New Grub Street.................................................................................................................................................1

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,

'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.'

'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

poorfellow. 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 fiveandtwenty, well built, though a trifle meagre, and of pale complexion. He had

hair that was very nearly black, and a cleanshaven 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 standup collar curled

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 twentytwo, 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 oldfashioned comfort, only one or

'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

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

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

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

'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 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 theto 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 modestas 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

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

'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

'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 workgirl 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 workgirl 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,

'Nothing of the kind. If I seem to speak exultantly it's only because my intellect enjoys the clear perception of

'But this is very sad, Jasper,' said Mrs Milvain, in her half absent way. 'I suppose they can't even go for a

'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

'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

'Ten years hence,' he said, 'if Reardon is still alive, I shall be lending him fivepound notes.'

'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, andall 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 today 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,

'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

'Let it pass. And to those who have shall be given. When I have a decent income of my own, I shall marry a

'It would amuse me very much if the Reardons got a lot of money at Mr Yule's deathand that can't be ten

'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

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.

In a few minutes Jasper was left alone in the room. When the servant came to clear the table he strolled

The house was pleasantly situated by the roadside in a little village named Finden. Opposite stood the church,

a plain, low, squaretowered building. As it was cattlemarket today 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

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; today 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

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,

'Jasper wants more money,' said the mother, when Maud had sat in meditation for a few minutes.

'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.'

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

'Don't be so quicktempered. You know very well I am far from grudging you anything, dear. But I only

'It's a disgraceful thing that he doesn't earn as much as he needs. We are sacrificed to him, as we always have

'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

'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 twentyfive 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

'I really don't see how he can live on less than a hundred and fifty a year. London, you know '

'But I know what I'm saying. I've read quite enough about such things. He might live very well indeed on

'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

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

'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

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 dinnertime, she was rather more caustic in her remarks than usual,

'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.'

'I can't manage stories, as I have told you; but I think you could. In your place, I'd make a speciality of

Sundayschool prizebooks; 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.'

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

'Inferior? Oh, if you can be a George Eliot, begin at the earliest opportunity. I merely suggested what seemed

But I don't think you have genius, Maud. People have got that ancient prejudice so firmly rooted in their

headsthat one mustn't write save at the dictation of the Holy Spirit. I tell you, writing is a business. Get

together halfadozen fair specimens of the Sundayschool 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 devilI 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.'

'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 longeared 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 outtrashing 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 middleclass 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

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

'I want you to tell me something, Jasper. How much longer shall you look to mother for support? I mean it

'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 longheaded individual. I know what I'm about.'

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 smoothlyshaven jaws with thumb and fingers. Occasionally he became observant of wayside

detailsof the colour of a maple leaf, the shape of a tall thistle, the consistency of a fungus. At the few

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 twoand twenty, in a slatecoloured 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

Jasper mused concerning them. When he had walked a few yards, he looked back; at the same moment the

'I think' said Jasper, as he entered the room where his mother and Maud were busy with plain needlework, 'I

'I passed an old buffer and a palefaced girl whom I know by sight at the British Museum. It wasn't near

'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

'A fright! Not at all. A good example of the modern literary girl. I suppose you have the oddest oldfashioned

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

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 doorbell, 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 wifea thin, softspeaking, kindly woman of fortyfive. 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

'No doubt it was they,' said the visitor. 'Mrs Yule hasn't come; I hardly expected she would, you know. So

'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 tomorrow afternoon, will you? Or would it be too much

'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. 'Butwhat of Jasper's friendship with Mrs Edmund Yule

'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 tomorrow, 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

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 brotherinlaw; 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 fortyfive

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 hotheaded 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 oneandtwenty 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 papermill in

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

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

Only when he had reached middle age did John marry; the experiment could not be called successful, and

At fiftyfour 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 outofdoor 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 drillshed; 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

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 daughternow Mrs Reardonhad 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 selfabsorption, reading newspapers (little else), and talking with old friends who had stuck to him in

Miss Harrow received her visitors in a small and soberly furnished drawingroom. She was nervous,

probably because of Jasper Milvain, whom she had met but oncelast springand who on that occasion

had struck her as an alarmingly modern young man. In the shadow of a windowcurtain 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

'I have seen you several times, Miss Yule,' he said in a friendly way, 'though without knowing your name. It

'That of the British Museum Readingroom,' 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 lapa

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.

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.'

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

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

'Did you notice that it contains a very favourable review of a novel which was tremendously abused in the

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

'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

'May be accident, of course; butwell, 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,

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

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

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

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

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

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 dressinggown. 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

'So you too are in league with the doctors,' was his bluff greeting, as he held a hand to the young man and

'Well, that certainly is one way of regarding the literary profession,' admitted Jasper, who had heard enough

'A young fellow with all the world before him, too. Hang it, Mr Milvain, is there no less pernicious work you

'I'm afraid not, Mr Yule. After all, you know, you must be held in a measure responsible for my depravity.'

'I understand that you have devoted most of your life to the making of paper. If that article were not so cheap

'I wish,' answered John, 'that you were both condemned to write on such paper as I chiefly made; it was a

He chuckled inwardly, and at the same time reached out for a box of cigarettes on a table near him. His

'You would like to see literary production come entirely to an end?' said Milvain.

'There's a distinction, of course. But, on the whole, I should say that even the business serves a good purpose.'

'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 printingpress? Just the men and women who ought to spend

their leisure hours in openair 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 prizefighting.'

'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

bookteaching againsay 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

'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

'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

'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 niecespoor

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

'That man deserves penal servitude in my opinion,' pursued John. 'I'm not sure that it isn't my duty to offer

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

'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. Bythebye, you are

'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

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

'So you can sit with us and smoke, if you like,' said Miss Harrow to Alfred. 'You are never quite at your ease,

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 posttime, 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 goodwill 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

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

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

But todaythe afternoon that followed his visit to John Yule's househe saw from a distance that his

loungingplace on the wooden bridge was occupied. Someone else had discovered the pleasure there was in

watching the sunflecked sparkle of the water as it flowed over the clean sand and stones. A girl in a

yellowstraw 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

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

'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.'

'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

'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

'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

'Don't you think that, even today, 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 allround man of letters; take Ralph Warbury, whose name you'll see in the first magazine you

'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

'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

'But, under the circumstances, wasn't it in the author's power to make friends? Was money really

'Why, yesbecause 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

'Well, I ought rather to say that the average man of letters would be able to do that. As for Reardon'

'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 yesterdaythe 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

'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

'You are tired of standing still,' said Jasper. 'May I walk back a part of the way with you?'

'Have you published anything with your signature, Miss Yule?' Jasper at length inquired.

'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

'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.'

'I wish I could see any chance of his being estimated at his right value. It's very hard to say what is before

'I knew my cousin Amy when we were children,' said Marian, presently. 'She gave promise of beauty.'

'I hardly know how to answer, Miss Yule,' said Jasper, looking frankly at her. 'Perhaps I had better say that

'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

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;

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

Marian had just caught the faroff 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

'If I were ten years younger,' said Jasper, laughing, 'I should say that was jolly! It enspirits me. It makes me

'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?'

'Bythebye, you are coming to have tea with us tomorrow,' Jasper remarked a propos of nothing. Then he

'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

'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

'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

They turned a corner of the road, and came full upon Marian's father, who was walking in this direction with

'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 leavetaking in the

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 wornout 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

It was teatime 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

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

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

'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'sthe chief

publishers of that kind of thing, you know; I must look him upwhat 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

goodygoody; that kind of thing is falling out of date. But you'd have to cultivate a particular kind of

There's an idea, bythebye. I'll write a paper on the characteristics of that new generation; it may bring me a

'What a comical question! It is my business to know something about every subjector to know where to get

'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

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

'Well, I know a little more about her than I did yesterday. I've had an hour's talk with her this afternoon.'

'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.'

'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

'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

Midway in the following morning, as Jasper sat with a book in the garden, he was surprised to see Alfred

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

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.

'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

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 certaina certain conditional promise ofof

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 Hawkridgepasses my

comprehension. Did you read a paper of his, a few months back, in The Wayside, a preposterous

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.

And as he talked the man kept describing imaginary geometrical figures with the end of his walkingstick; 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

It needs the evidence of close deduction To know that I shall ever reach the top.

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

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 selfconfidence of the replies appeared to

interest him. But he expressed no desire to number Jasper among his acquaintances in town, and of his own

'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

'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 suchandsuch a thing." But I should like to see these Yules at home; I

In the afternoon, Miss Harrow and Marian came at the expected hour. Jasper purposely kept out of the way

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,

andcertainly in the case of the girlsnothing 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 feltand with every reasonthat 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

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

'I wish you lived anywhere near us,' Dora said to their visitor, as the three girls walked in the garden

'It would be very nice,' was Marian's reply. 'I have no friends of my own age in London.'

'You seem to get along with Miss Yule pretty well, after all,' said Jasper, when the family were alone again.

'It seemed doubtful, up at Yule's house. Well, get her to come here again before I go. But it's a pity she

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

On the morning of the third dayit was Saturdayhe kept silence through breakfast, and just as all were

Half an hour later, just as Dora was ready to leave the house for her engagements in Wattleborough, her

'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

'But they expect to see us today or tomorrow. You told them you were not going till Monday, and you

'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

They parted. But Jasper did not keep to the straight way home. First of all, he loitered to watch a

reapingmachine 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,

His mother desired to speak to him. She was in the diningroom; 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

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

'He will simply refuseand 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

Mrs Milvain was not able to appreciate this characteristic remark. Anxiety weighed upon her, and she became

'I am obliged to say, Jasper, that you seem rather thoughtless. If it were only myself I would make any

'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

'I will, by Jove!' he said within himself at last. 'Just to prove I have complete command of myself. It's to be a

At the house door he inquired for Mr Alfred Yule. That gentleman had gone in the carriage to Wattleborough,

Yes, she was within. Jasper entered the sittingroom, 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

'I'm sorry your father is away, Miss Yule,' Jasper began, in an animated voice. 'I wanted to say goodbye to

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

'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

'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

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

'Father will be very sorry,' Marian began, with one quick glance towards the window and then another

Jasper stood in hesitation. There was a look on the girl's face which, under other circumstances, would have

'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 today. I shall leave by

He laughed incredulously, shook hands with her a second time, and strode out of the room, head

'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 valuablemorally, I mean. For myself, I shall do my best

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

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 advantagesas 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 faroff 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

A sittingroom, a bedroom, a kitchen. But the kitchen was called diningroom, or even parlour at need; for

the cookingrange 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 writingtable stood against the window; each wall had its

shelves of serried literature; vases, busts, engravings (all of the inexpensive kind) served for ornaments.

A maidservant, recently emancipated from the Board school, came at halfpast 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

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

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

He looked something older than his years, which were twoand 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

The colours faded from the sky, and night came quickly. Reardon threw his arms upon the desk, let his head

The man roused himself, turned his chair a little, and looked towards the open door.

His wife approached. It was not quite dark in the room, for a glimmer came from the opposite houses.

'I haven't written a word today. At this rate, one goes crazy. Come and sit by me a minute, dearest.'

At once she went away, and quickly reappeared with a readinglamp, which she placed on the square table in

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

clearcut bust; one thought, in looking at her, of the newlyfinished 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

Her age was not quite twoandtwenty; she had been wedded nearly two years, and had a child ten months

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

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.

'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

'You can't afford to hate it,' was her rejoinder, in very practical tones. 'However it was before, you must write

'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

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

'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

'I'll tell you quite honestly what I do think,' she replied, after a short silence. 'You are much weaker than I

'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

'When shall you begin in earnest? In a day or two you must pay this quarter's rent, and that will leave us just

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.'

'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

'Milvain's temperament is very different from mine. He is naturally lighthearted and hopeful; I am naturally

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

'Impossible! It would be the merest pretence of holiday. To go away and leave you hereno!'

'Your mother has no money to lend, dear, and your brother would do it so unwillingly that we can't lay

'No, it shall not come to that. I must and will get something done long before Christmas. If only you'

'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!'

'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'taltogether,' Amy replied, meditatively. 'I know very well that, if you had a lot of money,

'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

'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 thinkthere's no harm in confessing itthat 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.'

'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

'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 halfadozen

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

'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 workmanshipwhich 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 whenthough

knowing my work can't be first rateI 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

'But,' said Amy, 'why should you assume that his books are rubbish? Good work succeedsnow 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 threevolume 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

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

'You mustn't forget, Amy, that it needs a particular kind of faculty to write stories of this sort. The invention

'But the plot may be as silly as you like, providing it holds the attention of vulgar readers. Think of "The

He seated himself at the writingtable, 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.'

'We might sublet it,' he continued, in the same tone, 'for the last year of the lease.'

'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 eightandsixpence a weekless than half our rent here.'

'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

'I didn't mean to speak unkindly, dear. But think what it means, to give up our home and position. That is

'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;

'There you are! What does the subject matter? Get this book finished and sold, and then do something better

'Give me tonight, just to think. Perhaps one of the old stories I have thrown aside will come back in a clearer

'But nothing that concerns you in the slightest way is a trifle to menothing! I can't bear that you should

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,

Even in midrapture 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 selfabandonment, and it was hard to imagine that this

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 fortywhen Edwin, his only child, was ten years oldMr 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 openair exercise, of which he would have a good deal under the particular circumstances

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 poundsa lifeinsurance 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

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 threeandsixpence 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 booksvolumes 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 twentyfirst 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 strangerthe thing from which his pride had always shrunk. He wrote

to a wellknown novelista man with whose works he had some sympathy. 'I am trying to prepare myself

for a literary career. I wish to study in the Readingroom of the British Museum, but have no acquaintance to

whom I can refer in the ordinary way. Will you help meI mean, in this particular only?' That was the

substance of his letter. For reply came an invitation to a house in the Westend. 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

'Have you published anything?' he inquired, for the young man's letter had left this uncertain.

'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

'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

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 handsomelybound books, its beautiful pictures,

its warm, fragrant airgreat heavens! what might not a man do who sat at his ease amid such surroundings!

He began to work at the Readingroom, 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 novelwriting. 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 psychologythe last

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 Readingroom was his true home; its warmth enwrapped him kindly; the

peculiar odour of its atmosphereat first a cause of headachegrew 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

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

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 fatheran 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

He sold his little collection of books, and of course they brought only a trifling sum. That exhausted, he must

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

'I thought, you know, of engaging someone much youngerquite a lad, in fact. But look there! Those are the

'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.

'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

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

He held this position for three years, and during that time important things happened. When he had recovered

from his state of semistarvation, 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 twentyfive 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

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

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 highspirited 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 easygoing, selfish,

semiintellectual young man who had a place in a Government office. The time of solitude had gone by for

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

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

The money thus earned he spentat 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

He returned to London at midJune, 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 halfyear 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

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

'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 drawingroom 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

'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

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

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

'How is that possible?' he urged. 'What is there lovable in me? I am afraid of waking up and finding myself in

'I implore you not to count on that! In many ways I am wretchedly weak. I have no such confidence in

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

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 sillysweet

languishing, none of the weaknesses of woman. And so exquisitely fresh in her twenty years of maidenhood,

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

'I love you!' It breathed like music at his ears when he fell asleep in weariness of joy; it awakened him on the

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 loveletter. 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

They would go together to the charmed lands of the South. No, not now for their marriage holidayAmy

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 chequebooks!

He woke of a sudden in the early hours of one morning, a week before the weddingday. 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

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

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 dayswill one's heart burst with happiness? The flat is taken, is

'You're a confoundedly lucky fellow, Reardon,' remarked Milvain, who had already become very intimate

'I guess what you mean. No; I wasn't even in love with her, though I admired her. She would never have

'I mean it in an inoffensive sense. She and I are rather too much alike, I fancy.'

'There's a great deal of pure intellect about Miss Yule, you know. She was sure to choose a man of the

'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

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 villagebells 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 weddinghymn. Sweet, pure face under

its bridalveil! The face which shall, if fate spare it, be as dear to me many a long year hence as now at the

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 thingsof 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

Jackinthebox 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 nightmarean oppression of the brain and heart which must

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

authorsabout their wives or husbands, as the case might be, their arrangements with publishers, their

methods of work. The gossip columns of literary papersand of some that were not literaryhad 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 publishinghouses. 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 selfcontrol 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 bedroomthe 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 fourwheelerand within the

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 rattat at the

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.

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

'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

He left his hat and stick in the passage, came into the study, and glanced about as if he expected to see some

'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?'

'Yes. Your uncle Alfred and his daughter were staying at John Yule's, and I saw something of them. I was

'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 interestasked if you

'Not a bit of it! Bythebye, what would be your natural question concerning her? Do you think she gave

'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 yetno, that's hardly possible, after all. She has no

'Oh, I don't mean the smooth, boyish hair with a partingnot 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, thoughtfulnot very happy, I'm afraid. Seems to think with dread of a return to books.'

'Reading enough for six people, probably. Perhaps her health is not very robust. Oh, I knew her by sight quite

wellhad seen her at the Readingroom. She's the kind of girl that gets into one's head, you

'But that's by no means a matter of course. They didn't invite me to come and see them in London.'

'Voluntarily. We got rather sympathetic. Your uncleAlfred, I meanis a remarkable man; but I think he

'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 tonight! 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

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

'I know, confound it all! Think how it would amuse some rich grocer's son who pitches his halfsovereign to

the waiter when he has dined himself into good humour! But I tell you what it is: you must really try to

Jasper leaned forward, his clasped hands hanging between his knees. He was scrutinising her face, and Amy,

'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.'

'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 latchkey opening the outer door. Jasper lay back in his chair and waited

'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

Shortly after, all repaired to the eatingroom, 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

'It was a curious coincidencebut, bythebye, 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

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

'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 fortyfive, 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 monthlyyou've heard about

it?and he had actually thought it worth while to enlist me among contributors! Now, how's that for a piece

'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.'

'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

knowmy 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 maliciousnessthough 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

'Now that's the kind of thing that inspires me with awe and envy,' said Reardon. 'I could no more write such a

''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

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

'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

'Nor I either. Remarkable what a number of illustrious obscure are going about. But I have still something

'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 toneyou 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.'

'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

'Yes. The hour has come, I find. "There is a tide"to quote something that has the charm of freshness.'

The supperwhich consisted of bread and butter, cheese, sardines, cocoawas now over, and Jasper, still

enlarging on his recent experiences and future prospects, led the way back to the sittingroom. 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.

'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

'Not the least. I am incapable of holiday, if the opportunity were offered. Do something I must, or I shall fret

'I shall try to manufacture two volumes. They needn't run to more than about two hundred and seventy pages,

'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.

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

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.'

'That halfyear 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

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

'A pityno! I must remain a reasoning creature. Disaster may end by driving me out of my wits, but till then

'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

'I am speaking as if to myself. You, of course, don't misunderstand me, and think I am accusing my wife.'

'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 marriageday. 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

'Do you mean by all this that you seriously doubt whether you will ever be able to write again?'

'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

'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?'

'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 threevolume book, I doubt if they would give me a hundred again,

'But to sit and look forward in this way is absolutely fatal, my dear fellow. Get to work at your twovolume

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. Bythebye, how has The Study been in the

'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 had begun to think far too much about the girl. Wouldn't do, you know. I must marry someone with money,

'Not at all. And if I get allied with Fadge, no doubt Yule will involve me in his savage feeling. You see how

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

Three weeks after her return from the countrywhich took place a week later than that of Jasper

MilvainMarian Yule was working one afternoon at her usual place in the Museum Readingroom. 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 halfpast 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

titlelists 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

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 halfpast three, she closed the volume from

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,

greyorbed in a yellow setting, glared with goodhumoured 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 bronzehued trousers which had all run to knee. Necktie he had none, and

'How annoying! I wanted particularly to see him. I have been running about all day, and couldn't get here

before. Something importantmost important. At all events, I can tell you. But I entreat that you won't

Mr Quarmbythat was his namehad 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 talka 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

'Of course, of course. And you must also have heard that Fadge leaves The Study at the end of this year, eh?'

'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

Mr Quarmby laughed in a peculiar way, which was the result of long years of mirthsubdual in the

'But not a breath to anyone but your father. He'll be here to morrow? Break it gently to him, you know; he's

His suppressed laugh ended in a fit of coughingthe Readingroom 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 referenceshelves, returned others to the central desk, and was just

It was a tall, meagre, dryfeatured man, dressed with the painful neatness of selfrespecting poverty: the

edges of his coat sleeves were carefully darned; his black necktie and a skullcap 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?'

'Ah, then would you do me the kindness to take a book for him? In fact, it's my little "Essay on the Historical

He spoke with nervous hesitation, and in a tone which seemed to make apology for his existence.

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.'

Marian went to the ladies' cloakroom, put on her hat and jacket, and left the Museum. Some one passed out

through the swingdoor 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 Readingroom.

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

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

fellowpassengers. At a point in Camden Road she at length alighted, and after ten minutes' walk reached her

destination in a quiet byway 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 latchkey, and went

Descending again in a few moments, she entered the front room on the groundfloor. This served both as

parlour and diningroom; 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.

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 workgirl 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

'Hungry, too,' she said, seeing the crust Marian was nibbling. 'You really must have more lunch, dear. It isn't

Mrs Yule sighed and looked very unhappy. By 'going to Holloway' was always meant a visit to her own

relativesa 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

'Worse, as far as I can see. John has begun his drinking again, and him and Tom quarrel every night; there's

If ever Mrs Yule lapsed into gross errors of pronunciation or phrase, it was when she spoke of her kinsfolk.

'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 stuckup

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

halfacrown; 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.'

'Mr Quarmby has been telling me something which is wonderfully good news if it's really true; but I can't

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

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 housedoor caused her mother to disappear for a moment.

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

And so on. Marian read with a pleased smile, then acquainted her mother with the contents.

Marian seemed desirous of saying something more, and her mother had a thoughtful look, suggestive of

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

'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.'

Impossible to pursue the dialogue; Marian moved uneasily, then rose, said something about putting the letter

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

diningroom and stood on the hearthrug reading an evening paper. His wife made a pretence of straightening

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.

'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.'

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

To his wife Yule seldom addressed anything but a curt inquiry or caustic comment; if he spoke humanly at

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

Yule stopped in the act of mastication. He fixed his eyes intently on the sirloin for half a minute; then, by

But there was a tremulousness in his bushy eyebrows; his forehead half unwreathed itself; he continued to eat

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

Marian reached it from a side table; under this roof, literature was regarded almost as a necessary part of table

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

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

footnote; it embodied an effusive eulogyintroduced a propos of some literary discussionof 'Mr Alfred

Yule's critical acumen, scholarly research, lucid style,' and sundry other distinguished merits.

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 goodwill thwarted by the mind's defect.

'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

Obstruentreliableparticularizationfabulositydifferent toaverse todid one ever come across

such a mixture of antique pedantry and modern vulgarism! Surely he has his name from the German

With a laugh he tossed the book away again. His mood was wholly changed. He gave various evidences of

'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 today. Dinner over, he rose without ceremony and

The man had suffered much and toiled stupendously. It was not inexplicable that dyspepsia, and many

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 subeditor of All Sorts, then actual director

of the paper. He said goodbye 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 1860that is, from his twentyfifth

to his thirtieth yearwould 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

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

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 dayschool, 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

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

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 lawstationer) 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

The chapter of quarrels was one of no small importance in Alfred's life; his difficult temper, and an

everincreasing sense of neglected merit, frequently put him at war with publishers, editors, fellowauthors,

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 arosechaff, fury, grave comments, sneering spitecould 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

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

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 readersserious 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

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 warhorse he snuffed the battle afar off.

No work this evening, though there were tasks which pressed for completion. His studythe only room on

the ground level except the diningroomwas 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

halfpast 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 tablebooks had to be pushed asideshe did not seem disposed to

She was using the opportunity of his good humour. Yule spoke to her with the usual carelessness, but not

'No, no! It's about Marian. She had a letter from one of those young ladies this afternoon.'

'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

'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 '

'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

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 leavetaking 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, andshe 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

If indeed he became editor of The Study, why, in that case her assistance would be less needful. And indeed it

'But, in any case,' he said aloud, partly continuing his thoughts, partly replying to a look of disappointment on

'And you may have made a mistake about her. What made you think shehad 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

'I don't say it for certain.' He took a sip of his coffee. 'I have had no opportunity of observing him with much

'Yes. I don't see that anything could be done now. We shall see whether he gets on. I advise you not to

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.'

'I suppose there's one subject on which all women can be subtle,' muttered Yule, smiling. The remark was not

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

'No use talking about it. Things are as they are. I can't see that her life is unhappy.'

'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

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

At midnight the study door opened. Yule came to the diningroom to see that all was right, and it surprised

'Forgotten, forgotten. Don't go back to that kind of language again. Come, put the light out.'

Of the acquaintances Yule had retained from his earlier years several were in the welldefined 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

longacquainted 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

tragicomical 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

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

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

circlethe 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 Readingroom 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

The event justified him. At the end of October appeared an authoritative announcement that Fadge's

successor would benot Alfred Yule, but a gentleman who till of late had been quietly working as a

subeditor 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

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

No, not to such men as hepoor, 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 grazingplot 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.

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

'Goodnight,' 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

'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 failuresand you must often do so now you are grown up and

understand thingsdon'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 opportunitywhen I edited The Balancewasn'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 'Goodnight' 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

That beginning of halfconfidence 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

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

Readingroom, scanning furtively those who sat at the desks, but the face she might perchance have

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 writewas not that the joy and the privilege of one who had an

Her father, she knew well, had no such message; he had abandoned all thought of original production, and

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

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 today'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

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 today; 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

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?'

'That'll do both for weather and light, but not for yourself. How glad I am to see you! Are you just going?'

'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.

'Then do let me go a part of the way with you. I live in Mornington Roadup 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

'I'm sorry to hear that. You are not exactly up to the mark, either. What weather! What a place to live in, this

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

'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

'Where are your outofdoor things? I think there's a ladies' vestry somewhere, isn't there?'

'Then will you go and get ready? I'll wait for you in the hall. But, bythebye, I am taking it for granted that

Milvain had only to wait a minute or two. He surveyed Marian from head to foot when she appearedan

impertinence as unintentional as that occasionally noticeable in his speechand smiled approval. They went

out into the fog, which was not one of London's densest, but made walking disagreeable enough.

'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

'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.'

'Do you knowbut how should you? I am going to write for the new magazine, The Current.'

'No, no. Fadge is an offensive fellow, when he likes; and I fancy he very often does like. Well, I must make

'True. I shouldn't like to think that you regard me as a Fadge like individual, a natural Fadgeite.'

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

'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 fieldsyou remember?with the September sun warm about us.

