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Etext prepared by John Handford

NEW GRUB STREET

by George Gissing

1891

Part One

Chapter I. A Man of his Day

Chapter II. The House of Yule

Chapter III. Holiday

Chapter IV. An Author and his Wife

Chapter V. The Way Hither

Chapter VI. The Practical Friend

Chapter VII. Marian's Home

Part Two

Chapter VIII. To the Winning Side

Chapter IX. Invita Minerva

Chapter X. The Friends of the Family

Chapter XI. Respite

Chapter XII. Work Without Hope

Chapter XIII. A Warning

Chapter XIV. Recruits

Chapter XV. The Last Resource

Part Three

Chapter XVI. Rejection

Chapter XVII. The Parting

Chapter XVIII. The Old Home

Chapter XIX. The Past Revived

Chapter XX. The End of Waiting

Chapter XXI. Mr Yule leaves Town

Chapter XXII. The Legatees

Part Four

Chapter XXIII. A Proposed Investment

Chapter XXIV. Jasper's Magnanimity

Chapter XXV . A Fruitless Meeting

Chapter XXVI. Married Woman's Property

Chapter XXVII. The Lonely Man

Chapter XXVIII. Interim

Chapter XXIX. Catastrophe

Part Five

Chapter XXX. Waiting on Destiny

Chapter XXXI. A Rescue and a Summons

Chapter XXXII. Reardon becomes Practical

Chapter XXXIII. The Sunny Way

Chapter XXXIV. A Check

Chapter XXXV. Fever and Rest

Chapter XXXVI. Jasper's Delicate Case

Chapter XXXVII. Rewards

NEW GRUB STREET

Part I.

CHAPTER I. A MAN OF HIS DAY

As the Milvains sat down to breakfast the clock of Wattleborough

parish church struck eight; it was two miles away, but the

strokes were borne very distinctly on the west wind this autumn

morning. Jasper, listening before he cracked an egg, remarked

with cheerfulness:

'There's a man being hanged in London at this moment.'

'Surely it isn't necessary to let us know that,' said his sister

Maud, coldly.

'And in such a tone, too!' protested his sister Dora.

'Who is it?' inquired Mrs Milvain, looking at her son with pained

forehead.

'I don't know. It happened to catch my eye in the paper yesterday

that someone was to be hanged at Newgate this morning. There's a

certain satisfaction in reflecting that it is not oneself.'

'That's your selfish way of looking at things,' said Maud.

'Well,' returned Jasper, 'seeing that the fact came into my head,

what better use could I make of it? I could curse the brutality

of an age that sanctioned such things; or I could grow doleful

over the misery of the poor--fellow. But those emotions would be

as little profitable to others as to myself. It just happened

that I saw the thing in a light of consolation. Things are bad

with me, but not so bad as THAT. I might be going out between

Jack Ketch and the Chaplain to be hanged; instead of that, I am

eating a really fresh egg, and very excellent buttered toast,

with coffee as good as can be reasonably expected in this part of

the world.--(Do try boiling the milk, mother.)--The tone in which

I spoke was spontaneous; being so, it needs no justification.'

He was a young man of five-and-twenty, well built, though a

trifle meagre, and of pale complexion. He had hair that was very

nearly black, and a clean-shaven face, best described, perhaps,

as of bureaucratic type. The clothes he wore were of expensive

material, but had seen a good deal of service. His stand-up

collar curled over at the corners, and his necktie was lilac-

sprigged.

Of the two sisters, Dora, aged twenty, was the more like him in

visage, but she spoke with a gentleness which seemed to indicate

a different character. Maud, who was twenty-two, had bold,

handsome features, and very beautiful hair of russet tinge; hers

was not a face that readily smiled. Their mother had the look and

manners of an invalid, though she sat at table in the ordinary

way. All were dressed as ladies, though very simply. The room,

which looked upon a small patch of garden, was furnished with

old-fashioned comfort, only one or two objects suggesting the

decorative spirit of 1882.

'A man who comes to be hanged,' pursued Jasper, impartially, 'has

the satisfaction of knowing that he has brought society to its

last resource. He is a man of such fatal importance that nothing

will serve against him but the supreme effort of law. In a way,

you know, that is success.'

'In a way,' repeated Maud, scornfully.

'Suppose we talk of something else,' suggested Dora, who seemed

to fear a conflict between her sister and Jasper.

Almost at the same moment a diversion was afforded by the arrival

of the post. There was a letter for Mrs Milvain, a letter and

newspaper for her son. Whilst the girls and their mother talked

of unimportant news communicated by the one correspondent, Jasper

read the missive addressed to himself.

'This is from Reardon,' he remarked to the younger girl. 'Things

are going badly with him. He is just the kind of fellow to end by

poisoning or shooting himself.'

'But why?'

'Can't get anything done; and begins to be sore troubled on his

wife's account.'

'Is he ill?'

'Overworked, I suppose. But it's just what I foresaw. He isn't

the kind of man to keep up literary production as a paying

business. In favourable circumstances he might write a fairly

good book once every two or three years. The failure of his last

depressed him, and now he is struggling hopelessly to get another

done before the winter season. Those people will come to grief.'

'The enjoyment with which he anticipates it!' murmured Maud,

looking at her mother.

'Not at all,' said Jasper. 'It's true I envied the fellow,

because he persuaded a handsome girl to believe in him and share

his risks, but I shall be very sorry if he goes to the--to the

dogs. He's my one serious friend. But it irritates me to see a

man making such large demands upon fortune. One must be more

modest--as I am. Because one book had a sort of success he

imagined his struggles were over. He got a hundred pounds for "On

Neutral Ground," and at once counted on a continuance of payments

in geometrical proportion. I hinted to him that he couldn't keep

it up, and he smiled with tolerance, no doubt thinking "He judges

me by himself." But I didn't do anything of the kind.--(Toast,

please, Dora.)--I'm a stronger man than Reardon; I can keep my

eyes open, and wait.'

'Is his wife the kind of person to grumble?' asked Mrs Milvain.

'Well, yes, I suspect that she is. The girl wasn't content to go

into modest rooms--they must furnish a flat. I rather wonder he

didn't start a carriage for her. Well, his next book brought only

another hundred, and now, even if he finishes this one, it's very

doubtful if he'll get as much. "The Optimist" was practically a

failure.'

'Mr Yule may leave them some money,' said Dora.

'Yes. But he may live another ten years, and he would see them

both in Marylebone Workhouse before he advanced sixpence, or I'm

much mistaken in him. Her mother has only just enough to live

upon; can't possibly help them. Her brother wouldn't give or lend

twopence halfpenny.'

'Has Mr Reardon no relatives!'

'I never heard him make mention of a single one. No, he has done

the fatal thing. A man in his position, if he marry at all, must

take either a work-girl or an heiress, and in many ways the work-

girl is preferable.'

'How can you say that?' asked Dora. 'You never cease talking

about the advantages of money.'

'Oh, I don't mean that for ME the work-girl would be preferable;

by no means; but for a man like Reardon. He is absurd enough to

be conscientious, likes to be called an "artist," and so on. He

might possibly earn a hundred and fifty a year if his mind were

at rest, and that would be enough if he had married a decent

little dressmaker. He wouldn't desire superfluities, and the

quality of his work would be its own reward. As it is, he's

ruined.'

'And I repeat,' said Maud, 'that you enjoy the prospect.'

'Nothing of the kind. If I seem to speak exultantly it's only

because my intellect enjoys the clear perception of a fact.--A

little marmalade, Dora; the home-made, please.'

'But this is very sad, Jasper,' said Mrs Milvain, in her half-

absent way. 'I suppose they can't even go for a holiday?'

'Quite out of the question.'

'Not even if you invited them to come here for a week?'

'Now, mother,' urged Maud, 'THAT'S impossible, you know very

well.'

'I thought we might make an effort, dear. A holiday might mean

everything to him.'

'No, no,' fell from Jasper, thoughtfully. 'I don't think you'd

get along very well with Mrs Reardon; and then, if her uncle is

coming to Mr Yule's, you know, that would be awkward.'

'I suppose it would; though those people would only stay a day or

two, Miss Harrow said.'

'Why can't Mr Yule make them friends, those two lots of people?'

asked Dora. 'You say he's on good terms with both.'

'I suppose he thinks it's no business of his.'

Jasper mused over the letter from his friend.

'Ten years hence,' he said, 'if Reardon is still alive, I shall

be lending him five-pound notes.'

A smile of irony rose to Maud's lips. Dora laughed.

'To be sure! To be sure!' exclaimed their brother. 'You have no

faith. But just understand the difference between a man like

Reardon and a man like me. He is the old type of unpractical

artist; I am the literary man of 1882. He won't make concessions,

or rather, he can't make them; he can't supply the market. I--

well, you may say that at present I do nothing; but that's a

great mistake, I am learning my business. Literature nowadays is

a trade. Putting aside men of genius, who may succeed by mere

cosmic force, your successful man of letters is your skilful

tradesman. He thinks first and foremost of the markets; when one

kind of goods begins to go off slackly, he is ready with

something new and appetising. He knows perfectly all the possible

sources of income. Whatever he has to sell he'll get payment for

it from all sorts of various quarters; none of your unpractical

selling for a lump sum to a middleman who will make six distinct

profits. Now, look you: if I had been in Reardon's place, I'd

have made four hundred at least out of "The Optimist"; I should

have gone shrewdly to work with magazines and newspapers and

foreign publishers, and--all sorts of people. Reardon can't do

that kind of thing, he's behind his age; he sells a manuscript as

if he lived in Sam Johnson's Grub Street. But our Grub Street of

to-day is quite a different place: it is supplied with

telegraphic communication, it knows what literary fare is in

demand in every part of the world, its inhabitants are men of

business, however seedy.'

'It sounds ignoble,' said Maud.

'I have nothing to do with that, my dear girl. Now, as I tell

you, I am slowly, but surely, learning the business. My line

won't be novels; I have failed in that direction, I'm not cut out

for the work. It's a pity, of course; there's a great deal of

money in it. But I have plenty of scope. In ten years, I repeat,

I shall be making my thousand a year.'

'I don't remember that you stated the exact sum before,' Maud

observed.

'Let it pass. And to those who have shall be given. When I have a

decent income of my own, I shall marry a woman with an income

somewhat larger, so that casualties may be provided for.'

Dora exclaimed, laughing:

'It would amuse me very much if the Reardons got a lot of money

at Mr Yule's death--and that can't be ten years off, I'm sure.'

'I don't see that there's any chance of their getting much,'

replied Jasper, meditatively. 'Mrs Reardon is only his niece. The

man's brother and sister will have the first helping, I suppose.

And then, if it comes to the second generation, the literary Yule

has a daughter, and by her being invited here I should think

she's the favourite niece. No, no; depend upon it they won't get

anything at all.'

Having finished his breakfast, he leaned back and began to unfold

the London paper that had come by post.

'Had Mr Reardon any hopes of that kind at the time of his

marriage, do you think?' inquired Mrs Milvain.

'Reardon? Good heavens, no! Would he were capable of such

forethought!'

In a few minutes Jasper was left alone in the room. When the

servant came to clear the table he strolled slowly away, humming

a tune.

The house was pleasantly situated by the roadside in a little

village named Finden. Opposite stood the church, a plain, low,

square-towered building. As it was cattle-market to-day in the

town of Wattleborough, droves of beasts and sheep occasionally

went by, or the rattle of a grazier's cart sounded for a moment.

On ordinary days the road saw few vehicles, and pedestrians were

rare.

Mrs Milvain and her daughters had lived here for the last seven

years, since the death of the father, who was a veterinary

surgeon. The widow enjoyed an annuity of two hundred and forty

pounds, terminable with her life; the children had nothing of

their own. Maud acted irregularly as a teacher of music; Dora had

an engagement as visiting governess in a Wattleborough family.

Twice a year, as a rule, Jasper came down from London to spend a

fortnight with them; to-day marked the middle of his autumn

visit, and the strained relations between him and his sisters

which invariably made the second week rather trying for all in

the house had already become noticeable.

In the course of the morning Jasper had half an hour's private

talk with his mother, after which he set off to roam in the

sunshine. Shortly after he had left the house, Maud, her domestic

duties dismissed for the time, came into the parlour where Mrs

Milvain was reclining on the sofa.

'Jasper wants more money,' said the mother, when Maud had sat in

meditation for a few minutes.

'Of course. I knew that. I hope you told him he couldn't have

it.'

'I really didn't know what to say,' returned Mrs Milvain, in a

feeble tone of worry.

'Then you must leave the matter to me, that's all. There's no

money for him, and there's an end of it.'

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

silence.

'What's he to do, Maud?'

'To do? How do other people do? What do Dora and I do?'

'You don't earn enough for your support, my dear.'

'Oh, well!' broke from the girl. 'Of course, if you grudge us our

food and lodging --'

'Don't be so quick-tempered. You know very well I am far from

grudging you anything, dear. But I only meant to say that Jasper

does earn something, you know.'

'It's a disgraceful thing that he doesn't earn as much as he

needs. We are sacrificed to him, as we always have been. Why

should we be pinching and stinting to keep him in idleness?'

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

profession.'

'Pray call it trade; he prefers it. How do I know that he's

studying anything? What does he mean by "studying"? And to hear

him speak scornfully of his friend Mr Reardon, who seems to work

hard all through the year! It's disgusting, mother. At this rate

he will never earn his own living. Who hasn't seen or heard of

such men? If we had another hundred a year, I would say nothing.

But we can't live on what he leaves us, and I'm not going to let

you try. I shall tell Jasper plainly that he's got to work for

his own support.'

Another silence, and a longer one. Mrs Milvain furtively wiped a

tear from her cheek.

'It seems very cruel to refuse,' she said at length, 'when

another year may give him the opportunity he's waiting for.'

'Opportunity? What does he mean by his opportunity?'

'He says that it always comes, if a man knows how to wait.'

'And the people who support him may starve meanwhile! Now just

think a bit, mother. Suppose anything were to happen to you, what

becomes of Dora and me? And what becomes of Jasper, too? It's the

truest kindness to him to compel him to earn a living. He gets

more and more incapable of it.'

'You can't say that, Maud. He earns a little more each year. But

for that, I should have my doubts. He has made thirty pounds

already this year, and he only made about twenty-five the whole

of last. We must be fair to him, you know. I can't help feeling

that he knows what he's about. And if he does succeed, he'll pay

us all back.'

Maud began to gnaw her fingers, a disagreeable habit she had in

privacy.

'Then why doesn't he live more economically?'

'I really don't see how he can live on less than a hundred and

fifty a year. London, you know --'

'The cheapest place in the world.'

'Nonsense, Maud!'

'But I know what I'm saying. I've read quite enough about such

things. He might live very well indeed on thirty shillings a

week, even buying his clothes out of it.'

'But he has told us so often that it's no use to him to live like

that. He is obliged to go to places where he must spend a little,

or he makes no progress.'

'Well, all I can say is,' exclaimed the girl impatiently, 'it's

very lucky for him that he's got a mother who willingly

sacrifices her daughters to him.'

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

you say!'

'It's a simple truth.'

'Dora never speaks like that.'

'Because she's afraid to be honest.'

'No, because she has too much love for her mother. I can't bear

to talk to you, Maud. The older I get, and the weaker I get, the

more unfeeling you are to me.'

Scenes of this kind were no uncommon thing. The clash of tempers

lasted for several minutes, then Maud flung out of the room. An

hour later, at dinner-time, she was rather more caustic in her

remarks than usual, but this was the only sign that remained of

the stormy mood.

Jasper renewed the breakfast-table conversation.

'Look here,' he began, 'why don't you girls write something? I'm

convinced you could make money if you tried. There's a tremendous

sale for religious stories; why not patch one together? I am

quite serious.'

'Why don't you do it yourself,' retorted Maud.

'I can't manage stories, as I have told you; but I think you

could. In your place, I'd make a speciality of Sunday-school

prize-books; you know the kind of thing I mean. They sell like

hot cakes. And there's so deuced little enterprise in the

business. If you'd give your mind to it, you might make hundreds

a year.'

'Better say "abandon your mind to it."'

'Why, there you are! You're a sharp enough girl. You can quote as

well as anyone I know.'

'And please, why am I to take up an inferior kind of work?'

'Inferior? Oh, if you can be a George Eliot, begin at the

earliest opportunity. I merely suggested what seemed practicable.

But I don't think you have genius, Maud. People have got that

ancient prejudice so firmly rooted in their heads--that one

mustn't write save at the dictation of the Holy Spirit. I tell

you, writing is a business. Get together half-a-dozen fair

specimens of the Sunday-school prize; study them; discover the

essential points of such composition; hit upon new attractions;

then go to work methodically, so many pages a day. There's no

question of the divine afflatus; that belongs to another sphere

of life. We talk of literature as a trade, not of Homer, Dante,

and Shakespeare. If I could only get that into poor Reardon's

head. He thinks me a gross beast, often enough. What the devil--I

mean what on earth is there in typography to make everything it

deals with sacred? I don't advocate the propagation of vicious

literature; I speak only of good, coarse, marketable stuff for

the world's vulgar. You just give it a thought, Maud; talk it

over with Dora.'

He resumed presently:

'I maintain that we people of brains are justified in supplying

the mob with the food it likes. We are not geniuses, and if we

sit down in a spirit of long-eared gravity we shall produce only

commonplace stuff. Let us use our wits to earn money, and make

the best we can of our lives. If only I had the skill, I would

produce novels out-trashing the trashiest that ever sold fifty

thousand copies. But it needs skill, mind you: and to deny it is

a gross error of the literary pedants. To please the vulgar you

must, one way or another, incarnate the genius of vulgarity. For

my own part, I shan't be able to address the bulkiest multitude;

my talent doesn't lend itself to that form. I shall write for the

upper middle-class of intellect, the people who like to feel that

what they are reading has some special cleverness, but who can't

distinguish between stones and paste. That's why I'm so slow in

warming to the work. Every month I feel surer of myself, however.

That last thing of mine in The West End distinctly hit the mark;

it wasn't too flashy, it wasn't too solid. I heard fellows speak

of it in the train.'

Mrs Milvain kept glancing at Maud, with eyes which desired her

attention to these utterances. None the less, half an hour after

dinner, Jasper found himself encountered by his sister in the

garden, on her face a look which warned him of what was coming.

'I want you to tell me something, Jasper. How much longer shall

you look to mother for support? I mean it literally; let me have

an idea of how much longer it will be.'

He looked away and reflected.

'To leave a margin,' was his reply, 'let us say twelve months.'

'Better say your favourite "ten years" at once.'

'No. I speak by the card. In twelve months' time, if not before,

I shall begin to pay my debts. My dear girl, I have the honour to

be a tolerably long-headed individual. I know what I'm about.'

'And let us suppose mother were to die within half a year?'

'I should make shift to do very well.'

'You? And please--what of Dora and me?'

'You would write Sunday-school prizes.'

Maud turned away and left him.

He knocked the dust out of the pipe he had been smoking, and

again set off for a stroll along the lanes. On his countenance

was just a trace of solicitude, but for the most part he wore a

thoughtful smile. Now and then he stroked his smoothly-shaven

jaws with thumb and fingers. Occasionally he became observant of

wayside details--of the colour of a maple leaf, the shape of a

tall thistle, the consistency of a fungus. At the few people who

passed he looked keenly, surveying them from head to foot.

On turning, at the limit of his walk, he found himself almost

face to face with two persons, who were coming along in silent

companionship; their appearance interested him. The one was a man

of fifty, grizzled, hard featured, slightly bowed in the

shoulders; he wore a grey felt hat with a broad brim and a decent

suit of broadcloth. With him was a girl of perhaps two-and-

twenty, in a slate-coloured dress with very little ornament, and

a yellow straw hat of the shape originally appropriated to males;

her dark hair was cut short, and lay in innumerable crisp curls.

Father and daughter, obviously. The girl, to a casual eye, was

neither pretty nor beautiful, but she had a grave and impressive

face, with a complexion of ivory tone; her walk was gracefully

modest, and she seemed to be enjoying the country air.

Jasper mused concerning them. When he had walked a few yards, he

looked back; at the same moment the unknown man also turned his

head.

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

asked himself.

And before he reached home the recollection he sought flashed

upon his mind.

'The Museum Reading-room, of course!'

CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE OF YULE

'I think' said Jasper, as he entered the room where his mother

and Maud were busy with plain needlework, 'I must have met Alfred

Yule and his daughter.'

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

'I passed an old buffer and a pale-faced girl whom I know by

sight at the British Museum. It wasn't near Yule's house, but

they were taking a walk.'

'They may have come already. When Miss Harrow was here last, she

said "in about a fortnight."'

'No mistaking them for people of these parts, even if I hadn't

remembered their faces. Both of them are obvious dwellers in the

valley of the shadow of books.'

'Is Miss Yule such a fright then?' asked Maud.

'A fright! Not at all. A good example of the modern literary

girl. I suppose you have the oddest old-fashioned ideas of such

people. No, I rather like the look of her. Simpatica, I should

think, as that ass Whelpdale would say. A very delicate, pure

complexion, though morbid; nice eyes; figure not spoilt yet. But

of course I may be wrong about their identity.'

Later in the afternoon Jasper's conjecture was rendered a

certainty. Maud had walked to Wattleborough, where she would meet

Dora on the latter's return from her teaching, and Mrs Milvain

sat alone, in a mood of depression; there was a ring at the

door-bell, and the servant admitted Miss Harrow.

This lady acted as housekeeper to Mr John Yule, a wealthy

resident in this neighbourhood; she was the sister of his

deceased wife--a thin, soft-speaking, kindly woman of forty-five.

The greater part of her life she had spent as a governess; her

position now was more agreeable, and the removal of her anxiety

about the future had developed qualities of cheerfulness which

formerly no one would have suspected her to possess. The

acquaintance between Mrs Milvain and her was only of twelve

months' standing; prior to that, Mr Yule had inhabited a house at

the end of Wattleborough remote from Finden.

'Our London visitors came yesterday,' she began by saying.

Mrs Milvain mentioned her son's encounter an hour or two ago.

'No doubt it was they,' said the visitor. 'Mrs Yule hasn't come;

I hardly expected she would, you know. So very unfortunate when

there are difficulties of that kind, isn't it?'

She smiled confidentially.

'The poor girl must feel it,' said Mrs Milvain.

'I'm afraid she does. Of course it narrows the circle of her

friends at home. She's a sweet girl, and I should so like you to

meet her. Do come and have tea with us to-morrow afternoon, will

you? Or would it be too much for you just now?'

'Will you let the girls call? And then perhaps Miss Yule will be

so good as to come and see me?'

'I wonder whether Mr Milvain would like to meet her father? I

have thought that perhaps it might be some advantage to him.

Alfred is so closely connected with literary people, you know.'

'I feel sure he would be glad,' replied Mrs Milvain. 'But--what

of Jasper's friendship with Mrs Edmund Yule and the Reardons?

Mightn't it be a little awkward?'

'Oh, I don't think so, unless he himself felt it so. There would

be no need to mention that, I should say. And, really, it would

be so much better if those estrangements came to an end. John

makes no scruple of speaking freely about everyone, and I don't

think Alfred regards Mrs Edmund with any serious unkindness. If

Mr Milvain would walk over with the young ladies to-morrow, it

would be very pleasant.'

'Then I think I may promise that he will. I'm sure I don't know

where he is at this moment. We don't see very much of him, except

at meals.'

'He won't be with you much longer, I suppose?'

'Perhaps a week.'

Before Miss Harrow's departure Maud and Dora reached home. They

were curious to see the young lady from the valley of the shadow

of books, and gladly accepted the invitation offered them.

They set out on the following afternoon in their brother's

company. It was only a quarter of an hour's walk to Mr Yule's

habitation, a small house in a large garden. Jasper was coming

hither for the first time; his sisters now and then visited Miss

Harrow, but very rarely saw Mr Yule himself who made no secret of

the fact that he cared little for female society. In

Wattleborough and the neighbourhood opinions varied greatly as to

this gentleman's character, but women seldom spoke very

favourably of him. Miss Harrow was reticent concerning her

brother-in-law; no one, however, had any reason to believe that

she found life under his roof disagreeable. That she lived with

him at all was of course occasionally matter for comment, certain

Wattleborough ladies having their doubts regarding the position

of a deceased wife's sister under such circumstances; but no one

was seriously exercised about the relations between this sober

lady of forty-five and a man of sixty-three in broken health.

A word of the family history.

John, Alfred, and Edmund Yule were the sons of a Wattleborough

stationer. Each was well educated, up to the age of seventeen, at

the town's grammar school. The eldest, who was a hot-headed lad,

but showed capacities for business, worked at first with his

father, endeavouring to add a bookselling department to the trade

in stationery; but the life of home was not much to his taste,

and at one-and-twenty he obtained a clerk's place in the office

of a London newspaper. Three years after, his father died, and

the small patrimony which fell to him he used in making himself

practically acquainted with the details of paper manufacture, his

aim being to establish himself in partnership with an

acquaintance who had started a small paper-mill in Hertfordshire.

His speculation succeeded, and as years went on he became a

thriving manufacturer. His brother Alfred, in the meantime, had

drifted from work at a London bookseller's into the modern Grub

Street, his adventures in which region will concern us hereafter.

Edmund carried on the Wattleborough business, but with small

success. Between him and his eldest brother existed a good deal

of affection, and in the end John offered him a share in his

flourishing paper works; whereupon Edmund married, deeming

himself well established for life. But John's temper was a

difficult one; Edmund and he quarrelled, parted; and when the

younger died, aged about forty, he left but moderate provision

for his widow and two children.

Only when he had reached middle age did John marry; the

experiment could not be called successful, and Mrs Yule died

three years later, childless.

At fifty-four John Yule retired from active business; he came

back to the scenes of his early life, and began to take an

important part in the municipal affairs of Wattleborough. He was

then a remarkably robust man, fond of out-of-door exercise; he

made it one of his chief efforts to encourage the local Volunteer

movement, the cricket and football clubs, public sports of every

kind, showing no sympathy whatever with those persons who wished

to establish free libraries, lectures, and the like. At his own

expense he built for the Volunteers a handsome drill-shed; he

founded a public gymnasium; and finally he allowed it to be

rumoured that he was going to present the town with a park. But

by presuming too far upon the bodily vigour which prompted these

activities, he passed of a sudden into the state of a confirmed

invalid. On an autumn expedition in the Hebrides he slept one

night under the open sky, with the result that he had an all but

fatal attack of rheumatic fever. After that, though the direction

of his interests was unchanged, he could no longer set the

example to Wattleborough youth of muscular manliness. The

infliction did not improve his temper; for the next year or two

he was constantly at warfare with one or other of his colleagues

and friends, ill brooking that the familiar control of various

local interests should fall out of his hands. But before long he

appeared to resign himself to his fate, and at present

Wattleborough saw little of him. It seemed likely that he might

still found the park which was to bear his name; but perhaps it

would only be done in consequence of directions in his will. It

was believed that he could not live much longer.

With his kinsfolk he held very little communication. Alfred Yule,

a battered man of letters, had visited Wattleborough only

twice(including the present occasion) since John's return hither.

Mrs Edmund Yule, with her daughter--now Mrs Reardon--had been

only once, three years ago. These two families, as you have

heard, were not on terms of amity with each other, owing to

difficulties between Mrs Alfred and Mrs Edmund; but John seemed

to regard both impartially. Perhaps the only real warmth of

feeling he had ever known was bestowed upon Edmund, and Miss

Harrow had remarked that he spoke with somewhat more interest of

Edmund's daughter, Amy, than of Alfred's daughter, Marian. But it

was doubtful whether the sudden disappearance from the earth of

all his relatives would greatly have troubled him. He lived a

life of curious self-absorption, reading newspapers (little

else), and talking with old friends who had stuck to him in spite

of his irascibility.

Miss Harrow received her visitors in a small and soberly

furnished drawing-room. She was nervous, probably because of

Jasper Milvain, whom she had met but once--last spring--and who

on that occasion had struck her as an alarmingly modern young

man. In the shadow of a window-curtain sat a slight, simply-

dressed girl, whose short curly hair and thoughtful countenance

Jasper again recognised. When it was his turn to be presented to

Miss Yule, he saw that she doubted for an instant whether or not

to give her hand; yet she decided to do so, and there was

something very pleasant to him in its warm softness. She smiled

with a slight embarrassment, meeting his look only for a second.

'I have seen you several times, Miss Yule,' he said in a friendly

way, 'though without knowing your name. It was under the great

dome.'

She laughed, readily understanding his phrase.

'I am there very often,' was her reply.

'What great dome?' asked Miss Harrow, with surprise.

'That of the British Museum Reading-room,' explained Jasper;

'known to some of us as the valley of the shadow of books. People

who often work there necessarily get to know each other by sight.

In the same way I knew Miss Yule's father when I happened to pass

him in the road yesterday.'

The three girls began to converse together, perforce of

trivialities. Marian Yule spoke in rather slow tones,

thoughtfully, gently; she had linked her fingers, and laid her

hands, palms downwards, upon her lap--a nervous action. Her

accent was pure, unpretentious; and she used none of the

fashionable turns of speech which would have suggested the habit

of intercourse with distinctly metropolitan society.

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

remarked Maud.

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

The door opened, and Alfred Yule presented himself. He was tall,

and his head seemed a disproportionate culmination to his meagre

body, it was so large and massively featured. Intellect and

uncertainty of temper were equally marked upon his visage; his

brows were knitted in a permanent expression of severity. He had

thin, smooth hair, grizzled whiskers, a shaven chin. In the

multitudinous wrinkles of his face lay a history of laborious and

stormy life; one readily divined in him a struggling and

embittered man. Though he looked older than his years, he had by

no means the appearance of being beyond the ripeness of his

mental vigour.

'It pleases me to meet you, Mr Milvain,' he said, as he stretched

out his bony hand. 'Your name reminds me of a paper in The

Wayside a month or two ago, which you will perhaps allow a

veteran to say was not ill done.'

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

There was positively a touch of visible warmth upon his cheek.

The allusion had come so unexpectedly that it caused him keen

pleasure.

Mr Yule seated himself awkwardly, crossed his legs, and began to

stroke the back of his left hand, which lay on his knee. He

seemed to have nothing more to say at present, and allowed Miss

Harrow and the girls to support conversation. Jasper listened

with a smile for a minute or two, then he addressed the

veteran.'Have you seen The Study this week, Mr Yule?'

'Yes.'

'Did you notice that it contains a very favourable review of a

novel which was tremendously abused in the same columns three

weeks ago?'

Mr Yule started, but Jasper could perceive at once that his

emotion was not disagreeable.

'You don't say so.'

'Yes. The novel is Miss Hawk's "On the Boards." How will the

editor get out of this?'

'H'm! Of course Mr Fadge is not immediately responsible; but

it'll be unpleasant for him, decidedly unpleasant.' He smiled

grimly. 'You hear this, Marian?'

'How is it explained, father?'

'May be accident, of course; but--well, there's no knowing. I

think it very likely this will be the end of Mr Fadge's tenure of

office. Rackett, the proprietor, only wants a plausible excuse

for making a change. The paper has been going downhill for the

last year; I know of two publishing houses who have withdrawn

their advertising from it, and who never send their books for

review. Everyone foresaw that kind of thing from the day Mr Fadge

became editor. The tone of his paragraphs has been detestable.

Two reviews of the same novel, eh? And diametrically opposed? Ha!

ha!'

Gradually he had passed from quiet appreciation of the joke to

undisguised mirth and pleasure. His utterance of the name 'Mr

Fadge' sufficiently intimated that he had some cause of personal

discontent with the editor of The Study.

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

of this.'

'Will, no doubt. Ought to write at once to the papers, calling

attention to this sample of critical impartiality. Ha! ha!'

He rose and went to the window, where for several minutes he

stood gazing at vacancy, the same grim smile still on his face.

Jasper in the meantime amused the ladies (his sisters had heard

him on the subject already) with a description of the two

antagonistic notices. But he did not trust himself to express so

freely as he had done at home his opinion of reviewing in

general; it was more than probable that both Yule and his

daughter did a good deal of such work.

'Suppose we go into the garden,' suggested Miss Harrow,

presently. 'It seems a shame to sit indoors on such a lovely

afternoon.'

Hitherto there had been no mention of the master of the house.

But Mr Yule now remarked to Jasper:

'My brother would be glad if you would come and have a word with

him. He isn't quite well enough to leave his room to-day.'

So, as the ladies went gardenwards, Jasper followed the man of

letters upstairs to a room on the first floor. Here, in a deep

cane chair, which was placed by the open window, sat John Yule.

He was completely dressed, save that instead of coat he wore a

dressing-gown. The facial likeness between him and his brother

was very strong, but John's would universally have been judged

the finer countenance; illness notwithstanding, he had a

complexion which contrasted in its pure colour with Alfred's

parchmenty skin, and there was more finish about his features.

His abundant hair was reddish, his long moustache and trimmed

beard a lighter shade of the same hue.

'So you too are in league with the doctors,' was his bluff

greeting, as he held a hand to the young man and inspected him

with a look of slighting good-nature.

'Well, that certainly is one way of regarding the literary

profession,' admitted Jasper, who had heard enough of John's way

of thinking to understand the remark.

'A young fellow with all the world before him, too. Hang it, Mr

Milvain, is there no less pernicious work you can turn your hand

to?'

'I'm afraid not, Mr Yule. After all, you know, you must be held

in a measure responsible for my depravity.'

'How's that?'

'I understand that you have devoted most of your life to the

making of paper. If that article were not so cheap and so

abundant, people wouldn't have so much temptation to scribble.'

Alfred Yule uttered a short laugh.

'I think you are cornered, John.'

'I wish,' answered John, 'that you were both condemned to write

on such paper as I chiefly made; it was a special kind of whitey-

brown, used by shopkeepers.'

He chuckled inwardly, and at the same time reached out for a box

of cigarettes on a table near him. His brother and Jasper each

took one as he offered them, and began to smoke.

'You would like to see literary production come entirely to an

end?' said Milvain.

'I should like to see the business of literature abolished.'

'There's a distinction, of course. But, on the whole, I should

say that even the business serves a good purpose.'

'What purpose?'

'It helps to spread civilisation.'

'Civilisation!' exclaimed John, scornfully. 'What do you mean by

civilisation? Do you call it civilising men to make them weak,

flabby creatures, with ruined eyes and dyspeptic stomachs? Who is

it that reads most of the stuff that's poured out daily by the

ton from the printing-press? Just the men and women who ought to

spend their leisure hours in open-air exercise; the people who

earn their bread by sedentary pursuits, and who need to live as

soon as they are free from the desk or the counter, not to moon

over small print. Your Board schools, your popular press, your

spread of education! Machinery for ruining the country, that's

what I call it.'

'You have done a good deal, I think, to counteract those

influences in Wattleborough.'

'I hope so; and if only I had kept the use of my limbs I'd have

done a good deal more. I have an idea of offering substantial

prizes to men and women engaged in sedentary work who take an

oath to abstain from all reading, and keep it for a certain

number of years. There's a good deal more need for that than for

abstinence from strong liquor. If I could have had my way I would

have revived prize-fighting.'

His brother laughed with contemptuous impatience.

'You would doubtless like to see military conscription introduced

into England?' said Jasper.

'Of course I should! You talk of civilising; there's no such way

of civilising the masses of the people as by fixed military

service. Before mental training must come training of the body.

Go about the Continent, and see the effect of military service on

loutish peasants and the lowest classes of town population. Do

you know why it isn't even more successful? Because the damnable

education movement interferes. If Germany would shut up her

schools and universities for the next quarter of a century and go

ahead like blazes with military training there'd be a nation such

as the world has never seen. After that, they might begin a

little book-teaching again--say an hour and a half a day for

everyone above nine years old. Do you suppose, Mr Milvain, that

society is going to be reformed by you people who write for

money? Why, you are the very first class that will be swept from

the face of the earth as soon as the reformation really begins!'

Alfred puffed at his cigarette. His thoughts were occupied with

Mr Fadge and The Study. He was considering whether he could aid

in bringing public contempt upon that literary organ and its

editor. Milvain listened to the elder man's diatribe with much

amusement.

'You, now,' pursued John, 'what do you write about?'

'Nothing in particular. I make a salable page or two out of

whatever strikes my fancy.'

'Exactly! You don't even pretend that you've got anything to say.

You live by inducing people to give themselves mental

indigestion--and bodily, too, for that matter.'

'Do you know, Mr Yule, that you have suggested a capital idea to

me? If I were to take up your views, I think it isn't at all

unlikely that I might make a good thing of writing against

writing. It should be my literary specialty to rail against

literature. The reading public should pay me for telling them

that they oughtn't to read. I must think it over.'

'Carlyle has anticipated you,' threw in Alfred.

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

newest philosophy.'

He developed the idea facetiously, whilst John regarded him as he

might have watched a performing monkey.

'There again! your new philosophy!' exclaimed the invalid. 'Why,

it isn't even wholesome stuff, the kind of reading that most of

you force on the public. Now there's the man who has married one

of my nieces--poor lass! Reardon, his name is. You know him, I

dare say. Just for curiosity I had a look at one of his books; it

was called "The Optimist." Of all the morbid trash I ever saw,

that beat everything. I thought of writing him a letter, advising

a couple of anti-bilious pills before bedtime for a few weeks.'

Jasper glanced at Alfred Yule, who wore a look of indifference.

'That man deserves penal servitude in my opinion,' pursued John.

'I'm not sure that it isn't my duty to offer him a couple of

hundred a year on condition that he writes no more.'

Milvain, with a clear vision of his friend in London, burst into

laughter. But at that point Alfred rose from his chair.

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

of phrase and manner which often characterised him.

'Think over your ways whilst you're still young,' said John as he

shook hands with his visitor.

'Your brother speaks quite seriously, I suppose?' Jasper remarked

when he was in the garden with Alfred.

'I think so. It's amusing now and then, but gets rather tiresome

when you hear it often. By-the-bye, you are not personally

acquainted with Mr Fadge?'

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

'The most malicious man in the literary world. There's no

uncharitableness in feeling a certain pleasure when he gets into

a scrape. I could tell you incredible stories about him; but that

kind of thing is probably as little to your taste as it is to

mine.'

Miss Harrow and her companions, having caught sight of the pair,

came towards them. Tea was to be brought out into the garden.

'So you can sit with us and smoke, if you like,' said Miss Harrow

to Alfred. 'You are never quite at your ease, I think, without a

pipe.'

But the man of letters was too preoccupied for society. In a few

minutes he begged that the ladies would excuse his withdrawing;

he had two or three letters to write before post-time, which was

early at Finden.

Jasper, relieved by the veteran's departure, began at once to

make himself very agreeable company. When he chose to lay aside

the topic of his own difficulties and ambitions, he could

converse with a spontaneous gaiety which readily won the

good-will of listeners. Naturally he addressed himself very often

to Marian Yule, whose attention complimented him. She said

little, and evidently was at no time a free talker, but the smile

on her face indicated a mood of quiet enjoyment. When her eyes

wandered, it was to rest on the beauties of the garden, the

moving patches of golden sunshine, the forms of gleaming cloud.

Jasper liked to observe her as she turned her head: there seemed

to him a particular grace in the movement; her head and neck were

admirably formed, and the short hair drew attention to this.

It was agreed that Miss Harrow and Marian should come on the

second day after to have tea with the Milvains. And when Jasper

took leave of Alfred Yule, the latter expressed a wish that they

might have a walk together one of these mornings.

CHAPTER III. HOLIDAY

Jasper's favourite walk led him to a spot distant perhaps a mile

and a half from home. From a tract of common he turned into a

short lane which crossed the Great Western railway, and thence by

a stile into certain meadows forming a compact little valley. One

recommendation of this retreat was that it lay sheltered from all

winds; to Jasper a wind was objectionable. Along the bottom ran

a clear, shallow stream, overhung with elder and hawthorn bushes;

and close by the wooden bridge which spanned it was a great ash

tree, making shadow for cows and sheep when the sun lay hot upon

the open field. It was rare for anyone to come along this path,

save farm labourers morning and evening.

But to-day--the afternoon that followed his visit to John Yule's

house--he saw from a distance that his lounging-place on the

wooden bridge was occupied. Someone else had discovered the

pleasure there was in watching the sun-flecked sparkle of the

water as it flowed over the clean sand and stones. A girl in a

yellow-straw hat; yes, and precisely the person he had hoped, at

the first glance, that it might be. He made no haste as he drew

nearer on the descending path. At length his footstep was heard;

Marian Yule turned her head and clearly recognised him.

She assumed an upright position, letting one of her hands rest

upon the rail. After the exchange of ordinary greetings, Jasper

leaned back against the same support and showed himself disposed

for talk.

'When I was here late in the spring,' he said, 'this ash was only

just budding, though everything else seemed in full leaf.'

'An ash, is it?' murmured Marian. 'I didn't know. I think an oak

is the only tree I can distinguish. Yet,' she added quickly, 'I

knew that the ash was late; some lines of Tennyson come to my

memory.'

'Which are those?'

'Delaying, as the tender ash delays

To clothe herself when all the woods are green,

somewhere in the "Idylls."'

'I don't remember; so I won't pretend to--though I should do so

as a rule.'

She looked at him oddly, and seemed about to laugh, yet did not.

'You have had little experience of the country?' Jasper

continued.

'Very little. You, I think, have known it from childhood?'

'In a sort of way. I was born in Wattleborough, and my people

have always lived here. But I am not very rural in temperament. I

have really no friends here; either they have lost interest in

me, or I in them. What do you think of the girls, my sisters?'

The question, though put with perfect simplicity, was

embarrassing.

'They are tolerably intellectual,' Jasper went on, when he saw

that it would be difficult for her to answer. 'I want to persuade

them to try their hands at literary work of some kind or other.

They give lessons, and both hate it.'

'Would literary work be less--burdensome?' said Marian, without

looking at him.

'Rather more so, you think?'

She hesitated.

'It depends, of course, on--on several things.'

'To be sure,' Jasper agreed. 'I don't think they have any marked

faculty for such work; but as they certainly haven't for

teaching, that doesn't matter. It's a question of learning a

business. I am going through my apprenticeship, and find it a

long affair. Money would shorten it, and, unfortunately, I have

none.'

'Yes,' said Marian, turning her eyes upon the stream, 'money is a

help in everything.'

'Without it, one spends the best part of one's life in toiling

for that first foothold which money could at once purchase. To

have money is becoming of more and more importance in a literary

career; principally because to have money is to have friends.

Year by year, such influence grows of more account. A lucky man

will still occasionally succeed by dint of his own honest

perseverance, but the chances are dead against anyone who can't

make private interest with influential people; his work is simply

overwhelmed by that of the men who have better opportunities.'

'Don't you think that, even to-day, really good work will sooner

or later be recognised?'

'Later, rather than sooner; and very likely the man can't wait;

he starves in the meantime. You understand that I am not speaking

of genius; I mean marketable literary work. The quantity turned

out is so great that there's no hope for the special attention of

the public unless one can afford to advertise hugely. Take the

instance of a successful all-round man of letters; take Ralph

Warbury, whose name you'll see in the first magazine you happen

to open. But perhaps he is a friend of yours?'

'Oh no!'

'Well, I wasn't going to abuse him. I was only going to ask:Is

there any quality which distinguishes his work from that of

twenty struggling writers one could name? Of course not. He's a

clever, prolific man; so are they. But he began with money and

friends; he came from Oxford into the thick of advertised people;

his name was mentioned in print six times a week before he had

written a dozen articles. This kind of thing will become the

rule. Men won't succeed in literature that they may get into

society, but will get into society that they may succeed in

literature.'

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

'There's a friend of mine who writes novels,' Jasper pursued.

'His books are not works of genius, but they are glaringly

distinct from the ordinary circulating novel. Well, after one or

two attempts, he made half a success; that is to say, the

publishers brought out a second edition of the book in a few

months. There was his opportunity. But he couldn't use it; he had

no friends, because he had no money. A book of half that merit,

if written by a man in the position of Warbury when he started,

would have established the reputation of a lifetime. His

influential friends would have referred to it in leaders, in

magazine articles, in speeches, in sermons. It would have run

through numerous editions, and the author would have had nothing

to do but to write another book and demand his price. But the

novel I'm speaking of was practically forgotten a year after its

appearance; it was whelmed beneath the flood of next season's

literature.'

Marian urged a hesitating objection.

'But, under the circumstances, wasn't it in the author's power to

make friends? Was money really indispensable?'

'Why, yes--because he chose to marry. As a bachelor he might

possibly have got into the right circles, though his character

would in any case have made it difficult for him to curry favour.

But as a married man, without means, the situation was hopeless.

Once married you must live up to the standard of the society you

frequent; you can't be entertained without entertaining in

return. Now if his wife had brought him only a couple of thousand

pounds all might have been well. I should have advised him, in

sober seriousness, to live for two years at the rate of a

thousand a year. At the end of that time he would have been

earning enough to continue at pretty much the same rate of

expenditure.'

'Perhaps.'

'Well, I ought rather to say that the average man of letters

would be able to do that. As for Reardon--'

He stopped. The name had escaped him unawares.

'Reardon?' said Marian, looking up. 'You are speaking of him?'

'I have betrayed myself Miss Yule.'

'But what does it matter? You have only spoken in his favour.'

'I feared the name might affect you disagreeably.'

Marian delayed her reply.

'It is true,' she said, 'we are not on friendly terms with my

cousin's family. I have never met Mr Reardon. But I shouldn't

like you to think that the mention of his name is disagreeable to

me.'

'It made me slightly uncomfortable yesterday--the fact that I am

well acquainted with Mrs Edmund Yule, and that Reardon is my

friend. Yet I didn't see why that should prevent my making your

father's acquaintance.'

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

the name unintentionally.'

There was a pause in the dialogue. They had been speaking almost

confidentially, and Marian seemed to become suddenly aware of an

oddness in the situation. She turned towards the uphill path, as

if thinking of resuming her walk.

'You are tired of standing still,' said Jasper. 'May I walk back

a part of the way with you?'

'Thank you; I shall be glad.'

They went on for a few minutes in silence.

'Have you published anything with your signature, Miss Yule?'

Jasper at length inquired.

'Nothing. I only help father a little.'

The silence that again followed was broken this time by Marian.

'When you chanced to mention Mr Reardon's name,' she said, with a

diffident smile in which lay that suggestion of humour so

delightful upon a woman's face, 'you were going to say something

more about him?'

'Only that--' he broke off and laughed. 'Now, how boyish it was,

wasn't it? I remember doing just the same thing once when I came

home from school and had an exciting story to tell, with

preservation of anonymities. Of course I blurted out a name in

the first minute or two, to my father's great amusement. He told

me that I hadn't the diplomatic character. I have been trying to

acquire it ever since.

'But why?'

'It's one of the essentials of success in any kind of public

life. And I mean to succeed, you know. I feel that I am one of

the men who do succeed. But I beg your pardon; you asked me a

question. Really, I was only going to say of Reardon what I had

said before: that he hasn't the tact requisite for acquiring

popularity.'

'Then I may hope that it isn't his marriage with my cousin which

has proved a fatal misfortune?'

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

used his advantages.'

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

'I wish I could see any chance of his being estimated at his

right value. It's very hard to say what is before him.'

'I knew my cousin Amy when we were children,' said Marian,

presently. 'She gave promise of beauty.'

'Yes, she is beautiful.'

'And--the kind of woman to be of help to such a husband?'

