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diff --git a/1709-h/1709-h.htm b/1709-h/1709-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a716e8b --- /dev/null +++ b/1709-h/1709-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,28243 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + New Grub Street, by George Gissing + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1709 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + NEW GRUB STREET + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By George Gissing + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1891 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>NEW GRUB STREET</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> <b>PART I.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. A MAN OF HIS DAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE OF YULE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. HOLIDAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. AN AUTHOR AND HIS WIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. THE WAY HITHER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. THE PRACTICAL FRIEND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. MARIAN’S HOME </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART TWO</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. TO THE WINNING SIDE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. INVITA MINERVA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. RESPITE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. WORK WITHOUT HOPE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. A WARNING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. RECRUITS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. THE LAST RESOURCE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART3"> <b>PART THREE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. REJECTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. THE PARTING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. THE OLD HOME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. THE PAST REVIVED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. THE END OF WAITING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. MR YULE LEAVES TOWN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. THE LEGATEES </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART4"> <b>PART FOUR</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. A PROPOSED INVESTMENT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. JASPER’S MAGNANIMITY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. A FRUITLESS MEETING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. MARRIED WOMAN’S PROPERTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. THE LONELY MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. INTERIM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. CATASTROPHE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART5"> <b>PART FIVE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. WAITING ON DESTINY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. A RESCUE AND A SUMMONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. REARDON BECOMES PRACTICAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SUNNY WAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. A CHECK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. FEVER AND REST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. JASPER’S DELICATE CASE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. REWARDS </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + NEW GRUB STREET + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. A MAN OF HIS DAY + </h2> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a man being hanged in London at this moment.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely it isn’t necessary to let us know that,’ said his sister Maud, + coldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘And in such a tone, too!’ protested his sister Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is it?’ inquired Mrs Milvain, looking at her son with pained + forehead. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s your selfish way of looking at things,’ said Maud. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In a way,’ repeated Maud, scornfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose we talk of something else,’ suggested Dora, who seemed to fear a + conflict between her sister and Jasper. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t get anything done; and begins to be sore troubled on his wife’s + account.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is he ill?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The enjoyment with which he anticipates it!’ murmured Maud, looking at + her mother. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is his wife the kind of person to grumble?’ asked Mrs Milvain. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Yule may leave them some money,’ said Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Has Mr Reardon no relatives!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can you say that?’ asked Dora. ‘You never cease talking about the + advantages of money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I repeat,’ said Maud, ‘that you enjoy the prospect.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But this is very sad, Jasper,’ said Mrs Milvain, in her half-absent way. + ‘I suppose they can’t even go for a holiday?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite out of the question.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not even if you invited them to come here for a week?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Now, mother,’ urged Maud, ‘THAT’S impossible, you know very well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought we might make an effort, dear. A holiday might mean everything + to him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose it would; though those people would only stay a day or two, + Miss Harrow said.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why can’t Mr Yule make them friends, those two lots of people?’ asked + Dora. ‘You say he’s on good terms with both.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose he thinks it’s no business of his.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper mused over the letter from his friend. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ten years hence,’ he said, ‘if Reardon is still alive, I shall be lending + him five-pound notes.’ + </p> + <p> + A smile of irony rose to Maud’s lips. Dora laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It sounds ignoble,’ said Maud. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t remember that you stated the exact sum before,’ Maud observed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora exclaimed, laughing: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Having finished his breakfast, he leaned back and began to unfold the + London paper that had come by post. + </p> + <p> + ‘Had Mr Reardon any hopes of that kind at the time of his marriage, do you + think?’ inquired Mrs Milvain. + </p> + <p> + ‘Reardon? Good heavens, no! Would he were capable of such forethought!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jasper wants more money,’ said the mother, when Maud had sat in + meditation for a few minutes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course. I knew that. I hope you told him he couldn’t have it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I really didn’t know what to say,’ returned Mrs Milvain, in a feeble tone + of worry. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you must leave the matter to me, that’s all. There’s no money for + him, and there’s an end of it.’ + </p> + <p> + Maud set her features in sullen determination. There was a brief silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s he to do, Maud?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To do? How do other people do? What do Dora and I do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t earn enough for your support, my dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, well!’ broke from the girl. ‘Of course, if you grudge us our food and + lodging—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you really can’t call it idleness, Maud. He is studying his + profession.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Another silence, and a longer one. Mrs Milvain furtively wiped a tear from + her cheek. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems very cruel to refuse,’ she said at length, ‘when another year + may give him the opportunity he’s waiting for.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Opportunity? What does he mean by his opportunity?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He says that it always comes, if a man knows how to wait.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Maud began to gnaw her fingers, a disagreeable habit she had in privacy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why doesn’t he live more economically?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I really don’t see how he can live on less than a hundred and fifty a + year. London, you know—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The cheapest place in the world.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense, Maud!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s how you always break out. You don’t care what unkindness you say!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a simple truth.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dora never speaks like that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because she’s afraid to be honest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Jasper renewed the breakfast-table conversation. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you do it yourself,’ retorted Maud. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Better say “abandon your mind to it.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, there you are! You’re a sharp enough girl. You can quote as well as + anyone I know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And please, why am I to take up an inferior kind of work?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He resumed presently: + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked away and reflected. + </p> + <p> + ‘To leave a margin,’ was his reply, ‘let us say twelve months.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Better say your favourite “ten years” at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And let us suppose mother were to die within half a year?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should make shift to do very well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You? And please—what of Dora and me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You would write Sunday-school prizes.’ + </p> + <p> + Maud turned away and left him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where the deuce have I seen them—him and the girl too?’ Milvain + asked himself. + </p> + <p> + And before he reached home the recollection he sought flashed upon his + mind. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Museum Reading-room, of course!’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE OF YULE + </h2> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How did you recognise them?’ Mrs Milvain inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They may have come already. When Miss Harrow was here last, she said “in + about a fortnight.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Miss Yule such a fright then?’ asked Maud. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Our London visitors came yesterday,’ she began by saying. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Milvain mentioned her son’s encounter an hour or two ago. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled confidentially. + </p> + <p> + ‘The poor girl must feel it,’ said Mrs Milvain. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you let the girls call? And then perhaps Miss Yule will be so good + as to come and see me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He won’t be with you much longer, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps a week.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A word of the family history. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She laughed, readily understanding his phrase. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am there very often,’ was her reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘What great dome?’ asked Miss Harrow, with surprise. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + In the same way I knew Miss Yule’s father when I happened to pass him in + the road yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must wonder how we exist in this out-of-the-way place,’ remarked + Maud. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rather, I envy you,’ Marian answered, with a slight emphasis. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am grateful to you for noticing it,’ replied Jasper. + </p> + <p> + There was positively a touch of visible warmth upon his cheek. The + allusion had come so unexpectedly that it caused him keen pleasure. + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you notice that it contains a very favourable review of a novel which + was tremendously abused in the same columns three weeks ago?’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Yule started, but Jasper could perceive at once that his emotion was + not disagreeable. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t say so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. The novel is Miss Hawk’s “On the Boards.” How will the editor get + out of this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How is it explained, father?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘The author,’ remarked Milvain, ‘ought to make a good thing out of this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will, no doubt. Ought to write at once to the papers, calling attention + to this sample of critical impartiality. Ha! ha!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose we go into the garden,’ suggested Miss Harrow, presently. ‘It + seems a shame to sit indoors on such a lovely afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + Hitherto there had been no mention of the master of the house. But Mr Yule + now remarked to Jasper: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Yule. After all, you know, you must be held in a + measure responsible for my depravity.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How’s that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Alfred Yule uttered a short laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you are cornered, John.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would like to see literary production come entirely to an end?’ said + Milvain. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like to see the business of literature abolished.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a distinction, of course. But, on the whole, I should say that + even the business serves a good purpose.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What purpose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It helps to spread civilisation.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have done a good deal, I think, to counteract those influences in + Wattleborough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + His brother laughed with contemptuous impatience. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would doubtless like to see military conscription introduced into + England?’ said Jasper. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You, now,’ pursued John, ‘what do you write about?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing in particular. I make a salable page or two out of whatever + strikes my fancy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Carlyle has anticipated you,’ threw in Alfred. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, but in an antiquated way. I would base my polemic on the newest + philosophy.’ + </p> + <p> + He developed the idea facetiously, whilst John regarded him as he might + have watched a performing monkey. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper glanced at Alfred Yule, who wore a look of indifference. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Milvain, with a clear vision of his friend in London, burst into laughter. + But at that point Alfred rose from his chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall we rejoin the ladies?’ he said, with a certain pedantry of phrase + and manner which often characterised him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Think over your ways whilst you’re still young,’ said John as he shook + hands with his visitor. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your brother speaks quite seriously, I suppose?’ Jasper remarked when he + was in the garden with Alfred. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t even know his name until you mentioned it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Miss Harrow and her companions, having caught sight of the pair, came + towards them. Tea was to be brought out into the garden. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. HOLIDAY + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘When I was here late in the spring,’ he said, ‘this ash was only just + budding, though everything else seemed in full leaf.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Which are those?’ + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Delaying, as the tender ash delays + To clothe herself when all the woods are green, +</pre> + <p> + somewhere in the “Idylls.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t remember; so I won’t pretend to—though I should do so as a + rule.’ + </p> + <p> + She looked at him oddly, and seemed about to laugh, yet did not. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have had little experience of the country?’ Jasper continued. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very little. You, I think, have known it from childhood?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + The question, though put with perfect simplicity, was embarrassing. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Would literary work be less—burdensome?’ said Marian, without + looking at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rather more so, you think?’ + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. + </p> + <p> + ‘It depends, of course, on—on several things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ said Marian, turning her eyes upon the stream, ‘money is a help in + everything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you think that, even to-day, really good work will sooner or later + be recognised?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I know it is true,’ said Marian, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian urged a hesitating objection. + </p> + <p> + ‘But, under the circumstances, wasn’t it in the author’s power to make + friends? Was money really indispensable?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I ought rather to say that the average man of letters would be able + to do that. As for Reardon—’ + </p> + <p> + He stopped. The name had escaped him unawares. + </p> + <p> + ‘Reardon?’ said Marian, looking up. ‘You are speaking of him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have betrayed myself Miss Yule.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what does it matter? You have only spoken in his favour.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I feared the name might affect you disagreeably.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian delayed her reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely not. I shall say nothing about it; I mean, as you uttered the name + unintentionally.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are tired of standing still,’ said Jasper. ‘May I walk back a part of + the way with you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you; I shall be glad.’ + </p> + <p> + They went on for a few minutes in silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you published anything with your signature, Miss Yule?’ Jasper at + length inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing. I only help father a little.’ + </p> + <p> + The silence that again followed was broken this time by Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘But why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I may hope that it isn’t his marriage with my cousin which has + proved a fatal misfortune?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In no case,’ replied Milvain, averting his look, ‘would he have used his + advantages.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And now? Do you think he has but poor prospects?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I knew my cousin Amy when we were children,’ said Marian, presently. ‘She + gave promise of beauty.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, she is beautiful.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And—the kind of woman to be of help to such a husband?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian cast down her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.”’ + </p> + <p> + Shortly after this they came to the bridge over the railway line. Jasper + looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like to,’ she replied with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You hear?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Upon me it has just the opposite effect,’ fell from Marian, in very low + tones. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not much more than a week, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You went straight from school?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you succeed?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘And I did at length see you at the British Museum, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + In a tone of easy indifference Jasper explained how he came to be + accompanying Miss Yule. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall I walk on with you, father?’ Marian asked, scrutinising his rugged + features. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just as you please; I don’t know that I should have gone much further. + But we might take another way back.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Going to play a little?’ Jasper suggested when they had gone into the + sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you like.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘Were you serious in what you said about writing storybooks?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what do you know about the subject?’ asked Dora doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a comical question! It is my business to know something about every + subject—or to know where to get the knowledge.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You say you don’t know what Miss Yule writes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I know a little more about her than I did yesterday. I’ve had an + hour’s talk with her this afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She was walking alone?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He doesn’t impress me very favourably. Do you think you will keep up + their acquaintance in London?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t say. I wonder what sort of a woman that mother really is? Can’t be + so very gross, I should think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss Harrow knows nothing about her, except that she was a quite + uneducated girl.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought,’ began the visitor, who seemed in high spirits, ‘that you + might like to see something I received this morning.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just what one expected!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I have private letters on the subject,’ added Mr Yule. + </p> + <p> + ‘There has been something like a personal conflict between Fadge and the + man who looks after the minor notices. Fadge, more so, charged the other + man with a design to damage him and the paper. There’s talk of legal + proceedings. An immense joke!’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed in his peculiar croaking way. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you feel disposed for a turn along the lanes, Mr Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By all means.—There’s my mother at the window; will you come in for + a moment?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘... 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....’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you ever come across Cottle’s poem on the Malvern Hills? No? + </p> + <p> + It contains a couple of the richest lines ever put into print: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It needs the evidence of close deduction + To know that I shall ever reach the top. +</pre> + <p> + Perfectly serious poetry, mind you!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps,’ replied Maud, ‘your large way of talking made him think any + such offer superfluous.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be very nice,’ was Marian’s reply. ‘I have no friends of my own + age in London.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘None?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not one!’ + </p> + <p> + She was about to add something, but in the end kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘You seem to get along with Miss Yule pretty well, after all,’ said + Jasper, when the family were alone again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you anticipate anything else?’ Maud asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall go to London this afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This afternoon?’ all exclaimed. ‘But Monday is your day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I shall go this afternoon, by the 2.45.’ + </p> + <p> + And he left the room. Mrs Milvain and the girls exchanged looks. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose he thinks the Sunday will be too wearisome,’ said the mother. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps so,’ Maud agreed, carelessly. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll walk a little way with you, if you don’t mind.’ + </p> + <p> + When they were in the road, he asked her in an offhand manner: + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think I ought to say good-bye to the Yules? Or won’t it signify?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should have thought you would wish to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I had rather he didn’t,’ replied Jasper, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, indeed?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora kept her eyes down, and smiled ambiguously. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must act as you think fit,’ she remarked at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘Exactly. Now I’ll turn back. You’ll be with us at dinner?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His mother desired to speak to him. She was in the dining-room; in the + parlour Maud was practising music. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can’t recover by law now, you know,’ said Jasper. + </p> + <p> + ‘But we have a right to the money, law or no law. He must pay it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Milvain was not able to appreciate this characteristic remark. Anxiety + weighed upon her, and she became irritable. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss Yule?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are going sooner than you intended?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel better, much.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My sisters are anxious to see you again. I shouldn’t wonder if they come + up this afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘They deplore,’ he continued in a moment, ‘that they should come to know + you only to lose you again so soon. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They would think it an honour. Country girls are not often invited to + correspond with literary ladies in London.’ + </p> + <p> + He said it with as much jocoseness as civility allowed, then at once rose. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper stood in hesitation. There was a look on the girl’s face which, + under other circumstances, would have suggested a ready answer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean,’ she added, hastily, ‘he might just call, or even see you at the + station?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He offered his hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall look for your name in the magazines, Miss Yule.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t think you will ever find it there.’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed incredulously, shook hands with her a second time, and strode + out of the room, head erect—feeling proud of himself. + </p> + <p> + When Dora came home at dinner-time, he informed her of what he had done. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. AN AUTHOR AND HIS WIFE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And now the sky was dusking over; darkness would soon fall. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Presently the door opened, and a young, clear voice made inquiry: + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you want the lamp, Edwin?’ + </p> + <p> + The man roused himself, turned his chair a little, and looked towards the + open door. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come here, Amy.’ + </p> + <p> + His wife approached. It was not quite dark in the room, for a glimmer came + from the opposite houses. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the matter? Can’t you do anything?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t written a word to-day. At this rate, one goes crazy. Come and + sit by me a minute, dearest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll get the lamp.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; come and talk to me; we can understand each other better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense; you have such morbid ideas. I can’t bear to sit in the gloom.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Draw down the blind, Edwin.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Her age was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly two + years, and had a child ten months old. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is the matter?’ she began. ‘Why can’t you get on with the story?’ + </p> + <p> + It was the tone of friendly remonstrance, not exactly of affection, not at + all of tender solicitude. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Amy—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think it’s all over with me. I don’t think I shall write any more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your writing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because of your morbid conscientiousness. There was no need to destroy + what you had written. It was all good enough for the market.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t use that word, Amy. I hate it!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where are you?’ she went on to ask. ‘What have you actually done?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He drew away, and came to a position whence he could see her face, but + kept at a distance. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ he said, in a different way, ‘that’s the worst of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That you—well, it’s no use.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That I—what?’ + </p> + <p> + She did not look at him; her lips, after she had spoken, drew in a little. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True. It has always been my fault.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; of course I must do something.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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? + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + She squared her shoulders, and gave her head just a little shake, as if a + fly had troubled her. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He turned away in a passion of misery. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Milvain’s temperament is very different from mine. He is naturally + light-hearted and hopeful; I am naturally the opposite. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Impossible! It would be the merest pretence of holiday. To go away and + leave you here—no!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall I ask mother or Jack to lend us some money?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That would be intolerable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But this state of things is intolerable!’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon walked the length of the room and back again. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yet it will come to that, you know,’ remarked Amy, calmly. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, it shall not come to that. I must and will get something done long + before Christmas. If only you—’ + </p> + <p> + He came and took one of her hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I have done nothing of the kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you a thousand times for saying that, my dearest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon said nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are sure of that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps you are right.’ + </p> + <p> + He turned away with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + Amy looked askance at him, but replied nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But,’ said Amy, ‘why should you assume that his books are rubbish? Good + work succeeds—now and then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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? + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + He stood and regarded her. His expression was one of pained perplexity. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think I can bring myself to that,’ Reardon said, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, then will you tell me what you propose to do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I might perhaps manage a novel in two volumes, instead of three.’ + </p> + <p> + He seated himself at the writing-table, and stared at the blank sheets of + paper in an anguish of hopelessness. + </p> + <p> + ‘It will take you till Christmas,’ said Amy, ‘and then you will get + perhaps fifty pounds for it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must do my best. I’ll go out and try to get some ideas. I—’ + </p> + <p> + He broke off and looked steadily at his wife. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose I were to propose to you to leave this flat and take cheaper + rooms?’ + </p> + <p> + He uttered it in a shamefaced way, his eyes falling. Amy kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘We might sublet it,’ he continued, in the same tone, ‘for the last year + of the lease.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And where do you propose to live?’ Amy inquired, coldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must do as seems good to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + She was touched for the moment. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t think of it. I have three months before Christmas, and I will + finish a book!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; that won’t do. I must think of a better subject.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy made a gesture of impatience. + </p> + <p> + ‘There you are! What does the subject matter? Get this book finished and + sold, and then do something better next time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t think of such trifles as that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He knelt by her, and looked up into her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Say only one or two kind words—like you used to!’ + </p> + <p> + She passed her hand lightly over his hair, and murmured something with a + faint smile. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. THE WAY HITHER + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To become a literary man, of course. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you published anything?’ he inquired, for the young man’s letter had + left this uncertain. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing. I have tried the magazines, but as yet without success.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what do you write?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Chiefly essays on literary subjects.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have written something lately about Tibullus.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + In uttering the word he beamed; to him it meant a thousand or so a year. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am afraid I have no talent for that.’ + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought, you know, of engaging someone much younger—quite a lad, + in fact. But look there! Those are the replies to my advertisement.’ + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a heap of five or six hundred letters, and laughed + consumedly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall be very glad indeed to take that,’ said Reardon, who was bathed + in perspiration. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then what about references, and so on?’ proceeded the young man, + chuckling and rubbing his hands together. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The money thus earned he spent—at a tailor’s. His friend Carter + ventured to suggest this mode of outlay. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me introduce you,’ he said, ‘to my mother and sister. Your fame has + made them anxious to know you.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Ten weeks thereafter, Miss Yule became Mrs Reardon. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have loved you from the first.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You will be a great man.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I implore you not to count on that! In many ways I am wretchedly weak. I + have no such confidence in myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I will have confidence for both.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But can you love me for my own sake—love me as a man?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I love you!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But at first I had a horrible suspicion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The deuce!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean it in an inoffensive sense. She and I are rather too much alike, I + fancy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do you mean?’ asked Reardon, puzzled, and not very well pleased. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a great deal of pure intellect about Miss Yule, you know. She was + sure to choose a man of the passionate kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you are talking nonsense, my dear fellow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Three days—two days—one day. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE PRACTICAL FRIEND + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll wake Willie!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By Jove! I always forget,’ he exclaimed in subdued tones. ‘Does the + infant flourish?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, yes!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you have been enjoying yourself?’ said Amy as, after listening for a + moment at the door, she took a seat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, a little freshening of the faculties. But whose acquaintance do you + think I have made?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Down there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you speak of us?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Doesn’t that proceed from your fertile invention, Mr Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid I can’t say that she did. She had a good face, but—rather + plain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Short?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed! But I had understood that she was a reader.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I should hope so,’ remarked Amy, with a peculiar smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘But that’s by no means a matter of course. They didn’t invite me to come + and see them in London.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose Marian mentioned your acquaintance with this branch of the + family?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not. At all events, she promised me she wouldn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy looked at him inquiringly, in a puzzled way. + </p> + <p> + ‘She promised you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Amy shook her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘No progress?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—?’ + </p> + <p> + He paused, and Amy sat looking at her hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have made an attempt,’ she said at length, in a distant undertone. + </p> + <p> + ‘You really have?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You think “The Optimist” weak?’ Jasper asked, half absently. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think it worthy of Edwin; I don’t see how anyone can. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have wondered what your opinion was. Yes, he ought to try a new tack, I + think.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll have some supper with us, Mr Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I will, please.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was a curious coincidence—but, by-the-bye, have you heard of + what The Study has been doing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should rather think so,’ replied Reardon, his face lighting up. ‘With + no small satisfaction.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Delicious, isn’t it?’ exclaimed his wife. ‘I thought it too good to be + true when Edwin heard of it from Mr Biffen.’ + </p> + <p> + All three laughed in subdued chorus. For the moment, Reardon became a new + man in his exultation over the contradictory reviewers. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + The speaker looked from Reardon to Amy with a smile of vast significance. + </p> + <p> + ‘I rejoice to hear it!’ said Reardon, fervently. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the new magazine to be called?’ asked Amy. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘’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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Does Fadge retire from The Study, then?’ inquired Reardon, when he had + received this tirade with a friendly laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not I. Didn’t know who edited The Study.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But has one of your sisters really begun such a book?’ inquired Amy. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your energy is remarkable, all of a sudden,’ said Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. The hour has come, I find. “There is a tide”—to quote + something that has the charm of freshness.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hear that you are still stuck fast,’ began Jasper, when they had smoked + awhile in silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Getting rather serious, I should fear, isn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ repeated Reardon, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not the least. I am incapable of holiday, if the opportunity were + offered. Do something I must, or I shall fret myself into imbecility.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well. What is it to be?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon laughed contemptuously, but the scorn was directed rather against + himself than Milvain. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s try,’ he muttered. + </p> + <p> + Both appeared to exercise their minds on the problem for a few minutes. + Then Jasper slapped his knee. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But—what does it suggest to you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, witch-like, mysterious girls or women. Think it over.’ + </p> + <p> + There was another long silence. Reardon’s face was that of a man in blank + misery. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke in a slow, meditative way, in a monotonous voice, and without + raising his eyes from the ground. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let us have it out, then. You think it was a mistake to spend those + months abroad?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked up suddenly, and added: + </p> + <p> + ‘I am speaking as if to myself. You, of course, don’t misunderstand me, + and think I am accusing my wife.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I don’t take you to mean that, by any means.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you mean by all this that you seriously doubt whether you will ever be + able to write again?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In awful seriousness, I doubt it,’ replied Reardon, with haggard face. + </p> + <p> + ‘It strikes me as extraordinary. In your position I should work as I never + had done before.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; when you got the work at the hospital.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All I did was to write a letter, and chance made it effective.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My view of the case, Reardon, is that you are simply ill.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I fear not. You are the last man to have anything to do with journalism.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I appealed to my publishers, could they help me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see how. They would simply say: Write a book and we’ll buy it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, there’s no help but that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If only you were able to write short stories, Fadge might be useful.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Scrubbily.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you are not at all likely to meet them in London?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. MARIAN’S HOME + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A voice spoke close behind her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where’s your father, Miss Yule?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Marian shook hands with him. + </p> + <p> + ‘He went away at half-past two,’ was her reply to his question. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Upon this he made a grave pause, and glared more excitedly than ever. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have heard of Mr Rackett,’ said Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course, of course. And you must also have heard that Fadge leaves The + Study at the end of this year, eh?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Father told me it was probable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s very good news,’ answered Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should think so! Ho, ho!’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Quarmby laughed in a peculiar way, which was the result of long years + of mirth-subdual in the Reading-room. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss Yule! One moment, if you please!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been looking for your father,’ he said, as Marian turned. ‘Isn’t + he here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He has gone, Mr Hinks.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke with nervous hesitation, and in a tone which seemed to make + apology for his existence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, father will be very glad to have it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you will kindly wait one minute, Miss Yule. It’s at my place over + there.’ + </p> + <p> + He went off with long strides, and speedily came back panting, in his hand + a thin new volume. + </p> + <p> + ‘My kind regards to him, Miss Yule. You are quite well, I hope? I won’t + detain you.’ + </p> + <p> + And he backed into a man who was coming inobservantly this way. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rather early, aren’t you, Marian?’ she said, as she closed the door and + came forward to take a seat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; I have a little headache.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, dear! Is that beginning again?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you been out?’ Marian asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; I went to Holloway.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are things no better?’ the girl inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘He ought to go and live by himself’ said Marian, referring to her + mother’s brother, the thirsty John. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can’t help it, mother. I suppose their suffering makes them unkind + and unjust.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose father will be back soon?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He said dinner-time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Quarmby has been telling me something which is wonderfully good news + if it’s really true; but I can’t help feeling doubtful. + </p> + <p> + He says that father may perhaps be made editor of The Study at the end of + this year.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘My word!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a thing that would be for us!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s for you,’ said Mrs Yule, returning. ‘From the country.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian took the letter and examined its address with interest. + </p> + <p> + ‘It must be one of the Miss Milvains. Yes; Dora Milvain.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + And so on. Marian read with a pleased smile, then acquainted her mother + with the contents. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very glad,’ said Mrs Yule; ‘it’s so seldom you get a letter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian seemed desirous of saying something more, and her mother had a + thoughtful look, suggestive of sympathetic curiosity. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is their brother likely to call here?’ Mrs Yule asked, with misgiving. + </p> + <p> + ‘No one has invited him to,’ was the girl’s quiet reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘He wouldn’t come without that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s not likely that he even knows the address.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your father won’t be seeing him, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By chance, perhaps. I don’t know.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think,’ said Marian, in a forced tone, ‘that father hasn’t much liking + for Mr Milvain.’ + </p> + <p> + She wished to know if her mother had heard any private remarks on this + subject, but she could not bring herself to ask directly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ replied Mrs Yule, smoothing her dress. ‘He hasn’t + said anything to me, Marian.’ + </p> + <p> + An awkward silence. The mother had fixed her eyes on the mantelpiece, and + was thinking hard. + </p> + <p> + ‘Otherwise,’ said Marian, ‘he would have said something, I should think, + about meeting in London.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But is there anything in—this gentleman that he wouldn’t like?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know of anything.’ + </p> + <p> + Impossible to pursue the dialogue; Marian moved uneasily, then rose, said + something about putting the letter away, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well?’ he exclaimed irritably. ‘It’s after five; why isn’t dinner + served?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s just coming, Alfred.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Father,’ she said, hoping to make a diversion, ‘Mr Hinks has sent you his + new book, and wishes—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian resented this unreasonable anger, but she durst not reply. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + To his wife Yule seldom addressed anything but a curt inquiry or caustic + comment; if he spoke humanly at table it was to Marian. + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes passed; then Marian resolved to try any means of clearing the + atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Walker told him that? Pooh!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was a great secret. I wasn’t to breathe a word to any one but you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Walker’s a fool and Quarmby’s an ass,’ remarked her father. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What did he say? Repeat it to me in his words.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian did so, as nearly as possible. He listened with a scoffing + expression, but still his features relaxed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + A silence of five minutes ensued; then Yule said of a sudden. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where is Hinks’s book?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian reached it from a side table; under this roof, literature was + regarded almost as a necessary part of table garnishing. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought it would be bigger than this,’ Yule muttered, as he opened the + volume in a way peculiar to bookish men. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘That is kind of him,’ said Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good old Hinks! I suppose I must try to get him half-a-dozen readers.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘May I see?’ asked Mrs Yule, under her breath, bending to Marian. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’ll be good for you, Alfred, won’t it?’ she said, glancing at her + husband. + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly,’ he replied, with a smile of contemptuous irony. ‘If Hinks + goes on, he’ll establish my reputation.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yule was glancing over the pages of the work. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Finished the authoresses?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not quite.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘She has one of her headaches again, I’m sorry to say,’ Mrs Yule replied. + ‘I persuaded her to go to bed early.’ + </p> + <p> + Having placed the tray upon the table—books had to be pushed aside—she + did not seem disposed to withdraw. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you busy, Alfred?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought I should like just to speak of something.’ + </p> + <p> + She was using the opportunity of his good humour. Yule spoke to her with + the usual carelessness, but not forbiddingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it? Those Holloway people, I’ll warrant.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no! It’s about Marian. She had a letter from one of those young + ladies this afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What young ladies?’ asked Yule, with impatience of this circuitous + approach. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Miss Milvains.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, there’s no harm that I know of. They’re decent people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; so you told me. But she began to speak about their brother, and—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What about him? Do say what you want to say, and have done with it!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t help thinking, Alfred, that she’s disappointed you didn’t ask him + to come here.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + He broke off and seated himself. Mrs Yule stood at a distance. + </p> + <p> + ‘We must remember her age,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why yes, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + He mused, and began to nibble a biscuit. + </p> + <p> + ‘And you know, Alfred, she never does meet any young men. I’ve often + thought it wasn’t right to her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + He has a kind of cleverness, may do something; but there’s no being sure + of that.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know anything about it, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you may have made a mistake about her. What made you think she—had + him in mind?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it was her way of speaking, you know. And then, she asked if you + had got a dislike to him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Yule looked alarmed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, if you really think that, don’t let him come. I wouldn’t for + anything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then no doubt it’s better as it is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no, I won’t.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘If those young ladies go on writing to her, I dare say they’ll often + speak about their brother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it’s rather unfortunate.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you know, Alfred, he may have asked them to do it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + The listener failed to understand him, and looked with her familiar + expression of mental effort. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a great pity, isn’t it, that she can’t see more people—of the + right kind?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No use talking about it. Things are as they are. I can’t see that her + life is unhappy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t very happy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You think not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure it isn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps it is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll think it over.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Yule silently left the room, and went back to her sewing. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + She shed a few tears over her needlework. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why are you so late?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve forgot the time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Forgotten, forgotten. Don’t go back to that kind of language again. Come, + put the light out.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART TWO + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. TO THE WINNING SIDE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Her father, she knew well, had no such message; he had abandoned all + thought of original production, and only wrote about writing. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + On her way to return books she encountered Jasper Milvain. Face to face; + no possibility of his avoiding her. + </p> + <p> + And indeed he seemed to have no such wish. His countenance lighted up with + unmistakable pleasure. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s very bad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’ll do both for weather and light, but not for yourself. How glad I + am to see you! Are you just going?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have scarcely been here half-a-dozen times since I came back to + London.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you are writing still?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes! But I draw upon my genius, and my stores of observation, and the + living world.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian received her vouchers for the volumes, and turned to face Jasper + again. There was a smile on her lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘The fog is terrible,’ Milvain went on. ‘How do you get home?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By omnibus from Tottenham Court Road.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He is not quite well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very glad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where are your out-of-door things? I think there’s a ladies’ vestry + somewhere, isn’t there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was, quite alone.’ + </p> + <p> + The ‘quite’ seemed excessive; it made Jasper smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘And also,’ he added, ‘that I shall not annoy you by offering my company?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should it annoy me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Good!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have heard from the girls, I think?’ Jasper resumed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your sisters? Yes; they have been so kind as to write to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have heard of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know—but how should you? I am going to write for the new + magazine, The Current.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Edited by that man Fadge.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your father has no affection for him, I know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He has no reason to have, Mr Milvain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + You won’t think worse of me because I write for him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know that one can’t exercise choice in such things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True. I shouldn’t like to think that you regard me as a Fadge-like + individual, a natural Fadgeite.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no danger of my thinking that.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I really don’t know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Arrived in Hampstead Road he offered his hand for good-bye. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wanted to talk about all sorts of things. But perhaps I shall find you + again some day.’ + </p> + <p> + He jumped out, and waved his hat in the lurid fog. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + Evil communications, &c.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I shouldn’t think there’s any personal connection,’ said Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very likely not. But Milvain has been invited to contribute, you see. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think he ought to have refused?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no. It’s nothing to me; nothing whatever.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Yule spoke of the matter with his wife that evening. + </p> + <p> + ‘By-the-bye, has Marian heard from those girls at Finden lately?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She had a letter one afternoon last week.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you see these letters?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; she told me what was in them at first, but now she doesn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She hasn’t spoken to you again of Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a word.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A week later came the news that Mrs Milvain had suddenly died. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs Milvain died the day before yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed!’ + </p> + <p> + He averted his face again and seemed disposed to say no more. But in a few + moments he inquired: + </p> + <p> + ‘What are her daughters likely to do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no idea.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know anything of their circumstances?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe they will have to depend upon themselves.’ + </p> + <p> + Nothing more was said. Afterwards Mrs Yule made a few sympathetic + inquiries, but Marian was very brief in her replies. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Show Mr Milvain into the study,’ said Marian, with sudden decision. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to see him there?’ asked her mother in a hurried whisper. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you would prefer that to his coming in here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—yes. But suppose father comes back before he’s gone?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What will it matter? You forget that he asked for father first.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes! Then don’t wait.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian, scarcely less agitated than her mother, was just leaving the room, + when she turned back again. + </p> + <p> + ‘If father comes in, you will tell him before he goes into the study?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I will.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am so grieved—’ Marian began with broken voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please to sit down, Mr Milvain. Father went out not long ago, and I don’t + think he will be back very soon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you wish to save it?’ Jasper asked, understanding her look and + movement. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid it has got too low.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not. Life in lodgings has made me skilful at this kind of thing; + let me try my hand.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘That will be all right now,’ said Jasper at length, as little tongues of + flame began to shoot here and there. + </p> + <p> + Marian said nothing, but seated herself and waited. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + The listener kept silence, with a face of sympathetic attention. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They will go on with literary work?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘They have made a good beginning,’ said Marian. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No doubt they share your own talent.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How do their friends in the country think of it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let us hope better things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you already know that! I shall be so very glad to see them often.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Jasper looked full into her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian smiled and looked puzzled. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shouldn’t you have thought that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have seen no signs of quarrelsomeness.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Arrogance—I think not. You have self-confidence.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall continue to be friends, I am sure.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper let his eyes wander about the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is your father’s study?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + An unusual embarrassment checked him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will explain to father your very natural wish to speak of these + things,’ said Marian, with tact. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘When will your sisters arrive?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It must be very sad,’ Marian murmured. + </p> + <p> + ‘You know,’ said the other suddenly, ‘that it’s my fault the girls are + left in such a hard position?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian looked at him with startled eyes. His tone was quite unfamiliar to + her. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The listener kept her eyes on the ground. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps the girls have hinted it to you?’ Jasper added. + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian could say nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him with a smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘People who are going to live unworthily don’t declare it in this way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He rose, and began to run his eye along the shelves nearest to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, now I will go, Miss Yule.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian stood up as he approached. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have every reason to hope, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish you every success,’ said Marian, without looking at him, and + without a smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you. But that sounds too much like good-bye. I trust we are to be + friends, for all that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed, I hope we may be.’ + </p> + <p> + They shook hands, and he went towards the door. But before opening it, he + asked: + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you read that thing of mine in The Current?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I did.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It wasn’t bad, I think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It seemed to me very clever.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. INVITA MINERVA + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For a week he got on at the desired rate; then came once more the crisis + he had anticipated. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There came an evening when he opened the door and called to Amy. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ she answered from the bedroom. ‘I’m busy with Willie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come as soon as you are free.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you going to do any more to-night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not—if you will come and sit with me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Willie doesn’t seem very well. He can’t get to sleep.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You would like to stay with him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A little while. I’ll come presently.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Amy came into the room again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Listen,’ said Reardon, looking up at her with a bright smile. ‘Do you + remember the first time that I read you this?’ + </p> + <p> + And he turned the speech into free prose. Amy laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘The habit was ominous,’ he said, looking at her with an uncertain smile. + ‘A practical literary man doesn’t do such things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Milvain, for instance. No.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you understand the phrase slightingly?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Slightingly? Yes, a little, of course. It always has that sense on your + lips, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see. But you didn’t think of it in that way at the time.’ + </p> + <p> + He sighed. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. At least—no.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At least what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, no; on the whole I had good hope.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy twisted her fingers together impatiently. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you, really?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed I can’t help it. As I say, it’s very much your own fault.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes. But—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not here only to try and keep you in good spirits, am I?’ + </p> + <p> + She asked it prettily, with a smile like that of maidenhood. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re quite right. It was needless.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel rather too tired to-night.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have had to look after Willie so much. But read me some more Homer; I + shall be very glad to listen.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘There ought to be a huge public creche in London. It’s monstrous that an + educated mother should have to be nursemaid.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you know very well I think nothing of that. A creche, indeed! No + child of mine should go to any such place.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Two or three hundred pounds!’ He repeated it with a shake of the head. + ‘Ah, if that were possible!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Didn’t sell it at all, ten to one. Gets a royalty.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book ceases to + be talked of.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind. I’m sick of the word “pounds.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So am I.’ + </p> + <p> + She sighed, commenting thus on her acquiescence. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades, and Ajax + stalking past him. Oh, I like that!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Amy!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, dear?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you still love me a little?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Much more than a little.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it so bad as all that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the proofs will + be a martyrdom.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but why? why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s the best I can do, dearest. So you don’t love me enough to hear that + calmly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Curse the reviews!’ + </p> + <p> + His mood had changed on the instant. He stood up with darkened face, + trembling angrily. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure I shall be glad enough to avoid it; but other people, our + friends, read it. That’s the worst.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘People don’t look at it in that way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, not ashamed of you. But I am sensitive to people’s talk and + opinions.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But that means they make you feel ashamed of me. What else?’ + </p> + <p> + There was silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you forgotten that you urged me to write a trashy sensational + story?’ + </p> + <p> + She coloured and looked annoyed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘People! People!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you come and have some supper?’ Amy asked, rising. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been forgetting that to-morrow morning’s chapter has still to be + thought out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Edwin, I can’t think this book will really be so poor. You couldn’t + possibly give all this toil for no result.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; not if I were in sound health. But I am far from it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come and have supper with me, dear, and think afterwards.’ + </p> + <p> + He turned and smiled at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope I shall never be able to resist an invitation from you, sweet.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘If this goes on,’ she said to him in the morning, ‘you’ll have brain + fever. You must rest for two or three days.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Teach me how to. I wish I could.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At the end of November, Reardon said to his wife one morning: + </p> + <p> + ‘To-morrow I finish the second volume.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And in a week,’ she replied, ‘we shan’t have a shilling left.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Couldn’t you do that with the first two volumes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + There were drops on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + ‘They would help you if they knew,’ said Amy in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy knew what a wrench this would be. The imminence of distress seemed to + have softened her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Edwin, let me take those two volumes to the publishers, and ask—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + She averted her face as she spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘You shall have that.’ He still spoke very quietly. ‘If the books won’t + bring enough, there’s my watch—oh, lots of things.’ + </p> + <p> + He turned abruptly away, and Amy went on with her household work. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your husband at work?’ Edith asked, with a glance in the direction of the + study, as soon as they had exchanged kisses and greetings. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, he is busy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is there sunshine?’ Amy inquired coldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, thank you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mayn’t I see him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you like.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the door from the passage opened, and Reardon looked in. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, if this isn’t marvellous!’ cried Edith. ‘I should as soon have + expected the heavens to fall!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As what?’ asked Reardon, with a pale smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘As you to show yourself when I am here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Going out?’ said Amy, with a look of surprise. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing—nothing. I mustn’t stay.’ + </p> + <p> + He just inquired of Mrs Carter how her husband was, and withdrew. The door + of the flat was heard to close after him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let us go into the study, then,’ said Amy, again in rather a cold voice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no intention of trying.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t seem very well to-day, Amy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I think I am as well as usual.’ + </p> + <p> + She guessed that her husband was once more brought to a standstill, and + this darkened her humour again. + </p> + <p> + ‘One of my reasons for coming,’ 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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; in the ordinary way. Edwin can’t possibly leave his work.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But for one poor evening! It’s such ages since we saw you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry. I don’t think we shall ever be able to accept invitations + in future.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy spoke thus at the prompting of a sudden impulse. A minute ago, no such + definite declaration was in her mind. + </p> + <p> + ‘Never?’ exclaimed Edith. ‘But why? Whatever do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + We have decided to withdraw altogether—at all events for the + present. I shall see no one except my relatives.’ + </p> + <p> + Edith listened with a face of astonishment. + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t even see ME?’ she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, please don’t put it in that way! But it seems so very strange.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid we shall have to be consistent, Edith.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But do you think this is a WISE thing to do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wise?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As I said,’ returned Amy, ‘it won’t be always like this. For the present, + Edwin has quite enough “material.”’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘When will Mr Reardon’s next book be published?’ she asked at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure I don’t know. Not before the spring.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She laughed merrily. + </p> + <p> + ‘Which is seldom the case, I should think,’ said Amy, with a smile of + indifference. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy gave a quick glance at the speaker’s face. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No?’ said Amy, with a smile which meant more than Edith could interpret. + It seemed slightly condescending. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You wouldn’t wish him to be.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s rather a large portion. But then you count yourself among the + lively ones.’ + </p> + <p> + They exchanged looks, and laughed together. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you ask?’ he inquired, putting his head aside. + </p> + <p> + ‘I prefer that you should make an offer,’ Reardon replied, with the + helplessness of one who lives remote from traffic. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t say more than two pounds ten.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is at the rate of sixpence a volume—-?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To me that’s about the average value of books like these.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll take it,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact voice. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + And that night he worked until twelve o’clock, doggedly, fiercely. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you expect anyone this evening?’ Amy inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘Biffen will look in, I dare say. Perhaps Milvain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I shall take Willie to mother’s. I shall be back before eight.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Amy, don’t say anything about the books.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose they always ask you when we think of removing over the way?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t talk to them about our affairs,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s best.’ + </p> + <p> + She left home about three o’clock, the servant going with her to carry the + child. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Take your top-coat off;’ said Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thanks, not this evening.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why the deuce not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not this evening, thanks.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me have your Sophocles,’ were the visitor’s next words. + </p> + <p> + Reardon offered him a volume of the Oxford Pocket Classics. + </p> + <p> + ‘I prefer the Wunder, please.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s gone, my boy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Gone?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wanted a little cash.’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen uttered a sound in which remonstrance and sympathy were blended. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.”’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon took the volume, considered, and began to read aloud with metric + emphasis. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t do it,’ said Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly you couldn’t. You—well, you are a psychological realist + in the sphere of culture. You are impatient of vulgar circumstances.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In a great measure because my life has been martyred by them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon burst into a roar of laughter. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + I want to take no side at all; simply to say, Look, this is the kind of + thing that happens.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know; I may perhaps sell it some day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In the meantime,’ said Reardon, laying down his pipe, ‘suppose we eat a + morsel of something. I’m rather hungry.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only in your view. There may surely exist such a thing as the ART of + fiction.