'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

'I wanted to talk about all sorts of things. But perhaps I shall find you again some day.'

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

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

'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 anythingyou understandyou can just

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

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

This letter was received at breakfasttime. 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

He averted his face again and seemed disposed to say no more. But in a few moments he inquired:

Nothing more was said. Afterwards Mrs Yule made a few sympathetic inquiries, but Marian was very brief in

Ten days after that, on a Sunday afternoon when Marian and her mother were alone in the sittingroom, 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,

'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

Marian, scarcely less agitated than her mother, was just leaving the room, when she turned back again.

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 lifelong 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.

'Thank you. I know the girls have told you all about it. We knew for the last month that it must come before

'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

'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.

'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

'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.'

'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

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

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

'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

'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

'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 enoughit is desperately

serious, no doubt of that. I told them fairly all the hardships they would have to facedescribed the typical

London lodgings, and so on. Still, there's an adventurous vein in them, and they decided for the risk. If it

'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. Tomorrow 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 andput it in

my own way. I think you'll understand this feeling, Miss Yule. I wanted, in fact, to hear from yourself that

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

'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

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.'

'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

'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.'

'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 '

'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 deeprooted 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,

'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.'

'You know,' said the other suddenly, 'that it's my fault the girls are left in such a hard position?'

'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.'

'Selfishnessthat'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

'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

'I oughtn't to; a few minutes ago I had no intention of saying such things. It means I am rather overstrung, I

'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.'

'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 viewall. I shan't allow anything to come in the way of my material

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

'Thank you. But that sounds too much like goodbye. I trust we are to be friends, for all that?'

They shook hands, and he went towards the door. But before opening it, he asked:

'Cleveryes, 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 heavyhearted 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

After all, there came a day when Edwin Reardon found himself regularly at work once more, ticking off his

stipulated quantum of manuscript each fourandtwenty hours. He wrote a very small hand; sixty written

slips of the kind of paper he habitually used would representthanks to the astonishing system which

prevails in such matters: large type, wide spacing, frequency of blank pagesa passable

threehundredpage volume. On an average he could write four such slips a day; so here we have fifteen

Fortyfive days; an eternity in the looking forward. Yet the calculation gave him a fainthearted

encouragement. At that rate he might have his book sold by Christmas. It would certainly not bring him a

hundred pounds; seventyfive 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,

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 appropriatea 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

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

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

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

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 headracking when the book was finished; he had

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 novelwriting, 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

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 borderland 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

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

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 halfpast three he

again seated himself; and wrote until halfpast six, when he had a meal. Then once more to work from

halfpast 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

Sometimes the three hours' labour of a morning resulted in halfadozen 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

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

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.

She closed the door. Reardon brought a highbacked 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

'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 palmtree 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

'Listen,' said Reardon, looking up at her with a bright smile. 'Do you remember the first time that I read you

'I remember it well enough. We were alone in the drawingroom; 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

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

With curious frequency she mentioned the name of Milvain. Her unconsciousness in doing so prevented

'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 readilyoffered 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

'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

'Well, but granted that I am not of a very sanguine nature, and that I easily fall into gloomy ways of talk, what

'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 lightspirited 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

'A few weeks ago I didn't expect you to be cheerful. Things began to look about as bad as they could. But

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 halfreproach 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

'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,

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

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

There it was. She grudged no trouble on behalf of the child. That was love; whereas But then maternal

'As soon as you get two or three hundred pounds for a book,' she added, laughing, 'there'll be no need for me

'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?'

'Which will bring him five or six hundred pounds before the book ceases to be talked of.'

'But look, Amy. If I try to be cheerful in spite of natural dumps, wouldn't it be fair for you to put aside

'Yes. Read some Homer, dear. Let us have Odysseus down in Hades, and Ajax stalking past him. Oh, I like

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

'Confoundedly bad. I shall be ashamed to see it in print; the proofs will be a martyrdom.'

'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

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

'But, darling,' he took her hands strongly in his own, 'I want you to disregard other people. You and I are

'Edwin, if you find you are unable to do good work, you mustn't do bad. We must think of some other way of

'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.'

'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

'I have been forgetting that tomorrow 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.'

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 illluck would have it, in a day or two he caught his first winter's cold. For several years a

succession of influenzas, sorethroats, 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 deskand 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

'If this goes on,' she said to him in the morning, 'you'll have brain fever. You must rest for two or three days.'

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

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

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

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.'

'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

'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

Amy knew what a wrench this would be. The imminence of distress seemed to have softened her.

'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

'You shall have that.' He still spoke very quietly. 'If the books won't bring enough, there's my watchoh, lots

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 onlyor principallyas 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

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 novelwriting 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

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 mindalleging 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

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 goodnatured, 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

On the afternoon when Reardon had visited a secondhand bookseller with a view of raising moneyhe was

again shut up in his study, dolorously at workAmy was disturbed by the sound of a visitor's rattat; the

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 diningroom (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 welldressed 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,

'Why can't she leave me alone?' was the thought that rose in her mind as Edith entered. 'I shall let her see that

'Your husband at work?' Edith asked, with a glance in the direction of the study, as soon as they had

'And you are sitting alone, as usual. I feared you might be out; an afternoon of sunshine isn't to be neglected

'Why, look! Do you mean to say you haven't noticed it? What a comical person you are sometimes! I suppose

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

'Well, if this isn't marvellous!' cried Edith. 'I should as soon have expected the heavens to fall!'

'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

He just inquired of Mrs Carter how her husband was, and withdrew. The door of the flat was heard to close

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 I'm sure I don't know how you can resist the temptation. I feel sure you could write books almost as

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?'

'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

'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 altogetherat all events for the present. I shall see no one except my relatives.'

'Indeed, I have no wish to lose your friendship. Yet I am ashamed to ask you to come here when I can never

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

'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 enoughyou 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.'

'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

'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.

'I shall look so anxiously for it. Whenever I meet new people I always turn the conversation to novels, just for

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

'Well, my dear, you don't expect ordinary novelreaders 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.'

'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

'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

'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.'

'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 threequarters of every day with lively people.'

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

'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

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,

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

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 secondhand. The tradesman examined

'I prefer that you should make an offer,' Reardon replied, with the helplessness of one who lives remote from

Perhaps the offer was a fair one; perhaps it was not. Reardon had neither time nor spirit to test the

A messenger was sent for the books that afternoon. He stowed them skilfully in two bags, and carried them

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 studentbattered bindings,

stained pages, supplanted editions. He loved his books, but there was something he loved more, and when

'I'm only sorry they have gone for so little. Tell me when the money is nearly at an end again, and you shall

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

He pointed in a direction that suggested Marylebone Workhouse. Amy tried to laugh, but a woman with a

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 halfadozen 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

threeandsixpence at an oldclothes 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 coatcollar; 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 tobaccostopper, and a

box of matches, all of which he arranged carefully on a corner of the central table. Then he drew forward a

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

'I'm sorry to hear that; very sorry. Well, this must do. Now, I want to know how you scan this chorus in the

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,

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

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,

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 positionclerks

chieflyconceive 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 halfacrown an hourrarely 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

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

daytoday 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, lovemaking; I passed them slowly and heard a good

deal of their talkit was part of the situation that they should pay no heed to a stranger's proximity. Now,

such a lovescene as that has absolutely never been written down; it was entirely decent, yet vulgar to the nth

power. Dickens would have made it ludicrousa gross injustice. Other men who deal with lowclass life

would perhaps have preferred idealising itan 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.'

'Certainly you couldn't. Youwell, you are a psychological realist in the sphere of culture. You are impatient

'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

'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

'There you are!' cried Biffen, with friendly annoyance. 'You take the conventional view. If you wrote of these

'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,

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

'In the meantime,' said Reardon, laying down his pipe, 'suppose we eat a morsel of something. I'm rather

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, bythebye, 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.'

'It is worked out. We must have a rest from it. You, nowthe 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,

About eight o'clock Reardon heard his wife's knock at the door. On opening he saw not only Amy and the

'I have been at Mrs Yule's,' Jasper explained as he came in. 'Have you anyone here?'

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

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

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 thirtyfive 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

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

'Whelpdale came to see me last night,' remarked Milvain, presently. 'His novel is refused on all hands. He

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

'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.'

'Yes, but it has no market value. You may write what you like, so long as people are willing to read you.

'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

'Partly, I should think, because it's the warmer of the two; partly, perhaps, because the other would fetch

'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

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, sorethroat, 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,

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

'Amy, you will have to correct the proofs for me. Never as long as I live will I look upon a page of this

'The point is,' replied Amy, 'that here we have it complete. Pack it up and take it to the publishers' tomorrow

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. Today 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 groundfloor 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

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 hopethat was Carter.

Half an hour later he entered that same hospital door through which, some years ago, he had passed as a

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

'Well, no, not particularly. A few cheques to sign, and we're just getting out our Christmas appeals. You

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.

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?'

'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.

Reardon was talking like an automaton. It seemed to him that he turned screws and pressed levers for the

'I may as well say at once what I have come for. Could you lend me ten pounds for a monthin fact, until I

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! Iconfound 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 trouserspockets. 'We pay such

a darned rent, you knowhundred and twentyfive. We've only just been saying we should have to draw it

'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

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 dinnerhour. Amy was surprised at his long absence.

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

'Oh, you SHOULDN'T have done that!' she exclaimed. 'Why didn't you come home and tell me? I would

'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.'

'Well,' she said at length, 'there's no helping it now. Come and have your dinner.'

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

At six o'clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he would come to tea.

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

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.

'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

'Is poverty going to have the usual result in our case?' he asked, drawing nearer.

She gave no answer. As usual in conversation with an aggrieved woman it was necessary to go back from the

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

'I'm very sorry. I would rather have done anything if I had known how it would annoy you.'

She detailed all manner of expenses that had to be metoutlay there was no possibility of avoiding so long

'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 seventyfive pounds for the copyright of 'Margaret

Home,' twentyfive more to be paid if the sale in threevolume form should reach a certain number of

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.

Well, it was seventyfive 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.

'And five to Carter; and rent, twelve pounds ten. We shall have a matter of fifty pounds to go on with.'

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, andwhatever

might have been the case beforethere 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 topicwould not bear spoken comment; both were too conscious of the

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

subjectnot 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

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

'That a month or two more will see us at the same crisis again. Still, I had rather you had shown an interest in

'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

'No, no; you are quite right. Certainly, I am one of the men who need all the help they can get. But I assure

'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

'No, I don't think it does.' The caustic note was not very pleasant on Amy's lips. 'Whoever he was, the mass of

'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

'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 myselffor 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

'I feel the same about your irritation. I can't see that I have given any cause for it.'

Reardon threw his manuscript aside and opened a book. Amy never asked him to resume his intention of

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 fiveandtwenty 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

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

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

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, remarkedthis 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

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

bountyperhaps 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

Having written his second magazinearticle (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

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

'I suppose not appreciably. He told me once his mother had a sufficient income; but whatever she leaves will

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

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

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

'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

'I strongly advise you to let it take its chance. The book isn't worth special notice, and whoever undertook to

'Now what is to be done with a man like this? What is one to say to him, Mrs Reardon?'

'That has nothing to do with the matter. We know quite well that in anything he writes there'll be something

for a welldisposed reviewer to make a good deal of. If Fadge will let me, I should do the thing myself.'

'Of course,' went on Milvain, looking at the former, 'if you had rather I left it alone'

'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 alreadyyour cousin, Miss Yule. She has already been to see them.'

Amy took an opportunity of studying his face. There was again a silence as if of constraint. Reardon,

'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?'

'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.'

'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

'Then why not offer it to Jedwood? He's publishing a series of onevolume 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

'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

'Edits The English Girl, you know. She's had an extraordinary life. Was born in Mauritiusno, CeylonI

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 soupkitchens 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 twentyfive.'

'Let me take you to one of her eveningsnine on Thursday. Do persuade him, Mrs Reardon?'

'I can't see why. You would meet all sorts of wellknown 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

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

'Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood: I happen to know a man who reads for him.'

'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.'

'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

'Oh, I don't know. He's capable of correcting the grammar of "literary aspirants," and as for recommending to

'I must be off, my friends. I have something to write before I can go to my trucklebed, and it'll take me three

Goodbye, 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

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

'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.'

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 themethat 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 thinlydisguised correspondent who assailed both book and

reviewer. For the moment people talked more of Alfred Yule than they had done since his memorable

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 bookselling, 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

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 pinpoints, 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.

'He inspired the thing, of course; but I rather think it was written by that fellow Milvain.'

'Well, I know with certainty that the notice of Markland's novel is his writing, and I have reasons for

'Somebody's illegitimate son, I believe,' replied the source of trustworthy information, with a laugh. 'Denham

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

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

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

'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

'It's too disagreeable, all the same. I can't invite them here with pleasure. Father has grown prejudiced against

'It's very hard for you,' sighed her mother. 'If I thought I could do any good by speakingbut I can't, my

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 today; her work had been set, in the shape of a long task of copying

from disorderly manuscript. She left the sittingroom 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,

'That kind of writing sickens me,' she exclaimed, with anger in her eyes. 'Only base and heartless people can

'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

She could not miss his meaning; astonishment held her mute for a moment, then she said:

'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.'

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

'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.'

'Don't I know the type of man? Noscitur ex sociishave 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

hersuch, indeed, as she had seldom, if ever, conceivedthreatened 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

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 passionsuch things were enough to

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

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:

'What is it, dear?' she asked of Marian, in a pleading whisper. 'Oh, don't quarrel with your father! Don't!'

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,

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 selfcontrol and

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;

'Father, I said something that I did not really mean. Of course I shall go on with the copying and finish it as

'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.'

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

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 homeand 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

A word of harsh rebuff was the most she had expected. Thus encouraged, she timidly put another question.

The breakfast next morning seemed likely to pass without any interchange of words. But when Yule was

pushing back his chair, Marianwho looked pale and illaddressed a question to him about the work she

would ordinarily have pursued today at the Readingroom. He answered in a matteroffact 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

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

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

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 northeast

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

The girls looked oddly out of place in this secondfloor 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 sleepingchamber being

doublebedded; 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

'So are you,' replied Dora, laughing. 'It's only under protest that we work in the evening when we have been

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

'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

'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.'

'Still,' replied Marian, 'I'm afraid they couldn't have given the book much praise, if they wrote honestly. Did

'Yes, but she said it was uncertain how long they would be living at their present address. And really. we can't

Marian listened with bent head. She too had to make known to her friends that they were not welcome in her

'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

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.

'Something I can hardly bear to speak of. Perhaps it will be the end of your friendship for me, and I should

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.

'There's a notice of father's book,' continued the other, 'a very illnatured 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

'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

'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

'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

'Don't let it trouble you,' urged Maud, with perhaps a trifle more of magnanimity in her voice than was

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

'But his connection with Mr Fadge came about in such a natural way,' added the eldest sister. 'And it was

'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 reasonsbut I can't speak of them.'

'My dear Marian,' appealed Dora, 'don't distress yourself so! Do believe that nothing whatever has happened

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

'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 easychairs for

your room. I've seen some outside a secondhand furniture shop in Hampstead Road, about six shillings

That on which he tried to dispose himself, when he had flung aside his trappings, creaked and shivered

'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 writtenthreequarters of a column of the Evening Budget.'

'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 eatinghouse 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 tomorrow. From five to halfpast I read four newspapers

and two magazines, and from halfpast 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 eatinghouse, 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?'

'Honest journeywork!' 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

Marian had not yet spoken, save a word or two in reply to Jasper's greeting; now and then she just glanced at

'A year ago, Miss Yule, I shouldn't have believed myself capable of such activity. In fact I wasn't capable of it

'Oh, this isn't a specimen day, you know. Tomorrow 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 littleor perhaps rather quicker than thatI shall

extend my scope. For instance, I should like to do two or three leaders a week for one of the big dailies. I

'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

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

'No; I shall read a page of something or other over a glass of whisky, and seek the sleep of a man who has

'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

'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?'

'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 drawingroom, with a little experience?'

'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

'You think I talk of nothing but money?' Jasper said suddenly, looking down into her face.

'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

'Or will you give me the pleasure of walking on with you? You are tired, perhaps?'

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

'I'm afraid I know what you refer to. There's no reason why I shouldn't answer a question of the kind.'

'It wasconfound 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?'

'I?' Jasper stopped short. They were in the rays of a street lamp, and could see each other's faces. 'And he

'Wouldn't it be better if you found a way of letting Mr Jedwood know the truth?'

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

'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

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

'No, no. And I quite understand that the mere fact of my working for Fadge would prejudice him against me.

'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

'Ah, you are nearly home. Why, it seems only a few minutes since we left the girls. Now I'll run back to the

A speech of this kind seemed unusual upon her lips. Jasper smiled as he held her hand and regarded her.

'Dull, by no means. But sage and sober and reticentand 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 latchkey. When she had closed the door very quietly behind

her she went to the sittingroom; Mrs Yule was just laying aside the sewing on which she had occupied

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 twentythird 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

But with what rapturous tumult of the heart she could abandon herself to a belief in human virtues when their

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 selfconfidence; handsome too, it seemed to her. Her womanhood went

Since then she had made careful study of his faults. Each conversation had revealed to her new weakness and

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

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

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

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. Tonight 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

The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the valley of the shadow of books, for a ray of

The past twelve months had added several years to Edwin Reardon's seeming age; at thirtythree 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 onwardlooking; 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 selfdistrustful. Ceaseless perplexity and dread gave a wandering,

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 moneypositively begging, like

some poor wretch in the street; it was horrible, and made her shed tears; when he asked what he had been

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 halfconsciousness that death was slowly

overcoming him. Of all the sufferings collected into each fourandtwenty hours this of rising to a new day

The onevolume 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

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 povertystricken, 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

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

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

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 illtemper 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.

'Surely it makes no difference to you how I behave? You can easily forget that I exist, and live your own life.'

'If I always did so, in spite of things that might have embittered another man's temper, I think it deserved

'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

'It is not true. Of course I have talked to mother about our difficulties; how could I help it?'

'In a way that makes me seem contemptible to them. You show them that I have made you poor and unhappy,

'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 mighta wife who was something more than a man's

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 emotionthe

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 selfdefence she might show what really was in her heart.

'How can you say that I have deserted you?' she returned, with cold indignation. 'When did I refuse to share

'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,

'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

'And you would leave me without regret? Your only care would be that you were still bound to me?'

'You won't admit, then, that I have anything to complain of? I seem to you simply in a bad temper without a

'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?

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.

It grew late in the night. The fire had gone out, but Reardon still sat in the cold room. Thoughts of

selfdestruction 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 dressinggown, and her hair was arranged for the night.

'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

'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!'

'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 booka 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.'

'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

'Then how can we live even till the end of the year? Something must be done, you know. If we get into poor

'Oh, it would be different! A few daysa 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 togetheryou 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

He all but lost consciousness of her words in gazing at the face she held up to his.

'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

'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

'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

'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 twentyfive pounds saved for the rest of the year. You could live on so little by

'But not to starve yourself, you know. Don't you feel that my plan is a good one? When I came to you

'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.'

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

'But how could it? It's just to prevent that danger. If we go on here till we have no moneywhat'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

'I hate poverty so. It brings out all the worst things in me; you know I have told you that before, Edwin?'

'I hope not. ButI 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

'I'm afraid there have been such poor fellows. Think how often one hears of hopeful beginnings, new

reputations, and thenyou hear no more. Of course it generally means that the man has gone into a different

'Darling, they do struggle. But it's as if an everincreasing 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 illfortune; 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

'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'

'Well, I can leave you free. If I can't support you, it will be only just that I should give you back your

Amy had hidden her face, and lay silently in his arms for a minute or two. Then she murmured:

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.'

'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!'

'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 godswhich indeed they

Amy's brow was shadowed. A wise man, in Reardon's position, would not have chosen this subject to dilate

'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

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

'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 meI 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

She laughed at her own childishness. But Reardon had opened one of the volumes, and was glancing over the

'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

'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 twoto light the fire with. We have been rather

He took one set and added it to the row of his productions which stood on a topmost shelf Amy laid her hand

'The work, at all eventsrather 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.'

'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

'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 headnever. 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

'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.'

'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

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

'But I HAVE read it, my dear fellow. Got it from the library on the day of publication; I had a suspicion that

'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

Milvain began to expatiate on that wellworn topic, the evils of the threevolume system.

'A tripleheaded monster, sucking the blood of English novelists. One might design an allegorical cartoon for

a comic literary paper. Bythebye, 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.

'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 threevolume novelI 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 onevolume 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 threefourths of the

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

'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 reasonthe growth of

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

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 quarterday (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

Reardon mused and looked gloomy. He could not bring himself to regard the experiment before him with

'Yes, I am,' she exclaimed; 'but simply for your own good, as you know very well.'

'You will have a few pounds. Send your "Pliny" article to The Wayside. If you come to an end of all your

'Oh, but you will sell the book. You'll get twenty pounds for it, and that alone would keep you for three

months. Thinkthree 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.

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 reestablish 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

'I had to get it over,' she said, when Reardon exhibited surprise, 'and I don't think I made a very favourable

'But why not? It can't be kept a secret. Milvain will have heard of it already, I should think, from your

'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.

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,

His position was illogicalone 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 illhap 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 truethat 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 wouldbe 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

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 lodginghouse, 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

'No need to go away,' replied Biffen, coming forward to shake hands. 'Take a book for a few minutes. Mr

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 canebottomed chairs, a small washhandstand

with sundry rude appurtenances, and a chairbedstead 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

The individual referred to as Mr Baker, who sat at the table in the attitude of a student, was a robust,

hardfeatured, blackhaired young man of twoor threeandtwenty; judging from his weatherbeaten

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

'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 badit 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 upthere'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.'

'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.

'Two hundred marks for compersition,' continued the man. 'Now how many would they have given me for

'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

Again his fist descended upon the table in a way that reminded one of the steamhammer 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

He and the teacher went out, the door closed, and Reardon heard sounds of muffled conversation. In a minute

'Now that's a good, honest fellow,' he said, in an amused tone. 'It's my paynight, 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

'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

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.'

'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. Bythebye, I've decided to write a book called "Mr Bailey, Grocer."'

'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 fortyfive pounds out of a cat'smeat business.

You should see that woman! A big, coarse, squinting creature; at the time of the marriage she was a widow

and fortytwo years old. Now I'm going to tell the true story of Mr Bailey's marriage and of his progress as a

'There'll be nothing bestial in it, you know. The decently ignobleas 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.

'I envy you, old fellow,' said Reardon, sighing. 'You have the right fire in you; you have zeal and energy.

Reardon gave an account of his project. The other listened gravely, seated across a chair with his arms on the

'Oh yes.' He could not bring himself to say that Amy had suggested it. 'She has great hopes that the change

'I should say so tooif you were going to rest. But if you have to set to work at once it seems to me very

'Never mind. For Heaven's sake don't discourage me! If this fails I thinkupon my soul, I think I shall kill

'No, no; there'll be some way out of it. Bythebye, 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

That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon's attention, yet he did not purposely make a

'I only saw them just as they were passing,' pursued Biffen. 'Oh, I knew I had something to tell you! Have

'I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to look him up tonight, and he'd let me know

'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

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'sthat isn't his real name, of course.

He assures me it comes from a large hotel where his wife's sister is a kitchenmaid, 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

'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.'

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 secondhand three years ago, hung on a doornail. Comparative ease of

circumstances had restored to the realist his ordinary indoor garmenta 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

tobaccostopper, and his matches, murmuring to himself a Greek iambic line which had come into his head a

'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

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

Mr Whelpdale sat by the fire, smoking a cigar. He was a plain featured but graceful and refinedlooking

man of thirty, with wavy chestnut hair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At present he wore a

'Welcome, gents both!' he cried facetiously. 'Ages since I saw you, Reardon. I've been reading your new

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

'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,

'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

'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 badby 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 oneandtwentyjust the

kind of girl that most strongly appeals to me; dark, pale, rather consumptivelooking, slenderno, there's no

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

'Oh, nothing, nothing! It'll be all right. Well, now, of course we talked over the storyin good earnest, you

know. Little by little I induced her to speak of herselfthis, after she'd come two or three timesand 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 softhearted 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 novelwriting, andso 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

'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

But that was a great point gained. After that we saw each other almost every day, and at lastshe consented!

Did indeed! I can hardly believe it yet. We shall be married in a fortnight's time.'

'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 morningmust tomorrow, 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: "Novelwriting 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 colourthat 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

'That'll depend. I shan't refuse a guinea or two; but some people may be made to pay five, perhaps.'

'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

'Now if this isn't too bad!' he exclaimed in a thick voice. 'If this isn't monstrously unkind! I never heard

'She writesthat she has met an old loverin Birminghamthat it was with him she had quarrellednot

with her father at all that she ran away to annoy him and frighten himthat she has made it up again, and

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

'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 penitenceshe 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

'But I want you to see what kind of girl she is. It isn't a case of farcical deceivingnot 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

'What think you of this story?' asked Biffen. 'Is this possible in a woman of any merit?'

They walked in silence as far as Portland Road Station. There, with an assurance that he would come to a

garretsupper before leaving London, Reardon parted from his friend and turned westward.

'It came just after you went out, and it has been all I could do to resist the temptation to open it.'

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

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 onevolume novels made appeal. He hoped it would be

understood that, in declining, he by no means expressed an adverse judgment on the story itself

'It doesn't surprise me,' said Reardon. 'I believe he is quite right. The thing is too empty to please the better

They sat opposite each other, and kept silence. Jedwood's letter slipped from Amy's lap to the ground.

'You'll get seven or eight pounds from The Wayside. Andhadn't we better sell the furniture, instead of'

'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

'If we sell the furniture,' pursued Reardon, 'that means you'll never come back to me. You wish to save

'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

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

'Where did you go this morning?' he asked, as if wishing to talk of common things.

Amy closed her eyes, as if in weariness, and for a minute or two Reardon observed her countenance.

He again rose, and that night they talked no more of their difficulties, though on the morrow (Sunday) it

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

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

'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

'There'll be the expense of moving it, you know. Unless money comes from The Wayside, you'll only have

'I shall say, then,' pursued Amy, who spoke with averted face, 'that I am to go there for good on Tuesday? I

'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

'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 motherwhen she has the expense of

'You are right,' muttered Reardon. 'Do as you think best.' Amy was in her most practical mood, and would not

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 lifehis Homer, his

The rest must be sold. He would get rid of them tomorrow morning. All together they might bring him a

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.

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 deathwell, 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

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 enougha situation that would be misread only by

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

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

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

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

'Going away for your health, they tell me. You've been working too hard, you know. You mustn't overdo it.