'I hardly know how to answer, Miss Yule,' said Jasper, looking

frankly at her. 'Perhaps I had better say that it's unfortunate

they are poor.'

Marian cast down her eyes.

'To whom isn't it a misfortune?' pursued her companion. 'Poverty

is the root of all social ills; its existence accounts even for

the ills that arise from wealth. The poor man is a man labouring

in fetters. I declare there is no word in our language which

sounds so hideous to me as "Poverty."'

Shortly after this they came to the bridge over the railway line.

Jasper looked at his watch.

'Will you indulge me in a piece of childishness?' he said. 'In

less than five minutes a London express goes by; I have often

watched it here, and it amuses me. Would it weary you to wait?'

'I should like to,' she replied with a laugh.

The line ran along a deep cutting, from either side of which grew

hazel bushes and a few larger trees. Leaning upon the parapet of

the bridge, Jasper kept his eye in the westward direction, where

the gleaming rails were visible for more than a mile. Suddenly he

raised his finger.

'You hear?'

Marian had just caught the far-off sound of the train. She looked

eagerly, and in a few moments saw it approaching. The front of

the engine blackened nearer and nearer, coming on with dread

force and speed. A blinding rush, and there burst against the

bridge a great volley of sunlit steam. Milvain and his companion

ran to the opposite parapet, but already the whole train had

emerged, and in a few seconds it had disappeared round a sharp

curve. The leafy branches that grew out over the line swayed

violently backwards and forwards in the perturbed air.

'If I were ten years younger,' said Jasper, laughing, 'I should

say that was jolly! It enspirits me. It makes me feel eager to go

back and plunge into the fight again.'

'Upon me it has just the opposite effect,' fell from Marian, in

very low tones.

'Oh, don't say that! Well, it only means that you haven't had

enough holiday yet. I have been in the country more than a week;

a few days more and I must be off. How long do you think of

staying?'

'Not much more than a week, I think.'

'By-the-bye, you are coming to have tea with us to-morrow,'

Jasper remarked a propos of nothing. Then he returned to another

subject that was in his thoughts.

'It was by a train like that that I first went up to London. Not

really the first time; I mean when I went to live there, seven

years ago. What spirits I was in! A boy of eighteen going to live

independently in London; think of it!'

'You went straight from school?'

'I was for two years at Redmayne College after leaving

Wattleborough Grammar School. Then my father died, and I spent

nearly half a year at home. I was meant to be a teacher, but the

prospect of entering a school by no means appealed to me. A

friend of mine was studying in London for some Civil Service

exam., so I declared that I would go and do the same thing.'

'Did you succeed?'

'Not I! I never worked properly for that kind of thing. I read

voraciously, and got to know London. I might have gone to the

dogs, you know; but by when I had been in London a year a pretty

clear purpose began to form in me. Strange to think that you were

growing up there all the time. I may have passed you in the

street now and then.'

Marian laughed.

'And I did at length see you at the British Museum, you know.'

They turned a corner of the road, and came full upon Marian's

father, who was walking in this direction with eyes fixed upon

the ground.

'So here you are!' he exclaimed, looking at the girl, and for the

moment paying no attention to Jasper. 'I wondered whether I

should meet you.' Then, more dryly, 'How do you do, Mr Milvain?'

In a tone of easy indifference Jasper explained how he came to be

accompanying Miss Yule.

'Shall I walk on with you, father?' Marian asked, scrutinising

his rugged features.

'Just as you please; I don't know that I should have gone much

further. But we might take another way back.'

Jasper readily adapted himself to the wish he discerned in Mr

Yule; at once he offered leave-taking in the most natural way.

Nothing was said on either side about another meeting.

The young man proceeded homewards, but, on arriving, did not at

once enter the house. Behind the garden was a field used for the

grazing of horses; he entered it by the unfastened gate, and

strolled idly hither and thither, now and then standing to

observe a poor worn-out beast, all skin and bone, which had

presumably been sent here in the hope that a little more labour

might still be exacted from it if it were suffered to repose for

a few weeks. There were sores upon its back and legs; it stood in

a fixed attitude of despondency, just flicking away troublesome

flies with its grizzled tail.

It was tea-time when he went in. Maud was not at home, and Mrs

Milvain, tormented by a familiar headache, kept her room; so

Jasper and Dora sat down together. Each had an open book on the

table; throughout the meal they exchanged only a few words.

'Going to play a little?' Jasper suggested when they had gone

into the sitting-room.

'If you like.'

She sat down at the piano, whilst her brother lay on the sofa,

his hands clasped beneath his head. Dora did not play badly, but

an absentmindedness which was commonly observable in her had its

effect upon the music. She at length broke off idly in the middle

of a passage, and began to linger on careless chords. Then,

without turning her head, she asked:

'Were you serious in what you said about writing storybooks?'

'Quite. I see no reason why you shouldn't do something in that

way. But I tell you what; when I get back, I'll inquire into the

state of the market. I know a man who was once engaged at Jolly &

Monk's--the chief publishers of that kind of thing, you know; I

must look him up--what a mistake it is to neglect any

acquaintance!--and get some information out of him. But it's

obvious what an immense field there is for anyone who can just

hit the taste of the' new generation of Board school children.

Mustn't be too goody-goody; that kind of thing is falling out of

date. But you'd have to cultivate a particular kind of vulgarity.

There's an idea, by-the-bye. I'll write a paper on the

characteristics of that new generation; it may bring me a few

guineas, and it would be a help to you.'

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

'What a comical question! It is my business to know something

about every subject--or to know where to get the knowledge.'

'Well,' said Dora, after a pause, 'there's no doubt Maud and I

ought to think very seriously about the future. You are aware,

Jasper, that mother has not been able to save a penny of her

income.'

'I don't see how she could have done. Of course I know what

you're thinking; but for me, it would have been possible. I don't

mind confessing to you that the thought troubles me a little now

and then; I shouldn't like to see you two going off governessing

in strangers' houses. All I can say is, that I am very honestly

working for the end which I am convinced will be most profitable.

I shall not desert you; you needn't fear that. But just put your

heads together, and cultivate your writing faculty. Suppose you

could both together earn about a hundred a year in Grub Street,

it would be better than governessing; wouldn't it?'

'You say you don't know what Miss Yule writes?'

'Well, I know a little more about her than I did yesterday. I've

had an hour's talk with her this afternoon.'

'Indeed?'

'Met her down in the Leggatt fields. I find she doesn't write

independently; just helps her father. What the help amounts to I

can't say. There's something very attractive about her. She

quoted a line or two of Tennyson; the first time I ever heard a

woman speak blank verse with any kind of decency.'

'She was walking alone?'

'Yes. On the way back we met old Yule; he seemed rather grumpy, I

thought. I don't think she's the kind of girl to make a paying

business of literature. Her qualities are personal. And it's

pretty clear to me that the valley of the shadow of books by no

means agrees with her disposition. Possibly old Yule is something

of a tyrant.'

'He doesn't impress me very favourably. Do you think you will

keep up their acquaintance in London?'

'Can't say. I wonder what sort of a woman that mother really is?

Can't be so very gross, I should think.'

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

uneducated girl.'

'But, dash it! by this time she must have got decent manners. Of

course there may be other objections. Mrs Reardon knows nothing

against her.'

Midway in the following morning, as Jasper sat with a book in the

garden, he was surprised to see Alfred Yule enter by the gate.

'I thought,' began the visitor, who seemed in high spirits, 'that

you might like to see something I received this morning.'

He unfolded a London evening paper, and indicated a long letter

from a casual correspondent. It was written by the authoress of

'On the Boards,' and drew attention, with much expenditure of

witticism, to the conflicting notices of that book which had

appeared in The Study. Jasper read the thing with laughing

appreciation.

'Just what one expected!'

'And I have private letters on the subject,' added Mr Yule.

'There has been something like a personal conflict between Fadge

and the man who looks after the minor notices. Fadge,more suo,

charged the other man with a design to damage him and the paper.

There's talk of legal proceedings. An immense joke!'

He laughed in his peculiar croaking way.

'Do you feel disposed for a turn along the lanes, Mr Milvain?'

'By all means.--There's my mother at the window; will you come in

for a moment?'

With a step of quite unusual sprightliness Mr Yule entered the

house. He could talk of but one subject, and Mrs Milvain had to

listen to a laboured account of the blunder just committed by The

Study. It was Alfred's Yule's characteristic that he could do

nothing lighthandedly. He seemed always to converse with effort;

he took a seat with stiff ungainliness; he walked with a

stumbling or sprawling gait.

When he and Jasper set out for their ramble, his loquacity was in

strong contrast with the taciturn mood he had exhibited yesterday

and the day before. He fell upon the general aspects of

contemporary literature.

'. . . The evil of the time is the multiplication of ephemerides.

Hence a demand for essays, descriptive articles, fragments of

criticism, out of all proportion to the supply of even tolerable

work. The men who have an aptitude for turning out this kind of

thing in vast quantities are enlisted by every new periodical,

with the result that their productions are ultimately watered

down into worthlessness. . . . Well now, there's Fadge. Years ago

some of Fadge's work was not without a certain--a certain

conditional promise of--of comparative merit; but now his

writing, in my opinion, is altogether beneath consideration; how

Rackett could be so benighted as to give him The Study--

especially after a man like Henry Hawkridge--passes my

comprehension. Did you read a paper of his, a few months back, in

The Wayside, a preposterous rehabilitation of Elkanah Settle? Ha!

ha! That's what such men are driven to. Elkanah Settle! And he

hadn't even a competent acquaintance with his paltry subject.

Will you credit that he twice or thrice referred to Settle's

reply to "Absalom and Achitophel" by the title of "Absalom

Transposed," when every schoolgirl knows that the thing was

called "Achitophel Transposed"! This was monstrous enough, but

there was something still more contemptible. He positively, I

assure you, attributed the play of "Epsom Wells" to Crowne! I

should have presumed that every student of even the most trivial

primer of literature was aware that "Epsom Wells" was written by

Shadwell. . . . Now, if one were to take Shadwell for the subject

of a paper, one might very well show how unjustly his name has

fallen into contempt. It has often occurred to me to do this.

"But Shadwell never deviates into sense." The sneer, in my

opinion, is entirely unmerited. For my own part, I put Shadwell

very high among the dramatists of his time, and I think I could

show that his absolute worth is by no means inconsiderable.

Shadwell has distinct vigour of dramatic conception; his

dialogue. . . .'

And as he talked the man kept describing imaginary geometrical

figures with the end of his walking-stick; he very seldom raised

his eyes from the ground, and the stoop in his shoulders grew

more and more pronounced, until at a little distance one might

have taken him for a hunchback. At one point Jasper made a pause

to speak of the pleasant wooded prospect that lay before them;

his companion regarded it absently, and in a moment or two asked:

'Did you ever come across Cottle's poem on the Malvern Hills? No?

It contains a couple of the richest lines ever put into print:

It needs the evidence of close deduction

To know that I shall ever reach the top.

Perfectly serious poetry, mind you!'

He barked in laughter. Impossible to interest him in anything

apart from literature; yet one saw him to be a man of solid

understanding, and not without perception of humour. He had read

vastly; his memory was a literary cyclopaedia. His failings,

obvious enough, were the results of a strong and somewhat

pedantic individuality ceaselessly at conflict with unpropitious

circumstances.

Towards the young man his demeanour varied between a shy

cordiality and a dignified reserve which was in danger of seeming

pretentious. On the homeward part of the walk he made a few

discreet inquiries regarding Milvain's literary achievements and

prospects, and the frank self-confidence of the replies appeared

to interest him. But he expressed no desire to number Jasper

among his acquaintances in town, and of his own professional or

private concerns he said not a word.

'Whether he could be any use to me or not, I don't exactly know,'

Jasper remarked to his mother and sisters at dinner. 'I suspect

it's as much as he can do to keep a footing among the younger

tradesmen. But I think he might have said he was willing to help

me if he could.'

'Perhaps,' replied Maud, 'your large way of talking made him

think any such offer superfluous.'

'You have still to learn,' said Jasper, 'that modesty helps a man

in no department of modern life. People take you at your own

valuation. It's the men who declare boldly that they need no help

to whom practical help comes from all sides. As likely as not

Yule will mention my name to someone. "A young fellow who seems

to see his way pretty clear before him." The other man will

repeat it to somebody else, "A young fellow whose way is clear

before him," and so I come to the ears of a man who thinks "Just

the fellow I want; I must look him up and ask him if he'll do

such-and-such a thing." But I should like to see these Yules at

home; I must fish for an invitation.'

In the afternoon, Miss Harrow and Marian came at the expected

hour. Jasper purposely kept out of the way until he was summoned

to the tea-table.

The Milvain girls were so far from effusive, even towards old

acquaintances, that even the people who knew them best spoke of

them as rather cold and perhaps a trifle condescending; there

were people in Wattleborough who declared their airs of

superiority ridiculous and insufferable. The truth was that

nature had endowed them with a larger share of brains than was

common in their circle, and had added that touch of pride which

harmonised so ill with the restrictions of poverty. Their life

had a tone of melancholy, the painful reserve which characterises

a certain clearly defined class in the present day. Had they been

born twenty years earlier, the children of that veterinary

surgeon would have grown up to a very different, and in all

probability a much happier, existence, for their education would

have been limited to the strictly needful, and--certainly in the

case of the girls--nothing would have encouraged them to look

beyond the simple life possible to a poor man's offspring. But

whilst Maud and Dora were still with their homely schoolmistress,

Wattleborough saw fit to establish a Girls' High School, and the

moderateness of the fees enabled these sisters to receive an

intellectual training wholly incompatible with the material

conditions of their life. To the relatively poor (who are so much

worse off than the poor absolutely) education is in most cases a

mocking cruelty. The burden of their brother's support made it

very difficult for Maud and Dora even to dress as became their

intellectual station; amusements, holidays, the purchase of such

simple luxuries as were all but indispensable to them, could not

be thought of. It resulted that they held apart from the society

which would have welcomed them, for they could not bear to

receive without offering in turn. The necessity of giving lessons

galled them; they felt--and with every reason--that it made their

position ambiguous. So that, though they could not help knowing

many people, they had no intimates; they encouraged no one to

visit them, and visited other houses as little as might be.

In Marian Yule they divined a sympathetic nature. She was unlike

any girl with whom they had hitherto associated, and it was the

impulse of both to receive her with unusual friendliness. The

habit of reticence could not be at once overcome, and Marian's

own timidity was an obstacle in the way of free intercourse, but

Jasper's conversation at tea helped to smooth the course of

things.

'I wish you lived anywhere near us,' Dora said to their visitor,

as the three girls walked in the garden afterwards, and Maud

echoed the wish.

'It would be very nice,' was Marian's reply. 'I have no friends

of my own age in London.'

'None?'

'Not one!'

She was about to add something, but in the end kept silence.

'You seem to get along with Miss Yule pretty well, after all,'

said Jasper, when the family were alone again.

'Did you anticipate anything else?' Maud asked.

'It seemed doubtful, up at Yule's house. Well, get her to come

here again before I go. But it's a pity she doesn't play the

piano,' he added, musingly.

For two days nothing was seen of the Yules. Jasper went each

afternoon to the stream in the valley, but did not again meet

Marian. In the meanwhile he was growing restless. A fortnight

always exhausted his capacity for enjoying the companionship of

his mother and sisters, and this time he seemed anxious to get to

the end of his holiday. For all that, there was no continuance of

the domestic bickering which had begun. Whatever the reason, Maud

behaved with unusual mildness to her brother, and Jasper in turn

was gently disposed to both the girls.

On the morning of the third day--it was Saturday--he kept silence

through breakfast, and just as all were about to rise from the

table, he made a sudden announcement:

'I shall go to London this afternoon.'

'This afternoon?' all exclaimed. 'But Monday is your day.'

'No, I shall go this afternoon, by the 2.45.'

And he left the room. Mrs Milvain and the girls exchanged looks.

'I suppose he thinks the Sunday will be too wearisome,' said the

mother.

'Perhaps so,' Maud agreed, carelessly.

Half an hour later, just as Dora was ready to leave the house for

her engagements in Wattleborough, her brother came into the hall

and took his hat, saying:

'I'll walk a little way with you, if you don't mind.'

When they were in the road, he asked her in an offhand manner:

'Do you think I ought to say good-bye to the Yules? Or won't it

signify?'

'I should have thought you would wish to.'

'I don't care about it. And, you see, there's been no hint of a

wish on their part that I should see them in London. No, I'll

just leave you to say good-bye for me.'

'But they expect to see us to-day or to-morrow. You told them you

were not going till Monday, and you don't know but Mr Yule might

mean to say something yet.'

'Well, I had rather he didn't,' replied Jasper, with a laugh.

'Oh, indeed?'

'I don't mind telling you,' he laughed again. 'I'm afraid of that

girl. No, it won't do! You understand that I'm a practical man,

and I shall keep clear of dangers. These days of holiday idleness

put all sorts of nonsense into one's head.'

Dora kept her eyes down, and smiled ambiguously.

'You must act as you think fit,' she remarked at length.

'Exactly. Now I'll turn back. You'll be with us at dinner?'

They parted. But Jasper did not keep to the straight way home.

First of all, he loitered to watch a reaping-machine at work;

then he turned into a lane which led up the hill on which was

John Yule's house. Even if he had purposed making a farewell

call, it was still far too early; all he wanted to do was to pass

an hour of the morning, which threatened to lie heavy on his

hands. So he rambled on, and went past the house, and took the

field-path which would lead him circuitously home again.

His mother desired to speak to him. She was in the dining-room;

in the parlour Maud was practising music.

'I think I ought to tell you of something I did yesterday,

Jasper,' Mrs Milvain began. 'You see, my dear, we have been

rather straitened lately, and my health, you know, grows so

uncertain, and, all things considered, I have been feeling very

anxious about the girls. So I wrote to your uncle William, and

told him that I must positively have that money. I must think of

my own children before his.'

The matter referred to was this. The deceased Mr Milvain had a

brother who was a struggling shopkeeper in a Midland town. Some

ten years ago, William Milvain, on the point of bankruptcy, had

borrowed a hundred and seventy pounds from his brother in

Wattleborough, and this debt was still unpaid; for on the death

of Jasper's father repayment of the loan was impossible for

William, and since then it had seemed hopeless that the sum would

ever be recovered. The poor shopkeeper had a large family, and

Mrs Milvain, notwithstanding her own position, had never felt

able to press him; her relative, however, often spoke of the

business, and declared his intention of paying whenever he could.

'You can't recover by law now, you know,' said Jasper.

'But we have a right to the money, law or no law. He must pay

it.'

'He will simply refuse--and be justified. Poverty doesn't allow

of honourable feeling, any more than of compassion. I'm sorry you

wrote like that. You won't get anything, and you might as well

have enjoyed the reputation of forbearance.'

Mrs Milvain was not able to appreciate this characteristic

remark. Anxiety weighed upon her, and she became irritable.

'I am obliged to say, Jasper, that you seem rather thoughtless.

If it were only myself I would make any sacrifice for you; but

you must remember--'

'Now listen, mother,' he interrupted, laying a hand on her

shoulder; 'I have been thinking about all this, and the fact of

the matter is, I shall do my best to ask you for no more money.

It may or may not be practicable, but I'll have a try. So don't

worry. If uncle writes that he can't pay, just explain why you

wrote, and keep him gently in mind of the thing, that's all. One

doesn't like to do brutal things if one can avoid them, you

know.'

The young man went to the parlour and listened to Maud's music

for awhile. But restlessness again drove him forth. Towards

eleven o'clock he was again ascending in the direction of John

Yule's house. Again he had no intention of calling, but when he

reached the iron gates he lingered.

'I will, by Jove!' he said within himself at last. 'Just to prove

I have complete command of myself. It's to be a display of

strength, not weakness.'

At the house door he inquired for Mr Alfred Yule. That gentleman

had gone in the carriage to Wattleborough, half an hour ago, with

his brother.

'Miss Yule?'

Yes, she was within. Jasper entered the sitting-room, waited a

few moments, and Marian appeared. She wore a dress in which

Milvain had not yet seen her, and it had the effect of making him

regard her attentively. The smile with which she had come towards

him passed from her face, which was perchance a little warmer of

hue than commonly.

'I'm sorry your father is away, Miss Yule,' Jasper began, in an

animated voice. 'I wanted to say good-bye to him. I return to

London in a few hours.'

'You are going sooner than you intended?'

'Yes, I feel I mustn't waste any more time. I think the country

air is doing you good; you certainly look better than when I

passed you that first day.'

'I feel better, much.'

'My sisters are anxious to see you again. I shouldn't wonder if

they come up this afternoon.'

Marian had seated herself on the sofa, and her hands were linked

upon her lap in the same way as when Jasper spoke with her here

before, the palms downward. The beautiful outline of her bent

head was relieved against a broad strip of sunlight on the wall

behind her.

'They deplore,' he continued in a moment, 'that they should come

to know you only to lose you again so soon.

'I have quite as much reason to be sorry,' she answered, looking

at him with the slightest possible smile. 'But perhaps they will

let me write to them, and hear from them now and then.'

'They would think it an honour. Country girls are not often

invited to correspond with literary ladies in London.'

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

once rose.

'Father will be very sorry,' Marian began, with one quick glance

towards the window and then another towards the door. 'Perhaps he

might possibly be able to see you before you go?'

Jasper stood in hesitation. There was a look on the girl's face

which, under other circumstances, would have suggested a ready

answer.

'I mean,' she added, hastily, 'he might just call, or even see

you at the station?'

'Oh, I shouldn't like to give Mr Yule any trouble. It's my own

fault, for deciding to go to-day. I shall leave by the 2.45.'

He offered his hand.

'I shall look for your name in the magazines, Miss Yule.'

'Oh, I don't think you will ever find it there.'

He laughed incredulously, shook hands with her a second time, and

strode out of the room, head erect--feeling proud of himself.

When Dora came home at dinner-time, he informed her of what he

had done.

'A very interesting girl,' he added impartially. 'I advise you to

make a friend of her. Who knows but you may live in London some

day, and then she might be valuable--morally, I mean. For myself,

I shall do my best not to see her again for a long time; she's

dangerous.'

Jasper was unaccompanied when he went to the station. Whilst

waiting on the platform, he suffered from apprehension lest

Alfred Yule's seamed visage should present itself; but no

acquaintance approached him. Safe in the corner of his third-

class carriage, he smiled at the last glimpse of the familiar

fields, and began to think of something he had decided to write

for The West End.

CHAPTER IV. AN AUTHOR AND HIS WIFE

Eight flights of stairs, consisting alternately of eight and nine

steps. Amy had made the calculation, and wondered what was the

cause of this arrangement. The ascent was trying, but then no one

could contest the respectability of the abode. In the flat

immediately beneath resided a successful musician, whose carriage

and pair came at a regular hour each afternoon to take him and

his wife for a most respectable drive. In this special building

no one else seemed at present to keep a carriage, but all the

tenants were gentlefolk.

And as to living up at the very top, why, there were distinct

advantages--as so many people of moderate income are nowadays

hastening to discover. The noise from the street was diminished

at this height; no possible tramplers could establish themselves

above your head; the air was bound to be purer than that of

inferior strata; finally, one had the flat roof whereon to sit or

expatiate in sunny weather. True that a gentle rain of soot was

wont to interfere with one's comfort out there in the open, but

such minutiae are easily forgotten in the fervour of domestic

description. It was undeniable that on a fine day one enjoyed

extensive views. The green ridge from Hampstead to Highgate, with

Primrose Hill and the foliage of Regent's Park in the foreground;

the suburban spaces of St John's Wood, Maida Vale, Kilburn;

Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, lying low by the

side of the hidden river, and a glassy gleam on far-off hills

which meant the Crystal Palace; then the clouded majesty of

eastern London, crowned by St Paul's dome. These things one's

friends were expected to admire. Sunset often afforded rich

effects, but they were for solitary musing.

A sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen. But the kitchen was called

dining-room, or even parlour at need; for the cooking-range lent

itself to concealment behind an ornamental screen, the walls

displayed pictures and bookcases, and a tiny scullery which lay

apart sufficed for the coarser domestic operations. This was

Amy's territory during the hours when her husband was working, or

endeavouring to work. Of necessity, Edwin Reardon used the front

room as his study. His writing-table stood against the window;

each wall had its shelves of serried literature; vases, busts,

engravings (all of the inexpensive kind) served for ornaments.

A maid-servant, recently emancipated from the Board school, came

at half-past seven each morning, and remained until two o'clock,

by which time the Reardons had dined; on special occasions, her

services were enlisted for later hours. But it was Reardon's

habit to begin the serious work of the day at about three

o'clock, and to continue with brief interruptions until ten or

eleven; in many respects an awkward arrangement, but enforced by

the man's temperament and his poverty.

One evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper

before him. It was the hour of sunset. His outlook was upon the

backs of certain large houses skirting Regent's Park, and lights

had begun to show here and there in the windows:in one room a man

was discoverable dressing for dinner, he had not thought it

worth while to lower the blind; in another, some people were

playing billiards. The higher windows reflected a rich glow from

the western sky.

For two or three hours Reardon had been seated in much the same

attitude. Occasionally he dipped his pen into the ink and seemed

about to write: but each time the effort was abortive. At the

head of the paper was inscribed 'Chapter III.,' but that was all.

And now the sky was dusking over; darkness would soon fall.

He looked something older than his years, which were two-and-

thirty; on his face was the pallor of mental suffering. Often he

fell into a fit of absence, and gazed at vacancy with wide,

miserable eyes. Returning to consciousness, he fidgeted nervously

on his chair, dipped his pen for the hundredth time, bent forward

in feverish determination to work. Useless; he scarcely knew what

he wished to put into words, and his brain refused to construct

the simplest sentence.

The colours faded from the sky, and night came quickly. Reardon

threw his arms upon the desk, let his head fall forward, and

remained so, as if asleep.

Presently the door opened, and a young, clear voice made inquiry:

'Don't you want the lamp, Edwin?'

The man roused himself, turned his chair a little, and looked

towards the open door.

'Come here, Amy.'

His wife approached. It was not quite dark in the room, for a

glimmer came from the opposite houses.

'What's the matter? Can't you do anything?'

'I haven't written a word to-day. At this rate, one goes crazy.

Come and sit by me a minute, dearest.'

'I'll get the lamp.'

'No; come and talk to me; we can understand each other better.'

'Nonsense; you have such morbid ideas. I can't bear to sit in the

gloom.'

At once she went away, and quickly reappeared with a

reading-lamp, which she placed on the square table in the middle

of the room.

'Draw down the blind, Edwin.'

She was a slender girl, but not very tall; her shoulders seemed

rather broad in proportion to her waist and the part of her

figure below it. The hue of her hair was ruddy gold; loosely

arranged tresses made a superb crown to the beauty of her small,

refined head. Yet the face was not of distinctly feminine type;

with short hair and appropriate clothing, she would have passed

unquestioned as a handsome boy of seventeen, a spirited boy too,

and one much in the habit of giving orders to inferiors. Her nose

would have been perfect but for ever so slight a crook which made

it preferable to view her in full face than in profile; her lips

curved sharply out, and when she straightened them of a sudden,

the effect was not reassuring to anyone who had counted upon her

for facile humour. In harmony with the broad shoulders, she had a

strong neck; as she bore the lamp into the room a slight turn of

her head showed splendid muscles from the ear downward. It was a

magnificently clear-cut bust; one thought, in looking at her, of

the newly-finished head which some honest sculptor has wrought

with his own hand from the marble block; there was a suggestion

of 'planes' and of the chisel. The atmosphere was cold; ruddiness

would have been quite out of place on her cheeks, and a flush

must have been the rarest thing there.

Her age was not quite two-and-twenty; she had been wedded nearly

two years, and had a child ten months old.

As for her dress, it was unpretending in fashion and colour, but

of admirable fit. Every detail of her appearance denoted

scrupulous personal refinement. She walked well; you saw that the

foot, however gently, was firmly planted. When she seated herself

her posture was instantly graceful, and that of one who is

indifferent about support for the back.

'What is the matter?' she began. 'Why can't you get on with the

story?'

It was the tone of friendly remonstrance, not exactly of

affection, not at all of tender solicitude.

Reardon had risen and wished to approach her, but could not do so

directly. He moved to another part of the room, then came round

to the back of her chair, and bent his face upon her shoulder.

'Amy--'

'Well.'

'I think it's all over with me. I don't think I shall write any

more.'

'Don't be so foolish, dear. What is to prevent your writing?'

'Perhaps I am only out of sorts. But I begin to be horribly

afraid. My will seems to be fatally weakened. I can't see my way

to the end of anything; if I get hold of an idea which seems

good, all the sap has gone out of it before I have got it into

working shape. In these last few months, I must have begun a

dozen different books; I have been ashamed to tell you of each

new beginning. I write twenty pages, perhaps, and then my courage

fails. I am disgusted with the thing, and can't go on with it--

can't! My fingers refuse to hold the pen. In mere writing, I have

done enough to make much more than three volumes; but it's all

destroyed.'

'Because of your morbid conscientiousness. There was no need to

destroy what you had written. It was all good enough for the

market.'

'Don't use that word, Amy. I hate it!'

'You can't afford to hate it,' was her rejoinder, in very

practical tones. 'However it was before, you must write for the

market now. You have admitted that yourself.'

He kept silence.

'Where are you?' she went on to ask. 'What have you actually

done?'

'Two short chapters of a story I can't go on with. The three

volumes lie before me like an interminable desert. Impossible to

get through them. The idea is stupidly artificial, and I haven't

a living character in it.'

'The public don't care whether the characters are living or not.-

-Don't stand behind me, like that; it's such an awkward way of

talking. Come and sit down.'

He drew away, and came to a position whence he could see her

face, but kept at a distance.

'Yes,' he said, in a different way, 'that's the worst of it.'

'What is?'

'That you--well, it's no use.'

'That I--what?'

She did not look at him; her lips, after she had spoken, drew in

a little.

'That your disposition towards me is being affected by this

miserable failure. You keep saying to yourself that I am not what

you thought me. Perhaps you even feel that I have been guilty of

a sort of deception. I don't blame you; it's natural enough.'

'I'll tell you quite honestly what I do think,' she replied,

after a short silence. 'You are much weaker than I imagined.

Difficulties crush you, instead of rousing you to struggle.'

'True. It has always been my fault.'

'But don't you feel it's rather unmanly, this state of things?

You say you love me, and I try to believe it. But whilst you are

saying so, you let me get nearer and nearer to miserable, hateful

poverty. What is to become of me--of us? Shall you sit here day

after day until our last shilling is spent?'

'No; of course I must do something.'

'When shall you begin in earnest? In a day or two you must pay

this quarter's rent, and that will leave us just about fifteen

pounds in the world. Where is the rent at Christmas to come from?

What are we to live upon? There's all sorts of clothing to be

bought; there'll be all the extra expenses of winter. Surely it's

bad enough that we have had to stay here all the summer; no

holiday of any kind. I have done my best not to grumble about it,

but I begin to think that it would be very much wiser if I did

grumble.'

She squared her shoulders, and gave her head just a little shake,

as if a fly had troubled her.

'You bear everything very well and kindly,' said Reardon. 'My

behaviour is contemptible; I know that. Good heavens! if I only

had some business to go to, something I could work at in any

state of mind, and make money out of! Given this chance, I would

work myself to death rather than you should lack anything you

desire. But I am at the mercy of my brain; it is dry and

powerless. How I envy those clerks who go by to their offices in

the morning! There's the day's work cut out for them; no question

of mood and feeling; they have just to work at something, and

when the evening comes, they have earned their wages, they are

free to rest and enjoy themselves. What an insane thing it is to

make literature one's only means of support! When the most

trivial accident may at any time prove fatal to one's power of

work for weeks or months. No, that is the unpardonable sin! To

make a trade of an art! I am rightly served for attempting such a

brutal folly.'

He turned away in a passion of misery.

'How very silly it is to talk like this!' came in Amy's voice,

clearly critical. 'Art must be practised as a trade, at all

events in our time. This is the age of trade. Of course if one

refuses to be of one's time, and yet hasn't the means to live

independently, what can result but breakdown and wretchedness?

The fact of the matter is, you could do fairly good work, and

work which would sell, if only you would bring yourself to look

at things in a more practical way. It's what Mr Milvain is always

saying, you know.'

'Milvain's temperament is very different from mine. He is

naturally light-hearted and hopeful; I am naturally the opposite.

What you and he say is true enough; the misfortune is that I

can't act upon it. I am no uncompromising artistic pedant; I am

quite willing to try and do the kind of work that will sell;

under the circumstances it would be a kind of insanity if I

refused. But power doesn't answer to the will. My efforts are

utterly vain; I suppose the prospect of pennilessness is itself a

hindrance; the fear haunts me. With such terrible real things

pressing upon me, my imagination can shape nothing substantial.

When I have laboured out a story, I suddenly see it in a light of

such contemptible triviality that to work at it is an impossible

thing.'

'You are ill, that's the fact of the matter. You ought to have

had a holiday. I think even now you had better go away for a week

or two. Do, Edwin!'

'Impossible! It would be the merest pretence of holiday. To go

away and leave you here--no!'

'Shall I ask mother or Jack to lend us some money?'

'That would be intolerable.'

'But this state of things is intolerable!'

Reardon walked the length of the room and back again.

'Your mother has no money to lend, dear, and your brother would

do it so unwillingly that we can't lay ourselves under such an

obligation.'

'Yet it will come to that, you know,' remarked Amy, calmly.

'No, it shall not come to that. I must and will get something

done long before Christmas. If only you--'

He came and took one of her hands.

'If only you will give me more sympathy, dearest. You see, that's

one side of my weakness. I am utterly dependent upon you. Your

kindness is the breath of life to me. Don't refuse it!'

'But I have done nothing of the kind.'

'You begin to speak very coldly. And I understand your feeling of

disappointment. The mere fact of your urging me to do anything

that will sell is a proof of bitter disappointment. You would

have looked with scorn at anyone who talked to me like that two

years ago. You were proud of me because my work wasn't altogether

common, and because I had never written a line that was meant to

attract the vulgar. All that's over now. If you knew how dreadful

it is to see that you have lost your hopes of me!'

'Well, but I haven't--altogether,' Amy replied, meditatively. 'I

know very well that, if you had a lot of money, you would do

better things than ever.'

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

'But, you see, we haven't money, and there's little chance of our

getting any. That scrubby old uncle won't leave anything to us; I

feel too sure of it. I often feel disposed to go and beg him on

my knees to think of us in his will.' She laughed. 'I suppose

it's impossible, and would be useless; but I should be capable of

it if I knew it would bring money.'

Reardon said nothing.

'I didn't think so much of money when we were married,' Amy

continued. 'I had never seriously felt the want of it, you know.

I did think--there's no harm in confessing it--that you were sure

to be rich some day; but I should have married you all the same

if I had known that you would win only reputation.'

'You are sure of that?'

'Well, I think so. But I know the value of money better now. I

know it is the most powerful thing in the world. If I had to

choose between a glorious reputation with poverty and a

contemptible popularity with wealth, I should choose the latter.'

'No!'

'I should.'

'Perhaps you are right.'

He turned away with a sigh.

'Yes, you are right. What is reputation? If it is deserved, it

originates with a few score of people among the many millions who

would never have recognised the merit they at last applaud.

That's the lot of a great genius. As for a mediocrity like me--

what ludicrous absurdity to fret myself in the hope that

half-a-dozen folks will say I am "above the average!" After all,

is there sillier vanity than this? A year after I have published

my last book, I shall be practically forgotten; ten years later,

I shall be as absolutely forgotten as one of those novelists of

the early part of this century, whose names one doesn't even

recognise. What fatuous posing!'

Amy looked askance at him, but replied nothing.

'And yet,' he continued, 'of course it isn't only for the sake of

reputation that one tries to do uncommon work. There's the

shrinking from conscious insincerity of workmanship--which most

of the writers nowadays seem never to feel. "It's good enough for

the market"; that satisfies them. And perhaps they are justified.

I can't pretend that I rule my life by absolute ideals; I admit

that everything is relative. There is no such thing as goodness

or badness, in the absolute sense, of course. Perhaps I am

absurdly inconsistent when--though knowing my work can't be first

rate--I strive to make it as good as possible. I don't say this

in irony, Amy; I really mean it. It may very well be that I am

just as foolish as the people I ridicule for moral and religious

superstition. This habit of mine is superstitious. How well I can

imagine the answer of some popular novelist if he heard me speak

scornfully of his books. "My dear fellow," he might say, "do you

suppose I am not aware that my books are rubbish? I know it just

as well as you do. But my vocation is to live comfortably. I have

a luxurious house, a wife and children who are happy and grateful

to me for their happiness. If you choose to live in a garret,

and, what's worse, make your wife and children share it with you,

that's your concern." The man would be abundantly right.'

'But,' said Amy, 'why should you assume that his books are

rubbish? Good work succeeds--now and then.'

'I speak of the common kind of success, which is never due to

literary merit. And if I speak bitterly, well, I am suffering

from my powerlessness. I am a failure, my poor girl, and it isn't

easy for me to look with charity on the success of men who

deserved it far less than I did, when I was still able to work.'

'Of course, Edwin, if you make up your mind that you are a

failure, you will end by being so. But I'm convinced there's no

reason that you should fail to make a living with your pen. Now

let me advise you; put aside all your strict ideas about what is

worthy and what is unworthy, and just act upon my advice. It's

impossible for you to write a three-volume novel; very well, then

do a short story of a kind that's likely to be popular. You know

Mr Milvain is always saying that the long novel has had its day,

and that in future people will write shilling books. Why not try?

Give yourself a week to invent a sensational plot, and then a

fortnight for the writing. Have it ready for the new season at

the end of October. If you like, don't put your name to it; your

name certainly would have no weight with this sort of public.

Just make it a matter of business, as Mr Milvain says, and see if

you can't earn some money.'

He stood and regarded her. His expression was one of pained

perplexity.

'You mustn't forget, Amy, that it needs a particular kind of

faculty to write stories of this sort. The invention of a plot is

just the thing I find most difficult.'

'But the plot may be as silly as you like, providing it holds the

attention of vulgar readers. Think of "The Hollow Statue", what

could be more idiotic? Yet it sells by thousands.'

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

low voice.

'Very well, then will you tell me what you propose to do?'

'I might perhaps manage a novel in two volumes, instead of

three.'

He seated himself at the writing-table, and stared at the blank

sheets of paper in an anguish of hopelessness.

'It will take you till Christmas,' said Amy, 'and then you will

get perhaps fifty pounds for it.'

'I must do my best. I'll go out and try to get some ideas. I--'

He broke off and looked steadily at his wife.

'What is it?' she asked.

'Suppose I were to propose to you to leave this flat and take

cheaper rooms?'

He uttered it in a shamefaced way, his eyes falling. Amy kept

silence.

'We might sublet it,' he continued, in the same tone, 'for the

last year of the lease.'

'And where do you propose to live?' Amy inquired, coldly.

'There's no need to be in such a dear neighbourhood. We could go

to one of the outer districts. One might find three unfurnished

rooms for about eight-and-sixpence a week--less than half our

rent here.'

'You must do as seems good to you.'

'For Heaven's sake, Amy, don't speak to me in that way! I can't

stand that! Surely you can see that I am driven to think of every

possible resource. To speak like that is to abandon me. Say you

can't or won't do it, but don't treat me as if you had no share

in my miseries!'

She was touched for the moment.

'I didn't mean to speak unkindly, dear. But think what it means,

to give up our home and position. That is open confession of

failure. It would be horrible.'

'I won't think of it. I have three months before Christmas, and I

will finish a book!'

'I really can't see why you shouldn't. Just do a certain number

of pages every day. Good or bad, never mind; let the pages be

finished. Now you have got two chapters--'

'No; that won't do. I must think of a better subject.'

Amy made a gesture of impatience.

'There you are! What does the subject matter? Get this book

finished and sold, and then do something better next time.'

'Give me to-night, just to think. Perhaps one of the old stories

I have thrown aside will come back in a clearer light. I'll go

out for an hour; you don't mind being left alone?'

'You mustn't think of such trifles as that.'

'But nothing that concerns you in the slightest way is a trifle

to me--nothing! I can't bear that you should forget that. Have

patience with me, darling, a little longer.'

He knelt by her, and looked up into her face.

'Say only one or two kind words--like you used to!'

She passed her hand lightly over his hair, and murmured something

with a faint smile.

Then Reardon took his hat and stick and descended the eight

flights of stone steps, and walked in the darkness round the

outer circle of Regent's Park, racking his fagged brain in a

hopeless search for characters, situations, motives.

CHAPTER V. THE WAY HITHER

Even in mid-rapture of his marriage month he had foreseen this

possibility; but fate had hitherto rescued him in sudden ways

when he was on the brink of self-abandonment, and it was hard to

imagine that this culmination of triumphant joy could be a

preface to base miseries.

He was the son of a man who had followed many different pursuits,

and in none had done much more than earn a livelihood. At the age

of forty--when Edwin, his only child, was ten years old--Mr

Reardon established himself in the town of Hereford as a

photographer, and there he abode until his death, nine years

after, occasionally risking some speculation not inconsistent

with the photographic business, but always with the result of

losing the little capital he ventured. Mrs Reardon died when

Edwin had reached his fifteenth year. In breeding and education

she was superior to her husband, to whom, moreover, she had

brought something between four and five hundred pounds; her

temper was passionate in both senses of the word, and the

marriage could hardly be called a happy one, though it was never

disturbed by serious discord. The photographer was a man of whims

and idealisms; his wife had a strong vein of worldly ambition.

They made few friends, and it was Mrs Reardon's frequently

expressed desire to go and live in London, where fortune, she

thought, might be kinder to them. Reardon had all but made up his

mind to try this venture when he suddenly became a widower; after

that he never summoned energy to embark on new enterprises.

The boy was educated at an excellent local school; at eighteen he

had a far better acquaintance with the ancient classics than most

lads who have been expressly prepared for a university, and,

thanks to an anglicised Swiss who acted as an assistant in Mr

Reardon's business, he not only read French, but could talk it

with a certain haphazard fluency. These attainments, however,

were not of much practical use; the best that could be done for

Edwin was to place him in the office of an estate agent. His

health was indifferent, and it seemed likely that open-air

exercise, of which he would have a good deal under the particular

circumstances of the case, might counteract the effects of study

too closely pursued.

At his father's death he came into possession (practically it was

put at his disposal at once, though he was little more than

nineteen) of about two hundred pounds--a life-insurance for five

hundred had been sacrificed to exigencies not very long before.

He had no difficulty in deciding how to use this money. His

mother's desire to live in London had in him the force of an

inherited motive; as soon as possible he released himself from

his uncongenial occupations, converted into money all the

possessions of which he had not immediate need, and betook

himself to the metropolis.

To become a literary man, of course.

His capital lasted him nearly four years, for, notwithstanding

his age, he lived with painful economy. The strangest life, of

almost absolute loneliness. From a certain point of Tottenham

Court Road there is visible a certain garret window in a certain

street which runs parallel with that thoroughfare; for the

greater part of these four years the garret in question was

Reardon's home. He paid only three-and-sixpence a week for the

privilege of living there; his food cost him about a shilling a

day; on clothing and other unavoidable expenses he laid out some

five pounds yearly. Then he bought books--volumes which cost

anything between twopence and two shillings; further than that he

durst not go. A strange time, I assure you.

When he had completed his twenty-first year, he desired to

procure a reader's ticket for the British Museum. Now this was

not such a simple matter as you may suppose; it was necessary to

obtain the signature of some respectable householder, and Reardon

was acquainted with no such person. His landlady was a decent

woman enough, and a payer of rates and taxes, but it would look

odd, to say the least of it, to present oneself in Great Russell

Street armed with this person's recommendation. There was nothing

for it but to take a bold step, to force himself upon the

attention of a stranger--the thing from which his pride had

always shrunk. He wrote to a well-known novelist--a man with

whose works he had some sympathy. 'I am trying to prepare myself

for a literary career. I wish to study in the Reading-room of the

British Museum, but have no acquaintance to whom I can refer in

the ordinary way. Will you help me--I mean, in this particular

only?' That was the substance of his letter. For reply came an

invitation to a house in the West-end. With fear and trembling

Reardon answered the summons. He was so shabbily attired; he was

so diffident from the habit of living quite alone; he was

horribly afraid lest it should be supposed that he looked for

other assistance than he had requested. Well, the novelist was a

rotund and jovial man; his dwelling and his person smelt of

money; he was so happy himself that he could afford to be kind to

others.

'Have you published anything?' he inquired, for the young man's

letter had left this uncertain.

'Nothing. I have tried the magazines, but as yet without

success.'

'But what do you write?'

'Chiefly essays on literary subjects.'

'I can understand that you would find a difficulty in disposing

of them. That kind of thing is supplied either by men of

established reputation, or by anonymous writers who have a

regular engagement on papers and magazines. Give me an example of

your topics.'

'I have written something lately about Tibullus.'

'Oh, dear! Oh, dear!--Forgive me, Mr Reardon; my feelings were

too much for me; those names have been my horror ever since I was

a schoolboy. Far be it from me to discourage you, if your line is

to be solid literary criticism; I will only mention, as a matter

of fact, that such work is indifferently paid and in very small

demand. It hasn't occurred to you to try your hand at fiction?'

In uttering the word he beamed; to him it meant a thousand or so

a year.

'I am afraid I have no talent for that.'

The novelist could do no more than grant his genial signature for

the specified purpose, and add good wishes in abundance. Reardon

went home with his brain in a whirl. He had had his first glimpse

of what was meant by literary success. That luxurious study, with

its shelves of handsomely-bound books, its beautiful pictures,

its warm, fragrant air--great heavens! what might not a man do

who sat at his ease amid such surroundings!

He began to work at the Reading-room, but at the same time he

thought often of the novelist's suggestion, and before long had

written two or three short stories. No editor would accept them;

but he continued to practise himself in that art, and by degrees

came to fancy that, after all, perhaps he had some talent for

fiction. It was significant, however, that no native impulse had

directed him to novel-writing. His intellectual temper was that

of the student, the scholar, but strongly blended with a love of

independence which had always made him think with distaste of a

teacher's life. The stories he wrote were scraps of immature

psychology--the last thing a magazine would accept from an

unknown man.

His money dwindled, and there came a winter during which he

suffered much from cold and hunger. What a blessed refuge it was,

there under the great dome, when he must else have sat in his

windy garret with the mere pretence of a fire! The Reading-room

was his true home; its warmth enwrapped him kindly; the peculiar

odour of its atmosphere--at first a cause of headache--grew dear

and delightful to him. But he could not sit here until his last

penny should be spent. Something practical must be done, and

practicality was not his strong point.

Friends in London he had none; but for an occasional conversation

with his landlady he would scarcely have spoken a dozen words in

a week. His disposition was the reverse of democratic, and he

could not make acquaintances below his own intellectual level.

Solitude fostered a sensitiveness which to begin with was

extreme; the lack of stated occupation encouraged his natural

tendency to dream and procrastinate and hope for the improbable.

He was a recluse in the midst of millions, and viewed with dread

the necessity of going forth to fight for daily food.

Little by little he had ceased to hold any correspondence with

his former friends at Hereford. The only person to whom he still

wrote and from whom he still heard was his mother's father--an

old man who lived at Derby, retired from the business of a

draper, and spending his last years pleasantly enough with a

daughter who had remained single. Edwin had always been a

favourite with his grandfather, though they had met only once or

twice during the past eight years. But in writing he did not

allow it to be understood that he was in actual want, and he felt

that he must come to dire extremities before he could bring

himself to beg assistance.

