Continent. They had
been back again and established in their house at Earl's Court
for a month, when one 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 probably appear in The English Girl. Her
boudoir, in which she sat, could not well have been daintier and
more appropriate to the charming characteristics of its mistress.

Mrs Whelpdale affected no literary slovenliness; she was dressed
in light colours, and looked so lovely that even Jasper paused on
the threshold with a smile of admiration.

'Upon my word,' he exclaimed, 'I am proud of my sisters! What did
you think 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
of Dolomore. But she was in such a tremendous hurry.'

'You are detestable, Jasper! Is it inconceivable to you that a
man or woman 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,
but go where money is." An admirable piece of advice.  Well, Maud
made a mistake, 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 the day. She is fit to be a duchess, as far as
appearance goes; but I was never snobbish. I care very little
about titles; what I look to is intellectual distinction.'

'Combined with financial success.'

'Why, that is what distinction means.' He looked round the room
with a smile. 'You are not uncomfortable here, old girl. I wish
mother could have 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
of money as scornfully as you like; but suppose you had married a
man who could only keep you in lodgings! How would life look to
you?'

'Who ever disputed the value of money? But there are things one
mustn't sacrifice to gain it.'

'I suppose so. Well, I have some news for you, Dora. I am
thinking of following 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
wife who 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
fitted to aid me in my career. She has a trifling sum of money,
which will be useful 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. It will keep up appearances till I get my editorship and so
on. We shall be married early in August, I think. I want to ask
you if you will go and see 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; I have shown some kindness--'

'You have, and I am not ungrateful. But I dislike Mrs Reardon,
and I couldn'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 to say what I think of her.'

'She is beautiful, and high-minded, and warm-hearted. I don't
know a womanly quality that she doesn't possess. You will offend
me most seriously if you speak a word against her.'

'Then I will be silent. But you must never ask me to meet her.'

'Never?'