'It isn't at all certain that I shall go,' Reardon replied. 'I thought of a few weekssomewhere 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 fishingthat kind of thing. You'd come back a new man. Edith and I had a turn up there

'But that's just what you wanta regular change, something bracing. You don't look at all well, that's the

fact. A winter in London tries any manit 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

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

'Have you heard,' said Carter, presently, 'that we're opening a branch of the hospital in the City Road?'

'It'll only be for outpatients. 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 detailof the doctors who would attend, and of certain new arrangements to be

'You're rather above my figure nowadays, old man!' exclaimed Carter, joining in what he considered the jest.

'Twentyfive shillings. It'll have to be a man who can be trusted to take money from the paying patients.'

'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 thatwell, 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

It was done, most happily done, on the first impulse. A minute more of pause, and he could not have faced

'I'm floored!' cried Carter. 'I shouldn't have thoughtbut of course, if you really want it. I can hardly believe

'Oh, let that stand over. It'll be holiday enough to occupy myself in a new way. An old way, too; I shall enjoy

He laughed merrily, relieved beyond measure at having come to what seemed an end of his difficulties. For

'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

'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

'Yes. Carter has been here, and he happened to mention that they're opening an outpatient 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

'In plain English, the clerkship. It'll be the same work as I used to haveregistering patients, receiving their

'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 itif I have your sympathy to help me.

Tomorrow 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

Amy was stroking the back of her hand. After a long silence, she said in a very quiet, but very resolute tone:

'In that case, Amy, I must do without your consent. The rooms will be taken, and our furniture transferred to

'To me that will make no difference,' returned his wife, in the same voice as before. 'I have decidedas you

told me toto 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'

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 selfassertion 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

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

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

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 forcethere, 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

This could not be the end, however, and she had no wish to terminate the scene. They stood for a minute

'You would be more ashamed to share your husband's misfortunes than to declare to everyone that you had

'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

'Yes, of course, that's how you will put it,' said Amy. 'That's how you will represent me to your friends. My

'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

He came nearer, and gazed desperately into her face. Not a muscle of it showed susceptibility to the old

'Do you know, Amy,' he added in a lower voice, 'that if we part now, we part for ever?'

'You mean that you wish it. You are weary of me, and care for nothing but how to make yourself free.'

'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

allputting 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 truthafraid. 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

'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

selfdeception. 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 cowardlythough 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

'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 mealways 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.'

'Instead of saying all this, you might be proving that I am wrong. Do so, and I will gladly confess it.'

'You might prove that you are willing to do your utmost to save me from humiliation.'

'No. You have toiled on in illness and anxietyI 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 can! I can!' Her voice trembled for the first time. 'I know that you are so ready to give in to difficulties.

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 mistakein a fit of low spirits; anything you like to say. Tell him you of course

couldn't dream of becoming his clerk. Tonight; 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

'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

But Mr Carter must be told at once, before he can spread a report. If he has spoken, he must contradict what

'But you amaze me, Amy. Do you mean to say that you look upon it as a veritable disgrace, my taking this

'I do. I can't help my nature. I am ashamed through and through that you should sink to this.'

'Very few people know it. And then that isn't the same thing. It doesn't matter what one has been in the past.

Especially a literary man; everyone expects to hear that he was once poor. But to fall from the position you

now have, and to take weekly wages you surely can't know how people of my world regard that.'

'Of your world? I had thought your world was the same as mine, and knew nothing whatever of these

'It is getting late. Go and see Mr Carter, and afterwards I will talk as much as you like.'

He might perhaps have yielded, but the unemphasised contempt in that last sentence was more than he could

bear. It demonstrated to him more completely than set terms could have done what a paltry weakling he

would appear in Amy's eyes if he took his hat down from the peg and set out to obey her orders.

'You are asking too much,' he said, with unexpected coldness. 'If my opinions are so valueless to you that you

dismiss them like those of a troublesome child, I wonder you think it worth while to try and keep up

appearances about me. It is very simple: make known to everyone that you are in no way connected with the

disgrace I have brought upon myself. Put an advertisement in the newspapers to that effect, if you likeas

men do about their wives' debts. I have chosen my part. I can't stultify myself to please you.'

When Reardon went into the bedchamber an hour later, he unfolded a chairbedstead that stood there, threw

some rugs upon it, and so lay down to pass the night. He did not close his eyes. Amy slept for an hour or two

before dawn, and on waking she started up and looked anxiously about the room. But neither spoke.

There was a pretence of ordinary breakfast; the little servant necessitated that. When she saw her husband

'Then no doubt I shall be gone when you come back. There's no object, now, in my staying here till

He flung the coin on to the table and opened the door. Amy stepped quickly forward and closed it again.

She did not prevent his opening the door this time, and he passed out without looking at her.

His return was at three in the afternoon. Amy and the child were gone; the servant was gone. The table in the

He went into the bedroom. Amy's trunks had disappeared. The child's cot was covered over. In the study, he

saw that the sovereign he had thrown on to the table still lay in the same place.

As it was a very cold day he lit a fire. Whilst it burnt up he sat reading a torn portion of a newspaper, and

became quite interested in the report of a commercial meeting in the City, a thing he would never have

glanced at under ordinary circumstances. The fragment fell at length from his hands; his head drooped; he

About six he had tea, then began the packing of the few books that were to go with him, and of such other

things as could be enclosed in box or portmanteau. After a couple of hours of this occupation he could no

longer resist his weariness, so he went to bed. Before falling asleep he heard the two familiar clocks strike

eight; this evening they were in unusual accord, and the querulous notes from the workhouse sounded

between the deeper ones from St Marylebone. Reardon tried to remember when he had last observed this; the

matter seemed to have a peculiar interest for him, and in dreams he worried himself with a grotesque

Before her marriage Mrs Edmund Yule was one of seven motherless sisters who constituted the family of a

dentist slenderly provided in the matter of income. The pinching and paring which was a chief employment

of her energies in those early days had disagreeable effects upon a character disposed rather to generosity

than the reverse; during her husband's lifetime she had enjoyed rather too eagerly all the good things which

he put at her command, sometimes forgetting that a wife has duties as well as claims, and in her widowhood

she indulged a pretentiousness and querulousness which were the natural, but not amiable, results of suddenly

Like the majority of London people, she occupied a house of which the rent absurdly exceeded the due

proportion of her income, a pleasant foible turned to such good account by London landlords. Whereas she

might have lived with a good deal of modest comfort, her existence was a perpetual effort to conceal the

squalid background of what was meant for the eyes of her friends and neighbours. She kept only two

servants, who were so ill paid and so relentlessly overworked that it was seldom they remained with her for

more than three months. In dealings with other people whom she perforce employed, she was often guilty of

incredible meanness; as, for instance, when she obliged her halfstarved dressmaker to purchase material for

her, and then postponed payment alike for that and for the work itself to the last possible moment. This was

not heartlessness in the strict sense of the word; the woman not only knew that her behaviour was shameful,

she was in truth ashamed of it and sorry for her victims. But life was a battle. She must either crush or be

crushed. With sufficient means, she would have defrauded no one, and would have behaved generously to

many; with barely enough for her needs, she set her face and defied her feelings, inasmuch as she believed

She would shed tears over a pitiful story of want, and without shadow of hypocrisy. It was hard, it was cruel;

such things oughtn't to be allowed in a world where there were so many rich people. The next day she would

argue with her charwoman about halfpence, and end by paying the poor creature what she knew was

inadequate and unjust. For the simplest reason: she hadn't more to give, without submitting to privations

But whilst she could be a positive hyena to strangers, to those who were akin to her, and those of whom she

was fond, her affectionate kindness was remarkable. One observes this peculiarity often enough; it reminds

one how savage the social conflict is, in which those little groups of people stand serried against their

common enemies; relentless to all others, among themselves only the more tender and zealous because of the

everimpending danger. No mother was ever more devoted. Her son, a gentleman of quite noteworthy

selfishness, had board and lodging beneath her roof on nominal terms, and under no stress of pecuniary

trouble had Mrs Yule called upon him to make the slightest sacrifice on her behalf. Her daughter she loved

with profound tenderness, and had no will that was opposed to Amy's. And it was characteristic of her that

her children were never allowed to understand of what baseness she often became guilty in the determination

to support appearances. John Yule naturally suspected what went on behind the scenes; on one

occasionsince Amy's marriagehe had involuntarily overheard a dialogue between his mother and a

servant on the point of departing which made even him feel ashamed. But from Amy every paltriness and

meanness had always been concealed with the utmost care; Mrs Yule did not scruple to lie heroically when in

Yet this energetic lady had no social ambitions that pointed above her own stratum. She did not aim at

intimacy with her superiors; merely at superiority among her intimates. Her circle was not large, but in that

circle she must be regarded with the respect due to a woman of refined tastes and personal distinction. Her

little dinners might be of rare occurrence, but to be invited must be felt a privilege. 'Mrs Edmund Yule' must

sound well on people's lips; never be the occasion of those peculiar smiles which she herself was rather fond

The question of Amy's marriage had been her constant thought from the time when the little girl shot into a

woman grown. For Amy no common match, no acceptance of a husband merely for money or position. Few

men who walked the earth were mates for Amy. But years went on, and the man of undeniable distinction did

not yet present himself. Suitors offered, but Amy smiled coldly at their addresses, in private not seldom

scornfully, and her mother, though growing anxious, approved. Then of a sudden appeared Edwin Reardon.

A literary man? Well, it was one mode of distinction. Happily, a novelist; novelists now and then had

Mr Reardon, it was true, did not impress one as a man likely to push forward where the battle called for rude

vigour, but Amy soon assured herself that he would have a reputation far other than that of the average

successful storyteller. The best people would regard him; he would be welcomed in the penetralia of culture;

superior persons would say: 'Oh, I don't read novels as a rule, but of course Mr Reardon's' If that really

were to be the case, all was well; for Mrs Yule could appreciate social and intellectual differences.

First of all, Mrs Yule began to make less frequent mention of 'my soninlaw, Mr Edwin Reardon.' Next, she

never uttered his name save when inquiries necessitated it. Then, the most intimate of her intimates received

little hints which were not quite easy to interpret. 'Mr Reardon is growing so very eccentrichas an odd

distaste for societyoccupies himself with all sorts of outof theway interests. No, I'm afraid we shan't

have another of his novels for some time. I think he writes anonymously a good deal. And really, such

curious eccentricities!' Many were the tears she wept after her depressing colloquies with Amy; and, as was

to be expected, she thought severely of the cause of these sorrows. On the last occasion when he came to her

house she received him with such extreme civility that Reardon thenceforth disliked her, whereas before he

Alas for Amy's marriage with a man of distinction! From step to step of descent, till here was downright

catastrophe. Bitter enough in itself, but most lamentable with reference to the friends of the family. How was

it to be explained, this return of Amy to her home for several months, whilst her husband was no further away

than Worthing? The bald, horrible truthimpossible! Yet Mr Milvain knew it, and the Carters must guess it.

The worst was not yet. It declared itself this May morning, when, quite unexpectedly, a cab drove up to the

house, bringing Amy and her child, and her trunks, and her bandboxes, and her whatnots.

From the diningroom window Mrs Yule was aware of this arrival, and in a few moments she learnt the

'There's no use in that, mother,' said Amy, whose temper was in a dangerous state. 'Nothing worse can

'Oh, it's disgraceful! disgraceful!' sobbed Mrs Yule. 'What we are to say I can NOT think.'

'I shall say nothing whatever. People can scarcely have the impertinence to ask us questions when we have

'But there are some people I can't help giving some explanation to. My dear child, he is not in his right mind.

'But you have often said what strange things he says and does; you know you have, Amy. That talking in his

sleep; I've thought a great deal of it since you told me about that. Andand so many other things. My love, I

'I can't have that,' replied Amy with decision. 'Don't you see that in that case I should be behaving very

'I can't see that at all. There are many reasons, as you know very well, why one shouldn't live with a husband

who is at all suspected of mental derangement. You have done your utmost for him. And this would be some

sort of explanation, you know. I am so convinced that there is truth in it, too.'

'Of course I can't prevent you from saying what you like, but I think it would be very wrong to start a rumour

'Come up to the drawingroom, dear,' said her mother, for they had held their conversation in the room

nearest to the housedoor. 'What a state your mind must be in! Oh dear! Oh dear!'

She was a slender, wellproportioned woman, still pretty in face, and dressed in a way that emphasised her

abiding charms. Her voice had something of plaintiveness, and altogether she was of frailer type than her

'I'm sorry to say it isn't, dear, as I didn't expect you till tomorrow. But it shall be seen to immediately.'

This addition to the household was destined to cause grave difficulties with the domestic slaves. But Mrs

Yule would prove equal to the occasion. On Amy's behalf she would have worked her servants till they

'Use my room for the present,' she added. 'I think the girl has finished up there. But wait here; I'll just go and

'Things' were not quite satisfactory, as it proved. You should have heard the change that came in that sweetly

plaintive voice when it addressed the luckless housemaid. It was not brutal; not at all. But so sharp, hard,

Mad? Was he to be spoken of in a low voice, and with finger pointing to the forehead? There was something

ridiculous, as well as repugnant, in such a thought; but it kept possession of Amy's mind. She was brooding

'I don't think it unaccountable,' replied Amy. 'It's weak and selfish, that's all. He takes the first miserable

She was quite aware that this did not truly represent her husband's position. But an uneasiness of conscience

'But just fancy!' exclaimed her mother. 'What can he mean by asking you to go and live with him on

twentyfive shillings a week? Upon my word. if his mind isn't disordered he must have made a deliberate

'You mean,' asked Mrs Yule, 'that he really thinks it possible for all of you to be supported on those wages?'

'Even then it could only make about a hundred a year. My dear child, it's one of two things: either he is out of

'There's no need to seek so far for explanations,' she said. 'He has failed, that's all; just like a man might fail in

any other business. He can't write like he used to. It may be all the result of illhealth; I don't know. His last

book, you see, is positively refused. He has made up his mind that there's nothing but poverty before him, and

'Well, I only know that he has placed you in an exceedingly difficult position. If he had gone away to

Worthing for the summer we might have made it seem natural; people are always ready to allow literary men

to do rather odd thingsup to a certain point. We should have behaved as if there were nothing that called

Like her multitudinous kind, Mrs Yule lived only in the opinions of other people. What others would say was

her ceaseless preoccupation. She had never conceived of life as something proper to the individual;

independence in the directing of one's course seemed to her only possible in the case of very eccentric

persons, or of such as were altogether out of society. Amy had advanced, intellectually, far beyond this

Now, confession of the truth was the last thing that would occur to Mrs Yule when social relations were

concerned. Her whole existence was based on bold denial of actualities. And, as is natural in such persons,

she had the ostrich instinct strongly developed; though very acute in the discovery of her friends' shams and

lies, she deceived herself ludicrously in the matter of concealing her own embarrassments.

'But the fact is, my dear,' she answered, 'we don't know the truth ourselves. You had better let yourself be

directed by me. It will be better, at first, if you see as few people as possible. I suppose you must say

something or other to two or three of your own friends; if you take my advice you'll be rather mysterious. Let

them think what they like; anything is better than to say plainly. "My husband can't support me, and he has

gone to work as a clerk for weekly wages." Be mysterious, darling; depend upon it, that's the safest.'

The conversation was pursued, with brief intervals, all through the day. In the afternoon two ladies paid a

call, but Amy kept out of sight. Between six and seven John Yule returned from his gentlemanly occupations.

As he was generally in a touchy temper before dinner had soothed him, nothing was said to him of the latest

development of his sister's affairs until late in the evening; he was allowed to suppose that Reardon's

Behind the diningroom was a comfortable little chamber set apart as John's sanctum; here he smoked and

entertained his male friends, and contemplated the portraits of those female ones who would not have been

altogether at their ease in Mrs Yule's drawingroom. Not long after dinner his mother and sister came to talk

With some nervousness Mrs Yule made known to him what had taken place. Amy, the while, stood by the

'Well, I see nothing to be surprised at,' was John's first remark. 'It was pretty certain he'd come to this. But

what I want to know is, how long are we to be at the expense of supporting Amy and her youngster?'

'We can't consider such things as that,' she replied. 'You don't wish, I suppose, that Amy should go and live in

a back street at Islington, and be hungry every other day, and soon have no decent clothes?'

'This is a woman's way of talking,' replied John. 'I want to know what is to be the end of it all? I've no doubt

it's uncommonly pleasant for Reardon to shift his responsibilities on to our shoulders. At this rate I think I

shall get married, and live beyond my means until I can hold out no longer, and then hand my wife over to

her relatives, with my compliments. It's about the coolest business that ever came under my notice.'

'But what is to be done?' asked Mrs Yule. 'It's no use talking sarcastically, John, or making yourself

'We are not called upon to find a way out of the difficulty. The fact of the matter is, Reardon must get a

decent berth. Somebody or other must pitch him into the kind of place that suits men who can do nothing in

'You know very well,' said Amy, 'that places of that kind are not to be had for the asking. It may be years

'Confound the fellow! Why the deuce doesn't he go on with his novelwriting? There's plenty of money to be

'That's all bosh, Amy. If a fellow has once got into the swing of it he can keep it up if he likes. He might write

his two novels a year easily enough, just like twenty other men and women. Look here, I could do it myself if

I weren't too lazy. And that's what's the matter with Reardon. He doesn't care to work.'

'I have thought that myself;' observed Mrs Yule. 'It really is too ridiculous to say that he couldn't write some

kind of novels if he chose. Look at Miss Blunt's last book; why, anybody could have written that. I'm sure

John's natural procedure, when beset by difficulties, was to find fault with everyone all round, himself

'It's all very well, mother, but when a girl gets married she takes her husband, I have always understood, for

better or worse, just as a man takes his wife. To tell the truth, it seems to me Amy has put herself in the

wrong. It's deuced unpleasant to go and live in back streets, and to go without dinner now and then, but girls

'Don't talk so monstrously, John!' exclaimed his mother. 'How could Amy possibly foresee such things? The

'Not so uncommon, I assure you. Some one was telling me the other day of a married ladywell educated

and blamelesswho goes to work at a shop somewhere or other because her husband can't support her.'

'No, I can't say I do. I'm only telling you that her bad luck isn't unexampled. It's very fortunate for her that she

'By jingo! precisely what you would be doing. I think you ought to see him and give him to understand that

he's behaving in a confoundedly ungentlemanly way. Evidently he's the kind of fellow that wants stirring up.

I've half a mind to go and see him myself. Where is this slum that he's gone to live in?'

'So long as it's not the kind of place where one would be afraid of catching a fever, I think it wouldn't be

'Confound it! It's just because nobody does anything that things have come to this pass!'

The conversation was, of course, profitless. John could only return again and again to his assertion that

Reardon must get 'a decent berth.' At length Amy left the room in weariness and disgust.

'I suppose they have quarrelled terrifically,' said her brother, as soon as she was gone.

'Well, you must do as you please. But it's confounded hard lines that you should have to keep her and the kid.

'No, but you'll have the devil's own job to make ends meet; I know that well enough.'

'All right; you're a plucky woman, but it's too bad. Reardon's a humbug, that's my opinion. I shall have a talk

with Carter about him. I suppose he has transferred all their furniture to the slum?'

'He can't have removed yet. It was only this morning that he went to search for lodgings.'

'Oh, then I tell you what it is: I shall look in there the first thing tomorrow morning, and just talk to him in a

fatherly way. You needn't say anything to Amy. But I see he's just the kind of fellow that, if everyone leaves

him alone, he'll be content with Carter's fiveandtwenty shillings for the rest of his life, and never trouble

To this proposal Mrs Yule readily assented. On going upstairs she found that Amy had all but fallen asleep

'You are quite worn out with your troubles,' she said. 'Go to bed, and have a good long sleep.'

The neat, fresh bedchamber seemed to Amy a delightful haven of rest. She turned the key in the door with an

enjoyment of the privacy thus secured such as she had never known in her life; for in maidenhood safe

solitude was a matter of course to her, and since marriage she had not passed a night alone. Willie was fast

asleep in a little bed shadowed by her own. In an impulse of maternal love and gladness she bent over the

How clean and sweet everything was! It is often said, by people who are exquisitely ignorant of the matter,

that cleanliness is a luxury within reach even of the poorest. Very far from that; only with the utmost

difficulty, with wearisome exertion, with harassing sacrifice, can people who are pinched for money preserve

a moderate purity in their persons and their surroundings. By painful degrees Amy had accustomed herself to

compromises in this particular which in the early days of her married life would have seemed intensely

disagreeable, if not revolting. A housewife who lives in the country, and has but a patch of back garden, or

even a goodsized kitchen, can, if she thinks fit, take her place at the washtub and relieve her mind on

laundry matters; but to the inhabitant of a miniature flat in the heart of London anything of that kind is out of

When Amy began to cut down her laundress's bill, she did it with a sense of degradation. One grows

accustomed, however, to such unpleasant necessities, and already she had learnt what was the minimum of

No, no; cleanliness is a costly thing, and a troublesome thing when appliances and means have to be

improvised. It was, in part, the understanding she had gained of this side of the life of poverty that made Amy

shrink in dread from the still narrower lodgings to which Reardon invited her. She knew how subtly one's

selfrespect can be undermined by sordid conditions. The difference between the life of welltodo educated

people and that of the uneducated poor is not greater in visible details than in the minutiae of privacy, and

Amy must have submitted to an extraordinary change before it would have been possible for her to live at

ease in the circumstances which satisfy a decent workingclass woman. She was prepared for final parting

She undressed at leisure, and stretched her limbs in the cold, soft, fragrant bed. A sigh of profound relief

And in a quarter of an hour she was sleeping as peacefully as the child who shared her room.

At breakfast in the morning she showed a bright, almost a happy face. It was long, long since she had enjoyed

such a night's rest, so undisturbed with unwelcome thoughts on the threshold of sleep and on awaking. Her

life was perhaps wrecked, but the thought of that did not press upon her; for the present she must enjoy her

freedom. It was like a recovery of girlhood. There are few married women who would not, sooner or later,

accept with joy the offer of some months of a maidenly liberty. Amy would not allow herself to think that her

wedded life was at an end. With a woman's strange faculty of closing her eyes against facts that do not

immediately concern her, she tasted the relief of the present and let the future lie unregarded. Reardon would

get out of his difficulties sooner or later; somebody or other would help him; that was the dim background of

He suffered, no doubt. But then it was just as well that he should. Suffering would perhaps impel him to

effort. When he communicated to her his new addresshe could scarcely neglect to do thatshe would

send a not unfriendly letter, and hint to him that now was his opportunity for writing a book, as good a book

as those which formerly issued from his garretsolitude. If he found that literature was in truth a thing of the

past with him, then he must exert himself to obtain a position worthy of an educated man. Yes, in this way

'I am so glad!' replied her mother. 'You have been getting quite thin and pale.'

'Quite consumptive,' remarked John, looking up from his newspaper. 'Shall I make arrangements for a daily

'You can if you like,' replied his sister; 'it would do both mother and me good, and I have no doubt you could

'Oh, indeed! You're a remarkable young woman, let me tell you. Bythebye, I suppose your husband is

Her son resumed his paper, and at the end of the meal rose with an unwonted briskness to make his

Nor would it be true to represent Edwin Reardon as rising to the new day wholly disconsolate. He too had

slept unusually well, and with returning consciousness the sense of a burden removed was more instant than

that of his loss and all the dreary circumstances attaching to it. He had no longer to fear the effects upon Amy

of such a grievous change as from their homelike flat to the couple of rooms he had taken in Islington; for the

moment, this relief helped him to bear the pain of all that had happened and the uneasiness which troubled

Of course for the moment only. He had no sooner begun to move about, to prepare his breakfast (amid the

relics of last evening's meal), to think of all the detestable work he had to do before tomorrow night, than his

heart sank again. His position was wellnigh as dolorous as that of any man who awoke that morning to the

brutal realities of life. If only for the shame of it! How must they be speaking of him, Amy's relatives, and her

friends? A novelist who couldn't write novels; a husband who couldn't support his wife and child; a literate

who made eager application for illiterate work at paltry wageshow interesting it would all sound in

humorous gossip! And what hope had he that things would ever be better with him?

Had he done well? Had he done wisely? Would it not have been better to have made that one last effort?

There came before him a vision of quiet nooks beneath the Sussex cliffs, of the long lines of green breakers

bursting into foam; he heard the wavemusic, and tasted the briny freshness of the seabreeze. Inspiration,

If Amy's love had but been of more enduring quality; if she had strengthened him for this last endeavour with

the brave tenderness of an ideal wife! But he had seen such hateful things in her eyes. Her love was dead, and

she regarded him as the man who had spoilt her hopes of happiness. It was only for her own sake that she

urged him to strive on; let his be the toil, that hers might be the advantage if he succeeded.

He had the conviction of it. Oh yes, she would shed tears; they come so easily to women. But to have him

dead and out of her way; to be saved from her anomalous position; to see once more a chance in life; she

But there was no time for brooding. Today he had to sell all the things that were superfluous, and to make

arrangements for the removal of his effects tomorrow. By Wednesday night, in accordance with his

He had taken only two rooms, and fortunately as things were. Three would have cost more than he was likely

to be able to afford for a long time. The rent of the two was to be sixand sixpence; and how, if Amy had

consented to come, could he have met the expenses of their living out of his weekly twentyfive shillings?

How could he have pretended to do literary work in such cramped quarters, he who had never been able to

write a line save in strict seclusion? In his despair he had faced the impossible. Amy had shown more

Towards ten o'clock he was leaving the flat to go and find people who would purchase his books and old

clothing and other superfluities; but before he could close the door behind him, an approaching step on the

stairs caught his attention. He saw the shining silk hat of a wellequipped gentleman. It was John Yule.

'Ha! Goodmorning!' John exclaimed, looking up. 'A minute or two and I should have been too late, I see.'

They entered the study, which was in some disorder; Reardon made no reference to circumstances, but

'Then I'll light one myself; it always makes talk easier to me. You're on the point of moving, I suppose?'

Reardon tried to speak in quite a simple way, with no admission of embarrassment. He was not successful,

'No, no; I didn't mean to suggest that. But you might be taking it for granted thatthat the rupture was final,

There had never been any intimacy between these two men. Reardon regarded his wife's brother as rather

snobbish and disagreeably selfish; John Yule looked upon the novelist as a prig, and now of late as a

shuffling, untrustworthy fellow. It appeared to John that his brotherinlaw was assuming a manner wholly

unjustifiable, and he had a difficulty in behaving to him with courtesy. Reardon, on the other hand, felt

injured by the turn his visitor's remarks were taking, and began to resent the visit altogether.