He had begun to answer advertisements, but the state of his

wardrobe forbade his applying for any but humble positions. Once

or twice he presented himself personally at offices, but his

reception was so mortifying that death by hunger seemed

preferable to a continuance of such experiences. The injury to

his pride made him savagely arrogant; for days after the last

rejection he hid himself in his garret, hating the world.

He sold his little collection of books, and of course they

brought only a trifling sum. That exhausted, he must begin to

sell his clothes. And then--?

But help was at hand. One day he saw it advertised in a newspaper

that the secretary of a hospital in the north of London was in

need of a clerk; application was to be made by letter. He wrote,

and two days later, to his astonishment, received a reply asking

him to wait upon the secretary at a certain hour. In a fever of

agitation he kept the appointment, and found that his business

was with a young man in the very highest spirits, who walked up

and down a little office (the hospital was of the 'special'

order, a house of no great size), and treated the matter in hand

as an excellent joke.

'I thought, you know, of engaging someone much younger--quite a

lad, in fact. But look there! Those are the replies to my

advertisement.'

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

consumedly.

'Impossible to read them all, you know. It seemed to me that the

fairest thing would be to shake them together, stick my hand in,

and take out one by chance. If it didn't seem very promising, I

would try a second time. But the first letter was yours, and I

thought the fair thing to do was at all events to see you, you

know. The fact is, I am only able to offer a pound a week.'

'I shall be very glad indeed to take that,' said Reardon, who was

bathed in perspiration.

'Then what about references, and so on?' proceeded the young man,

chuckling and rubbing his hands together.

The applicant was engaged. He had barely strength to walk home;

the sudden relief from his miseries made him, for the first time,

sensible of the extreme physical weakness into which he had sunk.

For the next week he was very ill, but he did not allow this to

interfere with his new work, which was easily learnt and not

burdensome.

He held this position for three years, and during that time

important things happened. When he had recovered from his state

of semi-starvation, and was living in comfort (a pound a week is

a very large sum if you have previously had to live on ten

shillings), Reardon found that the impulse to literary production

awoke in him more strongly than ever. He generally got home from

the hospital about six o'clock, and the evening was his own. In

this leisure time he wrote a novel in two volumes; one publisher

refused it, but a second offered to bring it out on the terms of

half profits to the author. The book appeared, and was well

spoken of in one or two papers; but profits there were none to

divide. In the third year of his clerkship he wrote a novel in

three volumes; for this his publishers gave him twenty-five

pounds, with again a promise of half the profits after deduction

of the sum advanced. Again there was no pecuniary success. He had

just got to work upon a third book, when his grandfather at Derby

died and left him four hundred pounds.

He could not resist the temptation to recover his freedom. Four

hundred pounds, at the rate of eighty pounds a year, meant five

years of literary endeavour. In that period he could certainly

determine whether or not it was his destiny to live by the pen.

In the meantime his relations with the secretary of the hospital,

Carter by name, had grown very friendly. When Reardon began to

publish books, the high-spirited Mr Carter looked upon him with

something of awe; and when the literary man ceased to be a clerk,

there was nothing to prevent association on equal terms between

him and his former employer. They continued to see a good deal of

each other, and Carter made Reardon acquainted with certain of

his friends, among whom was one John Yule, an easy-going,

selfish, semi-intellectual young man who had a place in a

Government office. The time of solitude had gone by for Reardon.

He began to develop the power that was in him.

Those two books of his were not of a kind to win popularity. They

dealt with no particular class of society (unless one makes a

distinct class of people who have brains), and they lacked local

colour. Their interest was almost purely psychological. It was

clear that the author had no faculty for constructing a story,

and that pictures of active life were not to be expected of him;

he could never appeal to the multitude. But strong

characterisation was within his scope, and an intellectual

fervour, appetising to a small section of refined readers, marked

all his best pages.

He was the kind of man who cannot struggle against adverse

conditions, but whom prosperity warms to the exercise of his

powers. Anything like the cares of responsibility would sooner or

later harass him into unproductiveness. That he should produce

much was in any case out of the question; possibly a book every

two or three years might not prove too great a strain upon his

delicate mental organism, but for him to attempt more than that

would certainly be fatal to the peculiar merit of his work. Of

this he was dimly conscious, and, on receiving his legacy, he put

aside for nearly twelve months the new novel he had begun. To

give his mind a rest he wrote several essays, much maturer than

those which had formerly failed to find acceptance, and two of

these appeared in magazines.

The money thus earned he spent--at a tailor's. His friend Carter

ventured to suggest this mode of outlay.

His third book sold for fifty pounds. It was a great improvement

on its predecessors, and the reviews were generally favourable.

For the story which followed, 'On Neutral Ground,' he received a

hundred pounds. On the strength of that he spent six months

travelling in the South of Europe.

He returned to London at mid-June, and on the second day after

his arrival befell an incident which was to control the rest of

his life. Busy with the pictures in the Grosvenor Gallery, he

heard himself addressed in a familiar voice, and on turning he

was aware of Mr Carter, resplendent in fashionable summer attire,

and accompanied by a young lady of some charms. Reardon had

formerly feared encounters of this kind, too conscious of the

defects of his attire; but at present there was no reason why he

should shirk social intercourse. He was passably dressed, and the

half-year of travel had benefited his appearance in no slight

degree. Carter presented him to the young lady, of whom the

novelist had already heard as affianced to his friend.

Whilst they stood conversing, there approached two ladies,

evidently mother and daughter, whose attendant was another of

Reardon's acquaintances, Mr John Yule. This gentleman stepped

briskly forward and welcomed the returned wanderer.

'Let me introduce you,' he said, 'to my mother and sister. Your

fame has made them anxious to know you.'

Reardon found himself in a position of which the novelty was

embarrassing, but scarcely disagreeable. Here were five people

grouped around him, all of whom regarded him unaffectedly as a

man of importance; for though, strictly speaking, he had no

'fame' at all, these persons had kept up with the progress of his

small repute, and were all distinctly glad to number among their

acquaintances an unmistakable author, one, too, who was fresh

from Italy and Greece. Mrs Yule, a lady rather too pretentious in

her tone to be attractive to a man of Reardon's refinement,

hastened to assure him how well his books were known in her

house, 'though for the run of ordinary novels we don't care

much.' Miss Yule, not at all pretentious in speech, and seemingly

reserved of disposition, was good enough to show frank interest

in the author. As for the poor author himself, well, he merely

fell in love with Miss Yule at first sight, and there was an end

of the matter.

A day or two later he made a call at their house, in the region

of Westbourne Park. It was a small house, and rather showily than

handsomely furnished; no one after visiting it would be

astonished to hear that Mrs Edmund Yule had but a small income,

and that she was often put to desperate expedients to keep up the

gloss of easy circumstances. In the gauzy and fluffy and varnishy

little drawing-room Reardon found a youngish gentleman already in

conversation with the widow and her daughter. This proved to be

one Mr Jasper Milvain, also a man of letters. Mr Milvain was glad

to meet Reardon, whose books he had read with decided interest.

'Really,' exclaimed Mrs Yule, 'I don't know how it is that we

have had to wait so long for the pleasure of knowing you, Mr

Reardon. If John were not so selfish he would have allowed us a

share in your acquaintance long ago.'

Ten weeks thereafter, Miss Yule became Mrs Reardon.

It was a time of frantic exultation with the poor fellow. He had

always regarded the winning of a beautiful and intellectual wife

as the crown of a successful literary career, but he had not

dared to hope that such a triumph would be his. Life had been too

hard with him on the whole. He, who hungered for sympathy, who

thought of a woman's love as the prize of mortals supremely

blessed, had spent the fresh years of his youth in monkish

solitude. Now of a sudden came friends and flattery, ay, and love

itself. He was rapt to the seventh heaven.

Indeed, it seemed that the girl loved him. She knew that he had

but a hundred pounds or so left over from that little

inheritance, that his books sold for a trifle, that he had no

wealthy relatives from whom he could expect anything; yet she

hesitated not a moment when he asked her to marry him.

'I have loved you from the first.'

'How is that possible?' he urged. 'What is there lovable in me? I

am afraid of waking up and finding myself in my old garret, cold

and hungry.'

'You will be a great man.'

'I implore you not to count on that! In many ways I am wretchedly

weak. I have no such confidence in myself.'

'Then I will have confidence for both.'

'But can you love me for my own sake--love me as a man?'

'I love you!'

And the words sang about him, filled the air with a mad pulsing

of intolerable joy, made him desire to fling himself in

passionate humility at her feet, to weep hot tears, to cry to her

in insane worship. He thought her beautiful beyond anything his

heart had imagined; her warm gold hair was the rapture of his

eyes and of his reverent hand. Though slenderly fashioned, she

was so gloriously strong. 'Not a day of illness in her life,'

said Mrs Yule, and one could readily believe it.

She spoke with such a sweet decision. Her 'I love you!' was a

bond with eternity. In the simplest as in the greatest things she

saw his wish and acted frankly upon it. No pretty petulance, no

affectation of silly-sweet languishing, none of the weaknesses of

woman. And so exquisitely fresh in her twenty years of

maidenhood, with bright young eyes that seemed to bid defiance to

all the years to come.

He went about like one dazzled with excessive light. He talked as

he had never talked before, recklessly, exultantly, insolently--

in the nobler sense. He made friends on every hand; he welcomed

all the world to his bosom; he felt the benevolence of a god.

'I love you!' It breathed like music at his ears when he fell

asleep in weariness of joy; it awakened him on the morrow as with

a glorious ringing summons to renewed life.

Delay? Why should there be delay? Amy wished nothing but to

become his wife. Idle to think of his doing any more work until

he sat down in the home of which she was mistress. His brain

burned with visions of the books he would henceforth write, but

his hand was incapable of anything but a love-letter. And what

letters! Reardon never published anything equal to those. 'I have

received your poem,' Amy replied to one of them. And she was

right; not a letter, but a poem he had sent her, with every word

on fire.

The hours of talk! It enraptured him to find how much she had

read, and with what clearness of understanding. Latin and Greek,

no. Ah! but she should learn them both, that there might be

nothing wanting in the communion between his thought and hers.

For he loved the old writers with all his heart; they had been

such strength to him in his days of misery.

They would go together to the charmed lands of the South. No, not

now for their marriage holiday--Amy said that would be an

imprudent expense; but as soon as he had got a good price for a

book. Will not the publishers be kind? If they knew what

happiness lurked in embryo within their foolish cheque-books!

He woke of a sudden in the early hours of one morning, a week

before the wedding-day. You know that kind of awaking, so

complete in an instant, caused by the pressure of some

troublesome thought upon the dreaming brain. 'Suppose I should

not succeed henceforth? Suppose I could never get more than this

poor hundred pounds for one of the long books which cost me so

much labour? I shall perhaps have children to support; and Amy--

how would Amy bear poverty?'

He knew what poverty means. The chilling of brain and heart, the

unnerving of the hands, the slow gathering about one of fear and

shame and impotent wrath, the dread feeling of helplessness, of

the world's base indifference. Poverty! Poverty!

And for hours he could not sleep. His eyes kept filling with

tears, the beating of his heart was low; and in his solitude he

called upon Amy with pitiful entreaty: 'Do not forsake me! I love

you! I love you!'

But that went by. Six days, five days, four days--will one's

heart burst with happiness? The flat is taken, is furnished, up

there towards the sky, eight flights of stone steps.

'You're a confoundedly lucky fellow, Reardon,' remarked Milvain,

who had already become very intimate with his new friend. 'A good

fellow, too, and you deserve it.'

'But at first I had a horrible suspicion.'

'I guess what you mean. No; I wasn't even in love with her,

though I admired her. She would never have cared for me in any

case; I am not sentimental enough.'

'The deuce!'

'I mean it in an inoffensive sense. She and I are rather too much

alike, I fancy.'

'How do you mean?' asked Reardon, puzzled, and not very well

pleased.

'There's a great deal of pure intellect about Miss Yule, you

know. She was sure to choose a man of the passionate kind.'

'I think you are talking nonsense, my dear fellow.'

'Well, perhaps I am. To tell you the truth, I have by no means

completed my study of women yet. It is one of the things in which

I hope to be a specialist some day, though I don't think I shall

ever make use of it in novels--rather, perhaps, in life.'

Three days--two days--one day.

Now let every joyous sound which the great globe can utter ring

forth in one burst of harmony! Is it not well done to make the

village-bells chant merrily when a marriage is over? Here in

London we can have no such music; but for us, my dear one, all

the roaring life of the great city is wedding-hymn. Sweet, pure

face under its bridal-veil! The face which shall, if fate spare

it, be as dear to me many a long year hence as now at the

culminating moment of my life!

As he trudged on in the dark, his tortured memory was living

through that time again. The images forced themselves upon him,

however much he tried to think of quite other things--of some

fictitious story on which he might set to work. In the case of

his earlier books he had waited quietly until some suggestive

'situation,' some group of congenial characters, came with sudden

delightfulness before his mind and urged him to write; but

nothing so spontaneous could now be hoped for. His brain was too

weary with months of fruitless, harassing endeavour; moreover, he

was trying to devise a 'plot,' the kind of literary

Jack-in-the-box which might excite interest in the mass of

readers, and this was alien to the natural working of his

imagination. He suffered the torments of nightmare--an oppression

of the brain and heart which must soon be intolerable.

CHAPTER VI. THE PRACTICAL FRIEND

When her husband had set forth, Amy seated herself in the study

and took up a new library volume as if to read. But she had no

real intention of doing so; it was always disagreeable to her to

sit in the manner of one totally unoccupied, with hands on lap,

and even when she consciously gave herself up to musing an open

book was generally before her. She did not, in truth, read much

nowadays; since the birth of her child she had seemed to care

less than before for disinterested study. If a new novel that had

succeeded came into her hands she perused it in a very practical

spirit, commenting to Reardon on the features of the work which

had made it popular; formerly, she would have thought much more

of its purely literary merits, for which her eye was very keen.

How often she had given her husband a thrill of exquisite

pleasure by pointing to some merit or defect of which the common

reader would be totally insensible! Now she spoke less frequently

on such subjects. Her interests were becoming more personal; she

liked to hear details of the success of popular authors--about

their wives or husbands, as the case might be, their arrangements

with publishers, their methods of work. The gossip columns of

literary papers--and of some that were not literary--had an

attraction for her. She talked of questions such as international

copyright, was anxious to get an insight into the practical

conduct of journals and magazines, liked to know who 'read' for

the publishing-houses. To an impartial observer it might have

appeared that her intellect was growing more active and mature.

More than half an hour passed. It was not a pleasant train of

thought that now occupied her. Her lips were drawn together, her

brows were slightly wrinkled; the self-control which at other

times was agreeably expressed upon her features had become rather

too cold and decided. At one moment it seemed to her that she

heard a sound in the bedroom--the doors were purposely left ajar-

-and her head turned quickly to listen, the look in her eyes

instantaneously softening; but all remained quiet. The street

would have been silent but for a cab that now and then passed--

the swing of a hansom or the roll of a four-wheeler--and within

the buildings nothing whatever was audible.

Yes, a footstep, briskly mounting the stone stairs. Not like that

of the postman. A visitor, perhaps, to the other flat on the

topmost landing. But the final pause was in this direction, and

then came a sharp rat-tat at the door. Amy rose immediately and

went to open.

Jasper Milvain raised his urban silk hat, then held out his hand

with the greeting of frank friendship. His inquiries were in so

loud a voice that Amy checked him with a forbidding gesture.

'You'll wake Willie!'

'By Jove! I always forget,' he exclaimed in subdued tones. 'Does

the infant flourish?'

'Oh, yes!'

'Reardon out? I got back on Saturday evening, but couldn't come

round before this.' It was Monday. 'How close it is in here! I

suppose the roof gets so heated during the day. Glorious weather

in the country! And I've no end of things to tell you. He won't

be long, I suppose?'

'I think not.'

He left his hat and stick in the passage, came into the study,

and glanced about as if he expected to see some change since he

was last here, three weeks ago.

'So you have been enjoying yourself?' said Amy as, after

listening for a moment at the door, she took a seat.

'Oh, a little freshening of the faculties. But whose acquaintance

do you think I have made?'

'Down there?'

'Yes. Your uncle Alfred and his daughter were staying at John

Yule's, and I saw something of them. I was invited to the house.'

'Did you speak of us?'

'To Miss Yule only. I happened to meet her on a walk, and in a

blundering way I mentioned Reardon's name. But of course it

didn't matter in the least. She inquired about you with a good

deal of interest--asked if you were as beautiful as you promised

to be years ago.'

Amy laughed.

'Doesn't that proceed from your fertile invention, Mr Milvain?'

'Not a bit of it! By-the-bye, what would be your natural question

concerning her? Do you think she gave promise of good looks?'

'I'm afraid I can't say that she did. She had a good face, but--

rather plain.'

'I see.' Jasper threw back his head and seemed to contemplate an

object in memory. 'Well, I shouldn't wonder if most people called

her a trifle plain even now; and yet--no, that's hardly possible,

after all. She has no colour. Wears her hair short.'

'Short?'

'Oh, I don't mean the smooth, boyish hair with a parting--not the

kind of hair that would be lank if it grew long. Curly all over.

Looks uncommonly well, I assure you. She has a capital head. Odd

girl; very odd girl! Quiet, thoughtful--not very happy, I'm

afraid. Seems to think with dread of a return to books.'

'Indeed! But I had understood that she was a reader.'

'Reading enough for six people, probably. Perhaps her health is

not very robust. Oh, I knew her by sight quite well--had seen her

at the Reading-room. She's the kind of girl that gets into one's

head, you know--suggestive; much more in her than comes out until

one knows her very well.'

'Well, I should hope so,' remarked Amy, with a peculiar smile.

'But that's by no means a matter of course. They didn't invite me

to come and see them in London.'

'I suppose Marian mentioned your acquaintance with this branch of

the family?'

'I think not. At all events, she promised me she wouldn't.'

Amy looked at him inquiringly, in a puzzled way.

'She promised you?'

'Voluntarily. We got rather sympathetic. Your uncle--Alfred, I

mean--is a remarkable man; but I think he regarded me as a youth

of no particular importance. Well, how do things go?'

Amy shook her head.

'No progress?'

'None whatever. He can't work; I begin to be afraid that he is

really ill. He must go away before the fine weather is over. Do

persuade him to-night! I wish you could have had a holiday with

him.'

'Out of the question now, I'm sorry to say. I must work savagely.

But can't you all manage a fortnight somewhere--Hastings,

Eastbourne?'

'It would be simply rash. One goes on saying, "What does a pound

or two matter?"--but it begins at length to matter a great deal.'

'I know, confound it all! Think how it would amuse some rich

grocer's son who pitches his half-sovereign to the waiter when he

has dined himself into good humour! But I tell you what it is:

you must really try to influence him towards practicality. Don't

you think--?'

He paused, and Amy sat looking at her hands.

'I have made an attempt,' she said at length, in a distant

undertone.

'You really have?'

Jasper leaned forward, his clasped hands hanging between his

knees. He was scrutinising her face, and Amy, conscious of the

too fixed regard, at length moved her head uneasily.

'It seems very clear to me,' she said, 'that a long book is out

of the question for him at present. He writes so slowly, and is

so fastidious. It would be a fatal thing to hurry through

something weaker even than the last.'

'You think "The Optimist" weak?' Jasper asked, half absently.

'I don't think it worthy of Edwin; I don't see how anyone can.

'I have wondered what your opinion was. Yes, he ought to try a

new tack, I think.'

Just then there came the sound of a latch-key opening the outer

door. Jasper lay back in his chair and waited with a smile for

his expected friend's appearance; Amy made no movement.

'Oh, there you are!' said Reardon, presenting himself with the

dazzled eyes of one who has been in darkness; he spoke in a voice

of genial welcome, though it still had the note of depression.

'When did you get back?'

Milvain began to recount what he had told in the first part of

his conversation with Amy. As he did so, the latter withdrew, and

was absent for five minutes; on reappearing she said:

'You'll have some supper with us, Mr Milvain?'

'I think I will, please.'

Shortly after, all repaired to the eating-room, where

conversation had to be carried on in a low tone because of the

proximity of the bedchamber in which lay the sleeping child.

Jasper began to tell of certain things that had happened to him

since his arrival in town.

'It was a curious coincidence--but, by-the-bye, have you heard of

what The Study has been doing?'

'I should rather think so,' replied Reardon, his face lighting

up. 'With no small satisfaction.'

'Delicious, isn't it?' exclaimed his wife. 'I thought it too good

to be true when Edwin heard of it from Mr Biffen.'

All three laughed in subdued chorus. For the moment, Reardon

became a new man in his exultation over the contradictory

reviewers.

'Oh, Biffen told you, did he? Well,' continued Jasper, 'it was an

odd thing, but when I reached my lodgings on Saturday evening

there lay a note from Horace Barlow, inviting me to go and see

him on Sunday afternoon out at Wimbledon, the special reason

being that the editor of The Study would be there, and Barlow

thought I might like to meet him. Now this letter gave me a fit

of laughter; not only because of those precious reviews, but

because Alfred Yule had been telling me all about this same

editor, who rejoices in the name of Fadge. Your uncle, Mrs

Reardon, declares that Fadge is the most malicious man in the

literary profession; though that's saying such a very great deal

--well, never mind! Of course I was delighted to go and meet

Fadge. At Barlow's I found the queerest collection of people,

most of them women of the inkiest description. The great Fadge

himself surprised me; I expected to see a gaunt, bilious man, and

he was the rosiest and dumpiest little dandy you can imagine; a

fellow of forty-five, I dare say, with thin yellow hair and blue

eyes and a manner of extreme innocence. Fadge flattered me with

confidential chat, and I discovered at length why Barlow had

asked me to meet him; it's Fadge that is going to edit

Culpepper's new monthly--you've heard about it?--and he had

actually thought it worth while to enlist me among contributors!

Now, how's that for a piece of news?'

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

significance.

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

'You see! you see!' cried Jasper, forgetting all about the infant

in the next room, 'all things come to the man who knows how to

wait. But I'm hanged if I expected a thing of this kind to come

so soon! Why, I'm a man of distinction! My doings have been

noted; the admirable qualities of my style have drawn attention;

I'm looked upon as one of the coming men! Thanks, I confess, in

some measure, to old Barlow; he seems to have amused himself with

cracking me up to all and sundry. That last thing of mine in The

West End has done me a vast amount of good, it seems. And Alfred

Yule himself had noticed that paper in The Wayside. That's how

things work, you know; reputation comes with a burst, just when

you're not looking for anything of the kind.'

'What's the new magazine to be called?' asked Amy.

'Why, they propose The Current. Not bad, in a way; though you

imagine a fellow saying "Have you seen the current Current?" At

all events, the tone is to be up to date, and the articles are to

be short; no padding, merum sal from cover to cover. What do you

think I have undertaken to do, for a start? A paper consisting of

sketches of typical readers of each of the principal daily and

weekly papers. A deuced good idea, you know--my own, of course --

but deucedly hard to carry out. I shall rise to the occasion, see

if I don't. I'll rival Fadge himself in maliciousness--though I

must confess I discovered no particular malice in the fellow's

way of talking. The article shall make a sensation. I'll spend a

whole month on it, and make it a perfect piece of satire.'

'Now that's the kind of thing that inspires me with awe and

envy,' said Reardon. 'I could no more write such a paper than an

article on Fluxions.'

''Tis my vocation, Hal! You might think I hadn't experience

enough, to begin with. But my intuition is so strong that I can

make a little experience go an immense way. Most people would

imagine I had been wasting my time these last few years, just

sauntering about, reading nothing but periodicals, making

acquaintance with loafers of every description. The truth is, I

have been collecting ideas, and ideas that are convertible into

coin of the realm, my boy; I have the special faculty of an

extempore writer. Never in my life shall I do anything of solid

literary value; I shall always despise the people I write for.

But my path will be that of success. I have always said it, and

now I'm sure of it.'

'Does Fadge retire from The Study, then?' inquired Reardon, when

he had received this tirade with a friendly laugh.

'Yes, he does. Was going to, it seems, in any case. Of course I

heard nothing about the two reviews, and I was almost afraid to

smile whilst Fadge was talking with me, lest I should betray my

thought. Did you know anything about the fellow before?'

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

'Nor I either. Remarkable what a number of illustrious obscure

are going about. But I have still something else to tell you. I'm

going to set my sisters afloat in literature.'

'How!'

'Well, I don't see why they shouldn't try their hands at a little

writing, instead of giving lessons, which doesn't suit them a

bit. Last night, when I got back from Wimbledon, I went to look

up Davies. Perhaps you don't remember my mentioning him; a fellow

who was at Jolly and Monk's, the publishers, up to a year ago. He

edits a trade journal now, and I see very little of him. However,

I found him at home, and had a long practical talk with him. I

wanted to find out the state of the market as to such wares as

Jolly and Monk dispose of. He gave me some very useful hints, and

the result was that I went off this morning and saw Monk himself

--no Jolly exists at present. "Mr Monk," I began, in my blandest

tone--you know it--"I am requested to call upon you by a lady who

thinks of preparing a little volume to be called 'A Child's

History of the English Parliament.' Her idea is, that"--and so

on. Well, I got on admirably with Monk, especially when he learnt

that I was to be connected with Culpepper's new venture; he

smiled upon the project, and said he should be very glad to see a

specimen chapter; if that pleased him, we could then discuss

terms.'

'But has one of your sisters really begun such a book?' inquired

Amy.

'Neither of them knows anything of the matter, but they are

certainly capable of doing the kind of thing I have in mind,

which will consist largely of anecdotes of prominent statesmen. I

myself shall write the specimen chapter, and send it to the girls

to show them what I propose. I shouldn't wonder if they make some

fifty pounds out of it. The few books that will be necessary they

can either get at a Wattleborough library, or I can send them.'

'Your energy is remarkable, all of a sudden,' said Reardon.

'Yes. The hour has come, I find. "There is a tide"--to quote

something that has the charm of freshness.'

The supper--which consisted of bread and butter, cheese,

sardines, cocoa--was now over, and Jasper, still enlarging on his

recent experiences and future prospects, led the way back to the

sitting-room. Not very long after this, Amy left the two friends

to their pipes; she was anxious that her husband should discuss

his affairs privately with Milvain, and give ear to the practical

advice which she knew would be tendered him.

'I hear that you are still stuck fast,' began Jasper, when they

had smoked awhile in silence.

'Yes.'

'Getting rather serious, I should fear, isn't it?'

'Yes,' repeated Reardon, in a low voice.

'Come, come, old man, you can't go on in this way. Would it, or

wouldn't it, be any use if you took a seaside holiday?'

'Not the least. I am incapable of holiday, if the opportunity

were offered. Do something I must, or I shall fret myself into

imbecility.'

'Very well. What is it to be?'

'I shall try to manufacture two volumes. They needn't run to more

than about two hundred and seventy pages, and those well spaced

out.'

'This is refreshing. This is practical. But look now: let it be

something rather sensational. Couldn't we invent a good title--

something to catch eye and ear? The title would suggest the

story, you know.'

Reardon laughed contemptuously, but the scorn was directed rather

against himself than Milvain.

'Let's try,' he muttered.

Both appeared to exercise their minds on the problem for a few

minutes. Then Jasper slapped his knee.

'How would this do: "The Weird Sisters"? Devilish good, eh?

Suggests all sorts of things, both to the vulgar and the

educated. Nothing brutally clap-trap about it, you know.'

'But--what does it suggest to you?'

'Oh, witch-like, mysterious girls or women. Think it over.'

There was another long silence. Reardon's face was that of a man

in blank misery.

'I have been trying,' he said at length, after an attempt to

speak which was checked by a huskiness in his throat, 'to explain

to myself how this state of things has come about. I almost think

I can do so.'

'How?'

'That half-year abroad, and the extraordinary shock of happiness

which followed at once upon it, have disturbed the balance of my

nature. It was adjusted to circumstances of hardship, privation,

struggle. A temperament like mine can't pass through such a

violent change of conditions without being greatly affected; I

have never since been the man I was before I left England. The

stage I had then reached was the result of a slow and elaborate

building up; I could look back and see the processes by which I

had grown from the boy who was a mere bookworm to the man who had

all but succeeded as a novelist. It was a perfectly natural,

sober development. But in the last two years and a half I can

distinguish no order. In living through it, I have imagined from

time to time that my powers were coming to their ripest; but that

was mere delusion. Intellectually, I have fallen back. The

probability is that this wouldn't matter, if only I could live on

in peace of mind; I should recover my equilibrium, and perhaps

once more understand myself. But the due course of things is

troubled by my poverty.'

He spoke in a slow, meditative way, in a monotonous voice, and

without raising his eyes from the ground.

'I can understand,' put in Jasper, 'that there may be

philosophical truth in all this. All the same, it's a great pity

that you should occupy your mind with such thoughts.'

'A pity--no! I must remain a reasoning creature. Disaster may end

by driving me out of my wits, but till then I won't abandon my

heritage of thought.'

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

those months abroad?'

'A mistake from the practical point of view. That vast broadening

of my horizon lost me the command of my literary resources. I

lived in Italy and Greece as a student, concerned especially with

the old civilisations; I read little but Greek and Latin. That

brought me out of the track I had laboriously made for myself I

often thought with disgust of the kind of work I had been doing;

my novels seemed vapid stuff so wretchedly and shallowly modern.

If I had had the means, I should have devoted myself to the life

of a scholar. That, I quite believe, is my natural life; it's

only the influence of recent circumstances that has made me a

writer of novels. A man who can't journalise, yet must earn his

bread by literature, nowadays inevitably turns to fiction, as the

Elizabethan men turned to the drama. Well, but I should have got

back, I think, into the old line of work. It was my marriage that

completed what the time abroad had begun.'

He looked up suddenly, and added:

'I am speaking as if to myself. You, of course, don't

misunderstand me, and think I am accusing my wife.'

'No, I don't take you to mean that, by any means.'

'No, no; of course not. All that's wrong is my accursed want of

money. But that threatens to be such a fearful wrong, that I

begin to wish I had died before my marriage-day. Then Amy would

have been saved. The Philistines are right: a man has no business

to marry unless he has a secured income equal to all natural

demands. I behaved with the grossest selfishness. I might have

known that such happiness was never meant for me.'

'Do you mean by all this that you seriously doubt whether you

will ever be able to write again?'

'In awful seriousness, I doubt it,' replied Reardon, with haggard

face.

'It strikes me as extraordinary. In your position I should work

as I never had done before.'

'Because you are the kind of man who is roused by necessity. I am

overcome by it. My nature is feeble and luxurious. I never in my

life encountered and overcame a practical difficulty.'

'Yes; when you got the work at the hospital.'

'All I did was to write a letter, and chance made it effective.'

'My view of the case, Reardon, is that you are simply ill.'

'Certainly I am; but the ailment is desperately complicated. Tell

me: do you think I might possibly get any kind of stated work to

do? Should I be fit for any place in a newspaper office, for

instance?'

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

journalism.'

'If I appealed to my publishers, could they help me?'

'I don't see how. They would simply say: Write a book and we'll

buy it.'

'Yes, there's no help but that.'

'If only you were able to write short stories, Fadge might be

useful.'

'But what's the use? I suppose I might get ten guineas, at most,

for such a story. I need a couple of hundred pounds at least.

Even if I could finish a three-volume book, I doubt if they would

give me a hundred again, after the failure of "The Optimist"; no,

they wouldn't.'

'But to sit and look forward in this way is absolutely fatal, my

dear fellow. Get to work at your two-volume story. Call it "The

Weird Sisters," or anything better that you can devise; but get

it done, so many pages a day. If I go ahead as I begin to think I

shall, I shall soon be able to assure you good notices in a lot

of papers. Your misfortune has been that you had no influential

friends. By-the-bye, how has The Study been in the habit of

treating you?'

'Scrubbily.'

'I'll make an opportunity of talking about your books to Fadge. I

think Fadge and I shall get on pretty well together. Alfred Yule

hates the man fiercely, for some reason or other. By the way, I

may as well tell you that I broke short off with the Yules on

purpose.'

'Oh?'

'I had begun to think far too much about the girl. Wouldn't do,

you know. I must marry someone with money, and a good deal of it.

That's a settled point with me.'

'Then you are not at all likely to meet them in London?'

'Not at all. And if I get allied with Fadge, no doubt Yule will

involve me in his savage feeling. You see how wisely I acted. I

have a scent for the prudent course.'

They talked for a long time, but again chiefly of Milvain's

affairs. Reardon, indeed, cared little to say anything more about

his own. Talk was mere vanity and vexation of spirit, for the

spring of his volition seemed to be broken, and, whatever resolve

he might utter, he knew that everything depended on influences he

could not even foresee.

CHAPTER VII. MARIAN'S HOME

Three weeks after her return from the country--which took place a

week later than that of Jasper Milvain--Marian Yule was working

one afternoon at her usual place in the Museum Reading-room. It

was three o'clock, and with the interval of half an hour at

midday, when she went away for a cup of tea and a sandwich, she

had been closely occupied since half-past nine. Her task at

present was to collect materials for a paper on 'French

Authoresses of the Seventeenth Century,' the kind of thing which

her father supplied on stipulated terms for anonymous

publication. Marian was by this time almost able to complete such

a piece of manufacture herself and her father's share in it was

limited to a few hints and corrections. The greater part of the

work by which Yule earned his moderate income was anonymous:

volumes and articles which bore his signature dealt with much the

same subjects as his unsigned matter, but the writing was

laboured with a conscientiousness unusual in men of his position.

The result, unhappily, was not correspondent with the efforts.

Alfred Yule had made a recognisable name among the critical

writers of the day; seeing him in the title-lists of a

periodical, most people knew what to expect, but not a few

forbore the cutting open of the pages he occupied. He was

learned, copious, occasionally mordant in style; but grace had

been denied to him. He had of late begun to perceive the fact

that those passages of Marian's writing which were printed just

as they came from her pen had merit of a kind quite distinct from

anything of which he himself was capable, and it began to be a

question with him whether it would not be advantageous to let the

girl sign these compositions. A matter of business, to be sure--

at all events in the first instance.

For a long time Marian had scarcely looked up from the desk, but

at this moment she found it necessary to refer to the invaluable

Larousse. As so often happened, the particular volume of which

she had need was not upon the shelf she turned away, and looked

about her with a gaze of weary disappointment. At a little

distance were standing two young men, engaged, as their faces

showed, in facetious colloquy; as soon as she observed them,

Marian's eyes fell, but the next moment she looked again in that

direction. Her face had wholly changed; she wore a look of timid

expectancy.

The men were moving towards her, still talking and laughing. She

turned to the shelves, and affected to search for a book. The

voices drew near, and one of them was well known to her; now she

could hear every word; now the speakers were gone by. Was it

possible that Mr Milvain had not recognised her? She followed him

with her eyes, and saw him take a seat not far off he must have

passed without even being aware of her.

She went back to her place and for some minutes sat trifling with

a pen. When she made a show of resuming work, it was evident that

she could no longer apply herself as before. Every now and then

she glanced at people who were passing; there were intervals when

she wholly lost herself in reverie. She was tired, and had even a

slight headache. When the hand of the clock pointed to half-past

three, she closed the volume from which she had been copying

extracts, and began to collect her papers.

A voice spoke close behind her.

'Where's your father, Miss Yule?'

The speaker was a man of sixty, short, stout, tonsured by the

hand of time. He had a broad, flabby face, the colour of an

ancient turnip, save where one of the cheeks was marked with a

mulberry stain; his eyes, grey-orbed in a yellow setting, glared

with good-humoured inquisitiveness, and his mouth was that of the

confirmed gossip. For eyebrows he had two little patches of

reddish stubble; for moustache, what looked like a bit of

discoloured tow, and scraps of similar material hanging beneath

his creasy chin represented a beard. His garb must have seen a

great deal of Museum service; it consisted of a jacket, something

between brown and blue, hanging in capacious shapelessness, a

waistcoat half open for lack of buttons and with one of the

pockets coming unsewn, a pair of bronze-hued trousers which had

all run to knee. Necktie he had none, and his linen made distinct

appeal to the laundress.

Marian shook hands with him.

'He went away at half-past two,' was her reply to his question.

'How annoying! I wanted particularly to see him. I have been

running about all day, and couldn't get here before. Something

important--most important. At all events, I can tell you. But I

entreat that you won't breathe a word save to your father.'

Mr Quarmby--that was his name--had taken a vacant chair and drawn

it close to Marian's. He was in a state of joyous excitement, and

talked in thick, rather pompous tones, with a pant at the end of

a sentence. To emphasise the extremely confidential nature of his

remarks, he brought his head almost in contact with the girl's,

and one of her thin, delicate hands was covered with his red,

podgy fingers.

'I've had a talk with Nathaniel Walker,' he continued; 'a long

talk--a talk of vast importance. You know Walker? No, no; how

should you? He's a man of business; close friend of Rackett's--

Rackett, you know, the owner of The Study.'

Upon this he made a grave pause, and glared more excitedly than

ever.

'I have heard of Mr Rackett,' said Marian.

'Of course, of course. And you must also have heard that Fadge

leaves The Study at the end of this year, eh?'

'Father told me it was probable.'

'Rackett and he have done nothing but quarrel for months; the

paper is falling off seriously. Well, now, when I came across Nat

Walker this afternoon, the first thing he said to me was, "You

know Alfred Yule pretty well, I think?" "Pretty well," I

answered; "why?" "I'll tell you," he said, "but it's between you

and me, you understand. Rackett is thinking about him in

connection with The Study." "I'm delighted to hear it." "To tell

you the truth," went on Nat, "I shouldn't wonder if Yule gets the

editorship; but you understand that it would be altogether

premature to talk about it." Now what do you think of this, eh?'

'It's very good news,' answered Marian.

'I should think so! Ho, ho!'

Mr Quarmby laughed in a peculiar way, which was the result of

long years of mirth-subdual in the Reading-room.

'But not a breath to anyone but your father. He'll be here to-

morrow? Break it gently to him, you know; he's an excitable man;

can't take things quietly, like I do. Ho, ho!'

His suppressed laugh ended in a fit of coughing--the Reading-room

cough. When he had recovered from it, he pressed Marian's hand

with paternal fervour, and waddled off to chatter with someone

else.

Marian replaced several books on the reference-shelves, returned

others to the central desk, and was just leaving the room, when

again a voice made demand upon her attention.

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

It was a tall, meagre, dry-featured man, dressed with the painful

neatness of self-respecting poverty: the edges of his coat-

sleeves were carefully darned; his black necktie and a skull-cap

which covered his baldness were evidently of home manufacture. He

smiled softly and timidly with blue, rheumy eyes. Two or three

recent cuts on his chin and neck were the result of conscientious

shaving with an unsteady hand.

'I have been looking for your father,' he said, as Marian turned.

'Isn't he here?'

'He has gone, Mr Hinks.'

'Ah, then would you do me the kindness to take a book for him? In

fact, it's my little "Essay on the Historical Drama," just out.'

He spoke with nervous hesitation, and in a tone which seemed to

make apology for his existence.

'Oh, father will be very glad to have it.'

'If you will kindly wait one minute, Miss Yule. It's at my place

over there.'

He went off with long strides, and speedily came back panting, in

his hand a thin new volume.

'My kind regards to him, Miss Yule. You are quite well, I hope? I

won't detain you.'

And he backed into a man who was coming inobservantly this way.

Marian went to the ladies' cloak-room, put on her hat and jacket,

and left the Museum. Some one passed out through the swing-door a

moment before her, and as soon as she had issued beneath the

portico, she saw that it was Jasper Milvain; she must have

followed him through the hall, but her eyes had been cast down.

The young man was now alone; as he descended the steps he looked

to left and right, but not behind him. Marian followed at a

distance of two or three yards. Nearing the gateway, she

quickened her pace a little, so as to pass out into the street

almost at the same moment as Milvain. But he did not turn his

head.

He took to the right. Marian had fallen back again, but she still

followed at a very little distance. His walk was slow, and she

might easily have passed him in quite a natural way; in that case

he could not help seeing her. But there was an uneasy suspicion

in her mind that he really must have noticed her in the

Reading-room. This was the first time she had seen him since

their parting at Finden. Had he any reason for avoiding her? Did

he take it ill that her father had shown no desire to keep up his

acquaintance?

She allowed the interval between them to become greater. In a

minute or two Milvain turned up Charlotte Street, and so she lost

sight of him.

In Tottenham Court Road she waited for an omnibus that would take

her to the remoter part of Camden Town; obtaining a corner seat,

she drew as far back as possible, and paid no attention to her

fellow-passengers. At a point in Camden Road she at length

alighted, and after ten minutes' walk reached her destination in

a quiet by-way called St Paul's Crescent, consisting of small,

decent houses. That at which she paused had an exterior promising

comfort within; the windows were clean and neatly curtained, and

the polishable appurtenances of the door gleamed to perfection.

She admitted herself with a latch-key, and went straight upstairs

without encountering anyone.

Descending again in a few moments, she entered the front room on

the ground-floor. This served both as parlour and dining-room; it

was comfortably furnished, without much attempt at adornment. On

the walls were a few autotypes and old engravings. A recess

between fireplace and window was fitted with shelves, which

supported hundreds of volumes, the overflow of Yule's library.

The table was laid for a meal. It best suited the convenience of

the family to dine at five o'clock; a long evening, so necessary

to most literary people, was thus assured. Marian, as always when

she had spent a day at the Museum, was faint with weariness and

hunger; she cut a small piece of bread from a loaf on the table,

and sat down in an easy chair.

Presently appeared a short, slight woman of middle age, plainly

dressed in serviceable grey. Her face could never have been very

comely, and it expressed but moderate intelligence; its lines,

however, were those of gentleness and good feeling. She had the

look of one who is making a painful effort to understand

something; this was fixed upon her features, and probably

resulted from the peculiar conditions of her life.

'Rather early, aren't you, Marian?' she said, as she closed the

door and came forward to take a seat.

'Yes; I have a little headache.'

'Oh, dear! Is that beginning again?'

Mrs Yule's speech was seldom ungrammatical, and her intonation

was not flagrantly vulgar, but the accent of the London poor,

which brands as with hereditary baseness, still clung to her

words, rendering futile such propriety of phrase as she owed to

years of association with educated people. In the same degree did

her bearing fall short of that which distinguishes a lady. The

London work-girl is rarely capable of raising herself or being

raised, to a place in life above that to which she was born; she

cannot learn how to stand and sit and move like a woman bred to

refinement, any more than she can fashion her tongue to graceful

speech. Mrs Yule's behaviour to Marian was marked with a singular

diffidence; she looked and spoke affectionately, but not with a

mother's freedom; one might have taken her for a trusted servant

waiting upon her mistress. Whenever opportunity offered, she

watched the girl in a curiously furtive way, that puzzled look on

her face becoming very noticeable. Her consciousness was never

able to accept as a familiar and unimportant fact the vast

difference between herself and her daughter. Marian's superiority

in native powers, in delicacy of feeling, in the results of

education, could never be lost sight of. Under ordinary

circumstances she addressed the girl as if tentatively; however

sure of anything from her own point of view, she knew that

Marian, as often as not, had quite a different criterion. She

understood that the girl frequently expressed an opinion by mere

reticence, and hence the carefulness with which, when conversing,

she tried to discover the real effect of her words in Marian's

features.

'Hungry, too,' she said, seeing the crust Marian was nibbling.

'You really must have more lunch, dear. It isn't right to go so

long; you'll make yourself ill.'

'Have you been out?' Marian asked.

'Yes; I went to Holloway.'

Mrs Yule sighed and looked very unhappy. By 'going to Holloway'

was always meant a visit to her own relatives--a married sister

with three children, and a brother who inhabited the same house.

To her husband she scarcely ever ventured to speak of these

persons; Yule had no intercourse with them. But Marian was always

willing to listen sympathetically, and her mother often exhibited

a touching gratitude for this condescension--as she deemed it.

'Are things no better?' the girl inquired.

'Worse, as far as I can see. John has begun his drinking again,

and him and Tom quarrel every night; there's no peace in the

'ouse.'

If ever Mrs Yule lapsed into gross errors of pronunciation or

phrase, it was when she spoke of her kinsfolk. The subject seemed

to throw her back into a former condition.

'He ought to go and live by himself' said Marian, referring to

her mother's brother, the thirsty John.

'So he ought, to be sure. I'm always telling them so. But there!

you don't seem to be able to persuade them, they're that silly

and obstinate. And Susan, she only gets angry with me, and tells

me not to talk in a stuck-up way. I'm sure I never say a word

that could offend her; I'm too careful for that. And there's

Annie; no doing anything with her! She's about the streets at all

hours, and what'll be the end of it no one can say. They're

getting that ragged, all of them. It isn't Susan's fault; indeed

it isn't. She does all that woman can. But Tom hasn't brought

home ten shillings the last month, and it seems to me as if he

was getting careless. I gave her half-a-crown; it was all I could

do. And the worst of it is, they think I could do so much more if

I liked. They're always hinting that we are rich people, and it's

no good my trying to persuade them. They think I'm telling

falsehoods, and it's very hard to be looked at in that way; it

is, indeed, Marian.'

'You can't help it, mother. I suppose their suffering makes them

unkind and unjust.'

'That's just what it does, my dear; you never said anything

truer. Poverty will make the best people bad, if it gets hard

enough. Why there's so much of it in the world, I'm sure I can't

see.'

'I suppose father will be back soon?'

'He said dinner-time.'

'Mr Quarmby has been telling me something which is wonderfully

good news if it's really true; but I can't help feeling doubtful.

He says that father may perhaps be made editor of The Study at

the end of this year.'

Mrs Yule, of course, understood, in outline, these affairs of the

literary world; she thought of them only from the pecuniary point

of view, but that made no essential distinction between her and

the mass of literary people.

'My word!' she exclaimed. 'What a thing that would be for us!'

Marian had begun to explain her reluctance to base any hopes on

Mr Quarmby's prediction, when the sound of a postman's knock at

the house-door caused her mother to disappear for a moment.

'It's for you,' said Mrs Yule, returning. 'From the country.'

Marian took the letter and examined its address with interest.

'It must be one of the Miss Milvains. Yes; Dora Milvain.'

After Jasper's departure from Finden his sisters had seen Marian

several times, and the mutual liking between her and them had

been confirmed by opportunity of conversation. The promise of

correspondence had hitherto waited for fulfilment. It seemed

natural to Marian that the younger of the two girls should write;

Maud was attractive and agreeable, and probably clever, but Dora

had more spontaneity in friendship.

'It will amuse you to hear,' wrote Dora, 'that the literary

project our brother mentioned in a letter whilst you were still

here is really to come to something. He has sent us a specimen

chapter, written by himself of the "Child's History of

Parliament," and Maud thinks she could carry it on in that style,

if there's no hurry. She and I have both set to work on English

histories, and we shall be authorities before long. Jolly and

Monk offer thirty pounds for the little book, if it suits them

when finished, with certain possible profits in the future. Trust

Jasper for making a bargain! So perhaps our literary career will

be something more than a joke, after all. I hope it may; anything

rather than a life of teaching. We shall be so glad to hear from

you, if you still care to trouble about country girls.'

And so on. Marian read with a pleased smile, then acquainted her

mother with the contents.

'I am very glad,' said Mrs Yule; 'it's so seldom you get a

letter.'

'Yes.'

Marian seemed desirous of saying something more, and her mother

had a thoughtful look, suggestive of sympathetic curiosity.