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been at Mrs Yule’s,’ Jasper explained as he came in. ‘Have you + anyone here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Biffen.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, then we’ll discuss realism.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s over for the evening. Greek metres also.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank Heaven!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why ever are you sitting in your overcoat, Mr Biffen?’ were her first + words when she entered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Please excuse me, Mrs Reardon. It happens to be more convenient this + evening.’ + </p> + <p> + She was puzzled, but a glance from her husband warned her not to pursue + the subject. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t understand how his book should be positively refused,’ said + Reardon. ‘The last wasn’t altogether a failure.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but it has considerable merit,’ put in Biffen. ‘The talk is + remarkably true.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what’s the good of talk that leads to nothing?’ protested Jasper. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a bit of real life.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Like some other people I have heard of;’ said Reardon, laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘But the odd thing is, that he always strikes one as practical-minded. + Don’t you feel that, Mrs Reardon?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At eleven o’clock husband and wife were alone again. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t mean to say,’ exclaimed Amy, ‘that Biffen has sold his coat?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Or pawned it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why not the overcoat?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Partly, I should think, because it’s the warmer of the two; partly, + perhaps, because the other would fetch more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That poor man will die of starvation, some day, Edwin.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think it not impossible.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope you gave him something to eat?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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 to; that’s a result of + suffering oneself.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy set her lips and sighed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. RESPITE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The point is,’ replied Amy, ‘that here we have it complete. Pack it up + and take it to the publishers’ to-morrow morning.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And—you will ask them to advance you a few pounds?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Mr Carter here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, sir. But we expect him any minute. Will you wait?’ + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ha, Reardon! How do? how do? Delighted to see you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you very busy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, no, not particularly. A few cheques to sign, and we’re just getting + out our Christmas appeals. You remember?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like to have a word with you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Right you are!’ + </p> + <p> + They went into a small inner room. Reardon’s pulse beat at fever-rate; his + tongue was cleaving to his palate. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve had a hard pull to finish my novel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thanks; but I don’t think much of it, to tell you the truth.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, we know what that means.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon was talking like an automaton. It seemed to him that he turned + screws and pressed levers for the utterance of his next words. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I am sorry to have annoyed you by the unseasonable request.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?—I might manage a fiver, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be very useful. But on no account if——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no; I could manage a fiver, for a month. Shall I give you a cheque?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m ashamed——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a bit of it! I’ll go and write the cheque.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He reached home much after the dinner-hour. Amy was surprised at his long + absence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Got anything?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But does it matter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course it does,’ she replied sharply. ‘Mr Carter will tell his wife, + and how pleasant that is?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I never thought of that. And perhaps it wouldn’t have seemed to me so + annoying as it does to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very likely not.’ + </p> + <p> + She turned abruptly away, and stood at a distance in gloomy muteness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘there’s no helping it now. Come and have your + dinner.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have taken away my appetite.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense! I suppose you’re dying of hunger.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At six o’clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he would + come to tea. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘I had rather stay here.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you please.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re going out?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall you be long?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can’t stay here in the cold, Amy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid I must get used to it,’ she replied, affecting to be closely + engaged upon some sewing. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is poverty going to have the usual result in our case?’ he asked, drawing + nearer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I never pretended that I could be indifferent to it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Still, don’t you care to try and resist it?’ + </p> + <p> + She gave no answer. As usual in conversation with an aggrieved woman it + was necessary to go back from the general to the particular. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that the Carters already knew pretty well how + things were going with us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s a very different thing. But when it comes to asking them for money—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry. I would rather have done anything if I had known how it + would annoy you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If we have to wait a month, five pounds will be very little use to us.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘However, you needn’t trouble any more about it. I’ll see to it. Now you + are free from your book try to rest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come and sit by the fire. There’s small chance of rest for me if we are + thinking unkindly of each other.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall you accept this?’ asked Amy, after dreary silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘No one else would offer terms as good.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will they pay you at once?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must ask them to.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How much do you owe your mother?’ he inquired, without looking at Amy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Six pounds,’ she answered coldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘And five to Carter; and rent, twelve pounds ten. We shall have a matter + of fifty pounds to go on with.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. WORK WITHOUT HOPE + </h2> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I began to wonder what you were doing,’ she replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then why didn’t you ask me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was rather afraid to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why afraid?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would have seemed like reminding you that—you know what I mean.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + After a pause Amy asked: + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think you can get a paper of this kind accepted?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t impossible. I think it’s rather well done. Let me read you a + page—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where will you send it?’ she interrupted. + </p> + <p> + ‘To The Wayside.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not try The Current? Ask Milvain to introduce you to Mr Fadge. They + pay much better, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But this isn’t so well suited for Fadge. And I much prefer to be + independent, as long as it’s possible.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Seeing that I am so weak?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t think it would offend you. I only meant—-’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What a pity you will go back 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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear girl, Diogenes Laertius had neither tub nor lantern, that I know + of. You are making a mistake; but it doesn’t matter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, we have to recognise that the mass of readers will never care for + anything I do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon made an impatient gesture. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Amy looked at him. He had never spoken to her so brusquely. + </p> + <p> + ‘How can you say that I am constantly comparing you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If not in spoken words, then in your thoughts.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say, Edwin.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will never mention Milvain’s name again,’ said Amy coldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now that’s ridiculous, and you know it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel the same about your irritation. I can’t see that I have given any + cause for it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then we’ll talk no more of the matter.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon threw his manuscript aside and opened a book. Amy never asked him + to resume his intention of reading what he had written. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 understood—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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose it doesn’t alter his position,’ Amy remarked, without much + interest. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your book is announced, I see,’ he said with an accent of pleasure, as + soon as he had seated himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t know it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper turned to Amy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now what is to be done with a man like this? What is one to say to him, + Mrs Reardon?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Edwin dislikes the book,’ Amy replied, carelessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Neither Reardon nor his wife spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course,’ went on Milvain, looking at the former, ‘if you had rather I + left it alone—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had much rather. Please don’t say anything about it.’ + </p> + <p> + There was an awkward silence. Amy broke it by saying: + </p> + <p> + ‘Are your sisters in town, Mr Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very glad of that.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘When they care to see other visitors, I’m sure Amy would be very glad—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly!’ his wife added. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Amy had a difficulty in replying. She kept her eyes on the ground. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have had no quarrel with your cousin,’ remarked Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘None whatever. It’s only my mother and my uncle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon caught Amy’s eye, but at once looked away again. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon muttered an assent. + </p> + <p> + ‘And what are you doing now?’ Jasper inquired suddenly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Writing a one-volume story.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m glad to hear that. Any special plan for its publication?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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”?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never heard of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who IS Mrs Boston Wright?’ asked Reardon, laughing impatiently. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He paused, then added impulsively: + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me take you to one of her evenings—nine on Thursday. Do + persuade him, Mrs Reardon?’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon shook his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no. I should be horribly out of my element.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy gave a questioning look at her husband. But Reardon moved in an + uncomfortable way. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll see about it,’ he said. ‘Some day, perhaps.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood: I happen to + know a man who reads for him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Heavens!’ cried Reardon. ‘Who don’t you know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy listened with an unconscious smile which expressed keen interest. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh,’ pursued Jasper, ‘when did you see Whelpdale last?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t seen him for a long time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it’s a confounded swindle!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon’s indignation yielded to laughter. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s not impossible that he may thrive by this kind of thing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all,’ assented Jasper. + </p> + <p> + Shortly after this he looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He indicated Amy, who laughed in a forced way. + </p> + <p> + When he was gone, the two sat without speaking for several minutes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you care to make friends with those girls?’ asked Reardon at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose in decency I must call upon them?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You may find them very agreeable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes.’ + </p> + <p> + They conversed with their own thoughts for a while. Then Reardon burst out + laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, there’s the successful man, you see. Some day he’ll live in a + mansion, and dictate literary opinions to the universe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How has he offended you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Offended me? Not at all. I am glad of his cheerful prospects.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you refuse to go among those people? It might be good for you + in several ways.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you must cease to write rubbish.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I must cease to write altogether.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And do what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish to Heaven I knew!’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. A WARNING + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘But there’s Fadge’s thumb-mark all down the page,’ cried Mr Quarmby. + </p> + <p> + ‘He inspired the thing, of course; but I rather think it was written by + that fellow Milvain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Think so?’ asked the publisher. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Smart youngster, that,’ remarked Mr Jedwood. ‘Who is he, by-the-bye?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Excuse me,’ interposed Mr Quarmby, ‘there’s some mistake in all that.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think I shall ever ask them again,’ Marian replied. + </p> + <p> + Her mother understood, and looked troubled. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must tell them how it is, that’s all,’ the girl went on. ‘They are + sensible; they won’t be offended with me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know it, mother. Let us go on as we did before.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + She read a few lines, then threw the thing on to the table. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you say that, father?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t occur to you who may probably have written it?’ + </p> + <p> + She could not miss his meaning; astonishment held her mute for a moment, + then she said: + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely Mr Fadge wrote it himself?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am told not. I am informed on very good authority that one of his young + gentlemen has the credit of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You refer, of course, to Mr Milvain,’ she replied quietly. ‘But I think + that can’t be true.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked keenly at her. He had expected a more decided protest. + </p> + <p> + ‘I see no reason for disbelieving it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see every reason, until I have your evidence.’ + </p> + <p> + This was not at all Marian’s natural tone in argument with him. She was + wont to be submissive. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was told,’ he continued, hardening face and voice, ‘by someone who had + it from Jedwood.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How should Jedwood know?’ asked Marian. + </p> + <p> + Yule shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + ‘As if these things didn’t get about among editors and publishers!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In this case, there’s a mistake.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And why, pray?’ His voice trembled with choler. ‘Why need there be a + mistake?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because Mr Milvain is quite incapable of reviewing your book in such a + spirit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There is your mistake, my girl. Milvain will do anything that’s asked of + him, provided he’s well enough paid.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian reflected. When she raised her eyes again they were perfectly calm. + </p> + <p> + ‘What has led you to think that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t I know the type of man? Noscitur ex sociis—have you Latin + enough for that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll find that you are misinformed,’ Marian replied, and therewith went + from the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you copied the whole of that?’ + </p> + <p> + The tone would have been uncivil if addressed to an impertinent servant. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not much more than half,’ was the cold reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you finish it to-night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid not. I am going out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I must do it myself’ + </p> + <p> + And he went to the study. + </p> + <p> + Mrs Yule was in an anguish of nervousness. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, dear?’ she asked of Marian, in a pleading whisper. ‘Oh, don’t + quarrel with your father! Don’t!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t be a slave, mother, and I can’t be treated unjustly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it? Let me go and speak to him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s no use. We CAN’T live in terror.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She went down to the study, tapped, and entered. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I behaved very ill-temperedly. Forgive me, father.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have the goodness to go away. You hear me?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why are you cross with Marian, Alfred?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You had better ask what she means by her extraordinary behaviour.’ + </p> + <p> + A word of harsh rebuff was the most she had expected. Thus encouraged, she + timidly put another question. + </p> + <p> + ‘How has she behaved?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you have ears?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But wasn’t there something before that? You spoke so angry to her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Spoke so angry, did I? She is out, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, she hasn’t gone out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’ll do. Don’t disturb me any longer.’ + </p> + <p> + She did not venture to linger. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Give my kind regards to them, dear—if you like to,’ said Mrs Yule + just above her breath. + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly I will.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. RECRUITS + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + On learning that the young ladies were at home and alone, she ascended to + the second floor and knocked. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + On the round table lay a number of books; when disturbed, the sisters had + been engaged in studious reading. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We have news for you, too,’ said Maud, who sat languidly on an uneasy + chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good, I hope?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Someone called to see us yesterday. I dare say you can guess who it was.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Amy, perhaps?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And how did you like her?’ + </p> + <p> + The sisters seemed to have a difficulty in answering. Dora was the first + to speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Jasper says it’s because Mr Reardon has no friends among the + journalists.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your brother,’ she said after a pause, ‘will soon find suitable friends + for you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s troubling you, Marian?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The girls gazed at her, in doubt at first whether she spoke seriously. + </p> + <p> + ‘What can you mean?’ Dora exclaimed. ‘What crime have you been + committing?’ + </p> + <p> + Maud, who leaned with her elbows on the table, searched Marian’s face + curiously, but said nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has Mr Milvain shown you the new number of The Current?’ Marian went on + to ask. + </p> + <p> + They replied with a negative, and Maud added: + </p> + <p> + ‘He has nothing in it this month, except a review.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A review?’ repeated Marian in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; of somebody’s novel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Markland’s,’ supplied Dora. + </p> + <p> + Marian drew a breath, but remained for a moment with her eyes cast down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do go on, dear,’ urged Dora. ‘Whatever are you going to tell us?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora replied that he had. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + Her voice was checked by agitation. + </p> + <p> + ‘We were afraid of this,’ said Dora, in a tone of sympathy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jasper feared it might be the case,’ added Maud, more coldly, though with + friendliness. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! don’t think that!’ Dora exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jasper is very sorry about it,’ said Dora, glancing rapidly at Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing whatever. We are not unreasonable girls, Marian.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am more grateful to you than I can say.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here’s Jasper,’ remarked Dora, and in a moment there sounded a short, + sharp summons at the door. + </p> + <p> + Jasper it was; he came in with radiant face, his eyes blinking before the + lamplight. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + That on which he tried to dispose himself, when he had flung aside his + trappings, creaked and shivered ominously. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is the unfortunate author?’ interrupted Maud, caustically. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And what’s the value of it all?’ asked Maud. + </p> + <p> + ‘Probably from ten to twelve guineas, if I calculated.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I meant, what was the literary value of it?’ said his sister, with a + smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘Equal to that of the contents of a mouldy nut.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Pretty much what I thought.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but it answers the purpose,’ urged Dora, ‘and it does no one any + harm.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘A year ago, Miss Yule, I shouldn’t have believed myself capable of such + activity. In fact I wasn’t capable of it then.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You think such work won’t be too great a strain upon you?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not political leaders?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘At all events, you won’t do any more work to-night,’ said Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why the whisky?’ asked Maud. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you grudge me such poor solace?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see the need of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nonsense, Maud!’ exclaimed her sister. ‘He needs a little stimulant when + he works so hard.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The evening was clear, and not very cold. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian replied with a low ‘Thank you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you get on pretty well with the girls, don’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope they are as glad of my friendship as I am of theirs.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely there’s no doubt of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian made no reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘You think I talk of nothing but money?’ Jasper said suddenly, looking + down into her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know too well what it means to be without money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, but—you do just a little despise me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed, I don’t, Mr Milvain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall you take an omnibus?’ Jasper asked. + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Or will you give me the pleasure of walking on with you? You are tired, + perhaps?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not the least.’ + </p> + <p> + For the rest of her answer she moved forward, and they crossed into the + obscurity of Camden Road. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid I know what you refer to. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t + answer a question of the kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was Mr Fadge himself who reviewed my father’s book?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was—confound him! I don’t know another man who could have done + the thing so vilely well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose he was only replying to my father’s attack upon him and his + friends.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I am told that Mr Jedwood, the publisher, has somehow made a + mistake.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Jedwood? And what mistake?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Father heard that you were the writer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I?’ Jasper stopped short. They were in the rays of a street-lamp, and + could see each other’s faces. ‘And he believes that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you believe—believed it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not for a moment.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall write a note to Mr Yule.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian was silent a while, then said: + </p> + <p> + ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you found a way of letting Mr Jedwood know the + truth?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps you are right.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + He checked himself and they walked on for several yards without speaking. + </p> + <p> + ‘In that case,’ Jasper resumed at length, ‘your father doesn’t think of me + in a very friendly way?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He scarcely could—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you for having come so far,’ she said, pausing. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘May it do you good!’ said Marian with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + A speech of this kind seemed unusual upon her lips. Jasper smiled as he + held her hand and regarded her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you can speak in a joking way?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do I seem so very dull?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He strode off and in a minute or two turned his head to look at the slight + figure passing into darkness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m rather late,’ said the girl, in a voice of subdued joyousness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; I was getting a little uneasy, dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, there’s no danger.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have been enjoying yourself, I can see.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have had a pleasant evening.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. THE LAST RESOURCE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Amy was oftener from home than had been her custom. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘And gives you an opportunity of bewailing your hard fate,’ he returned + coldly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Edwin—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you want?’ he asked indifferently. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why are you behaving to me like this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely it makes no difference to you how I behave? You can easily forget + that I exist, and live your own life.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What have I done to make this change in you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it a change?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know it is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How did I behave before?’ he asked, glancing at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Like yourself—kindly and gently.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What “things” do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Circumstances for which neither of us is to blame.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not conscious of having failed in kindness,’ said Amy, distantly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can you know what I say about you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Isn’t it true?’ he asked, flashing an angry glance at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is not true. Of course I have talked to mother about our difficulties; + how could I help it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And to other people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not in a way that you could find fault with.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The passion in his voice and the harshness of the accusation made her + unable to reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But Amy made no movement towards him. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you would leave me without regret? Your only care would be that you + were still bound to me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must think of me what you like. I don’t care to defend myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t admit, then, that I have anything to complain of? I seem to you + simply in a bad temper without a cause?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Amy, seeing that he would say nothing more, left him to himself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you stay here?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + It was not the same voice as before. He saw that her eyes were red and + swollen. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you been crying, Amy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind. Do you know what time it is?’ + </p> + <p> + He went towards her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why have you been crying?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There are many things to cry for.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Amy, have you any love for me still, or has poverty robbed me of it all?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have never said that I didn’t love you. Why do you accuse me of such + things?’ + </p> + <p> + He took her in his arms and held her passionately and kissed her face + again and again. Amy’s tears broke forth anew. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Darling, darling—if only I COULD!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why shouldn’t you go with me, if we are to let this place?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon shook his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, Amy, I have no faith in my power of—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + He all but lost consciousness of her words in gazing at the face she held + up to his. + </p> + <p> + ‘You love me? Say again that you love me!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A week or two.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, on ten shillings a week, if need be.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Forgive me, dearest love! I was half a madman. You have been so cold to + me for a long time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been distracted. It was as if we were drawing nearer and nearer to + the edge of a cataract.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you spoken to your mother about this?’ he asked uneasily. + </p> + <p> + ‘No—not exactly this. But I know she will help us in this way.’ + </p> + <p> + He had seated himself and was holding her in his arms, his face laid + against hers. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ he asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hate poverty so. It brings out all the worst things in me; you know I + have told you that before, Edwin?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you would never forget that you are my wife?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, many!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But at your age, I mean. Surely not at your age?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The abyss.’ He pointed downward. ‘Penury and despair and a miserable + death.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but those men haven’t a wife and child! They would struggle—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He kissed her hair, and her eyes, and her mouth. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t understand—’ + </p> + <p> + She raised herself and looked into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘We won’t talk of that. If you bid me go on with the struggle, I shall do + so.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy had hidden her face, and lay silently in his arms for a minute or two. + Then she murmured: + </p> + <p> + ‘It is so cold here, and so late. Come!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So early. There goes three o’clock.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course,’ assented his companion with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And they are empty creatures who live there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy’s brow was shadowed. A wise man, in Reardon’s position, would not have + chosen this subject to dilate upon. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It has had its effect upon me—I know that too well,’ said Amy, with + bitter frankness. + </p> + <p> + Reardon glanced at her, and wished to make some reply, but he could not + say what was in his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘It may succeed, Edwin. It doesn’t look like a book that fails, does it?’ + </p> + <p> + She laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one of the + volumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a chapter. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who are to have copies?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No one, if I could help it. But I suppose your mother will expect one?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And—Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you let me give one to Mrs Carter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you please.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘The works of Edwin Reardon,’ she said, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you are going to get back your health. You will write better than + ever.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t trouble; it’ll all come back to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He brooded for a little. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In the old days.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + Amy turned away, and presently went to look after her little boy. + </p> + <p> + A few days after this they had a visit from Milvain. He came about ten + o’clock in the evening. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not going to stay,’ he announced. ‘But where’s my copy of “Margaret + Home”? I am to have one, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no particular desire that you should read it,’ returned Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Here it is. Hide it away somewhere.—You may as well sit down for a + few minutes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + The motive is good enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Just good enough to show how badly it’s managed.’ + </p> + <p> + Milvain began to expatiate on that well-worn topic, the evils of the + three-volume system. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But there’s no reason why the libraries shouldn’t circulate novels in one + volume.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Profits would be less, I suppose. People would take the minimum + subscription.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, to go to the concrete, what about your own one-volume?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All but done.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you’ll offer it to Jedwood? Go and see him personally. He’s a very + decent fellow, I believe.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You didn’t mention your plans,’ said Amy, when the visitor had been gone + some time. + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon was content with the negative, and his wife made no further + remark. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are very anxious to get rid of me,’ he answered, trying to smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I am,’ she exclaimed; ‘but simply for your own good, as you know + very well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Suppose I can’t sell this book?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not very likely to do much work in that case.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Oh yes, he might manage on considerably less than a pound a week. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had to get it over,’ she said, when Reardon exhibited surprise, ‘and I + don’t think I made a very favourable impression.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You told them, I suppose, what we are going to do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; I didn’t say a word of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why not? It can’t be kept a secret. Milvain will have heard of it + already, I should think, from your mother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART THREE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. REJECTION + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘They didn’t tell me you had a visitor,’ he said. ‘I’ll call again later.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No need to go away,’ replied Biffen, coming forward to shake hands. ‘Take + a book for a few minutes. Mr Baker won’t mind.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Baker beamed upon the visitor with a homely, good-natured smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re not the only man in that case, Mr Baker,’ replied Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s thought a tough job in general, is it, sir?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is indeed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Two hundred marks for compersition,’ continued the man. ‘Now how many + would they have given me for this bit of a try, Mr Biffen?