'I take nothing for granted,' he said coldly. 'But I'm afraid nothing is to be gained by a discussion of our

'In a way, yes. She hasn't sent me, but my mother and I are so astonished at what is happening that it was

'Difficulties between husband and wife are generally best left to the people themselves, I know. But the fact

is, there are peculiar circumstances in the present case. It can't be necessary for me to explain further.'

Reardon could find no suitable words of reply. He understood what Yule referred to, and began to feel the

'Well, we should really like to know how long it is proposed that Amy shall remain with her mother.'

John was perfectly selfpossessed; it took much to disturb his equanimity. He smoked his cigarette, which

was in an amber mouthpiece, and seemed to enjoy its flavour. Reardon found himself observing the

Reardon felt himself a poor, pitiful creature, and hated the welldressed man who made him feel so.

'But really, Reardon,' began the other, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, 'do you tell me in seriousness that

'I don't. I said that I had offered her the best home I could. I know it's impossible, of course.'

Either he must speak thus, or break into senseless wrath. It was hard to hold back the angry words that were

'You see no reason, then, why she shouldn't live as at present for an indefinite time?'

To John, whose perspicacity was not remarkable, Reardon's changed tone conveyed simply an impression of

'I can only say,' returned the other, who was become wearily indifferent, 'that as soon as I can afford a decent

'I see no right you have to examine me in this fashion,' Reardon exclaimed. 'With Mrs Yule I should have

done my best to be patient if she had asked these questions; but you are not justified in putting them, at all

'I'm very sorry you speak like this, Reardon,' said the other, with calm insolence. 'It confirms unpleasant

'Why, one can't help thinking that you are rather too much at your ease under the circumstances. It isn't

exactly an everyday thing, you know, for a man's wife to be sent back to her own people'

'I can't discuss it with you. You are utterly unable to comprehend me and my position, utterly! It would be

useless to defend myself. You must take whatever view seems to you the natural one.'

'The natural view is an uncommonly disagreeable one,' he said. 'However, I have no intention of quarrelling

with you. I'll only just say that, as I take a share in the expenses of my mother's house, this question decidedly

concerns me; and I'll add that I think it ought to concern you a good deal more than it seems to.'

'It shall,' he uttered at length, coldly. 'You have put it clearly enough to me, and you shan't have spoken in

They parted with distant civility, and Reardon closed the door behind his visitor.

He knew that his character was seen through a distorting medium by Amy's relatives, to some extent by Amy

herself; but hitherto the reflection that this must always be the case when a man of his kind is judged by

people of the world had strengthened him in defiance. An endeavour to explain himself would be

maddeningly hopeless; even Amy did not understand aright the troubles through which his intellectual and

moral nature was passing, and to speak of such experiences to Mrs Yule or to John would be equivalent to

addressing them in alien tongues; he and they had no common criterion by reference to which he could make

himself intelligible. The practical tone in which John had explained the opposing view of the situation made

it impossible for him to proceed as he had purposed. Amy would never come to him in his poor lodgings; her

mother, her brother, all her advisers would regard such a thing as out of the question. Very well; recognising

this, he must also recognise his wife's claim upon him for material support. It was not in his power to supply

her with means sufficient to live upon, but what he could afford she should have.

When he went out, it was with a different purpose from that of half an hour ago. After a short search in the

direction of Edgware Road, he found a dealer in secondhand furniture, whom he requested to come as soon

as possible to the flat on a matter of business. An hour later the man kept his appointment. Having brought

'I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions that I'll point out to you'.

That the price offered would be strictly a minimum Reardon knew well enough. The dealer was a rough and

rather dirty fellow, with the distrustful glance which distinguishes his class. Men of Reardon's type, when

hapless enough to be forced into vulgar commerce, are doubly at a disadvantage; not only their ignorance, but

their sensitiveness, makes them ready victims of even the least subtle man of business. To deal on equal

terms with a person you must be able to assert with calm confidence that you are not to be cheated; Reardon

was too well aware that he would certainly be cheated, and shrank scornfully from the higgling of the market.

Moreover, he was in a halffrenzied state of mind, and cared for little but to be done with the hateful details

He pencilled a list of the articles he must retain for his own use; it would of course be cheaper to take a bare

room than furnished lodgings, and every penny he could save was of importance to him. The chairbedstead,

with necessary linen and blankets, a table, two chairs, a lookingglassstrictly the indispensable things; no

need to complete the list. Then there were a few valuable weddingpresents, which belonged rather to Amy

It was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a man who understood such affairs would

'Yes, but not till tomorrow. They have to go to Islington. What would you do it for?'

This bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way. Thereupon Reardon set to work to dispose of

his books; by halfpast one he had sold them for a couple of guineas. At two came the cart that was to take

away the furniture, and at four o'clock nothing remained in the flat save what had to be removed on the

The next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a week's rent for the two rooms he had taken, and

find a single room at the lowest possible cost. On the way, he entered an eatinghouse and satisfied his

hunger, for he had had nothing since breakfast. It took him a couple of hours to discover the ideal garret; it

was found at length in a narrow little byway running out of Upper Street. The rent was halfacrown a

At seven o'clock he sat down in what once was called his study, and wrote the following letter:

'Enclosed in this envelope you will find twenty pounds. I have been reminded that your relatives will be at the

expense of your support; it seemed best to me to sell the furniture, and now I send you all the money I can

spare at present. You will receive tomorrow a box containing several things I did not feel justified in selling.

As soon as I begin to have my payment from Carter, half of it shall be sent to you every week. My address is:

He enclosed the money, in notes and gold, and addressed the envelope to his wife. She must receive it this

very night, and he knew not how to ensure that save by delivering it himself. So he went to Westbourne Park

At this hour the family were probably at dinner; yes, the window of the diningroom showed lights within,

whilst those of the drawingroom were in shadow. After a little hesitation he rang the servants' bell. When

the door opened, he handed his letter to the girl, and requested that it might be given to Mrs Reardon as soon

as possible. With one more hasty glance at the windowAmy was perhaps enjoying her unwonted

As he reentered what had been his home, its bareness made his heart sink. An hour or two had sufficed for

this devastation; nothing remained upon the uncarpeted floors but the needments he would carry with him

into the wilderness, such few evidences of civilisation as the poorest cannot well dispense with. Anger,

revolt, a sense of outraged loveall manner of confused passions had sustained him throughout this day of

toil; now he had leisure to know how faint he was. He threw himself upon his chairbedstead, and lay for

But before he could sleep he must eat. Though it was cold, he could not exert himself to light a fire; there was

some food still in the cupboard, and he consumed it in the fashion of a tired labourer, with the plate on his

He felt utterly alone in the world. Unless it were Biffen, what mortal would give him kindly welcome under

any roof? These stripped rooms were symbolical of his life; losing money, he had lost everything. 'Be

thankful that you exist, that these morsels of food are still granted you. Man has a right to nothing in this

world that he cannot pay for. Did you imagine that love was an exception? Foolish idealist! Love is one of the

first things to be frightened away by poverty. Go and live upon your twelveandsixpence a week, and on

In this room he had sat with Amy on their return from the wedding holiday. 'Shall you always love me as you

do now?''For ever! for ever!''Even if I disappointed you? If I failed?''How could that affect my love?'

The voices seemed to be lingering still, in a sad, faint echo, so short a time it was since those words were

His own fault. A man has no business to fail; least of all can he expect others to have time to look back upon

him or pity him if he sink under the stress of conflict. Those behind will trample over his body; they can't

He slept for a few hours, then lay watching the light of dawn as it revealed his desolation.

The morning's post brought him a large heavy envelope, the aspect of which for a moment puzzled him. But

he recognised the handwriting, and understood. The editor of The Wayside, in a pleasantlywritten note,

begged to return the paper on Pliny's Letters which had recently been submitted to him; he was sorry it did

not strike him as quite so interesting as the other contributions from Reardon's pen.

This was a trifle. For the first time he received a rejected piece of writing without distress; he even laughed at

the artistic completeness of the situation. The money would have been welcome, but on that very account he

The cart that was to transfer his property to the room in Islington arrived about midday. By that time he had

dismissed the last details of business in relation to the flat, and was free to go back to the obscure world

whence he had risen. He felt that for two years and a half he had been a pretender. It was not natural to him to

live in the manner of people who enjoy an assured income; he belonged to the class of casual wageearners.

Carrying a bag which contained a few things best kept in his own care, he went by train to King's Cross, and

thence walked up Pentonville Hill to Upper Street and his own little byway. Manville Street was not

unreasonably squalid; the house in which he had found a home was not alarming in its appearance, and the

woman who kept it had an honest face. Amy would have shrunk in apprehension, but to one who had

experience of London garrets this was a rather favourable specimen of its kind. The door closed more

satisfactorily than poor Biffen's, for instance, and there were not many of those knotholes in the floor which

gave admission to piercing little draughts; not a pane of the window was cracked, not one. A man might live

'There's a letter come for you,' said the landlady as she admitted him. 'You'll find it on your mantel.'

He ascended hastily. The letter must be from Amy, as no one else knew his address. Yes, and its contents

'As you have really sold the furniture, I shall accept half this money that you send. I must buy clothing for

myself and Willie. But the other ten pounds I shall return to you as soon as possible. As for your offer of half

what you are to receive from Mr Carter, that seems to me ridiculous; in any case, I cannot take it. If you

seriously abandon all further hope from literature, I think it is your duty to make every effort to obtain a

Doubtless Amy thought it was her duty to write in this way. Not a word of sympathy; he must understand that

In the bag he had brought with him there were writing materials. Standing at the mantelpiece, he forthwith

'The money is for your support, as far as it will go. If it comes back to me I shall send it again. If you refuse

to make use of it, you will have the kindness to put it aside and consider it as belonging to Willie. The other

money of which I spoke will be sent to you once a month. As our concerns are no longer between us alone, I

must protect myself against anyone who would be likely to accuse me of not giving you what I could afford.

For your advice I thank you, but remember that in withdrawing from me your affection you have lost all right

By three o'clock the furniture of his room was arranged. He had not kept a carpet; that was luxury, and

beyond his due. His score of volumes must rank upon the mantelpiece; his clothing must be kept in the trunk.

Cups, plates, knives, forks, and spoons would lie in the little open cupboard, the lowest section of which was

for his supply of coals. When everything was in order he drew water from a tap on the landing and washed

himself; then, with his bag, went out to make purchases. A loaf of bread, butter, sugar, condensed milk; a

remnant of tea he had brought with him. On returning, he lit as small a fire as possible, put on his kettle, and

How familiar it all was to him! And not unpleasant, for it brought back the days when he had worked to such

Of Amy he would not think. Knowing his bitter misery, she could write to him in cold, hard words, without a

touch even of womanly feeling. If ever they were to meet again, the advance must be from her side. He had

Next morning he called at the hospital to see Carter. The secretary's peculiar look and smile seemed to betray

a knowledge of what had been going on since Sunday, and his first words confirmed this impression of

Reardon's tone was meant to signify that further remark on the subject would be unwelcome. Musingly,

'Come and have some lunch with me, then, and afterwards we'll go to the City Road and talk things over on

The vivacious young man was not quite so genial as of wont, but he evidently strove to show that the renewal

of their relations as employer and clerk would make no difference in the friendly intercourse which had since

'I suppose,' said Carter, when they were seated in a restaurant, 'you wouldn't object to anything better, if a

'But you don't want a job that would occupy all your time? You're going on with writing, of course?'

'Then you would like me to keep a lookout? I haven't anything in viewnothing whatever. But one hears of

Having brought himself to this admission, Reardon felt more at ease. To what purpose should he keep up

transparent pretences? It was manifestly his duty to earn as much money as he could, in whatever way. Let

the man of letters be forgotten; he was seeking for remunerative employment, just as if he had never written a

Amy did not return the ten pounds, and did not write again. So, presumably, she would accept the moiety of

his earnings; he was glad of it. After paying halfacrown for rent, there would be left ten shillings.

Something like three pounds that still remained to him he would not reckon; this must be for casualties.

Halfasovereign was enough for his needs; in the old times he had counted it a competency which put his

The day came, and he entered upon his duties in City Road. It needed but an hour or two, and all the

intervening time was cancelled; he was back once more in the days of no reputation, a harmless clerk, a

It was more than a fortnight after Reardon's removal to Islington when Jasper Milvain heard for the first time

of what had happened. He was coming down from the office of the Willo'theWisp one afternoon, after a

talk with the editor concerning a paragraph in his last week's causerie which had been complained of as

libellous, and which would probably lead to the 'case' so much desired by everyone connected with the paper,

when someone descending from a higher storey of the building overtook him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

'A man I know has just been made subeditor of Chat, upstairs. He has half promised to let me do a column

'I'm not so versatile as all that, unfortunately. No, the general information column. "Will you be so good as to

inform me, through the medium of your invaluable paper, what was the exact area devastated by the Great

Fire of London?"that kind of thing, you know. Hopburnthat's the fellow's nametells me that his

predecessor always called the paper Chatmoss, because of the frightful difficulty he had in filling it up each

week. Bythebye, what a capital column that is of yours in Willo'theWisp. I know nothing like it in

'It may cost a couple of thousands, but the advertisement is worth that, Patwin thinks. Barlow is delighted; he

wouldn't mind paying double the money to make those people a laughingstock for a week or two.'

They issued into the street, and walked on together; Milvain, with his keen eye and critical smile,

unmistakably the modern young man who cultivates the art of success; his companion of a less pronounced

type, but distinguished by a certain subtlety of countenance, a blending of the sentimental and the shrewd.

'I only heard about it last night; Biffen told me. Reardon is doing clerk's work at a hospital somewhere in the

'Ho, ho!' exclaimed Jasper, thoughtfully. 'Then the crash has come. Of course I knew it must be impending.

'It's in an honourable way, my dear fellow. I'm a slave to women, true, but all in an honourable way. After

that last adventure of mine most men would be savage and cynical, wouldn't they, now? I'm nothing of the

kind. I think no worse of womennot a bit. I reverence them as much as ever. There must be a good deal of

'But it's the simple truth,' pursued the other. 'You should have seen the letter I wrote to that girl at

Birminghamall charity and forgiveness. I meant it, every word of it. I shouldn't talk to everyone like this,

'No, no. They sold up everything and let the flat. He's in lodgings somewhere or other. I'm not quite intimate

enough with him to go and see him under the circumstances. But I'm surprised you know nothing about it.'

'I haven't seen much of them this year. Reardonwell, I'm afraid he hasn't very much of the virtue you claim

'You haven't come enough in contact with him. At all events, I can't explain his change of manner in any

other way. But I'm sorry for him; I am, indeed. At a hospital? I suppose Carter has given him the old job

'Don't know. Biffen doesn't talk very freely about it; there's a good deal of delicacy in Biffen, you know. A

thoroughly goodhearted fellow. And so is Reardon, I believe, though no doubt he has his weaknesses.'

'Oh, an excellent fellow! But weakness isn't the word. Why, I foresaw all this from the very beginning. The

first hour's talk I ever had with him was enough to convince me that he'd never hold his own. But he really

believed that the future was clear before him; he imagined he'd go on getting more and more for his books.

They parted soon after this, and Milvain went homeward, musing upon what he had heard. It was his purpose

to spend the whole evening on some work which pressed for completion, but he found an unusual difficulty

in settling to it. About eight o'clock he gave up the effort, arrayed himself in the costume of black and white,

and journeyed to Westbourne Park, where his destination was the house of Mrs Edmund Yule. Of the servant

who opened to him he inquired if Mrs Yule was at home, and received an answer in the affirmative.

He was speedily conducted to the drawingroom, where he found the lady of the house, her son, and Mrs

'I'm so glad you have come,' said Mrs Yule, in a confidential tone. 'I have been wishing to see you. Of course,

'I do wish you had! We should have been so anxious to know how he impressed you.'

'My mother has got hold of the notion,' put in John Yule, 'that he's not exactly compos mentis. I'll admit that

'To a new branch that has just been opened in the City Road,' replied Mrs Yule. 'And he's living in a dreadful

placeone of the most shocking alleys in the worst part of Islington. I should have gone to see him, but I

really feel afraid; they give me such an account of the place. And everyone agrees that he has such a very

'Between ourselves,' said John, 'there's no use in exaggerating. He's living in a vile hole, that's true, and Carter

'I'm sorry to say she is far from well,' replied Mrs Yule. 'Today she has been obliged to keep her room. You

can imagine what a shock it has been to her. It came with such extraordinary suddenness. Without a word of

warning, her husband announced that he had taken a clerkship and was going to remove immediately to the

Eastend. Fancy! And this when he had already arranged, as you know, to go to the South Coast and write

his next book under the influences of the sea air. He was anything but well; we all knew that, and we had all

joined in advising him to spend the summer at the seaside. It seemed better that he should go alone; Mrs

Reardon would, of course, have gone down for a few days now and then. And at a moment's notice

everything is changed, and in such a dreadful way! I cannot believe that this is the behaviour of a sane man!'

Jasper understood that an explanation of the matter might have been given in much more homely terms; it

was natural that Mrs Yule should leave out of sight the sufficient, but ignoble, cause of her soninlaw's

'You see in what a painful position we are placed,' continued the euphemistic lady. 'It is so terrible even to

hint that Mr Reardon is not responsible for his actions, yet how are we to explain to our friends this

'My husband is afraid Mr Reardon may fall seriously ill,' said Mrs Carter. 'And how dreadful! In such a place

'It would be so kind of you to go and see him, Mr Milvain,' urged Mrs Yule. 'We should be so glad to hear

He remained for an hour, and before his departure the subject was discussed with rather more frankness than

'Mr Carter has very kindly promised,' said Mrs Yule, 'to do his best to hear of some position that would be

suitable. It seems a most shocking thing that a successful author should abandon his career in this deliberate

way; who could have imagined anything of the kind two years ago? But it is clearly quite impossible for him

to go on as at presentif there is really no reason for believing his mind disordered.'

A cab was summoned for Mrs Carter, and she took her leave, suppressing her native cheerfulness to the tone

He had walked perhaps twenty yards, almost to the end of the silent street in which his friends' house was

situated, when a man came round the corner and approached him. At once he recognised the figure, and in a

moment he was face to face with Reardon. Both stopped. Jasper held out his hand, but the other did not seem

By the gaslight his face showed pale and sunken, and he met Jasper's look with fixedness.

'Yes, I am. The fact is, I went there to hear of your address. Why haven't you let me know about all this?'

Reardon turned in the direction whence he had come, and began to walk slowly; Jasper kept beside him.

'I'm afraid there's something amiss between us, Reardon,' said the latter, just glancing at his companion.

'There's something amiss between me and everyone,' was the reply, in an unnatural voice.

'Your old way of talk isn't much to my taste, Milvain. It has cost me too much.'Jasper gazed at him. Was there

some foundation for Mrs Yule's seeming extravagance? This reply sounded so meaningless, and so unlike

They had turned into a broader thoroughfare, which, however, was little frequented at this hour. Reardon, his

hands thrust into the pockets of a shabby overcoat and his head bent forward, went on at a slow pace,

observant of nothing. For a moment or two he delayed reply, then said in an unsteady voice:

'Your way of talking has always been to glorify success, to insist upon it as the one end a man ought to keep

in view. If you had talked so to me alone, it wouldn't have mattered. But there was generally someone else

present. Your words had their effect; I can see that now. It's very much owing to you that I am deserted, now

Jasper's first impulse was to meet this accusation with indignant denial, but a sense of compassion prevailed.

It was so painful to see the defeated man wandering at night near the house where his wife and child were

comfortably sheltered; and the tone in which he spoke revealed such profound misery.

'That's a most astonishing thing to say,' Jasper replied. 'Of course I know nothing of what has passed between

you and your wife, but I feel certain that I have no more to do with what has happened than any other of your

'You may feel as certain as you will, but your words and your example have influenced my wife against me.

You didn't intend that; I don't suppose it for a moment. It's my misfortune, that's all.'

'That I intended nothing of the kind, you need hardly say, I should think. But you are deceiving yourself in

the strangest way. I'm afraid to speak plainly; I'm afraid of offending you. But can you recall something that I

said about the time of your marriage? You didn't like it then, and certainly it won't be pleasant to you to

remember it now. If you mean that your wife has grown unkind to you because you are unfortunate, there's

'Then you have always regarded my wife as a woman likely to fail me in time of need?'

'I don't care to answer a question put in that way. If we are no longer to talk with the old friendliness, it's far

'Well, practically you have answered. Of course I remember those words of yours that you refer to. Whether

He spoke with a dull doggedness, as though mental fatigue did not allow him to say more.

'It's impossible to argue against such a charge,' said Milvain. 'I am convinced it isn't true, and that's all I can

answer. But perhaps you think this extraordinary influence of mine is still being used against you?'

'Well, as I have told you, this was my first visit to Mrs Yule's since your wife has been there, and I didn't see

her; she isn't very well, and keeps her room. I'm glad it happened sothat I didn't meet her. Henceforth I

shall keep away from the family altogether, so long, at all events, as your wife remains with them. Of course I

shan't tell anyone why; that would be impossible. But you shan't have to fear that I am decrying you. By

'I have said what I didn't wish to say, and what I oughtn't to have said. You must misunderstand me; I can't

He became mute. Jasper, whose misrepresentation was wilful, though not maliciously so, also fell into

silence; he did not believe that his conversations with Amy had seriously affected the course of events, but he

knew that he had often said things to her in private which would scarcely have fallen from his lips if her

husband had been presentlittle depreciatory phrases, wrong rather in tone than in terms, which came of his

irresistible desire to assume superiority whenever it was possible. He, too, was weak, but with quite another

kind of weakness than Reardon's. His was the weakness of vanity, which sometimes leads a man to commit

treacheries of which he would believe himself incapable. Selfaccused, he took refuge in the pretence of

'You are living a long way from here,' Jasper said, coldly. 'Are you going by train?'

'Oh, not ill. At least, I didn't understand that it was anything serious. Why don't you walk back to the house?'

A day or two later, Milvain wrote to Mrs Yule, and told her that he had seen Reardon; he did not describe the

circumstances under which the interview had taken place, but gave it as his opinion that Reardon was in a

state of nervous illness, and made by suffering quite unlike himself. That he might be on the way to positive

mental disease seemed likely enough. 'Unhappily, I myself can be of no use to him; he has not the same

friendly feeling for me as he used to have. But it is very certain that those of his friends who have the power

should exert themselves to raise him out of this fearful slough of despond. If he isn't effectually helped,

there's no saying what may happen. One thing is certain, I think: he is past helping himself. Sane literary

work cannot be expected from him. It seems a monstrous thing that so good a fellow, and one with such

excellent brains too, should perish by the way when influential people would have no difficulty in restoring

All the months of summer went by. Jasper kept his word, and never visited Mrs Yule's house; but once in

July he met that lady at the Carters', and heard then, what he knew from other sources, that the position of

things was unchanged. In August, Mrs Yule spent a fortnight at the seaside, and Amy accompanied her.

Milvain and his sisters accepted an invitation to visit friends at Wattleborough, and were out of town about

three weeks, the last ten days being passed in the Isle of Wight; it was an extravagant holiday, but Dora had

been ailing, and her brother declared that they would all work better for the change. Alfred Yule, with his

wife and daughter, rusticated somewhere in Kent. Dora and Marian exchanged letters, and here is a passage

'Jasper has shown himself in an unusually amiable light since we left town. I looked forward to this holiday

with some misgivings, as I know by experience that it doesn't do for him and us to be too much together; he

gets tired of our company, and then his selfishnessbelieve me, he has a good deal of itcomes out in a

way we don't appreciate. But I have never known him so forbearing. To me he is particularly kind, on

account of my headaches and general shakiness. It isn't impossible that this young man, if all goes well with

him, may turn out far better than Maud and I ever expected. But things will have to go very well, if the

improvement is to be permanent. I only hope he may make a lot of money before long. If this sounds rather

gross to you, I can only say that Jasper's moral nature will never be safe as long as he is exposed to the risks

of poverty. There are such people, you know. As a poor man, I wouldn't trust him out of my sight; with

Dora, no doubt, had her reasons for writing in this strain. She would not have made such remarks in

conversation with her friend, but took the opportunity of being at a distance to communicate them in writing.

On their return, the two girls made good progress with the book they were manufacturing for Messrs Jolly

and Monk, and early in October it was finished. Dora was now writing little things for The English Girl, and

Maud had begun to review an occasional novel for an illustrated paper. In spite of their poor lodgings, they

had been brought into social relations with Mrs Boston Wright and a few of her friends; their position was

understood, and in accepting invitations they had no fear lest unwelcome people should pounce down upon

them in their shabby little sittingroom. The younger sister cared little for society such as Jasper procured

them; with Marian Yule for a companion she would have been quite content to spend her evenings at home.

But Maud relished the introduction to strangers. She was admired, and knew it. Prudence could not restrain

her from buying a handsomer dress than those she had brought from her country home, and it irked her sorely

that she might not reconstruct all her equipment to rival the appearance of welltodo girls whom she studied

and envied. Her disadvantages, for the present, were insuperable. She had no one to chaperon her; she could

not form intimacies because of her poverty. A rare invitation to luncheon, a permission to call at the sacred

'I advise you to possess your soul in patience,' Jasper said to her, as they talked one day on the seashore.

'You are not to blame that you live without conventional protection, but it necessitates your being very

careful. These people you are getting to know are not rigid about social observances, and they won't exactly

despise you for poverty; all the same, their charity mustn't be tested too severely. Be very quiet for the

present; let it be seen that you understand that your position isn't quite regularI mean, of course, do so in a

modest and nice way. As soon as ever it's possible, we'll arrange for you to live with someone who will

preserve appearances. All this is contemptible, of course; but we belong to a contemptible society, and can't

help ourselves. For Heaven's sake, don't spoil your chances by rashness; be content to wait a little, till some

Midway in October, about halfpast eight one evening, Jasper received an unexpected visit from Dora. He

'She went to see the Lanes this afternoon, and Mrs Lane invited her to go to the Gaiety tonight; she said a

friend whom she had invited couldn't come, and the ticket would be wasted. Maud went back to dine with

'Why is Mrs Lane so affectionate all at once? Take your things off; I have nothing to do.'

'Don't you know her? She's staying with the Lanes. Maud says she writes for The West End.'

'Pretty well. She has wanted to go to the Gaiety for a long time. There's no harm, is there?'

Dora asked the question with that absent air which girls are wont to assume when they touch on doubtful

'Harm, no. Idiocy and lively music, that's all. It's too late, or I'd have taken you, for the joke of the thing.