'Is their brother likely to call here?' Mrs Yule asked, with

misgiving.

'No one has invited him to,' was the girl's quiet reply.

'He wouldn't come without that?'

'It's not likely that he even knows the address.'

'Your father won't be seeing him, I suppose?'

'By chance, perhaps. I don't know.'

It was very rare indeed for these two to touch upon any subject

save those of everyday interest. In spite of the affection

between them, their exchange of confidence did not go very far;

Mrs Yule, who had never exercised maternal authority since

Marian's earliest childhood, claimed no maternal privileges, and

Marian's natural reserve had been strengthened by her mother's

respectful aloofness. The English fault of domestic reticence

could scarcely go further than it did in their case; its

exaggeration is, of course, one of the characteristics of those

unhappy families severed by differences of education between the

old and young.

'I think,' said Marian, in a forced tone, 'that father hasn't

much liking for Mr Milvain.'

She wished to know if her mother had heard any private remarks on

this subject, but she could not bring herself to ask directly.

'I'm sure I don't know,' replied Mrs Yule, smoothing her dress.

'He hasn't said anything to me, Marian.'

An awkward silence. The mother had fixed her eyes on the

mantelpiece, and was thinking hard.

'Otherwise,' said Marian, 'he would have said something, I should

think, about meeting in London.'

'But is there anything in--this gentleman that he wouldn't like?'

'I don't know of anything.'

Impossible to pursue the dialogue; Marian moved uneasily, then

rose, said something about putting the letter away, and left the

room.

Shortly after, Alfred Yule entered the house. It was no uncommon

thing for him to come home in a mood of silent moroseness, and

this evening the first glimpse of his face was sufficient

warning. He entered the dining-room and stood on the hearthrug

reading an evening paper. His wife made a pretence of

straightening things upon the table.

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

dinner served?'

'It's just coming, Alfred.'

Even the average man of a certain age is an alarming creature

when dinner delays itself; the literary man in such a moment goes

beyond all parallel. If there be added the fact that he has just

returned from a very unsatisfactory interview with a publisher,

wife and daughter may indeed regard the situation as appalling.

Marian came in, and at once observed her mother's frightened

face.

'Father,' she said, hoping to make a diversion, 'Mr Hinks has

sent you his new book, and wishes--'

'Then take Mr Hinks's new book back to him, and tell him that I

have quite enough to do without reading tedious trash. He needn't

expect that I'm going to write a notice of it. The simpleton

pesters me beyond endurance. I wish to know, if you please,' he

added with savage calm, 'when dinner will be ready. If there's

time to write a few letters, just tell me at once, that I mayn't

waste half an hour.'

Marian resented this unreasonable anger, but she durst not reply.

At that moment the servant appeared with a smoking joint, and Mrs

Yule followed carrying dishes of vegetables. The man of letters

seated himself and carved angrily. He began his meal by drinking

half a glass of ale; then he ate a few mouthfuls in a quick,

hungry way, his head bent closely over the plate. It happened

commonly enough that dinner passed without a word of

conversation, and that seemed likely to be the case this evening.

To his wife Yule seldom addressed anything but a curt inquiry or

caustic comment; if he spoke humanly at table it was to Marian.

Ten minutes passed; then Marian resolved to try any means of

clearing the atmosphere.

'Mr Quarmby gave me a message for you,' she said. 'A friend of

his, Nathaniel Walker, has told him that Mr Rackett will very

likely offer you the editorship of The Study.'

Yule stopped in the act of mastication. He fixed his eyes

intently on the sirloin for half a minute; then, by way of the

beer-jug and the salt-cellar, turned them upon Marian's face.

'Walker told him that? Pooh!'

'It was a great secret. I wasn't to breathe a word to any one but

you.'

'Walker's a fool and Quarmby's an ass,' remarked her father.

But there was a tremulousness in his bushy eyebrows; his forehead

half unwreathed itself; he continued to eat more slowly, and as

if with appreciation of the viands.

'What did he say? Repeat it to me in his words.'

Marian did so, as nearly as possible. He listened with a scoffing

expression, but still his features relaxed.

'I don't credit Rackett with enough good sense for such a

proposal,' he said deliberately. 'And I'm not very sure that I

should accept it if it were made. That fellow Fadge has all but

ruined the paper. It will amuse me to see how long it takes him

to make Culpepper's new magazine a distinct failure.'

A silence of five minutes ensued; then Yule said of a sudden.

'Where is Hinks's book?'

Marian reached it from a side table; under this roof, literature

was regarded almost as a necessary part of table garnishing.

'I thought it would be bigger than this,' Yule muttered, as he

opened the volume in a way peculiar to bookish men.

A page was turned down, as if to draw attention to some passage.

Yule put on his eyeglasses, and soon made a discovery which had

the effect of completing the transformation of his visage. His

eyes glinted, his chin worked in pleasurable emotion. In a moment

he handed the book to Marian, indicating the small type of a

foot-note; it embodied an effusive eulogy--introduced a propos of

some literary discussion--of 'Mr Alfred Yule's critical acumen,

scholarly research, lucid style,' and sundry other distinguished

merits.

'That is kind of him,' said Marian.

'Good old Hinks! I suppose I must try to get him half-a-dozen

readers.'

'May I see?' asked Mrs Yule, under her breath, bending to Marian.

Her daughter passed on the volume, and Mrs Yule read the footnote

with that look of slow apprehension which is so pathetic when it

signifies the heart's good-will thwarted by the mind's defect.

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

at her husband.

'Certainly,' he replied, with a smile of contemptuous irony. 'If

Hinks goes on, he'll establish my reputation.'

And he took a draught of ale, like one who is reinvigorated for

the battle of life. Marian, regarding him askance, mused on what

seemed to her a strange anomaly in his character; it had often

surprised her that a man of his temperament and powers should be

so dependent upon the praise and blame of people whom he justly

deemed his inferiors.

Yule was glancing over the pages of the work.

'A pity the man can't write English.' What a vocabulary!

Obstruent--reliable--particularization--fabulosity--different

to--averse to--did one ever come across such a mixture of antique

pedantry and modern vulgarism! Surely he has his name from the

German hinken--eh, Marian?'

With a laugh he tossed the book away again. His mood was wholly

changed. He gave various evidences of enjoying the meal, and

began to talk freely with his daughter.

'Finished the authoresses?'

'Not quite.'

'No hurry. When you have time I want you to read Ditchley's new

book, and jot down a selection of his worst sentences. I'll use

them for an article on contemporary style; it occurred to me this

afternoon.'

He smiled grimly. Mrs Yule's face exhibited much contentment,

which became radiant joy when her husband remarked casually that

the custard was very well made to-day. Dinner over, he rose

without ceremony and went off to his study.

The man had suffered much and toiled stupendously. It was not

inexplicable that dyspepsia, and many another ill that literary

flesh is heir to, racked him sore.

Go back to the days when he was an assistant at a bookseller's in

Holborn. Already ambition devoured him, and the genuine love of

knowledge goaded his brain. He allowed himself but three or four

hours of sleep; he wrought doggedly at languages, ancient and

modern; he tried his hand at metrical translations; he planned

tragedies. Practically he was living in a past age; his literary

ideals were formed on the study of Boswell.

The head assistant in the shop went away to pursue a business

which had come into his hands on the death of a relative; it was

a small publishing concern, housed in an alley off the Strand,

and Mr Polo (a singular name, to become well known in the course

of time) had his ideas about its possible extension. Among other

instances of activity he started a penny weekly paper, called All

Sorts, and in the pages of this periodical Alfred Yule first

appeared as an author. Before long he became sub-editor of All

Sorts, then actual director of the paper. He said good-bye to the

bookseller, and his literary career fairly began.

Mr Polo used to say that he never knew a man who could work so

many consecutive hours as Alfred Yule. A faithful account of all

that the young man learnt and wrote from 1855 to 1860--that is,

from his twenty-fifth to his thirtieth year--would have the look

of burlesque exaggeration. He had set it before him to become a

celebrated man, and he was not unaware that the attainment of

that end would cost him quite exceptional labour, seeing that

nature had not favoured him with brilliant parts. No matter; his

name should be spoken among men unless he killed himself in the

struggle for success.

In the meantime he married. Living in a garret, and supplying

himself with the materials of his scanty meals, he was in the

habit of making purchases at a little chandler's shop, where he

was waited upon by a young girl of no beauty, but, as it seemed

to him, of amiable disposition. One holiday he met this girl as

she was walking with a younger sister in the streets; he made her

nearer acquaintance, and before long she consented to be his wife

and share his garret. His brothers, John and Edmund, cried out

that he had made an unpardonable fool of himself in marrying so

much beneath him; that he might well have waited until his income

improved. This was all very well, but they might just as

reasonably have bidden him reject plain food because a few years

hence he would be able to purchase luxuries; he could not do

without nourishment of some sort, and the time had come when he

could not do without a wife. Many a man with brains but no money

has been compelled to the same step. Educated girls have a

pronounced distaste for London garrets; not one in fifty thousand

would share poverty with the brightest genius ever born. Seeing

that marriage is so often indispensable to that very success

which would enable a man of parts to mate equally, there is

nothing for it but to look below one's own level, and be grateful

to the untaught woman who has pity on one's loneliness.

Unfortunately, Alfred Yule was not so grateful as he might have

been. His marriage proved far from unsuccessful; he might have

found himself united to a vulgar shrew, whereas the girl had the

great virtues of humility and kindliness. She endeavoured to

learn of him, but her dulness and his impatience made this

attempt a failure; her human qualities had to suffice. And they

did, until Yule began to lift his head above the literary mob.

Previously, he often lost his temper with her, but never

expressed or felt repentance of his marriage; now he began to see

only the disadvantages of his position, and, forgetting the facts

of the case, to imagine that he might well have waited for a wife

who could share his intellectual existence. Mrs Yule had to pass

through a few years of much bitterness. Already a martyr to

dyspepsia, and often suffering from bilious headaches of extreme

violence, her husband now and then lost all control of his

temper, all sense of kind feeling, even of decency, and

reproached the poor woman with her ignorance, her stupidity, her

low origin. Naturally enough she defended herself with such

weapons as a sense of cruel injustice supplied. More than once

the two all but parted. It did not come to an actual rupture,

chiefly because Yule could not do without his wife; her tendance

had become indispensable. And then there was the child to

consider.

From the first it was Yule's dread lest Marian should be infected

with her mother's faults of speech and behaviour. He would

scarcely permit his wife to talk to the child. At the earliest

possible moment Marian was sent to a day-school, and in her tenth

year she went as weekly boarder to an establishment at Fulham;

any sacrifice of money to insure her growing up with the tongue

and manners of a lady. It can scarcely have been a light trial to

the mother to know that contact with her was regarded as her

child's greatest danger; but in her humility and her love for

Marian she offered no resistance. And so it came to pass that one

day the little girl, hearing her mother make some flagrant

grammatical error, turned to the other parent and asked gravely:

'Why doesn't mother speak as properly as we do?' Well, that is

one of the results of such marriages, one of the myriad miseries

that result from poverty.

The end was gained at all hazards. Marian grew up everything that

her father desired. Not only had she the bearing of refinement,

but it early became obvious that nature had well endowed her

with brains. From the nursery her talk was of books, and at the

age of twelve she was already able to give her father some

assistance as an amanuensis.

At that time Edmund Yule was still living; he had overcome his

prejudices, and there was intercourse between his household and

that of the literary man. Intimacy it could not be called, for

Mrs Edmund (who was the daughter of a law-stationer) had much

difficulty in behaving to Mrs Alfred with show of suavity. Still,

the cousins Amy and Marian from time to time saw each other, and

were not unsuitable companions. It was the death of Amy's father

that brought these relations to an end; left to the control of

her own affairs Mrs Edmund was not long in giving offence to Mrs

Alfred, and so to Alfred himself. The man of letters might be

inconsiderate enough in his behaviour to his wife, but as soon as

anyone else treated her with disrespect that was quite another

matter. Purely on this account he quarrelled violently with his

brother's widow, and from that day the two families kept apart.

The chapter of quarrels was one of no small importance in

Alfred's life; his difficult temper, and an ever-increasing sense

of neglected merit, frequently put him at war with publishers,

editors, fellow-authors, and he had an unhappy trick of exciting

the hostility of men who were most likely to be useful to him.

With Mr Polo, for instance, who held him in esteem, and whose

commercial success made him a valuable connection, Alfred

ultimately broke on a trifling matter of personal dignity. Later

came the great quarrel with Clement Fadge, an affair of

considerable advantage in the way of advertisement to both the

men concerned. It happened in the year 1873. At that time Yule

was editor of a weekly paper called The Balance, a literary organ

which aimed high, and failed to hit the circulation essential to

its existence. Fadge, a younger man, did reviewing for The

Balance; he was in needy circumstances, and had wrought himself

into Yule's good opinion by judicious flattery. But with a clear

eye for the main chance Mr Fadge soon perceived that Yule could

only be of temporary use to him, and that the editor of a well-

established weekly which lost no opportunity of throwing scorn

upon Yule and all his works would be a much more profitable

conquest. He succeeded in transferring his services to the more

flourishing paper, and struck out a special line of work by the

free exercise of a malicious flippancy which was then without

rival in the periodical press. When he had thoroughly got his

hand in, it fell to Mr Fadge, in the mere way of business, to

review a volume of his old editor's, a rather pretentious and

longwinded but far from worthless essay 'On Imagination as a

National Characteristic.' The notice was a masterpiece; its

exquisite virulence set the literary circles chuckling.

Concerning the authorship there was no mystery, and Alfred Yule

had the indiscretion to make a violent reply, a savage assault

upon Fadge, in the columns of The Balance. Fadge desired nothing

better; the uproar which arose--chaff, fury, grave comments,

sneering spite--could only result in drawing universal attention

to his anonymous cleverness, and throwing ridicule upon the

heavy, conscientious man. Well, you probably remember all about

it. It ended in the disappearance of Yule's struggling paper, and

the establishment on a firm basis of Fadge's reputation.

It would be difficult to mention any department of literary

endeavour in which Yule did not, at one time or another, try his

fortune. Turn to his name in the Museum Catalogue; the list of

works appended to it will amuse you. In his thirtieth year he

published a novel; it failed completely, and the same result

awaited a similar experiment five years later. He wrote a drama

of modern life, and for some years strove to get it acted, but in

vain; finally it appeared 'for the closet'--giving Clement Fadge

such an opportunity as he seldom enjoyed. The one noteworthy

thing about these productions, and about others of equally

mistaken direction, was the sincerity of their workmanship. Had

Yule been content to manufacture a novel or a play with due

disregard for literary honour, he might perchance have made a

mercantile success; but the poor fellow had not pliancy enough

for this. He took his efforts au grand serieux; thought he was

producing works of art; pursued his ambition in a spirit of

fierce conscientiousness. In spite of all, he remained only a

journeyman. The kind of work he did best was poorly paid, and

could bring no fame. At the age of fifty he was still living in a

poor house in an obscure quarter. He earned enough for his actual

needs, and was under no pressing fear for the morrow, so long as

his faculties remained unimpaired; but there was no disguising

from himself that his life had been a failure. And the thought

tormented him.

Now there had come unexpectedly a gleam of hope. If indeed, the

man Rackett thought of offering him the editorship of The Study

he might even yet taste the triumphs for which he had so

vehemently longed. The Study was a weekly paper of fair repute.

Fadge had harmed it, no doubt of that, by giving it a tone which

did not suit the majority of its readers--serious people, who

thought that the criticism of contemporary writing offered an

opportunity for something better than a display of malevolent

wit. But a return to the old earnestness would doubtless set all

right again. And the joy of sitting in that dictatorial chair!

The delight of having his own organ once more, of making himself

a power in the world of letters, of emphasising to a large

audience his developed methods of criticism!

An embittered man is a man beset by evil temptations. The Study

contained each week certain columns of flying gossip, and when he

thought of this, Yule also thought of Clement Fadge, and sundry

other of his worst enemies. How the gossip column can be used for

hostile purposes, yet without the least overt offence, he had

learnt only too well. Sometimes the mere omission of a man's name

from a list of authors can mortify and injure. In our day the

manipulation of such paragraphs has become a fine art; but you

recall numerous illustrations. Alfred knew well enough how

incessantly the tempter would be at his ear; he said to himself

that in certain instances yielding would be no dishonour. He

himself had many a time been mercilessly treated; in the very

interest of the public it was good that certain men should suffer

a snubbing, and his fingers itched to have hold of the editorial

pen. Ha, ha! Like the war-horse he snuffed the battle afar off.

No work this evening, though there were tasks which pressed for

completion. His study--the only room on the ground level except

the dining-room--was small, and even a good deal of the floor was

encumbered with books, but he found space for walking nervously

hither and thither. He was doing this when, about half-past nine,

his wife appeared at the door, bringing him a cup of coffee and

some biscuits, his wonted supper. Marian generally waited upon

him at this time, and he asked why she had not come.

'She has one of her headaches again, I'm sorry to say,' Mrs Yule

replied. 'I persuaded her to go to bed early.'

Having placed the tray upon the table--books had to be pushed

aside--she did not seem disposed to withdraw.

'Are you busy, Alfred?'

'Why?'

'I thought I should like just to speak of something.'

She was using the opportunity of his good humour. Yule spoke to

her with the usual carelessness, but not forbiddingly.

'What is it? Those Holloway people, I'll warrant.'

'No, no! It's about Marian. She had a letter from one of those

young ladies this afternoon.'

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

circuitous approach.

'The Miss Milvains.'

'Well, there's no harm that I know of. They're decent people.'

'Yes; so you told me. But she began to speak about their brother,

and--'

'What about him? Do say what you want to say, and have done with

it!'

'I can't help thinking, Alfred, that she's disappointed you

didn't ask him to come here.'

Yule stared at her in slight surprise. He was still not angry,

and seemed quite willing to consider this matter suggested to him

so timorously.

'Oh, you think so? Well, I don't know. Why should I have asked

him? It was only because Miss Harrow seemed to wish it that I saw

him down there. I have no particular interest in him. And as for-

-'

He broke off and seated himself. Mrs Yule stood at a distance.

'We must remember her age,' she said.

'Why yes, of course.'

He mused, and began to nibble a biscuit.

'And you know, Alfred, she never does meet any young men. I've

often thought it wasn't right to her.'

'H'm! But this lad Milvain is a very doubtful sort of customer.

To begin with, he has nothing, and they tell me his mother for

the most part supports him. I don't quite approve of that. She

isn't well off, and he ought to have been making a living by now.

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

being sure of that.'

These thoughts were not coming into his mind for the first time.

On the occasion when he met Milvain and Marian together in the

country road he had necessarily reflected upon the possibilities

of such intercourse, and with the issue that he did not care to

give any particular encouragement to its continuance. He of

course heard of Milvain's leave-taking call, and he purposely

refrained from seeing the young man after that. The matter took

no very clear shape in his meditations; he saw no likelihood that

either of the young people would think much of the other after

their parting, and time enough to trouble one's head with such

subjects when they could no longer be postponed. It would not

have been pleasant to him to foresee a life of spinsterhood for

his daughter; but she was young, and--she was a valuable

assistant.

How far did that latter consideration weigh with him? He put the

question pretty distinctly to himself now that his wife had

broached the matter thus unexpectedly. Was he prepared to behave

with deliberate selfishness? Never yet had any conflict been

manifested between his interests and Marian's; practically he was

in the habit of counting upon her aid for an indefinite period.

If indeed he became editor of The Study, why, in that case her

assistance would be less needful. And indeed it seemed probable

that young Milvain had a future before him.

'But, in any case,' he said aloud, partly continuing his

thoughts, partly replying to a look of disappointment on his

wife's face, 'how do you know that he has any wish to come and

see Marian?'

'I don't know anything about it, of course.'

'And you may have made a mistake about her. What made you think

she--had him in mind?'

'Well, it was her way of speaking, you know. And then, she asked

if you had got a dislike to him.'

'She did? H'm! Well, I don't think Milvain is any good to Marian.

He's just the kind of man to make himself agreeable to a girl for

the fun of the thing.'

Mrs Yule looked alarmed.

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

anything.'

'I don't say it for certain.' He took a sip of his coffee. 'I

have had no opportunity of observing him with much attention. But

he's not the kind of man I care for.'

'Then no doubt it's better as it is.'

'Yes. I don't see that anything could be done now. We shall see

whether he gets on. I advise you not to mention him to her.'

'Oh no, I won't.'

She moved as if to go away, but her heart had been made uneasy by

that short conversation which followed on Marian's reading the

letter, and there were still things she wished to put into words.

'If those young ladies go on writing to her, I dare say they'll

often speak about their brother.'

'Yes, it's rather unfortunate.'

'And you know, Alfred, he may have asked them to do it.'

'I suppose there's one subject on which all women can be subtle,'

muttered Yule, smiling. The remark was not a kind one, but he did

not make it worse by his tone.

The listener failed to understand him, and looked with her

familiar expression of mental effort.

'We can't help that,' he added, with reference to her suggestion.

'If he has any serious thoughts, well, let him go on and wait for

opportunities.'

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

the right kind?'

'No use talking about it. Things are as they are. I can't see

that her life is unhappy.'

'It isn't very happy.'

'You think not?'

'I'm sure it isn't.'

'If I get The Study things may be different. Though-- But it's no

use talking about what can't be helped. Now don't you go

encouraging her to think herself lonely, and so on. It's best for

her to keep close to work, I'm sure of that.'

'Perhaps it is.'

'I'll think it over.'

Mrs Yule silently left the room, and went back to her sewing.

She had understood that 'Though--' and the 'what can't be

helped.' Such allusions reminded her of a time unhappier than the

present, when she had been wont to hear plainer language. She

knew too well that, had she been a woman of education, her

daughter would not now be suffering from loneliness.

It was her own choice that she did not go with her husband and

Marian to John Yule's. She made an excuse that the house could

not be left to one servant; but in any case she would have

remained at home, for her presence must needs be an embarrassment

both to father and daughter. Alfred was always ashamed of her

before strangers; he could not conceal his feeling, either from

her or from other people who had reason for observing him. Marian

was not perhaps ashamed, but such companionship put restraint

upon her freedom. And would it not always be the same? Supposing

Mr Milvain were to come to this house, would it not repel him

when he found what sort of person Marian's mother was?

She shed a few tears over her needlework.

At midnight the study door opened. Yule came to the dining-room

to see that all was right, and it surprised him to find his wife

still sitting there.

'Why are you so late?'

'I've forgot the time.'

'Forgotten, forgotten. Don't go back to that kind of language

again. Come, put the light out.'

PART TWO

CHAPTER VIII. TO THE WINNING SIDE

Of the acquaintances Yule had retained from his earlier years

several were in the well-defined category of men with

unpresentable wives. There was Hinks, for instance, whom, though

in anger he spoke of him as a bore, Alfred held in some genuine

regard. Hinks made perhaps a hundred a year out of a kind of

writing which only certain publishers can get rid of and of this

income he spent about a third on books. His wife was the daughter

of a laundress, in whose house he had lodged thirty years ago,

when new to London but already long-acquainted with hunger; they

lived in complete harmony, but Mrs Hinks, who was four years the

elder, still spoke the laundress tongue, unmitigated and

immitigable. Another pair were Mr and Mrs Gorbutt. In this case

there were no narrow circumstances to contend with, for the wife,

originally a nursemaid, not long after her marriage inherited

house property from a relative. Mr Gorbutt deemed himself a poet;

since his accession to an income he had published, at his own

expense, a yearly volume of verses; the only result being to keep

alive rancour in his wife, who was both parsimonious and vain.

Making no secret of it, Mrs Gorbutt rued the day on which she had

wedded a man of letters, when by waiting so short a time she

would have been enabled to aim at a prosperous tradesman, who

kept his gig and had everything handsome about him. Mrs Yule

suspected, not without reason, that this lady had an inclination

to strong liquors. Thirdly came Mr and Mrs Christopherson, who

were poor as church mice. Even in a friend's house they wrangled

incessantly, and made tragi-comical revelations of their home

life. The husband worked casually at irresponsible journalism,

but his chosen study was metaphysics; for many years he had had a

huge and profound book on hand, which he believed would bring him

fame, though he was not so unsettled in mind as to hope for

anything else. When an article or two had earned enough money for

immediate necessities he went off to the British Museum, and then

the difficulty was to recall him to profitable exertions. Yet

husband and wife had an affection for each other. Mrs

Christopherson came from Camberwell, where her father, once upon

a time, was the smallest of small butchers. Disagreeable stories

were whispered concerning her earlier life, and probably the

metaphysician did not care to look back in that direction. They

had had three children; all were happily buried.

These men were capable of better things than they had done or

would ever do; in each case their failure to fulfil youthful

promise was largely explained by the unpresentable wife. They

should have waited; they might have married a social equal at

something between fifty and sixty.

Another old friend was Mr Quarmby. Unwedded he, and perpetually

exultant over men who, as he phrased it, had noosed themselves.

He made a fair living, but, like Dr Johnson, had no passion for

clean linen.

Yule was not disdainful of these old companions, and the fact

that all had a habit of looking up to him increased his pleasure

in their occasional society. If, as happened once or twice in

half a year, several of them were gathered together at his house,

he tasted a sham kind of social and intellectual authority which

he could not help relishing. On such occasions he threw off his

habitual gloom and talked vigorously, making natural display of

his learning and critical ability. The topic, sooner or later,

was that which is inevitable in such a circle--the demerits, the

pretentiousness, the personal weaknesses of prominent

contemporaries in the world of letters. Then did the room ring

with scornful laughter, with boisterous satire, with shouted

irony, with fierce invective. After an evening of that kind Yule

was unwell and miserable for several days.

It was not to be expected that Mr Quarmby, inveterate chatterbox

of the Reading-room and other resorts, should keep silence

concerning what he had heard of Mr Rackett's intentions. The

rumour soon spread that Alfred Yule was to succeed Fadge in the

direction of The Study, with the necessary consequence that Yule

found himself an object of affectionate interest to a great many

people of whom he knew little or nothing. At the same time the

genuine old friends pressed warmly about him, with

congratulations, with hints of their sincere readiness to assist

in filling the columns of the paper. All this was not

disagreeable, but in the meantime Yule had heard nothing whatever

from Mr Rackett himself and his doubts did not diminish as week

after week went by.

The event justified him. At the end of October appeared an

authoritative announcement that Fadge's successor would be--not

Alfred Yule, but a gentleman who till of late had been quietly

working as a sub-editor in the provinces, and who had neither

friendships nor enmities among the people of the London literary

press. A young man, comparatively fresh from the university, and

said to be strong in pure scholarship. The choice, as you are

aware, proved a good one, and The Study became an organ of more

repute than ever.

Yule had been secretly conscious that it was not to men such as

he that positions of this kind are nowadays entrusted. He tried

to persuade himself that he was not disappointed. But when Mr

Quarmby approached him with blank face, he spoke certain wrathful

words which long rankled in that worthy's mind. At home he kept

sullen silence.

No, not to such men as he--poor, and without social

recommendations. Besides, he was growing too old. In literature,

as in most other pursuits, the press of energetic young men was

making it very hard for a veteran even to hold the little

grazing-plot he had won by hard fighting. Still, Quarmby's story

had not been without foundation; it was true that the proprietor

of The Study had for a moment thought of Alfred Yule, doubtless

as the natural contrast to Clement Fadge, whom he would have

liked to mortify if the thing were possible. But counsellors had

proved to Mr Rackett the disadvantages of such a choice.

Mrs Yule and her daughter foresaw but too well the results of

this disappointment, notwithstanding that Alfred announced it to

them with dry indifference. The month that followed was a time of

misery for all in the house. Day after day Yule sat at his meals

in sullen muteness; to his wife he scarcely spoke at all, and his

conversation with Marian did not go beyond necessary questions

and remarks on topics of business. His face became so strange a

colour that one would have thought him suffering from an attack

of jaundice; bilious headaches exasperated his savage mood. Mrs

Yule knew from long experience how worse than useless it was for

her to attempt consolation; in silence was her only safety. Nor

did Marian venture to speak directly of what had happened. But

one evening, when she had been engaged in the study and was now

saying 'Good-night,' she laid her cheek against her father's, an

unwonted caress which had a strange effect upon him. The

expression of sympathy caused his thoughts to reveal themselves

as they never yet had done before his daughter.

'It might have been very different with me,' he exclaimed

abruptly, as if they had already been conversing on the subject.

'When you think of my failures--and you must often do so now you

are grown up and understand things--don't forget the obstacles

that have been in my way. I don't like you to look upon your

father as a thickhead who couldn't be expected to succeed. Look

at Fadge. He married a woman of good social position; she brought

him friends and influence. But for that he would never have been

editor of The Study, a place for which he wasn't in the least

fit. But he was able to give dinners; he and his wife went into

society; everybody knew him and talked of him. How has it been

with me? I live here like an animal in its hole, and go blinking

about if by chance I find myself among the people with whom I

ought naturally to associate. If I had been able to come in

direct contact with Rackett and other men of that kind, to dine

with them, and have them to dine with me, to belong to a club,

and so on, I shouldn't be what I am at my age. My one

opportunity--when I edited The Balance--wasn't worth much; there

was no money behind the paper; we couldn't hold out long enough.

But even then, if I could have assumed my proper social standing,

if I could have opened my house freely to the right kind of

people-- How was it possible?'

Marian could not raise her head. She recognised the portion of

truth in what he said, but it shocked her that he should allow

himself to speak thus. Her silence seemed to remind him how

painful it must be to her to hear these accusations of her

mother, and with a sudden 'Good-night' he dismissed her.

She went up to her room, and wept over the wretchedness of all

their lives. Her loneliness had seemed harder to bear than ever

since that last holiday. For a moment, in the lanes about Finden,

there had come to her a vision of joy such as fate owed her

youth; but it had faded, and she could no longer hope for its

return. She was not a woman, but a mere machine for reading and

writing. Did her father never think of this? He was not the only

one to suffer from the circumstances in which poverty had

involved him.

She had no friends to whom she could utter her thoughts. Dora

Milvain had written a second time, and more recently had come a

letter from Maud; but in replying to them she could not give a

true account of herself. Impossible, to them. From what she wrote

they would imagine her contentedly busy, absorbed in the affairs

of literature. To no one could she make known the aching sadness

of her heart, the dreariness of life as it lay before her.

That beginning of half-confidence between her and her mother had

led to nothing. Mrs Yule found no second opportunity of speaking

to her husband about Jasper Milvain, and purposely she refrained

from any further hint or question to Marian. Everything must go

on as hitherto.

The days darkened. Through November rains and fogs Marian went

her usual way to the Museum, and toiled there among the other

toilers. Perhaps once a week she allowed herself to stray about

the alleys of the Reading-room, scanning furtively those who sat

at the desks, but the face she might perchance have discovered

was not there.

One day at the end of the month she sat with books open before

her, but by no effort could fix her attention upon them. It was

gloomy, and one could scarcely see to read; a taste of fog grew

perceptible in the warm, headachy air. Such profound

discouragement possessed her that she could not even maintain the

pretence of study; heedless whether anyone observed her, she let

her hands fall and her head droop. She kept asking herself what

was the use and purpose of such a life as she was condemned to

lead. When already there was more good literature in the world

than any mortal could cope with in his lifetime, here was she

exhausting herself in the manufacture of printed stuff which no

one even pretended to be more than a commodity for the day's

market. What unspeakable folly! To write--was not that the joy

and the privilege of one who had an urgent message for the world?

Her father, she knew well, had no such message; he had abandoned

all thought of original production, and only wrote about writing.

She herself would throw away her pen with joy but for the need of

earning money. And all these people about her, what aim had they

save to make new books out of those already existing, that yet

newer books might in turn be made out of theirs? This huge

library, growing into unwieldiness, threatening to become a

trackless desert of print--how intolerably it weighed upon the

spirit!

Oh, to go forth and labour with one's hands, to do any poorest,

commonest work of which the world had truly need! It was ignoble

to sit here and support the paltry pretence of intellectual

dignity. A few days ago her startled eye had caught an

advertisement in the newspaper, headed 'Literary Machine'; had it

then been invented at last, some automaton to supply the place of

such poor creatures as herself to turn out books and articles?

Alas! the machine was only one for holding volumes conveniently,

that the work of literary manufacture might be physically

lightened. But surely before long some Edison would make the true

automaton; the problem must be comparatively such a simple one.

Only to throw in a given number of old books, and have them

reduced, blended, modernised into a single one for to-day's

consumption.

The fog grew thicker; she looked up at the windows beneath the

dome and saw that they were a dusky yellow. Then her eye

discerned an official walking along the upper gallery, and in

pursuance of her grotesque humour, her mocking misery, she

likened him to a black, lost soul, doomed to wander in an

eternity of vain research along endless shelves. Or again, the

readers who sat here at these radiating lines of desks, what were

they but hapless flies caught in a huge web, its nucleus the

great circle of the Catalogue? Darker, darker. From the towering

wall of volumes seemed to emanate visible motes, intensifying the

obscurity; in a moment the book-lined circumference of the room

would be but a featureless prison-limit.

But then flashed forth the sputtering whiteness of the electric

light, and its ceaseless hum was henceforth a new source of

headache. It reminded her how little work she had done to-day;

she must, she must force herself to think of the task in hand. A

machine has no business to refuse its duty. But the pages were

blue and green and yellow before her eyes; the uncertainty of the

light was intolerable. Right or wrong she would go home, and hide

herself, and let her heart unburden itself of tears.

On her way to return books she encountered Jasper Milvain. Face

to face; no possibility of his avoiding her.

And indeed he seemed to have no such wish. His countenance

lighted up with unmistakable pleasure.

'At last we meet, as they say in the melodramas. Oh, do let me

help you with those volumes, which won't even let you shake

hands. How do you do? How do you like this weather? And how do

you like this light?'

'It's very bad.'

'That'll do both for weather and light, but not for yourself. How

glad I am to see you! Are you just going?'

'Yes.'

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

to London.'

'But you are writing still?'

'Oh yes! But I draw upon my genius, and my stores of observation,

and the living world.'

Marian received her vouchers for the volumes, and turned to face

Jasper again. There was a smile on her lips.

'The fog is terrible,' Milvain went on. 'How do you get home?'

'By omnibus from Tottenham Court Road.'

'Then do let me go a part of the way with you. I live in

Mornington Road--up yonder, you know. I have only just come in to

waste half an hour, and after all I think I should be better at

home. Your father is all right, I hope?'

'He is not quite well.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. You are not exactly up to the mark,

either. What weather! What a place to live in, this London, in

winter! It would be a little better down at Finden.'

'A good deal better, I should think. If the weather were bad, it

would be bad in a natural way; but this is artificial misery.'

'I don't let it affect me much,' said Milvain. 'Just of late I

have been in remarkably good spirits. I'm doing a lot of work. No

end of work--more than I've ever done.'

'I am very glad.'

'Where are your out-of-door things? I think there's a ladies'

vestry somewhere, isn't there?'

'Oh yes.'

'Then will you go and get ready? I'll wait for you in the hall.

But, by-the-bye, I am taking it for granted that you were going

alone.'

'I was, quite alone.'

The 'quite' seemed excessive; it made Jasper smile.

'And also,' he added, 'that I shall not annoy you by offering my

company?'

'Why should it annoy me?'

'Good!'

Milvain had only to wait a minute or two. He surveyed Marian from

head to foot when she appeared--an impertinence as unintentional

as that occasionally noticeable in his speech--and smiled

approval. They went out into the fog, which was not one of

London's densest, but made walking disagreeable enough.

'You have heard from the girls, I think?' Jasper resumed.

'Your sisters? Yes; they have been so kind as to write to me.'

'Told you all about their great work? I hope it'll be finished by

the end of the year. The bits they have sent me will do very well

indeed. I knew they had it in them to put sentences together. Now

I want them to think of patching up something or other for The

English Girl; you know the paper?'

'I have heard of it.'

'I happen to know Mrs Boston Wright, who edits it. Met her at a

house the other day, and told her frankly that she would have to

give my sisters something to do. It's the only way to get on; one

has to take it for granted that people are willing to help you. I

have made a host of new acquaintances just lately.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Marian.

'Do you know--but how should you? I am going to write for the new

magazine, The Current.'

'Indeed!'

'Edited by that man Fadge.'

'Yes.'

'Your father has no affection for him, I know.'

'He has no reason to have, Mr Milvain.'

'No, no. Fadge is an offensive fellow, when he likes; and I fancy

he very often does like. Well, I must make what use of him I can.

You won't think worse of me because I write for him?'

'I know that one can't exercise choice in such things.'

'True. I shouldn't like to think that you regard me as a Fadge-

like individual, a natural Fadgeite.'

Marian laughed.

'There's no danger of my thinking that.'

But the fog was making their eyes water and getting into their

throats. By when they reached Tottenham Court Road they were both

thoroughly uncomfortable. The 'bus had to be waited for, and in

the meantime they talked scrappily, coughily. In the vehicle

things were a little better, but here one could not converse with

freedom.

'What pestilent conditions of life!' exclaimed Jasper, putting

his face rather near to Marian's. 'I wish to goodness we were

back in those quiet fields--you remember?--with the September sun

warm about us. Shall you go to Finden again before long?'

'I really don't know.'

'I'm sorry to say my mother is far from well. In any case I must

go at Christmas, but I'm afraid it won't be a cheerful visit.'

Arrived in Hampstead Road he offered his hand for good-bye.

'I wanted to talk about all sorts of things. But perhaps I shall

find you again some day.'

He jumped out, and waved his hat in the lurid fog.

Shortly before the end of December appeared the first number of

The Current. Yule had once or twice referred to the forthcoming

magazine with acrid contempt, and of course he did not purchase a

copy.

'So young Milvain has joined Fadge's hopeful standard,' he

remarked, a day or two later, at breakfast. 'They say his paper

is remarkably clever; I could wish it had appeared anywhere else.

Evil communications, &c.'

'But I shouldn't think there's any personal connection,' said

Marian.

'Very likely not. But Milvain has been invited to contribute, you

see.

'Do you think he ought to have refused?'

'Oh no. It's nothing to me; nothing whatever.'

Mrs Yule glanced at her daughter, but Marian seemed unconcerned.

The subject was dismissed. In introducing it Yule had had his

purpose; there had always been an unnatural avoidance of

Milvain's name in conversation, and he wished to have an end of

this. Hitherto he had felt a troublesome uncertainty regarding

his position in the matter. From what his wife had told him it

seemed pretty certain that Marian was disappointed by the abrupt

closing of her brief acquaintance with the young man, and Yule's

affection for his daughter caused him to feel uneasy in the

thought that perhaps he had deprived her of a chance of

happiness. His conscience readily took hold of an excuse for

justifying the course he had followed. Milvain had gone over to

the enemy. Whether or not the young man understood how relentless

the hostility was between Yule and Fadge mattered little; the

probability was that he knew all about it. In any case intimate

relations with him could not have survived this alliance with

Fadge, so that, after all, there had been wisdom in letting the

acquaintance lapse. To be sure, nothing could have come of it.

Milvain was the kind of man who weighed opportunities; every step

he took would be regulated by considerations of advantage; at all

events that was the impression his character had made upon Yule.

Any hopes that Marian might have been induced to form would

assuredly have ended in disappointment. It was kindness to

interpose before things had gone so far.

Henceforth, if Milvain's name was unavoidable, it should be

mentioned just like that of any other literary man. It seemed

very unlikely indeed that Marian would continue to think of him

with any special and personal interest. The fact of her having

got into correspondence with his sisters was unfortunate, but

this kind of thing rarely went on for very long.

Yule spoke of the matter with his wife that evening.

'By-the-bye, has Marian heard from those girls at Finden lately?'

'She had a letter one afternoon last week.'

'Do you see these letters?'

'No; she told me what was in them at first, but now she doesn't.'

'She hasn't spoken to you again of Milvain?'

'Not a word.'

'Well, I understood what I was about,' Yule remarked, with the

confident air of one who doesn't wish to remember that he had

ever felt doubtful. 'There was no good in having the fellow here.

He has got in with a set that I don't at all care for. If she

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

Marian had already procured a copy of The Current, and read it

privately. Of the cleverness of Milvain's contribution there

could be no two opinions; it drew the attention of the public,

and all notices of the new magazine made special reference to

this article. With keen interest Marian sought after comments of

the press; when it was possible she cut them out and put them

carefully away.

January passed, and February. She saw nothing of Jasper. A letter

from Dora in the first week of March made announcement that the

'Child's History of the English Parliament' would be published

very shortly; it told her, too, that Mrs Milvain had been very

ill indeed, but that she seemed to recover a little strength as

the weather improved. Of Jasper there was no mention.

A week later came the news that Mrs Milvain had suddenly died.

This letter was received at breakfast-time. The envelope was an

ordinary one, and so little did Marian anticipate the nature of

its contents that at the first sight of the words she uttered an

exclamation of pain. Her father, who had turned from the table to

the fireside with his newspaper, looked round and asked what was

the matter.

'Mrs Milvain died the day before yesterday.'

'Indeed!'

He averted his face again and seemed disposed to say no more. But

in a few moments he inquired:

'What are her daughters likely to do?'

'I have no idea.'

'Do you know anything of their circumstances?'

'I believe they will have to depend upon themselves.'

Nothing more was said. Afterwards Mrs Yule made a few sympathetic

inquiries, but Marian was very brief in her replies.

Ten days after that, on a Sunday afternoon when Marian and her

mother were alone in the sitting-room, they heard the knock of a

visitor at the front door. Yule was out, and there was no

likelihood of the visitor's wishing to see anyone but him. They

listened; the servant went to the door, and, after a murmur of

voices, came to speak to her mistress.

'It's a gentleman called Mr Milvain,' the girl reported, in a way

that proved how seldom callers presented themselves. 'He asked

for Mr Yule, and when I said he was out, then he asked for Miss

Yule.' Mother and daughter looked anxiously at each other. Mrs

Yule was nervous and helpless.

'Show Mr Milvain into the study,' said Marian, with sudden

decision.

'Are you going to see him there?' asked her mother in a hurried

whisper.

'I thought you would prefer that to his coming in here.'

'Yes--yes. But suppose father comes back before he's gone?'

'What will it matter? You forget that he asked for father first.'

'Oh yes! Then don't wait.'

Marian, scarcely less agitated than her mother, was just leaving

the room, when she turned back again.

'If father comes in, you will tell him before he goes into the

study?'

'Yes, I will.'

The fire in the study was on the point of extinction; this was

the first thing Marian's eye perceived on entering, and it gave

her assurance that her father would not be back for some hours.

Evidently he had intended it to go out; small economies of this

kind, unintelligible to people who have always lived at ease, had

been the life-long rule with him. With a sensation of gladness at

having free time before her, Marian turned to where Milvain was

standing, in front of one of the bookcases. He wore no symbol of

mourning, but his countenance was far graver than usual, and

rather paler. They shook hands in silence.

'I am so grieved--' Marian began with broken voice.

'Thank you. I know the girls have told you all about it. We knew

for the last month that it must come before long, though there

was a deceptive improvement just before the end.'

'Please to sit down, Mr Milvain. Father went out not long ago,

and I don't think he will be back very soon.'

'It was not really Mr Yule I wished to see,' said Jasper,

frankly. 'If he had been at home I should have spoken with him

about what I have in mind, but if you will kindly give me a few

minutes it will be much better.'

Marian glanced at the expiring fire. Her curiosity as to what

Milvain had to say was mingled with an anxious doubt whether it

was not too late to put on fresh coals; already the room was

growing very chill, and this appearance of inhospitality troubled

her.

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

and movement.

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

'I think not. Life in lodgings has made me skilful at this kind

of thing; let me try my hand.'

He took the tongs and carefully disposed small pieces of coal

upon the glow that remained. Marian stood apart with a feeling of

shame and annoyance. But it is so seldom that situations in life

arrange themselves with dramatic propriety; and, after all, this

vulgar necessity made the beginning of the conversation easier.

'That will be all right now,' said Jasper at length, as little

tongues of flame began to shoot here and there.

Marian said nothing, but seated herself and waited.

'I came up to town yesterday,' Jasper began. 'Of course we have

had a great deal to do and think about. Miss Harrow has been very

kind indeed to the girls; so have several of our old friends in

Wattleborough. It was necessary to decide at once what Maud and

Dora are going to do, and it is on their account that I have come

to see you.

The listener kept silence, with a face of sympathetic attention.

'We have made up our minds that they may as well come to London.

It's a bold step; I'm by no means sure that the result will

justify it. But I think they are perhaps right in wishing to try

it.'

'They will go on with literary work?'

'Well, it's our hope that they may be able to. Of course there's

no chance of their earning enough to live upon for some time. But

the matter stands like this. They have a trifling sum of money,

on which, at a pinch, they could live in London for perhaps a

year and a half. In that time they may find their way to a sort

of income; at all events, the chances are that a year and a half

hence I shall be able to help them to keep body and soul

together.'

The money of which he spoke was the debt owed to their father by

William Milvain. In consequence of Mrs Milvain's pressing

application, half of this sum had at length been paid and the

remainder was promised in a year's time, greatly to Jasper's

astonishment. In addition, there would be the trifle realised by

the sale of furniture, though most of this might have to go in

payment of rent unless the house could be relet immediately.

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

She spoke mechanically, for it was impossible to keep her

thoughts under control. If Maud and Dora came to live in London

it might bring about a most important change in her life; she

could scarcely imagine the happiness of having two such friends

always near. On the other hand, how would it be regarded by her

father? She was at a loss amid conflicting emotions.

'It's better than if they had done nothing at all,' Jasper

replied to her remark. 'And the way they knocked that trifle

together promises well. They did it very quickly, and in a far

more workmanlike way than I should have thought possible.'

'No doubt they share your own talent.'

'Perhaps so. Of course I know that I have talent of a kind,

though I don't rate it very high. We shall have to see whether

they can do anything more than mere booksellers' work; they are

both very young, you know. I think they may be able to write

something that'll do for The English Girl, and no doubt I can hit

upon a second idea that will appeal to Jolly and Monk. At all

events, they'll have books within reach, and better opportunities

every way than at Finden.'

'How do their friends in the country think of it?'

'Very dubiously; but then what else was to be expected? Of

course, the respectable and intelligible path marked out for both

of them points to a lifetime of governessing. But the girls have

no relish for that; they'd rather do almost anything. We talked

over all the aspects of the situation seriously enough--it is

desperately serious, no doubt of that. I told them fairly all the

hardships they would have to face--described the typical London

lodgings, and so on. Still, there's an adventurous vein in them,

and they decided for the risk. If it came to the worst I suppose

they could still find governess work.'

'Let us hope better things.'

'Yes. But now, I should have felt far more reluctant to let them

come here in this way hadn't it been that they regard you as a

friend. To-morrow morning you will probably hear from one or both

of them. Perhaps it would have been better if I had left them to

tell you all this, but I felt I should like to see you and--put

it in my own way. I think you'll understand this feeling, Miss

Yule. I wanted, in fact, to hear from yourself that you would be

a friend to the poor girls.'

'Oh, you already know that! I shall be so very glad to see them

often.'

Marian's voice lent itself very naturally and sweetly to the

expression of warm feeling. Emphasis was not her habit; it only

needed that she should put off her ordinary reserve, utter

quietly the emotional thought which so seldom might declare

itself, and her tones had an exquisite womanliness.

Jasper looked full into her face.