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, well; I can’t exactly say. But you improve; you improve, decidedly. + Peg away for another week or two.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + Again his fist descended upon the table in a way that reminded one of the + steam-hammer cracking a nut. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps I might speak to you outside the door a minute, sir?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will he get a place in the Customs, do you think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Biffen, why don’t you get some decent position? Surely you might.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s the idea?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + He walked up and down the room, fervid with his conception. + </p> + <p> + ‘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”!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should like to hear.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon gave an account of his project. The other listened gravely, seated + across a chair with his arms on the back. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your wife is in agreement with this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind. For Heaven’s sake don’t discourage me! If this fails I think—upon + my soul, I think I shall kill myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Pooh!’ exclaimed Biffen, gently. ‘With a wife like yours?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just because of that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In Tottenham Court Road?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I’ll walk with you, and go + on home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of + dripping, with salt and pepper. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-pudding?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties. + </p> + <p> + He ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork; this always made the + fare seem more substantial. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it very cold out?’ he asked, rising from the table. ‘Need I put my + overcoat on?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Go out,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll extinguish the lamp. Mind the second + step down, as usual.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘In the last volume,’ he went on, ‘I think there are one or two things as + good as you ever did; I do indeed.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is this lady of whom you write to me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope the consumption was only a figure of speech,’ remarked Biffen in + his grave way. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, there’s nothing serious the matter, I think. A slight cough, poor + girl.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The deuce!’ interjected Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘This would be exciting,’ he said, ‘if we didn’t know the end of the + story.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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! + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I congratulate you,’ said Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘So do I,’ sighed Biffen. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen leant back and laughed noisily. + </p> + <p> + ‘How much shall you charge for the course?’ asked Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’ll depend. I shan’t refuse a guinea or two; but some people may be + made to pay five, perhaps.’ + </p> + <p> + Someone knocked at the door, and a voice said: + </p> + <p> + ‘A letter for you, Mr Whelpdale.’ + </p> + <p> + He started up, and came back into the room with face illuminated. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it’s from Birmingham; posted this morning. Look what an exquisite + hand she writes!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘No bad news, I hope?’ Biffen ventured to say. + </p> + <p> + Whelpdale let himself sink into a chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + The two waited, trying not to smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + The visitors had risen. They felt uncomfortable, for it seemed as if + Whelpdale might find vent for his distress in tears. + </p> + <p> + ‘We had better leave you,’ suggested Biffen. ‘It’s very hard—it is + indeed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here! Read the letter for yourselves! Do!’ + </p> + <p> + They declined, and begged him not to insist. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What think you of this story?’ asked Biffen. ‘Is this possible in a woman + of any merit?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Anything is possible in a woman,’ Reardon replied, harshly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he had entered, Amy’s voice called to him: + </p> + <p> + ‘Here’s a letter from Jedwood, Edwin!’ + </p> + <p> + He stepped into the study. + </p> + <p> + ‘It came just after you went out, and it has been all I could do to resist + the temptation to open it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why shouldn’t you have opened it?’ said her husband, carelessly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you’ll try someone else?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think it’s much use.’ + </p> + <p> + They sat opposite each other, and kept silence. Jedwood’s letter slipped + from Amy’s lap to the ground. + </p> + <p> + ‘So,’ said Reardon, presently, ‘I don’t see how our plan is to be carried + out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it must be!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But how?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll get seven or eight pounds from The Wayside. And—hadn’t we + better sell the furniture, instead of—’ + </p> + <p> + His look checked her. + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems to me, Amy, that your one desire is to get away from me, on + whatever terms.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t begin that over again!’ she exclaimed, fretfully. ‘If you don’t + believe what I say—’ + </p> + <p> + They were both in a state of intolerable nervous tension. Their voices + quivered, and their eyes had an unnatural brightness. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where did you go this morning?’ he asked, as if wishing to talk of common + things. + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you. I went to buy those things for Willie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Biffen passed you in Tottenham Court Road,’ he added. + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t see him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; he said you didn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps,’ said Amy, ‘it was just when I was speaking to Mr Milvain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You met Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure I don’t know. I can’t mention every trifle that happens.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, of course not.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy closed her eyes, as if in weariness, and for a minute or two Reardon + observed her countenance. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you think we had better sell the furniture.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall say nothing more about it. You must do as seems best to you, + Edwin.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to see your mother to-morrow?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I thought you would like to come too.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; there’s no good in my going.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. THE PARTING + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you won’t come?’ she said to her husband. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I shall see your mother before I go away, but I don’t care to till + you have settled everything.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You had very much rather we didn’t sell the furniture?’ Amy asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ask your mother’s opinion. That shall decide.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon made no reply. He was overcome by the bitterness of shame. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose so.’ + </p> + <p> + Then he turned suddenly upon her. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + The rest must be sold. He would get rid of them to-morrow morning. All + together they might bring him a couple of sovereigns. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He rose in anguish, and stood looking about him as if aid might somewhere + be visible. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hear you are leaving town for a time,’ he exclaimed. ‘Edith told me + yesterday, so I thought I’d look you up.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t at all certain that I shall go,’ Reardon replied. ‘I thought of + a few weeks—somewhere at the seaside.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t think I should go so far as that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you heard,’ said Carter, presently, ‘that we’re opening a branch of + the hospital in the City Road?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; I hadn’t heard of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’ll only be for out-patients. Open three mornings and three evenings + alternately.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who’ll represent you there?’ +</p> + <p> +‘I shall look in now and then, of course; + there’ll be a clerk, like at the old place.’ + </p> + <p> + He talked of the matter in detail—of the doctors who would attend, + and of certain new arrangements to be tried. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you engaged the clerk?’ Reardon asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not yet. I think I know a man who’ll suit me, though.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You wouldn’t be disposed to give me the chance?’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon spoke huskily, and ended with a broken laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re rather above my figure nowadays, old man!’ exclaimed Carter, + joining in what he considered the jest. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall you pay a pound a week?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Twenty-five shillings. It’ll have to be a man who can be trusted to take + money from the paying patients.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I am serious. Will you give me the place?’ + </p> + <p> + Carter gazed at him, and checked another laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘What the deuce do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not? Will you promise me the work?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When shall I have to begin?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The place’ll be opened to-morrow week. But how about your holiday?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it’s a comical idea,’ said Carter, as he took his leave, ‘but you + know your own business best.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mother advises us not to sell the furniture,’ were her first words. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you thought of something?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘The post?’ said Amy. ‘What post?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy sat upright and looked steadily at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is this a joke?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Far from it, dear. It’s a blessed deliverance.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have asked Mr Carter to take you back as a clerk?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you propose that we shall live on twenty-five shillings a week?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy was stroking the back of her hand. After a long silence, she said in a + very quiet, but very resolute tone: + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall not consent to this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In that case, Amy, I must do without your consent. The rooms will be + taken, and our furniture transferred to them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon approached her, and laid a hand on her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + ‘Amy, are you my wife, or not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am certainly not the wife of a clerk who is paid so much a week.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do as YOU think fit? Indeed!’ + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You refuse to live with me, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, if this is the kind of life you offer me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You would be more ashamed to share your husband’s misfortunes than to + declare to everyone that you had deserted him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They will regard you as a martyr?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + He came nearer, and gazed desperately into her face. Not a muscle of it + showed susceptibility to the old influences. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know, Amy,’ he added in a lower voice, ‘that if we part now, we + part for ever?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid that is only too likely.’ + </p> + <p> + She moved aside. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean that you wish it. You are weary of me, and care for nothing but + how to make yourself free.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall argue no more. I am tired to death of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He paused, and saw that his words had no effect upon her. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + His voice gave way for an instant. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy turned towards him once more. + </p> + <p> + ‘Instead of saying all this, you might be proving that I am wrong. Do so, + and I will gladly confess it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That you are wrong? I don’t see your meaning.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You might prove that you are willing to do your utmost to save me from + humiliation.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Amy, I have done my utmost. I have done more than you can imagine.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know how to answer. I have told you so often—You can’t + understand me!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you determined to see how weak I am? Do you wish to be able to + despise me more completely still?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know it’s impossible—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you amaze me, Amy. Do you mean to say that you look upon it as a + veritable disgrace, my taking this clerkship?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do. I can’t help my nature. I am ashamed through and through that you + should sink to this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But everyone knows that I was a clerk once!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of your world? I had thought your world was the same as mine, and knew + nothing whatever of these imbecilities.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is getting late. Go and see Mr Carter, and afterwards I will talk as + much as you like.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She knew that this was final. His voice had the true ring of shame in + revolt. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then go your way, and I will go mine!’ + </p> + <p> + Amy left the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How long shall you be away?’ she asked, curtly. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is doubtful. I am going to look for rooms.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then no doubt I shall be gone when you come back. There’s no object, now, + in my staying here till to-morrow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you please.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you wish Lizzie still to come?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. Please to pay her wages and dismiss her. Here is some money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you had better let me see to that.’ + </p> + <p> + He flung the coin on to the table and opened the door. Amy stepped quickly + forward and closed it again. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is our good-bye, is it?’ she asked, her eyes on the ground. + </p> + <p> + ‘As you wish it—yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You will remember that I have not wished it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In that case, you have only to go with me to the new home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you have made your choice.’ + </p> + <p> + She did not prevent his opening the door this time, and he passed out + without looking at her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. THE OLD HOME + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A literary man? Well, it was one mode of distinction. Happily, a novelist; + novelists now and then had considerable social success. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Alas! alas! What was the end of those shining anticipations? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + From the dining-room window Mrs Yule was aware of this arrival, and in a + few moments she learnt the unspeakable cause. + </p> + <p> + She burst into tears, genuine as ever woman shed. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no use in that, mother,’ said Amy, whose temper was in a + dangerous state. ‘Nothing worse can happen, that’s one consolation.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it’s disgraceful! disgraceful!’ sobbed Mrs Yule. ‘What we are to say + I can NOT think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall say nothing whatever. People can scarcely have the impertinence + to ask us questions when we have shown that they are unwelcome.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s nonsense, mother. He is as sane as I am.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t have that,’ replied Amy with decision. ‘Don’t you see that in + that case I should be behaving very badly?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + There was less resolve in this utterance. Amy mused, and looked wretched. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is my room ready?’ Amy inquired on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sorry to say it isn’t, dear, as I didn’t expect you till tomorrow. + But it shall be seen to immediately.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘And he positively refused to carry out the former plan?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Refused. Said it was useless.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How could it be useless? There’s something so unaccountable in his + behaviour.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She was quite aware that this did not truly represent her husband’s + position. But an uneasiness of conscience impelled her to harsh speech. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy shook her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean,’ asked Mrs Yule, ‘that he really thinks it possible for all of + you to be supported on those wages?’ + </p> + <p> + The last word was chosen to express the utmost scorn. + </p> + <p> + ‘He talked of earning fifty pounds a year by writing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy laughed, thinking of her husband in the light of the latter + alternative. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘People must know the truth, I suppose,’ she answered dispiritedly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + This was practical, and just what Mrs Yule had expected from her son. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think Jack would be greatly distressed,’ Amy put in quietly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what is to be done?’ asked Mrs Yule. ‘It’s no use talking + sarcastically, John, or making yourself disagreeable.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But he can’t write, Jack. He has lost his talent.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, all I want to know is, what’s Amy going to do if things don’t + alter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She shall never want a home as long as I have one to share with her.’ + </p> + <p> + John’s natural procedure, when beset by difficulties, was to find fault + with everyone all round, himself maintaining a position of + irresponsibility. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t talk so monstrously, John!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘How could Amy + possibly foresee such things? The case is quite an extraordinary one.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you wish to see Amy working in a shop?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy had taken a seat apart. She sat with her head leaning on her hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why don’t you go and see Reardon?’ John asked of his mother. + </p> + <p> + ‘What would be the use? Perhaps he would tell me to mind my own business.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We don’t know his address yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll do no good by that,’ said Amy, indifferently. + </p> + <p> + ‘Confound it! It’s just because nobody does anything that things have come + to this pass!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose they have quarrelled terrifically,’ said her brother, as soon + as she was gone. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am afraid so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear, I haven’t asked you to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, but you’ll have the devil’s own job to make ends meet; I know that + well enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall manage somehow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He can’t have removed yet. It was only this morning that he went to + search for lodgings.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are quite worn out with your troubles,’ she said. ‘Go to bed, and + have a good long sleep.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I will.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + And in a quarter of an hour she was sleeping as peacefully as the child + who shared her room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She ate an excellent breakfast, and made known her enjoyment of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am so glad!’ replied her mother. ‘You have been getting quite thin and + pale.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite consumptive,’ remarked John, looking up from his newspaper. ‘Shall + I make arrangements for a daily landau at the livery stables round here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope not, and I don’t think it very likely.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Jack, Jack!’ interposed Mrs Yule, softly. + </p> + <p> + Her son resumed his paper, and at the end of the meal rose with an + unwonted briskness to make his preparations for departure. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. THE PAST REVIVED + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘She would be glad if I were dead. She would be glad.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ha! Good-morning!’ John exclaimed, looking up. ‘A minute or two and I + should have been too late, I see.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke in quite a friendly way, and, on reaching the landing, shook + hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you obliged to go at once? Or could I have a word with you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come in.’ + </p> + <p> + They entered the study, which was in some disorder; Reardon made no + reference to circumstances, but offered a chair, and seated himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have a cigarette?’ said Yule, holding out a box of them. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, thank you; I don’t smoke so early.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I’ll light one myself; it always makes talk easier to me. You’re on + the point of moving, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I am.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you’ll let Amy know your new address?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly. Why should I conceal it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t quite see that. It seems to me that the time has just come.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please tell me, to begin with, do you come on Amy’s behalf?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think it is all between Amy and myself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon could find no suitable words of reply. He understood what Yule + referred to, and began to feel the full extent of his humiliation. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean, of course—’ he began; but his tongue failed him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, we should really like to know how long it is proposed that Amy + shall remain with her mother.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘That depends entirely on my wife herself;’ he replied mechanically. + </p> + <p> + ‘How so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I offer her the best home I can.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon felt himself a poor, pitiful creature, and hated the well-dressed + man who made him feel so. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t. I said that I had offered her the best home I could. I know it’s + impossible, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then it doesn’t depend on Amy,’ said John. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You see no reason, then, why she shouldn’t live as at present for an + indefinite time?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, pray, when is that likely to be?’ + </p> + <p> + John had passed the bounds; his manner was too frankly contemptuous. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very sorry you speak like this, Reardon,’ said the other, with calm + insolence. ‘It confirms unpleasant ideas, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon could not endure the sound of these words. He interrupted hotly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + John, having finished his cigarette, rose. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon, ashamed already of his violence, paused upon these remarks. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you; I think not.’ + </p> + <p> + They parted with distant civility, and Reardon closed the door behind his + visitor. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions that I’ll + point out to you’. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very good, sir,’ was the reply. ‘Let’s have a look through the rooms.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The dealer made his calculation, with many side-glances at the vendor. + </p> + <p> + ‘And what may you ask for the lot?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please to make an offer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Most of the things has had a good deal of wear—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know, I know. Just let me hear what you will give.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, if you want a valuation, I say eighteen pound ten.’ + </p> + <p> + It was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a man who + understood such affairs would have obtained. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the most you can give?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Wouldn’t pay me to give a sixpence more. You see—’ + </p> + <p> + He began to point out defects, but Reardon cut him short. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you take them away at once?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At wunst? Would two o’clock do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it would.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And might you want these other things takin’ anywheres?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, but not till to-morrow. They have to go to Islington. What would you + do it for?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At seven o’clock he sat down in what once was called his study, and wrote + the following letter: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He slept for a few hours, then lay watching the light of dawn as it + revealed his desolation. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a letter come for you,’ said the landlady as she admitted him. + ‘You’ll find it on your mantel.’ + </p> + <p> + He ascended hastily. The letter must be from Amy, as no one else knew his + address. Yes, and its contents were these: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the bag he had brought with him there were writing materials. Standing + at the mantelpiece, he forthwith penned a reply to this letter: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He went out and posted this at once. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have removed, I hear?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; I had better give you my new address.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon’s tone was meant to signify that further remark on the subject + would be unwelcome. Musingly, Carter made a note of the address. + </p> + <p> + ‘You still wish to go on with this affair?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come and have some lunch with me, then, and afterwards we’ll go to the + City Road and talk things over on the spot.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose,’ said Carter, when they were seated in a restaurant, ‘you + wouldn’t object to anything better, if a chance turned up?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should take it, to be sure.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you don’t want a job that would occupy all your time? You’re going on + with writing, of course?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not for the present, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you would like me to keep a look-out? I haven’t anything in view—nothing + whatever. But one hears of things sometimes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should be obliged to you if you could help me to anything + satisfactory.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. THE END OF WAITING + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What brings you on these premises?’ he asked, as they shook hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Cosmetics? Fashions? Cookery?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Glad you like it. Some people are less fervent in their admiration.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper recounted the affair which had just been under discussion in the + office. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course you know all about the Reardons?’ said Whelpdale. + </p> + <p> + ‘Haven’t seen or heard of them lately. What is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you don’t know that they have parted?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Parted?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ho, ho!’ exclaimed Jasper, thoughtfully. ‘Then the crash has come. Of + course I knew it must be impending. I’m sorry for Reardon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sorry for his wife.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Trust you for thinking of women first, Whelpdale.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper laughed unrestrainedly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Reardon still living at the old place?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really? His character never struck me in that way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Any company with her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A lady—Mrs Carter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then please to give my name, and ask if Mrs Yule can see me.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have heard of it only to-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘From Mr Reardon himself?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; I haven’t seen him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do wish you had! We should have been so anxious to know how he + impressed you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How he impressed me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And my husband thinks he is rather strange,’ remarked Mrs Carter. + </p> + <p> + ‘He has gone back to the hospital, I understand—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + Jasper listened to all this with no small astonishment. + </p> + <p> + ‘And Mrs Reardon?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My husband is afraid Mr Reardon may fall seriously ill,’ said Mrs Carter. + ‘And how dreadful! In such a place as that!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Certainly, I will go,’ replied Jasper. ‘Will you give me his address?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are coming from Mrs Yule’s?’ said Reardon, with a strange smile. + </p> + <p> + By the gaslight his face showed pale and sunken, and he met Jasper’s look + with fixedness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I am. The fact is, I went there to hear of your address. Why haven’t + you let me know about all this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You went to the flat?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I was told about you by Whelpdale.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon turned in the direction whence he had come, and began to walk + slowly; Jasper kept beside him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid there’s something amiss between us, Reardon,’ said the latter, + just glancing at his companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s something amiss between me and everyone,’ was the reply, in an + unnatural voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘You look at things too gloomily. Am I detaining you, by-the-bye? You were + going—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nowhere.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then come to my rooms, and let us see if we can’t talk more in the old + way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your old way of talk isn’t much to my taste, Milvain. It has cost me too + much.’ + </p> + <p> +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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Cost you too much? I don’t understand you.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon turned his face towards the speaker. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you have always regarded my wife as a woman likely to fail me in + time of need?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a dull doggedness, as though mental fatigue did not allow + him to say more. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know nothing about it,’ Reardon replied, in the same unmodulated voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon had been walking for hours, and was, in truth, exhausted. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They drew near to Westbourne Park station. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are living a long way from here,’ Jasper said, coldly. ‘Are you going + by train?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. You said my wife was ill?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, not ill. At least, I didn’t understand that it was anything serious. + Why don’t you walk back to the house?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must judge of my own affairs.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True; I beg your pardon. I take the train here, so I’ll say good-night.’ + </p> + <p> + They nodded to each other, but did not shake hands. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Anything wrong?’ he asked, as his sister entered. + </p> + <p> + ‘No; but I’m alone this evening, and I thought I would see if you were in. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where’s Maud, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why is Mrs Lane so affectionate all at once? Take your things off; I have + nothing to do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Miss Radway was going as well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who’s Miss Radway?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you know her? She’s staying with the Lanes. Maud says she writes + for The West End.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And will that fellow Lane be with them?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper mused, contemplating the bowl of his pipe. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose she was in rare excitement?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Pretty well. She has wanted to go to the Gaiety for a long time. There’s + no harm, is there?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora asked the question with that absent air which girls are wont to + assume when they touch on doubtful subjects. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, she looked very nice, in that best.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + They gossiped for half an hour, then a tap at the door interrupted them; + it was the landlady. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper smiled at Dora, and said in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you say? Shall he come up? He can behave himself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just as you please, Jasper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ask him to come up, Mrs Thompson, please.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘My younger sister, Whelpdale,’ said Jasper, with subdued amusement. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How’s the “Manual” going off?’ Milvain inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘Excellently! We have sold nearly six hundred.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My sister is one of your readers. I believe she has studied the book with + much conscientiousness.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Really? You have really read it, Miss Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora assured him that she had, and his delight knew no bounds. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + Your brother is the successful man. A marvellous facility! I envy him. Few + men at present writing have such talent.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Please don’t make him more conceited than he naturally is,’ interposed + Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘What news of Biffen?’ asked Jasper, presently. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid it would give you very little pleasure,’ Whelpdale replied, + hesitatingly. ‘The matter is so very gross.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah, but poor Reardon! I passed him at King’s Cross not long ago. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dora, I think I must be taking you home.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a bad fellow, in his way,’ said Jasper, when Dora and he were alone + again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never mind; do as I tell you.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What strange fancies you have!’ remarked Dora, when they were upstairs. + </p> + <p> + ‘So have people in general, unfortunately.’ + </p> + <p> + A letter lay on the table. It was addressed to Maud, and Dora recognised + the handwriting as that of a Wattleborough friend. + </p> + <p> + ‘There must be some news here,’ she said. ‘Mrs Haynes wouldn’t write + unless she had something special to say. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How late for you to be here!’ she exclaimed, on entering the sitting-room + and seeing Jasper. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t have felt comfortable till I knew that you were back all + right.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What fear was there?’ + </p> + <p> + She threw off her wraps, laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, have you enjoyed yourself?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes!’ she replied, carelessly. ‘This letter for me? What has Mrs + Haynes got to say, I wonder?’ + </p> + <p> + She opened the envelope, and began to glance hurriedly over the sheet of + paper. Then her face changed. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you think? Mr Yule is dead!’ + </p> + <p> + Dora uttered an exclamation; Jasper displayed the keenest interest. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When shall you be seeing Marian?’ asked her brother. + </p> + <p> + ‘She might come to-morrow evening.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But won’t she go to the funeral?’ suggested Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ought I to write to Marian?’ asked Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Confound his public purposes!’ was the thought upon which he at length + slept. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. MR YULE LEAVES TOWN + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I only know that she goes to see the young ladies, and that they do + writing of some kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She never even mentions their brother to you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never. I haven’t heard his name from her since she told me the Miss + Milvains weren’t coming here again.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘No? Then is Mr Yule?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, mum, but I’m afraid he’s busy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t care, I must see him. Say that Mrs Goby wants to see him at + once.’ + </p> + <p> + The servant, not without apprehensions, delivered this message at the door + of the study. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs Goby? Who is Mrs Goby?’ exclaimed the man of letters, irate at the + disturbance. + </p> + <p> + There sounded an answer out of the passage, for the visitor had followed + close. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am Mrs Goby, of the ‘Olloway Road, wife of Mr C. O. Goby, ‘aberdasher. + I just want to speak to you, Mr Yule, if you please, seeing that Mrs Yule + isn’t in.’ + </p> + <p> + Yule started up in fury, and stared at the woman, to whom the servant had + reluctantly given place. + </p> + <p> + ‘What business can you have with me? If you wish to see Mrs Yule, come + again when she is at home.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + She closed the door violently, and stood in an attitude of robust + defiance. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She looked scornfully, though also with some surprise, round the volumed + walls. + </p> + <p> + ‘And what of this girl? Will you have the goodness to say what your + business is?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know nothing of the kind. What have I to do with servants?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Yule was livid with rage, but the extremity of his scorn withheld him from + utterance of what he felt. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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 of 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it, mother? What’s the matter?’ + </p> + <p> + They went into Marian’s room, where Mrs Yule gave free utterance to her + lamentations. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is he in the study?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t speak till to-morrow!’ whispered her mother, catching at the girl’s + arm. ‘Let it be till to-morrow, Marian!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must speak! We can’t live in this terror.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are not a suitable judge of my behaviour,’ replied Yule, severely. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I refuse to argue such questions with you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You prove that you are a child, in asking for explanations which ought to + be clear enough to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean that mother is to blame for everything?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will say nothing of mother, then, but speak only for myself. I suffer + too much from your unkindness; you ask too much endurance.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘No. But that you make the conditions of my work too hard. I live in + constant fear of your anger.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed? When did I last ill-use you, or threaten you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘It isn’t lack of cheerfulness that I mean, father. That could never have + brought me to speak like this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It hurts me very much that you can understand me no better than this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sorry. I think we used to understand each other, but that was before + you were subjected to the influence of strangers.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am subjected to no influence that is hostile to you,’ Marian replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘You may think that. But in such a matter it is very easy for you to + deceive yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I know what you refer to, and I can assure you that I don’t + deceive myself.’ + </p> + <p> + Yule flashed a searching glance at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you deny that you are on terms of friendship with a—a person + who would at any moment rejoice to injure me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am friendly with no such person. Will you say whom you are thinking + of?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be useless. I have no wish to discuss a subject on which we + should only disagree unprofitably.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian kept silence for a moment, then said in a low, unsteady voice: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I know Mr Milvain!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no doubt you sincerely think so. I repeat that nothing can be + gained by such a discussion as this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Yule looked askance at her, and his face displayed solicitude, which soon + passed, however, into a smile of sarcasm. + </p> + <p> + ‘The gentleman’s word no doubt has weight with you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Father, what do you mean?’ broke from Marian, whose eyes of a sudden + flashed stormily. ‘Would Mr Milvain tell me a lie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shouldn’t like to say that it is impossible,’ replied her father in the + same tone as before. + </p> + <p> + ‘But—what right have you to insult him so grossly?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘No reply.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + Marian had lost her vehemence. She was absent and melancholy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can only ask you,’ she replied, ‘to try and make life less of a burden + to us.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall have to leave town to-morrow for a few days; no doubt it will be + some satisfaction to you to hear that.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian’s eyes turned involuntarily towards the telegram. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + It was resentful, but not savage; between the beginning and the end of his + speech he softened to a sort of self-satisfied pathos. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t pretend,’ replied Marian, ‘that I have as much pleasure in the + work as I should have if your mood were gentler.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sorry. I might perhaps have made greater efforts to appear at ease + when I was suffering.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you mean physical suffering?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked about the room, and at length seated himself; his eyes were + fixed in a direction away from Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose you had dinner somewhere?’ Marian asked, after catching a + glimpse of his worn, colourless face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I had a mouthful of something. It doesn’t matter.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall I have something brought up for you, father?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Something—? Oh no, no; on no account.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have nothing more to say, then?’ He turned sharply upon her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel that I haven’t made you understand me, but I can say nothing + more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘Leave me. I will speak to you again in the morning.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Marian, with difficulty bringing herself to speak. + ‘I think it will be better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was that a telegram that came?’ her mother inquired after a silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I don’t know where it was from. But father said he would have to + leave town for a few days.’ + </p> + <p> + They exchanged looks. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps your uncle is very ill,’ said the mother in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps so.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I want to speak to you for a moment. I shall be in the study.’ + </p> + <p> + She joined him there very soon. He looked coldly at her, and said in a + distant tone: + </p> + <p> + ‘The telegram last night was to tell me that your uncle is dead.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dead!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; I should do as you wish.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you had better not go to the Museum whilst I am away. You will + occupy yourself as you think fit.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall go on with the Harrington notes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you nearly done for to-day, dear?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Enough for the present, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + She laid down her pen, and leant back in the chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian, do you think your father will be rich?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no idea, mother. I suppose we shall know very soon.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘If that happens,’ continued Mrs Yule, in a low tone of distress, ‘I don’t + know what I shall do.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian looked at her questioningly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t say that, mother. I have never given you cause to think + that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Yule gave a troublous sigh, and for a few minutes pondered anxiously. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve always been the reason why he couldn’t have many friends.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Would he be willing to abandon Clement Fadge, and come over to her + father’s side? If Yule were able to found a magazine? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Marian wrote to Dora Milvain, telling her what had happened. But she + refrained from visiting her friends. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wasn’t that father?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, he has gone up.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did he say anything?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. THE LEGATEES + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon he found Dora working alone. Maud, he was told, had gone to + lunch at Mrs Lane’s. + </p> + <p> + ‘So soon again? She’s getting very thick with those people. And why don’t + they ask you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Maud has told them that I don’t care to go out.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all very well, but she mustn’t neglect her work. Did she write + anything last night or this morning?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora bit the end of her pen and shook her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The invitation came about five o’clock, and it seemed to unsettle her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian hasn’t been yet.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper seemed to pay no attention; she looked up at him, and saw that he + was in thought. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you go to those people last night?’ she inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. By-the-bye, Miss Rupert was there.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke as if the name would be familiar to his hearer, but Dora seemed + at a loss. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is Miss Rupert?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But is an advertising agent a gentleman?’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora looked at him inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just to see Miss Rupert?’ she asked, meeting his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘To be sure. Why not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!’ ejaculated his sister, as if the question did not concern her. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But—’ began Dora, after a minute’s silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘But what?’ inquired her brother with an air of interest. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t quite understand you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In general, or with reference to some particular?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What right have you to go to places just to see this Miss Rupert?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, then you consider her simply a friend?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall see how things go on.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, pray, do you consider yourself perfectly free?’ asked Dora, with + some indignation. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I think you have been behaving very strangely.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper saw that she was in earnest. He stroked the back of his head and + smiled at the wall. + </p> + <p> + ‘With regard to Marian, you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, if you feel satisfied with yourself—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, but—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It seems to me rather strange, that’s all. We had better not talk about + it any more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh indeed!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No one would suggest that you should marry as things are.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That would be brutality.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be honest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can only tell you that Maud would agree with me in what I have been + saying.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then both of you have distorted views.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not. It’s you who are unprincipled.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear girl, haven’t I been showing you that no man could be more + above-board, more straightforward?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have been talking nonsense, Jasper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a tap at the door. Dora called ‘Come in!’ and Marian herself + appeared. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora reddened, and stood in an embarrassed attitude. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora led her to a chair, asking if her father had returned. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, he came back yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You should bear that in mind yourself’ remarked Dora, with a significant + look. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I am cool-headed enough to make society serve my own ends.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where you have tired yourself to death as usual, I can see.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing whatever.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora kept her eyes down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then—what do you think?’ continued Marian. ‘My cousin Amy has ten + thousand pounds.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Good gracious! What a difference that will make!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know what Miss Harrow gets?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She has the house for her life, and fifteen hundred pounds.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And your father nothing whatever?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What does your father say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your mother was afraid?’ said Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But he must feel glad that you have five thousand pounds.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian delayed her reply for a moment, her eyes down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, perhaps he is glad of that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, all the same, he ought to feel pleasure in your good fortune.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian turned to another subject. + </p> + <p> + ‘Think of the Reardons; what a change all at once! What will they do, I + wonder? Surely they won’t continue to live apart?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall hear from Jasper.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘But why ever has Mrs Reardon so much more than anyone else?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + This excited a laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Maud kept glancing at her sister. The ill-humour had not altogether passed + from her face, but it was now blended with reflectiveness. + </p> + <p> + A few moments more, and Marian had to hasten home. When she was gone the + sisters looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + ‘Five thousand pounds,’ murmured the elder. ‘I suppose that is considered + nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose so.—He was here when Marian came, but didn’t stay.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you’ll take him the news this evening?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes,’ replied Dora. Then, after musing, ‘He seemed annoyed that you were + at the Lanes’ again.’ + </p> + <p> + Maud made a movement of indifference. + </p> + <p> + ‘What has been putting you out?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Things were rather stupid. Some people who were to have come didn’t turn + up. And—well, it doesn’t matter.’ + </p> + <p> + She rose and glanced at herself in the little oblong mirror over the + mantelpiece. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did Jasper ever speak to you of a Miss Rupert?’ asked Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not that I remember.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed! And Miss Rupert is someone who has the honour of his preference?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He says she is about thirty, and rather masculine, but a great heiress. + Jasper is shameful!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was afraid Marian might still be with you,’ he said, laughing. ‘I should have asked the landlady. Well?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We can’t stand talking here. You had better come in.’ + </p> + <p> + He was in too much excitement to wait. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just tell me. What has she?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora walked quickly towards the house, looking annoyed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing at all? Then what has her father?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He has nothing,’ replied his sister, ‘and she has five thousand pounds.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper walked on with bent head. He said nothing more until he was + upstairs in the sitting-room, where Maud greeted him carelessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs Reardon anything?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora informed him. + </p> + <p> + ‘What?’ he cried incredulously. ‘Ten thousand? You don’t say so!’ + </p> + <p> + He burst into uproarious laughter. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to have tea with us?’ Dora inquired. + </p> + <p> + He did not seem to hear her. On a repetition of the inquiry, he answered + absently: + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I may as well. Then I can go home and get to work.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘When is Marian likely to come here again?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ answered Dora. + </p> + <p> + He nodded, and went his way. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve just called at your place.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right; come back if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But perhaps I shall waste your time?’ said Whelpdale, with unusual + diffidence. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not very likely. It was only want of money.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And be miserable on—if they no longer love each other.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I don’t know. Perhaps you err a little in the opposite direction.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The same kind of feeling; but there’s vast difference of degree.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t say the same.’ + </p> + <p> + They laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a good deal in all that,’ admitted Whelpdale, though + discontentedly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And if we are not so unfortunate as to fall in love with an + incompatible,’ added Whelpdale, laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You positively never were in love!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you understand it, never. But I have felt a very distinct preference.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Based on what you think compatibility?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Not strong enough to make me lose sight of prudence and advantage. + No, not strong enough for that.’ + </p> + <p> + He seemed to be reassuring himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then of course that can’t be called love,’ said Whelpdale. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Whelpdale smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is very interesting. I hope it may lead to something.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes. You are a consistent sentimentalist.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Doomed to perpetual disappointment,’ said the other, looking + disconsolately about the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Courage, my boy! I have every hope that I shall see you marry and + repent.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper roared irreverently, and his companion looked hurt. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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—’ + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + ‘The maiden from Birmingham, wasn’t it?’ said Jasper, again exploding. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it was. Well, I can’t be quite sure. But in many respects that girl + was my ideal; she really was.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As you once or twice told me at the time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The next should be a paragon,’ said Jasper. + </p> + <p> + ‘The next?’ + </p> + <p> + Whelpdale again looked about the room, but added nothing, and fell into a + long silence. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART4" id="link2H_PART4"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART FOUR + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. A PROPOSED INVESTMENT + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The executors were two old friends of the deceased, one of them a former + partner in his paper-making concern. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + It had not often happened that Marian was invited to join parties of this + kind. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you wish me to come?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I should like you to, if you have nothing particular to do.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As many more as you like,’ Marian replied. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s your view, Marian? Is there anything to be said for the + establishment of a literary academy in England?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I really think we have quite enough literary quarrelling as it is,’ the + girl replied, casting down her eyes and smiling. + </p> + <p> + Mr Quarmby uttered a hollow chuckle, Mr Hinks laughed thinly and + exclaimed, ‘Very good indeed! Very good!’ Yule affected to applaud with + impartial smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘It wouldn’t harmonise with the Anglo-Saxon spirit,’ remarked Mr Hinks, + with an air of diffident profundity. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I threw out the idea to Jedwood the other day,’ said Mr Quarmby, ‘and he + seemed to nibble at it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Even here, in the freedom of a friend’s study, he laughed his Reading-room + laugh, folding both hands upon his expansive waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + ‘Fiction? I presume a serial of the better kind might be admitted?’ said + Yule. + </p> + <p> + ‘That would be advisable, no doubt. But strictly of the better kind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, strictly of the better kind,’ chimed in Mr Hinks. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What ever would become of him in that case?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian could make no reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, startled. + </p> + <p> + ‘With your eyes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By all means go to an oculist,’ said Marian, earnestly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all. But in any + case I must change my glasses.’ + </p> + <p> + He rustled over some slips of manuscript, whilst Marian regarded him + anxiously. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see how you could.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian could have made an encouraging reply, but did not venture to utter + her thoughts. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That it has been, indeed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There are so many periodicals,’ replied Marian, doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + ‘So many? My dear child, if we live another ten years we shall see the + number trebled.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it desirable?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am afraid,’ said Marian, ‘I haven’t so much sympathy with literary + undertakings as you would like me to have.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He paused and looked at her. Marian returned the look. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would of course write for it,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian, why shouldn’t I edit it? Why shouldn’t it be your property?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My property—?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He watched her face eagerly, greedily. When Marian’s eyes rose to his he + looked away. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then, of course,’ she said, ‘you don’t expect me to give any decided + answer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He dwelt on that point, waiting its effect on Marian. As she said nothing + he proceeded: + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I see the force of all that,’ said Marian; ‘but it takes for granted that + the periodical will be successful.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It does. In the hands of a publisher like Jedwood—a vigorous man of + the new school—its success could scarcely be doubtful.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think five thousand pounds would be enough to start such a + review?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It would be better if we called it a speculation,’ said Marian, smiling + uneasily. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But how could she tell him this? + </p> + <p> + ‘My opinion would be worthless,’ she replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘If Jedwood were disposed to put confidence in me, you also would?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no need to talk of that now, father. Indeed, I can’t say anything + that would sound like a promise.’ + </p> + <p> + He flashed a glance at her. Then she was more than doubtful? + </p> + <p> + ‘But you have no objection, Marian, to talk in a friendly way of a project + that would mean so much to me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ She spoke mechanically. + </p> + <p> + ‘But if only it should come to something! You don’t know what it would + mean to me, Marian.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, father; I know very well how you think and feel about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Father—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should you think so much of these troubles, father? Is it such a + great matter that narrow-minded people triumph over you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Narrow-minded?’ He clutched at the word. ‘You admit they are that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel very sure that Mr Fadge is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you are not on his side against me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How could you suppose such a thing?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall we leave this to be talked of when the money has been paid over to + me?’ she said, after a silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian promised that she would, and was glad to bring the conversation to + an end. + </p> + <p> + When Sunday came, Yule inquired of his daughter if she had any engagement + for the afternoon. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I have,’ she replied, with an effort to disguise her embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sorry. I thought of asking you to come with me to Quarmby’s. Shall + you be away through the evening?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Till about nine o’clock, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah! Never mind, never mind.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where do you suppose she has gone?’ he asked, in a voice which was only + distant, not offensive. + </p> + <p> + ‘To the Miss Milvains, I believe,’ Mrs Yule answered, looking aside. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did she tell you so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. We don’t talk about it.’ + </p> + <p> + He seated himself on the corner of a chair and bent forward, his chin in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has she said anything to you about the review?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a word.’ + </p> + <p> + She glanced at him timidly, and turned a few pages of her book. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘If ever she says anything, I’ll let you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it seems to me that you have a right to question her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t do that, Alfred.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. JASPER’S MAGNANIMITY + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to Mrs Wright’s this afternoon?’ he asked, as they went on + together. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought of going,’ replied Maud. ‘Marian will be with Dora.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You ought both to go. You mustn’t neglect that woman.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you had better go with Maud this afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I can’t. I expect Marian at three.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s just why I want you to go.’ + </p> + <p> + She looked her surprise. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora turned half away, disturbed a little, but not displeased. + </p> + <p> + ‘And what about Miss Rupert?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Miss Rupert may go to Jericho for all I care. I’m in a magnanimous + mood.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very, I’ve no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He nodded significantly. Thereupon Dora left the room to speak with her + sister. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She was not surprised; the landlady had mentioned to her that Mr Milvain + was upstairs, waiting the return of his sisters. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am to make Dora’s excuses,’ Jasper said. ‘She begged you would forgive + her—that you would wait.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Which is usually your chair?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure I don’t know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you any news about the Reardons?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely not!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh there’s no saying.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why should he do work of that kind now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps his wife will tell him that she wants her money all for herself.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian laughed. It was very rarely that Jasper had heard her laugh at all, + and never so spontaneously as this. He liked the music. + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t a very good opinion of Mrs Reardon,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The listener did not raise her eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was very strange.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Reardon was in desperate earnest, poor fellow. And, to tell you the + truth, I fear there may have been something in his complaint. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You say that perhaps your talk really was harmful to her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It may have been, though such a danger never occurred to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then Amy must be very weak-minded.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To be influenced by such a paltry fellow?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To be influenced by anyone in such a way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You think the worse of me for this story?’ Jasper asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t quite understand it. How did you talk to her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘It was very unfortunate.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you are inclined to blame me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; because I am so sure that you only spoke in the way natural to you, + without a thought of such consequences.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper smiled. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it hasn’t been morally injurious to you,’ he said with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all. Still I don’t like it.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t like it?’ he repeated calmly. ‘It has become rather tiresome to + you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel sorry that you should always represent yourself in an unfavourable + light.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yet I surely haven’t always appeared so—to you?’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, not always.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you are in doubt concerning the real man?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not sure that I understand you. You say that you do really think as + you speak.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you resign yourself very cheerfully to the necessity,’ she said, + looking at him with merely intellectual eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘You had rather I lamented my fate in not being able to devote myself to + nobly unremunerative work?’ + </p> + <p> + There was a note of irony here. It caused her a tremor, but she held her + position. + </p> + <p> + ‘That you never do so would make one think—but I won’t speak + unkindly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Instead of replying she turned her look towards the door. There was a + footstep on the stairs, but it passed. + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought it might be Dora,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘She won’t be here for another couple of hours at least,’ replied Jasper + with a slight smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you said—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I sent her to Mrs Boston Wright’s that I might have an opportunity of + talking to you. Will you forgive the stratagem?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian resumed her former attitude, the faintest smile hovering about her + lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think I have misunderstood you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have already told you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not seriously. Do you believe I am capable of generous feeling?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘To say no, would be to put you in the lowest class of men, and that a + very small one.’ +</p> + <p> +‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Which of them?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For instance, I have been daring enough to hope that you might love me.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian delayed for a moment, then said quietly: + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you call that daring?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t hold that view,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is yours commonplace, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘I know what you are thinking,’ he said. ‘The thought is as inevitable as + my consciousness of it.’ + </p> + <p> + For an instant she looked at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My thought is not so easily read, then,’ said Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘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? + </p> + <pre> + Love in a hut, with water and a crust, + Is—Love forgive us!—cinders, ashes, dust. + </pre> + <p> + You know that is true.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not always, I dare say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But tell me, what is your aim in life? What do you understand by + success?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked steadily at her with bright eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘And that’s all?’ asked Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And yet,’ came in a low voice from Marian, ‘you say that you love me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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: + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She rose, and went towards the chair on which lay her out-of-door things. + At once Jasper stepped to her side. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will go without giving me any answer?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Answer? To what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you be my wife?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is too soon to ask me that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Too soon? Haven’t you known for months that I thought of you with far + more than friendliness?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How was it possible I should know that? You have explained to me why you + would not let your real feelings be understood.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He was trying to draw her nearer, but she kept at full arm’s length and + looked irresponsive. + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian?’ + </p> + <p> + She wished to answer, but a spirit of perversity held her tongue. + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian, don’t you love me? Or have I offended you by my way of speaking?’ + </p> + <p> + Persisting, she at length withdrew her hands. Jasper’s face expressed + something like dismay. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You do love me, Marian?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I love you.’ + </p> + <p> + And there followed the antiphony of ardour that finds its first utterance—a + subdued music, often interrupted, ever returning upon the same rich note. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How shall I see you?’ Jasper asked at length. ‘Where can we meet?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will your father persist in unfriendliness to me?’ + </p> + <p> + She was only just beginning to reflect on all that was involved in this + new relation. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no hope that he will change,’ she said sadly. + </p> + <p> + ‘He will refuse to countenance your marriage?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall disappoint him and grieve him bitterly. He has asked me to use my + money in starting a new review.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Which he is to edit?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Do you think there would be any hope of its success?’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper shook his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I felt that. Of course I can’t think of it now.’ + </p> + <p> + She smiled, raising her face to his. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You will really do that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t stay to see them now, Jasper,’ said Marian, her thoughts turning + to the girls. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Poor mother—no. But she won’t dare to justify me before father.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, it would be better not to.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I will write to him—such a letter as he can’t possibly take in + ill part.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian pondered this proposal. + </p> + <p> + ‘You shall do that, Jasper, if you are willing. But not yet; presently.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t wish him to know at once?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She informed him of the details; Jasper listened with his eyes on the + ground. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You would prefer,’ he said reflectively, ‘that nothing should be said to + your father until that business is finished?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you consent to it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I have no doubt it’s as well.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I must go now, Jasper,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Must you? Well, if you had rather.’ + </p> + <p> + He rose, though she was still seated. Marian moved a few steps away, but + turned and approached him again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you really love me?’ she asked, taking one of his hands and folding it + between her own. + </p> + <p> + ‘I do indeed love you, Marian. Are you still doubtful?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re not sorry that I must go?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I am, dearest. I wish we could sit here undisturbed all through the + evening.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you sorry I wear my hair short?’ she asked, longing for more praise + than he had bestowed on her. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am so glad it pleases you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There is nothing in you that doesn’t please me, my thoughtful girl.