'Pooh! But I don't care for her to be running about with the Lanes. Lane is too big a blackguard; it reflects

They gossiped for half an hour, then a tap at the door interrupted them; it was the landlady.

'Mr Whelpdale has called to see you, sir. I mentioned as Miss Milvain was here, so he said he wouldn't come

Mr Whelpdale presented himself. He entered with much more ceremony than when Milvain was alone; on his

visage was a grave respectfulness, his step was light, his whole bearing expressed diffidence and pleasurable

The dealer in literary advice made a bow which did him no discredit, and began to speak in a low, reverential

tone not at all disagreeable to the ear. His breeding, in truth, had been that of a gentleman, and it was only of

'My sister is one of your readers. I believe she has studied the book with much conscientiousness.'

'It isn't all rubbish, by any means,' said Jasper, graciously. 'In the chapter on writing for magazines, there are

one or two very good hints. What a pity you can't apply your own advice, Whelpdale!'

'Now that's horribly unkind of you!' protested the other. 'You might have spared me this evening. But

unfortunately it's quite true, Miss Milvain. I point the way, but I haven't been able to travel it myself. You

mustn't think I have never succeeded in getting things published; but I can't keep it up as a profession.

Your brother is the successful man. A marvellous facility! I envy him. Few men at present writing have such

'He says he shall finish "Mr Bailey, Grocer," in about a month. He read me one of the later chapters the other

night. It's really very fine; most remarkable writing, it seems to me. It will be scandalous if he can't get it

'I do hope he may!' said Dora, laughing. 'I have heard so much of "Mr Bailey," that it will be a great

'I'm afraid it would give you very little pleasure,' Whelpdale replied, hesitatingly. 'The matter is so very

'And the hero grocer!' shouted Jasper, mirthfully. 'Oh, but it's quite decent; only rather depressing. The

decently ignobleor, the ignobly decent? Which is Biffen's formula? I saw him a week ago, and he looked

He didn't see mewalks with his eyes on the ground alwaysand I hadn't the courage to stop him. He's the

Dora and her brother exchanged a glance. It was a long time since Jasper had spoken to his sisters about the

The conversation that went on was so agreeable to Whelpdale, that he lost consciousness of time. It was past

The visitor at once made ready for departure, and his leavetaking was as respectful as his entrance had been.

Though he might not say what he thought, there was very legible upon his countenance a hope that he would

She had heard the story of Whelpdale's hapless wooing half a year ago, and her recollection of it explained

'Never get on, I'm afraid,' Jasper pursued. 'He has his allowance of twenty pounds a year, and makes perhaps

fifty or sixty more. If I were in his position, I should go in for some kind of regular business; he has people

who could help him. Goodnatured fellow; but what's the use of that if you've no money?'

They set out together, and walked to the girls' lodgings. Dora was about to use her latchkey, but Jasper

checked her. 'No. There's a light in the kitchen still; better knock, as we're so late.'

The landlady admitted them, and Jasper spoke a word or two with her, explaining that he would wait until his

elder sister's return; the darkness of the secondfloor windows had shown that Maud was not yet back.

A letter lay on the table. It was addressed to Maud, and Dora recognised the handwriting as that of a

'There must be some news here,' she said. 'Mrs Haynes wouldn't write unless she had something special to

Just upon midnight, a cab drew up before the house. Dora ran down to open the door to her sister, who came

'How late for you to be here!' she exclaimed, on entering the sittingroom and seeing Jasper.

'Oh yes!' she replied, carelessly. 'This letter for me? What has Mrs Haynes got to say, I wonder?'

She opened the envelope, and began to glance hurriedly over the sheet of paper. Then her face changed.

'He died yesterdayno, it would be the day before yesterday. He had a fit of some kind at a public meeting,

was taken to the hospital because it was nearest, and died in a few hours. So that has come, at last! Now

'Perhaps; there's no saying. I suppose her father will, at all events. The day before yesterday? Then the funeral

'No; I wouldn't,' was Jasper's reply. 'Better wait till she lets you hear. That's sure to be soon. She may have

The letter from Mrs Haynes was passed from hand to hand. 'Everybody feels sure,' it said, 'that a great deal of

his money will be left for public purposes. The ground for the park being already purchased, he is sure to

have made provision for carrying out his plans connected with it. But I hope your friends in London may

It was some time before Jasper could put an end to the speculative conversation and betake himself

homewards. And even on getting back to his lodgings he was little disposed to go to bed. This event of John

Yule's death had been constantly in his mind, but there was always a fear that it might not happen for long

enough; the sudden announcement excited him almost as much as if he were a relative of the deceased.

Since the domestic incidents connected with that unpleasant review in The Current, the relations between

Alfred Yule and his daughter had suffered a permanent change, though not in a degree noticeable by any one

but the two concerned. To all appearances, they worked together and conversed very much as they had been

wont to do; but Marian was made to feel in many subtle ways that her father no longer had complete

confidence in her, no longer took the same pleasure as formerly in the skill and conscientiousness of her

work, and Yule on his side perceived too clearly that the girl was preoccupied with something other than her

old wish to aid and satisfy him, that she had a new life of her own alien to, and in some respects

irreconcilable with, the existence in which he desired to confirm her. There was no renewal of open

disagreement, but their conversations frequently ended by tacit mutual consent, at a point which threatened

divergence; and in Yule's case every such warning was a cause of intense irritation. He feared to provoke

Beyond the fact that his daughter was in constant communication with the Miss Milvains, he knew, and could

discover, nothing of the terms on which she stood with the girls' brother, and this ignorance was harder to

bear than full assurance of a disagreeable fact would have been. That a man like Jasper Milvain, whose name

was every now and then forced upon his notice as a rising periodicalist and a faithful henchman of the

unspeakable Fadgethat a young fellow of such excellent prospects should seriously attach himself to a girl

like Marian seemed to him highly improbable, save, indeed, for the one consideration, that Milvain, who

assuredly had a very keen eye to chances, might regard the girl as a niece of old John Yule, and therefore

worth holding in view until it was decided whether or not she would benefit by her uncle's decease. Fixed in

his antipathy to the young man, he would not allow himself to admit any but a base motive on Milvain's side,

if, indeed, Marian and Jasper were more to each other than slight acquaintances; and he persuaded himself

that anxiety for the girl's welfare was at least as strong a motive with him as mere prejudice against the ally of

Fadge, and, it might be, the reviewer of 'English Prose.' Milvain was quite capable of playing fast and loose

with a girl, and Marian, owing to the peculiar circumstances of her position, would easily be misled by the

That she had never spoken again about the review in The Current might receive several explanations. Perhaps

she had not been able to convince herself either for or against Milvain's authorship; perhaps she had reason to

suspect that the young man was the author; perhaps she merely shrank from reviving a discussion in which

she might betray what she desired to keep secret. This last was the truth. Finding that her father did not recur

to the subject, Marian concluded that he had found himself to be misinformed. But Yule, though he heard the

original rumour denied by people whom in other matters he would have trusted, would not lay aside the

doubt that flattered his prejudices. If Milvain were not the writer of the review, he very well might have been;

There was an element of jealousy in the father's feeling. If he did not love Marian with all the warmth of

which a parent is capable, at least he had more affection for her than for any other person, and of this he

became strongly aware now that the girl seemed to be turning from him. If he lost Marian, he would indeed

Intellectually again, he demanded an entire allegiance from his daughter; he could not bear to think that her

zeal on his behalf was diminishing, that perhaps she was beginning to regard his work as futile and antiquated

in comparison with that of the new generation. Yet this must needs be the result of frequent intercourse with

such a man as Milvain. It seemed to him that he remarked it in her speech and manner, and at times he with

difficulty restrained himself from a reproach or a sarcasm which would have led to trouble.

Had he been in the habit of dealing harshly with Marian, as with her mother, of course his position would

have been simpler. But he had always respected her, and he feared to lose that measure of respect with which

she repaid him. Already he had suffered in her esteem, perhaps more than he liked to think, and the

increasing embitterment of his temper kept him always in danger of the conflict he dreaded. Marian was not

like her mother; she could not submit to tyrannous usage. Warned of that, he did his utmost to avoid an

outbreak of discord, constantly hoping that he might come to understand his daughter's position, and perhaps

Twice in the course of the summer he inquired of his wife whether she knew anything about the Milvains.

'I only know that she goes to see the young ladies, and that they do writing of some kind.'

'Never. I haven't heard his name from her since she told me the Miss Milvains weren't coming here again.'

He was not sorry that Marian had taken the decision to keep her friends away from St Paul's Crescent, for it

saved him a recurring annoyance; but, on the other hand, if they had continued to come, he would not have

been thus completely in the dark as to her intercourse with Jasper; scraps of information must now and then

Throughout the month of July he suffered much from his wonted bilious attacks, and Mrs Yule had to endure

a double share of his illtemper, that which was naturally directed against her, and that of which Marian was

the cause. In August things were slightly better; but with the return to labour came a renewal of Yule's

sullenness and savageness. Sundry pieces of illluck of a professional kindwarnings, as he too well

understood, that it was growing more and more difficult for him to hold his own against the new

writersexasperated his quarrel with destiny. The gloom of a cold and stormy September was doubly

wretched in that house on the far borders of Camden Town, but in October the sun reappeared and it seemed

to mollify the literary man's mood. Just when Mrs Yule and Marian began to hope that this long distemper

must surely come to an end, there befell an incident which, at the best of times, would have occasioned

It was one morning about eleven. Yule was in his study; Marian was at the Museum; Mrs Yule had gone

shopping. There came a sharp knock at the front door, and the servant, on opening, was confronted with a

The servant, not without apprehensions, delivered this message at the door of the study.

'Mrs Goby? Who is Mrs Goby?' exclaimed the man of letters, irate at the disturbance.

'I am Mrs Goby, of the 'Olloway Road, wife of Mr C. 0. Goby, 'aberdasher. I just want to speak to you, Mr

Yule started up in fury, and stared at the woman, to whom the servant had reluctantly given place.

'What business can you have with me? If you wish to see Mrs Yule, come again when she is at home.'

'No, Mr Yule, I will not come again!' cried the woman, red in the face. 'I thought I might have had respectable

treatment here, at all events; but I see you're pretty much like your relations in the way of behaving to people,

though you do wear better clothes, andI s'posecall yourself a gentleman. I won't come again, and you

'What's all this about?' asked the enraged author, overcoming an impulse to take Mrs Goby by the shoulders

and throw her out though he might have found some difficulty in achieving this feat. 'Who are you? And

'I'm the respectable wife of a respectable manthat's who I am, Mr Yule, if you want to know. And I always

thought Mrs Yule was the same, from the dealings we've had with her at the shop, though not knowing any

more of her, it's true, except that she lived in St Paul's Crezzent. And so she may be respectable, though I

can't say as her husband behaves himself very much like what he pretends to be. But I can't say as much for

her relations in Perker Street, 'Olloway, which I s'pose they're your relations as well, at least by marriage.

'What are you talking about?' shouted Yule, who was driven to frenzy by the mention of his wife's humble

'What have you to do with them? I s'pose they're your relations, ain't they? And I s'pose the girl Annie Rudd

is your niece, ain't she? At least, she's your wife's niece, and that comes to the same thing, I've always

understood, though I dare say a gentleman as has so many books about him can correct me if I've made a

'And what of this girl? Will you have the goodness to say what your business is?'

'Yes, I will have the goodness! I s'pose you know very well that I took your niece Annie Rudd as a domestic

servant'she repeated this precise definition'as a domestic servant, because Mrs Yule 'appened to 'arst me

if I knew of a place for a girl of that kind, as hadn't been out before, but could be trusted to do her best to give

'Well, whether you've much to do with them or little, that's how it was. And nicely she's paid me out, has your

niece, Miss Rudd. Of all the trouble I ever had with a girl! And now when she's run away back 'ome, and

when I take the trouble to go arfter her, I'm to be insulted and abused as never was! Oh, they're a nice

respectable family, those Rudds! Mrs Ruddthat's Mrs Yule's sisterwhat a nice, politespoken lady she

is, to be sure? If I was to repeat the languagebut there, I wouldn't lower myself. And I've been a brute of a

mistress; I illuse my servants, and I don't give 'em enough to eat, and I pay 'em worse than any woman in

London! That's what I've learnt about myself by going to Perker Street, 'Olloway. And when I come here to

ask Mrs Yule what she means by recommending such a creature, from such a 'ome, I get insulted by her

Yule was livid with rage, but the extremity of his scorn withheld him from utterance of what he felt.

'As I said, all this has nothing to do with me. I will let Mrs Yule know that you have called. I have no more

Mrs Goby repeated at still greater length the details of her grievance, but long before she had finished Yule

was sitting again at his desk in ostentatious disregard o{her. Finally, the exasperated woman flung open the

door, railed in a loud voice along the passage, and left the house with an alarming crash.

It was not long before Mrs Yule returned. Before taking off her things, she went down into the kitchen with

certain purchases, and there she learnt from the servant what had happened during her absence. Fear and

trembling possessed herthe sick, faint dread always excited by her husband's wrathbut she felt obliged

to go at once to the study. The scene that took place there was one of ignoble violence on Yule's part, and, on

that of his wife, of terrified selfaccusation, changing at length to dolorous resentment of the harshness with

He did not return for the midday meal, and when Marian, late in the afternoon, came back from the

Not finding her mother in the parlour, Marian called at the head of the kitchen stairs. The servant answered,

saying that Mrs Yule was up in her bedroom, and that she didn't seem well. Marian at once went up and

knocked at the bedroom door. In a moment or two her mother came out, showing a face of tearful misery.

They went into Marian's room, where Mrs Yule gave free utterance to her lamentations.

I was wrong, I dare say, and I might have known what would have come of it, but he couldn't speak to me

worse if I did him all the harm I could on purpose. It's all about Annie, because I found a place for her at Mrs

Goby's in the 'Olloway Road; and now Mrs Goby's been here and seen your father, and told him she's been

insulted by the Rudds, because Annie went off home, and she went after her to make inquiries. And your

father's in such a passion about it as never was. That woman Mrs Goby rushed into the study when he was

working; it was this morning, when I happened to be out. And she throws all the blame on me for

recommending her such a girl. And I did it for the best, that I did! Annie promised me faithfully she'd behave

well, and never give me trouble, and she seemed thankful to me, because she wasn't happy at home. And now

to think of her causing all this disturbance! I oughtn't to have done such a thing without speaking about it to

your father; but you know how afraid I am to say a word to him about those people. And my sister's told me

so often I ought to be ashamed of myself never helping her and her children; she thinks I could do such a lot

Marian listened with a confusion of wretched feelings. But her sympathies were strongly with her mother; as

well as she could understand the broken story, her father seemed to have no just cause for his pitiless rage,

'No, he went out at twelve o'clock, and he's never been back since. I feel as if I must do something; I can't

bear with it, Marian. He tells me I'm the curse of his lifeyes, he said that. I oughtn't to tell you, I know I

oughtn't; but it's more than I can bear. I've always tried to do my best, but it gets harder and harder for me.

But for me he'd never be in these bad tempers; it's because he can't look at me without getting angry. He says

I've kept him back all through his life; but for me he might have been far better off than he is. It may be true;

I've often enough thought it. But I can't bear to have it told me like that, and to see it in his face every time he

looks at me. I shall have to do something. He'd be glad if only I was out of his way.'

'Father has no right to make you so unhappy,' said Marian. 'I can't see that you did anything blameworthy; it

seems to me that it was your duty to try and help Annie, and if it turned out unfortunately, that can't be

helped. You oughtn't to think so much of what father says in his anger; I believe he hardly knows what he

'I've tried my best, Marian,' sobbed the poor woman, who felt that even her child's sympathy could not be

perfect, owing to the distance put between them by Marian's education and refined sensibilities. 'I've always

thought it wasn't right to talk to you about such things, but he's been too hard with me today.'

'I think it was better you should tell me. It can't go on like this; I feel that just as you do. I must tell father that

'Oh, you mustn't speak to him like that, Marian! I wouldn't for anything make unkindness between you and

your father; that would be the worst thing I'd done yet. I'd rather go away and work for my own living than

'It isn't you who make trouble; it's father. I ought to have spoken to him before this; I had no right to stand by

The longer they talked, the firmer grew Marian's resolve to front her father's tyrannous illhumour, and in

one way or another to change the intolerable state of things. She had been weak to hold her peace so long; at

her age it was a simple duty to interfere when her mother was treated with such flagrant injustice. Her father's

Yule did not return. Dinner was delayed for half an hour, then Marian declared that they would wait no

longer. They two made a sorry meal, and afterwards went together into the sittingroom. At eight o'clock

they heard the front door open, and Yule's footstep in the passage. Marian rose.

'Don't speak till tomorrow!' whispered her mother, catching at the girl's arm. 'Let it be till tomorrow,

She reached the study just as her father was closing the door behind him. Yule, seeing her enter, glared with

'Will you tell me what is wrong, father?' Marian asked, in a voice which betrayed her nervous suffering, yet

'I am not at all disposed to talk of the matter,' he replied, with the awkward rotundity of phrase which

distinguished him in his worst humour. 'For information you had better go to Mrs Goby or a person of

'It was very unfortunate that the woman came and troubled you about such things. But I can't see that mother

It cost Marian a terrible effort to address her father in these terms. When he turned fiercely upon her, she

'You can't see that she was to blame? Isn't it entirely against my wish that she keeps up any intercourse with

those low people? Am I to be exposed to insulting disturbance in my very study, because she chooses to

'I don't think Annie Rudd can be called a girl of bad character, and it was very natural that mother should try

to do something for her. You have never actually forbidden her to see her relatives.'

'A thousand times I have given her to understand that I utterly disapproved of such association. She knew

perfectly well that this girl was as likely as not to discredit her. If she had consulted me, I should at once have

forbidden anything of the kind; she was aware of that. She kept it secret from me, knowing that it would

excite my displeasure. I will not be drawn into such squalid affairs; I won't have my name spoken in such

'Your anger goes beyond all bounds. At the very worst, mother behaved imprudently, and with a very good

Marian was being strengthened to resist. Her blood grew hot; the sensation which once before had brought

'I am driven to speak. We can't go on living in this way, father. For months our home has been almost

ceaselessly wretched, because of the illtemper you are always in. Mother and I must defend ourselves; we

can't bear it any longer. You must surely feel how ridiculous it is to make such a thing as happened this

morning the excuse for violent anger. How can I help judging your behaviour? When mother is brought to the

point of saying that she would rather leave home and everything than endure her misery any longer, I should

be wrong if I didn't speak to you. Why are you so unkind? What serious cause has mother ever given you?'

'Then you are very unjust. I am not a child, and there's nothing wrong in my asking you why home is made a

'You prove that you are a child, in asking for explanations which ought to be clear enough to you.'

'The subject is no fit one to be discussed between a father and his daughter. If you cannot see the impropriety

Marian came to a pause. But she knew that his rebuke was mere unworthy evasion; she saw that her father

could not meet her look, and this perception of shame in him impelled her to finish what she had begun.

'I will say nothing of mother, then, but speak only for myself. I suffer too much from your unkindness; you

'You mean that I exact too much work from you?' asked her father, with a look which might have been

'No. But that you make the conditions of my work too hard. I live in constant fear of your anger.'

'I often think that threats, or even illusage, would be easier to bear than an unchanging gloom which always

'I am obliged to you for your criticism of my disposition and manner, but unhappily I am too old to reform.

Life has made me what I am, and I should have thought that your knowledge of what my life has been would

The irony of this laborious period was full of selfpity. His voice quavered at the close, and a tremor was

'It isn't lack of cheerfulness that I mean, father. That could never have brought me to speak like this.'

'If you wish me to admit that I am badtempered, surly, irritableI make no difficulty about that. The charge

is true enough. I can only ask you again: What are the circumstances that have ruined my temper? When you

present yourself here with a general accusation of my behaviour, I am at a loss to understand what you ask of

me, what you wish me to say or do. I must beg you to speak plainly. Are you suggesting that I should make

provision for the support of you and your mother away from my intolerable proximity? My income is not

large, as I think you are aware, but of course, if a demand of this kind is seriously made, I must do my best to

'I am sorry. I think we used to understand each other, but that was before you were subjected to the influence

In his perverse frame of mind he was ready to give utterance to any thought which confused the point at

issue. This last allusion was suggested to him by a sudden pang of regret for the pain he was causing Marian;

he defended himself against selfreproach by hinting at the true reason of much of his harshness.

'You may think that. But in such a matter it is very easy for you to deceive yourself.'

'Of course I know what you refer to, and I can assure you that I don't deceive myself.'

'Can you deny that you are on terms of friendship with aa person who would at any moment rejoice to

'It would be useless. I have no wish to discuss a subject on which we should only disagree unprofitably.'

'It is perhaps because we never speak of that subject that we are so far from understanding each other. If you

think that Mr Milvain is your enemy, that he would rejoice to injure you, you are grievously mistaken.'

'When I see a man in close alliance with my worst enemy, and looking to that enemy for favour, I am

justified in thinking that he would injure me if the right kind of opportunity offered. One need not be very

'Far better than you can, I am sure. You draw conclusions from general principles; but I know that they don't

'I have no doubt you sincerely think so. I repeat that nothing can be gained by such a discussion as this.'

'One thing I must tell you. There was no truth in your suspicion that Mr Milvain wrote that review in The

Current. He assured me himself that he was not the writer, that he had nothing to do with it.'

Yule looked askance at her, and his face displayed solicitude, which soon passed, however, into a smile of

'Father, what do you mean?' broke from Marian, whose eyes of a sudden flashed stormily. 'Would Mr

'I shouldn't like to say that it is impossible,' replied her father in the same tone as before.

'I have every right, my dear child, to express an opinion about him or any other man, provided I do it

honestly. I beg you not to strike attitudes and address me in the language of the stage. You insist on my

speaking plainly, and I have spoken plainly. I warned you that we were not likely to agree on this topic.'

'Literary quarrels have made you incapable of judging honestly in things such as this. I wish I could have

'Believe me, my girl,' said her father, incisively, 'the simpler thing would be to hold aloof from such people as

use the profession in a spirit of unalloyed selfishness, who seek only material advancement, and who,

And he glared at her with much meaning. Marianboth had remained standing all through the

'I speak with profound conviction,' pursued her father, 'and, however little you credit me with such a motive,

out of desire to guard you against the dangers to which your inexperience is exposed. It is perhaps as well that

There sounded at the housedoor that duplicated doubleknock which generally announces the bearer of a

telegram. Yule interrupted himself, and stood in an attitude of waiting. The servant was heard to go along the

passage, to open the door, and then return towards the study. Yes, it was a telegram. Such despatches rarely

came to this house; Yule tore the envelope, read its contents, and stood with gaze fixed upon the slip of paper

He slowly crumpled the envelope, and stepped aside to throw it into the paperbasket. The telegram he laid

on his desk. Marian stood all the time with bent head; he now looked at her with an expression of meditative

'I don't know that there's much good in resuming our conversation,' he said, in quite a changed tone, as if

something of more importance had taken possession of his thoughts and had made him almost indifferent to

the past dispute. 'But of course I am quite willing to hear anything you would still like to say.

'I can only ask you,' she replied, 'to try and make life less of a burden to us.'

'I shall have to leave town tomorrow for a few days; no doubt it will be some satisfaction to you to hear

'As for your occupation in my absence,' he went on, in a hard tone which yet had something tremulous,

emotional, making it quite different from the voice he had hitherto used, 'that will be entirely a matter for

your own judgment. I have felt for some time that you assisted me with less goodwill than formerly, and

now that you have frankly admitted it, I shall of course have very little satisfaction in requesting your aid. I

It was resentful, but not savage; between the beginning and the end of his speech he softened to a sort of

'I can't pretend,' replied Marian, 'that I have as much pleasure in the work as I should have if your mood were

'I am sorry. I might perhaps have made greater efforts to appear at ease when I was suffering.'

'Physical and mental. But that can't concern you. During my absence I will think of your reproof. I know that

it is deserved, in some degree. If it is possible, you shall have less to complain of in future.'

He looked about the room, and at length seated himself; his eyes were fixed in a direction away from Marian.

'I suppose you had dinner somewhere?' Marian asked, after catching a glimpse of his worn, colourless face.

It seemed as if he found some special pleasure in assuming this tone of martyrdom just now. At the same

He rose again impatiently, then approached his desk, and laid a hand on the telegram. Marian observed this

'I understand you very welltoo well. That you should misunderstand and mistrust me, I suppose, is natural.

You are young, and I am old. You are still full of hope, and I have been so often deceived and defeated that I

dare not let a ray of hope enter my mind. Judge me; judge me as hardly as you like. My life has been one

long, bitter struggle, and if now. I say,' he began a new sentence, 'that only the hard side of life has been

shown to me; small wonder if I have become hard myself. Desert me; go your own Way, as the young always

He spoke in a strangely sudden agitation. The arm with which he leaned upon the table trembled violently.

Impressed in a way she did not understand, Marian at once obeyed, and rejoined her mother in the parlour.

'Don't be afraid,' said Marian, with difficulty bringing herself to speak. 'I think it will be better.'

'Yes. I don't know where it was from. But father said he would have to leave town for a few days.'

The evening passed drearily. Fatigued with her emotions, Marian went early to bed; she even slept later than

usual in the morning, and on descending she found her father already at the breakfasttable. No greeting

passed, and there was no conversation during the meal. Marian noticed that her mother kept glancing at her in

a peculiarly grave way; but she felt ill and dejected, and could fix her thoughts on no subject. As he left the

She joined him there very soon. He looked coldly at her, and said in a distant tone:

'He died of apoplexy, at a meeting in Wattleborough. I shall go down this morning, and of course remain till

after the funeral. I see no necessity for your going, unless, of course, it is your desire to do so.'

'I think you had better not go to the Museum whilst I am away. You will occupy yourself as you think fit.'

'As you please. I don't know what mourning it would be decent for you to wear; you must consult with your

His tone was dismissal. Marian had a struggle with herself but she could find nothing to reply to his cold

Soon after his departure there was a visitor's rattat at the door; it heralded Mrs Goby. In the interview which

then took place Marian assisted her mother to bear the vigorous onslaughts of the haberdasher's wife. For

more than two hours Mrs Goby related her grievances, against the fugitive servant, against Mrs Yule, against

Mr Yule; meeting with no irritating opposition, she was able in this space of time to cool down to the

temperature of normal intercourse, and when she went forth from the house again it was in a mood of

dignified displeasure which she felt to be some recompense for the injuries of yesterday.