'In that case they won't miss the comfort of home so much. Of

course they will have to go into very modest lodgings indeed. I

have already been looking about. I should like to find rooms for

them somewhere near my own place; it's a decent neighbourhood,

and the park is at hand, and then they wouldn't be very far from

you. They thought it might be possible to make a joint

establishment with me, but I'm afraid that's out of the question.

The lodgings we should want in that case, everything considered,

would cost more than the sum of our expenses if we live apart.

Besides, there's no harm in saying that I don't think we should

get along very well together. We're all of us rather quarrelsome,

to tell the truth, and we try each other's tempers.'

Marian smiled and looked puzzled.

'Shouldn't you have thought that?'

'I have seen no signs of quarrelsomeness.'

'I'm not sure that the worst fault is on my side. Why should one

condemn oneself against conscience? Maud is perhaps the hardest

to get along with. She has a sort of arrogance, an exaggeration

of something I am quite aware of in myself. You have noticed that

trait in me?'

'Arrogance--I think not. You have self-confidence.'

'Which goes into extremes now and then. But, putting myself

aside, I feel pretty sure that the girls won't seem quarrelsome

to you; they would have to be very fractious indeed before that

were possible.'

'We shall continue to be friends, I am sure.'

Jasper let his eyes wander about the room.

'This is your father's study?'

'Yes.'

'Perhaps it would have seemed odd to Mr Yule if I had come in and

begun to talk to him about these purely private affairs. He knows

me so very slightly. But, in calling here for the first time-- '

An unusual embarrassment checked him.

'I will explain to father your very natural wish to speak of

these things,' said Marian, with tact.

She thought uneasily of her mother in the next room. To her there

appeared no reason whatever why Jasper should not be introduced

to Mrs Yule, yet she could not venture to propose it. Remembering

her father's last remarks about Milvain in connection with

Fadge's magazine, she must wait for distinct permission before

offering the young man encouragement to repeat his visit. Perhaps

there was complicated trouble in store for her; impossible to say

how her father's deep-rooted and rankling antipathies might

affect her intercourse even with the two girls. But she was of

independent years; she must be allowed the choice of her own

friends. The pleasure she had in seeing Jasper under this roof,

in hearing him talk with such intimate friendliness, strengthened

her to resist timid thoughts.

'When will your sisters arrive?' she asked.

'I think in a very few days. When I have fixed upon lodgings for

them I must go back to Finden; then they will return with me as

soon as we can get the house emptied. It's rather miserable

selling things one has lived among from childhood. A friend in

Wattleborough will house for us what we really can't bear to part

with.'

'It must be very sad,' Marian murmured.

'You know,' said the other suddenly, 'that it's my fault the

girls are left in such a hard position?'

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

unfamiliar to her.

'Mother had an annuity,' he continued. 'It ended with her life,

but if it hadn't been for me she could have saved a good deal out

of it. Until the last year or two I have earned nothing, and I

have spent more than was strictly necessary. Well, I didn't live

like that in mere recklessness; I knew I was preparing myself for

remunerative work. But it seems too bad now. I'm sorry for it. I

wish I had found some way of supporting myself. The end of

mother's life was made far more unhappy than it need have been. I

should like you to understand all this.'

The listener kept her eyes on the ground.

'Perhaps the girls have hinted it to you?' Jasper added.

'No.'

'Selfishness--that's one of my faults. It isn't a brutal kind of

selfishness; the thought of it often enough troubles me. If I

were rich, I should be a generous and good man; I know I should.

So would many another poor fellow whose worst features come out

under hardship. This isn't a heroic type; of course not. I am a

civilised man, that's all.'

Marian could say nothing.

'You wonder why I am so impertinent as to talk about myself like

this. I have gone through a good deal of mental pain these last

few weeks, and somehow I can't help showing you something of my

real thoughts. Just because you are one of the few people I

regard with sincere respect. I don't know you very well, but

quite well enough to respect you. My sisters think of you in the

same way. I shall do many a base thing in life, just to get money

and reputation; I tell you this that you mayn't be surprised if

anything of that kind comes to your ears. I can't afford to live

as I should like to.'

She looked up at him with a smile.

'People who are going to live unworthily don't declare it in this

way.'

'I oughtn't to; a few minutes ago I had no intention of saying

such things. It means I am rather overstrung, I suppose; but it's

all true, unfortunately.'

He rose, and began to run his eye along the shelves nearest to

him.

'Well, now I will go, Miss Yule.'

Marian stood up as he approached.

'It's all very well,' he said, smiling, 'for me to encourage my

sisters in the hope that they may earn a living; but suppose I

can't even do it myself? It's by no means certain that I shall

make ends meet this year.'

'You have every reason to hope, I think.'

'I like to hear people say that, but it'll mean savage work. When

we were all at Finden last year, I told the girls that it would

be another twelve months before I could support myself. Now I am

forced to do it. And I don't like work; my nature is lazy. I

shall never write for writing's sake, only to make money. All my

plans and efforts will have money in view--all. I shan't allow

anything to come in the way of my material advancement.'

'I wish you every success,' said Marian, without looking at him,

and without a smile.

'Thank you. But that sounds too much like good-bye. I trust we

are to be friends, for all that?'

'Indeed, I hope we may be.'

They shook hands, and he went towards the door. But before

opening it, he asked:

'Did you read that thing of mine in The Current?'

'Yes, I did.'

'It wasn't bad, I think?'

'It seemed to me very clever.'

'Clever--yes, that's the word. It had a success, too. I have as

good a thing half done for the April number, but I've felt too

heavy-hearted to go on with it. The girls shall let you know when

they are in town.'

Marian followed him into the passage, and watched him as he

opened the front door. When it had closed, she went back into the

study for a few minutes before rejoining her mother.

CHAPTER IX. INVITA MINERVA

After all, there came a day when Edwin Reardon found himself

regularly at work once more, ticking off his stipulated quantum

of manuscript each four-and-twenty hours. He wrote a very small

hand; sixty written slips of the kind of paper he habitually used

would represent--thanks to the astonishing system which prevails

in such matters: large type, wide spacing, frequency of blank

pages--a passable three-hundred-page volume. On an average he

could write four such slips a day; so here we have fifteen days

for the volume, and forty-five for the completed book.

Forty-five days; an eternity in the looking forward. Yet the

calculation gave him a faint-hearted encouragement. At that rate

he might have his book sold by Christmas. It would certainly not

bring him a hundred pounds; seventy-five perhaps. But even that

small sum would enable him to pay the quarter's rent, and then

give him a short time, if only two or three weeks, of mental

rest. If such rest could not be obtained all was at an end with

him. He must either find some new means of supporting himself and

his family, or--have done with life and its responsibilities

altogether.

The latter alternative was often enough before him. He seldom

slept for more than two or three consecutive hours in the night,

and the time of wakefulness was often terrible. The various

sounds which marked the stages from midnight to dawn had grown

miserably familiar to him; worst torture to his mind was the

chiming and striking of clocks. Two of these were in general

audible, that of Marylebone parish church, and that of the

adjoining workhouse; the latter always sounded several minutes

after its ecclesiastical neighbour, and with a difference of note

which seemed to Reardon very appropriate--a thin, querulous

voice, reminding one of the community it represented. After lying

awake for awhile he would hear quarters sounding; if they ceased

before the fourth he was glad, for he feared to know what time it

was. If the hour was complete, he waited anxiously for its

number. Two, three, even four, were grateful; there was still a

long time before he need rise and face the dreaded task, the

horrible four blank slips of paper that had to be filled ere he

might sleep again. But such restfulness was only for a moment; no

sooner had the workhouse bell become silent than he began to toil

in his weary imagination, or else, incapable of that, to vision

fearful hazards of the future. The soft breathing of Amy at his

side, the contact of her warm limbs, often filled him with

intolerable dread. Even now he did not believe that Amy loved him

with the old love, and the suspicion was like a cold weight at

his heart that to retain even her wifely sympathy, her wedded

tenderness, he must achieve the impossible.

The impossible; for he could no longer deceive himself with a

hope of genuine success. If he earned a bare living, that would

be the utmost. And with bare livelihood Amy would not, could not,

be content.

If he were to die a natural death it would be well for all. His

wife and the child would be looked after; they could live with

Mrs Edmund Yule, and certainly it would not be long before Amy

married again, this time a man of whose competency to maintain

her there would be no doubt. His own behaviour had been cowardly

selfishness. Oh yes, she had loved him, had been eager to believe

in him. But there was always that voice of warning in his mind;

he foresaw--he knew--

And if he killed himself? Not here; no lurid horrors for that

poor girl and her relatives; but somewhere at a distance, under

circumstances which would render the recovery of his body

difficult, yet would leave no doubt of his death. Would that,

again, be cowardly? The opposite, when once it was certain that

to live meant poverty and wretchedness. Amy's grief, however

sincere, would be but a short trial compared with what else might

lie before her. The burden of supporting her and Willie would be

a very slight one if she went to live in her mother's house. He

considered the whole matter night after night, until perchance it

happened that sleep had pity upon him for an hour before the time

of rising.

Autumn was passing into winter. Dark days, which were always an

oppression to his mind, began to be frequent, and would soon

succeed each other remorselessly. Well, if only each of them

represented four written slips.

Milvain's advice to him had of course proved useless. The

sensational title suggested nothing, or only ragged shapes of

incomplete humanity that fluttered mockingly when he strove to

fix them. But he had decided upon a story of the kind natural to

him; a 'thin' story, and one which it would be difficult to spin

into three volumes. His own, at all events. The title was always

a matter for head-racking when the book was finished; he had

never yet chosen it before beginning.

For a week he got on at the desired rate; then came once more the

crisis he had anticipated.

A familiar symptom of the malady which falls upon outwearied

imagination. There were floating in his mind five or six possible

subjects for a book, all dating back to the time when he first

began novel-writing, when ideas came freshly to him. If he

grasped desperately at one of these, and did his best to develop

it, for a day or two he could almost content himself; characters,

situations, lines of motive, were laboriously schemed, and he

felt ready to begin writing. But scarcely had he done a chapter

or two when all the structure fell into flatness. He had made a

mistake. Not this story, but that other one, was what he should

have taken. The other one in question, left out of mind for a

time, had come back with a face of new possibility; it invited

him, tempted him to throw aside what he had already written.

Good; now he was in more hopeful train. But a few days, and the

experience repeated itself. No, not this story, but that third

one, of which he had not thought for a long time. How could he

have rejected so hopeful a subject?

For months he had been living in this way; endless circling,

perpetual beginning, followed by frustration. A sign of

exhaustion, it of course made exhaustion more complete. At times

he was on the border-land of imbecility; his mind looked into a

cloudy chaos, a shapeless whirl of nothings. He talked aloud to

himself, not knowing that he did so. Little phrases which

indicated dolorously the subject of his preoccupation often

escaped him in the street: 'What could I make of that, now?'

'Well, suppose I made him--?' 'But no, that wouldn't do,' and so

on. It had happened that he caught the eye of some one passing

fixed in surprise upon him; so young a man to be talking to

himself in evident distress!

The expected crisis came, even now that he was savagely

determined to go on at any cost, to write, let the result be what

it would. His will prevailed. A day or two of anguish such as

there is no describing to the inexperienced, and again he was

dismissing slip after slip, a sigh of thankfulness at the

completion of each one. It was a fraction of the whole, a

fraction, a fraction.

The ordering of his day was thus. At nine, after breakfast, he

sat down to his desk, and worked till one. Then came dinner,

followed by a walk. As a rule he could not allow Amy to walk with

him, for he had to think over the remainder of the day's toil,

and companionship would have been fatal. At about half-past three

he again seated himself; and wrote until half-past six, when he

had a meal. Then once more to work from half-past seven to ten.

Numberless were the experiments he had tried for the day's

division. The slightest interruption of the order for the time

being put him out of gear; Amy durst not open his door to ask

however necessary a question.

Sometimes the three hours' labour of a morning resulted in

half-a-dozen lines, corrected into illegibility. His brain would

not work; he could not recall the simplest synonyms; intolerable

faults of composition drove him mad. He would write a sentence

beginning thus: 'She took a book with a look of--;' or thus: 'A

revision of this decision would have made him an object of

derision.' Or, if the period were otherwise inoffensive, it ran

in a rhythmic gallop which was torment to the ear. All this, in

spite of the fact that his former books had been noticeably good

in style. He had an appreciation of shapely prose which made him

scorn himself for the kind of stuff he was now turning out. 'I

can't help it; it must go; the time is passing.'

Things were better, as a rule, in the evening. Occasionally he

wrote a page with fluency which recalled his fortunate years; and

then his heart gladdened, his hand trembled with joy.

Description of locality, deliberate analysis of character or

motive, demanded far too great an effort for his present

condition. He kept as much as possible to dialogue; the space is

filled so much more quickly, and at a pinch one can make people

talk about the paltriest incidents of life.

There came an evening when he opened the door and called to Amy.

'What is it?' she answered from the bedroom. 'I'm busy with

Willie.'

'Come as soon as you are free.'

In ten minutes she appeared. There was apprehension on her face;

she feared he was going to lament his inability to work. Instead

of that, he told her joyfully that the first volume was finished.

'Thank goodness!' she exclaimed. 'Are you going to do any more

to-night?'

'I think not--if you will come and sit with me.'

'Willie doesn't seem very well. He can't get to sleep.'

'You would like to stay with him?'

'A little while. I'll come presently.'

She closed the door. Reardon brought a high-backed chair to the

fireside, and allowed himself to forget the two volumes that had

still to be struggled through, in a grateful sense of the portion

that was achieved. In a few minutes it occurred to him that it

would be delightful to read a scrap of the 'Odyssey'; he went to

the shelves on which were his classical books, took the desired

volume, and opened it where Odysseus speaks to Nausicaa:

'For never yet did I behold one of mortals like to thee, neither

man nor woman; I am awed as I look upon thee. In Delos once, hard

by the altar of Apollo, I saw a young palm-tree shooting up with

even such a grace.'

Yes, yes; THAT was not written at so many pages a day, with a

workhouse clock clanging its admonition at the poet's ear. How it

freshened the soul! How the eyes grew dim with a rare joy in the

sounding of those nobly sweet hexameters!

Amy came into the room again.

'Listen,' said Reardon, looking up at her with a bright smile.

'Do you remember the first time that I read you this?'

And he turned the speech into free prose. Amy laughed.

'I remember it well enough. We were alone in the drawing-room; I

had told the others that they must make shift with the dining-

room for that evening. And you pulled the book out of your pocket

unexpectedly. I laughed at your habit of always carrying little

books about.'

The cheerful news had brightened her. If she had been summoned to

hear lamentations her voice would not have rippled thus

soothingly. Reardon thought of this, and it made him silent for a

minute.

'The habit was ominous,' he said, looking at her with an

uncertain smile. 'A practical literary man doesn't do such

things.'

'Milvain, for instance. No.'

With curious frequency she mentioned the name of Milvain. Her

unconsciousness in doing so prevented Reardon from thinking about

the fact; still, he had noted it.

'Did you understand the phrase slightingly?' he asked.

'Slightingly? Yes, a little, of course. It always has that sense

on your lips, I think.'

In the light of this answer he mused upon her readily-offered

instance. True, he had occasionally spoken of Jasper with

something less than respect, but Amy was not in the habit of

doing so.

'I hadn't any such meaning just then,' he said. 'I meant quite

simply that my bookish habits didn't promise much for my success

as a novelist.'

'I see. But you didn't think of it in that way at the time.'

He sighed.

'No. At least--no.'

'At least what?'

'Well, no; on the whole I had good hope.'

Amy twisted her fingers together impatiently.

'Edwin, let me tell you something. You are getting too fond of

speaking in a discouraging way. Now, why should you do so? I

don't like it. It has one disagreeable effect on me, and that is,

when people ask me about you, how you are getting on, I don't

quite know how to answer. They can't help seeing that I am

uneasy. I speak so differently from what I used to.'

'Do you, really?'

'Indeed I can't help it. As I say, it's very much your own

fault.'

'Well, but granted that I am not of a very sanguine nature, and

that I easily fall into gloomy ways of talk, what is Amy here

for?'

'Yes, yes. But--'

'But?'

'I am not here only to try and keep you in good spirits, am I?'

She asked it prettily, with a smile like that of maidenhood.

'Heaven forbid! I oughtn't to have put it in that absolute way. I

was half joking, you know. But unfortunately it's true that I

can't be as light-spirited as I could wish. Does that make you

impatient with me?'

'A little. I can't help the feeling, and I ought to try to

overcome it. But you must try on your side as well. Why should

you have said that thing just now?'

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

'A few weeks ago I didn't expect you to be cheerful. Things began

to look about as bad as they could. But now that you've got a

volume finished, there's hope once more.'

Hope? Of what quality? Reardon durst not say what rose in his

thoughts. 'A very small, poor hope. Hope of money enough to

struggle through another half year, if indeed enough for that.'

He had learnt that Amy was not to be told the whole truth about

anything as he himself saw it. It was a pity. To the ideal wife a

man speaks out all that is in him; she had infinitely rather

share his full conviction than be treated as one from whom facts

must be disguised. She says: 'Let us face the worst and talk of

it together, you and I.' No, Amy was not the ideal wife from that

point of view. But the moment after this half-reproach had

traversed his consciousness he condemned himself; and looked with

the joy of love into her clear eyes.

'Yes, there's hope once more, my dearest. No more gloomy talk to-

night! I have read you something, now you shall read something to

me; it is a long time since I delighted myself with listening to

you. What shall it be?'

'I feel rather too tired to-night.'

'Do you?'

'I have had to look after Willie so much. But read me some more

Homer; I shall be very glad to listen.'

Reardon reached for the book again, but not readily. His face

showed disappointment. Their evenings together had never been the

same since the birth of the child; Willie was always an excuse--

valid enough --for Amy's feeling tired. The little boy had come

between him and the mother, as must always be the case in poor

homes, most of all where the poverty is relative. Reardon could

not pass the subject without a remark, but he tried to speak

humorously.

'There ought to be a huge public creche in London. It's monstrous

that an educated mother should have to be nursemaid.'

'But you know very well I think nothing of that. A creche,

indeed! No child of mine should go to any such place.'

There it was. She grudged no trouble on behalf of the child. That

was love; whereas-- But then maternal love was a mere matter of

course.

'As soon as you get two or three hundred pounds for a book,' she

added, laughing, 'there'll be no need for me to give so much

time.'

'Two or three hundred pounds!' He repeated it with a shake of the

head. 'Ah, if that were possible!'

'But that's really a paltry sum. What would fifty novelists you

could name say if they were offered three hundred pounds for a

book? How much do you suppose even Markland got for his last?'

'Didn't sell it at all, ten to one. Gets a royalty.'

'Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book

ceases to be talked of.'

'Never mind. I'm sick of the word "pounds."'

'So am I.'

She sighed, commenting thus on her acquiescence.

'But look, Amy. If I try to be cheerful in spite of natural

dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside thoughts of

money?'

'Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades,

and Ajax stalking past him. Oh, I like that!'

So he read, rather coldly at first, but soon warming. Amy sat

with folded arms, a smile on her lips, her brows knitted to the

epic humour. In a few minutes it was as if no difficulties

threatened their life. Every now and then Reardon looked up from

his translating with a delighted laugh, in which Amy joined.

When he had returned the book to the shelf he stepped behind his

wife's chair, leaned upon it, and put his cheek against hers.

'Amy!'

'Yes, dear?'

'Do you still love me a little?'

'Much more than a little.'

'Though I am sunk to writing a wretched pot-boiler?'

'Is it so bad as all that?'

'Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the

proofs will be a martyrdom.'

'Oh, but why? why?'

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

hear that calmly.'

'If I didn't love you, I might be calmer about it, Edwin. It's

dreadful to me to think of what they will say in the reviews.'

'Curse the reviews!'

His mood had changed on the instant. He stood up with darkened

face, trembling angrily.

'I want you to promise me something, Amy. You won't read a single

one of the notices unless it is forced upon your attention. Now,

promise me that. Neglect them absolutely, as I do. They're not

worth a glance of your eyes. And I shan't be able to bear it if I

know you read all the contempt that will be poured on me.'

'I'm sure I shall be glad enough to avoid it; but other people,

our friends, read it. That's the worst.'

'You know that their praise would be valueless, so have strength

to disregard the blame. Let our friends read and talk as much as

they like. Can't you console yourself with the thought that I am

not contemptible, though I may have been forced to do poor work?'

'People don't look at it in that way.'

'But, darling,' he took her hands strongly in his own, 'I want

you to disregard other people. You and I are surely everything to

each other? Are you ashamed of me, of me myself?'

'No, not ashamed of you. But I am sensitive to people's talk and

opinions.'

'But that means they make you feel ashamed of me. What else?'

There was silence.

'Edwin, if you find you are unable to do good work, you mustn't

do bad. We must think of some other way of making a living.'

'Have you forgotten that you urged me to write a trashy

sensational story?'

She coloured and looked annoyed.

'You misunderstood me. A sensational story needn't be trash. And

then, you know, if you had tried something entirely unlike your

usual work, that would have been excuse enough if people had

called it a failure.'

'People! People!'

'We can't live in solitude, Edwin, though really we are not far

from it.' He did not dare to make any reply to this. Amy was so

exasperatingly womanlike in avoiding the important issue to which

he tried to confine her; another moment, and his tone would be

that of irritation. So he turned away and sat down to his desk,

as if he had some thought of resuming work.

'Will you come and have some supper?' Amy asked, rising.

'I have been forgetting that to-morrow morning's chapter has

still to be thought out.'

'Edwin, I can't think this book will really be so poor. You

couldn't possibly give all this toil for no result.'

'No; not if I were in sound health. But I am far from it.'

'Come and have supper with me, dear, and think afterwards.'

He turned and smiled at her.

'I hope I shall never be able to resist an invitation from you,

sweet.'

The result of all this was, of course, that he sat down in

anything but the right mood to his work next morning. Amy's

anticipation of criticism had made it harder than ever for him to

labour at what he knew to be bad. And, as ill-luck would have it,

in a day or two he caught his first winter's cold. For several

years a succession of influenzas, sore-throats, lumbagoes, had

tormented him from October to May; in planning his present work,

and telling himself that it must be finished before Christmas, he

had not lost sight of these possible interruptions. But he said

to himself: 'Other men have worked hard in seasons of illness; I

must do the same.' All very well, but Reardon did not belong to

the heroic class. A feverish cold now put his powers and

resolution to the test. Through one hideous day he nailed himself

to the desk--and wrote a quarter of a page. The next day Amy

would not let him rise from bed; he was wretchedly ill. In the

night he had talked about his work deliriously, causing her no

slight alarm.

'If this goes on,' she said to him in the morning, 'you'll have

brain fever. You must rest for two or three days.'

'Teach me how to. I wish I could.'

Rest had indeed become out of the question. For two days he could

not write, but the result upon his mind was far worse than if he

had been at the desk. He looked a haggard creature when he again

sat down with the accustomed blank slip before him.

The second volume ought to have been much easier work than the

first; it proved far harder. Messieurs and mesdames the critics

are wont to point out the weakness of second volumes; they are

generally right, simply because a story which would have made a

tolerable book (the common run of stories) refuses to fill three

books. Reardon's story was in itself weak, and this second volume

had to consist almost entirely of laborious padding. If he wrote

three slips a day he did well.

And the money was melting, melting, despite Amy's efforts at

economy. She spent as little as she could; not a luxury came into

their home; articles of clothing all but indispensable were left

unpurchased. But to what purpose was all this? Impossible, now,

that the book should be finished and sold before the money had

all run out.

At the end of November, Reardon said to his wife one morning:

'To-morrow I finish the second volume.'

'And in a week,' she replied, 'we shan't have a shilling left.'

He had refrained from making inquiries, and Amy had forborne to

tell him the state of things, lest it should bring him to a dead

stop in his writing. But now they must needs discuss their

position.

'In three weeks I can get to the end,' said Reardon, with

unnatural calmness. 'Then I will go personally to the publishers,

and beg them to advance me something on the manuscript before

they have read it.'

'Couldn't you do that with the first two volumes?'

'No, I can't; indeed I can't. The other thing will be bad enough;

but to beg on an incomplete book, and such a book--I can't!'

There were drops on his forehead.

'They would help you if they knew,' said Amy in a low voice.

'Perhaps; I can't say. They can't help every poor devil. No; I

will sell some books. I can pick out fifty or sixty that I shan't

much miss.'

Amy knew what a wrench this would be. The imminence of distress

seemed to have softened her.

'Edwin, let me take those two volumes to the publishers, and ask

--'

'Heavens! no. That's impossible. Ten to one you will be told that

my work is of such doubtful value that they can't offer even a

guinea till the whole book has been considered. I can't allow you

to go, dearest. This morning I'll choose some books that I can

spare, and after dinner I'll ask a man to come and look at them.

Don't worry yourself; I can finish in three weeks, I'm sure I

can. If I can get you three or four pounds you could make it do,

couldn't you?'

'Yes.'

She averted her face as she spoke.

'You shall have that.' He still spoke very quietly. 'If the books

won't bring enough, there's my watch--oh, lots of things.'

He turned abruptly away, and Amy went on with her household work.

CHAPTER X. THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY

It was natural that Amy should hint dissatisfaction with the

loneliness in which her days were mostly spent. She had never

lived in a large circle of acquaintances; the narrowness of her

mother's means restricted the family to intercourse with a few

old friends and such new ones as were content with teacup

entertainment; but her tastes were social, and the maturing

process which followed upon her marriage made her more conscious

of this than she had been before. Already she had allowed her

husband to understand that one of her strongest motives in

marrying him was the belief that he would achieve distinction. At

the time she doubtless thought of his coming fame only--or

principally--as it concerned their relations to each other; her

pride in him was to be one phase of her love. Now she was well

aware that no degree of distinction in her husband would be of

much value to her unless she had the pleasure of witnessing its

effect upon others; she must shine with reflected light before an

admiring assembly.

The more conscious she became of this requirement of her nature,

the more clearly did she perceive that her hopes had been founded

on an error. Reardon would never be a great man; he would never

even occupy a prominent place in the estimation of the public.

The two things, Amy knew, might be as different as light and

darkness; but in the grief of her disappointment she would rather

have had him flare into a worthless popularity than flicker down

into total extinction, which it almost seemed was to be his fate.

She knew so well how 'people' were talking of him and her. Even

her unliterary acquaintances understood that Reardon's last novel

had been anything but successful, and they must of course ask

each other how the Reardons were going to live if the business of

novel-writing proved unremunerative. Her pride took offence at

the mere thought of such conversations. Presently she would

become an object of pity; there would be talk of 'poor Mrs

Reardon.' It was intolerable.

So during the last half year she had withheld as much as possible

from the intercourse which might have been one of her chief

pleasures. And to disguise the true cause she made pretences

which were a satire upon her state of mind--alleging that she had

devoted herself to a serious course of studies, that the care of

house and child occupied all the time she could spare from her

intellectual pursuits. The worst of it was, she had little faith

in the efficacy of these fictions; in uttering them she felt an

unpleasant warmth upon her cheeks, and it was not difficult to

detect a look of doubt in the eyes of the listener. She grew

angry with herself for being dishonest, and with her husband for

making such dishonesty needful.

The female friend with whom she had most trouble was Mrs Carter.

You remember that on the occasion of Reardon's first meeting with

his future wife, at the Grosvenor Gallery, there were present his

friend Carter and a young lady who was shortly to bear the name

of that spirited young man. The Carters had now been married

about a year; they lived in Bayswater, and saw much of a certain

world which imitates on a lower plane the amusements and

affectations of society proper. Mr Carter was still secretary to

the hospital where Reardon had once earned his twenty shillings a

week, but by voyaging in the seas of charitable enterprise he had

come upon supplementary sources of income; for instance, he held

the post of secretary to the Barclay Trust, a charity whose

moderate funds were largely devoted to the support of gentlemen

engaged in administering it. This young man, with his air of

pleasing vivacity, had early ingratiated himself with the kind of

people who were likely to be of use to him; he had his reward in

the shape of offices which are only procured through private

influence. His wife was a good-natured, lively, and rather clever

girl; she had a genuine regard for Amy, and much respect for

Reardon. Her ambition was to form a circle of distinctly

intellectual acquaintances, and she was constantly inviting the

Reardons to her house; a real live novelist is not easily drawn

into the world where Mrs Carter had her being, and it annoyed her

that all attempts to secure Amy and her husband for five-o'clock

teas and small parties had of late failed.

On the afternoon when Reardon had visited a second-hand

bookseller with a view of raising money--he was again shut up in

his study, dolorously at work--Amy was disturbed by the sound of

a visitor's rat-tat; the little servant went to the door, and

returned followed by Mrs Carter.

Under the best of circumstances it was awkward to receive any but

intimate friends during the hours when Reardon sat at his desk.

The little dining-room (with its screen to conceal the kitchen

range) offered nothing more than homely comfort; and then the

servant had to be disposed of by sending her into the bedroom to

take care of Willie. Privacy, in the strict sense, was

impossible, for the servant might listen at the door (one room

led out of the other) to all the conversation that went on; yet

Amy could not request her visitors to speak in a low tone. For

the first year these difficulties had not been felt; Reardon made

a point of leaving the front room at his wife's disposal from

three to six; it was only when dread of the future began to press

upon him that he sat in the study all day long. You see how

complicated were the miseries of the situation; one torment

involved another, and in every quarter subjects of discontent

were multiplied.

Mrs Carter would have taken it ill had she known that Amy did not

regard her as strictly an intimate. They addressed each other by

their Christian names, and conversed without ceremony; but Amy

was always dissatisfied when the well-dressed young woman burst

with laughter and animated talk into this abode of concealed

poverty. Edith was not the kind of person with whom one can

quarrel; she had a kind heart, and was never disagreeably

pretentious. Had circumstances allowed it, Amy would have given

frank welcome to such friendship; she would have been glad to

accept as many invitations as Edith chose to offer. But at

present it did her harm to come in contact with Mrs Carter; it

made her envious, cold to her husband, resentful against fate.

'Why can't she leave me alone?' was the thought that rose in her

mind as Edith entered. 'I shall let her see that I don't want her

here.'

'Your husband at work?' Edith asked, with a glance in the

direction of the study, as soon as they had exchanged kisses and

greetings.

'Yes, he is busy.'

'And you are sitting alone, as usual. I feared you might be out;

an afternoon of sunshine isn't to be neglected at this time of

year.'

'Is there sunshine?' Amy inquired coldly.

'Why, look! Do you mean to say you haven't noticed it? What a

comical person you are sometimes! I suppose you have been over

head and ears in books all day. How is Willie?'

'Very well, thank you.'

'Mayn't I see him?'

'If you like.'

Amy stepped to the bedroom door and bade the servant bring Willie

for exhibition. Edith, who as yet had no child of her own, always

showed the most flattering admiration of this infant; it was so

manifestly sincere that the mother could not but be moved to a

grateful friendliness whenever she listened to its expression.

Even this afternoon the usual effect followed when Edith had made

a pretty and tender fool of herself for several minutes. Amy bade

the servant make tea.

At this moment the door from the passage opened, and Reardon

looked in.

'Well, if this isn't marvellous!' cried Edith. 'I should as soon

have expected the heavens to fall!'

'As what?' asked Reardon, with a pale smile.

'As you to show yourself when I am here.'

'I should like to say that I came on purpose to see you, Mrs

Carter, but it wouldn't be true. I'm going out for an hour, so

that you can take possession of the other room if you like, Amy.'

'Going out?' said Amy, with a look of surprise.

'Nothing--nothing. I mustn't stay.'

He just inquired of Mrs Carter how her husband was, and withdrew.

The door of the flat was heard to close after him.

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

cold voice.

On Reardon's desk were lying slips of blank paper. Edith,

approaching on tiptoe with what was partly make believe, partly

genuine, awe, looked at the literary apparatus, then turned with

a laugh to her friend.

'How delightful it must be to sit down and write about people one

has invented! Ever since I have known you and Mr Reardon I have

been tempted to try if I couldn't write a story.'

'Have you?'

'And I'm sure I don't know how you can resist the temptation. I

feel sure you could write books almost as clever as your

husband's.'

'I have no intention of trying.'

'You don't seem very well to-day, Amy.'

'Oh, I think I am as well as usual.'

She guessed that her husband was once more brought to a

standstill, and this darkened her humour again.

'One of my reasons for corning,' said Edith, 'was to beg and

entreat and implore you and Mr Reardon to dine with us next

Wednesday. Now, don't put on such a severe face! Are you engaged

that evening?'

'Yes; in the ordinary way. Edwin can't possibly leave his work.'

'But for one poor evening! It's such ages since we saw you.'

'I'm very sorry. I don't think we shall ever be able to accept

invitations in future.'

Amy spoke thus at the prompting of a sudden impulse. A minute

ago, no such definite declaration was in her mind.

'Never?' exclaimed Edith. 'But why? Whatever do you mean?'

'We find that social engagements consume too much time,' Amy

replied, her explanation just as much of an impromptu as the

announcement had been. 'You see, one must either belong to

society or not. Married people can't accept an occasional

invitation from friends and never do their social duty in return.

We have decided to withdraw altogether--at all events for the

present. I shall see no one except my relatives.'

Edith listened with a face of astonishment.

'You won't even see ME?' she exclaimed.

'Indeed, I have no wish to lose your friendship. Yet I am ashamed

to ask you to come here when I can never return your visits.'

'Oh, please don't put it in that way! But it seems so very

strange.'

Edith could not help conjecturing the true significance of this

resolve. But, as is commonly the case with people in easy

circumstances, she found it hard to believe that her friends were

so straitened as to have a difficulty in supporting the ordinary

obligations of a civilised state.

'I know how precious your husband's time is,' she added, as if to

remove the effect of her last remark. 'Surely, there's no harm in

my saying --we know each other well enough--you wouldn't think it

necessary to devote an evening to entertaining us just because

you had given us the pleasure of your company. I put it very

stupidly, but I'm sure you understand me, Amy. Don't refuse just

to come to our house now and then.'

'I'm afraid we shall have to be consistent, Edith.'

'But do you think this is a WISE thing to do?'

'Wise?'

'You know what you once told me, about how necessary it was for a

novelist to study all sorts of people. How can Mr Reardon do this

if he shuts himself up in the house? I should have thought he

would find it necessary to make new acquaintances.'

'As I said,' returned Amy, 'it won't be always like this. For the

present, Edwin has quite enough "material."'

She spoke distantly; it irritated her to have to invent excuses

for the sacrifice she had just imposed on herself. Edith sipped

the tea which had been offered her, and for a minute kept

silence.

'When will Mr Reardon's next book be published?' she asked at

length.

'I'm sure I don't know. Not before the spring.'

'I shall look so anxiously for it. Whenever I meet new people I

always turn the conversation to novels, just for the sake of

asking them if they know your husband's books.'

She laughed merrily.

'Which is seldom the case, I should think,' said Amy, with a

smile of indifference.

'Well, my dear, you don't expect ordinary novel-readers to know

about Mr Reardon. I wish my acquaintances were a better kind of

people; then, of course, I should hear of his books more often.

But one has to make the best of such society as offers. If you

and your husband forsake me, I shall feel it a sad loss; I shall

indeed.'

Amy gave a quick glance at the speaker's face.

'Oh, we must be friends just the same,' she said, more naturally

than she had spoken hitherto. 'But don't ask us to come and dine

just now. All through this winter we shall be very busy, both of

us. Indeed, we have decided not to accept any invitations at

all.'

'Then, so long as you let me come here now and then, I must give

in. I promise not to trouble you with any more complaining. But

how you can live such a life I don't know. I consider myself more

of a reader than women generally are, and I should be mortally

offended if anyone called me frivolous; but I must have a good

deal of society. Really and truly, I can't live without it.'

'No?' said Amy, with a smile which meant more than Edith could

interpret. It seemed slightly condescending.

'There's no knowing; perhaps if I had married a literary man---'

She paused, smiling and musing. 'But then I haven't, you see.'

She laughed. 'Albert is anything but a bookworm, as you know.'

'You wouldn't wish him to be.'

'Oh no! Not a bookworm. To be sure, we suit each other very well

indeed. He likes society just as much as I do. It would be the

death of him if he didn't spend three-quarters of every day with

lively people.'

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

the lively ones.'

They exchanged looks, and laughed together.

'Of course you think me rather silly to want to talk so much with

silly people,' Edith went on. 'But then there's generally some

amusement to be got, you know. I don't take life quite so

seriously as you do. People are people, after all; it's good fun

to see how they live and hear how they talk.'

Amy felt that she was playing a sorry part. She thought of sour

grapes, and of the fox who had lost his tail. Worst of all,

perhaps Edith suspected the truth. She began to make inquiries

about common acquaintances, and fell into an easier current of

gossip.

A quarter of an hour after the visitor's departure Reardon came

back. Amy had guessed aright; the necessity of selling his books

weighed upon him so that for the present he could do nothing. The

evening was spent gloomily, with very little conversation.

Next day came the bookseller to make his inspection. Reardon had

chosen out and ranged upon a table nearly a hundred volumes. With

a few exceptions, they had been purchased second-hand. The

tradesman examined them rapidly.

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

'I prefer that you should make an offer,' Reardon replied, with

the helplessness of one who lives remote from traffic.

'I can't say more than two pounds ten.'

'That is at the rate of sixpence a volume---?'

'To me that's about the average value of books like these.'

Perhaps the offer was a fair one; perhaps it was not. Reardon had

neither time nor spirit to test the possibilities of the market;

he was ashamed to betray his need by higgling.

'I'll take it,' he said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

A messenger was sent for the books that afternoon. He stowed them

skilfully in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that

was waiting.

Reardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves. Many of those

vanished volumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told

you where he had picked them up and when; to open them recalled a

past moment of intellectual growth, a mood of hope or

despondency, a stage of struggle. In most of them his name was

written, and there were often pencilled notes in the margin. Of

course he had chosen from among the most valuable he possessed;

such a multitude must else have been sold to make this sum of two

pounds ten. Books are cheap, you know. At need, one can buy a

Homer for fourpence, a Sophocles for sixpence. It was not rubbish

that he had accumulated at so small expenditure, but the library

of a poor student--battered bindings, stained pages, supplanted

editions. He loved his books, but there was something he loved

more, and when Amy glanced at him with eyes of sympathy he broke

into a cheerful laugh.

'I'm only sorry they have gone for so little. Tell me when the

money is nearly at an end again, and you shall have more. It's

all right; the novel will be done soon.'

And that night he worked until twelve o'clock, doggedly,

fiercely.

The next day was Sunday. As a rule he made it a day of rest, and

almost perforce, for the depressing influence of Sunday in London

made work too difficult. Then, it was the day on which he either

went to see his own particular friends or was visited by them.

'Do you expect anyone this evening?' Amy inquired.

'Biffen will look in, I dare say. Perhaps Milvain.'

'I think I shall take Willie to mother's. I shall be back before

eight.'

'Amy, don't say anything about the books.'

'No, no.'

'I suppose they always ask you when we think of removing over the

way?'

He pointed in a direction that suggested Marylebone Workhouse.

Amy tried to laugh, but a woman with a child in her arms has no

keen relish for such jokes.

'I don't talk to them about our affairs,' she said.

'That's best.'

She left home about three o'clock, the servant going with her to

carry the child.

At five a familiar knock sounded through the flat; it was a heavy

rap followed by half-a-dozen light ones, like a reverberating

echo, the last stroke scarcely audible. Reardon laid down his

book, but kept his pipe in his mouth, and went to the door. A

tall, thin man stood there, with a slouch hat and long grey

overcoat. He shook hands silently, hung his hat in the passage,

and came forward into the study.

His name was Harold Biffen, and, to judge from his appearance, he

did not belong to the race of common mortals. His excessive

meagreness would all but have qualified him to enter an

exhibition in the capacity of living skeleton, and the garments

which hung upon this framework would perhaps have sold for

three-and-sixpence at an old-clothes dealer's. But the man was

superior to these accidents of flesh and raiment. He had a fine

face: large, gentle eyes, nose slightly aquiline, small and

delicate mouth. Thick black hair fell to his coat-collar; he wore

a heavy moustache and a full beard. In his gait there was a

singular dignity; only a man of cultivated mind and graceful

character could move and stand as he did.

His first act on entering the room was to take from his pocket a

pipe, a pouch, a little tobacco-stopper, and a box of matches,

all of which he arranged carefully on a corner of the central

table. Then he drew forward a chair and seated himself.

'Take your top-coat off;' said Reardon.

'Thanks, not this evening.'

'Why the deuce not?'

'Not this evening, thanks.'

The reason, as soon as Reardon sought for it, was obvious. Biffen

had no ordinary coat beneath the other. To have referred to this

fact would have been indelicate; the novelist of course

understood it, and smiled, but with no mirth.

'Let me have your Sophocles,' were the visitor's next words.

Reardon offered him a volume of the Oxford Pocket Classics.

'I prefer the Wunder, please.'

'It's gone, my boy.'

'Gone?'

'Wanted a little cash.'

Biffen uttered a sound in which remonstrance and sympathy were

blended.

'I'm sorry to hear that; very sorry. Well, this must do. Now, I

want to know how you scan this chorus in the "Oedipus Rex."'

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

metric emphasis.

'Choriambics, eh?' cried the other. 'Possible, of course; but

treat them as Ionics a minore with an anacrusis, and see if they

don't go better.'

He involved himself in terms of pedantry, and with such delight

that his eyes gleamed. Having delivered a technical lecture, he

began to read in illustration, producing quite a different effect

from that of the rhythm as given by his friend. And the reading

was by no means that of a pedant, rather of a poet.

For half an hour the two men talked Greek metres as if they lived

in a world where the only hunger known could be satisfied by

grand or sweet cadences.

They had first met in an amusing way. Not long after the

publication of his book 'On Neutral Ground' Reardon was spending

a week at Hastings. A rainy day drove him to the circulating

library, and as he was looking along the shelves for something

readable a voice near at hand asked the attendant if he had

anything 'by Edwin Reardon.' The novelist turned in astonishment;

that any casual mortal should inquire for his books seemed

incredible. Of course there was nothing by that author in the

library, and he who had asked the question walked out again. On

the morrow Reardon encountered this same man at a lonely part of

the shore; he looked at him, and spoke a word or two of common

civility; they got into conversation, with the result that Edwin

told the story of yesterday. The stranger introduced himself as

Harold Biffen, an author in a small way, and a teacher whenever

he could get pupils; an abusive review had interested him in

Reardon's novels, but as yet he knew nothing of them but the

names.

Their tastes were found to be in many respects sympathetic, and

after returning to London they saw each other frequently. Biffen

was always in dire poverty, and lived in the oddest places; he

had seen harder trials than even Reardon himself. The teaching by

which he partly lived was of a kind quite unknown to the

respectable tutorial world. In these days of examinations,

numbers of men in a poor position--clerks chiefly--conceive a

hope that by 'passing' this, that, or the other formal test they

may open for themselves a new career. Not a few such persons

nourish preposterous ambitions; there are warehouse clerks

privately preparing (without any means or prospect of them) for a

call to the Bar, drapers' assistants who 'go in' for the

preliminary examination of the College of Surgeons, and untaught

men innumerable who desire to procure enough show of education to

be eligible for a curacy. Candidates of this stamp frequently

advertise in the newspapers for cheap tuition, or answer

advertisements which are intended to appeal to them; they pay

from sixpence to half-a-crown an hour--rarely as much as the

latter sum. Occasionally it happened that Harold Biffen had three

or four such pupils in hand, and extraordinary stories he could

draw from his large experience in this sphere.

Then as to his authorship.--But shortly after the discussion of

Greek metres he fell upon the subject of his literary projects,

and, by no means for the first time, developed the theory on

which he worked.

'I have thought of a new way of putting it. What I really aim at

is an absolute realism in the sphere of the ignobly decent. The

field, as I understand it, is a new one; I don't know any writer

who has treated ordinary vulgar life with fidelity and

seriousness. Zola writes deliberate tragedies; his vilest figures

become heroic from the place they fill in a strongly imagined

drama. I want to deal with the essentially unheroic, with the

day-to-day life of that vast majority of people who are at the

mercy of paltry circumstance. Dickens understood the possibility

of such work, but his tendency to melodrama on the one hand, and

his humour on the other, prevented him from thinking of it. An

instance, now. As I came along by Regent's Park half an hour ago

a man and a girl were walking close in front of me, love-making;

I passed them slowly and heard a good deal of their talk--it was

part of the situation that they should pay no heed to a

stranger's proximity. Now, such a love-scene as that has

absolutely never been written down; it was entirely decent, yet

vulgar to the nth power. Dickens would have made it ludicrous--a

gross injustice. Other men who deal with low-class life would

perhaps have preferred idealising it--an absurdity. For my own

part, I am going to reproduce it verbatim, without one single

impertinent suggestion of any point of view save that of honest

reporting. The result will be something unutterably tedious.

Precisely. That is the stamp of the ignobly decent life. If it

were anything but tedious it would be untrue. I speak, of course,

of its effect upon the ordinary reader.'

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

'Certainly you couldn't. You--well, you are a psychological

realist in the sphere of culture. You are impatient of vulgar

circumstances.'

'In a great measure because my life has been martyred by them.'

'And for that very same reason I delight in them,' cried Biffen.

'You are repelled by what has injured you; I am attracted by it.

This divergence is very interesting; but for that, we should have

resembled each other so closely. You know that by temper we are

rabid idealists, both of us.'

'I suppose so.'

'But let me go on. I want, among other things, to insist upon the

fateful power of trivial incidents. No one has yet dared to do

this seriously. It has often been done in farce, and that's why

farcical writing so often makes one melancholy. You know my stock

instances of the kind of thing I mean. There was poor Allen, who

lost the most valuable opportunity of his life because he hadn't

a clean shirt to put on; and Williamson, who would probably have

married that rich girl but for the grain of dust that got into

his eye, and made him unable to say or do anything at the

critical moment.'

Reardon burst into a roar of laughter.

'There you are!' cried Biffen, with friendly annoyance. 'You take

the conventional view. If you wrote of these things you would

represent them as laughable.'

'They are laughable,' asserted the other, 'however serious to the

persons concerned. The mere fact of grave issues in life

depending on such paltry things is monstrously ludicrous. Life is

a huge farce, and the advantage of possessing a sense of humour

is that it enables one to defy fate with mocking laughter.'

'That's all very well, but it isn't an original view. I am not

lacking in sense of humour, but I prefer to treat these aspects

of life from an impartial standpoint. The man who laughs takes

the side of a cruel omnipotence, if one can imagine such a thing.

I want to take no side at all; simply to say, Look, this is the

kind of thing that happens.'

'I admire your honesty, Biffen,' said Reardon, sighing. 'You will

never sell work of this kind, yet you have the courage to go on

with it because you believe in it.'

'I don't know; I may perhaps sell it some day.'

'In the meantime,' said Reardon, laying down his pipe, 'suppose

we eat a morsel of something. I'm rather hungry.'

In the early days of his marriage Reardon was wont to offer the

friends who looked in on Sunday evening a substantial supper; by

degrees the meal had grown simpler, until now, in the depth of

his poverty, he made no pretence of hospitable entertainment. It

was only because he knew that Biffen as often as not had nothing

whatever to eat that he did not hesitate to offer him a slice of

bread and butter and a cup of tea. They went into the back room,

and over the Spartan fare continued to discuss aspects of

fiction.