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You called me that before. Do I seem so very thoughtful?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So grave, and sweetly reserved, and with eyes so full of meaning.’ + </p> + <p> + She quivered with delight, her face hidden against his breast. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When they had parted, Marian looked back. But Jasper was walking quickly + away, his head bent, in profound meditation. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. A FRUITLESS MEETING + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As a woman, it was her part to soften the hateful necessity; she made it + worse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose there were faults of temper on both sides, and you saw at last + only each other’s weaknesses.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I saw the truth, which had always been disguised from me.’ Biffen + persisted in looking doubtful, and in secret Reardon thanked him for it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <pre> + ‘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.’ + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t been ill since I saw you?’ he inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m glad of that; but it isn’t quite the same thing, you know, as having + a run somewhere yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I have just invented a riddle; see if you can guess it. Why is a London + lodging-house like the human body?’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen looked with some concern at his friend, so unwonted was a sally of + this kind. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why is a London lodging-house—? Haven’t the least idea.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because the brains are always at the top. Not bad, I think, eh?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘By Plutus! That’s good hearing. Some duties attached, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As I suppose you do?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I shall try it, decidedly.’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen waited a little, then asked: + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose your wife will go with you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no saying.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon tried to answer indifferently, but it could be seen that he was + agitated between hopes and fears. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ll ask her, at all events?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes,’ was the half-absent reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Close to delightful country.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes; but Amy doesn’t care about that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon listened with a face of lowering excitement. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; I shall write to her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He went home and wrote to Amy. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Amy wrote that she would be at home at eleven to-morrow morning. Not + another word. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Very well; let her see him thus. Let her understand what it meant to live + on twelve and sixpence a week. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you know why I have come?’ he asked. + </p> + <p> + He meant the tone to be conciliatory, but he could not command his voice, + and it sounded rough, hostile. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think so,’ Amy answered, seating herself gracefully. She would have + spoken with less dignity but for that accent of his. + </p> + <p> + ‘The Carters have told you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; I have heard about it.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t interest you at all?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am glad to hear that a better prospect offers for you.’ + </p> + <p> + He did not sit down, and was holding his rusty hat behind his back. + </p> + <p> + ‘You speak as if it in no way concerned yourself. Is that what you wish me + to understand?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon turned abruptly as if to leave her, but checked himself at a + little distance. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I came to ask you what you propose to do in case I go to Croydon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no proposal to make whatever.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That means, then, that you are content to go on living here?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If I have no choice, I must make myself content.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you have a choice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘None has yet been offered me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will let you know by letter in a few days.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must know at once,’ said Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t answer at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t wish to answer you immediately,’ Amy replied, paling slightly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then that decides it. When I leave you we are strangers to each other.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was difficult to know him as the man who had loved her so devotedly, + who was incapable of an unkind word or look. + </p> + <p> + ‘If that is what you prefer,’ she said, ‘there must be a formal + separation. I can’t trust my future to your caprice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean it must be put into the hands of a lawyer?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That will be the best, no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well; I will speak with my friends about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A kind wish, all things considered.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You think it was my duty to share such a home as you have at present?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have not asked such people for their opinion.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Still, I suppose some sort of explanation has been necessary in your + intercourse with them. How have you represented your relations with me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t see that that concerns you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then have you told them the truth? That I became so poor you couldn’t + live with me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What step?’ + </p> + <p> + She reminded him of his intention to spend half a year in working at the + seaside. + </p> + <p> + ‘I had utterly forgotten it,’ he returned with a mocking laugh. ‘That + shows how ridiculous such a thing would have been.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are doing no literary work at all?’ Amy asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you imagine that I have the peace of mind necessary for anything of + that sort?’ + </p> + <p> + This was in a changed voice. It reminded her so strongly of her husband + before his disasters that she could not frame a reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think I am able to occupy myself with the affairs of imaginary + people?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t necessarily mean fiction.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + She made no answer. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think I take this calamity as light-heartedly as you do, Amy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am far from taking it light-heartedly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yet you are in good health. I see no sign that you have suffered.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘And certainly I can’t believe it,’ he continued, ‘now you declare your + wish to be formally separated from me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have declared no such wish.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Changed?—Yes, that is true, I am afraid. But how do you think this + change will affect my behaviour to you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Remember how you have been speaking to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you think I should treat you brutally if you came into my power?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + It was a small concession, but Reardon made much of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did my faults of temper give you any trouble during the first year of our + married life?’ he asked gently. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ she admitted. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you did—until you demanded impossible things of me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + He broke off, and stood watching her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you any love for me left?’ burst from his lips, as if the words all + but choked him in the utterance. + </p> + <p> + Amy tried to shape some evasive answer, but could say nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is there ever so small a hope that I might win some love from you again?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you wish me to come and live with you when you go to Croydon I will do + so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But that is not answering me, Amy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all I can say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you mean that you would sacrifice yourself out of—what? Out of + pity for me, let us say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you wish to see Willie?’ asked Amy, instead of replying. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t say anything except that I will come to Croydon if you wish it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Her practical denial that she loved him wrung this taunt from his + anguished heart. He repented the words as soon as they were spoken. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + He stood in mute misery, inwardly cursing himself and his fate. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She moved to a distance, and there seated herself, half turned from him. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘The first sore throat of the season, no doubt,’ he muttered to himself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But, midway in the week, Carter discovered how ill his clerk was. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. MARRIED WOMAN’S PROPERTY + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘A separation? But, my dear—!’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Yule could not express her disappointment and dismay. + </p> + <p> + ‘We couldn’t live together; it’s no use trying.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘But you are willing to go back, dear?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I told him so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t allow that. Anything you could say on your own account would be + useless, and there is nothing to say from me.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A few days later arrived the news of their relative’s death at + Wattleborough. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + On the morning after the funeral came a postcard announcing John’s return + by a certain train, but no scrap of news was added. + </p> + <p> + ‘Just like that irritating boy! We must go to the station to meet him. + You’ll come, won’t you, Amy?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you excite yourself,’ he said gruffly to his mother. ‘There’s no + reason whatever.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Yule glanced in dismay at Amy. They followed John to a cab, and took + places with him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now don’t be provoking, Jack. Just tell us at once.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By all means. You haven’t a penny.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t? You are joking, ridiculous boy!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never felt less disposed to, I assure you.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s very easy for you to say that, with your ten thousand.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But is it her own?’ asked Mrs Yule. ‘Is it for her separate use?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a splendid Act of Parliament that is!’ cried Amy. ‘The only one + worth anything that I ever heard of.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think he would have altered his will if he had?’ asked Amy with a + smile of security. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall do nothing whatever until the money is paid to me. And what I + shall do then I don’t know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are sure to hear from Edwin,’ opined Mrs Yule. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not. He isn’t the kind of man to behave in that way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I suppose you are bound to take the first step?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That I shall never do.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was coming to see you,’ cried Edith. ‘Why haven’t you let me know of + what has happened?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have heard, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Albert heard from your brother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I supposed he would. And I haven’t felt in the mood for talking about it, + even with you.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am going to do nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But surely you’re not in low spirits?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What have I to rejoice about?’ + </p> + <p> + They talked for a while before Amy brought herself to utter what she was + thinking. + </p> + <p> + ‘Isn’t it a most ridiculous thing that married people who both wish to + separate can’t do so and be quite free again?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose it would lead to all sorts of troubles—don’t you think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘It does seem reasonable,’ she murmured. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose it’s to make people careful,’ said Edith, with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, if I had it to spare,’ replied the other. + </p> + <p> + Then they both laughed, but Edith the more naturally. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not on my own account, you know,’ she added. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I understand you, Amy, and I grieve about you. What you are to do I + can’t think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + There were some new novels on the table; Amy took up a volume presently, + and glanced over a page or two. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know how you can go on reading that sort of stuff, book after + book,’ she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but people say this last novel of Markland’s is one of his best.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I get rather tired of it sometimes,’ admitted Edith with amusement. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Edith held her head aside, and pondered smilingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m sure there’s a great opportunity for some clever novelist who will + never write about love at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But then it does come into life.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That may be true. But why do people find the subject so interesting?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How clever you are, Amy!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I wanted to ask you,’ said Edith, soon after this. ‘Do you wish + Albert to say anything about you—at the hospital?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t even write to say—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall do nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What a time since we met!’ said Jasper, taking her delicately gloved hand + and looking into her face with his most effective smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘And why?’ asked Amy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed, I hardly know. I hope Mrs Yule is well?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Quite, thank you.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t see your name in any of this month’s magazines.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have nothing signed this month. A short review in The Current, that’s + all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I suppose you write as much as ever?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; but chiefly in weekly papers just now. You don’t see the + Will-o’-the-Wisp?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes. And I think I can generally recognise your hand.’ + </p> + <p> + They issued from the library. + </p> + <p> + ‘Which way are you going?’ Jasper inquired, with something more of the old + freedom. + </p> + <p> + ‘I walked from Gower Street station, and I think, as it’s so fine, I shall + walk back again.’ + </p> + <p> + He accompanied her. They turned up Museum Street, and Amy, after a short + silence, made inquiry concerning his sisters. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sorry I saw them only once, but no doubt you thought it better to + let the acquaintance end there.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I really didn’t think of it in that way at all,’ Jasper replied. +</p> + <p> +‘We + naturally understood it so, when you even ceased to call, yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But don’t you feel that there would have been a good deal of awkwardness + in my coming to Mrs Yule’s?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Seeing that you looked at things from my husband’s point of view?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that’s a mistake! I have only seen your husband once since he went to + Islington.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy gave him a look of surprise. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are not on friendly terms with him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do your sisters keep up their friendship with my cousin Marian?’ she + asked, quitting the previous difficult topic. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes!’ He smiled. ‘They see a great deal of each other.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then of course you have heard of my uncle’s death?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. I hope all your difficulties are now at an end.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy delayed a moment, then said: ‘I hope so,’ without any emphasis. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think of spending this winter abroad?’ + </p> + <p> + It was the nearest he could come to a question concerning the future of + Amy and her husband. + </p> + <p> + ‘Everything is still quite uncertain. But tell me something about our old + acquaintances. How does Mr Biffen get on?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He talked of the latter’s projects and achievements in a lively strain. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your own prospects continue to brighten, no doubt,’ said Amy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I really think they do. Things go fairly well. And I have lately received + a promise of very valuable help.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘From whom?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A relative of yours.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy turned to interrogate him with a look. + </p> + <p> + ‘A relative? You mean—?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; Marian.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should have thought your aim would have been far more ambitious,’ she + said, with distinct utterance. + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian and I have been engaged for some time—practically.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed? I remember now how you once spoke of her. And you will be married + soon?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You thought me so desperately scheming and cold-blooded?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Depend upon it, I think so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She’s likely to shine in society? She is a brilliant girl, full of tact + and insight?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Scarcely all that, perhaps.’ + </p> + <p> + He looked dubiously at his companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you have abandoned your old ambitions?’ Amy pursued. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a bit of it. I am on the way to achieve them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And Marian is the ideal wife to assist you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘From one point of view, yes. Pray, why all this ironic questioning?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not ironic at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It sounded very much like it, and I know from of old that you have a + tendency that way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The news surprised me a little, I confess. But I see that I am in danger + of offending you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As yet, not that I know of.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do I impress you as one likely to commit follies?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I had rather wait a little before answering that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is to say, you prefer to prophesy after the event. Very well, we + shall see.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are still at the same lodgings?’ asked Amy, as they drew near to the + railway station. + </p> + <p> + ‘I moved yesterday, so that the girls and I could be under the same roof—until + the next change.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You will let us know when that takes place?’ + </p> + <p> + He promised, and with exchange of smiles which were something like a + challenge they took leave of each other. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. THE LONELY MAN + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t talk, my boy,’ advised Biffen. ‘Let me read you the new chapter of + “Mr Bailey.” It may induce a refreshing slumber.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A morbid state of mind,’ was Biffen’s opinion. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ha! that’s interesting. But it never got the force of a habit you had to + break?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. Partly, I dare say, because I had the warning of poor Sykes before my + eyes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You never see that poor fellow?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never. He must be dead, I think. He would die either in the hospital or + the workhouse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + This made a diversion for half an hour. Then Reardon returned to his + former line of thought. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I distrust such appearances,’ said Biffen in his quality of realist. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You never told me that story.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And don’t care to now. I prefer to forget it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your marriage was sensible enough, and a few years hence you will be a + happy man again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You seriously think Amy will come back to me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course I do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Upon my word, I don’t know that I desire it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Because you are in a strangely unhealthy state.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are depressed and anaemic. Get yourself in flesh, and view things + like a man of this world.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But don’t you think it the best thing that can happen to a man if he + outgrows passion?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In certain circumstances, no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, there’s a good deal to be said for that, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon’s face was illumined with the glow of an exquisite memory. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You remember it very clearly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Stop!’ cried Biffen, ‘or I shall clutch you by the throat. I warned you + before that I can’t stand those reminiscences.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Live in hope. Scrape together twenty pounds, and go there, if you die of + hunger afterwards.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall never have twenty shillings,’ was the despondent answer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I feel sure you will sell “Mr Bailey.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But it is only one of life’s satisfactions.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He said nothing, but kept a demeanour of courtesy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you haven’t heard from Amy?’ Mrs Yule asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not since I saw her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you don’t know what has come to pass?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have heard of nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon listened respectfully, but without sign of feeling. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am glad to hear of her good fortune,’ he said distantly and in even + tones. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will feel, I am sure,’ continued his mother-in-law, ‘that this must + put an end to your most unhappy differences.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can it have that result?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, if only you would overcome this sensitiveness!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But do consider the facts of the case, independently of feeling. + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘There may have been ground for grief and concern,’ he answered, ‘but for + complaint, no, I think not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I may have lost my temper after Amy had shown—But I can’t review + our troubles in this way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Am I to plead in vain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Believe me that I didn’t use the word offensively.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then you refuse to take any step towards a restoration of good feeling?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am obliged to, and Amy would understand perfectly why I say so.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can only say that my daughter is very, very unfortunate.’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon lingered a little after her departure, then left the hospital and + walked at a rapid pace in no particular direction. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You called about twelve, didn’t you?’ the visitor inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘Half-past.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Decidedly. But if she is provided for, so are you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The other kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Pooh!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are beside yourself. But never mind; let us rejoice by all means. + There’s every reason.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That poor girl! Now, at last, she’ll be at ease.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + He had worked himself to such intensity of feeling that at length his + voice choked and tears burst from his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come out, and let us have a walk,’ said Biffen. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here we sit, two literary men! How should we be regarded by—’ + </p> + <p> + He named two or three of the successful novelists of the day. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One day Carter appeared at the City Road establishment, and made an + opportunity of speaking to his clerk in private. + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose,’ he said with a smile, ‘they’ll have to look out for someone + else at Croydon?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By no means! The thing is settled. I go at Christmas.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You really mean that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Undoubtedly.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Wandering in the city, about this time, Reardon encountered his friend the + realist. + </p> + <p> + ‘Would you like to meet Sykes?’ asked Biffen. ‘I am just going to see + him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where does he live?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you too busy to talk?’ asked Biffen, going to his side. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All right. I’ll come up again.’ + </p> + <p> + The friends went downstairs and turned over the papers. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + His voice was a trifle husky, but he spoke like a man of education. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He shook his head sadly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s the fault of women in general,’ remarked Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you walk westwards?’ Biffen asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid not, afraid not. In fact I have an appointment at two—at + Aldgate station.’ + </p> + <p> + They parted from him. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + This time Amy began ‘Dear Edwin’; the sight of those words made his brain + swim. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yours always, + </p> + <p> + ‘AMY REARDON.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + His reply, written by the dreary twilight which represented sunset, ran + thus. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘EDWIN REARDON.’ + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. INTERIM + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘And what are we to do when you are married?’ asked Dora. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You show a good deal of generosity, Jasper,’ said Maud, ‘but pray + remember that Marian isn’t bringing you five thousand a year.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I doubt whether six or seven hundred a year will be enough for this.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian approves this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t distinctly spoken of it. But she approves whatever I think + good.’ + </p> + <p> + The girls laughed at his way of pronouncing this. + </p> + <p> + ‘And let us just suppose that you are so unfortunate as to fail?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He delivered this apophthegm with emphasis, and repeated it in another + form. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He lit a new cigarette. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora was reluctant to answer. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think it was very much.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is to say, it didn’t cost twenty guineas. Well, I hope not. + </p> + <p> + I notice, too, that she has been purchasing a new hat.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, that was very inexpensive. She trimmed it herself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did she? Is there any particular, any quite special, reason for this + expenditure?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I really can’t say, Jasper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s ambiguous, you know. Perhaps it means you won’t allow yourself to + say?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, Maud doesn’t tell me about things of that kind.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But I shall make it worthless.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I am told that Mr Dolomore is becoming a great friend of yours.’ + </p> + <p> + The girl’s face changed. She drew herself up, and looked away towards the + window. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know that he is a “great” friend.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Still, he pays enough attention to you to excite remark.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Whose remark?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That of several people who go to Mrs Lane’s.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know any reason for it,’ said Maud coldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look here, Maud, you don’t mind if I give you a friendly warning?’ + </p> + <p> + She kept silence, with a look of superiority to all monition. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s no need whatever for you to teach me self-respect,’ replied the + girl. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think you ought to have some influence with her,’ Jasper said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Maud won’t allow anyone to interfere in—her private affairs.’ +</p> + <p> +‘It + would be unfortunate if she made me quarrel with her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, surely there isn’t any danger of that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know, she mustn’t be obstinate.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Whelpdale is anxious to make Marian’s acquaintance,’ Jasper said to his + sisters one day. ‘Shall we have him here tomorrow evening?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just as you like,’ Maud replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t object, Dora?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh no! I rather like Mr Whelpdale.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>more suo</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + As was to be expected in such a circle, conversation soon turned to the + subject of literary struggles. + </p> + <p> + ‘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: + </p> + <p> + “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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t,’ exclaimed Whelpdale. ‘I have lived for five days on a few + cents’ worth of pea-nuts in the States.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What are pea-nuts, Mr Whelpdale?’ asked Dora. + </p> + <p> + Delighted with the question, Whelpdale described that undesirable species + of food. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell us those adventures,’ cried Jasper. ‘It’s a long time since I heard + them, and the girls will enjoy it vastly.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora looked at him with such good-humoured interest that the traveller + needed no further persuasion. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He was interrupted by the entrance of a servant who brought coffee. + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing could be more welcome,’ cried Dora. ‘Mr Whelpdale makes one feel + quite chilly.’ + </p> + <p> + There was laughter and chatting whilst Maud poured out the beverage. Then + Whelpdale pursued his narrative. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He sipped his coffee. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed heartily, and was joined by his hearers. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And was it accepted?’ asked Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + He sipped his coffee again. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But did the pea-nuts come after that!’ inquired Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What sort of a town is Troy?’ asked Marian, speaking for the first time. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t ask me. They make straw hats there principally, and they sell + pea-nuts. More I remember not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you didn’t starve to death,’ said Maud. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You were not eminently successful in that pursuit, I think?’ said Jasper. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you again had recourse to pea-nuts?’ asked Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘You wished me to tell you when it was half-past nine, Marian.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it true?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tolerably true, I think.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I am as happy as you are.’ + </p> + <p> + He released her hands, and moved a little apart. + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian, I have been thinking about that letter to your father. I had + better get it written, don’t you think?’ + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him with troubled eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps you had. Though we said it might be delayed until—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I know. But I suspect you had rather I didn’t wait any longer. Isn’t + that the truth?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Partly. Do just as you wish, Jasper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll go and see him, if you like.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am so afraid—No, writing will be better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well. Then he shall have the letter to-morrow afternoon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t let it come before the last post. I had so much rather not. Manage + it, if you can.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She turned away, but again came towards him, murmuring: + </p> + <p> + ‘Just a word or two more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘About the letter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. You haven’t said—’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed. + </p> + <p> + ‘And you couldn’t go away contentedly unless I repeated for the hundredth + time that I love you?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian searched his countenance. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think it foolish? I live only on those words.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, they are better than pea-nuts.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh don’t! I can’t bear to—’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She left him, but stood for a few moments on the landing before going to + the girls’ room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. CATASTROPHE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I will go if you wish, father, but I had rather not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian kept silence. Yule puffed at his pipe, then said with a speculative + air: + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose it has never even occurred to you to try your hand at fiction?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I haven’t the least inclination that way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You certainly do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + He laughed idly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I must ask Jedwood how he likes the name.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Believe me to be sincerely yours, + </p> + <p> + ‘JASPER MILVAIN.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you forgive me for keeping this secret from you, father?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I do. I will try to hope that even a sense of shame had something to do + with it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That had nothing to do with it,’ said Marian, coldly. ‘I have never had + reason to feel ashamed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Be it so. I trust you may never have reason to feel repentance. May I ask + when you propose to be married?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t know when it will take place.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As soon, I suppose, as your uncle’s executors have discharged a piece of + business which is distinctly germane to the matter?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Does your mother know?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have just told her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, then it seems to me that there’s nothing more to be said.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you refuse to see Mr Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Most decidedly I do. You will have the goodness to inform him that that + is my reply to his letter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think that is the behaviour of a gentleman,’ said Marian, her + eyes beginning to gleam with resentment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am obliged to you for your instruction.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you tell me, father, in plain words, why you dislike Mr Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Their eyes met, and the look of each seemed to fascinate the other. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You shall not need to tell me that again,’ she answered, and immediately + left him. + </p> + <p> + She went into the sitting-room, where Mrs Yule was awaiting the result of + the interview. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Mrs Yule uttered a cry of pain, and started up. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + She clung to the girl despairingly, terrified by a transformation she + would have thought impossible. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My love, he has had so much to bear—it’s made him so + quick-tempered.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I am quick-tempered too, and the sooner we are apart the better, as + he said himself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but you have always been such a patient girl.