A result of this annoyance was to postpone conversation between mother and daughter on the subject of John

Yule's death until a late hour of the afternoon. Marian was at work in the study, or endeavouring to work, for

her thoughts would not fix themselves on the matter in hand for many minutes together, and Mrs Yule came

Her tone was dreamy. She seemed to herself to be speaking of something which scarcely at all concerned her,

'If that happens,' continued Mrs Yule, in a low tone of distress, 'I don't know what I shall do.'

'I can't wish that it mayn't happen,' her mother went on; 'I can't, for his sake and for yours; but I don't know

what I shall do. He'd think me more in his way than ever. He'd wish to have a large house, and live in quite a

different way; and how could I manage then? I couldn't show myself; he'd be too much ashamed of me. I

'No, my dear, you haven't; but it would be only natural. I couldn't live the kind of life that you're fit for. I shall

'To me you would never be either hindrance or shame; be quite sure of that. And as for father, I am all but

certain that, if he became rich, he would be a very much kinder man, a better man in every way. It is poverty

that has made him worse than he naturally is; it has that effect on almost everybody. Money does harm, too,

sometimes; but never, I think, to people who have a good heart and a strong mind. Father is naturally a

warmhearted man; riches would bring out all the best in him. He would be generous again, which he has

almost forgotten how to be among all his disappointments and battlings. Don't be afraid of that change, but

'I wasn't thinking so much about myself' she said at length. 'It's the hindrance I should be to father. Just

because of me, he mightn't be able to use his money as he'd wish. He'd always be feeling that if it wasn't for

'You must remember,' Marian replied, 'that at father's age people don't care to make such great changes. His

home life, I feel sure, wouldn't be so very different from what it is now; he would prefer to use his money in

starting a paper or magazine. I know that would be his first thought. If more acquaintances came to his house,

what would that matter? It isn't as if he wished for fashionable society. They would be literary people, and

'That's a great mistake. If father ever said that, in his bad temper, he knew it wasn't the truth. The chief reason

has always been his poverty. It costs money to entertain friends; time as well. Don't think in this anxious way,

Marian had every reason for seeking to persuade herself that this was true. In her own heart there was a fear

of how wealth might affect her father, but she could not bring herself to face the darker prospect. For her so

much depended on that hope of a revival of generous feeling under sunny influences.

It was only after this conversation that she began to reflect on all the possible consequences of her uncle's

death. As yet she had been too much disturbed to grasp as a reality the event to which she had often looked

forward, though as to something still remote, and of quite uncertain results. Perhaps at this moment, though

she could not know it, the course of her life had undergone the most important change. Perhaps there was no

She did not think it probable that she herself would benefit directly by John Yule's will. There was no

certainty that even her father would, for he and his brother had never been on cordial terms. But on the whole

it seemed likely that he would inherit money enough to free him from the toil of writing for periodicals. He

himself anticipated that. What else could be the meaning of those words in which (and it was before the

arrival of the news) he had warned her against 'people who made connections only with selfinterest in

view?' This threw a sudden light upon her father's attitude towards Jasper Milvain. Evidently he thought that

Jasper regarded her as a possible heiress, sooner or later. That suspicion was rankling in his mind; doubtless it

Was there any truth in his suspicion? She did not shrink from admitting that there might be. Jasper had from

the first been so frank with her, had so often repeated that money was at present his chief need. If her father

inherited substantial property, would it induce Jasper to declare himself more than her friend? She could view

the possibility of that, and yet not for a moment be shaken in her love. It was plain that Jasper could not think

of marrying until his position and prospects were greatly improved; practically, his sisters depended upon

him. What folly it would be to draw back if circumstances led him to avow what hitherto he had so slightly

disguised! She had the conviction that he valued her for her own sake; if the obstacle between them could

Would he be willing to abandon Clement Fadge, and come over to her father's side? If Yule were able to

Had she read or heard of a girl who went so far in concessions, Marian would have turned away, her delicacy

offended. In her own case she could indulge to the utmost that practicality which colours a woman's thought

even in mid passion. The cold exhibition of ignoble scheming will repel many a woman who, for her own

heart's desire, is capable of that same compromise with her strict sense of honour.

Marian wrote to Dora Milvain, telling her what had happened. But she refrained from visiting her friends.

Each night found her more restless, each morning less able to employ herself. She shut herself in the study

merely to be alone with her thoughts, to be able to walk backwards and forwards, or sit for hours in feverish

reverie. From her father came no news. Her mother was suffering dreadfully from suspense, and often had

eyes red with weeping. Absorbed in her own hopes and fears, whilst every hour harassed her more

intolerably, Marian was unable to play the part of an encourager; she had never known such exclusiveness of

Yule's return was unannounced. Early in the afternoon, when he had been absent five days, he entered the

house, deposited his travellingbag in the passage, and went upstairs. Marian had come out of the study just

in time to see him up on the first landing; at the same moment Mrs Yule ascended from the kitchen.

Marian shook her head. They looked at the travellingbag, then went into the parlour and waited in silence

for more than a quarter of an hour. Yule's foot was heard on the stairs; he came down slowly, paused in the

Each day Jasper came to inquire of his sisters if they had news from Wattleborough or from Marian Yule. He

exhibited no impatience, spoke of the matter in a disinterested tone; still, he came daily.

One afternoon he found Dora working alone. Maud, he was told, had gone to lunch at Mrs Lane's.

'So soon again? She's getting very thick with those people. And why don't they ask you?'

'It's all very well, but she mustn't neglect her work. Did she write anything last night or this morning?'

'Precisely. That's what I'm afraid of. She isn't the kind of girl to stick at work if people begin to send her

invitations. But I tell you what it is, you must talk seriously to her; she has to get her living, you know. Mrs

Lane and her set are not likely to be much use, that's the worst of it; they'll merely waste her time, and make

His sister executed an elaborate bit of crosshatching on some waste paper. Her lips were drawn together,

Jasper seemed to pay no attention; she looked up at him, and saw that he was in thought.

He spoke as if the name would be familiar to his hearer, but Dora seemed at a loss.

'Didn't I tell you about her? I thought I did. Oh, I met her first of all at Barlow's, just after we got back from

the seaside. Rather an interesting girl. She's a daughter of Manton Rupert, the advertising agent. I want to get

'Do you think of him as a billposter? At all events he is enormously wealthy, and has a magnificent house at

Chislehurst. The girl goes about with her stepmother. I call her a girl, but she must be nearly thirty, and Mrs

Rupert looks only two or three years older. I had quite a long talk with herMiss Rupert, I meanlast

night. She told me she was going to stay next week with the Barlows, so I shall have a run out to Wimbledon

'She isn't exactly goodlooking,' pursued Jasper, meditatively, with a quick glance at the listener, 'but fairly

intellectual. Plays very well, and has a nice contralto voice; she sang that new thing of Tosti'swhat do you

call it? I thought her rather masculine when I first saw her, but the impression wears off when one knows her

'What right?' He laughed. 'I am a young man with my way to make. I can't afford to lose any opportunity. If

Miss Rupert is so good as to take an interest in me, I have no objection. She's old enough to make friends for

'But, pray, do you consider yourself perfectly free?' asked Dora, with some indignation.

Jasper saw that she was in earnest. He stroked the back of his head and smiled at the wall.

'But Marian understands me perfectly. I have never for a moment tried to make her think thatwell, to put it

plainly, that I was in love with her. In all our conversations it has been my one object to afford her insight

into my character, and to explain my position. She has no excuse whatever for misinterpreting me. And I feel

'But come now, Dora; what's all this about? You are Marian's friend, and, of course, I don't wish you to say a

But let me explain myself. I have occasionally walked part of the way home with Marian, when she and I

have happened to go from here at the same time; now there was nothing whatever in our talk at such times

that anyone mightn't have listened to. We are both intellectual people, and we talk in an intellectual way. You

seem to have rather oldfashioned ideasprovincial ideas. A girl like Marian Yule claims the new privileges

of woman; she would resent it if you supposed that she couldn't be friendly with a man without attributing

"intentions" to himto use the old word. We don't live in Wattleborough, where liberty is rendered

'It seems to me rather strange, that's all. We had better not talk about it any more.'

'But I have only just begun to talk about it; I must try to make my position intelligible to you. Now,

supposea quite impossible thingthat Marian inherited some twenty or thirty thousand pounds; I should

'I see no reason for sarcasm. It would be a most rational proceeding. I like her very much; but to marry her

(supposing she would have me) without money would he a gross absurdity, simply spoiling my career, and

'No; but please to bear in mind that to obtain money somehow or otherand I see no other way than by

marriageis necessary to me, and that with as little delay as possible. I am not at all likely to get a big

editorship for some years to come, and I don't feel disposed to make myself prematurely old by toiling for a

few hundreds per annum in the meantime. Now all this I have frankly and fully explained to Marian. I dare

say she suspects what I should do if she came into possession of money; there's no harm in that. But she

'Then listen to me, Jasper. If we hear that Marian gets nothing from her uncle, you had better behave

'Well, no, it wouldn't. Strictly speaking, my interest in Marian wouldn't suffer at all. I should know that we

could be nothing but friends, that's all. Hitherto I haven't known what might come to pass; I don't know yet.

So far from following your advice, I shall let Marian understand that, if anything, I am more her friend than

'My dear girl, haven't I been showing you that no man could be more aboveboard, more straightforward?'

'Nonsense? Oh, this female lack of logic! Then my argument has been utterly thrown away. Now that's one of

the things I like in Miss Rupert; she can follow an argument and see consequences. And for that matter so can

There was a tap at the door. Dora called 'Come in!' and Marian herself appeared.

'What an odd thing!' exclaimed Jasper, lowering his voice. 'I was that moment saying I wished it were

'It was the old dispute whether women in general are capable of logic. But pardon me, Miss Yule; I forget

Jasper and his sister could not think it likely that Marian had suffered much from grief at her uncle's death;

practically John Yule was a stranger to her. Yet her face bore the signs of acute mental trouble, and it seemed

as if some agitation made it difficult for her to speak. The awkward silence that fell upon the three was

'Maud is becoming a young lady of society,' he saidjust for the sake of saying somethingas he moved

towards the door. 'If she comes back whilst you are here, Miss Yule, warn her that that is the path of

Marian turned her head with a sudden movement which was checked before she had quite looked round to

him. The phrase he uttered last appeared to have affected her in some way; her eyes fell, and an expression of

'I can only stay a few minutes,' she said, bending with a faint smile towards Dora, as soon as they were alone.

'No; I have done scarcely anything. I only pretended to read; my mind is too much troubled. Have you heard

'I thought it might have been spoken of in Wattleborough, and some friend might have written to you. But I

suppose there has hardly been time for that. I shall surprise you very much. Father receives nothing, but I

'Thenwhat do you think?' continued Marian. 'My cousin Amy has ten thousand pounds.'

'Yes, indeed. And her brother John has six thousand. But nothing to their mother. There are a good many

other legacies, but most of the property goes to the Wattleborough park"Yule Park" it will be calledand

to the volunteers, and things of that kind. They say he wasn't as rich as people thought.'

'Nothing. Not a penny. Oh I am so grieved! I think it so unkind, so wrong. Amy and her brother to have

sixteen thousand pounds and father nothing! I can't understand it. There was no unkind feeling between him

and father. He knew what a hard life father has had. Doesn't it seem heartless?'

'I think he feels the unkindness more than he does the disappointment; of course he must have expected

something. He came into the room where mother and I were, and sat down, and began to tell us about the will

just as if he were speaking to strangers about something he had read in the newspaperthat's the only way I

can describe it. Then he got up and went away into the study. I waited a little, and then went to him there; he

was sitting at work, as if he hadn't been away from home at all. I tried to tell him how sorry I was, but I

couldn't say anything. I began to cry foolishly. He spoke kindly to me, far more kindly than he has done for a

long time; but he wouldn't talk about the will, and I had to go away and leave him. Poor mother! for all she

was afraid that we were going to be rich, is brokenhearted at his disappointment.'

'Because she thought herself unfitted for life in a large house, and feared we should think her in our way.' She

smiled sadly. 'Poor mother! she is so humble and so good. I do hope that father will be kinder to her. But

there's no telling yet what the result of this may be. I feel guilty when I stand before him.'

It has always been his greatest wish to have a literary paper of his ownlike The Study, you know. He

'Think of the Reardons; what a change all at once! What will they do, I wonder? Surely they won't continue

Whilst they were discussing the affairs of that branch of the family, Maud returned. There was illhumour on

her handsome face, and she greeted Marian but coldly. Throwing off her hat and gloves and mantle she

'We can only suppose it is because she was the favourite child of the brother he liked best. Yet at her wedding

he gave her nothing, and spoke contemptuously of her for marrying a literary man.'

'Fortunate for her poor husband that her uncle was able to forgive her. I wonder what's the date of the will?

'I don't know when the will was made,' said Marian. 'And I don't know whether uncle had even heard of the

Reardons' misfortunes. I suppose he must have done. My cousin John was at the funeral, but not my aunt. I

think it most likely father and John didn't speak a word to each other. Fortunately the relatives were lost sight

of in the great crowd of Wattleborough people; there was an enormous procession, of course.'

Maud kept glancing at her sister. The illhumour had not altogether passed from her face, but it was now

A few moments more, and Marian had to hasten home. When she was gone the sisters looked at each other.

'Five thousand pounds,' murmured the elder. 'I suppose that is considered nothing.'

'Yes,' replied Dora. Then, after musing, 'He seemed annoyed that you were at the Lanes' again.'

'Things were rather stupid. Some people who were to have come didn't turn up. Andwell, it doesn't matter.'

She rose and glanced at herself in the little oblong mirror over the mantelpiece.

'What do you think? He told me in the calmest way that he didn't see why Marian should think of him as

anything but the most ordinary friendsaid he had never given her reason to think anything else.'

'He says she is about thirty, and rather masculine, but a great heiress. Jasper is shameful!'

'What do you expect? I consider it is your duty to let Marian know everything he says. Otherwise you help to

Dora was so impatient to let her brother have the news that she left the house as soon as she had had tea on

the chance of finding Jasper at home. She had not gone a dozen yards before she encountered him in person.

Jasper walked on with bent head. He said nothing more until he was upstairs in the sittingroom, where

'So Reardon is rescued from the slum and the clerk's desk! Well, I'm glad; by Jove, I am. I should have liked

it better if Marian had had the ten thousand and he the five, but it's an excellent joke. Perhaps the next thing

will be that he'll refuse to have anything to do with his wife's money; that would be just like him.' After

amusing himself with this subject for a few minutes more, he turned to the window and stood there in silence.

He did not seem to hear her. On a repetition of the inquiry, he answered absently:

During the remainder of his stay he talked very little, and as Maud also was in an abstracted mood, tea passed

It was necessary for him to work at a magazine article which he had begun this morning, and on reaching

home he spread out his papers in the usual businesslike fashion. The subject out of which he was

manufacturing 'copy' had its difficulties, and was not altogether congenial to him; this morning he had

laboured with unwonted effort to produce about a page of manuscript, and now that he tried to resume the

task his thoughts would not centre upon it. Jasper was too young to have thoroughly mastered the art of

somnambulistic composition; to write, he was still obliged to give exclusive attention to the matter under

treatment. Dr Johnson's saying, that a man may write at any time if he will set himself doggedly to it, was

often upon his lips, and had even been of help to him, as no doubt it has to many another man obliged to

compose amid distracting circumstances; but the formula had no efficacy this evening. Twice or thrice he

rose from his chair, paced the room with a determined brow, and sat down again with vigorous clutch of the

pen; still he failed to excogitate a single sentence that would serve his purpose.

'I must have it out with myself before I can do anything,' was his thought as he finally abandoned the

To this end he settled himself in an easychair and began to smoke cigarettes. Some dozen of these aids to

reflection only made him so nervous that he could no longer remain alone. He put on his hat and overcoat and

went outto find that it was raining heavily. He returned for an umbrella, and before long was walking

aimlessly about the Strand, unable to make up his mind whether to turn into a theatre or not. Instead of doing

so, he sought a certain upper room of a familiar restaurant, where the day's papers were to be seen, and

perchance an acquaintance might be met. Only halfadozen men were there, reading and smoking, and all

were unknown to him. He drank a glass of lager beer, skimmed the news of the evening, and again went out

After all it was better to go home. Everything he encountered had an unsettling effect upon him, so that he

was further than ever from the decision at which he wished to arrive. In Mornington Road he came upon

Reassured, he gladly returned to the house. Milvain acquainted him with the fact of John Yule's death, and

with its result so far as it concerned the Reardons. They talked of how the couple would probably behave

'Biffen professes to know nothing about Mrs Reardon,' said Whelpdale. 'I suspect he keeps his knowledge to

himself, out of regard for Reardon. It wouldn't surprise me if they live apart for a long time yet.'

'They're not at all suited to each other. Mrs Reardon, no doubt, repents her marriage bitterly, and I doubt

'As there's no way of getting divorced they'll make the best of it. Ten thousand pounds produce about four

'You're such a sentimental fellow!' cried Jasper. 'I believe you seriously think that lovethe sort of frenzy

you understand by itought to endure throughout married life. How has a man come to your age with such

'I haven't much faith in marrying for love, as you know. What's more, I believe it's the very rarest thing for

people to be in love with each other. Reardon and his wife perhaps were an instance; perhapsI'm not quite

sure about her. As a rule, marriage is the result of a mild preference, encouraged by circumstances, and

deliberately heightened into strong sexual feeling. You, of all men, know well enough that the same kind of

'To be sure. I think it's only a matter of degree. When it rises to the point of frenzy people may strictly be said

to be in love; and, as I tell you, I think that comes to pass very rarely indeed. For my own part, I have no

'I dare say you have imagined yourself in loveor really been so for aught I knowa dozen times. How the

deuce you can attach any importance to such feeling where marriage is concerned I don't understand.'

'Well, now,' said Whelpdale, 'I have never upheld the theoryat least not since I was sixteenthat a man

can be in love only once, or that there is one particular woman if he misses whom he can never be happy.

'I object to the word "love" altogether. It has been vulgarised. Let us talk about compatibility. Now, I should

say that, no doubt, and speaking scientifically, there is one particular woman supremely fitted to each man. I

put aside consideration of circumstances; we know that circumstances will disturb any degree of abstract

fitness. But in the nature of things there must be one woman whose nature is specially well adapted to

harmonise with mine, or with yours. If there were any means of discovering this woman in each case, then I

have no doubt it would be worth a man's utmost effort to do so, and any amount of erotic jubilation would be

reasonable when the discovery was made. But the thing is impossible, and, what's more, we know what

ridiculous fallibility people display when they imagine they have found the best substitute for that

indiscoverable. This is what makes me impatient with sentimental talk about marriage. An educated man

mustn't play so into the hands of ironic destiny. Let him think he wants to marry a woman; but don't let him

'There's more than a good deal; there's the last word on the subject. The days of romantic love are gone by.

The scientific spirit has put an end to that kind of selfdeception. Romantic love was inextricably blended

with all sorts of superstitions belief in personal immortality, in superior beings, inall the rest of it. What

we think of now is moral and intellectual and physical compatibility; I mean, if we are reasonable people.'

'And if we are not so unfortunate as to fall in love with an incompatible,' added Whelpdale, laughing.

'Well, that is a form of unreasona blind desire which science could explain in each case. I rejoice that I am

'Yes. Not strong enough to make me lose sight of prudence and advantage. No, not strong enough for that.'

'Perhaps not. But, as I told you, a preference of this kind can be heightened into emotion, if one chooses. In

the case of which I am thinking it easily might be. And I think it very improbable indeed that I should repent

'I don't think it will. I am far more likely to marry some woman for whom I have no preference, but who can

'I confess that amazes me. I know the value of money as well as you do, but I wouldn't marry a rich woman

'Doomed to perpetual disappointment,' said the other, looking disconsolately about the room.

'I admit the danger of that. But shall I tell you something I have observed? Each woman I fall in love with is

'But I am perfectly serious, I assure you. To go back only three or four years. There was the daughter of my

landlady in Barham Street; well, a nice girl enough, but limited, decidedly limited.

Next came that girl at the stationer'syou remember? She was distinctly an advance, both in mind and

person. Then there was Miss Embleton; yes, I think she made again an advance. She had been at Bedford

College, you know, and was really a girl of considerable attainments; morally, admirable. Afterwards'

'Yes, it was. Well, I can't be quite sure. But in many respects that girl was my ideal; she really was.'

'I really believe she would rank above Miss Embletonat all events from my point of view. And that's

everything, you know. It's the effect a woman produces on one that has to be considered.'

Whelpdale again looked about the room, but added nothing, and fell into a long silence.

When left to himself Jasper walked about a little, then sat down at his writingtable, for he felt easier in

mind, and fancied that he might still do a couple of hours' work before going to bed. He did in fact write

halfadozen lines, but with the effort came back his former mood. Very soon the pen dropped, and he was

He sat till after midnight, and when he went to his bedroom it was with a lingering step, which proved him

Alfred Yule's behaviour under his disappointment seemed to prove that even for him the uses of adversity

could be sweet. On the day after his return home he displayed a most unwonted mildness in such remarks as

he addressed to his wife, and his bearing towards Marian was gravely gentle. At meals he conversed, or rather

monologised, on literary topics, with occasionally one of his grim jokes, pointed for Marian's appreciation.

He became aware that the girl had been overtaxing her strength of late, and suggested a few weeks of

recreation among new novels. The coldness and gloom which had possessed him when he made a formal

announcement of the news appeared to have given way before the sympathy manifested by his wife and

He explained to Marian the exact nature of her legacy. It was to be paid out of her uncle's share in a

wholesale stationery business, with which John Yule had been connected for the last twenty years, but from

which he had not long ago withdrawn a large portion of his invested capital. This house was known as

'I knew nothing of his association with them,' said her father. 'They tell me that seven or eight thousand

pounds will be realised from that source; it seems a pity that the investment was not left to you intact.

The executors were two old friends of the deceased, one of them a former partner in his papermaking

On the evening of the second day, about an hour after dinner was over, Mr Hinks called at the house; as

usual, he went into the study. Before long came a second visitor, Mr Quarmby, who joined Yule and Hinks.

The three had all sat together for some time, when Marian, who happened to be coming down stairs, saw her

'Ask your mother to let us have some supper at a quarter to ten,' he said urbanely. 'And come in, won't you?

Marian informed Mrs Yule that the visitors would have supper, and then went to the study. Mr Quarmby was

smoking a pipe; Mr Hinks, who on grounds of economy had long since given up tobacco, sat with his hands

in his trouser pockets, and his long, thin legs tucked beneath the chair; both rose and greeted Marian with

'Will you allow me five or six more puffs?' asked Mr Quarmby, laying one hand on his ample stomach and

elevating his pipe as if it were a glass of beaded liquor. 'I shall then have done.'

The easiest chair was placed for her, Mr Hinks hastening to perform this courtesy, and her father apprised her

'What's your view, Marian? Is there anything to be said for the establishment of a literary academy in

Mr Quarmby beamed benevolently upon her, and Mr Hinks, his scraggy neck at full length, awaited her reply

'I really think we have quite enough literary quarrelling as it is,' the girl replied, casting down her eyes and

Mr Quarmby uttered a hollow chuckle, Mr Hinks laughed thinly and exclaimed, 'Very good indeed! Very

'It wouldn't harmonise with the AngloSaxon spirit,' remarked Mr Hinks, with an air of diffident profundity.

Yule held forth on the subject for a few minutes in laboured phrases. Presently the conversation turned to

periodicals, and the three men were unanimous in an opinion that no existing monthly or quarterly could be

'We want,' remarked Mr Quarmby, 'we want a monthly review which shall deal exclusively with literature.

The Fortnightly, the Contemporarythey are very well in their way, but then they are mere miscellanies.

You will find one solid literary article amid a confused mass of politics and economics and general

'Articles on the currency and railway statistics and views of evolution,' said Mr Hinks, with a look as if

'The quarterlies?' put in Yule. 'Well, the original idea of the quarterlies was that there are not enough

important books published to occupy solid reviewers more than four times a year. That may be true, but then

a literary monthly would include much more than professed reviews. Hinks's essays on the historical drama

'I threw out the idea to Jedwood the other day,' said Mr Quarmby, 'and he seemed to nibble at it.'

'Yes, yes,' came from Yule; 'but Jedwood has so many irons in the fire. I doubt if he has the necessary capital

'No enormous capital needed,' opined Mr Quarmby. 'The thing would pay its way almost from the first. It

would take a place between the literary weeklies and the quarterlies. The former are too academic, the latter

too massive, for multitudes of people who yet have strong literary tastes. Foreign publications should be

liberally dealt with. But, as Hinks says, no meddling with the books that are no booksbiblia abiblia;

Even here, in the freedom of a friend's study, he laughed his Readingroom laugh, folding both hands upon

They pursued the discussion as if they were an editorial committee planning a review of which the first

number was shortly to appear. It occupied them until Mrs Yule announced at the door that supper was ready.

During the meal Marian found herself the object of unusual attention; her father troubled to inquire if the cut

of cold beef he sent her was to her taste, and kept an eye on her progress. Mr Hinks talked to her in a tone of

respectful sympathy, and Mr Quarmby was paternally jovial when he addressed her. Mrs Yule would have

kept silence, in her ordinary way, but this evening her husband made several remarks which he had adapted

Mother and daughter remained together when the men withdrew to their tobacco and toddy. Neither made

allusion to the wonderful change, but they talked more lightheartedly than for a long time.

On the morrow Yule began by consulting Marian with regard to the disposition of matter in an essay he was

writing. What she said he weighed carefully, and seemed to think that she had set his doubts at rest.

'Poor old Hinks!' he said presently, with a sigh. 'Breaking up, isn't he? He positively totters in his walk. I'm

afraid he's the kind of man to have a paralytic stroke; it wouldn't astonish me to hear at any moment that he

'Goodness knows! One might ask the same of so many of us. What would become of me, for instance, if I

'There's something I'll just mention to you,' he went on in a lowered tone, 'though I don't wish you to take it

'Nothing, I hope; butwell, I think I shall see an oculist. One doesn't care to face a prospect of failing sight,

perhaps of cataract, or something of that kind; still, it's better to know the facts, I should say.'

'Don't disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all. But in any case I must change my glasses.'

'Now, I appeal to you, Marian,' he continued: 'could I possibly save money out of an income that has never

exceeded two hundred and fifty pounds, and oftenI mean even in latter yearshas been much less?'

'In one way, of course, I have managed it. My life is insured for five hundred pounds. But that is no provision

for possible disablement. If I could no longer earn money with my pen, what would become of me?'

Marian could have made an encouraging reply, but did not venture to utter her thoughts.