'I shall never,' said Biffen, 'write anything like a dramatic

scene. Such things do happen in life, but so very rarely that

they are nothing to my purpose. Even when they happen,

by-the-bye, it is in a shape that would be useless to the

ordinary novelist; he would have to cut away this circumstance,

and add that. Why? I should like to know. Such conventionalism

results from stage necessities. Fiction hasn't yet outgrown the

influence of the stage on which it originated. Whatever a man

writes FOR EFFECT is wrong and bad.'

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

ART of fiction.'

'It is worked out. We must have a rest from it. You, now--the

best things you have done are altogether in conflict with

novelistic conventionalities. It was because that blackguard

review of "On Neutral Ground" clumsily hinted this that I first

thought of you with interest. No, no; let us copy life. When the

man and woman are to meet for a great scene of passion, let it

all be frustrated by one or other of them having a bad cold in

the head, and so on. Let the pretty girl get a disfiguring pimple

on her nose just before the ball at which she is going to shine.

Show the numberless repulsive features of common decent life.

Seriously, coldly; not a hint of facetiousness, or the thing

becomes different.'

About eight o'clock Reardon heard his wife's knock at the door.

On opening he saw not only Amy and the servant, the latter

holding Willie in her arms, but with them Jasper Milvain.

'I have been at Mrs Yule's,' Jasper explained as he came in.

'Have you anyone here?'

'Biffen.'

'Ah, then we'll discuss realism.'

'That's over for the evening. Greek metres also.'

'Thank Heaven!'

The three men seated themselves with joking and laughter, and the

smoke of their pipes gathered thickly in the little room. It was

half an hour before Amy joined them. Tobacco was no disturbance

to her, and she enjoyed the kind of talk that was held on these

occasions; but it annoyed her that she could no longer play the

hostess at a merry supper-table.

'Why ever are you sitting in your overcoat, Mr Biffen?' were her

first words when she entered.

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

this evening.'

She was puzzled, but a glance from her husband warned her not to

pursue the subject.

Biffen always behaved to Amy with a sincerity of respect which

had made him a favourite with her. To him, poor fellow, Reardon

seemed supremely blessed. That a struggling man of letters should

have been able to marry, and such a wife, was miraculous in

Biffen's eyes. A woman's love was to him the unattainable ideal;

already thirty-five years old, he had no prospect of ever being

rich enough to assure himself a daily dinner; marriage was wildly

out of the question. Sitting here, he found it very difficult not

to gaze at Amy with uncivil persistency. Seldom in his life had

he conversed with educated women, and the sound of this clear

voice was always more delightful to him than any music.

Amy took a place near to him, and talked in her most charming way

of such things as she knew interested him. Biffen's deferential

attitude as he listened and replied was in strong contrast with

the careless ease which marked Jasper Milvain. The realist would

never smoke in Amy's presence, but Jasper puffed jovial clouds

even whilst she was conversing with him.

'Whelpdale came to see me last night,' remarked Milvain,

presently. 'His novel is refused on all hands. He talks of

earning a living as a commission agent for some sewing-machine

people.'

'I can't understand how his book should be positively refused,'

said Reardon. 'The last wasn't altogether a failure.'

'Very nearly. And this one consists of nothing but a series of

conversations between two people. It is really a dialogue, not a

novel at all. He read me some twenty pages, and I no longer

wondered that he couldn't sell it.'

'Oh, but it has considerable merit,' put in Biffen. 'The talk is

remarkably true.'

'But what's the good of talk that leads to nothing?' protested

Jasper.

'It's a bit of real life.'

'Yes, but it has no market value. You may write what you like, so

long as people are willing to read you. Whelpdale's a clever

fellow, but he can't hit a practical line.'

'Like some other people I have heard of;' said Reardon, laughing.

'But the odd thing is, that he always strikes one as practical-

minded. Don't you feel that, Mrs Reardon?'

He and Amy talked for a few minutes, and Reardon, seemingly lost

in meditation, now and then observed them from the corner of his

eye.

At eleven o'clock husband and wife were alone again.

'You don't mean to say,' exclaimed Amy, 'that Biffen has sold his

coat?'

'Or pawned it.'

'But why not the overcoat?'

'Partly, I should think, because it's the warmer of the two;

partly, perhaps, because the other would fetch more.'

'That poor man will die of starvation, some day, Edwin.'

'I think it not impossible.'

'I hope you gave him something to eat?'

'Oh yes. But I could see he didn't like to take as much as he

wanted. I don't think of him with so much pity as I used that's a

result of suffering oneself.'

Amy set her lips and sighed.

CHAPTER XI. RESPITE

The last volume was written in fourteen days. In this achievement

Reardon rose almost to heroic pitch, for he had much to contend

with beyond the mere labour of composition. Scarcely had he begun

when a sharp attack of lumbago fell upon him; for two or three

days it was torture to support himself at the desk, and he moved

about like a cripple. Upon this ensued headaches, sore-throat,

general enfeeblement. And before the end of the fortnight it was

necessary to think of raising another small sum of money; he took

his watch to the pawnbroker's (you can imagine that it would not

stand as security for much), and sold a few more books. All this

notwithstanding, here was the novel at length finished. When he

had written 'The End' he lay back, closed his eyes, and let time

pass in blankness for a quarter of an hour.

It remained to determine the title. But his brain refused another

effort; after a few minutes' feeble search he simply took the

name of the chief female character, Margaret Home. That must do

for the book. Already, with the penning of the last word, all its

scenes, personages, dialogues had slipped away into oblivion; he

knew and cared nothing more about them.

'Amy, you will have to correct the proofs for me. Never as long

as I live will I look upon a page of this accursed novel. It has

all but killed me.'

'The point is,' replied Amy, 'that here we have it complete. Pack

it up and take it to the publishers' to-morrow morning.'

'I will.'

'And--you will ask them to advance you a few pounds?'

'I must.'

But that undertaking was almost as hard to face as a rewriting of

the last volume would have been. Reardon had such superfluity of

sensitiveness that, for his own part, he would far rather have

gone hungry than ask for money not legally his due. To-day there

was no choice. In the ordinary course of business it would be

certainly a month before he heard the publishers' terms, and

perhaps the Christmas season might cause yet more delay. Without

borrowing, he could not provide for the expenses of more than

another week or two.

His parcel under his arm, he entered the ground-floor office, and

desired to see that member of the firm with whom he had

previously had personal relations. This gentleman was not in

town; he would be away for a few days. Reardon left the

manuscript, and came out into the street again.

He crossed, and looked up at the publishers' windows from the

opposite pavement. 'Do they suspect in what wretched

circumstances I am? Would it surprise them to know all that

depends upon that budget of paltry scribbling? I suppose not; it

must be a daily experience with them. Well, I must write a

begging letter.'

It was raining and windy. He went slowly homewards, and was on

the point of entering the public door of the flats when his

uneasiness became so great that he turned and walked past. If he

went in, he must at once write his appeal for money, and he felt

that he could not. The degradation seemed too great.

Was there no way of getting over the next few weeks? Rent, of

course, would be due at Christmas, but that payment might be

postponed; it was only a question of buying food and fuel. Amy

had offered to ask her mother for a few pounds; it would be

cowardly to put this task upon her now that he had promised to

meet the difficulty himself. What man in all London could and

would lend him money? He reviewed the list of his acquaintances,

but there was only one to whom he could appeal with the slightest

hope--that was Carter.

Half an hour later he entered that same hospital door through

which, some years ago, he had passed as a half-starved applicant

for work. The matron met him.

'Is Mr Carter here?'

'No, sir. But we expect him any minute. Will you wait?'

He entered the familiar office, and sat down. At the table where

he had been wont to work, a young clerk was writing. If only all

the events of the last few years could be undone, and he, with no

soul dependent upon him, be once more earning his pound a week in

this room! What a happy man he was in those days!

Nearly half an hour passed. It is the common experience of

beggars to have to wait. Then Carter came in with quick step; he

wore a heavy ulster of the latest fashion, new gloves, a

resplendent silk hat; his cheeks were rosy from the east wind.

'Ha, Reardon! How do? how do? Delighted to see you!'

'Are you very busy?'

'Well, no, not particularly. A few cheques to sign, and we're

just getting out our Christmas appeals. You remember?'

He laughed gaily. There was a remarkable freedom from

snobbishness in this young man; the fact of Reardon's

intellectual superiority had long ago counteracted Carter's

social prejudices.

'I should like to have a word with you.'

'Right you are!'

They went into a small inner room. Reardon's pulse beat at fever-

rate; his tongue was cleaving to his palate.

'What is it, old man?' asked the secretary, seating himself and

flinging one of his legs over the other. 'You look rather seedy,

do you know. Why the deuce don't you and your wife look us up now

and then?'

'I've had a hard pull to finish my novel.'

'Finished, is it? I'm glad to hear that. When'll it be out? I'll

send scores of people to Mudie's after it.

'Thanks; but I don't think much of it, to tell you the truth.'

'Oh, we know what that means.'

Reardon was talking like an automaton. It seemed to him that he

turned screws and pressed levers for the utterance of his next

words.

'I may as well say at once what I have come for. Could you lend

me ten pounds for a month--in fact, until I get the money for my

book?'

The secretary's countenance fell, though not to that expression

of utter coldness which would have come naturally under the

circumstances to a great many vivacious men. He seemed genuinely

embarrassed.

'By Jove! I--confound it! To tell you the truth, I haven't ten

pounds to lend. Upon my word, I haven't, Reardon! These infernal

housekeeping expenses! I don't mind telling you, old man, that

Edith and I have been pushing the pace rather.' He laughed, and

thrust his hands down into his trousers-pockets. 'We pay such a

darned rent, you know--hundred and twenty-five. We've only just

been saying we should have to draw it mild for the rest of the

winter. But I'm infernally sorry; upon my word I am.'

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

'Devilish seasonable, Reardon, I assure you!' cried the

secretary, and roared at his joke. It put him into a better

temper than ever, and he said at length: 'I suppose a fiver

wouldn't be much use?--For a month, you say?--1 might manage a

fiver, I think.'

'It would be very useful. But on no account if ---'

'No, no; I could manage a fiver, for a month. Shall I give you a

cheque?'

'I'm ashamed ---'

'Not a bit of it! I'll go and write the cheque.'

Reardon's face was burning. Of the conversation that followed

when Carter again presented himself he never recalled a word. The

bit of paper was crushed together in his hand. Out in the street

again, he all but threw it away, dreaming for the moment that it

was a 'bus ticket or a patent medicine bill.

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

his long absence.

'Got anything?' she asked.

'Yes.'

It was half his intention to deceive her, to say that the

publishers had advanced him five pounds. But that would be his

first word of untruth to Amy, and why should he be guilty of it?

He told her all that had happened. The result of this frankness

was something that he had not anticipated; Amy exhibited profound

vexation.

'Oh, you SHOULDN'T have done that!' she exclaimed. 'Why didn't

you come home and tell me? I would have gone to mother at once.'

'But does it matter?'

'Of course it does,' she replied sharply. 'Mr Carter will tell

his wife, and how pleasant that is?'

'I never thought of that. And perhaps it wouldn't have seemed to

me so annoying as it does to you.'

'Very likely not.'

She turned abruptly away, and stood at a distance in gloomy

muteness.

'Well,' she said at length, 'there's no helping it now. Come and

have your dinner.'

'You have taken away my appetite.'

'Nonsense! I suppose you're dying of hunger.'

They had a very uncomfortable meal, exchanging few words. On

Amy's face was a look more resembling bad temper than anything

Reardon had ever seen there. After dinner he went and sat alone

in the study. Amy did not come near him. He grew stubbornly

angry; remembering the pain he had gone through, he felt that

Amy's behaviour to him was cruel. She must come and speak when

she would.

At six o'clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he

would come to tea.

'Thank you,' he replied, 'I had rather stay here.'

'As you please.'

And he sat alone until about nine. It was only then he

recollected that he must send a note to the publishers, calling

their attention to the parcel he had left. He wrote it, and

closed with a request that they would let him hear as soon as

they conveniently could. As he was putting on his hat and coat to

go out and post the letter Amy opened the dining-room door.

'You're going out?'

'Yes.'

'Shall you be long?'

'I think not.'

He was away only a few minutes. On returning he went first of all

into the study, but the thought of Amy alone in the other room

would not let him rest. He looked in and saw that she was sitting

without a fire.

'You can't stay here in the cold, Amy.'

'I'm afraid I must get used to it,' she replied, affecting to be

closely engaged upon some sewing.

That strength of character which it had always delighted him to

read in her features was become an ominous hardness. He felt his

heart sink as he looked at her.

'Is poverty going to have the usual result in our case?' he

asked, drawing nearer.

'I never pretended that I could be indifferent to it.'

'Still, don't you care to try and resist it?'

She gave no answer. As usual in conversation with an aggrieved

woman it was necessary to go back from the general to the

particular.

'I'm afraid,' he said, 'that the Carters already knew pretty well

how things were going with us.'

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

for money--'

'I'm very sorry. I would rather have done anything if I had known

how it would annoy you.'

'If we have to wait a month, five pounds will be very little use

to us.'

She detailed all manner of expenses that had to be met--outlay

there was no possibility of avoiding so long as their life was

maintained on its present basis.

'However, you needn't trouble any more about it. I'll see to it.

Now you are free from your book try to rest.'

'Come and sit by the fire. There's small chance of rest for me if

we are thinking unkindly of each other.'

A doleful Christmas. Week after week went by and Reardon knew

that Amy must have exhausted the money he had given her. But she

made no more demands upon him, and necessaries were paid for in

the usual way. He suffered from a sense of humiliation; sometimes

he found it difficult to look in his wife's face.

When the publishers' letter came it contained an offer of

seventy-five pounds for the copyright of 'Margaret Home,'

twenty-five more to be paid if the sale in three-volume form

should reach a certain number of copies.

Here was failure put into unmistakable figures. Reardon said to

himself that it was all over with his profession of authorship.

The book could not possibly succeed even to the point of

completing his hundred pounds; it would meet with universal

contempt, and indeed deserved nothing better.

'Shall you accept this?' asked Amy, after dreary silence.

'No one else would offer terms as good.'

'Will they pay you at once?'

'I must ask them to.'

Well, it was seventy-five pounds in hand. The cheque came as soon

as it was requested, and Reardon's face brightened for the

moment. Blessed money! root of all good, until the world invent

some saner economy.

'How much do you owe your mother?' he inquired, without looking

at Amy.

'Six pounds,' she answered coldly.

'And five to Carter; and rent, twelve pounds ten. We shall have a

matter of fifty pounds to go on with.'

CHAPTER XII. WORK WITHOUT HOPE

The prudent course was so obvious that he marvelled at Amy's

failing to suggest it. For people in their circumstances to be

paying a rent of fifty pounds when a home could be found for half

the money was recklessness; there would be no difficulty in

letting the flat for this last year of their lease, and the cost

of removal would be trifling. The mental relief of such a change

might enable him to front with courage a problem in any case very

difficult, and, as things were, desperate. Three months ago, in a

moment of profoundest misery, he had proposed this step; courage

failed him to speak of it again, Amy's look and voice were too

vivid in his memory. Was she not capable of such a sacrifice for

his sake? Did she prefer to let him bear all the responsibility

of whatever might result from a futile struggle to keep up

appearances?

Between him and her there was no longer perfect confidence. Her

silence meant reproach, and--whatever might have been the case

before--there was no doubt that she now discussed him with her

mother, possibly with other people. It was not likely that she

concealed his own opinion of the book he had just finished; all

their acquaintances would be prepared to greet its publication

with private scoffing or with mournful shaking of the head. His

feeling towards Amy entered upon a new phase. The stability of

his love was a source of pain; condemning himself, he felt at the

same time that he was wronged. A coldness which was far from

representing the truth began to affect his manner and speech, and

Amy did not seem to notice it, at all events she made no kind of

protest. They no longer talked of the old subjects, but of those

mean concerns of material life which formerly they had agreed to

dismiss as quickly as possible. Their relations to each other--

not long ago an inexhaustible topic--would not bear spoken

comment; both were too conscious of the danger-signal when they

looked that way.

In the time of waiting for the publishers' offer, and now again

when he was asking himself how he should use the respite granted

him, Reardon spent his days at the British Museum. He could not

read to much purpose, but it was better to sit here among

strangers than seem to be idling under Amy's glance. Sick of

imaginative writing, he turned to the studies which had always

been most congenial, and tried to shape out a paper or two like

those he had formerly disposed of to editors. Among his unused

material lay a mass of notes he had made in a reading of Diogenes

Laertius, and it seemed to him now that he might make something

salable out of these anecdotes of the philosophers. In a happier

mood he could have written delightfully on such a subject--not

learnedly, but in the strain of a modern man whose humour and

sensibility find free play among the classic ghosts; even now he

was able to recover something of the light touch which had given

value to his published essays.

Meanwhile the first number of The Current had appeared, and

Jasper Milvain had made a palpable hit. Amy spoke very often of

the article called 'Typical Readers,' and her interest in its

author was freely manifested. Whenever a mention of Jasper came

under her notice she read it Out to her husband. Reardon smiled

and appeared glad, but he did not care to discuss Milvain with

the same frankness as formerly.

One evening at the end of January he told Amy what he had been

writing at the Museum, and asked her if she would care to hear it

read.

'I began to wonder what you were doing,' she replied.

'Then why didn't you ask me?'

'I was rather afraid to.'

'Why afraid?'

'It would have seemed like reminding you that--you know what I

mean.'

'That a month or two more will see us at the same crisis again.

Still, I had rather you had shown an interest in my doings.'

After a pause Amy asked:

'Do you think you can get a paper of this kind accepted?'

'It isn't impossible. I think it's rather well done. Let me read

you a page--'

'Where will you send it?' she interrupted.

'To The Wayside.'

'Why not try The Current? Ask Milvain to introduce you to Mr

Fadge. They pay much better, you know.'

'But this isn't so well suited for Fadge. And I much prefer to be

independent, as long as it's possible.'

'That's one of your faults, Edwin,' remarked his wife, mildly.

'It's only the strongest men that can make their way

independently. You ought to use every means that offers.'

'Seeing that I am so weak?'

'I didn't think it would offend you. I only meant---'

'No, no; you are quite right. Certainly, I am one of the men who

need all the help they can get. But I assure you, this thing

won't do for The Current.'

'What a pity you will go hack to those musty old times! Now think

of that article of Milvain's. If only you could do something of

that kind! What do people care about Diogenes and his tub and his

lantern?'

'My dear girl, Diogenes Laertius had neither tub nor lantern,

that I know of. You are making a mistake; but it doesn't matter.'

'No, I don't think it does.' The caustic note was not very

pleasant on Amy's lips. 'Whoever he was, the mass of readers will

be frightened by his name.'

'Well, we have to recognise that the mass of readers will never

care for anything I do.'

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

way if you tried. I'm sure you are quite as clever as Milvain-- '

Reardon made an impatient gesture.

'Do leave Milvain aside for a little! He and I are as unlike as

two

men could be. What's the use of constantly comparing us?'

Amy looked at him. He had never spoken to her so brusquely.

'How can you say that I am constantly comparing you?'

'If not in spoken words, then in your thoughts.'

'That's not a very nice thing to say, Edwin.'

'You make it so unmistakable, Amy. What I mean is, that you are

always regretting the difference between him and me. You lament

that I can't write in that attractive way. Well, I lament it

myself--for your sake. I wish I had Milvain's peculiar talent, so

that I could get reputation and money. But I haven't, and there's

an end of it. It irritates a man to be perpetually told of his

disadvantages.'

'I will never mention Milvain's name again,' said Amy coldly.

'Now that's ridiculous, and you know it.'

'I feel the same about your irritation. I can't see that I have

given any cause for it.'

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

Reardon threw his manuscript aside and opened a book. Amy never

asked him to resume his intention of reading what he had written.

However, the paper was accepted. It came out in The Wayside for

March, and Reardon received seven pounds ten for it. By that time

he had written another thing of the same gossipy kind, suggested

by Pliny's Letters. The pleasant occupation did him good, but

there was no possibility of pursuing this course. 'Margaret Home'

would be published in April; he might get the five-and-twenty

pounds contingent upon a certain sale, yet that could in no case

be paid until the middle of the year, and long before then he

would be penniless. His respite drew to an end.

But now he took counsel of no one; as far as it was possible he

lived in solitude, never seeing those of his acquaintances who

were outside the literary world, and seldom even his colleagues.

Milvain was so busy that he had only been able to look in twice

or thrice since Christmas, and Reardon nowadays never went to

Jasper's lodgings.

He had the conviction that all was over with the happiness of his

married life, though how the events which were to express this

ruin would shape themselves he could not foresee. Amy was

revealing that aspect of her character to which he had been

blind, though a practical man would have perceived it from the

first; so far from helping him to support poverty, she perhaps

would even refuse to share it with him. He knew that she was

slowly drawing apart; already there was a divorce between their

minds, and he tortured himself in uncertainty as to how far he

retained her affections. A word of tenderness, a caress, no

longer met with response from her; her softest mood was that of

mere comradeship. All the warmth of her nature was expended upon

the child; Reardon learnt how easy it is for a mother to forget

that both parents have a share in her offspring.

He was beginning to dislike the child. But for Willie's existence

Amy would still love him with undivided heart; not, perhaps, so

passionately as once, but still with lover's love. And Amy

understoed --or, at all events, remarked--this change in him.

She was aware that he seldom asked a question about Willie, and

that he listened with indifference when she spoke of the little

fellow's progress. In part offended, she was also in part

pleased.

But for the child, mere poverty, he said to himself, should never

have sundered them. In the strength of his passion he could have

overcome all her disappointments; and, indeed, but for that new

care, he would most likely never have fallen to this extremity of

helplessness. It is natural in a weak and sensitive man to dream

of possibilities disturbed by the force of circumstance. For one

hour which he gave to conflict with his present difficulties,

Reardon spent many in contemplation of the happiness that might

have been.

Even yet, it needed but a little money to redeem all. Amy had no

extravagant aspirations; a home of simple refinement and freedom

from anxiety would restore her to her nobler self. How could he

find fault with her? She knew nothing of such sordid life as he

had gone through, and to lack money for necessities seemed to her

degrading beyond endurance. Why, even the ordinary artisan's wife

does not suffer such privations as hers at the end of the past

year. For lack of that little money his life must be ruined. Of

late he had often thought about the rich uncle, John Yule, who

might perhaps leave something to Amy; but the hope was so

uncertain. And supposing such a thing were to happen; would it be

perfectly easy to live upon his wife's bounty--perhaps exhausting

a small capital, so that, some years hence, their position would

be no better than before? Not long ago, he could have taken

anything from Amy's hand; would it be so simple since the change

that had come between them?

Having written his second magazine-article (it was rejected by

two editors, and he had no choice but to hold it over until

sufficient time had elapsed to allow of his again trying The

Wayside), he saw that he must perforce plan another novel. But

this time he was resolute not to undertake three volumes. The

advertisements informed him that numbers of authors were

abandoning that procrustean system; hopeless as he was, he might

as well try his chance with a book which could be written in a

few weeks. And why not a glaringly artificial story with a

sensational title? It could not be worse than what he had last

written.

So, without a word to Amy, he put aside his purely intellectual

work and began once more the search for a 'plot.' This was

towards the end of February. The proofs of 'Margaret Home' were

coming in day by day; Amy had offered to correct them, but after

all he preferred to keep his shame to himself as long as

possible, and with a hurried reading he dismissed sheet after

sheet. His imagination did not work the more happily for this

repugnant task; still, he hit at length upon a conception which

seemed absurd enough for the purpose before him. Whether he could

persevere with it even to the extent of one volume was very

doubtful. But it should not be said of him that he abandoned his

wife and child to penury without one effort of the kind that

Milvain and Amy herself had recommended.

Writing a page or two of manuscript daily, and with several

holocausts to retard him, he had done nearly a quarter of the

story when there came a note from Jasper telling of Mrs Milvain's

death. He handed it across the breakfast-table to Amy, and

watched her as she read it.

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

much interest.

'I suppose not appreciably. He told me once his mother had a

sufficient income; but whatever she leaves will go to his

sisters, I should think. He has never said much to me.'

Nearly three weeks passed before they heard anything more from

Jasper himself; then he wrote, again from the country, saying

that he purposed bringing his sisters to live in London. Another

week, and one evening he appeared at the door.

A want of heartiness in Reardon's reception of him might have

been explained as gravity natural under the circumstances. But

Jasper had before this become conscious that he was not welcomed

here quite so cheerily as in the old days. He remarked it

distinctly on that evening when he accompanied Amy home from Mrs

Yule's; since then he had allowed his pressing occupations to be

an excuse for the paucity of his visits. It seemed to him

perfectly intelligible that Reardon, sinking into literary

insignificance, should grow cool to a man entering upon a

successful career; the vein of cynicism in Jasper enabled him to

pardon a weakness of this kind, which in some measure flattered

him. But he both liked and respected Reardon, and at present he

was in the mood to give expression to his warmer feelings.

'Your book is announced, I see,' he said with an accent of

pleasure, as soon as he had seated himself.

'I didn't know it.'

'Yes. "New novel by the author of 'On Neutral Ground.'" Down for

the sixteenth of April. And I have a proposal to make about it.

Will you let me ask Fadge to have it noticed in "Books of the

Month," in the May Current?'

'I strongly advise you to let it take its chance. The book isn't

worth special notice, and whoever undertook to review it for

Fadge would either have to lie, or stultify the magazine.'

Jasper turned to Amy.

'Now what is to be done with a man like this? What is one to say

to him, Mrs Reardon?'

'Edwin dislikes the book,' Amy replied, carelessly.

'That has nothing to do with the matter. We know quite well that

in anything he writes there'll be something for a well-disposed

reviewer to make a good deal of. If Fadge will let me, I should

do the thing myself.'

Neither Reardon nor his wife spoke.

'Of course,' went on Milvain, looking at the former, 'if you had

rather I left it alone--'

'I had much rather. Please don't say anything about it.'

There was an awkward silence. Amy broke it by saying:

'Are your sisters in town, Mr Milvain?'

'Yes. We came up two days ago. I found lodgings for them not far

from Mornington Road. Poor girls! they don't quite know where

they are, yet. Of course they will keep very quiet for a time,

then I must try to get friends for them. Well, they have one

already--your cousin, Miss Yule. She has already been to see

them.'

'I'm very glad of that.'

Amy took an opportunity of studying his face. There was again a

silence as if of constraint. Reardon, glancing at his wife, said

with hesitation:

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

glad--'

'Certainly!' his wife added.

'Thank you very much. Of course I knew I could depend on Mrs

Reardon to show them kindness in that way. But let me speak

frankly of something. My sisters have made quite a friend of Miss

Yule, since she was down there last year. Wouldn't that'--he

turned to Amy--'cause you a little awkwardness?'

Amy had a difficulty in replying. She kept her eyes on the

ground.

'You have had no quarrel with your cousin,' remarked Reardon.

'None whatever. It's only my mother and my uncle.'

'I can't imagine Miss Yule having a quarrel with anyone,' said

Jasper. Then he added quickly: 'Well, things must shape

themselves naturally. We shall see. For the present they will be

fully occupied. Of course it's best that they should be. I shall

see them every day, and Miss Yule will come pretty often, I dare

say.'

Reardon caught Amy's eye, but at once looked away again.

'My word!' exclaimed Milvain, after a moment's meditation. 'It's

well this didn't happen a year ago. The girls have no income;

only a little cash to go on with. We shall have our work set.

It's a precious lucky thing that I have just got a sort of

footing.'

Reardon muttered an assent.

'And what are you doing now?' Jasper inquired suddenly.

'Writing a one-volume story.'

'I'm glad to hear that. Any special plan for its publication?'

'No.'

'Then why not offer it to Jedwood? He's publishing a series of

one-volume novels. You know of Jedwood, don't you? He was

Culpepper's manager; started business about half a year ago, and

it looks as if he would do well. He married that woman--what's

her name?--Who wrote "Mr Henderson's Wives"?'

'Never heard of it.'

'Nonsense!--Miss Wilkes, of course. Well, she married this fellow

Jedwood, and there was a great row about something or other

between him and her publishers. Mrs Boston Wright told me all

about it. An astonishing woman that; a cyclopaedia of the day's

small talk. I'm quite a favourite with her; she's promised to

help the girls all she can. Well, but I was talking about

Jedwood. Why not offer him this book of yours? He's eager to get

hold of the new writers. Advertises hugely; he has the whole back

page of The Study about every other week. I suppose Miss Wilkes's

profits are paying for it. He has just given Markland two hundred

pounds for a paltry little tale that would scarcely swell out to

a volume. Markland told me himself. You know that I've scraped an

acquaintance with him? Oh! I suppose I haven't seen you since

then. He's a dwarfish fellow with only one eye. Mrs Boston Wright

cries him up at every opportunity.'

'Who IS Mrs Boston Wright?' asked Reardon, laughing impatiently.

'Edits The English Girl, you know. She's had an extraordinary

life. Was born in Mauritius--no, Ceylon--I forget; some such

place. Married a sailor at fifteen. Was shipwrecked somewhere,

and only restored to life after terrific efforts;--her story

leaves it all rather vague. Then she turns up as a newspaper

correspondent at the Cape. Gave up that, and took to some kind of

farming, I forget where. Married again (first husband lost in

aforementioned shipwreck), this time a Baptist minister, and

began to devote herself to soup-kitchens in Liverpool. Husband

burned to death, somewhere. She's next discovered in the thick of

literary society in London. A wonderful woman, I assure you. Must

be nearly fifty, but she looks twenty-five.'

He paused, then added impulsively:

'Let me take you to one of her evenings--nine on Thursday. Do

persuade him, Mrs Reardon?'

Reardon shook his head.

'No, no. I should be horribly out of my element.'

'I can't see why. You would meet all sorts of well-known people;

those you ought to have met long ago. Better still, let me ask

her to send an invitation for both of you. I'm sure you'd like

her, Mrs Reardon. There's a good deal of humbug about her, it's

true, but some solid qualities as well. No one has a word to say

against her. And it's a splendid advertisement to have her for a

friend. She'll talk about your books and articles till all is

blue.'

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

an uncomfortable way.

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

'Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood: I

happen to know a man who reads for him.'

'Heavens!' cried Reardon. 'Who don't you know?'

'The simplest thing in the world. At present it's a large part of

my business to make acquaintances. Why, look you; a man who has

to live by miscellaneous writing couldn't get on without a vast

variety of acquaintances. One's own brain would soon run dry; a

clever fellow knows how to use the brains of other people.'

Amy listened with an unconscious smile which expressed keen

interest.

'Oh,' pursued Jasper, 'when did you see Whelpdale last?'

'Haven't seen him for a long time.'

'You don't know what he's doing? The fellow has set up as a

"literary adviser." He has an advertisement in The Study every

week. "To Young Authors and Literary Aspirants"--something of the

kind. "Advice given on choice of subjects, MSS. read, corrected,

and recommended to publishers. Moderate terms." A fact! And

what's more, he made six guineas in the first fortnight; so he

says, at all events. Now that's one of the finest jokes I ever

heard. A man who can't get anyone to publish his own books makes

a living by telling other people how to write!'

'But it's a confounded swindle!'

'Oh, I don't know. He's capable of correcting the grammar of

"literary aspirants," and as for recommending to publishers--

well, anyone can recommend, I suppose.'

Reardon's indignation yielded to laughter.

'It's not impossible that he may thrive by this kind of thing.'

'Not at all,' assented Jasper.

Shortly after this he looked at his watch.

'I must be off, my friends. I have something to write before I

can go to my truckle-bed, and it'll take me three hours at least.

Good-bye, old man. Let me know when your story's finished, and

we'll talk about it. And think about Mrs Boston Wright; oh, and

about that review in The Current. I wish you'd let me do it. Talk

it over with your guide, philosopher, and friend.'

He indicated Amy, who laughed in a forced way.

When he was gone, the two sat without speaking for several

minutes.

'Do you care to make friends with those girls?' asked Reardon at

length.

'I suppose in decency I must call upon them?'

'I suppose so.'

'You may find them very agreeable.'

'Oh yes.'

They conversed with their own thoughts for a while. Then Reardon

burst out laughing.

'Well, there's the successful man, you see. Some day he'll live

in a mansion, and dictate literary opinions to the universe.'

'How has he offended you?'

'Offended me? Not at all. I am glad of his cheerful prospects.'

'Why should you refuse to go among those people? It might be good

for you in several ways.'

'If the chance had come when I was publishing my best work, I

dare say I shouldn't have refused. But I certainly shall not

present myself as the author of "Margaret Home," and the rubbish

I'm now writing.'

'Then you must cease to write rubbish.'

'Yes. I must cease to write altogether.'

'And do what?'

'I wish to Heaven I knew!'

CHAPTER XIII. A WARNING

In the spring list of Mr Jedwood's publications, announcement was

made of a new work by Alfred Yule. It was called 'English Prose

in the Nineteenth Century,' and consisted of a number of essays

(several of which had already seen the light in periodicals)

strung into continuity. The final chapter dealt with contemporary

writers, more especially those who served to illustrate the

author's theme--that journalism is the destruction of prose

style: on certain popular writers of the day there was an

outpouring of gall which was not likely to be received as though

it were sweet ointment. The book met with rather severe treatment

in critical columns; it could scarcely be ignored (the safest

mode of attack when one's author has no expectant public), and

only the most skilful could write of it in a hostile spirit

without betraying that some of its strokes had told. An evening

newspaper which piqued itself on independence indulged in

laughing appreciation of the polemical chapter, and the next day

printed a scornful letter from a thinly-disguised correspondent

who assailed both book and reviewer. For the moment people talked

more of Alfred Yule than they had done since his memorable

conflict with Clement Fadge.

The publisher had hoped for this. Mr Jedwood was an energetic and

sanguine man, who had entered upon his business with a

determination to rival in a year or so the houses which had

slowly risen into commanding stability. He had no great capital,

but the stroke of fortune which had wedded him to a popular

novelist enabled him to count on steady profit from one source,

and boundless faith in his own judgment urged him to an initial

outlay which made the prudent shake their heads. He talked much

of 'the new era,' foresaw revolutions in publishing and

book-selling, planned every week a score of untried ventures

which should appeal to the democratic generation just maturing;

in the meantime, was ready to publish anything which seemed

likely to get talked about.

The May number of The Current, in its article headed 'Books of

the Month,' devoted about half a page to 'English Prose in the

Nineteenth Century.' This notice was a consummate example of the

flippant style of attack. Flippancy, the most hopeless form of

intellectual vice, was a characterising note of Mr Fadge's

periodical; his monthly comments on publications were already

looked for with eagerness by that growing class of readers who

care for nothing but what can be made matter of ridicule. The

hostility of other reviewers was awkward and ineffectual compared

with this venomous banter, which entertained by showing that in

the book under notice there was neither entertainment nor any

other kind of interest. To assail an author without increasing

the number of his readers is the perfection of journalistic

skill, and The Current, had it stood alone, would fully have

achieved this end. As it was, silence might have been better

tactics. But Mr Fadge knew that his enemy would smart under the

poisoned pin-points, and that was something gained.

On the day that The Current appeared, its treatment of Alfred

Yule was discussed in Mr Jedwood's private office. Mr Quarmby,

who had intimate relations with the publisher, happened to look

in just as a young man (one of Mr Jedwood's 'readers') was

expressing a doubt whether Fadge himself was the author of the

review.

'But there's Fadge's thumb-mark all down the page,' cried Mr

Quarmby.

'He inspired the thing, of course; but I rather think it was

written by that fellow Milvain.'

'Think so?' asked the publisher.

'Well, I know with certainty that the notice of Markland's novel

is his writing, and I have reasons for suspecting that he did

Yule's book as well.'

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

bye?'

'Somebody's illegitimate son, I believe,' replied the source of

trustworthy information, with a laugh. 'Denham says he met him in

New York a year or two ago, under another name.

'Excuse me,' interposed Mr Quarmby, 'there's some mistake in all

that.'

He went on to state what he knew, from Yule himself, concerning

Milvain's history. Though in this instance a corrector, Mr

Quarmby took an opportunity, a few hours later, of informing Mr

Hinks that the attack on Yule in The Current was almost certainly

written by young Milvain, with the result that when the rumour

reached Yule's ears it was delivered as an undoubted and

well-known fact.

It was a month prior to this that Milvain made his call upon

Marian Yule, on the Sunday when her father was absent. When told

of the visit, Yule assumed a manner of indifference, but his

daughter understood that he was annoyed. With regard to the

sisters who would shortly be living in London, he merely said

that Marian must behave as discretion directed her. If she wished

to invite the Miss Milvains to St Paul's Crescent, he only begged

that the times and seasons of the household might not be

disturbed.

As her habit was, Marian took refuge in silence. Nothing could

have been more welcome to her than the proximity of Maud and

Dora, but she foresaw that her own home would not be freely open

to them; perhaps it might be necessary to behave with simple

frankness, and let her friends know the embarrassments of the

situation. But that could not be done in the first instance; the

unkindness would seem too great. A day after the arrival of the

girls, she received a note from Dora, and almost at once replied

to it by calling at her friends' lodgings. A week after that,

Maud and Dora came to St Paul's Crescent; it was Sunday, and Mr

Yule purposely kept away from home. They had only been once to

the house since then, again without meeting Mr Yule. Marian,

however, visited them at their lodgings frequently; now and then

she met Jasper there. The latter never spoke of her father, and

there was no question of inviting him to repeat his call.

In the end, Marian was obliged to speak on the subject with her

mother. Mrs Yule offered an occasion by asking when the Miss

Milvains were coming again.

'I don't think I shall ever ask them again,' Marian replied.

Her mother understood, and looked troubled.

'I must tell them how it is, that's all,' the girl went on. 'They

are sensible; they won't be offended with me.'

'But your father has never had anything to say against them,'

urged Mrs Yule. 'Not a word to me, Marian. I'd tell you the truth

if he had.'

'It's too disagreeable, all the same. I can't invite them here

with pleasure. Father has grown prejudiced against them all, and

he won't change. No, I shall just tell them.'

'It's very hard for you,' sighed her mother. 'If I thought I

could do any good by speaking--but I can't, my dear.'

'I know it, mother. Let us go on as we did before.'

The day after this, when Yule came home about the hour of dinner,

he called Marian's name from within the study. Marian had not

left the house to-day; her work had been set, in the shape of a

long task of copying from disorderly manuscript. She left the

sitting-room in obedience to her father's summons.

'Here's something that will afford you amusement,' he said,

holding to her the new number of The Current, and indicating the

notice of his book.

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

'That kind of writing sickens me,' she exclaimed, with anger in

her eyes. 'Only base and heartless people can write in that way.

You surely won't let it trouble you?'

'Oh, not for a moment,' her father answered, with exaggerated

show of calm. 'But I am surprised that you don't see the literary

merit of the work. I thought it would distinctly appeal to you.'

There was a strangeness in his voice, as well as in the words,

which caused her to look at him inquiringly. She knew him well

enough to understand that such a notice would irritate him

profoundly; but why should he go out of his way to show it her,

and with this peculiar acerbity of manner?

'Why do you say that, father?'

'It doesn't occur to you who may probably have written it?'

She could not miss his meaning; astonishment held her mute for a

moment, then she said:

'Surely Mr Fadge wrote it himself?'

'I am told not. I am informed on very good authority that one of

his young gentlemen has the credit of it.'

'You refer, of course, to Mr Milvain,' she replied quietly. 'But

I think that can't be true.'

He looked keenly at her. He had expected a more decided protest.

'I see no reason for disbelieving it.'

'I see every reason, until I have your evidence.'

This was not at all Marian's natural tone in argument with him.

She was wont to be submissive.

'I was told,' he continued, hardening face and voice, 'by someone

who had it from Jedwood.'

Yule was conscious of untruth in this statement, but his mood

would not allow him to speak ingenuously, and he wished to note

the effect upon Marian of what he said. There were two beliefs in

him: on the one hand, he recognised Fadge in every line of the

writing; on the other, he had a perverse satisfaction in

convincing himself that it was Milvain who had caught so

successfully the master's manner. He was not the kind of man who

can resist an opportunity of justifying, to himself and others, a

course into which he has been led by mingled feelings, all more

or less unjustifiable.

'How should Jedwood know?' asked Marian.

Yule shrugged his shoulders.

'As if these things didn't get about among editors and

publishers!'

'In this case, there's a mistake.'

'And why, pray?' His voice trembled with choler. 'Why need there

be a mistake?'

'Because Mr Milvain is quite incapable of reviewing your book in

such a spirit.'

'There is your mistake, my girl. Milvain will do anything that's

asked of him, provided he's well enough paid.'

Marian reflected. When she raised her eyes again they were

perfectly calm.

'What has led you to think that?'

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

enough for that?'

'You'll find that you are misinformed,' Marian replied, and

therewith went from the room.

She could not trust herself to converse longer. A resentment such

as her father had never yet excited in her--such, indeed, as she

had seldom, if ever, conceived--threatened to force utterance for

itself in words which would change the current of her whole life.

She saw her father in his worst aspect, and her heart was shaken

by an unnatural revolt from him. Let his assurance of what he

reported be ever so firm, what right had he to make this use of

it? His behaviour was spiteful. Suppose he entertained suspicions

which seemed to make it his duty to warn her against Milvain,

this was not the way to go about it. A father actuated by simple

motives of affection would never speak and look thus.

It was the hateful spirit of literary rancour that ruled him; the

spirit that made people eager to believe all evil, that blinded

and maddened. Never had she felt so strongly the unworthiness of

the existence to which she was condemned. That contemptible

review, and now her father's ignoble passion--such things were

enough to make all literature appear a morbid excrescence upon

human life.

Forgetful of the time, she sat in her bedroom until a knock at

the door, and her mother's voice, admonished her that dinner was

waiting. An impulse all but caused her to say that she would

rather not go down for the meal, that she wished to be left

alone. But this would be weak peevishness. She just looked at the

glass to see that her face bore no unwonted signs, and descended

to take her place as usual.

Throughout the dinner there passed no word of conversation. Yule

was at his blackest; he gobbled a few mouthfuls, then occupied

himself with the evening paper. On rising, he said to Marian:

'Have you copied the whole of that?'

The tone would have been uncivil if addressed to an impertinent

servant.

'Not much more than half,' was the cold reply.

'Can you finish it to-night?'

'I'm afraid not. I am going out.'

'Then I must do it myself'

And he went to the study.

Mrs Yule was in an anguish of nervousness.

'What is it, dear?' she asked of Marian, in a pleading whisper.

'Oh, don't quarrel with your father! Don't!'

'I can't be a slave, mother, and I can't be treated unjustly.'

'What is it? Let me go and speak to him.'

'It's no use. We CAN'T live in terror.'

For Mrs Yule this was unimaginable disaster. She had never dreamt

that Marian, the still, gentle Marian, could be driven to revolt.

And it had come with the suddenness of a thunderclap. She wished

to ask what had taken place between father and daughter in the

brief interview before dinner; but Marian gave her no chance,

quitting the room upon those last trembling words.

The girl had resolved to visit her friends, the sisters, and tell

them that in future they must never come to see her at home. But

it was no easy thing for her to stifle her conscience, and leave

her father to toil over that copying which had need of being

finished. Not her will, but her exasperated feeling, had replied

to him that she would not do the work; already it astonished her

that she had really spoken such words. And as the throbbing of

her pulses subsided, she saw more clearly into the motives of

this wretched tumult which possessed her. Her mind was harassed

with a fear lest in defending Milvain she had spoken foolishly.

Had he not himself said to her that he might be guilty of base

things, just to make his way? Perhaps it was the intolerable pain

of imagining that he had already made good his words, which

robbed her of self-control and made her meet her father's

rudeness with defiance.

Impossible to carry out her purpose; she could not deliberately

leave the house and spend some hours away with the thought of

such wrath and misery left behind her. Gradually she was

returning to her natural self; fear and penitence were chill at

her heart.

She went down to the study, tapped, and entered.

'Father, I said something that I did not really mean. Of course I

shall go on with the copying and finish it as soon as possible.'

'You will do nothing of the kind, my girl.' He was in his usual

place, already working at Marian's task; he spoke in a low, thick

voice. 'Spend your evening as you choose, I have no need of you.'

'I behaved very ill-temperedly. Forgive me, father.'

'Have the goodness to go away. You hear me?'

His eyes were inflamed, and his discoloured teeth showed

themselves savagely. Marian durst not, really durst not approach

him. She hesitated, but once more a sense of hateful injustice

moved within her, and she went away as quietly as she had

entered.

She said to herself that now it was her perfect right to go

whither she would. But the freedom was only in theory; her

submissive and timid nature kept her at home--and upstairs in her

own room; for, if she went to sit with her mother, of necessity

she must talk about what had happened, and that she felt unable

to do. Some friend to whom she could unbosom all her sufferings

would now have been very precious to her, but Maud and Dora were

her only intimates, and to them she might not make the full

confession which gives solace.

Mrs Yule did not venture to intrude upon her daughter's privacy.

That Marian neither went out nor showed herself in the house

proved her troubled state, but the mother had no confidence in

her power to comfort. At the usual time she presented herself in

the study with her husband's coffee; the face which was for an

instant turned to her did not invite conversation, but distress

obliged her to speak.

'Why are you cross with Marian, Alfred?'

'You had better ask what she means by her extraordinary

behaviour.'

A word of harsh rebuff was the most she had expected. Thus

encouraged, she timidly put another question.

'How has she behaved?'

'I suppose you have ears?'

'But wasn't there something before that? You spoke so angry to

her.'

'Spoke so angry, did I? She is out, I suppose?'

'No, she hasn't gone out.'

'That'll do. Don't disturb me any longer.'

She did not venture to linger.

The breakfast next morning seemed likely to pass without any

interchange of words. But when Yule was pushing back his chair,

Marian--who looked pale and ill--addressed a question to him

about the work she would ordinarily have pursued to-day at the

Reading-room. He answered in a matter-of-fact tone, and for a few

minutes they talked on the subject much as at any other time.

Half an hour after, Marian set forth for the Museum in the usual

way. Her father stayed at home.

It was the end of the episode for the present. Marian felt that

the best thing would be to ignore what had happened, as her

father evidently purposed doing. She had asked his forgiveness,

and it was harsh in him to have repelled her; but by now she was

able once more to take into consideration all his trials and

toils, his embittered temper and the new wound he had received.

That he should resume his wonted manner was sufficient evidence

of regret on his part. Gladly she would have unsaid her resentful

words; she had been guilty of a childish outburst of temper, and

perhaps had prepared worse sufferings for the future.

And yet, perhaps it was as well that her father should be warned.

She was not all submission, he might try her beyond endurance;

there might come a day when perforce she must stand face to face

with him, and make it known she had her own claims upon life. It

was as well he should hold that possibility in view.

This evening no work was expected of her. Not long after dinner

she prepared for going out; to her mother she mentioned she

should be back about ten o'clock.

'Give my kind regards to them, dear--if you like to,' said Mrs

Yule just above her breath.

'Certainly I will.'

CHAPTER XIV. ECRUITS

Marian walked to the nearest point of Camden Road, and there

waited for an omnibus, which conveyed her to within easy reach of

the street where Maud and Dora Milvain had their lodgings. This

was at the north-east of Regent's Park, and no great distance

from Mornington Road, where Jasper still dwelt.

On learning that the young ladies were at home and alone, she

ascended to the second floor and knocked.

'That's right!' exclaimed Dora's pleasant voice, as the door

opened and the visitor showed herself And then came the friendly

greeting which warmed Marian's heart, the greeting which until

lately no house in London could afford her.