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you have no money, Marian,’ replied Mrs Yule, miserably. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + At about half-past eleven Mrs Yule went downstairs, and entered the study. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She faltered, but overcame her weakness. + </p> + <p> + ‘You are driving her away from us, Alfred. It isn’t right! Oh, it isn’t + right!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The accent was that of good breeding. Yule hesitated in surprise for a + moment, then said: + </p> + <p> + ‘Have one by all means. Would you care for anything to eat?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am much obliged to you. I think I should be none the worse for one of + those solid slices of bread and butter.’ + </p> + <p> + The stall-keeper was just extinguishing his lights; the frosty sky showed + a pale gleam of sunrise. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hard times, I’m afraid,’ remarked Yule, as his beneficiary began to eat + the luncheon with much appearance of grateful appetite. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True. Take another slice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am greatly obliged to you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not at all. I have known hard times myself, and am likely to know worse.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can find nothing to do?’ said the man of letters. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He paused, looking at Yule in a strange way. + </p> + <p> + ‘What happened then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Yule kept the silence of sympathy. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + No, I don’t drink; I see the question in your face. But I am physically + weak, and, to quote Mrs Gummidge, “things go contrary with me.” There’s no + use lamenting; this breakfast has helped me on, and I feel in much better + spirits.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Your surgical knowledge is no use to you?’ + </p> + <p> + The other shook his head and sighed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you ever give any special attention to diseases of the eyes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Special, no. But of course I had some acquaintance with the subject.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Could you tell by examination whether a man was threatened with cataract, + or anything of that kind?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think I could.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am speaking of myself.’ + </p> + <p> + The stranger made a close scrutiny of Yule’s face, and asked certain + questions with reference to his visual sensations. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will go with you.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Lead on,’ answered Yule. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My ignorance of scientific matters is fathomless.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For a minute or two he conducted his experiment carefully, and Yule was at + no loss to read the result upon his face. + </p> + <p> + ‘How long have you suspected that something was wrong?’ the surgeon asked, + as he put down the candle. + </p> + <p> + ‘For several months.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You haven’t consulted anyone?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No one. I have kept putting it off. Just tell me what you have + discovered.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The back of the right lens is affected beyond a doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That means, I take it, that before very long I shall be practically + blind?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + Do you use your eyes much?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Fourteen hours a day, that’s all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘H’m! You are a literary man, I think?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am. My name is Alfred Yule.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + They talked for half an hour, until both were shaking with cold. Then Yule + thrust his hand into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He laid five shillings on the chest of drawers—there was no table. + The stranger expressed his gratitude. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + They shook hands, and Yule quitted the house. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is Marian up?’ he asked, turning to her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She is not coming to breakfast?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then just take that letter to her, and ask her to read it.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘He has come back, dear,’ said Mrs Yule, in the low voice of apprehension, + ‘and he says you are to read this letter.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is it?’ she cried to him. ‘Look, she has fallen down in a faint. Why + are you treating her like this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Attend to her,’ Yule replied roughly. ‘I suppose you know better than I + do what to do when a person faints.’ + </p> + <p> + The swoon lasted for several minutes. + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s in the letter?’ asked Mrs Yule whilst chafing the lifeless hands. + </p> + <p> + ‘Her money’s lost. The people who were to pay it have just failed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She won’t get anything?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Most likely nothing at all.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish to ask you a few questions,’ she said, without raising herself. + ‘Must my legacy necessarily be paid out of that investment?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It must. Those are the terms of the will.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If nothing can be recovered from those people, I have no remedy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘None whatever that I can see.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But when a firm is bankrupt they generally pay some portion of their + debts?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Sometimes. I know nothing of the case.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This of course happens to me,’ Marian said, with intense bitterness. + ‘None of the other legatees will suffer, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Someone must, but to a very small extent.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course. When shall I have direct information?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You can write to Mr Holden; you have his address.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Thank you. That’s all.’ + </p> + <p> + He was dismissed, and went quietly away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART5" id="link2H_PART5"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART FIVE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. WAITING ON DESTINY + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At five her mother brought tea. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you went to bed now, Marian?’ she suggested. + </p> + <p> + ‘To bed? But I am going out in an hour or two.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you can’t, dear! It’s so bitterly cold. It wouldn’t be good for you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have to go out, mother, so we won’t speak of it.’ + </p> + <p> + It was not safe to reply. Mrs Yule sat down, and watched the girl raise + the cup to her mouth with trembling hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course not,’ was the reply, in a tone of self-persuasion. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Milvain is sure to have plenty of money before long.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You feel much better now, don’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Much. I am quite well again.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your father has been behaving brutally,’ he said, holding her hands and + gazing anxiously at her. + </p> + <p> + ‘There is something far worse than that, Jasper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Worse?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How the deuce comes this about?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, wasn’t your uncle + aware of the state of things?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps he was. He may have known that the legacy was a mere form.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are the only one affected?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So father says. It’s sure to be the case.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This has upset you horribly, I can see. Sit down, Marian. When did the + letter come?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This morning.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What were you writing?’ she asked, making involuntary diversion from the + calamitous theme. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rubbish for the Will-o’-the-Wisp. Listen to this paragraph about English + concert audiences.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And you may hope for much more than that, mayn’t you, before long?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I shall transfer myself to a better paper presently. It seems to me I + must be stirring to some purpose.’ + </p> + <p> + He gave her a significant look. + </p> + <p> + ‘What shall we do, Jasper?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Work and wait, I suppose.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘First of all, what about my letter to your father? We are forgetting all + about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He refused to answer.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, he refused to reply! Surely that is extreme behaviour.’ + </p> + <p> + What she dreaded seemed to be coming to pass. Jasper stood rather stiffly, + and threw his head back. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At least I might claim half the money I can earn. And I was thinking more + of—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of what?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She spoke with shaken voice, her eyes fixed upon his face. + </p> + <p> + ‘But, my dear Marian, we surely oughtn’t to think of marrying so long as + expenses are so nicely fitted as all that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. I only meant—’ + </p> + <p> + She faltered, and her tongue became silent as her heart sank. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No; I quite understand that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you promise to keep a little love for me all that time?’ he asked + with a constrained smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘You know me too well to fear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you seemed a little doubtful.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t say that seriously, Jasper?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But answer seriously.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can you doubt that I would wait faithfully for you for years if it + were necessary?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why no, of course not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but how coldly you speak, Jasper!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How can I make you feel how much I love you?’ she murmured. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mustn’t be so literal, dearest. Women are so desperately + matter-of-fact; it comes out even in their love-talk.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian was not without perception of the irony of such an opinion on + Jasper’s lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + The question made her wince. If delicacy had held her tongue, it had no + control of HIS. + </p> + <p> + ‘How can I answer that better,’ she said, ‘than by saying I love you?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + You shall be my wife, and you shall have as many luxuries as if you had + brought me a fortune.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Luxuries! Oh, how childish you seem to think me!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She was on the point of confessing that she had swooned, but something + restrained her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your father can hardly be sorry,’ said Jasper. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am so ignorant. I know nothing of such things.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, indeed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs Reardon and the rest of them are safe enough, I suppose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, no doubt.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not to-night. You must tell them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He again lost himself in anxious reverie. + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian, couldn’t you try your hand at fiction?’ + </p> + <p> + She started, remembering that her father had put the same question so + recently. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid I could do nothing worth doing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A girl like me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, I mean that love-scenes, and that kind of thing, would be very much + in your line.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think that is not my work,’ she said coldly, looking away. + </p> + <p> + ‘But surely there’s no harm in my saying—’ he paused in + astonishment. ‘I meant nothing that could offend you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know you didn’t, Jasper. But you make me think that—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t be so literal again, my dear girl. Come here and forgive me.’ + </p> + <p> + She did not approach, but only because the painful thought he had excited + kept her to that spot. + </p> + <p> + ‘Come, Marian! Then I must come to you.’ + </p> + <p> + He did so and held her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why didn’t Marian come to speak a word?’ said Dora, when her brother + entered the girls’ sitting-room about ten o’clock. + </p> + <p> + ‘You knew she was with me, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We heard her voice as she was going away.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She brought me some enspiriting news, and thought it better I should have + the reporting of it to you.’ + </p> + <p> + With brevity he made known what had befallen. + </p> + <p> + ‘Cheerful, isn’t it? The kind of thing that strengthens one’s trust in + Providence.’ + </p> + <p> + The girls were appalled. Maud, who was reading by the fireside, let her + book fall to her lap, and knit her brows darkly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Then your marriage must be put off, of course?’ said Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘And shall we have to go back to our old lodgings again?’ inquired Maud. + </p> + <p> + Jasper gave no answer, but kicked a footstool savagely out of his way and + paced the room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, do you think we need?’ said Dora, with unusual protest against + economy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Remember that it’s a matter for your own consideration,’ Jasper replied + at length. ‘You are living on your own resources, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + Maud glanced at her sister, but Dora was preoccupied. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you prefer to stay here?’ Jasper asked abruptly of the younger + girl. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is so very much nicer,’ she replied with some embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘A lesson against being over-hasty,’ he muttered, again kicking the + footstool. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did you make that considerate remark to Marian?’ asked Maud. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose she’s wretched?’ said Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘What else can you expect?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And did you propose to release her from the burden of her engagement?’ + Maud inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He walked about and ejaculated splenetic phrases on the subject of his + ill-luck. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You would have been no worse off than plenty of literary men,’ said Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + And nodding a good-night he left them. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you seen him?’ the mother asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. We have talked about it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What does he wish you to do, dear?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s nothing to be done except wait.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The girl listened in an attitude of despair. + </p> + <p> + ‘He has seen an oculist?—a really good doctor?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He says he went to one of the best.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And how did he speak to you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s not much help to be expected in this world,’ answered the girl. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your father has asked to see you when you come down,’ Mrs Yule whispered. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll go to him.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He coughed, and seemed to consider his next words. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps I needn’t repeat what I have told your mother. You have learnt it + from her, I dare say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, with much grief.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have no means of doing so.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is there any likelihood of your marriage taking place, let us say, within + four months?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Only if the executors recover my money, or a large portion of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am prepared to do that, father.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian sobbed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is there no remedy for cataract in its early stages?’ asked Marian. + </p> + <p> + ‘None. You can read up the subject for yourself at the British Museum. I + prefer not to speak of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you let me be what help to you I can?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. A RESCUE AND A SUMMONS + </h2> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The day of its completion was made memorable by an event decidedly more + exciting, even to the author. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But stay; had he enough money? He searched his pockets. Two pence and two + farthings; no more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + So again he locked his door. Half-way downstairs he stumbled over + something or somebody in the dark. + </p> + <p> + ‘Who is that?’ he cried. + </p> + <p> + The answer was a loud snore. Biffen went to the bottom of the house and + called to the landlady. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs Willoughby! Who is asleep on the stairs?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The necessity for waiting till then isn’t obvious,’ remarked the realist + with a chuckle, and went his way. + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In Clipstone Street, they say,’ one screamed back. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘That you, Mr Biffen?’ cried someone to him. + </p> + <p> + He recognised the face of a fellow-lodger. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it possible to get up to my room?’ broke frantically from his lips. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen leaped on to the threshold, and crashed against Mrs Willoughby, the + landlady, who was carrying a huge bundle of household linen. + </p> + <p> + ‘I told you to look after that drunken brute;’ he said to her. ‘Can I get + upstairs?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What do I care whether you can or not!’ the woman shrieked. ‘My God! And + all them new chairs as I bought—!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hollo!’ cried the stranger. ‘What are you doing there?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Trying to escape, of course. Help me to get on to your roof.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By God! I expected to see the fire coming through already. Are you the—as + upset his lamp an’ fired the bloomin’ ‘ouse?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not I! He’s lying drunk on the stairs; dead by this time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And a rope,’ shouted Biffen. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you seen a coat lying about here?’ was Biffen’s first question. ‘I + threw mine over.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What did you do that for?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There are some valuable papers in the pockets.’ + </p> + <p> + They searched in vain; on neither side of the roof was the coat + discoverable. + </p> + <p> + ‘You must have pitched it into the street,’ said the man. + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is this your coat, Mister?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Heaven be thanked! That’s it! There are valuable papers in the pockets.’ + </p> + <p> + He unrolled the garment, felt to make sure that ‘Mr Bailey’ was safe, and + finally put it on. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When he went upstairs about nine o’clock in the morning he discovered that + his host kept an oil-shop. + </p> + <p> + ‘Lost everything, have you?’ asked the man sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + ‘Everything, except the clothes I wear and some papers that I managed to + save. All my books burnt!’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen shook his head dolorously. + </p> + <p> + ‘Your account-books!’ cried the dealer in oil. ‘Dear, dear!—and what + might your business be?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Another cold?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It looks like it. I wish you would take the trouble to go and buy me some + vermin-killer. That would suit my case.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then what would suit mine? Behold me, undeniably a philosopher; in the + literal sense of the words omnia <i>mea mecum porto</i>.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You rescued “Mr Bailey.” He must repay you.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you note-paper? I’ll write to them; impossible to call in my present + guise.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Better let them form their own judgment,’ replied Reardon, in his hoarse + voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Easily.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen tried to give a lighter turn to the gloomy subject. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where would you wish to die?’ asked Reardon, musingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If you had never come to London, what would you have now been?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Almost certainly a schoolmaster in some small town. And one might be + worse off than that, you know.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I think not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And the place where you are most likely to die in squalid wretchedness.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You won’t have much rest at Croydon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The year after next.’ Biffen smiled dubiously. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have demonstrated to you mathematically that it is possible.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have; but so are a great many other things that one does not dare to + hope for.’ + </p> + <p> + Someone knocked at the door, opened it, and said: + </p> + <p> + ‘Here’s a telegram for you, Mr Reardon.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am staying with + Mrs Carter, at her mother’s, at Brighton.’ + </p> + <p> + The full address was given. + </p> + <p> + ‘You hadn’t heard of her going there?’ said Biffen, when he had read the + lines. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He spoke in a slighting tone, but showed increasing agitation. + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course you will go?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must. Though I’m in no condition for making a journey.’ + </p> + <p> + His friend examined him anxiously. + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you feverish at all this evening?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When is there a train? Have you a time table?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Snow?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It must have been falling heavily for an hour or more.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can’t be helped; I must go.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid there’s much danger.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why did she send?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In my position you would have acted precisely as I have done. I have had + no choice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + Reardon stared through the glass at the snow that fell thicker and + thicker. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Still Reardon did not speak. The cab rolled on almost silently. + </p> + <p> + ‘You love your wife, and this summons she sends is proof that her thought + turns to you as soon as she is in distress.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps she only thought it her duty to let the child’s father know—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + They were both hoarse with too much talking, and for the last half of the + drive neither spoke. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They clasped hands warmly, and exchanged a few last requests and promises. + </p> + <p> + ‘Forgive my plain speech, old fellow,’ said Biffen. ‘Go and be happy!’ + </p> + <p> + Then he stood alone on the platform, watching the red light on the last + carriage as the train whirled away into darkness and storm. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. REARDON BECOMES PRACTICAL + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How hot your breath is!’ she said. ‘And how you tremble! Are you ill?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A bad cold, that’s all,’ he answered thickly, and coughed. ‘How is + Willie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In great danger. The doctor is coming again to-night; we thought that was + his ring.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You didn’t expect me to-night?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t feel sure whether you would come.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why did you send for me, Amy? Because Willie was in danger, and you felt + I ought to know about it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes—and because I—’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘If Willie dies, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?’ broke forth + between her sobs. + </p> + <p> + Reardon took her in his arms, and laid his hand upon her head in the old + loving way. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you wish me to go up and see him, Amy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me when and how it began.’ + </p> + <p> + She explained briefly, then went on to tell of other circumstances. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, yes; don’t trouble about that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you look so ill—you are shaking so. Is it a cold you have had + long?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But your lips are so hot and parched! And to think of your coming this + journey, on such a night!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are not the first, dearest, who has revolted against nature’s + cruelty.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no! only you and Willie.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘When the doctor comes hadn’t you better ask his advice for yourself?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We shall see. Don’t trouble about me.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Amy kept regarding him, without his being aware of it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Does your head ache?’ she whispered. + </p> + <p> + He nodded, but did not speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, why doesn’t the doctor come? I must send in a few minutes.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ll come back to you,’ he whispered to Amy. + </p> + <p> + The two descended together, and entered the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is there any hope for the little fellow?’ Reardon asked. + </p> + <p> + Yes, there was hope; a favourable turn might be expected. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his interlocutor + with curiosity. He now asked the necessary questions, and made an + examination. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have you had any lung trouble before this?’ he inquired gravely. + </p> + <p> + ‘Slight congestion of the right lung not many weeks ago.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your symptoms + to go so far without—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have just come down from London,’ interrupted Reardon. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tut, tut, tut! To bed this moment, my dear sir! There is inflammation, + and—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t have a bed in this house; there is no spare room. I must go to + the nearest hotel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Positively? Then let me take you. My carriage is at the door.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You will need the services of a nurse. A most unfortunate thing that you + are obliged to go to the hotel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It can’t be helped. If a nurse is necessary, I must engage one.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t speak a word more than you can help,’ said the doctor as he watched + Reardon withdraw. + </p> + <p> + Amy stood on the lower stairs, and came down as soon as her husband showed + himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it anything? You look worse than when you came, Edwin.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A feverish cold. Don’t give it a thought, dearest. Go to Willie. + Good-night!’ + </p> + <p> + She threw her arms about him. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The glory vanished. He lay once more a sick man in a hired chamber, + longing for the dull English dawn. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘How is Willie?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Better, dear; much better.’ + </p> + <p> + He still searched her face. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ought you to leave him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush! You mustn’t speak.’ + </p> + <p> + Tears broke from her eyes, and Reardon had the conviction that the child + was dead. + </p> + <p> + ‘The truth, Amy!’ + </p> + <p> + She threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and pressed her wet cheek + against his hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You oughtn’t to have come, feeling so ill,’ she said to him. ‘You should + have let me know, dear.’ + </p> + <p> + He smiled and kissed her hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘And you kept the truth from me last night, in kindness.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I am here, Edwin,’ she answered, bending over him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you let Biffen know?’ he said in low but very clear tones. + </p> + <p> + ‘That you are ill dear? I will write at once, or telegraph, if you like. + What is his address?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t remember his new address. I know it, but I can’t remember.’ + </p> + <p> + She had to leave him thus. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Couldn’t Mr Carter discover it for you?’ Amy asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps. You might try.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At night there were long periods of delirium; not mere confused muttering, + but continuous talk which the listeners could follow perfectly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + The nurse, who was present when he talked in this way, looked to Amy for + an explanation. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I always thought it must be hard work writing books,’ said the nurse with + a shake of her head. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + He began to moan in anguish. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘Amy, do you know that Biffen and I are going to Greece?’ + </p> + <p> + She believed he spoke consciously, and replied: + </p> + <p> + ‘You must take me with you, Edwin.’ + </p> + <p> + He paid no attention to this remark, but went on with the same deceptive + accent. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + And he laughed gaily. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘He is conscious, and was very glad to hear that you had come. But don’t + let him try to speak much.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Amy saw that her husband wished to speak to her; she bent over him. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ask him to stay, dear. Give him a room in the hotel.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘It doesn’t matter what happens; she is mine again.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall never go with you to Greece,’ he said distinctly. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘How often you and I have quoted it!— +</p> +<pre> + “We are such stuff + As dreams are made on, and our little life + Is rounded with a sleep.—“’ + </pre> + <p> + The remaining words were indistinguishable, and, as if the effort of + utterance had exhausted him, his eyes closed, and he sank into lethargy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At sunset he obeyed Amy’s summons. He found her calm, but with the signs + of long weeping. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SUNNY WAY + </h2> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘How will this do?’ Jasper exclaimed, suddenly throwing down his pen. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is that for The Current?’ asked Dora, when he had finished. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘You wouldn’t suspect they were written by the same man, eh?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No. You have changed the style very skilfully.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, but it is really clever, Jasper!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Biffen ought to be grateful to you, if he knew,’ said Dora, laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘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, <i>quocunque modo</i>, as Biffen himself would say.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I dare say he doesn’t even think of you as a friend now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was passing,’ he said in his respectful voice, ‘and couldn’t resist the + temptation.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, have you read Biffen’s book?’ asked Jasper. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And why not, Mr Whelpdale?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You should only read of beautiful things, of happy lives. This book must + depress you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + The ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from that + sphere in which you are naturally at home.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The subject of this panegyric coloured a little and laughed. Unmistakably + she was pleased. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The most important fiddlestick!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The paper is rubbish,’ remarked Jasper, ‘and the kind of rubbish—oddly + enough—which doesn’t attract people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper exploded with mirth. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s brilliant!’ he cried. ‘A stroke of genius!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘On the same principle,’ cried Jasper, ‘if The Tatler were changed to + Tittle-Tattle, its circulation would be trebled.’ + </p> + <p> + Whelpdale smote his knee in delight. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora was joining in the merriment, and for a minute or two nothing but + bursts of laughter could be heard. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Superb!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you are joking, Mr Whelpdale!’ exclaimed Dora. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper had begun to listen seriously. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s something in this, Whelpdale,’ he remarked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ha! I have caught you?’ cried the other delightedly. ‘Of course there’s + something in it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But—’ began Dora, and checked herself. + </p> + <p> + ‘You were going to say—’ Whelpdale bent towards her with deference. + </p> + <p> + ‘Surely these poor, silly people oughtn’t to be encouraged in their + weakness.’ + </p> + <p> + Whelpdale’s countenance fell. He looked ashamed of himself. But Jasper + came speedily to the rescue. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall think no more of it,’ said Whelpdale, gravely. ‘You are right, + Miss Dora.’ + </p> + <p> + Again Jasper burst into merriment. His sister reddened, and looked + uncomfortable. She began to speak timidly: + </p> + <p> + ‘You said this was for reading in trains and ‘buses?’ + </p> + <p> + Whelpdale caught at hope. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It might,’ assented Dora, musingly. ‘And in that case you would be doing + good!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Distinct good!’ + </p> + <p> + They smiled joyfully at each other. Then Whelpdale turned to Jasper: + </p> + <p> + ‘You are convinced that there is something in this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—<i>cela va + sans dire</i>. 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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What use should I be?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘Ha! this is lucky. There’s something here that may interest you, + Whelpdale.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Proofs?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Read it to us now, Jasper, will you?’ asked Dora. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, I feel that it is,’ she replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mrs Reardon ought to be very grateful to you, Milvain. By-the-by, do you + ever see her?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have met her only once since his death—by chance.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Of course she will marry again. I wonder who’ll be the fortunate man?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Fortunate, do you think?’ asked Dora quietly, without looking at him. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think you need regret it,’ Dora remarked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, well, come, come!’ put in her brother. ‘We know very well that there + was little enough blame on her side.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There was great blame!’ Dora exclaimed. ‘She behaved shamefully! + </p> + <p> + I wouldn’t speak to her; I wouldn’t sit down in her company!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Bosh! What do you know about it? Wait till you are married to a man like + Reardon, and reduced to utter penury.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Whoever my husband was, I would stand by him, if I starved to death.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘If he ill-used you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Trust one woman for thinking the worst of another,’ observed Jasper with + something like a sneer. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We know quite enough of the facts,’ said Dora, with delightful + pertinacity. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m doing what I can for him, too. Run your eye over these slips.’ + </p> + <p> + Whelpdale exhausted himself in terms of satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + ‘You deserve to get on, my dear fellow. In a few years you will be the + Aristarchus of our literary world.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘It may interest you to know that my sister Maud is shortly to be + married.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed! May I ask to whom?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘A man you don’t know. His name is Dolomore—a fellow in society.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Rich, then, I hope?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tolerably well-to-do. I dare say he has three or four thousand a year!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Gracious heavens! Why, that’s magnificent.’ + </p> + <p> + But Whelpdale did not look quite so much satisfaction as his words + expressed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it to be soon?’ he inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘At the end of the season. Make no difference to Dora and me, of course.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh? Really? No difference at all? You will let me come and see you—both—just + in the old way, Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why the deuce shouldn’t you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + He broke off, and Jasper began to speak of other things. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + This note he also put into the envelope, which he made ready for posting. + Then he sat for a long time in profound thought. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Has anyone been?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Whelpdale.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh! I wanted to ask you, Jasper: do you think it wise to let him come + quite so often?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s a difficulty, you see. I can hardly tell him to sheer off. And + he’s really a decent fellow.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You say nothing, but you add an insult,’ returned Maud, with a smile of + superb disregard. ‘We won’t reopen the question.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh dear no! And, by-the-by, I have a letter from Dolomore. It came just + after you left.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t speak in that unpleasant way! It was only your abruptness that made + any kind of difficulty.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is that allowable?’ asked Maud, anxiously. ‘Can you do that with any + decency?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + I stand to you in loco parentis, and I shall bate no jot of my rights.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But you can’t say that his behaviour hasn’t been perfectly + straightforward.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All I have to say is, Jasper, don’t do me an irreparable injury. You + might, without meaning it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No fear whatever of it. I can behave as a gentleman, and I only expect + Dolomore to do the same.’ + </p> + <p> + Their conversation lasted for a long time, and when he was again left + alone Jasper again fell into a mood of thoughtfulness. + </p> + <p> + By a late post on the following day he received this letter: + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Believe me, dear Mr Milvain, + </p> + <p> + ‘Yours sincerely, + </p> + <p> + ‘AMY REARDON.’ <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. A CHECK + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wanted to see you to-day,’ she said, subduing her voice to the tone of + ordinary conversation. ‘I should have come this evening.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I couldn’t see you before five?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it something important?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, it is.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + He dragged out a tome of the ‘Britannica.’ Marian nodded, and returned to + her seat. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do forgive me!’ he exclaimed. ‘I couldn’t possibly get here before. Let + us go to the right.’ + </p> + <p> + They betook themselves to that tree-shadowed strip of the park which + skirts the canal. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘If I get home at five, it’ll be all right,’ he replied. ‘What have you to + tell me, Marian?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘We have heard about the money, at last.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh?’ He avoided looking at her. ‘And what’s the upshot?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall have nearly fifteen hundred pounds.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So much as that? Well, that’s better than nothing, isn’t it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very much better.’ + </p> + <p> + They walked on in silence. Marian stole a glance at her companion. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should have thought it a great deal,’ she said presently, ‘before I had + begun to think of thousands.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Fifteen hundred. Well, it means fifty pounds a year, I suppose.’ + </p> + <p> + He chewed the end of his moustache. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let us sit down on this bench. Fifteen hundred—h’m! And nothing + more is to be hoped for?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘On this money?’ + </p> + <p> + She looked into his face with painful earnestness. + </p> + <p> + ‘You mean,’ he said, ‘that it can’t be spared for that purpose?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You wish me to understand, Marian, that I mustn’t expect that you will + bring me anything when we are married.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian raised her eyes, and was about to speak as she regarded him; but + with the first accent her look fell. + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish to be your wife.’ + </p> + <p> + He waited, thinking and struggling with himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yet you feel that it would be heartless to take and use this money for + our own purposes?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What is to become of my parents, Jasper?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But then you admit that the fifteen hundred pounds won’t support them. + You talk of earning fifty pounds a year for them.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Need I cease to write, dear, if we were married? Wouldn’t you let me help + them?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, my dear girl, you are taking for granted that we shall have enough + for ourselves.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper rose. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let us walk as far as the next seat. Don’t speak. I have something to + think about.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + He paused significantly. It was his wish that Marian should supply the + consequence, but she did not speak. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well,’ he exclaimed. ‘Then when are we to be married?’ + </p> + <p> + The tone of resignation was too marked. Jasper was not good as a comedian; + he lacked subtlety. + </p> + <p> + ‘We must wait,’ fell from Marian’s lips, in the whisper of despair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Wait? But how long?’ he inquired, dispassionately. + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you wish to be freed from your engagement, Jasper?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But, dear, why shouldn’t you get an editorship all the same if you are + married?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She kept silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well now, when I said five years, of course I took a round number. Three—two + might make all the difference to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let it be just as you wish. I can bear anything rather than lose your + love.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You feel, then, that it will decidedly be wise not to marry whilst we are + still so poor?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes; whatever you are convinced of is right.’ + </p> + <p> + He again rose, and looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + ‘Jasper, you don’t think that I have behaved selfishly in wishing to let + my father have the money?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Now you are speaking kindly! Must you go, Jasper?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must indeed. Two hours’ work I am bound to get before seven o’clock.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I have been making it harder for you, by disturbing your mind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, no; it’s all right now. I shall go at it with all the more energy, + now we have come to a decision.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Dora has asked me to go to Kew on Sunday. Shall you be able to come, + dear?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By Jove, no! I have three engagements on Sunday afternoon. I’ll try and + keep the Sunday after; I will indeed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What are the engagements?’ she asked timidly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Hinks and Mr Gorbutt inquired very kindly after you to-day,’ said the + girl, as she seated herself. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, is Hinks out again?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, but he looks very ill.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What is your mother doing?’ he asked, as she entered. + </p> + <p> + ‘Some needlework.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Yule looked surprised, and answered with cold dignity. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This will be my private affair, father. I wish to get as high a rate of + interest as I safely can.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At least a year,’ was the answer, ‘and very likely much longer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Am I to understand, then, that your marriage is indefinitely postponed?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, father.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And will you tell me why?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can only say that it has seemed better—to both of us.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For mine, and for yours and mother’s.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Should you like me to ask mother to bring her sewing here now?’ asked + Marian, rising. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, you may do so.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘So you are quite satisfied,’ was her question at length, ‘that Marian + should toil to support her parents as well as herself?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can I help it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall think very ill of you if you don’t marry her in a year at + latest.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘What do you think?’ he panted. ‘What do you think has happened?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not what one would suppose, I hope. You seem to have gone mad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re a modest man,’ remarked Jasper, smiling. + </p> + <p> + ‘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! + </p> + <p> + A clear six hundred, if a penny!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Satisfactory, so far.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In what instance are you arrogant?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Give me a week’s notice, and I’ll fit it in.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is he one of the quarter-educated?’ asked Dora, laughing. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + This letter was written, and in a few days there came a reply. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It looks like it.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora hummed an air as she regarded the envelope, then she took it away + with her to her room upstairs. + </p> + <p> + ‘What had he to say?’ Jasper inquired, when she came down again and seated + herself at the table. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, a friendly letter. What does he say to you?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora laughed for five minutes. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are in remarkable spirits, old girl. By-the-by, would you mind + letting me see that letter of yours?’ + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + ‘I left it upstairs,’ Dora replied carelessly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Rather presumptuous in him, it seems to me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, he writes quite as respectfully to me as he does to you,’ she + returned, with a peculiar smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘His position is as good as ours,’ she said at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘As good as ours? The “sub.” of a paltry rag like Chit-Chat, and assistant + to a literary agency!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He makes considerably more money than we do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Money! What’s money?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora was again mirthful. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘I may as well tell you that Mr Whelpdale wants to know if I will marry + him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The deuce he does!’ cried Jasper, with a start. ‘If I didn’t half suspect + something of that kind! What astounding impudence!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You seriously think so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, don’t you? You hardly know him, to begin with. And then—oh, + confound it!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, I’ll tell him that his impudence astonishes me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You will?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are speaking in earnest?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So do I,’ Dora replied. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very glad to hear that. I confess it seemed to me that you were + rather too cordial with Whelpdale yesterday.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘One must behave civilly. Mr Whelpdale quite understands me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are sure of that? He didn’t seem quite so gloomy as he ought to have + been.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The success of Chit-Chat keeps him in good spirits.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who has told you so?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That doesn’t matter. I have heard it, and I want to know from you that it + is false.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper thrust his hands into his pockets and walked apart. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can take no notice,’ he said with indifference, ‘of anonymous gossip.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘From Mrs Lane? And from whom did she hear, pray?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That I don’t know. Is it true or not?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have never told anyone that my engagement was at an end,’ replied + Jasper, deliberately. + </p> + <p> + The girl met his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora lingered for a while, but left the room without saying anything more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why are you still up?’ he asked, avoiding her look as he moved forward + and took a leaning attitude behind an easy-chair. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, I don’t know. Do you want anything?’ + </p> + <p> + There was a pause; then Jasper said in an unsteady voice: + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + His sister gazed at him with indignation. + </p> + <p> + ‘You have acted as if you were free?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora replied with a cold negative. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, there’s the state of things. It isn’t pleasant, but that’s what I + have done.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you mean that Miss Rupert has accepted you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But what name is to be given to behaviour such as this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Listen: didn’t you know perfectly well that this must be the end of it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you suppose I thought you utterly shameless and cruel beyond words?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t call her a girl!’ broke in Dora, scornfully. ‘You say she is + several years older than yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, at all events, she’s intellectual, and very rich. I yielded to the + temptation.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And deserted Marian just when she has most need of help and consolation? + It’s frightful!’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper moved to another chair and sat down. He was much perturbed. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + His sister made a movement of contemptuous impatience. + </p> + <p> + ‘And if the woman doesn’t refuse you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + And so he left the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He handed it to Dora across the breakfast-table, saying with a pinched + smile: + </p> + <p> + ‘Now you can look cheerful again. I am doomed.’ + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV. FEVER AND REST + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>ennuyant</i>,’ 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have often thought of you lately, Mr Biffen. How kind to come and see + me!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, when is it to come out? I shall watch the advertisements so + anxiously.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you allow me to send you a copy, Mrs Reardon?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can you really spare one?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + By what fatality was he alone of men withheld from the winning of a + woman’s love? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The summer went by, and he was unconscious of its warmth and light. How + his days passed he could not have said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen gave no answer, but went whither he was led. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + He talked on for a quarter of an hour. Then, with a sudden movement, the + listener freed himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t go any farther,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Good-bye!’ + </p> + <p> + Whelpdale was disconcerted. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been boring you. That’s a confounded fault of mine; I know it.’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen had waved his hand, and was gone. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Recalling Reardon’s voice, it brought to him those last words whispered by + his dying companion. He remembered them now: + </p> + <pre> + We are such stuff + As dreams are made on, and our little life + Is rounded with a sleep. + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI. JASPER’S DELICATE CASE + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora felt a secret wish that someone else possessed more of that desirable + quality. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was ignorant of this affair when your letter came,’ he began, ‘and I + set out immediately to see you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hoped you would bring me some news. What can have driven the poor man + to such extremity?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Poverty, I can only suppose. But I will see Whelpdale. I hadn’t come + across Biffen for a long time.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Was he still so very poor?’ asked Amy, compassionately. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m afraid so. His book failed utterly.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + Biffen fell out of the dialogue. + </p> + <p> + ‘It grieved me very much,’ said Amy, ‘to hear of the misfortune that + befell my cousin.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘The legacy affair? Why, yes, it was a pity. Especially now that her + father is threatened with blindness.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it so serious? I heard indirectly that he had something the matter + with his eyes, but I didn’t know—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘They may be able to operate before long, and perhaps it will be + successful. But in the meantime Marian has to do his work.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘This explains the—the delay?’ fell from Amy’s lips, as she smiled. + </p> + <p> + Jasper moved uncomfortably. It was a voluntary gesture. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed? But there is her mother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + He paused, and let his hand fail despondently. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope it isn’t affecting your work—your progress?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + There was silence. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Indeed, you have.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just now I am in need of a little encouragement. You don’t notice any + falling off in my work recently?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, indeed.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you see my things in The Current and so on, generally?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think I miss many of your articles. Sometimes I believe I have + detected you when there was no signature.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you are not going yet, Mr Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let me hear what it is.’ + </p> + <p> + He sat down again, and bent forward. + </p> + <p> + ‘If Marian insists that it is her duty to remain with her father, am I + justified or not in freely consenting to that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I scarcely understand. Has Marian expressed a wish to devote herself in + that way?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I didn’t know that.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I surmise that—that you yourself would also be put at rest by such + a decision?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + There was a slight movement about Amy’s lips as these words were uttered: + she kept her eyes down, and waited before replying. + </p> + <p> + ‘The case is too delicate, I fear, for my advice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It was good of you to take the trouble to come—whilst you have so + much on your mind.’ + </p> + <p> + Again Jasper held the white, soft hand for a superfluous moment. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve heard that Harold Biffen has committed suicide?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No!’ she replied, looking shocked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Poisoned himself. You’ll find something about it in today’s Telegraph.’ + </p> + <p> + He gave her such details as he had obtained, then added: + </p> + <p> + ‘There are two of my companions fallen in the battle. I ought to think + myself a lucky fellow, Marian. What?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are better fitted to fight your way, Jasper.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘More of a brute, you mean.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You know very well I don’t. You have more energy and more intellect.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, it remains to be seen how I shall come out when I am weighted with + graver cares than I have yet known.’ + </p> + <p> + She looked at him inquiringly, but said nothing. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The words were so unexpected that they brought a flush to her cheeks and + neck. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes. Will you marry me, and let us take our chance?’ + </p> + <p> + Her heart throbbed violently. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t mean at once, Jasper? You would wait until I know what father’s + fate is to be?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, now, there’s the point. You feel yourself indispensable to your + father at present?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + She paused, and looked up at him touchingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Has one thing occurred to you? Will he consent to receive an allowance + from a person whose name is Mrs Milvain?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t be sure,’ she replied, much troubled. + </p> + <p> + ‘And if he obstinately refuses—what then? What is before him?’ + </p> + <p> + Marian’s head sank, and she stood still. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why have you changed your mind so, Jasper?’ she inquired at length. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + She listened anxiously and reflected. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I thought you felt sure of that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not very sure of anything, to tell the truth. I am harassed. + </p> + <p> + I can’t get on with my work.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am very, very sorry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Except, Jasper, that if father is helpless, I must find means of assuring + his support.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘In other words, if you can’t do that as my wife, you must remain Marian + Yule.’ + </p> + <p> + After a silence, Marian regarded him steadily. + </p> + <p> + ‘You see only the difficulties in our way,’ she said, in a colder voice. + ‘They are many, I know. Do you think them insurmountable?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Upon my word, they almost seem so,’ Jasper exclaimed, distractedly. + </p> + <p> + ‘They were not so great when we spoke of marriage a few years hence.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You say you “will” marry me now; that sounds as if you had made up your + mind to a sacrifice.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I didn’t mean that. To face difficulties, yes.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘But shall you face them willingly?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am not a man to repine and grumble. Put up your umbrella, Marian.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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? + </p> + <p> + 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?’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper opened his umbrella. + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Good God! This is frightful, Marian. I can’t stand it. Live as you are + doing. Let us wait and see.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘At the cost of losing you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I will be faithful to you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And your voice says you promise it out of pity.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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. + </p> + <p> + I should be shamed if I married you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Whether I love you or not, I feel as if no sacrifice would be too great + that would bring you the happiness you deserve.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it in my power to make you happy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The rain pattered on the leaves and the grass, and still the sky darkened. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is wretchedness to both of us,’ Jasper added. ‘Let us part now, + Marian. Let me see you again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Marian had overcome her excess of emotion. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Marian, will you do this?—will you let our engagement last for + another six months, but without our meeting during that time?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘But to what purpose?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + The rain fell unceasingly, and with it began to mingle an autumnal mist. + Jasper delayed a moment, then asked calmly: + </p> + <p> + ‘Are you going to the Museum?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Go home again for this morning, Marian. You can’t work—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I must; and I have no time to lose. Good-bye!’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + And much more of the same tenor. + </p> + <p> + Several days passed before there came a reply. It was written with + undisturbed kindness of feeling, but in few words. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora sighed, and shook her little head, and thought of her brother with + unspeakable disdain. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII. REWARDS + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It happens, Jasper, that I have promised to marry him,’ replied Dora, in + a significant tone. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is very kind of you,’ said his sister suavely. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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 <i>causas rerum</i>, as Biffen would have + said. You have exercised ingenuity and perseverance; you have your + reward.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, certainly.—I should recommend a cooling draught of some kind. + Look in at a chemist’s as you walk on.’ + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + ‘Upon my word,’ he exclaimed, ‘I am proud of my sisters! What did you + think of Maud last night? Wasn’t she superb?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She certainly did look very well. But I doubt if she’s very happy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is her own look out; I told her plainly enough my opinion of + Dolomore. But she was in such a tremendous hurry.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You are detestable, Jasper! Is it inconceivable to you that a man or + woman should be disinterested when they marry?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘By no means.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Maud didn’t marry for money any more than I did.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Combined with financial success.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish it very, very often,’ Dora replied in a moved voice. + </p> + <p> + ‘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?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Who ever disputed the value of money? But there are things one mustn’t + sacrifice to gain it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I suppose so. Well, I have some news for you, Dora. I am thinking of + following your example.’ + </p> + <p> + Dora’s face changed to grave anticipation. + </p> + <p> + ‘And who is it?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Amy Reardon.’ + </p> + <p> + His sister turned away, with a look of intense annoyance. + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘An abominable choice!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What has she done with the rest of it, then?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘On no account! I couldn’t be civil to her.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper’s brows blackened. + </p> + <p> + ‘This is idiotic prejudice, Dora. I think I have some claim upon you; I + have shown some kindness—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You have, and I am not ungrateful. But I dislike Mrs Reardon, and I + couldn’t bring myself to be friendly with her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t know her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Too well. You yourself have taught me to know her. Don’t compel me to say + what I think of her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘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.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then I will be silent. But you must never ask me to meet her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Then we shall quarrel. I haven’t deserved this, Dora. If you refuse to + meet my wife on terms of decent friendliness, there’s no more intercourse + between your house and mine. You have to choose. Persist in this fatuous + obstinacy, and I have done with you!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So be it!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That is your final answer?’ + </p> + <p> + Dora, who was now as angry as he, gave a short affirmative, and Jasper at + once left her. + </p> + <p> + But it was very unlikely that things should rest at this pass. The brother + and sister were bound by a strong mutual affection, and Whelpdale was not + long in effecting a compromise. + </p> + <p> + ‘My dear wife,’ he exclaimed, in despair at the threatened calamity, ‘you + are right, a thousand times, but it’s impossible for you to be on ill + terms with Jasper. There’s no need for you to see much of Mrs Reardon—’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hate her! She killed her husband; I am sure of it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My darling!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I mean by her base conduct. She is a cold, cruel, unprincipled creature! + Jasper makes himself more than ever contemptible by marrying her.’ + </p> + <p> + All the same, in less than three weeks Mrs Whelpdale had called upon Amy, + and the call was returned. The two women were perfectly conscious of + reciprocal dislike, but they smothered the feeling beneath conventional + suavities. Jasper was not backward in making known his gratitude for + Dora’s concession, and indeed it became clear to all his intimates that + this marriage would be by no means one of mere interest; the man was in + love at last, if he had never been before. + </p> + <p> + Let lapse the ensuing twelve months, and come to an evening at the end of + July, 1886. Mr and Mrs Milvain are entertaining a small and select party + of friends at dinner. Their house in Bayswater is neither large nor + internally magnificent, but it will do very well for the temporary sojourn + of a young man of letters who has much greater things in confident + expectation, who is a good deal talked of, who can gather clever and + worthy people at his table, and whose matchless wife would attract men of + taste to a very much poorer abode. + </p> + <p> + Jasper had changed considerably in appearance since that last holiday that + he spent in his mother’s house at Finden. At present he would have been + taken for five-and-thirty, though only in his twenty-ninth year; his hair + was noticeably thinning; his moustache had grown heavier; a wrinkle or two + showed beneath his eyes; his voice was softer, yet firmer. It goes without + saying that his evening uniform lacked no point of perfection, and somehow + it suggested a more elaborate care than that of other men in the room. He + laughed frequently, and with a throwing back of the head which seemed to + express a spirit of triumph. + </p> + <p> + Amy looked her years to the full, but her type of beauty, as you know, was + independent of youthfulness. That suspicion of masculinity observable in + her when she became Reardon’s wife impressed one now only as the + consummate grace of a perfectly-built woman. You saw that at forty, at + fifty, she would be one of the stateliest of dames. When she bent her head + towards the person with whom she spoke, it was an act of queenly favour. + Her words were uttered with just enough deliberation to give them the + value of an opinion; she smiled with a delicious shade of irony; her + glance intimated that nothing could be too subtle for her understanding. + </p> + <p> + The guests numbered six, and no one of them was insignificant. Two of the + men were about Jasper’s age, and they had already made their mark in + literature; the third was a novelist of circulating fame, spirally + crescent. The three of the stronger sex were excellent modern types, with + sweet lips attuned to epigram, and good broad brows. + </p> + <p> + The novelist at one point put an interesting question to Amy. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it true that Fadge is leaving The Current?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is rumoured, I believe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Going to one of the quarterlies, they say,’ remarked a lady. ‘He is + getting terribly autocratic. Have you heard the delightful story of his + telling Mr Rowland to persevere, as his last work was one of considerable + promise?’ + </p> + <p> + Mr Rowland was a man who had made a merited reputation when Fadge was + still on the lower rungs of journalism. Amy smiled and told another + anecdote of the great editor. Whilst speaking, she caught her husband’s + eye, and perhaps this was the reason why her story, at the close, seemed + rather amiably pointless—not a common fault when she narrated. + </p> + <p> + When the ladies had withdrawn, one of the younger men, in a conversation + about a certain magazine, remarked: + </p> + <p> + ‘Thomas always maintains that it was killed by that solemn old stager, + Alfred Yule. By the way, he is dead himself, I hear.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper bent forward. + </p> + <p> + ‘Alfred Yule is dead?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘So Jedwood told me this morning. He died in the country somewhere, blind + and fallen on evil days, poor old fellow.’ + </p> + <p> + All the guests were ignorant of any tie of kindred between their host and + the man spoken of. + </p> + <p> + ‘I believe,’ said the novelist, ‘that he had a clever daughter who used to + do all the work he signed. That used to be a current bit of scandal in + Fadge’s circle.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, there was much exaggeration in that,’ remarked Jasper, blandly. ‘His + daughter assisted him, doubtless, but in quite a legitimate way. One used + to see her at the Museum.’ + </p> + <p> + The subject was dropped. + </p> + <p> + An hour and a half later, when the last stranger had taken his leave, + Jasper examined two or three letters which had arrived since dinner-time + and were lying on the hall table. With one of them open in his hand, he + suddenly sprang up the stairs and leaped, rather than stepped, into the + drawing-room. Amy was reading an evening paper. + </p> + <p> + ‘Look at this!’ he cried, holding the letter to her. + </p> + <p> + It was a communication from the publishers who owned The Current; they + stated that the editorship of that review would shortly be resigned by Mr + Fadge, and they inquired whether Milvain would feel disposed to assume the + vacant chair. + </p> + <p> + Amy sprang up and threw her arms about her husband’s neck, uttering a cry + of delight. + </p> + <p> + ‘So soon! Oh, this is great! this is glorious!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think this would have been offered to me but for the spacious life + we have led of late? Never! Was I right in my calculations, Amy?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did I ever doubt it?’ + </p> + <p> + He returned her embrace ardently, and gazed into her eyes with profound + tenderness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Doesn’t the future brighten?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It has been very bright to me, Jasper, since I became your wife.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And I owe my fortune to you, dear girl. Now the way is smooth!’ + </p> + <p> + They placed themselves on a settee, Jasper with an arm about his wife’s + waist, as if they were newly plighted lovers. When they had talked for a + long time, Milvain said in a changed tone: + </p> + <p> + ‘I am told that your uncle is dead.’ + </p> + <p> + He mentioned how the news had reached him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must make inquiries to-morrow. I suppose there will be a notice in The + Study and some of the other papers. I hope somebody will make it an + opportunity to have a hit at that ruffian Fadge. By-the-by, it doesn’t + much matter now how you speak of Fadge; but I was a trifle anxious when I + heard your story at dinner.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, you can afford to be more independent.—What are you thinking + about?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Nothing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why do you look sad?—Yes, I know, I know. I’ll try to forgive you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t help thinking at times of the poor girl, Amy. Life will be easier + for her now, with only her mother to support. Someone spoke of her this + evening, and repeated Fadge’s lie that she used to do all her father’s + writing.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She was capable of doing it. I must seem to you rather a poor-brained + woman in comparison. Isn’t it true?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘My dearest, you are a perfect woman, and poor Marian was only a clever + school-girl. Do you know, I never could help imagining that she had + ink-stains on her fingers. Heaven forbid that I should say it unkindly! It + was touching to me at the time, for I knew how fearfully hard she worked.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She nearly ruined your life; remember that.’ + </p> + <p> + Jasper was silent. + </p> + <p> + ‘You will never confess it, and that is a fault in you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘She loved me, Amy.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps! as a school-girl loves. But you never loved her.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No.’ + </p> + <p> + Amy examined his face as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + ‘Her image is very faint before me,’ Jasper pursued, ‘and soon I shall + scarcely be able to recall it. Yes, you are right; she nearly ruined me. + And in more senses than one. Poverty and struggle, under such + circumstances, would have made me a detestable creature. As it is, I am + not such a bad fellow, Amy.’ + </p> + <p> + She laughed, and caressed his cheek. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, I am far from a bad fellow. I feel kindly to everyone who deserves + it. I like to be generous, in word and deed. Trust me, there’s many a man + who would like to be generous, but is made despicably mean by necessity. + What a true sentence that is of Landor’s: “It has been repeated often + enough that vice leads to misery; will no man declare that misery leads to + vice?” I have much of the weakness that might become viciousness, but I am + now far from the possibility of being vicious. Of course there are men, + like Fadge, who seem only to grow meaner the more prosperous they are; but + these are exceptions. Happiness is the nurse of virtue.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And independence the root of happiness.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘True. “The glorious privilege of being independent”—yes, Burns + understood the matter. Go to the piano, dear, and play me something. If I + don’t mind, I shall fall into Whelpdale’s vein, and talk about my + “blessedness”. Ha! isn’t the world a glorious place?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For rich people.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, for rich people. How I pity the poor devils!—Play anything. + Better still if you will sing, my nightingale!’ + </p> + <p> + So Amy first played and then sang, and Jasper lay back in dreamy bliss. + </p> +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1709 ***</div> + </body> +</html> + |