'Sit down,' said her father. 'You are not to work for a few days, and I myself shall be none the worse for a

morning's rest. Poor old Hinks! I suppose we shall help him among us, somehow. Quarmby, of course, is

comparatively flourishing. Well, we have been companions for a quarter of a century, we three. When I first

met Quarmby I was a Grub Street gazetteer, and I think he was even poorer than I. A life of toil! A life of

'Bythebye'he threw an arm over the back of his chair'what did you think of our imaginary review, the

'So many? My dear child, if we live another ten years we shall see the number trebled.'

'That there should be such growth of periodicals? Well, from one point of view, no. No doubt they take up the

time which some people would give to solid literature. But, on the other hand, there's a far greater number of

people who would probably not read at all, but for the temptations of these short and new articles; and they

may be induced to pass on to substantial works. Of course it all depends on the quality of the periodical

matter you offer. Now, magazines like'he named two or three of popular stamp'might very well be

dispensed with, unless one regards them as an alternative to the talking of scandal or any other vicious result

of total idleness. But such a monthly as we projected would be of distinct literary value. There can be no

'I am afraid,' said Marian, 'I haven't so much sympathy with literary undertakings as you would like me to

Money is a great fortifier of selfrespect. Since she had become really conscious of her position as the owner

of five thousand pounds, Marian spoke with a steadier voice, walked with firmer step; mentally she felt

herself altogether a less dependent being. She might have confessed this lukewarmness towards literary

enterprise in the anger which her father excited eight or nine days ago, but at that time she could not have

uttered her opinion calmly, deliberately, as now. The smile which accompanied the words was also new; it

'I have felt that,' returned her father, after a slight pause to command his voice, that it might be suave instead

of scornful. 'I greatly fear that I have made your life something of a martyrdom '

'Don't think I meant that, father. I am speaking only of the general question. I can't be quite so zealous as you

are, that's all. I love books, but I could wish people were content for a while with those we already have.'

'My dear Marian, don't suppose that I am out of sympathy with you here. Alas! how much of my work has

been mere drudgery, mere labouring for a livelihood! How gladly I would have spent much more of my time

among the great authors, with no thought of making money of them! If I speak approvingly of a scheme for a

She checked a laugh. There came into her mind a more disagreeable suspicion than she had ever entertained

of her father. Was this the meaning of his softened behaviour? Was he capable of calculated hypocrisy? That

'Let us talk it over,' said Yule. He was in visible agitation and his voice shook. 'The idea may well startle you

at first. It will seem to you that I propose to make away with your property before you have even come into

possession of it.' He laughed. 'But, in fact, what I have in mind is merely an investment for your capital, and

that an admirable one. Five thousand pounds at three per cent.one doesn't care to reckon on

morerepresents a hundred and fifty a year. Now, there can be very little doubt that, if it were invested in

literary property such as I have in mind, it would bring you five times that interest, and before long perhaps

much more. Of course I am now speaking in the roughest outline. I should have to get trustworthy advice;

complete and detailed estimates would be submitted to you. At present I merely suggest to you this form of

He watched her face eagerly, greedily. When Marian's eyes rose to his he looked away.

'Of course notof course not. I merely put before you the chief advantages of such an investment. As I am a

selfish old fellow, I'll talk about the benefit to myself first of all. I should be editor of the new review; I

should draw a stipend sufficient to all my needsquite content, at first, to take far less than another man

would ask, and to progress with the advance of the periodical. This position would enable me to have done

with mere drudgery; I should only write when I felt called to do sowhen the spirit moved me.' Again he

laughed, as though desirous of keeping his listener in good humour. 'My eyes would be greatly spared

He dwelt on that point, waiting its effect on Marian. As she said nothing he proceeded:

'And suppose I really were doomed to lose my sight in the course of a few years, am I wrong in thinking that

the proprietor of this periodical would willingly grant a small annuity to the man who had firmly established

'I see the force of all that,' said Marian; 'but it takes for granted that the periodical will be successful.'

'It does. In the hands of a publisher like Jedwooda vigorous man of the new schoolits success could

'Well, I can say nothing definite on that point. For one thing, the coat must be made according to the cloth;

expenditure can be largely controlled without endangering success. Then again, I think Jedwood would take a

share in the venture. These are details. At present I only want to familiarise you with the thought that an

'It would be better if we called it a speculation,' said Marian, smiling uneasily.

Her one object at present was to oblige her father to understand that the suggestion by no means lured her.

She could not tell him that what he proposed was out of the question, though as yet that was the light in

which she saw it. His subtlety of approach had made her feel justified in dealing with him in a matteroffact

way. He must see that she was not to be cajoled. Obviously, and in the nature of the case, he was urging a

proposal in which he himself had all faith; but Marian knew his judgment was far from infallible. It mitigated

her sense of behaving unkindly to reflect that in all likelihood this disposal of her money would be the worst

possible for her own interests, and therefore for his. If, indeed, his dark forebodings were warranted, then

upon her would fall the care of him, and the steadiness with which she faced that responsibility came from a

'Name it as you will,' returned her father, hardly suppressing a note of irritation. 'True, every commercial

enterprise is a speculation. But let me ask you one question, and beg you to reply frankly. Do you distrust my

She did. She knew that he was not in touch with the interests of the day, and that all manner of considerations

akin to the prime end of selling his review would make him an untrustworthy editor.

'There's no need to talk of that now, father. Indeed, I can't say anything that would sound like a promise.'

'But you have no objection, Marian, to talk in a friendly way of a project that would mean so much to me?'

'But I am afraid to encourage you,' she replied, frankly. 'It is impossible for me to say whether I can do as you

'Yes, yes; I perfectly understand that. Heaven forbid that I should regard you as a child to be led

independently of your own views and wishes! With so large a sum of money at stake, it would be monstrous

if I acted rashly, and tried to persuade you to do the same. The matter will have to be most gravely

'But if only it should come to something! You don't know what it would mean to me, Marian.'

'Do you?' He leaned forward, his features working under stress of emotion. 'If I could see myself the editor of

an influential review, all my bygone toils and sufferings would be as nothing; I should rejoice in them as the

steps to this triumph. Meminisse juvabit! My dear, I am not a man fitted for subordinate places. My nature is

framed for authority. The failure of all my undertakings rankles so in my heart that sometimes I feel capable

of every brutality, every meanness, every hateful cruelty. To you I have behaved shamefully. Don't interrupt

me, Marian. I have treated you abominably, my child, my dear daughterand all the time with a full sense of

what I was doing. That's the punishment of faults such as mine. I hate myself for every harsh word and angry

'No, no; let me speak, Marian. You have forgiven me; I know it. You were always ready to forgive, dear. Can

I ever forget that evening when I spoke like a brute, and you came afterwards and addressed me as if the

wrong had been on your side? It burns in my memory. It wasn't I who spoke; it was the demon of failure, of

humiliation. My enemies sit in triumph, and scorn at me; the thought of it is infuriating. Have I deserved this?

Am I the inferior ofof those men who have succeeded and now try to trample on me? No! I am not! I have

Listening to this strange outpouring, Marian more than forgave the hypocrisy of the last day or two. Nay,

could it be called hypocrisy? It was only his better self declared at the impulse of a passionate hope.

'Why should you think so much of these troubles, father? Is it such a great matter that narrowminded people

'Well, well; we won't talk of that. Perhaps it isn't a great matter. Nofrom a philosophical point of view,

such things are unspeakably petty. But I am not much of a philosopher.' He laughed, with a break in his

voice. 'Defeat in life is defeat, after all; and unmerited failure is a bitter curse. You see, I am not too old to do

something yet. My sight is failing, but I can take care of it. If I had my own review, I would write every now

and then a critical paper in my very best style. You remember poor old Hinks's note about me in his book?

We laughed at it, but he wasn't so far wrong. I have many of those qualities. A man is conscious of his own

merits as well as of his defects. I have done a few admirable things. You remember my paper on Lord

Herbert of Cherbury? No one ever wrote a more subtle piece of criticism; but it was swept aside among the

rubbish of the magazines. And it's just because of my pungent phrases that I have excited so much enmity.

Wait! Wait! Let me have my own review, and leisure, and satisfaction of mindheavens! what I will write!

In such a position, I should carefully avoid every word that betrayed personal feeling.'

'Well, well; you are of course right, my good girl. And I believe I should do injustice to myself if I made you

think that those ignoble motives are the strongest in me. No; it isn't so. From my boyhood I have had a

passionate desire of literary fame, deep down below all the surface faults of my character. The best of my life

has gone by, and it drives me to despair when I feel that I have not gained the position due to me. There is

only one way of doing this now, and that is by becoming the editor of an important periodical. Only in that

way shall I succeed in forcing people to pay attention to my claims. Many a man goes to his grave

unrecognised, just because he has never had a fair judgment. Nowadays it is the unscrupulous men of

business who hold the attention of the public; they blow their trumpets so loudly that the voices of honest

Marian was pained by the humility of his pleading with herfor what was all this but an endeavour to move

her sympathies?and by the necessity she was under of seeming to turn a deaf ear. She believed that there

was some truth in his estimate of his own powers; though as an editor he would almost certainly fail, as a

man of letters he had probably done far better work than some who had passed him by on their way to

popularity. Circumstances might enable her to assist him, though not in the way he proposed. The worst of it

was that she could not let him see what was in her mind. He must think that she was simply balancing her

own satisfaction against his, when in truth she suffered from the conviction that to yield would be as unwise

in regard to her father's future as it would be perilous to her own prospect of happiness.

'Shall we leave this to be talked of when the money has been paid over to me?' she said, after a silence.

'Yes. Don't suppose I wish to influence you by dwelling on my own hardships. That would be contemptible. I

have only taken this opportunity of making myself better known to you. I don't readily talk of myself and in

general my real feelings are hidden by the faults of my temper. In suggesting how you could do me a great

service, and at the same time reap advantage for yourself I couldn't but remember how little reason you have

to think kindly of me. But we will postpone further talk. You will think over what I have said?'

Marian promised that she would, and was glad to bring the conversation to an end.

When Sunday came, Yule inquired of his daughter if she had any engagement for the afternoon.

'I'm sorry. I thought of asking you to come with me to Quarmby's. Shall you be away through the evening?'

He tried to dismiss the matter as if it were of no moment, but Marian saw the shadow that passed over his

countenance. This was just after breakfast. For the remainder of the morning she did not meet him, and at the

midday dinner he was silent, though he brought no book to the table with him, as he was wont to do when in

his dark moods. Marian talked with her mother, doing her best to preserve the appearance of cheerfulness

She chanced to meet her father in the passage just as she was going out. He smiled (it was more like a grin of

When the front door closed, he went into the parlour. Mrs Yule was reading, or, at all events, turning over a

'Where do you suppose she has gone?' he asked, in a voice which was only distant, not offensive.

He seated himself on the corner of a chair and bent forward, his chin in his hand.

'I wanted her to come to Quarmby's, because there'll be a man there who is anxious that Jedwood should start

a magazine, and it would be useful for her to hear practical opinions. There'd be no harm if you just spoke to

her about it now and then. Of course if she has made up her mind to refuse me it's no use troubling myself

Only dire stress of circumstances could have brought Alfred Yule to make distinct appeal for his wife's help.

There was no underhand plotting between them to influence their daughter; Mrs Yule had as much desire for

the happiness of her husband as for that of Marian, but she felt powerless to effect anything on either side.

'Unfortunately, there are a good many things you can't do.' With that remark, familiar to his wife in

substance, though the tone of it was less caustic than usual, he rose and sauntered from the room. He spent a

gloomy hour in the study, then went off to join the literary circle at Mr Quarmby's.

Occasionally Milvain met his sisters as they came out of church on Sunday morning, and walked home to

have dinner with them. He did so today, though the sky was cheerless and a strong northwest wind made it

'Are you going to Mrs Wright's this afternoon?' he asked, as they went on together.

He said nothing more just then, but when presently he was alone with Dora in the sittingroom for a few

'I want to have a talk with Marian. We'll manage it in this way. At a quarter to three you two shall start, and

as you go out you can tell the landlady that if Miss Yule comes she is to wait for you, as you won't be long.

'Well, you'll do this? One of the results of poverty, you see; one can't even have a private conversation with a

friend without plotting to get the use of a room. But there shall be an end of this state of things.'

The device was put into execution, and Jasper saw his sisters depart knowing that they were not likely to

return for some three hours. He seated himself comfortably by the fire and mused. Five minutes had hardly

gone by when he looked at his watch, thinking Marian must be unpunctual. He was nervous, though he had

believed himself secure against such weakness. His presence here with the purpose he had in his mind

seemed to him distinctly a concession to impulses he ought to have controlled; but to this resolve he had

come, and it was now too late to recommence the arguments with himself. Too late? Well, not strictly so; he

had committed himself to nothing; up to the last moment of freedom he could always

That was doubtless Marian's knock at the front door. He jumped up, walked the length of the room, sat down

on another chair, returned to his former seat. Then the door opened and Marian came in.

She was not surprised; the landlady had mentioned to her that Mr Milvain was upstairs, waiting the return of

'I am to make 'Dora's excuses,' Jasper said. 'She begged you would forgive herthat you would wait.'

'And you were to be sure to take off your hat,' he added in a laughing tone; 'and to let me put your umbrella in

He had always admired the shape of Marian's head, and the beauty of her short, soft, curly hair. As he

watched her uncovering it, he was pleased with the grace of her arms and the pliancy of her slight figure.

'When one goes to see a friend frequently, one gets into regular habits in these matters. In Biffen's garret I

used to have the most uncomfortable chair it was ever my lot to sit upon; still, I came to feel an affection for

it. At Reardon's I always had what was supposed to be the most luxurious seat, but it was too small for me,

'Yes. I am told that Reardon has had the offer of a secretaryship to a boys' home, or something of the kind, at

Marian laughed. It was very rarely that Jasper had heard her laugh at all, and never so spontaneously as this.

'She is a difficult person to judge. I never disliked her, by any means; but she was decidedly out of place as

the wife of a struggling author. Perhaps I have been a little prejudiced against her since Reardon quarrelled

Marian was astonished at this unlookedfor explanation of the rupture between Milvain and his friend. That

they had not seen each other for some months she knew from Jasper himself but no definite cause had been

'I may as well let you know all about it,' Milvain continued, seeing that he had disconcerted the girl, as he

meant to. 'I met Reardon not long after they had parted, and he charged me with being in great part the cause

'You would never imagine what my fault was. Reardon declared that the tone of my conversation had been

morally injurious to his wife. He said I was always glorifying worldly success, and that this had made her

'Reardon was in desperate earnest, poor fellow. And, to tell you the truth, I fear there may have been

I told him at once that I should henceforth keep away from Mrs Edmund Yule's; and so I have done, with the

result, of course, that they suppose I condemn Mrs Reardon's behaviour. The affair was a nuisance, but I had

'As I talk to everyone. You have heard me say the same things many a time. I simply declare my opinion that

the end of literary work unless one is a man of geniusis to secure comfort and repute. This doesn't seem

to me very scandalous. But Mrs Reardon was perhaps too urgent in repeating such views to her husband. She

saw that in my case they were likely to have solid results, and it was a misery to her that Reardon couldn't or

'No; because I am so sure that you only spoke in the way natural to you, without a thought of such

'That's precisely the truth. Nearly all men who have their way to make think as I do, but most feel obliged to

adopt a false tone, to talk about literary conscientiousness, and so on. I simply say what I think, with no

pretences. I should like to be conscientious, but it's a luxury I can't afford. I've told you all this often enough,

Jasper was startled. He gazed at her. Ought he, then, to have dealt with her less frankly? Had he been

mistaken in thinking that the unusual openness of his talk was attractive to her? She spoke with quite

unaccustomed decision; indeed, he had noticed from her entrance that there was something unfamiliar in her

way of conversing. She was so much more selfpossessed than of wont, and did not seem to treat him with

'You don't like it?' he repeated calmly. 'It has become rather tiresome to you?'

'I feel sorry that you should always represent yourself in an unfavourable light.'

He was an acute man, but the selfconfidence with which he had entered upon this dialogue, his conviction

that he had but to speak when he wished to receive assurance of Marian's devotion, prevented him from

understanding the tone of independence she had suddenly adopted. With more modesty he would have felt

more subtly at this juncture, would have divined that the girl had an exquisite pleasure in drawing back now

that she saw him approaching her with unmistakable purpose, that she wished to be wooed in less offhand

fashion before confessing what was in her heart. For the moment he was disconcerted. Those last words of

hers had a slight tone of superiority, the last thing he would have expected upon her lips.

'I'm not sure that I understand you. You say that you do really think as you speak.'

'So I do. I think that there is no choice for a man who can't bear poverty. I have never said, though, that I had

It was a delight to Marian to observe the anxiety with which he turned to selfdefence. Never in her life had

she felt this joy of holding a position of command. It was nothing to her that Jasper valued her more because

of her money; impossible for it to be otherwise. Satisfied that he did value her, to begin with, for her own

sake, she was very willing to accept money as her ally in the winning of his love. He scarcely loved her yet,

as she understood the feeling, but she perceived her power over him, and passion taught her how to exert it.

'But you resign yourself very cheerfully to the necessity,' she said, looking at him with merely intellectual

'You had rather I lamented my fate in not being able to devote myself to nobly unremunerative work?'

There was a note of irony here. It caused her a tremor, but she held her position.

'That I neither care for good work nor am capable of it,' Jasper finished her sentence. 'I shouldn't have thought

Instead of replying she turned her look towards the door. There was a footstep on the stairs, but it passed.

'She won't be here for another couple of hours at least,' replied Jasper with a slight smile.

'I sent her to Mrs Boston Wright's that I might have an opportunity of talking to you. Will you forgive the

'I'm glad there's plenty of time,' he continued. 'I begin to suspect that you have been misunderstanding me of

'That may mean something very disagreeable. I know that some people whom I esteem have a very poor

opinion of me, but I can't allow you to be one of them. What do I seem to you? What is the result on your

'To say no, would be to put you in the lowest class of men, and that a very small one.''Good! Then I am not

among the basest. But that doesn't give me very distinguished claims upon your consideration. Whatever I

'Because I have enough of oldfashioned thought to believe that a woman who is worthy of a man's love is

His voice was not convincing; the phrase did not sound natural on his lips. It was not thus that she had hoped

to hear him speak. Whilst he expressed himself thus conventionally he did not love her as she desired to be

'It doesn't surprise me. You are very reserved on all subjects, and we have never spoken of this, but of course

I know that your thought is never commonplace. Hold what view you like of woman's position, that doesn't

'Desperately. Love is a very old and common thing, and I believe I love you in the old and common way. I

think you beautiful, you seem to me womanly in the best sense, full of charm and sweetness. I know myself a

coarse being in comparison. All this has been felt and said in the same way by men infinite in variety. Must I

'I know what you are thinking,' he said. 'The thought is as inevitable as my consciousness of it.'

'Yes, you look the thought. Why have I not spoken to you in this way before? Why have I waited until you

'To be sure it hasn't a gross form, but I know you wishwhatever your real feeling towards methat I had

spoken a fortnight ago. You would wish that of any man in my position, merely because it is painful to you to

see a possible insincerity. Well, I am not insincere. I have thought of you as of no other woman for some

time. Butyes, you shall have the plain, coarse truth, which is good in its way, no doubt. I was afraid to say

that I loved you. You don't flinch; so far, so good. Now what harm is there in this confession? In the common

course of things I shouldn't be in a position to marry for perhaps three or four years, and even then marriage

would mean difficulties, restraints, obstacles. I have always dreaded the thought of marriage with a poor

'But for the vast majority of mortals. There's the instance of the Reardons. They were in love with each other,

if ever two people were; but poverty ruined everything. I am not in the confidence of either of them, but I feel

sure each has wished the other dead. What else was to be expected? Should I have dared to take a wife in my

'You will be in a much better position before long,' said Marian. 'If you loved me, why should you have been

'It's all so uncertain. It may be another ten years before I can count on an income of five or six hundred

'Yes, I will tell you. My aim is to have easy command of all the pleasures desired by a cultivated man. I want

to live among beautiful things, and never to be troubled by a thought of vulgar difficulties. I want to travel

and enrich my mind in foreign countries. I want to associate on equal terms with refined and interesting

people. I want to be known, to be familiarly referred to, to feel when I enter a room that people regard me

'That is very much. Perhaps you don't know how I suffer in feeling myself at a disadvantage. My instincts are

strongly social, yet I can't be at my ease in society, simply because I can't do justice to myself. Want of

money makes me the inferior of the people I talk with, though I might be superior to them in most things. I

am ignorant in many ways, and merely because I am poor. Imagine my never having been out of England! It

shames me when people talk familiarly of the Continent. So with regard to all manner of amusements and

pursuits at home. Impossible for me to appear among my acquaintances at the theatre, at concerts. I am

perpetually at a disadvantage; I haven't fair play. Suppose me possessed of money enough to live a full and

active life for the next five years; why, at the end of that time my position would be secure. To him that hath

'You mean that I speak as if no such thing as love existed. But you asked me what I understood by success. I

My one aim and desire in life is to win your love. Could you have believed me? Such phrases are always

untrue; I don't know how it can give anyone pleasure to hear them. But if I say to you: All the satisfactions I

have described would be immensely heightened if they were shared with a woman who loved methere is

Marian's heart sank. She did not want truth such as this; she would have preferred that he should utter the

poor, common falsehoods. Hungry for passionate love, she heard with a sense of desolation all this calm

reasoning. That Jasper was of cold temperament she had often feared; yet there was always the consoling

thought that she did not see with perfect clearness into his nature. Now and then had come a flash, a hint of

possibilities. She had looked forward with trembling eagerness to some sudden revelation; but it seemed as if

he knew no word of the language which would have called such joyous response from her expectant soul.

'We have talked for a long time,' she said, turning her head as if his last words were of no significance. 'As

She rose, and went towards the chair on which lay her outofdoor things. At once Jasper stepped to her side.

'Too soon? Haven't you known for months that I thought of you with far more than friendliness?'

'How was it possible I should know that? You have explained to me why you would not let your real feelings

The reproach was merited, and not easy to be outfaced. He turned away for an instant, then with a sudden

'Whatever I have done or said or thought in the past, that is of no account now. I love you, Marian. I want you

to be my wife. I have never seen any other girl who impressed me as you did from the first. If I had been

weak enough to try to win anyone but you, I should have known that I had turned aside from the path of my

true happiness. Let us forget for a moment all our circumstances. I hold your hands, and look into your face,

Till now her heart had only fluttered a little; it was a great part of her distress that the love she had so long

nurtured seemed shrinking together into some far corner of her being whilst she listened to the discourses

which prefaced Jasper's declaration. She was nervous, painfully selfconscious, touched with maidenly

shame, but could not abandon herself to that delicious emotion which ought to have been the fulfilment of all

her secret imaginings. Now at length there began a throbbing in her bosom. Keeping her face averted, her

eyes cast down, she waited for a repetition of the note that was in that last 'I love you.' She felt a change in the

hands that held hersa warmth, a moist softness; it caused a shock through her veins.

He was trying to draw her nearer, but she kept at full arm's length and looked irresponsive.

Persisting, she at length withdrew her hands. Jasper's face expressed something like dismay.

'You have not offended me,' she said. 'But I am not sure that you don't deceive yourself in thinking, for the

The emotional current which had passed from her flesh to his whilst their hands were linked, made him

incapable of standing aloof from her. He saw that her face and neck were warmer hued, and her beauty

'You are more to me than anything else in the compass of life!' he exclaimed, again pressing forward. 'I think

His arm captured her, and she did not resist. A sob, then a strange little laugh, betrayed the passion that was at

And there followed the antiphony of ardour that finds its first utterancea subdued music, often interrupted,

Marian closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the luxury of the dream. It was her first complete escape

from the world of intellectual routine, her first taste of life. All the pedantry of her daily toil slipped away like

a cumbrous garment; she was clad only in her womanhood. Once or twice a shudder of strange

selfconsciousness went through her, and she felt guilty, immodest; but upon that sensation followed a surge

It was a difficulty. The season no longer allowed lingerings under the open sky, but Marian could not go to

She was only just beginning to reflect on all that was involved in this new relation.

'I shall disappoint him and grieve him bitterly. He has asked me to use my money in starting a new review.'

'Your father is not the man for that, Marian. I don't say it disrespectfully; I mean that he doesn't seem to me to

'Don't trouble,' said Jasper. 'Wait a little, till I have made myself independent of Fadge and a few other men,

and your father shall see how heartily I wish to be of use to him. He will miss your help, I'm afraid?'

'Yes. I shall feel it a cruelty when I have to leave him. He has only just told me that his sight is beginning to

fail. Oh, why didn't his brother leave him a little money? It was such unkindness! Surely he had a much better

right than Amy, or than myself either. But literature has been a curse to father all his life. My uncle hated it,

'But how am I to see you often? That's the first question. I know what I shall do. I must take new lodgings, for

the girls and myself, all in the same house. We must have two sittingrooms; then you will come to my room

without any difficulty. These astonishing proprieties are so easily satisfied after all.'

'Yes. I shall go and look for rooms tomorrow. Then when you come you can always ask for Maud or Dora,

'I won't stay to see them now, Jasper,' said Marian, her thoughts turning to the girls.

'Very well. You are safe for another hour, but to make certain you shall go at a quarter to five. Your mother

'I feel as if I should play a mean part in leaving it to you to tell your father. Marian, I will brave it out and go

'We had better wait a little. You know,' she added laughing, 'that my legacy is only in name mine as yet. The

They were now sitting on chairs drawn close to each other. It was with a sense of relief that Jasper had passed

from dithyrambs to conversation on practical points; Marian's excited sensitiveness could not but observe

this, and she kept watching the motions of his countenance. At length he even let go her hand.

'You would prefer,' he said reflectively, 'that nothing should be said to your father until that business is

Her little phrase of selfsubjection, and its tremulous tone, called for another answer than this. Jasper fell

He rose, though she was still seated. Marian moved a few steps away, but turned and approached him again.

'Do you really love me?' she asked, taking one of his hands and folding it between her own.

'But I am, dearest. I wish we could sit here undisturbed all through the evening.'

Her touch had the same effect as before. His blood warmed again, and he pressed her to his side, stroking her

'Are you sorry I wear my hair short?' she asked, longing for more praise than he had bestowed on her.

'Sorry? It is perfect. Everything else seems vulgar compared with this way of yours. How strange you would

'I seem to be newborn, Jasper. Everything in the world is new to me, and I am strange to myself. I have

never known an hour of happiness till now, and I can't believe yet that it has come to me.'

She at length attired herself, and they left the house together, of course not unobserved by the landlady.