The girls looked oddly out of place in this second-floor sitting-

room, with its vulgar furniture and paltry ornaments. Maud

especially so, for her fine figure was well displayed by the

dress of mourning, and her pale, handsome face had as little

congruence as possible with a background of humble circumstances.

Dora impressed one as a simpler nature, but she too had

distinctly the note of refinement which was out of harmony with

these surroundings. They occupied only two rooms, the

sleeping-chamber being double-bedded; they purchased food for

themselves and prepared their own meals, excepting dinner. During

the first week a good many tears were shed by both of them; it

was not easy to transfer themselves from the comfortable country

home to this bare corner of lodgers' London. Maud, as appeared at

the first glance, was less disposed than her sister to make the

best of things; her countenance wore an expression rather of

discontent than of sorrow, and she did not talk with the same

readiness as Dora.

On the round table lay a number of books; when disturbed, the

sisters had been engaged in studious reading.

'I'm not sure that I do right in coming again so soon,' said

Marian as she took off her things. 'Your time is precious.'

'So are you,' replied Dora, laughing. 'It's only under protest

that we work in the evening when we have been hard at it all

day.'

'We have news for you, too,' said Maud, who sat languidly on an

uneasy chair.

'Good, I hope?'

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

it was.'

'Amy, perhaps?'

'Yes.'

'And how did you like her?'

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

the first to speak.

'We thought she was sadly out of spirits. Indeed she told us that

she hasn't been very well lately. But I think we shall like her

if we come to know her better.'

'It was rather awkward, Marian,' the elder sister explained. 'We

felt obliged to say something about Mr Reardon's books, but we

haven't read any of them yet, you know, so I just said that I

hoped soon to read his new novel. "I suppose you have seen

reviews of it?" she asked at once. Of course I ought to have had

the courage to say no, but I admitted that I had seen one or two

• Jasper showed us them. She looked very much annoyed, and after

that we didn't find much to talk about.'

'The reviews are very disagreeable,' said Marian with a troubled

face. 'I have read the book since I saw you the other day, and I

am afraid it isn't good, but I have seen many worse novels more

kindly reviewed.'

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

journalists.'

'Still,' replied Marian, 'I'm afraid they couldn't have given the

book much praise, if they wrote honestly. Did Amy ask you to go

and see her?'

'Yes, but she said it was uncertain how long they would be living

at their present address. And really. we can't feel sure whether

we should be welcome or not just now.'

Marian listened with bent head. She too had to make known to her

friends that they were not welcome in her own home; but she knew

not how to utter words which would sound so unkind.

'Your brother,' she said after a pause, 'will soon find suitable

friends for you.'

'Before long,' replied Dora, with a look of amusement, 'he's

going to take us to call on Mrs Boston Wright. I hardly thought

he was serious at first, but he says he really means it.'

Marian grew more and more silent. At home she had felt that it

would not be difficult to explain her troubles to these

sympathetic girls, but now the time had come for speaking, she

was oppressed by shame and anxiety. True, there was no absolute

necessity for making the confession this evening, and if she

chose to resist her father's prejudice, things might even go on

in a seemingly natural way. But the loneliness of her life had

developed in her a sensitiveness which could not endure

situations such as the present; difficulties which are of small

account to people who take their part in active social life,

harassed her to the destruction of all peace. Dora was not long

in noticing the dejected mood which had come upon her friend.

'What's troubling you, Marian?'

'Something I can hardly bear to speak of. Perhaps it will be the

end of your friendship for me, and I should find it very hard to

go back to my old solitude.'

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

seriously.

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

committing?'

Maud, who leaned with her elbows on the table, searched Marian's

face curiously, but said nothing.

'Has Mr Milvain shown you the new number of The Current?' Marian

went on to ask.

They replied with a negative, and Maud added:

'He has nothing in it this month, except a review.'

'A review?' repeated Marian in a low voice.

'Yes; of somebody's novel.'

'Markland's,' supplied Dora.

Marian drew a breath, but remained for a moment with her eyes

cast down.

'Do go on, dear,' urged Dora. 'Whatever are you going to tell

us?'

'There's a notice of father's book,' continued the other, 'a very

ill-natured one; it's written by the editor, Mr Fadge. Father and

he have been very unfriendly for a long time. Perhaps Mr Milvain

has told you something about it?'

Dora replied that he had.

'I don't know how it is in other professions,' Marian resumed,

'but I hope there is less envy, hatred and malice than in this of

ours. The name of literature is often made hateful to me by the

things I hear and read. My father has never been very fortunate,

and many things have happened to make him bitter against the men

who succeed; he has often quarrelled with people who were at

first his friends, but never so seriously with anyone as with Mr

Fadge. His feeling of enmity goes so far that it includes even

those who are in any way associated with Mr Fadge. I am sorry to

say'--she looked with painful anxiety from one to the other of

her hearers--'this has turned him against your brother, and-- '

Her voice was checked by agitation.

'We were afraid of this,' said Dora, in a tone of sympathy.

'Jasper feared it might be the case,' added Maud, more coldly,

though with friendliness.

'Why I speak of it at all,' Marian hastened to say, 'is because I

am so afraid it should make a difference between yourselves and

me.'

'Oh! don't think that!' Dora exclaimed.

'I am so ashamed,' Marian went on in an uncertain tone, 'but I

think it will be better if I don't ask you to come and see me. It

sounds ridiculous; it is ridiculous and shameful. I couldn't

complain if you refused to have anything more to do with me.'

'Don't let it trouble you,' urged Maud, with perhaps a trifle

more of magnanimity in her voice than was needful. We quite

understand. Indeed, it shan't make any difference to us.'

But Marian had averted her face, and could not meet these

assurances with any show of pleasure. Now that the step was taken

she felt that her behaviour had been very weak. Unreasonable

harshness such as her father's ought to have been met more

steadily; she had no right to make it an excuse for such

incivility to her friends. Yet only in some such way as this

could she make known to Jasper Milvain how her father regarded

him, which she felt it necessary to do. Now his sisters would

tell him, and henceforth there would be a clear understanding on

both sides. That state of things was painful to her, but it was

better than ambiguous relations.

'Jasper is very sorry about it,' said Dora, glancing rapidly at

Marian.

'But his connection with Mr Fadge came about in such a natural

way,' added the eldest sister. 'And it was impossible for him to

refuse opportunities.'

'Impossible; I know,' Marian replied earnestly. 'Don't think that

I wish to justify my father. But I can understand him, and it

must be very difficult for you to do so. You can't know, as I do,

how intensely he has suffered in these wretched, ignoble

quarrels. If only you will let me come here still, in the same

way, and still be as friendly to me. My home has never been a

place to which I could have invited friends with any comfort,

even if I had had any to invite. There were always reasons--but I

can't speak of them.'

'My dear Marian,' appealed Dora, 'don't distress yourself so! Do

believe that nothing whatever has happened to change our feeling

to you. Has there, Maud?'

'Nothing whatever. We are not unreasonable girls, Marian.'

'I am more grateful to you than I can say.'

It had seemed as if Marian must give way to the emotions which

all but choked her voice; she overcame them, however, and

presently was able to talk in pretty much her usual way, though

when she smiled it was but faintly. Maud tried to lead her

thoughts in another direction by speaking of work in which she

and Dora were engaged. Already the sisters were doing a new piece

of compilation for Messrs Jolly and Monk; it was more exacting

than their initial task for the book market, and would take a

much longer time.

A couple of hours went by, and Marian had just spoken of taking

her leave, when a man's step was heard rapidly ascending the

nearest flight of stairs.

'Here's Jasper,' remarked Dora, and in a moment there sounded a

short, sharp summons at the door.

Jasper it was; he came in with radiant face, his eyes blinking

before the lamplight.

'Well, girls! Ha! how do you do, Miss Yule? I had just the

vaguest sort of expectation that you might be here. It seemed a

likely night; I don't know why. I say, Dora, we really must get

two or three decent easy-chairs for your room. I've seen some

outside a second-hand furniture shop in Hampstead Road, about six

shillings apiece. There's no sitting on chairs such as these.'

That on which he tried to dispose himself, when he had flung

aside his trappings, creaked and shivered ominously.

'You hear? I shall come plump on to the floor, if I don't mind.

My word, what a day I have had! I've just been trying what I

really could do in one day if I worked my hardest. Now just

listen; it deserves to be chronicled for the encouragement of

aspiring youth. I got up at 7.30, and whilst I breakfasted I read

through a volume I had to review. By 10.30 the review was

written--three-quarters of a column of the Evening Budget.'

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

'Not unfortunate at all. I had to crack him up; otherwise I

couldn't have done the job so quickly. It's the easiest thing in

the world to write laudation; only an inexperienced grumbler

would declare it was easier to find fault. The book was

Billington's "Vagaries"; pompous idiocy, of course, but he lives

in a big house and gives dinners. Well, from 10.30 to 11, I

smoked a cigar and reflected, feeling that the day wasn't badly

begun. At eleven I was ready to write my Saturday causerie for

the Will o' the Wisp; it took me till close upon one o'clock,

which was rather too long. I can't afford more than an hour and a

half for that job. At one, I rushed out to a dirty little

eating-house in Hampstead Road. Was back again by a quarter to

two, having in the meantime sketched a paper for The West End.

Pipe in mouth, I sat down to leisurely artistic work; by five,

half the paper was done; the other half remains for to-morrow.

From five to half-past I read four newspapers and two magazines,

and from half-past to a quarter to six I jotted down several

ideas that had come to me whilst reading. At six I was again in

the dirty eating-house, satisfying a ferocious hunger. Home once

more at 6.45, and for two hours wrote steadily at a long affair I

have in hand for The Current. Then I came here, thinking hard all

the way. What say you to this? Have I earned a night's repose?'

'And what's the value of it all?' asked Maud.

'Probably from ten to twelve guineas, if I calculated.'

'I meant, what was the literary value of it?' said his sister,

with a smile.

'Equal to that of the contents of a mouldy nut.'

'Pretty much what I thought.'

'Oh, but it answers the purpose,' urged Dora, 'and it does no one

any harm.'

'Honest journey-work!' cried Jasper. 'There are few men in London

capable of such a feat. Many a fellow could write more in

quantity, but they couldn't command my market. It's rubbish, but

rubbish of a very special kind, of fine quality.'

Marian had not yet spoken, save a word or two in reply to

Jasper's greeting; now and then she just glanced at him, but for

the most part her eyes were cast down. Now Jasper addressed her.

'A year ago, Miss Yule, I shouldn't have believed myself capable

of such activity. In fact I wasn't capable of it then.'

'You think such work won't be too great a strain upon you?' she

asked.

'Oh, this isn't a specimen day, you know. To-morrow I shall very

likely do nothing but finish my West End article, in an easy two

or three hours. There's no knowing; I might perhaps keep up the

high pressure if I tried. But then I couldn't dispose of all the

work. Little by little--or perhaps rather quicker than that--I

shall extend my scope. For instance, I should like to do two or

three leaders a week for one of the big dailies. I can't attain

unto that just yet.'

'Not political leaders?'

'By no means. That's not my line. The kind of thing in which one

makes a column out of what would fill six lines of respectable

prose. You call a cigar a "convoluted weed," and so on, you know;

that passes for facetiousness. I've never really tried my hand at

that style yet; I shouldn't wonder if I managed it brilliantly.

Some day I'll write a few exercises; just take two lines of some

good prose writer, and expand them into twenty, in half-a-dozen

different ways. Excellent mental gymnastics!'

Marian listened to his flow of talk for a few minutes longer,

then took the opportunity of a brief silence to rise and put on

her hat. Jasper observed her, but without rising; he looked at

his sisters in a hesitating way. At length he stood up, and

declared that he too must be off. This coincidence had happened

once before when he met Marian here in the evening.

'At all events, you won't do any more work to-night,' said Dora.

'No; I shall read a page of something or other over a glass of

whisky, and seek the sleep of a man who has done his duty.'

'Why the whisky?' asked Maud.

'Do you grudge me such poor solace?'

'I don't see the need of it.'

'Nonsense, Maud!' exclaimed her sister. 'He needs a little

stimulant when he works so hard.'

Each of the girls gave Marian's hand a significant pressure as

she took leave of them, and begged her to come again as soon as

she had a free evening. There was gratitude in her eyes.

The evening was clear, and not very cold.

'It's rather late for you to go home,' said Jasper, as they left

the house. 'May I walk part of the way with you?'

Marian replied with a low 'Thank you.'

'I think you get on pretty well with the girls, don't you?'

'I hope they are as glad of my friendship as I am of theirs.'

'Pity to see them in a place like that, isn't it? They ought to

have a good house, with plenty of servants. It's bad enough for a

civilised man to have to rough it, but I hate to see women living

in a sordid way. Don't you think they could both play their part

in a drawing-room, with a little experience?'

'Surely there's no doubt of it.'

'Maud would look really superb if she were handsomely dressed.

She hasn't a common face, by any means. And Dora is pretty, I

think. Well, they shall go and see some people before long. The

difficulty is, one doesn't like it to be known that they live in

such a crib; but I daren't advise them to go in for expense. One

can't be sure that it would repay them, though-- Now, in my own

case, if I could get hold of a few thousand pounds I should know

how to use it with the certainty of return; it would save me,

probably, a clear ten years of life; I mean, I should go at a

jump to what I shall be ten years hence without the help of

money. But they have such a miserable little bit of capital, and

everything is still so uncertain. One daren't speculate under the

circumstances.'

Marian made no reply.

'You think I talk of nothing but money?' Jasper said suddenly,

looking down into her face.

'I know too well what it means to be without money.'

'Yes, but--you do just a little despise me?'

'Indeed, I don't, Mr Milvain.'

'If that is sincere, I'm very glad. I take it in a friendly

sense. I am rather despicable, you know; it's part of my business

to be so. But a friend needn't regard that. There is the man

apart from his necessities.'

The silence was then unbroken till they came to the lower end of

Park Street, the junction of roads which lead to Hampstead, to

Highgate, and to Holloway.

'Shall you take an omnibus?' Jasper asked.

She hesitated.

'Or will you give me the pleasure of walking on with you? You are

tired, perhaps?'

'Not the least.'

For the rest of her answer she moved forward, and they crossed

into the obscurity of Camden Road.

'Shall I be doing wrong, Mr Milvain,' Marian began in a very low

voice, 'if I ask you about the authorship of something in this

month's Current?'

'I'm afraid I know what you refer to. There's no reason why I

shouldn't answer a question of the kind.'

'It was Mr Fadge himself who reviewed my father's book?'

'It was--confound him! I don't know another man who could have

done the thing so vilely well.'

'I suppose he was only replying to my father's attack upon him

and his friends.'

'Your father's attack is honest and straightforward and

justifiable and well put. I read that chapter of his book with

huge satisfaction. But has anyone suggested that another than

Fadge was capable of that masterpiece?'

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

a mistake.'

'Jedwood? And what mistake?'

'Father heard that you were the writer.'

'I?' Jasper stopped short. They were in the rays of a street-

lamp, and could see each other's faces. 'And he believes that?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'And you believe--believed it?'

'Not for a moment.'

'I shall write a note to Mr Yule.'

Marian was silent a while, then said:

'Wouldn't it be better if you found a way of letting Mr Jedwood

know the truth?'

'Perhaps you are right.'

Jasper was very grateful for the suggestion. In that moment he

had reflected how rash it would be to write to Alfred Yule on

such a subject, with whatever prudence in expressing himself.

Such a letter, coming under the notice of the great Fadge, might

do its writer serious harm.

'Yes, you are right,' he repeated. 'I'll stop that rumour at its

source. I can't guess how it started; for aught I know, some

enemy hath done this, though I don't quite discern the motive.

Thank you very much for telling me, and still more for refusing

to believe that I could treat Mr Yule in that way, even as a

matter of business. When I said that I was despicable, I didn't

mean that I could sink quite to such a point as that. If only

because it was your father--'

He checked himself and they walked on for several yards without

speaking.

'In that case,' Jasper resumed at length, 'your father doesn't

think of me in a very friendly way?'

'He scarcely could--'

'No, no. And I quite understand that the mere fact of my working

for Fadge would prejudice him against me. But that's no reason, I

hope, why you and I shouldn't be friends?'

'I hope not.'

'I don't know that my friendship is worth much,' Jasper

continued, talking into the upper air, a habit of his when he

discussed his own character. 'I shall go on as I have begun, and

fight for some of the good things of life. But your friendship is

valuable. If I am sure of it, I shall be at all events within

sight of the better ideals.'

Marian walked on with her eyes upon the ground. To her surprise

she discovered presently that they had all but reached St Paul's

Crescent.

'Thank you for having come so far,' she said, pausing.

'Ah, you are nearly home. Why, it seems only a few minutes since

we left the girls. Now I'll run back to the whisky of which Maud

disapproves.'

'May it do you good!' said Marian with a laugh.

A speech of this kind seemed unusual upon her lips. Jasper smiled

as he held her hand and regarded her.

'Then you can speak in a joking way?'

'Do I seem so very dull?'

'Dull, by no means. But sage and sober and reticent--and exactly

what I like in my friend, because it contrasts with my own

habits. All the better that merriment lies below it. Goodnight,

Miss Yule.'

He strode off and in a minute or two turned his head to look at

the slight figure passing into darkness.

Marian's hand trembled as she tried to insert her latch-key. When

she had closed the door very quietly behind her she went to the

sitting-room; Mrs Yule was just laying aside the sewing on which

she had occupied herself throughout the lonely evening.

'I'm rather late,' said the girl, in a voice of subdued

joyousness.

'Yes; I was getting a little uneasy, dear.'

'Oh, there's no danger.'

'You have been enjoying yourself, I can see.'

'I have had a pleasant evening.'

In the retrospect it seemed the pleasantest she had yet spent

with her friends, though she had set out in such a different

mood. Her mind was relieved of two anxieties; she felt sure that

the girls had not taken ill what she told them, and there was no

longer the least doubt concerning the authorship of that review

in The Current.

She could confess to herself now that the assurance from Jasper's

lips was not superfluous. He might have weighed profit against

other considerations, and have written in that way of her father;

she had not felt that absolute confidence which defies every

argument from human frailty. And now she asked herself if faith

of that unassailable kind is ever possible; is it not only the

poet's dream, the far ideal?

Marian often went thus far in her speculation. Her candour was

allied with clear insight into the possibilities of falsehood;

she was not readily the victim of illusion; thinking much, and

speaking little, she had not come to her twenty-third year

without perceiving what a distance lay between a girl's dream of

life as it might be and life as it is. Had she invariably

disclosed her thoughts, she would have earned the repute of a

very sceptical and slightly cynical person.

But with what rapturous tumult of the heart she could abandon

herself to a belief in human virtues when their suggestion seemed

to promise her a future of happiness!

Alone in her room she sat down only to think of Jasper Milvain,

and extract from the memory of his words, his looks, new

sustenance for her hungry heart. Jasper was the first man who had

ever evinced a man's interest in her. Until she met him she had

not known a look of compliment or a word addressed to her

emotions. He was as far as possible from representing the lover

of her imagination, but from the day of that long talk in the

fields near Wattleborough the thought of him had supplanted

dreams. On that day she said to herself: I could love him if he

cared to seek my love. Premature, perhaps; why, yes, but one who

is starving is not wont to feel reluctance at the suggestion of

food. The first man who had approached her with display of

feeling and energy and youthful self-confidence; handsome too, it

seemed to her. Her womanhood went eagerly to meet him.

Since then she had made careful study of his faults. Each

conversation had revealed to her new weakness and follies. With

the result that her love had grown to a reality.

He was so human, and a youth of all but monastic seclusion had

prepared her to love the man who aimed with frank energy at the

joys of life. A taint of pedantry would have repelled her. She

did not ask for high intellect or great attainments; but

vivacity, courage, determination to succeed, were delightful to

her senses. Her ideal would not have been a literary man at all;

certainly not a man likely to be prominent in journalism; rather

a man of action, one who had no restraints of commerce or

official routine. But in Jasper she saw the qualities that

attracted her apart from the accidents of his position. Ideal

personages do not descend to girls who have to labour at the

British Museum; it seemed a marvel to her, and of good augury,

that even such a man as Jasper should have crossed her path.

It was as though years had passed since their first meeting. Upon

her return to London had followed such long periods of

hopelessness. Yet whenever they encountered each other he had

look and speech for her with which surely he did not greet every

woman. From the first his way of regarding her had shown frank

interest. And at length had come the confession of his 'respect,'

his desire to be something more to her than a mere acquaintance.

It was scarcely possible that he should speak as he several times

had of late if he did not wish to draw her towards him.

That was the hopeful side of her thoughts. It was easy to forget

for a time those words of his which one might think were spoken

as distinct warning; but they crept into the memory, unwelcome,

importunate, as soon as imagination had built its palace of joy.

Why did he always recur to the subject of money? 'I shall allow

nothing to come in my way;' he once said that as if meaning,

'certainly not a love affair with a girl who is penniless.' He

emphasised the word 'friend,' as if to explain that he offered

and asked nothing more than friendship.

But it only meant that he would not be in haste to. declare

himself. Of a certainty there was conflict between his ambition

and his love, but she recognised her power over him and exulted

in it. She had observed his hesitancy this evening, before he

rose to accompany her from the house; her heart laughed within

her as the desire drew him. And henceforth such meetings would be

frequent, with each one her influence would increase. How kindly

fate had dealt with her in bringing Maud and Dora to London!

It was within his reach to marry a woman who would bring him

wealth. He had that in mind; she understood it too well. But not

one moment's advantage would she relinquish. He must choose her

in her poverty, and be content with what his talents could earn

for him. Her love gave her the right to demand this sacrifice;

let him ask for her love, and the sacrifice would no longer seem

one, so passionately would she reward him.

He would ask it. To-night she was full of a rich confidence,

partly, no doubt, the result of reaction from her miseries. He

had said at parting that her character was so well suited to his;

that he liked her. And then he had pressed her hand so warmly.

Before long he would ask her love.

The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the

valley of the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine

might at any moment strike into its musty gloom.

CHAPTER XV. THE LAST RESOURCE

The past twelve months had added several years to Edwin Reardon's

seeming age; at thirty-three he would generally have been taken

for forty. His bearing, his personal habits, were no longer those

of a young man; he walked with a stoop and pressed noticeably on

the stick he carried; it was rare for him to show the countenance

which tells of present cheerfulness or glad onward-looking; there

was no spring in his step; his voice had fallen to a lower key,

and often he spoke with that hesitation in choice of words which

may be noticed in persons whom defeat has made self-distrustful.

Ceaseless perplexity and dread gave a wandering, sometimes a

wild, expression to his eyes.

He seldom slept, in the proper sense of the word; as a rule he

was conscious all through the night of 'a kind of fighting'

between physical weariness and wakeful toil of the mind. It often

happened that some wholly imaginary obstacle in the story he was

writing kept him under a sense of effort throughout the dark

hours; now and again he woke, reasoned with himself, and

remembered clearly that the torment was without cause, but the

short relief thus afforded soon passed in the recollection of

real distress. In his unsoothing slumber he talked aloud,

frequently wakening Amy; generally he seemed to be holding a

dialogue with someone who had imposed an intolerable task upon

him; he protested passionately, appealed, argued in the strangest

way about the injustice of what was demanded. Once Amy heard him

begging for money--positively begging, like some poor wretch in

the street; it was horrible, and made her shed tears; when he

asked what he had been saying, she could not bring herself to

tell him.

When the striking clocks summoned him remorselessly to rise and

work he often reeled with dizziness. It seemed to him that the

greatest happiness attainable would be to creep into some dark,

warm corner, out of the sight and memory of men, and lie there

torpid, with a blessed half-consciousness that death was slowly

overcoming him. Of all the sufferings collected into each

four-and-twenty hours this of rising to a new day was the worst.

The one-volume story which he had calculated would take him four

or five weeks was with difficulty finished in two months. March

winds made an invalid of him; at one time he was threatened with

bronchitis, and for several days had to abandon even the effort

to work. In previous winters he had been wont to undergo a good

deal of martyrdom from the London climate, but never in such a

degree as now; mental illness seemed to have enfeebled his body.

It was strange that he succeeded in doing work of any kind, for

he had no hope from the result. This one last effort he would

make, just to complete the undeniableness of his failure, and

then literature should be thrown behind him; what other pursuit

was possible to him he knew not, but perhaps he might discover

some mode of earning a livelihood. Had it been a question of

gaining a pound a week, as in the old days, he might have hoped

to obtain some clerkship like that at the hospital, where no

commercial experience or aptitude was demanded; but in his

present position such an income would be useless. Could he take

Amy and the child to live in a garret? On less than a hundred a

year it was scarcely possible to maintain outward decency.

Already his own clothing began to declare him poverty-stricken,

and but for gifts from her mother Amy would have reached the like

pass. They lived in dread of the pettiest casual expense, for the

day of pennilessness was again approaching.

Amy was oftener from home than had been her custom.

Occasionally she went away soon after breakfast, and spent the

whole day at her mother's house. 'It saves food,' she said with a

bitter laugh, when Reardon once expressed surprise that she

should be going again so soon.

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

returned coldly.

The reproach was ignoble, and he could not be surprised that Amy

left the house without another word to him. Yet he resented that,

as he had resented her sorrowful jest. The feeling of unmanliness

in his own position tortured him into a mood of perversity.

Through the day he wrote only a few lines, and on Amy's return he

resolved not to speak to her. There was a sense of repose in this

change of attitude; he encouraged himself in the view that Amy

was treating him with cruel neglect. She, surprised that her

friendly questions elicited no answer, looked into his face and

saw a sullen anger of which hitherto Reardon had never seemed

capable. Her indignation took fire, and she left him to himself.

For a day or two he persevered in his muteness, uttering a word

only when it could not be avoided. Amy was at first so resentful

that she contemplated leaving him to his ill-temper and dwelling

at her mother's house until he chose to recall her. But his face

grew so haggard in fixed misery that compassion at length

prevailed over her injured pride. Late in the evening she went to

the study, and found him sitting unoccupied.

'Edwin--'

'What do you want?' he asked indifferently.

'Why are you behaving to me like this?'

'Surely it makes no difference to you how I behave? You can

easily forget that I exist, and live your own life.'

'What have I done to make this change in you?'

'Is it a change?'

'You know it is.'

'How did I behave before?' he asked, glancing at her.

'Like yourself--kindly and gently.'

'If I always did so, in spite of things that might have

embittered another man's temper, I think it deserved some return

of kindness from you.'

'What "things" do you mean?'

'Circumstances for which neither of us is to blame.'

'I am not conscious of having failed in kindness,' said Amy,

distantly.

'Then that only shows that you have forgotten your old self, and

utterly changed in your feeling to me. When we first came to live

here could you have imagined yourself leaving me alone for long,

miserable days, just because I was suffering under misfortunes?

You have shown too plainly that you don't care to give me the

help even of a kind word. You get away from me as often as you

can, as if to remind me that we have no longer any interests in

common. Other people are your confidants; you speak of me to them

as if I were purposely dragging you down into a mean condition.'

'How can you know what I say about you?'

'Isn't it true?' he asked, flashing an angry glance at her.

'It is not true. Of course I have talked to mother about our

difficulties; how could I help it?'

'And to other people.'

'Not in a way that you could find fault with.'

'In a way that makes me seem contemptible to them. You show them

that I have made you poor and unhappy, and you are glad to have

their sympathy.'

'What you mean is, that I oughtn't to see anyone. There's no

other way of avoiding such a reproach as this. So long as I don't

laugh and sing before people, and assure them that things

couldn't be more hopeful, I shall be asking for their sympathy,

and against you. I can't understand your unreasonableness.'

'I'm afraid there is very little in me that you can understand.

So long as my prospects seemed bright, you could sympathise

readily enough; as soon as ever they darkened, something came

between us. Amy, you haven't done your duty. Your love hasn't

stood the test as it should have done. You have given me no help;

besides the burden of cheerless work I have had to bear that of

your growing coldness. I can't remember one instance when you

have spoken to me as a wife might--a wife who was something more

than a man's housekeeper.'

The passion in his voice and the harshness of the accusation made

her unable to reply.

'You said rightly,' he went on, 'that I have always been kind and

gentle. I never thought I could speak to you or feel to you in

any other way. But I have undergone too much, and you have

deserted me. Surely it was too soon to do that. So long as I

endeavoured my utmost, and loved you the same as ever, you might

have remembered all you once said to me. You might have given me

help, but you haven't cared to.'

The impulses which had part in this outbreak were numerous and

complex. He felt all that he expressed, but at the same time it

seemed to him that he had the choice between two ways of uttering

his emotion--the tenderly appealing and the sternly reproachful:

he took the latter course because it was less natural to him than

the former. His desire was to impress Amy with the bitter

intensity of his sufferings; pathos and loving words seemed to

have lost their power upon her, but perhaps if he yielded to that

other form of passion she would be shaken out of her coldness.

The stress of injured love is always tempted to speech which

seems its contradiction. Reardon had the strangest mixture of

pain and pleasure in flinging out these first words of wrath that

he had ever addressed to Amy; they consoled him under the

humiliating sense of his weakness, and yet he watched with dread

his wife's countenance as she listened to him. He hoped to cause

her pain equal to his own, for then it would be in his power at

once to throw off this disguise and soothe her with every softest

word his heart could suggest. That she had really ceased to love

him he could not, durst not, believe; but his nature demanded

frequent assurance of affection. Amy had abandoned too soon the

caresses of their ardent time; she was absorbed in her maternity,

and thought it enough to be her husband's friend. Ashamed to make

appeal directly for the tenderness she no longer offered, he

accused her of utter indifference, of abandoning him and all but

betraying him, that in self-defence she might show what really

was in her heart.

But Amy made no movement towards him.

'How can you say that I have deserted you?' she returned, with

cold indignation. 'When did I refuse to share your poverty? When

did I grumble at what we have had to go through?'

'Ever since the troubles really began you have let me know what

your thoughts were, even if you didn't speak them. You have never

shared my lot willingly. I can't recall one word of encouragement

from you, but many, many which made the struggle harder for me.'

'Then it would be better for you if I went away altogether, and

left you free to do the best for yourself. If that is what you

mean by all this, why not say it plainly? I won't be a burden to

you. Someone will give me a home.'

'And you would leave me without regret? Your only care would be

that you were still bound to me?'

'You must think of me what you like. I don't care to defend

myself.'

'You won't admit, then, that I have anything to complain of? I

seem to you simply in a bad temper without a cause?'

'To tell you the truth, that's just what I do think. I came here

to ask what I had done that you were angry with me, and you break

out furiously with all sorts of vague reproaches. You have much

to endure, I know that, but it's no reason why you should turn

against me. I have never neglected my duty. Is the duty all on my

side? I believe there are very few wives who would be as patient

as I have been.'

Reardon gazed at her for a moment, then turned away. The distance

between them was greater than he had thought, and now he repented

of having given way to an impulse so alien to his true feelings;

anger only estranged her, whereas by speech of a different kind

he might have won the caress for which he hungered.

Amy, seeing that he would say nothing more, left him to himself.

It grew late in the night. The fire had gone out, but Reardon

still sat in the cold room. Thoughts of self-destruction were

again haunting him, as they had done during the black months of

last year. If he had lost Amy's love, and all through the mental

impotence which would make it hard for him even to earn bread,

why should he still live? Affection for his child had no weight

with him; it was Amy's child rather than his, and he had more

fear than pleasure in the prospect of Willie's growing to

manhood.

He had just heard the workhouse clock strike two, when, without

the warning of a footstep, the door opened. Amy came in; she wore

her dressing-gown, and her hair was arranged for the night.

'Why do you stay here?' she asked.

It was not the same voice as before. He saw that her eyes were

red and swollen.

'Have you been crying, Amy?'

'Never mind. Do you know what time it is?'

He went towards her.

'Why have you been crying?'

'There are many things to cry for.'

'Amy, have you any love for me still, or has poverty robbed me of

it all?'

'I have never said that I didn't love you. Why do you accuse me

of such things?'

He took her in his arms and held her passionately and kissed her

face again and again. Amy's tears broke forth anew.

'Why should we come to such utter ruin?' she sobbed. 'Oh, try,

try if you can't save us even yet! You know without my saying it

that I do love you; it's dreadful to me to think all our happy

life should be at an end, when we thought of such a future

together. Is it impossible? Can't you work as you used to and

succeed as we felt confident you would? Don't despair yet, Edwin;

do, do try, whilst there is still time!'

'Darling, darling--if only I COULD!'

'I have thought of something, dearest. Do as you proposed last

year; find a tenant for the flat whilst we still have a little

money, and then go away into some quiet country place, where you

can get back your health and live for very little, and write

another book--a good book, that'll bring you reputation again. I

and Willie can go and live at mother's for the summer months. Do

this! It would cost you so little, living alone, wouldn't it?

You would know that I was well cared for; mother would be willing

to have me for a few months, and it's easy to explain that your

health has failed, that you're obliged to go away for a time.'

'But why shouldn't you go with me, if we are to let this place?'

'We shouldn't have enough money. I want to free your mind from

the burden whilst you are writing. And what is before us if we go

on in this way? You don't think you will get much for what you're

writing now, do you?'

Reardon shook his head.

'Then how can we live even till the end of the year? Something

must be done, you know. If we get into poor lodgings, what hope

is there that you'll be able to write anything good?'

'But, Amy, I have no faith in my power of--'

'Oh, it would be different! A few days--a week or a fortnight of

real holiday in this spring weather. Go to some seaside place.

How is it possible that all your talent should have left you?

It's only that you have been so anxious and in such poor health.

You say I don't love you, but I have thought and thought what

would be best for you to do, how you could save yourself. How can

you sink down to the position of a poor clerk in some office?

That CAN'T be your fate, Edwin; it's incredible. Oh, after such

bright hopes, make one more effort! Have you forgotten that we

were to go to the South together--you were to take me to Italy

and Greece? How can that ever be if you fail utterly in

literature? How can you ever hope to earn more than bare

sustenance at any other kind of work?'

He all but lost consciousness of her words in gazing at the face

she held up to his.

'You love me? Say again that you love me!'

'Dear, I love you with all my heart. But I am so afraid of the

future. I can't bear poverty; I have found that I can't bear it.

And I dread to think of your becoming only an ordinary man--'

Reardon laughed.

'But I am NOT "only an ordinary man," Amy! If I never write

another line, that won't undo what I have done. It's little

enough, to be sure; but you know what I am. Do you only love the

author in me? Don't you think of me apart from all that I may do

or not do? If I had to earn my living as a clerk, would that make

me a clerk in soul?'

'You shall not fall to that! It would be too bitter a shame to

lose all you have gained in these long years of work. Let me plan

for you; do as I wish. You are to be what we hoped from the

first. Take all the summer months. How long will it be before you

can finish this short book?'

'A week or two.'

'Then finish it, and see what you can get for it. And try at once

to find a tenant to take this place off our hands; that would be

twenty-five pounds saved for the rest of the year. You could live

on so little by yourself, couldn't you?'

'Oh, on ten shillings a week, if need be.'

'But not to starve yourself, you know. Don't you feel that my

plan is a good one? When I came to you to-night I meant to speak

of this, but you were so cruel--'

'Forgive me, dearest love! I was half a madman. You have been so

cold to me for a long time.'

'I have been distracted. It was as if we were drawing nearer and

nearer to the edge of a cataract.'

'Have you spoken to your mother about this?' he asked uneasily.

'No--not exactly this. But I know she will help us in this way.'

He had seated himself and was holding her in his arms, his face

laid against hers.

'I shall dread to part from you, Amy. That's such a dangerous

thing to do. It may mean that we are never to live as husband and

wife again.'

'But how could it? It's just to prevent that danger. If we go on

here till we have no money--what's before us then? Wretched

lodgings at the best. And I am afraid to think of that. I can't

trust myself if that should come to pass.'

'What do you mean?' he asked anxiously.

'I hate poverty so. It brings out all the worst things in me; you

know I have told you that before, Edwin?'

'But you would never forget that you are my wife?'

'I hope not. But--I can't think of it; I can't face it! That

would be the very worst that can befall us, and we are going to

try our utmost to escape from it. Was there ever a man who did as

much as you have done in literature and then sank into hopeless

poverty?'

'Oh, many!'

'But at your age, I mean. Surely not at your age?'

'I'm afraid there have been such poor fellows. Think how often

one hears of hopeful beginnings, new reputations, and then--you

hear no more. Of course it generally means that the man has gone

into a different career; but sometimes, sometimes--'

'What?'

'The abyss.' He pointed downward. 'Penury and despair and a

miserable death.'

'Oh, but those men haven't a wife and child! They would struggle

--'

'Darling, they do struggle. But it's as if an ever-increasing

weight were round their necks; it drags them lower and lower. The

world has no pity on a man who can't do or produce something it

thinks worth money. You may be a divine poet, and if some good

fellow doesn't take pity on you you will starve by the roadside.

Society is as blind and brutal as fate. I have no right to

complain of my own ill-fortune; it's my own fault (in a sense)

that I can't continue as well as I began; if I could write books

as good as the early ones I should earn money. For all that, it's

hard that I must be kicked aside as worthless just because I

don't know a trade.'

'It shan't be! I have only to look into your face to know that

you will succeed after all. Yours is the kind of face that people

come to know in portraits.'

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

'How well I remember your saying that before! Why have you grown

so good to me all at once, my Amy? Hearing you speak like that I

feel there's nothing beyond my reach. But I dread to go away from

you. If I find that it is hopeless; if I am alone somewhere, and

know that the effort is all in vain--'

'Then?'

'Well, I can leave you free. If I can't support you, it will be

only just that I should give you back your freedom.'

'I don't understand--'

She raised herself and looked into his eyes.

'We won't talk of that. If you bid me go on with the struggle, I

shall do so.'

Amy had hidden her face, and lay silently in his arms for a

minute or two. Then she murmured:

'It is so cold here, and so late. Come!'

'So early. There goes three o'clock.'

The next day they talked much of this new project. As there was

sunshine Amy accompanied her husband for his walk in the

afternoon; it was long since they had been out together. An open

carriage that passed, followed by two young girls on horseback,

gave a familiar direction to Reardon's thoughts.

'If one were as rich as those people! They pass so close to us;

they see us, and we see them; but the distance between is

infinity. They don't belong to the same world as we poor

wretches. They see everything in a different light; they have

powers which would seem supernatural if we were suddenly endowed

with them.'

'Of course,' assented his companion with a sigh.

'Just fancy, if one got up in the morning with the thought that

no reasonable desire that occurred to one throughout the day need

remain ungratified! And that it would be the same, any day and

every day, to the end of one's life! Look at those houses; every

detail, within and without, luxurious. To have such a home as

that!'

'And they are empty creatures who live there.'

'They do live, Amy, at all events. Whatever may be their

faculties, they all have free scope. I have often stood staring

at houses like these until I couldn't believe that the people

owning them were mere human beings like myself. The power of

money is so hard to realise; one who has never had it marvels at

the completeness with which it transforms every detail of life.

Compare what we call our home with that of rich people; it moves

one to scornful laughter. I have no sympathy with the stoical

point of view; between wealth and poverty is just the difference

between the whole man and the maimed. If my lower limbs are

paralysed I may still be able to think, but then there is such a

thing in life as walking. As a poor devil I may live nobly; but

one happens to be made with faculties of enjoyment, and those

have to fall into atrophy. To be sure, most rich people don't

understand their happiness; if they did, they would move and talk

like gods--which indeed they are.'

Amy's brow was shadowed. A wise man, in Reardon's position, would

not have chosen this subject to dilate upon.

'The difference,' he went on, 'between the man with money and the

man without is simply this: the one thinks, "How shall I use my

life?" and the other, "How shall I keep myself alive?" A

physiologist ought to be able to discover some curious

distinction between the brain of a person who has never given a

thought to the means of subsistence, and that of one who has

never known a day free from such cares. There must be some

special cerebral development representing the mental anguish kept

up by poverty.'

'I should say,' put in Amy, 'that it affects every function of

the brain. It isn't a special point of suffering, but a misery

that colours every thought.'

'True. Can I think of a single subject in all the sphere of my

experience without the consciousness that I see it through the

medium of poverty? I have no enjoyment which isn't tainted by

that thought,. and I can suffer no pain which it doesn't

increase. The curse of poverty is to the modern world just what

that of slavery was to the ancient. Rich and destitute stand to

each other as free man and bond. You remember the line of Homer I

have often quoted about the demoralising effect of enslavement;

poverty degrades in the same way.'

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

with bitter frankness.

Reardon glanced at her, and wished to make some reply, but he

could not say what was in his thoughts.

He worked on at his story. Before he had reached the end of it,

'Margaret Home' was published, and one day arrived a parcel

containing the six copies to which an author is traditionally

entitled. Reardon was not so old in authorship that he could open

the packet without a slight flutter of his pulse. The book was

tastefully got up; Amy exclaimed with pleasure as she caught

sight of the cover and lettering:

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

does it?'

She laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one

of the volumes, and was glancing over the beginning of a chapter.

'Good God!' he cried. 'What hellish torment it was to write that

page! I did it one morning when the fog was so thick that I had

to light the lamp. It brings cold sweat to my forehead to read

the words. And to think that people will skim over it without a

suspicion of what it cost the writer!--What execrable style! A

potboy could write better narrative.'

'Who are to have copies?'

'No one, if I could help it. But I suppose your mother will

expect one?'

'And--Milvain?'

'I suppose so,' he replied indifferently. 'But not unless he asks

for it. Poor old Biffen, of course; though it'll make him despise

me. Then one for ourselves. That leaves two--to light the fire

with. We have been rather short of fire-paper since we couldn't

afford our daily newspaper.'

'Will you let me give one to Mrs Carter?'

'As you please.'

He took one set and added it to the row of his productions which

stood on a topmost shelf Amy laid her hand upon his shoulder and

contemplated the effect of this addition.

'The works of Edwin Reardon,' she said, with a smile.

'The work, at all events--rather a different thing,

unfortunately. Amy, if only I were back at the time when I wrote

"On Neutral Ground," and yet had you with me! How full my mind

was in those days! Then I had only to look, and I saw something;

now I strain my eyes, but can make out nothing more than nebulous

grotesques. I used to sit down knowing so well what I had to say;

now I strive to invent, and never come at anything. Suppose you

pick up a needle with warm, supple fingers; try to do it when

your hand is stiff and numb with cold; there's the difference

between my manner of work in those days and what it is now.'

'But you are going to get back your health. You will write better

than ever.'

'We shall see. Of course there was a great deal of miserable

struggle even then, but I remember it as insignificant compared

with the hours of contented work. I seldom did anything in the

mornings except think and prepare; towards evening I felt myself

getting ready, and at last I sat down with the first lines

buzzing in my head. And I used to read a great deal at the same

time. Whilst I was writing "On Neutral Ground" I went solidly

through the "Divina Commedia," a canto each day. Very often I

wrote till after midnight, but occasionally I got my quantum

finished much earlier, and then I used to treat myself to a

ramble about the streets. I can recall exactly the places where

some of my best ideas came to me. You remember the scene in

Prendergast's lodgings? That flashed on me late one night as I

was turning out of Leicester Square into the slum that leads to

Clare Market; ah, how well I remember! And I went home to my

garret in a state of delightful fever, and scribbled notes

furiously before going to bed.'

'Don't trouble; it'll all come back to you.'

'But in those days I hadn't to think of money. I could look

forward and see provision for my needs. I never asked myself what

I should get for the book; I assure you, that never came into my

head--never. The work was done for its own sake. No hurry to

finish it; if I felt that I wasn't up to the mark, I just waited

till the better mood returned. "On Neutral Ground" took me seven

months; now I have to write three volumes in nine weeks, with the

lash stinging on my back if I miss a day.'

He brooded for a little.

'I suppose there must be some rich man somewhere who has read one

or two of my books with a certain interest. If only I could

encounter him and tell him plainly what a cursed state I am in,

perhaps he would help me to some means of earning a couple of

pounds a week. One has heard of such things.'

'In the old days.'

'Yes. I doubt if it ever happens now. Coleridge wouldn't so

easily meet with his Gillman nowadays. Well, I am not a

Coleridge, and I don't ask to be lodged under any man's roof; but

if I could earn money enough to leave me good long evenings

unspoilt by fear of the workhouse--'

Amy turned away, and presently went to look after her little boy.

A few days after this they had a visit from Milvain. He came

about ten o'clock in the evening.

'I'm not going to stay,' he announced. 'But where's my copy of

"Margaret Home"? I am to have one, I suppose?'

'I have no particular desire that you should read it,' returned

Reardon.

'But I HAVE read it, my dear fellow. Got it from the library on

the day of publication; I had a suspicion that you wouldn't send

me a copy. But I must possess your opera omnia.'

'Here it is. Hide it away somewhere.--You may as well sit down

for a few minutes.'

'I confess I should like to talk about the book, if you don't

mind. It isn't so utterly and damnably bad as you make out, you

know. The misfortune was that you had to make three volumes of

it. If I had leave to cut it down to one, it would do you credit.

The motive is good enough.'

'Yes. Just good enough to show how badly it's managed.'

Milvain began to expatiate on that well-worn topic, the evils of

the three-volume system.

'A triple-headed monster, sucking the blood of English novelists.

One might design an allegorical cartoon for a comic literary

paper. By-the-bye, why doesn't such a thing exist?--a weekly

paper treating of things and people literary in a facetious

spirit. It would be caviare to the general, but might be

supported, I should think. The editor would probably be

assassinated, though.'

'For anyone in my position,' said Reardon, 'how is it possible to

abandon the three volumes? It is a question of payment. An author

of moderate repute may live on a yearly three-volume novel--I

mean the man who is obliged to sell his book out and out, and who

gets from one to two hundred pounds for it. But he would have to

produce four one-volume novels to obtain the same income; and I

doubt whether he could get so many published within the twelve

months. And here comes in the benefit of the libraries; from the

commercial point of view the libraries are indispensable. Do you

suppose the public would support the present number of novelists

if each book had to be purchased? A sudden change to that system

would throw three-fourths of the novelists out of work.'

'But there's no reason why the libraries shouldn't circulate

novels in one volume.'

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

subscription.'

'Well, to go to the concrete, what about your own one-volume?'

'All but done.'

'And you'll offer it to Jedwood? Go and see him personally. He's

a very decent fellow, I believe.'

Milvain stayed only half an hour. The days when he was wont to

sit and talk at large through a whole evening were no more;

partly because of his diminished leisure, but also for a less

simple reason--the growth of something like estrangement between

him and Reardon.

'You didn't mention your plans,' said Amy, when the visitor had

been gone some time.

'No.'

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

further remark.

The result of advertising the flat was that two or three persons

called to make inspection. One of them, a man of military

appearance, showed himself anxious to come to terms; he was

willing to take the tenement from next quarter-day (June), but

wished, if possible, to enter upon possession sooner than that.

'Nothing could be better,' said Amy in colloquy with her husband.

'If he will pay for the extra time, we shall be only too glad.'

Reardon mused and looked gloomy. He could not bring himself to

regard the experiment before him with hopefulness, and his heart

sank at the thought of parting from Amy.

'You are very anxious to get rid of me,' he answered, trying to

smile.

'Yes, I am,' she exclaimed; 'but simply for your own good, as you

know very well.'

'Suppose I can't sell this book?'

'You will have a few pounds. Send your "Pliny" article to The

Wayside. If you come to an end of all your money, mother shall

lend you some.'

'I am not very likely to do much work in that case.'

'Oh, but you will sell the book. You'll get twenty pounds for it,

and that alone would keep you for three months. Think--three

months of the best part of the year at the seaside! Oh, you will

do wonders!'

The furniture was to be housed at Mrs Yule's. Neither of them

durst speak of selling it; that would have sounded too ominous.

As for the locality of Reardon's retreat, Amy herself had

suggested Worthing, which she knew from a visit a few years ago;

the advantages were its proximity to London, and the likelihood

that very cheap lodgings could be found either in the town or

near it. One room would suffice for the hapless author, and his

expenses, beyond a trifling rent, would be confined to mere food.

Oh yes, he might manage on considerably less than a pound a week.

Amy was in much better spirits than for a long time; she appeared

to have convinced herself that there was no doubt of the issue of

this perilous scheme; that her husband would write a notable

book, receive a satisfactory price for it, and so re-establish

their home. Yet her moods varied greatly. After all, there was

delay in the letting of the flat, and this caused her annoyance.

It was whilst the negotiations were still pending that she made

her call upon Maud and Dora Milvain; Reardon did not know of her

intention to visit them until it had been carried out. She

mentioned what she had done in almost a casual manner.

'I had to get it over,' she said, when Reardon exhibited

surprise, 'and I don't think I made a very favourable

impression.'

'You told them, I suppose, what we are going to do?'

'No; I didn't say a word of it.'

'But why not? It can't be kept a secret. Milvain will have heard

of it already, I should think, from your mother.'

'From mother? But it's the rarest thing for him to go there. Do

you imagine he is a constant visitor? I thought it better to say

nothing until the thing is actually done. Who knows what may

happen?'

She was in a strange, nervous state, and Reardon regarded her

uneasily. He talked very little in these days, and passed hours

in dark reverie. His book was finished, and he awaited the

publisher's decision.

PART THREE

CHAPTER XVI. REJECTION

One of Reardon's minor worries at this time was the fear that by

chance he might come upon a review of 'Margaret Home.' Since the

publication of his first book he had avoided as far as possible

all knowledge of what the critics had to say about him; his

nervous temperament could not bear the agitation of reading these

remarks, which, however inept, define an author and his work to

so many people incapable of judging for themselves. No man or

woman could tell him anything in the way of praise or blame which

he did not already know quite well; commendation was pleasant,

but it so often aimed amiss, and censure was for the most part so

unintelligent. In the case of this latest novel he dreaded the

sight of a review as he would have done a gash from a rusty

knife. The judgments could not but be damnatory, and their

expression in journalistic phrase would disturb his mind with

evil rancour. No one would have insight enough to appreciate the

nature and cause of his book's demerits; every comment would be

wide of the mark; sneer, ridicule, trite objection, would but

madden him with a sense of injustice.

His position was illogical--one result of the moral weakness

which was allied with his aesthetic sensibility. Putting aside

the worthlessness of current reviewing, the critic of an isolated

book has of course nothing to do with its author's state of mind

and body any more than with the condition of his purse. Reardon

would have granted this, but he could not command his emotions.

He was in passionate revolt against the base necessities which

compelled him to put forth work in no way representing his

healthy powers, his artistic criterion. Not he had written this

book, but his accursed poverty. To assail him as the author was,

in his feeling, to be guilty of brutal insult. When by ill-hap a

notice in one of the daily papers came under his eyes, it made

his blood boil with a fierceness of hatred only possible to him

in a profoundly morbid condition; he could not steady his hand

for half an hour after. Yet this particular critic only said what

was quite true--that the novel contained not a single striking

scene and not one living character; Reardon had expressed himself

about it in almost identical terms. But he saw himself in the

position of one sickly and all but destitute man against a

relentless world, and every blow directed against him appeared

dastardly. He could have cried 'Coward!' to the writer who

wounded him.

The would-be sensational story which was now in Mr Jedwood's

hands had perhaps more merit than 'Margaret Home'; its brevity,

and the fact that nothing more was aimed at than a concatenation

of brisk events, made it not unreadable. But Reardon thought of

it with humiliation. If it were published as his next work it

would afford final proof to such sympathetic readers as he might

still retain that he had hopelessly written himself out, and was

now endeavouring to adapt himself to an inferior public. In spite

of his dire necessities he now and then hoped that Jedwood might

refuse the thing.

At moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or four

months he was about to spend in retirement, but such impulses

were the mere outcome of his nervous disease. He had no faith in

himself under present conditions; the permanence of his

sufferings would mean the sure destruction of powers he still

possessed, though they were not at his command. Yet he believed

that his mind was made up as to the advisability of trying this

last resource; he was impatient for the day of departure, and in

the interval merely killed time as best he might. He could not

read, and did not attempt to gather ideas for his next book; the

delusion that his mind was resting made an excuse to him for the

barrenness of day after day. His 'Pliny' article had been

despatched to The Wayside, and would possibly be accepted. But he

did not trouble himself about this or other details; it was as

though his mind could do nothing more than grasp the bald fact of

impending destitution; with the steps towards that final stage he

seemed to have little concern.

One evening he set forth to make a call upon Harold Biffen, whom

he had not seen since the realist called to acknowledge the

receipt of a copy of 'Margaret Home' left at his lodgings when he

was out. Biffen resided in Clipstone Street, a thoroughfare

discoverable in the dim district which lies between Portland

Place and Tottenham Court Road. On knocking at the door of the

lodging-house, Reardon learnt that his friend was at home. He

ascended to the third storey and tapped at a door which allowed

rays of lamplight to issue from great gaps above and below. A

sound of voices came from within, and on entering he perceived

that Biffen was engaged with a pupil.

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

again later.'

'No need to go away,' replied Biffen, coming forward to shake

hands. 'Take a book for a few minutes. Mr Baker won't mind.'

It was a very small room, with a ceiling so low that the tall

lodger could only just stand upright with safety; perhaps three

inches intervened between his head and the plaster, which was

cracked, grimy, cobwebby. A small scrap of weedy carpet lay in

front of the fireplace; elsewhere the chinky boards were

unconcealed. The furniture consisted of a round table, which kept

such imperfect balance on its central support that the lamp

entrusted to it looked in a dangerous position, of three small

cane-bottomed chairs, a small wash-hand-stand with sundry rude

appurtenances, and a chair-bedstead which the tenant opened at

the hour of repose and spread with certain primitive trappings at

present kept in a cupboard. There was no bookcase, but a few

hundred battered volumes were arranged some on the floor and some

on a rough chest. The weather was too characteristic of an

English spring to make an empty grate agreeable to the eye, but

Biffen held it an axiom that fires were unseasonable after the

first of May.

The individual referred to as Mr Baker, who sat at the table in

the attitude of a student, was a robust, hard-featured,

black-haired young man of two-or three-and-twenty; judging from

his weather-beaten cheeks and huge hands, as well as from the

garb he wore, one would have presumed that study was not his

normal occupation. There was something of the riverside about

him; he might be a dockman, or even a bargeman. He looked

intelligent, however, and bore himself with much modesty.

'Now do endeavour to write in shorter sentences,' said Biffen,

who sat down by him and resumed the lesson, Reardon having taken

up a volume. 'This isn't bad--it isn't bad at all, I assure you;

but you have put all you had to say into three appalling periods,

whereas you ought to have made about a dozen.'

'There it is, sir; there it is!' exclaimed the man, smoothing his

wiry hair. 'I can't break it up. The thoughts come in a lump, if

I may say so. To break it up--there's the art of compersition.'

Reardon could not refrain from a glance at the speaker, and

Biffen, whose manner was very grave and kindly, turned to his

friend with an explanation of the difficulties with which the

student was struggling.

'Mr Baker is preparing for the examination of the outdoor Customs

Department. One of the subjects is English composition, and

really, you know, that isn't quite such a simple matter as some

people think.'

Baker beamed upon the visitor with a homely, good-natured smile.

'I can make headway with the other things, sir,' he said,

striking the table lightly with his clenched fist. 'There's

handwriting, there's orthography, there's arithmetic; I'm not

afraid of one of 'em, as Mr Biffen 'll tell you, sir. But when it

comes to compersition, that brings out the sweat on my forehead,

I do assure you.

'You're not the only man in that case, Mr Baker,' replied

Reardon.

'It's thought a tough job in general, is it, sir?'

'It is indeed.'

'Two hundred marks for compersition,' continued the man. 'Now how

many would they have given me for this bit of a try, Mr Biffen?'

'Well, well; I can't exactly say. But you improve; you improve,

decidedly. Peg away for another week or two.'

'Oh, don't fear me, sir! I'm not easily beaten when I've set my

mind on a thing, and I'll break up the compersition yet, see if I

don't!'

Again his fist descended upon the table in a way that reminded

one of the steam-hammer cracking a nut.

The lesson proceeded for about ten minutes, Reardon, under

pretence of reading, following it with as much amusement as

anything could excite in him nowadays. At length Mr Baker stood

up, collected his papers and books, and seemed about to depart;

but, after certain uneasy movements and glances, he said to

Biffen in a subdued voice:

'Perhaps I might speak to you outside the door a minute, sir?'

He and the teacher went out, the door closed, and Reardon heard

sounds of muffled conversation. In a minute or two a heavy

footstep descended the stairs, and Biffen re-entered the room.

'Now that's a good, honest fellow,' he said, in an amused tone.

'It's my pay-night, but he didn't like to fork out money before

you. A very unusual delicacy in a man of that standing. He pays

me sixpence for an hour's lesson; that brings me two shillings a

week. I sometimes feel a little ashamed to take his money, but

then the fact is he's a good deal better off than I am.'

'Will he get a place in the Customs, do you think?'

'Oh, I've no doubt of it. If it seemed unlikely, I should have

told him so before this. To be sure, that's a point I have often

to consider, and once or twice my delicacy has asserted itself at

the expense of my pocket. There was a poor consumptive lad came

to me not long ago and wanted Latin lessons; talked about going

in for the London Matric., on his way to the pulpit. I couldn't

stand it. After a lesson or two I told him his cough was too bad,

and he had no right to study until he got into better health;

that was better, I think, than saying plainly he had no chance on

earth. But the food I bought with his money was choking me. Oh

yes, Baker will make his way right enough. A good, modest fellow.

You noticed how respectfully he spoke to me? It doesn't make any

difference to him that I live in a garret like this; I'm a man of

education, and he can separate this fact from my surroundings.'

'Biffen, why don't you get some decent position? Surely you

might.'

'What position? No school would take me; I have neither

credentials nor conventional clothing. For the same reason I

couldn't get a private tutorship in a rich family. No, no; it's

all right. I keep myself alive, and I get on with my work.--

By-the-bye, I've decided to write a book called "Mr Bailey,

Grocer."'

'What's the idea?'

'An objectionable word, that. Better say: "What's the reality?"

Well, Mr Bailey is a grocer in a little street by here. I have

dealt with him for a long time, and as he's a talkative fellow

I've come to know a good deal about him and his history. He's

fond of talking about the struggle he had in his first year of

business. He had no money of his own, but he married a woman who

had saved forty-five pounds out of a cat's-meat business. You

should see that woman! A big, coarse, squinting creature; at the

time of the marriage she was a widow and forty-two years old. Now

I'm going to tell the true story of Mr Bailey's marriage and of

his progress as a grocer. It'll be a great book--a great book!'

He walked up and down the room, fervid with his conception.

'There'll be nothing bestial in it, you know. The decently

ignoble--as I've so often said. The thing'll take me a year at

least. I shall do it slowly, lovingly. One volume, of course; the

length of the ordinary French novel. There's something fine in

the title, don't you think? "Mr Bailey, Grocer"!'

'I envy you, old fellow,' said Reardon, sighing. 'You have the

right fire in you; you have zeal and energy. Well, what do you

think I have decided to do?'

'I should like to hear.'

Reardon gave an account of his project. The other listened

gravely, seated across a chair with his arms on the back.

'Your wife is in agreement with this?'

'Oh yes.' He could not bring himself to say that Amy had

suggested it. 'She has great hopes that the change will be just

what I need.'

'I should say so too--if you were going to rest. But if you have

to set to work at once it seems to me very doubtful.'

'Never mind. For Heaven's sake don't discourage me! If this fails

I think--upon my soul, I think I shall kill myself.'

'Pooh!' exclaimed Biffen, gently. 'With a wife like yours?'

'Just because of that.'

'No, no; there'll be some way out of it. By-the-bye, I passed Mrs

Reardon this morning, but she didn't see me. It was in Tottenham

Court Road, and Milvain was with her. I felt myself too seedy in

appearance to stop and speak.'

'In Tottenham Court Road?'

That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon's

attention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His

mind involuntarily played this trick.

'I only saw them just as they were passing,' pursued Biffen. 'Oh,

I knew I had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale

is going to be married?'

Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way.

'I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to

look him up to-night, and he'd let me know all about it. Let's go

together, shall we?'

'I don't feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I'll walk with

you, and go on home.'

'No, no; come and see him. It'll do you good to talk a little.--

But I must positively eat a mouthful before we go. I'm afraid you

won't care to join?'

He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a

saucer of dripping, with salt and pepper.

'Better dripping this than I've had for a long time. I get it at

Mr Bailey's--that isn't his real name, of course. He assures me

it comes from a large hotel where his wife's sister is a

kitchen-maid, and that it's perfectly pure; they very often mix

flour with it, you know, and perhaps more obnoxious things that

an economical man doesn't care to reflect upon. Now, with a

little pepper and salt, this bread and dripping is as appetising

food as I know. I often make a dinner of it.'

'I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-

pudding?'

'I should think so! I get magnificent pennyworths at a shop in

Cleveland Street, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent

faggots they have there, too. I'll give you a supper of them some

night before you go.'

Biffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties.

He ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork; this always

made the fare seem more substantial.

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

put my overcoat on?'

This overcoat, purchased second-hand three years ago, hung on a

door-nail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to the

realist his ordinary indoor garment--a morning coat of the cloth

called diagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation

than the other articles of his attire.

Reardon judging the overcoat necessary, his friend carefully

brushed it and drew it on with a caution which probably had

reference to starting seams. Then he put into the pocket his

pipe, his pouch, his tobacco-stopper, and his matches, murmuring

to himself a Greek iambic line which had come into his head a

propos of nothing obvious.

'Go out,' he said, 'and then I'll extinguish the lamp. Mind the

second step down, as usual.'

They issued into Clipstone Street, turned northward, crossed

Euston Road, and came into Albany Street, where, in a house of

decent exterior, Mr Whelpdale had his present abode. A girl who

opened the door requested them to walk up to the topmost storey.

A cheery voice called to them from within the room at which they

knocked. This lodging spoke more distinctly of civilisation than

that inhabited by Biffen; it contained the minimum supply of

furniture needed to give it somewhat the appearance of a study,

but the articles were in good condition. One end of the room was

concealed by a chintz curtain; scrutiny would have discovered

behind the draping the essential equipments of a bedchamber.

Mr Whelpdale sat by the fire, smoking a cigar. He was a plain-

featured but graceful and refined-looking man of thirty, with

wavy chestnut hair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At

present he wore a dressing-gown and was without collar.

'Welcome, gents both!' he cried facetiously. 'Ages since I saw

you, Reardon. I've been reading your new book. Uncommonly good

things in it here and there--uncommonly good.'

Whelpdale had the weakness of being unable to tell a disagreeable

truth, and a tendency to flattery which had always made Reardon

rather uncomfortable in his society. Though there was no need

whatever of his mentioning 'Margaret Home,' he preferred to frame

smooth fictions rather than keep a silence which might be

construed as unfavourable criticism.

'In the last volume,' he went on, 'I think there are one or two

things as good as you ever did; I do indeed.'

Reardon made no acknowledgment of these remarks. They irritated

him, for he knew their insincerity. Biffen, understanding his

friend's silence, struck in on another subject.

'Who is this lady of whom you write to me?'

'Ah, quite a story! I'm going to be married, Reardon. A serious

marriage. Light your pipes, and I'll tell you all about it.

Startled you, I suppose, Biffen? Unlikely news, eh? Some people

would call it a rash step, I dare say. We shall just take another

room in this house, that's all. I think I can count upon an

income of a couple of guineas a week, and I have plans without

end that are pretty sure to bring in coin.'

Reardon did not care to smoke, but Biffen lit his pipe and waited

with grave interest for the romantic narrative. Whenever he heard

of a poor man's persuading a woman to share his poverty he was

eager of details; perchance he himself might yet have that

heavenly good fortune.

'Well,' began Whelpdale, crossing his legs and watching a wreath

he had just puffed from the cigar, 'you know all about my

literary advisership. The business goes on reasonably well. I'm

going to extend it in ways I'll explain to you presently. About

six weeks ago I received a letter from a lady who referred to my

advertisements, and said she had the manuscript of a novel which

she would like to offer for my opinion. Two publishers had

refused it, but one with complimentary phrases, and she hoped it

mightn't be impossible to put the thing into acceptable shape. Of

course I wrote optimistically, and the manuscript was sent to me.

Well, it wasn't actually bad--by Jove! you should have seen some

of the things I have been asked to recommend to publishers! It

wasn't hopelessly bad by any means, and I gave serious thought to

it. After exchange of several letters I asked the authoress to

come and see me, that we might save postage stamps and talk

things over. She hadn't given me her address: I had to direct to

a stationer's in Bayswater. She agreed to come, and did come. I

had formed a sort of idea, but of course I was quite wrong.

Imagine my excitement when there came in a very beautiful girl, a

tremendously interesting girl, about one-and-twenty--just the

kind of girl that most strongly appeals to me; dark, pale, rather

consumptive-looking, slender--no, there's no describing her;

there really isn't! You must wait till you see her.'

'I hope the consumption was only a figure of speech,' remarked

Biffen in his grave way.

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

poor girl.'

'The deuce!' interjected Reardon.

'Oh, nothing, nothing! It'll be all right. Well, now, of course

we talked over the story--in good earnest, you know. Little by

little I induced her to speak of herself--this, after she'd come

two or three times--and she told me lamentable things. She was

absolutely alone in London, and hadn't had sufficient food for

weeks; had sold all she could of her clothing; and so on. Her

home was in Birmingham; she had been driven away by the brutality

of a stepmother; a friend lent her a few pounds, and she came to

London with an unfinished novel. Well, you know, this kind of

thing would be enough to make me soft-hearted to any girl, let

alone one who, to begin with, was absolutely my ideal. When she

began to express a fear that I was giving too much time to her,

that she wouldn't be able to pay my fees, and so on, I could

restrain myself no longer. On the spot I asked her to marry me. I

didn't practise any deception, mind. I told her I was a poor

devil who had failed as a realistic novelist and was earning

bread in haphazard ways; and I explained frankly that I thought

we might carry on various kinds of business together: she might

go on with her novel-writing, and--so on. But she was frightened;

I had been too abrupt. That's a fault of mine, you know; but I

was so confoundedly afraid of losing her. And I told her as much,

plainly.'

Biffen smiled.

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

the story.'

'Yes. Pity I didn't keep it a secret. Well, she wouldn't say yes,

but I could see that she didn't absolutely say no. "In any case,"

I said, "you'll let me see you often? Fees be hanged! I'll work

day and night for you. I'll do my utmost to get your novel

accepted." And I implored her to let me lend her a little money.

It was very difficult to persuade her, but at last she accepted a

few shillings. I could see in her face that she was hungry. Just

imagine! A beautiful girl absolutely hungry; it drove me frantic!

But that was a great point gained. After that we saw each other

almost every day, and at last--she consented! Did indeed! I can

hardly believe it yet. We shall be married in a fortnight's

time.'

'I congratulate you,' said Reardon.

'So do I,' sighed Biffen.

'The day before yesterday she went to Birmingham to see her

father and tell him all about the affair. I agreed with her it

was as well; the old fellow isn't badly off; and he may forgive

her for running away, though he's under his wife's thumb, it

appears. I had a note yesterday. She had gone to a friend's house

for the first day. I hoped to have heard again this morning--must

to-morrow, in any case. I live, as you may imagine, in wild

excitement. Of course, if the old man stumps up a wedding

present, all the better. But I don't care; we'll make a living

somehow. What do you think I'm writing just now? An author's

Guide. You know the kind of thing; they sell splendidly. Of

course I shall make it a good advertisement of my business. Then

I have a splendid idea. I'm going to advertise: "Novel-writing

taught in ten lessons!" What do you think of that? No swindle;

not a bit of it. I am quite capable of giving the ordinary man or

woman ten very useful lessons. I've been working out the scheme;

it would amuse you vastly, Reardon. The first lesson deals with

the question of subjects, local colour--that kind of thing. I

gravely advise people, if they possibly can, to write of the

wealthy middle class; that's the popular subject, you know. Lords

and ladies are all very well, but the real thing to take is a

story about people who have no titles, but live in good

Philistine style. I urge study of horsey matters especially;

that's very important. You must be well up, too, in military

grades, know about Sandhurst, and so on. Boating is an important

topic. You see? Oh, I shall make a great thing of this. I shall

teach my wife carefully, and then let her advertise lessons to

girls; they'll prefer coming to a woman, you know.'

Biffen leant back and laughed noisily.

'How much shall you charge for the course?' asked Reardon.

'That'll depend. I shan't refuse a guinea or two; but some people

may be made to pay five, perhaps.'

Someone knocked at the door, and a voice said:

'A letter for you, Mr Whelpdale.'

He started up, and came back into the room with face illuminated.

'Yes, it's from Birmingham; posted this morning. Look what an

exquisite hand she writes!'

He tore open the envelope. In delicacy Reardon and Biffen averted

their eyes. There was silence for a minute, then a strange

ejaculation from Whelpdale caused his friends to look up at him.

He had gone pale, and was frowning at the sheet of paper which

trembled in his hand.

'No bad news, I hope?' Biffen ventured to say.

Whelpdale let himself sink into a chair.

'Now if this isn't too bad!' he exclaimed in a thick voice. 'If

this isn't monstrously unkind! I never heard anything so gross as

this--never!'

The two waited, trying not to smile.

'She writes--that she has met an old lover--in Birmingham--that

it was with him she had quarrelled-not with her father at all--

that she ran away to annoy him and frighten him--that she has

made it up again, and they're going to be married!'

He let the sheet fall, and looked so utterly woebegone that his

friends at once exerted themselves to offer such consolation as

the case admitted of. Reardon thought better of Whelpdale for

this emotion; he had not believed him capable of it.

'It isn't a case of vulgar cheating!' cried the forsaken one

presently. 'Don't go away thinking that. She writes in real

distress and penitence--she does indeed. Oh, the devil! Why did I

let her go to Birmingham? A fortnight more, and I should have had

her safe. But it's just like my luck. Do you know that this is

the third time I've been engaged to be married?--no, by Jove, the

fourth! And every time the girl has got out of it at the last

moment. What an unlucky beast I am! A girl who was positively my

ideal! I haven't even a photograph of her to show you; but you'd

be astonished at her face. Why, in the devil's name, did I let

her go to Birmingham?'

The visitors had risen. They felt uncomfortable, for it seemed as

if Whelpdale might find vent for his distress in tears.

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

is indeed.'

'Look here! Read the letter for yourselves! Do!'

They declined, and begged him not to insist.

'But I want you to see what kind of girl she is. It isn't a case

of farcical deceiving--not a bit of it! She implores me to

forgive her, and blames herself no end. Just my luck! The third--

no, the fourth time, by Jove! Never was such an unlucky fellow

with women. It's because I'm so damnably poor; that's it, of

course!'

Reardon and his companion succeeded at length in getting away,

though not till they had heard the virtues and beauty of the

vanished girl described again and again in much detail. Both were

in a state of depression as they left the house.

'What think you of this story?' asked Biffen. 'Is this possible

in a woman of any merit?'

'Anything is possible in a woman,' Reardon replied, harshly.

They walked in silence as far as Portland Road Station. There,

with an assurance that he would come to a garret-supper before

leaving London, Reardon parted from his friend and turned

westward.

As soon as he had entered, Amy's voice called to him:

'Here's a letter from Jedwood, Edwin!'

He stepped into the study.

'It came just after you went out, and it has been all I could do

to resist the temptation to open it.'

'Why shouldn't you have opened it?' said her husband, carelessly.

He tried to do so himself, but his shaking hand thwarted him at

first. Succeeding at length, he found a letter in the publisher's

own writing, and the first word that caught his attention was

'regret.' With an angry effort to command himself he ran through

the communication, then held it out to Amy.

She read, and her countenance fell. Mr Jedwood regretted that the

story offered to him did not seem likely to please that

particular public to whom his series of one-volume novels made

appeal. He hoped it would be understood that, in declining, he by

no means expressed an adverse judgment on the story itself &c.

'It doesn't surprise me,' said Reardon. 'I believe he is quite

right. The thing is too empty to please the better kind of

readers, yet not vulgar enough to please the worse.'

'But you'll try someone else?'

'I don't think it's much use.'

They sat opposite each other, and kept silence. Jedwood's letter

slipped from Amy's lap to the ground.

'So,' said Reardon, presently, 'I don't see how our plan is to be

carried out.'

'Oh, it must be!'

'But how?'

'You'll get seven or eight pounds from The Wayside. And--hadn't

we better sell the furniture, instead of--'

His look checked her.

'It seems to me, Amy, that your one desire is to get away from

me, on whatever terms.'

'Don't begin that over again!' she exclaimed, fretfully. 'If you

don't believe what I say--'

They were both in a state of intolerable nervous tension. Their

voices quivered, and their eyes had an unnatural brightness.

'If we sell the furniture,' pursued Reardon, 'that means you'll

never come back to me. You wish to save yourself and the child

from the hard life that seems to be before us.'

'Yes, I do; but not by deserting you. I want you to go and work

for us all, so that we may live more happily before long. Oh, how

wretched this is!'

She burst into hysterical weeping. But Reardon, instead of

attempting to soothe her, went into the next room, where he sat

for a long time in the dark. When he returned Amy was calm again;

her face expressed a cold misery.

'Where did you go this morning?' he asked, as if wishing to talk

of common things.

'I told you. I went to buy those things for Willie.'

'Oh yes.'

There was a silence.

'Biffen passed you in Tottenham Court Road,' he added.

'I didn't see him.'

'No; he said you didn't.'

'Perhaps,' said Amy, 'it was just when I was speaking to Mr

Milvain.'

'You met Milvain?'

'Yes.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I'm sure I don't know. I can't mention every trifle that

happens.'

'No, of course not.'

Amy closed her eyes, as if in weariness, and for a minute or two

Reardon observed her countenance.

'So you think we had better sell the furniture.'

'I shall say nothing more about it. You must do as seems best to

you, Edwin.'

'Are you going to see your mother to-morrow?'

'Yes. I thought you would like to come too.'

'No; there's no good in my going.'

He again rose, and that night they talked no more of their

difficulties, though on the morrow (Sunday) it would be necessary

to decide their course in every detail.

CHAPTER XVII. THE PARTING

Amy did not go to church. Before her marriage she had done so as

a mere matter of course, accompanying her mother, but Reardon's

attitude with regard to the popular religion speedily became her

own; she let the subject lapse from her mind, and cared neither

to defend nor to attack where dogma was concerned. She had no

sympathies with mysticism; her nature was strongly practical,

with something of zeal for intellectual attainment superadded.

This Sunday morning she was very busy with domestic minutiae.

Reardon noticed what looked like preparations for packing, and

being as little disposed for conversation as his wife, he went

out and walked for a couple of hours in the Hampstead region.

Dinner over, Amy at once made ready for her journey to Westbourne

Park.

'Then you won't come?' she said to her husband.

'No. I shall see your mother before I go away, but I don't care

to till you have settled everything.'

It was half a year since he had met Mrs Yule. She never came to

their dwelling, and Reardon could not bring himself to visit her.

'You had very much rather we didn't sell the furniture?' Amy

asked.

'Ask your mother's opinion. That shall decide.'

'There'll be the expense of moving it, you know. Unless money

comes from The Wayside, you'll only have two or three pounds

left.'

Reardon made no reply. He was overcome by the bitterness of

shame.

'I shall say, then,' pursued Amy, who spoke with averted face,

'that I am to go there for good on Tuesday? I mean, of course,

for the summer months.'

'I suppose so.'

Then he turned suddenly upon her.

'Do you really imagine that at the end of the summer I shall be a

rich man? What do you mean by talking in this way? If the

furniture is sold to supply me with a few pounds for the present,

what prospect is there that I shall be able to buy new?'

'How can we look forward at all?' replied Amy. 'It has come to

the question of how we are to subsist. I thought you would rather

get money in this way than borrow of mother--when she has the

expense of keeping me and Willie.'

'You are right,' muttered Reardon. 'Do as you think best.' Amy

was in her most practical mood, and would not linger for

purposeless talk. A few minutes, and Reardon was left alone.

He stood before his bookshelves and began to pick out the volumes

which he would take away with him. Just a few, the indispensable

companions of a bookish man who still clings to life--his Homer,

his Shakespeare--

The rest must be sold. He would get rid of them to-morrow

morning. All together they might bring him a couple of

sovereigns.

Then his clothing. Amy had fulfilled all the domestic duties of a

wife; his wardrobe was in as good a state as circumstances

allowed. But there was no object in burdening himself with winter

garments, for, if he lived through the summer at all, he would be

able to repurchase such few poor things as were needful; at

present he could only think of how to get together a few coins.

So he made a heap of such things as might be sold.

The furniture? If it must go, the price could scarcely be more

than ten or twelve pounds; well, perhaps fifteen. To be sure, in

this way his summer's living would be abundantly provided for.

He thought of Biffen enviously. Biffen, if need be, could support

life on three or four shillings a week, happy in the thought that

no mortal had a claim upon him. If he starved to death--well,

many another lonely man has come to that end. If he preferred to

kill himself, who would be distressed? Spoilt child of fortune!

The bells of St Marylebone began to clang for afternoon service.

In the idleness of dull pain his thoughts followed their summons,

and he marvelled that there were people who could imagine it a

duty or find it a solace to go and sit in that twilight church

and listen to the droning of prayers. He thought of the wretched

millions of mankind to whom life is so barren that they must

needs believe in a recompense beyond the grave. For that he

neither looked nor longed. The bitterness of his lot was that

this world might be a sufficing paradise to him if only he could

clutch a poor little share of current coin. He had won the

world's greatest prize--a woman's love --but could not retain it

because his pockets were empty.

That he should fail to make a great name, this was grievous

disappointment to Amy, but this alone would not have estranged

her. It was the dread and shame of penury that made her heart

cold to him. And he could not in his conscience scorn her for

being thus affected by the vulgar circumstances of life; only a

few supreme natures stand unshaken under such a trial, and though

his love of Amy was still passionate, he knew that her place was

among a certain class of women, and not on the isolated pinnacle

where he had at first visioned her. It was entirely natural that

she shrank at the test of squalid suffering. A little money, and

he could have rested secure in her love, for then he would have

been able to keep ever before her the best qualities of his heart

and brain. Upon him, too, penury had its debasing effect; as he

now presented himself he was not a man to be admired or loved. It

was all simple and intelligible enough--a situation that would be

misread only by shallow idealism.

Worst of all, she was attracted by Jasper Milvain's energy and

promise of success. He had no ignoble suspicions of Amy, but it

was impossible for him not to see that she habitually contrasted

the young journalist, who laughingly made his way among men, with

her grave, dispirited husband, who was not even capable of

holding such position as he had gained. She enjoyed Milvain's

conversation, it put her into a good humour; she liked him

personally, and there could be no doubt that she had observed a

jealous tendency in Reardon's attitude to his former friend--

always a harmful suggestion to a woman. Formerly she had

appreciated her husband's superiority; she had smiled at

Milvain's commoner stamp of mind and character. But tedious

repetition of failure had outwearied her, and now she saw Milvain

in the sunshine of progress, dwelt upon the worldly advantages of

gifts and a temperament such as his. Again, simple and

intelligible enough.

Living apart from her husband, she could not be expected to

forswear society, and doubtless she would see Milvain pretty

often. He called occasionally at Mrs Yule's, and would not do so

less often when he knew that Amy was to be met there. There would

be chance encounters like that of yesterday, of which she had

chosen to keep silence.

A dark fear began to shadow him. In yielding thus passively to

stress of circumstances, was he not exposing his wife to a danger

which outweighed all the ills of poverty? As one to whom she was

inestimably dear, was he right in allowing her to leave him, if

only for a few months? He knew very well that a man of strong

character would never have entertained this project. He had got

into the way of thinking of himself as too weak to struggle

against the obstacles on which Amy insisted, and of looking for

safety in retreat; but what was to be the end of this weakness if

the summer did not at all advance him? He knew better than Amy

could how unlikely it was that he should recover the energies of

his mind in so short a time and under such circumstances; only

the feeble man's temptation to postpone effort had made him

consent to this step, and now that he was all but beyond turning

back, the perils of which he had thought too little forced

themselves upon his mind.

He rose in anguish, and stood looking about him as if aid might

somewhere be visible.

Presently there was a knock at the front door, and on opening he

beheld the vivacious Mr Carter. This gentleman had only made two

or three calls here since Reardon's marriage; his appearance was

a surprise.

'I hear you are leaving town for a time,' he exclaimed. 'Edith

told me yesterday, so I thought I'd look you up.'

He was in spring costume, and exhaled fresh odours. The contrast

between his prosperous animation and Reardon's broken-spirited

quietness could not have been more striking.

'Going away for your health, they tell me. You've been working

too hard, you know. You mustn't overdo it. And where do you think

of going to?'

'It isn't at all certain that I shall go,' Reardon replied. 'I

thought of a few weeks--somewhere at the seaside.'

'I advise you to go north,' went on Carter cheerily. 'You want a

tonic, you know. Get up into Scotland and do some boating and

fishing--that kind of thing. You'd come back a new man. Edith and

I had a turn up there last year, you know; it did me heaps of

good.'

'Oh, I don't think I should go so far as that.'

'But that's just what you want--a regular change, something

bracing. You don't look at all well, that's the fact. A winter in

London tries any man--it does me, I know. I've been seedy myself

these last few weeks. Edith wants me to take her over to Paris at

the end of this month, and I think it isn't a bad idea; but I'm

so confoundedly busy. In the autumn we shall go to Norway, I

think; it seems to be the right thing to do nowadays. Why

shouldn't you have a run over to Norway? They say it can be done

very cheaply; the steamers take you for next to nothing.'

He talked on with the joyous satisfaction of a man whose income

is assured, and whose future teems with a succession of lively

holidays. Reardon could make no answer to such suggestions; he

sat with a fixed smile on his face.

'Have you heard,' said Carter, presently, 'that we're opening a

branch of the hospital in the City Road?'

'No; I hadn't heard of it.'

'It'll only be for out-patients. Open three mornings and three

evenings alternately.'

'Who'll represent you there?''I shall look in now and then, of

course; there'll be a clerk, like at the old place.'

He talked of the matter in detail--of the doctors who would

attend, and of certain new arrangements to be tried.

'Have you engaged the clerk?' Reardon asked.

'Not yet. I think I know a man who'll suit me, though.'

'You wouldn't be disposed to give me the chance?'

Reardon spoke huskily, and ended with a broken laugh.

'You're rather above my figure nowadays, old man!' exclaimed

Carter, joining in what he considered the jest.

'Shall you pay a pound a week?'

'Twenty-five shillings. It'll have to be a man who can be trusted

to take money from the paying patients.'

'Well, I am serious. Will you give me the place?'

Carter gazed at him, and checked another laugh.

'What the deuce do you mean?'

'The fact is,' Reardon replied, 'I want variety of occupation. I

can't stick at writing for more than a month or two at a time.

It's because I have tried to do so that--well, practically, I

have broken down. If you will give me this clerkship, it will

relieve me from the necessity of perpetually writing novels; I

shall be better for it in every way. You know that I'm equal to

the job; you can trust me; and I dare say I shall be more useful

than most clerks you could get.'

It was done, most happily done, on the first impulse. A minute

more of pause, and he could not have faced the humiliation. His

face burned, his tongue was parched.

'I'm floored!' cried Carter. 'I shouldn't have thought--but of

course, if you really want it. I can hardly believe yet that

you're serious, Reardon.'

'Why not? Will you promise me the work?'

'Well, yes.'

'When shall I have to begin?'

'The place'll be opened to-morrow week. But how about your

holiday?'

'Oh, let that stand over. It'll be holiday enough to occupy

myself in a new way. An old way, too; I shall enjoy it.'

He laughed merrily, relieved beyond measure at having come to

what seemed an end of his difficulties. For half an hour they

continued to talk over the affair.

'Well, it's a comical idea,' said Carter, as he took his leave,

'but you know your own business best.'

When Amy returned, Reardon allowed her to put the child to bed

before he sought any conversation. She came at length and sat

down in the study.

'Mother advises us not to sell the furniture,' were her first

words.

'I'm glad of that, as I had quite made up my mind not to.' There

was a change in his way of speaking which she at once noticed.

'Have you thought of something?'

'Yes. Carter has been here, and he happened to mention that

they're opening an out-patient department of the hospital, in the

City Road. He'll want someone to help him there. I asked for the

post, and he promised it me.'

The last words were hurried, though he had resolved to speak with

deliberation. No more feebleness; he had taken a decision, and

would act upon it as became a responsible man.

'The post?' said Amy. 'What post?'

'In plain English, the clerkship. It'll be the same work as I

used to have--registering patients, receiving their "letters,"

and so on. The pay is to be five-and-twenty shillings a week.'

Amy sat upright and looked steadily at him.

'Is this a joke?'

'Far from it, dear. It's a blessed deliverance.'

'You have asked Mr Carter to take you back as a clerk?'

'I have.'

'And you propose that we shall live on twenty-five shillings a

week?'

'Oh no! I shall be engaged only three mornings in the week and

three evenings. In my free time I shall do literary work, and no

doubt I can earn fifty pounds a year by it--if I have your

sympathy to help me. To-morrow I shall go and look for rooms some

distance from here; in Islington, I think. We have been living

far beyond our means; that must come to an end. We'll have no

more keeping up of sham appearances. If I can make my way in

literature, well and good; in that case our position and

prospects will of course change. But for the present we are poor

people, and must live in a poor way. If our friends like to come

and see us, they must put aside all snobbishness, and take us as

we are. If they prefer not to come, there'll be an excuse in our

remoteness.'

Amy was stroking the back of her hand. After a long silence, she

said in a very quiet, but very resolute tone:

'I shall not consent to this.'

'In that case, Amy, I must do without your consent. The rooms

will be taken, and our furniture transferred to them.'

'To me that will make no difference,' returned his wife, in the

same voice as before. 'I have decided--as you told me to--to go

with Willie to mother's next Tuesday. You, of course, must do as

you please. I should have thought a summer at the seaside would

have been more helpful to you; but if you prefer to live in

Islington--'

Reardon approached her, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

'Amy, are you my wife, or not?'

'I am certainly not the wife of a clerk who is paid so much a

week.'

He had foreseen a struggle, but without certainty of the form

Amy's opposition would take. For himself he meant to be gently

resolute, calmly regardless of protest. But in a man to whom such

self-assertion is a matter of conscious effort, tremor of the

nerves will always interfere with the line of conduct he has

conceived in advance. Already Reardon had spoken with far more

bluntness than he proposed; involuntarily, his voice slipped from

earnest determination to the note of absolutism, and, as is wont

to be the case, the sound of these strange tones instigated him

to further utterances of the same kind. He lost control of

himself. Amy's last reply went through him like an electric

shock, and for the moment he was a mere husband defied by his

wife, the male stung to exertion of his brute force against the

physically weaker sex.

'However you regard me, you will do what I think fit. I shall not

argue with you. If I choose to take lodgings in Whitechapel,

there you will come and live.'

He met Amy's full look, and was conscious of that in it which

corresponded to his own brutality. She had become suddenly a much

older woman; her cheeks were tight drawn into thinness, her lips

were bloodlessly hard, there was an unknown furrow along her

forehead, and she glared like the animal that defends itself with

tooth and claw.

'Do as YOU think fit? Indeed!'

Could Amy's voice sound like that? Great Heaven! With just such

accent he had heard a wrangling woman retort upon her husband at

the street corner. Is there then no essential difference between

a woman of this world and one of that? Does the same nature lie

beneath such unlike surfaces?

He had but to do one thing: to seize her by the arm, drag her up

from the chair, dash her back again with all his force--there,

the transformation would be complete, they would stand towards

each other on the natural footing. With an added curse perhaps--

Instead of that, he choked, struggled for breath, and shed tears.

Amy turned scornfully away from him. Blows and a curse would have

overawed her, at all events for the moment; she would have felt:

'Yes, he is a man, and I have put my destiny into his hands.' His

tears moved her to a feeling cruelly exultant; they were the sign

of her superiority. It was she who should have wept, and never in

her life had she been further from such display of weakness.

This could not be the end, however, and she had no wish to

terminate the scene. They stood for a minute without regarding

each other, then Reardon faced to her.

'You refuse to live with me, then?'

'Yes, if this is the kind of life you offer me.'

'You would be more ashamed to share your husband's misfortunes

than to declare to everyone that you had deserted him?'

'I shall "declare to everyone" the simple truth. You have the

opportunity of making one more effort to save us from

degradation. You refuse to take the trouble; you prefer to drag

me down into a lower rank of life. I can't and won't consent to

that. The disgrace is yours; it's fortunate for me that I have a

decent home to go to.'

'Fortunate for you!--you make yourself unutterably contemptible.

I have done nothing that justifies you in leaving me. It is for

me to judge what I can do and what I can't. A good woman would

see no degradation in what I ask of you. But to run away from me

just because I am poorer than you ever thought I should be--'

He was incoherent. A thousand passionate things that he wished to

say clashed together in his mind and confused his speech.

Defeated in the attempt to act like a strong man, he could not

yet recover standing-ground, knew not how to tone his utterances.

'Yes, of course, that's how you will put it,' said Amy. 'That's

how you will represent me to your friends. My friends will see it

in a different light.'

'They will regard you as a martyr?'

'No one shall make a martyr of me, you may be sure. I was

unfortunate enough to marry a man who had no delicacy, no regard

for my feelings.--I am not the first woman who has made a mistake

of this kind.'

'No delicacy? No regard for your feelings?--Have I always utterly

misunderstood you? Or has poverty changed you to a woman I can't

recognise?'

He came nearer, and gazed desperately into her face. Not a muscle

of it showed susceptibility to the old influences.

'Do you know, Amy,' he added in a lower voice, 'that if we part

now, we part for ever?'

'I'm afraid that is only too likely.'

She moved aside.

'You mean that you wish it. You are weary of me, and care for

nothing but how to make yourself free.'

'I shall argue no more. I am tired to death of it.'

'Then say nothing, but listen for the last time to my view of the

position we have come to. When I consented to leave you for a

time, to go away and try to work in solitude, I was foolish and

even insincere, both to you and to myself. I knew that I was

undertaking the impossible. It was just putting off the evil day,

that was all--putting off the time when I should have to say

plainly: "I can't live by literature, so I must look out for some

other employment." I shouldn't have been so weak but that I knew

how you would regard such a decision as that. I was afraid to

tell the truth--afraid. Now, when Carter of a sudden put this

opportunity before me, I saw all the absurdity of the

arrangements we had made. It didn't take me a moment to make up

my mind. Anything was to be chosen rather than a parting from you

on false pretences, a ridiculous affectation of hope where there

was no hope.'

He paused, and saw that his words had no effect upon her.

'And a grievous share of the fault lies with you, Amy. You

remember very well when I first saw how dark the future was. I

was driven even to say that we ought to change our mode of

living; I asked you if you would be willing to leave this place

and go into cheaper rooms. And you know what your answer was. Not

a sign in you that you would stand by me if the worst came. I

knew then what I had to look forward to, but I durst not believe

it. I kept saying to myself: "She loves me, and as soon as she

really understands--" That was all self-deception. If I had been

a wise man, I should have spoken to you in a way you couldn't

mistake. I should have told you that we were living recklessly,

and that I had determined to alter it. I have no delicacy? No

regard for your feelings? Oh, if I had had less! I doubt whether

you can even understand some of the considerations that weighed

with me, and made me cowardly--though I once thought there was no

refinement of sensibility that you couldn't enter into. Yes, I

was absurd enough to say to myself: "It will look as if I had

consciously deceived her; she may suffer from the thought that I

won her at all hazards, knowing that I should soon expose her to

poverty and all sorts of humiliation." Impossible to speak of

that again; I had to struggle desperately on, trying to hope. Oh!

if you knew--'

His voice gave way for an instant.

'I don't understand how you could be so thoughtless and

heartless. You knew that I was almost mad with anxiety at times.

Surely, any woman must have had the impulse to give what help was

in her power. How could you hesitate? Had you no suspicion of

what a relief and encouragement it would be to me, if you said:

"Yes, we must go and live in a simpler way?" If only as a proof

that you loved me, how I should have welcomed that! You helped me

in nothing. You threw all the responsibility upon me--always

bearing in mind, I suppose, that there was a refuge for you. Even

now, I despise myself for saying such things of you, though I

know so bitterly that they are true. It takes a long time to see

you as such a different woman from the one I worshipped. In

passion, I can fling out violent words, but they don't yet answer

to my actual feeling. It will be long enough yet before I think

contemptuously of you. You know that when a light is suddenly

extinguished, the image of it still shows before your eyes. But

at last comes the darkness.'

Amy turned towards him once more.

'Instead of saying all this, you might be proving that I am

wrong. Do so, and I will gladly confess it.'

'That you are wrong? I don't see your meaning.'

'You might prove that you are willing to do your utmost to save

me from humiliation.'

'Amy, I have done my utmost. I have done more than you can

imagine.'

'No. You have toiled on in illness and anxiety--I know that. But

a chance is offered you now of working in a better way. Till that

is tried, you have no right to give all up and try to drag me

down with you.'

'I don't know how to answer. I have told you so often-- You can't

understand me!'

'I can! I can!' Her voice trembled for the first time. 'I know

that you are so ready to give in to difficulties. Listen to me,

and do as I bid you.' She spoke in the strangest tone of command.

It was command, not exhortation, but there was no harshness in

her voice. 'Go at once to Mr Carter. Tell him you have made a

ludicrous mistake--in a fit of low spirits; anything you like to

say. Tell him you of course couldn't dream of becoming his clerk.

To-night; at once! You understand me, Edwin? Go now, this

moment.'

'Have you determined to see how weak I am? Do you wish to be able

to despise me more completely still?'

'I am determined to be your friend, and to save you from

yourself. Go at once! Leave all the rest to me. If I have let

things take their course till now, it shan't be so in future. The

responsibility shall be with me. Only do as I tell you'

'You know it's impossible--'

'It is not! I will find money. No one shall be allowed to say

that we are parting; no one has any such idea yet. You are going

away for your health, just three summer months. I have been far

more careful of appearances than you imagine, but you give me

credit for so little. I will find the money you need, until you

have written another book. I promise; I undertake it. Then I will

find another home for us, of the proper kind. You shall have no

trouble. You shall give yourself entirely to intellectual things.

But Mr Carter must be told at once, before he can spread a

report. If he has spoken, he must contradict what he has said.'

'But you amaze me, Amy. Do you mean to say that you look upon it

as a veritable disgrace, my taking this clerkship?'

'I do. I can't help my nature. I am ashamed through and through

that you should sink to this.'

'But everyone knows that I was a clerk once!'

'Very few people know it. And then that isn't the same thing. It

doesn't matter what one has been in the past. Especially a

literary man; everyone expects to hear that he was once poor. But

to fall from the position you now have, and to take weekly wages

--you surely can't know how people of my world regard