Jasper walked about half the way to St Paul's Crescent. It was arranged that he should address a letter for her

to the care of his sisters; but in a day or two the change of lodgings would be effected.

When they had parted, Marian looked back. But Jasper was walking quickly away, his head bent, in profound

Refuge from despair is often found in the passion of selfpity and that spirit of obstinate resistance which it

engenders. In certain natures the extreme of selfpity is intolerable, and leads to selfdestruction; but there

are less fortunate beings whom the vehemence of their revolt against fate strengthens to endure in suffering.

These latter are rather imaginative than passionate; the stages of their woe impress them as the acts of a

drama, which they cannot bring themselves to cut short, so various are the possibilities of its dark motive.

The intellectual man who kills himself is most often brought to that decision by conviction of his

insignificance; selfpity merges in selfscorn, and the humiliated soul is intolerant of existence. He who

survives under like conditions does so because misery magnifies him in his own estimate.

It was by force of commiserating his own lot that Edwin Reardon continued to live through the first month

after his parting from Amy. Once or twice a week, sometimes early in the evening, sometimes at midnight or

later, he haunted the street at Westbourne Park where his wife was dwelling, and on each occasion he

returned to his garret with a fortified sense of the injustice to which he was submitted, of revolt against the

circumstances which had driven him into outer darkness, of bitterness against his wife for saving her own

comfort rather than share his downfall. At times he was not far from that state of sheer distraction which Mrs

Edmund Yule preferred to suppose that he had reached. An extraordinary arrogance now and then possessed

him; he stood amid his poor surroundings with the sensations of an outraged exile, and laughed aloud in

On hearing from Jasper Milvain that Amy had fallen ill, or at all events was suffering in health from what she

had gone through, he felt a momentary pang which all but determined him to hasten to her side. The reaction

was a feeling of distinct pleasure that she had her share of pain, and even a hope that her illness might

become grave; he pictured himself summoned to her sick chamber, imagined her begging his forgiveness. But

it was not merely, nor in great part, a malicious satisfaction; he succeeded in believing that Amy suffered

because she still had a remnant of love for him. As the days went by and he heard nothing, disappointment

and resentment occupied him. At length he ceased to haunt the neighbourhood. His desires grew sullen; he

became fixed in the resolve to hold entirely apart and doggedly await the issue.

At the end of each month he sent half the money he had received from Carter, simply enclosing postal orders

in an envelope addressed to his wife. The first two remittances were in no way acknowledged; the third

'As you continue to send these sums of money, I had perhaps better let you know that I cannot use them for

any purposes of my own. Perhaps a sense of duty leads you to make this sacrifice, but I am afraid it is more

likely that you wish to remind me every month that you are undergoing privations, and to pain me in this

way. What you have sent I have deposited in the Post Office Savings' Bank in Willie's name, and I shall

For a day or two Reardon persevered in an intention of not replying, but the desire to utter his turbid feelings

'I regard it as quite natural that you should put the worst interpretation on whatever I do. As for my

privations, I think very little of them; they are a trifle in comparison with the thought that I am forsaken just

because my pocket is empty. And I am far indeed from thinking that you can be pained by whatever I may

This was no sooner posted than he would gladly have recalled it. He knew that it was undignified, that it

contained as many falsehoods as lines, and he was ashamed of himself for having written so. But he could not

pen a letter of retractation, and there remained with him a new cause of exasperated wretchedness.

Excepting the people with whom he came in contact at the hospital, he had no society but that of Biffen. The

realist visited him once a week, and this friendship grew closer than it had been in the time of Reardon's

prosperity. Biffen was a man of so much natural delicacy, that there was a pleasure in imparting to him the

details of private sorrow; though profoundly sympathetic, he did his best to oppose Reardon's harsher

judgments of Amy, and herein he gave his friend a satisfaction which might not be avowed.

'I really do not see,' he exclaimed, as they sat in the garret one night of midsummer, 'how your wife could

have acted otherwise. Of course I am quite unable to judge the attitude of her mind, but I think, I can't help

thinking, from what I knew of her, that there has been strictly a misunderstanding between you.

It was a hard and miserable thing that she should have to leave you for a time, and you couldn't face the

necessity in a just spirit. Don't you think there's some truth in this way of looking at it?'

'As a woman, it was her part to soften the hateful necessity; she made it worse.'

'I'm not sure that you don't demand too much of her. Unhappily, I know little or nothing of delicatelybred

women, but I have a suspicion that one oughtn't to expect heroism in them, any more than in the women of

the lower classes. I think of women as creatures to be protected. Is a man justified in asking them to be

'Of course,' replied Reardon, 'there's no use in demanding more than a character is capable of. But I believed

'I suppose there were faults of temper on both sides, and you saw at last only each other's weaknesses.'

'I saw the truth, which had always been disguised from me.' Biffen persisted in looking doubtful, and in secret

As the realist progressed with his novel, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' he read the chapters to Reardon, not only for his

own satisfaction, but in great part because he hoped that this example of productivity might in the end

encourage the listener to resume his own literary tasks. Reardon found much to criticise in his friend's work;

it was noteworthy that he objected and condemned with much less hesitation than in his better days, for

sensitive reticence is one of the virtues wont to be assailed by suffering, at all events in the weaker natures.

Biffen purposely urged these discussions as far as possible, and doubtless they benefited Reardon for the

time; but the defeated novelist could not be induced to undertake another practical illustration of his own

views. Occasionally he had an impulse to plan a story, but an hour's turning it over in his mind sufficed to

disgust him. His ideas seemed barren, vapid; it would have been impossible for him to write half a dozen

pages, and the mere thought of a whole book overcame him with the dread of insurmountable difficulties,

In time, however, he was able to read. He had a pleasure in contemplating the little collection of sterling

books that alone remained to him from his library; the sight of many volumes would have been a weariness,

but these fewwhen he was again able to think of books at allwere as friendly countenances. He could

not read continuously, but sometimes he opened his Shakespeare, for instance, and dreamed over a page or

two. From such glimpses there remained in his head a line or a short passage, which he kept repeating to

himself wherever he went; generally some example of sweet or sonorous metre which had a soothing effect

With odd result on one occasion. He was walking in one of the back streets of Islington, and stopped idly to

gaze into the window of some small shop. Standing thus, he forgot himself and presently recited aloud:

'Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster: An argument that he is pluck'd, when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his

The last two lines he uttered a second time, enjoying their magnificent sound, and then was brought back to

consciousness by the loud mocking laugh of two men standing close by, who evidently looked upon him as a

He kept one suit of clothes for his hours of attendance at the hospital; it was still decent, and with much care

would remain so for a long time. That which he wore at home and in his street wanderings declared poverty

at every point; it had been discarded before he left the old abode. In his present state of mind he cared nothing

how disreputable he looked to passersby. These seedy habiliments were the token of his degradation, and at

times he regarded them (happening to see himself in a shop mirror) with pleasurable contempt. The same

spirit often led him for a meal to the poorest of eatinghouses, places where he rubbed elbows with ragged

creatures who had somehow obtained the price of a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter. He liked to

contrast himself with these comrades in misfortune. 'This is the rate at which the world esteems me; I am

worth no better provision than this.' Or else, instead of emphasising the contrast, he defiantly took a place

among the miserables of the nether world, and nursed hatred of all who were welltodo.

One of these he desired to regard with gratitude, but found it difficult to support that feeling. Carter, the

vivacious, though at first perfectly unembarrassed in his relations with the City Road clerk, gradually

exhibited a change of demeanour. Reardon occasionally found the young man's eye fixed upon him with a

singular expression, and the secretary's talk, though still as a rule genial, was wont to suffer curious

interruptions, during which he seemed to be musing on something Reardon had said, or on some point of his

behaviour. The explanation of this was that Carter had begun to think there might be a foundation for Mrs

Yule's hypothesisthat the novelist was not altogether in his sound senses. At first he scouted the idea, but

as time went on it seemed to him that Reardon's countenance certainly had a gaunt wildness which suggested

disagreeable things. Especially did he remark this after his return from an August holiday in Norway. On

coming for the first time to the City Road branch he sat down and began to favour Reardon with a lively

description of how he had enjoyed himself abroad; it never occurred to him that such talk was not likely to

inspirit the man who had passed his August between the garret and the hospital, but he observed before long

'But you look as if you might have been. I say, we must manage for you to have a fortnight off, you know,

'I have no wish for it,' said Reardon. 'I'll imagine I have been to Norway. It has done me good to hear of your

'I'm glad of that; but it isn't quite the same thing, you know, as having a run somewhere yourself.'

'Oh, much better! To enjoy myself may be mere selfishness, but to enjoy another's enjoyment is the purest

'A highly rarefied form of happiness. The curious thing about it is that it won't grow unless you have just

Carter went away more than puzzled. He told his wife that evening that Reardon had been talking to him in

All this time he was on the lookout for employment that would be more suitable to his unfortunate clerk.

Whether slightly demented or not, Reardon gave no sign of inability to discharge his duties; he was

conscientious as ever, and might, unless he changed greatly, be relied upon in positions of more

responsibility than his present one. And at length, early in October, there came to the secretary's knowledge

an opportunity with which he lost no time in acquainting Reardon. The latter repaired that evening to

Clipstone Street, and climbed to Biffen's chamber. He entered with a cheerful look, and exclaimed:

'I have just invented a riddle; see if you can guess it. Why is a London lodginghouse like the human body?'

Biffen looked with some concern at his friend, so unwonted was a sally of this kind.

'Well, no; it'll pass. Distinctly professional though. The general public would fail to see the point, I'm afraid.

'Good tidings. Carter has offered me a place which will be a decided improvement. A house foundor

'I'm afraid that was inevitable, as things go. It's the secretaryship of a home for destitute boys at Croydon. The

post is far from a sinecure, Carter assures me. There's a great deal of purely secretarial work, and there's a

great deal of practical work, some of it rather rough, I fancy. It seems doubtful whether I am exactly the man.

The present holder is a burly fellow over six feet high, delighting in gymnastics, and rather fond of a fight

now and then when opportunity offers. But he is departing at Christmasgoing somewhere as a missionary;

Reardon tried to answer indifferently, but it could be seen that he was agitated between hopes and fears.

'But surely there can be no doubt that she'll come. A hundred and fifty a year, without rent to pay. Why, that's

'The rooms I might occupy are in the home itself. Amy won't take very readily to a dwelling of that kind. And

'You misjudge her, Reardon. You are too harsh. I implore you not to lose the chance of setting all right again!

If only you could be put into my position for a moment, and then be offered the companionship of such a

'I should be perfectly within my rights,' he said sternly, 'if I merely told her when I have taken the position,

'You have changed a great deal this last year,' replied Biffen, shaking his head, 'a great deal. I hope to see you

your old self again before long. I should have declared it impossible for you to become so rugged. Go and see

'Go and see her, I beg you! No good ever came of letterwriting between two people who have

misunderstood each other. Go to Westbourne Park tomorrow. And be reasonable; be more than reasonable.

The happiness of your life depends on what you do now. Be content to forget whatever wrong has been done

In truth, there needed little persuasion. Perverseness, one of the forms or issues of selfpity, made him strive

against his desire, and caused him to adopt a tone of acerbity in excess of what he felt; but already he had

made up his mind to see Amy. Even if this excuse had not presented itself he must very soon have yielded to

the longing for a sight of his wife's face which day by day increased among all the conflicting passions of

which he was the victim. A month or two ago, when the summer sunshine made his confinement to the

streets a daily torture, he convinced himself that there remained in him no trace of his love for Amy; there

were moments when he thought of her with repugnance, as a cold, selfish woman, who had feigned affection

when it seemed her interest to do so, but brutally declared her true self when there was no longer anything to

be hoped from him. That was the self deception of misery. Love, even passion, was still alive in the depths

of his being; the animation with which he sped to his friend as soon as a new hope had risen was the best

'I have a reason for wishing to see you. Will you have the kindness to appoint an hour on Sunday morning

when I can speak with you in private? It must be understood that I shall see no one else.'

She would receive this by the first post tomorrow, Saturday, and doubtless would let him hear in reply some

time in the afternoon. Impatience allowed him little sleep, and the next day was a long weariness of waiting.

The evening he would have to spend at the hospital; if there came no reply before the time of his leaving

home, he knew not how he should compel himself to the ordinary routine of work. Yet the hour came, and he

had heard nothing. He was tempted to go at once to Westbourne Park, but reason prevailed with him. When

he again entered the house, having walked at his utmost speed from the City Road, the letter lay waiting for

him; it had been pushed beneath his door, and when he struck a match he found that one of his feet was upon

Amy wrote that she would be at home at eleven tomorrow morning. Not another word.

In all probability she knew of the offer that had been made to him; Mrs Carter would have told her. Was it of

good or of ill omen that she wrote only these halfdozen words? Half through the night he plagued himself

with suppositions, now thinking that her brevity promised a welcome, now that she wished to warn him

against expecting anything but a cold, offended demeanour. At seven he was dressed; two hours and a half

had to be killed before he could start on his walk westward. He would have wandered about the streets, but it

He had made himself as decent as possible in appearance, but he must necessarily seem an odd Sunday visitor

at a house such as Mrs Yule's. His soft felt hat, never brushed for months, was a greyish green, and stained

round the band with perspiration. His necktie was discoloured and worn. Coat and waistcoat might pass

muster, but of the trousers the less said the better. One of his boots was patched, and both were all but

Very well; let her see him thus. Let her understand what it meant to live on twelve and sixpence a week.

Though it was cold and wet he could not put on his overcoat. Three years ago it had been a fairly good ulster;

at present, the edges of the sleeves were frayed, two buttons were missing, and the original hue of the cloth

At halfpast nine he set out and struggled with his shabby umbrella against wind and rain. Down Pentonville

Hill, up Euston Road, all along Marylebone Road, then northwestwards towards the point of his destination.

It was a good six miles from the one house to the other, but he arrived before the appointed time, and had to

stray about until the cessation of bellclanging and the striking of clocks told him it was eleven. Then he

On his asking for Mrs Reardon, he was at once admitted and led up to the drawingroom; the servant did not

Then he waited for a minute or two, feeling himself a squalid wretch amid the dainty furniture. The door

opened. Amy, in a simple but very becoming dress, approached to within a yard of him; after the first glance

she had averted her eyes, and she did not offer to shake hands. He saw that his muddy and shapeless boots

He meant the tone to be conciliatory, but he could not command his voice, and it sounded rough, hostile.

'I think so,' Amy answered, seating herself gracefully. She would have spoken with less dignity but for that

There was no promise in her manner. She kept her face turned away, and Reardon saw its beautiful profile,

'You speak as if it in no way concerned yourself. Is that what you wish me to understand?'

'Won't it be better if you tell me why you have come here? As you are resolved to find offence in whatever I

say, I prefer to keep silence. Please to let me know why you have asked to see me.'

Reardon turned abruptly as if to leave her, but checked himself at a little distance.

Both had come to this meeting prepared for a renewal of amity, but in these first few moments each was so

disagreeably impressed by the look and language of the other that a revulsion of feeling undid all the more

hopeful effects of their long severance. On entering, Amy had meant to offer her hand, but the unexpected

meanness of Reardon's aspect shocked and restrained her. All but every woman would have experienced that

shrinking from the livery of poverty. Amy had but to reflect, and she understood that her husband could in no

wise help this shabbiness; when he parted from her his wardrobe was already in a longsuffering condition,

and how was he to have purchased new garments since then? None the less such attire degraded him in her

eyes; it symbolised the melancholy decline which he had suffered intellectually. On Reardon his wife's

elegance had the same repellent effect, though this would not have been the case but for the expression of her

countenance. Had it been possible for them to remain together during the first five minutes without exchange

of words, sympathies might have prevailed on both sides; the first speech uttered would most likely have

A man must indeed be graciously endowed if his personal appearance can defy the disadvantage of cheap

modern clothing worn into shapelessness. Reardon had no such remarkable physique, and it was not

wonderful that his wife felt ashamed of him. Strictly ashamed; he seemed to her a social inferior; the

impression was so strong that it resisted all memory of his spiritual qualities. She might have anticipated this

state of things, and have armed herself to encounter it, but somehow she had not done so. For more than five

months she had been living among people who dressed well; the contrast was too suddenly forced upon her.

She was especially susceptible in such matters, and had become none the less so under the demoralising

influence of her misfortunes. True, she soon began to feel ashamed of her shame, but that could not annihilate

'I don't love him. I can't love him.' Thus she spoke to herself, with immutable decision. She had been doubtful

till now, but all doubt was at an end. Had Reardon been practical man enough to procure by hook or by crook

a decent suit of clothes for this interview, that ridiculous trifle might have made all the difference in what was

He turned again, and spoke with the harshness of a man who feels that he is despised, and is determined to

'Then I offer it now,' said Reardon, speaking less aggressively. 'I shall have a dwelling rent free, and a

hundred and fifty pounds a yearperhaps it would be more in keeping with my station if I say that I shall

have something less than three pounds a week. You can either accept from me half this money, as up to now,

or come and take your place again as my wife. Please to decide what you will do.'

It seemed impossible to her to say she would return, yet a refusal to do so involved nothing less than

separation for the rest of their lives. Postponement of decision was her only resource.

'If you don't, I shall understand you to mean that you refuse to come to me. You know the circumstances;

there is no reason why you should consult with anyone else. You can answer me immediately if you will.'

Amy made a rapid study of his countenance. She had never entertained for a moment the supposition that his

wits were unsettled, but none the less the constant recurrence of that idea in her mother's talk had subtly

influenced her against her husband. It had confirmed her in thinking that his behaviour was inexcusable. And

now it seemed to her that anyone might be justified in holding him demented, so reckless was his utterance.

It was difficult to know him as the man who had loved her so devotedly, who was incapable of an unkind

'If that is what you prefer,' she said, 'there must be a formal separation. I can't trust my future to your caprice.'

'Your friends!' he exclaimed bitterly. 'But for those friends of yours, this would never have happened. I wish

'Yes, it is a kind wish. Then your marriage with me would have been binding; you would have known that my

lot was yours, and the knowledge would have helped your weakness. I begin to see how much right there is

on the side of those people who would keep women in subjection. You have been allowed to act with

independence, and the result is that you have ruined my life and debased your own. If I had been strong

enough to treat you as a child, and bid you follow me wherever my own fortunes led, it would have been as

'You know it was. And if the choice had lain between that and earning your own livelihood you would have

thought that even such a poor home might be made tolerable. There were possibilities in you of better things

There followed a silence. Amy sat with her eyes gloomily fixed on the carpet; Reardon looked about the

room, but saw nothing. He had thrown his hat into a chair, and his fingers worked nervously together behind

'Will you tell me,' he said at length, 'how your position is regarded by these friends of yours? I don't mean

'Still, I suppose some sort of explanation has been necessary in your intercourse with them. How have you

'In a manner it does. Certainly it matters very little to me how I am thought of by people of this kind, but one

doesn't like to be reviled without cause. Have you allowed it to be supposed that I have made life with me

'No, I have not. You insult me by asking the question, but as you don't seem to understand feelings of that

'Then have you told them the truth? That I became so poor you couldn't live with me?'

'I have never said that in so many words, but no doubt it is understood. It must be known also that you

She reminded him of his intention to spend half a year in working at the seaside.

'I had utterly forgotten it,' he returned with a mocking laugh. 'That shows how ridiculous such a thing would

'Do you imagine that I have the peace of mind necessary for anything of that sort?'

This was in a changed voice. It reminded her so strongly of her husband before his disasters that she could

'That I can forget myself, then, in the study of literature?I wonder whether you really think of me like that.

She kept silence. Her suffering had been slight enough, and chiefly due to considerations of social propriety;

but she would not avow this, and did not like to make admission of it to herself. Before her friends she

frequently affected to conceal a profound sorrow; but so long as her child was left to her she was in no danger

'And certainly I can't believe it,' he continued, 'now you declare your wish to be formally separated from me.'

'Indeed you have. If you can hesitate a moment about returning to me when difficulties are at an end, that tells

'I hesitate for this reason,' Amy said after reflecting. 'You are so very greatly changed from what you used to

'Changed?Yes, that is true, I am afraid. But how do you think this change will affect my behaviour to you?'

'Not brutally, in the ordinary sense of the word. But with faults of temper which I couldn't bear. I have my

'Did my faults of temper give you any trouble during the first year of our married life?' he asked gently.

'They began to afflict you when I was so hard driven by difficulties that I needed all your sympathy, all your

'It was always in your power to rule me. What pained me worst, and hardened me against you, was that I saw

you didn't care to exert your influence. There was never a time when I could have resisted a word of yours

spoken out of your love for me. But even then, I am afraid, you no longer loved me, and now'

'Have you any love for me left?' burst from his lips, as if the words all but choked him in the utterance.

'Then you mean that you would sacrifice yourself out ofwhat? Out of pity for me, let us say.'

'No. It is you I have come to see. The child is nothing to me, compared with you. It is you, who loved me,

who became my wife you only I care about. Tell me you will try to be as you used to be. Give me only that

'And reproach me always because you have to live in such a place, away from your friends, without a hope of

Her practical denial that she loved him wrung this taunt from his anguished heart. He repented the words as

'What is the good?' exclaimed Amy in irritation, rising and moving away from him. 'How can I pretend that I

'I have said I will come,' she continued, her voice shaken with nervous tension. 'Ask me or not, as you please,

'I shall not ask you,' he replied. 'I will have no woman slave dragging out a weary life with me. Either you are

'I am married to you, and that can't be undone. I repeat that I shan't refuse to obey you. I shall say no more.'

'I shall never ask you to come,' said Reardon, breaking a short silence. 'If our married life is ever to begin

again it must be of your seeking. Come to me of your own will, and I shall never reject you. But I will die in

He lingered a few moments, watching her; she did not move. Then he took his hat, went in silence from the

It rained harder than before. As no trains were running at this hour, he walked in the direction where he

would be likely to meet with an omnibus. But it was a long time before one passed which was any use to him.

When he reached home he was in cheerless plight enough; to make things pleasanter, one of his boots had let

Nor was he disappointed. By Tuesday the cold had firm grip of him. A day or two of influenza or sore throat

always made him so weak that with difficulty he supported the least physical exertion; but at present he must

go to his work at the hospital. Why stay at home? To what purpose spare himself? It was not as if life had any

promise for him. He was a machine for earning so much money a week, and would at least give faithful work

'You ought to be in bed, my dear fellow, with gruel and mustard plasters and all the rest of it. Go home and

Before leaving the office, Reardon wrote a few lines to Biffen, whom he had visited on the Monday. 'Come

and see me if you can. I am down with a bad cold, and have to keep in for the rest of the week. All the same, I

On her return from church that Sunday Mrs Edmund Yule was anxious to learn the result of the meeting

between Amy and her husband. She hoped fervently that Amy's anomalous position would come to an end

now that Reardon had the offer of something better than a mere clerkship. John Yule never ceased to grumble

at his sister's permanence in the house, especially since he had learnt that the money sent by Reardon each

month was not made use of; why it should not be applied for household expenses passed his understanding.

'It seems to me,' he remarked several times, 'that the fellow only does his bare duty in sending it. What is it to

anyone else whether he lives on twelve shillings a week or twelve pence? It is his business to support his

wife; if he can't do that, to contribute as much to her support as possible. Amy's scruples are all very fine, if

she could afford them; it's very nice to pay for your delicacies of feeling out of other people's pockets.'

'There'll have to be a formal separation,' was the startling announcement with which Amy answered her

'But at your age, Amy! How can you think of anything so shocking? And then, you know it will be

'I shall have to live as well as I can on the seventyfive pounds a year. If you can't afford to let me stay with

you for that, I must go into cheap lodgings in the country, like poor Mrs Butcher did.'

This was wild talking for Amy. The interview had upset her, and for the rest of the day she kept apart in her

own room. On the morrow Mrs Yule succeeded in eliciting a clear account of the conversation which had

'I would rather spend the rest of my days in the workhouse than beg him to take me back,' was Amy's final

'Then you must leave this to me. The Carters will let us know how things go on, and when it seems to be time

'I can't allow that. Anything you could say on your own account would be useless, and there is nothing to say

Mrs Yule kept her own counsel. She had a full month before her during which to consider the situation, but it

was clear to her that these young people must be brought together again. Her estimate of Reardon's mental

condition had undergone a sudden change from the moment when she heard that a respectable post was

within his reach; she decided that he was 'strange,' but then all men of literary talent had marked singularities,

and doubtless she had been too hasty in interpreting the peculiar features natural to a character such as his.

This threw Mrs Yule into a commotion. At first she decided to accompany her son and be present at the

funeral; after changing her mind twenty times, she determined not to go. John must send or bring back the

news as soon as possible. That it would be of a nature sensibly to affect her own position, if not that of her

children, she had little doubt; her husband had been the favourite brother of the deceased, and on that account

there was no saying how handsome a legacy she might receive. She dreamt of houses in South Kensington, of

On the morning after the funeral came a postcard announcing John's return by a certain train, but no scrap of

'Just like that irritating boy! We must go to the station to meet him. You'll come, won't you, Amy?'

Amy readily consented, for she too had hopes, though circumstances blurred them. Mother and daughter were

walking about the platform half an hour before the train was due; their agitation would have been manifest to

anyone observing them. When at length the train rolled in and John was discovered, they pressed eagerly

'Don't you excite yourself,' he said gruffly to his mother. 'There's no reason whatever.'

Mrs Yule glanced in dismay at Amy. They followed John to a cab, and took places with him.

After staring out of the window for a minute or two, he at length informed Amy of the extent to which she

profited by her uncle's decease, then made known what was bequeathed to himself. His temper grew worse

every moment, and he replied savagely to each successive question concerning the other items of the will.

'What have you to grumble about?' asked Amy, whose face was exultant notwithstanding the drawbacks

attaching to her good fortune. 'If Uncle Alfred receives nothing at all, and mother has nothing, you ought to

'Of course it is. She gets the benefit of last year's Married Woman's Property Act. The will was executed in

'What a splendid Act of Parliament that is!' cried Amy. 'The only one worth anything that I ever heard of.'

'But my dear' began her mother, in a tone of protest. However, she reserved her comment for a more fitting

time and place, and merely said: 'I wonder whether he had heard what has been going on?'

'Do you think he would have altered his will if he had?' asked Amy with a smile of security.

'Why the deuce he should have left you so much in any case is more than I can understand,' growled her

brother. 'What's the use to me of a paltry thousand or two? It isn't enough to invest; isn't enough to do

'You may depend upon it your cousin Marian thinks her five thousand good for something,' said Mrs Yule.

'Who was at the funeral? Don't be so surly, Jack; tell us all about it. I'm sure if anyone has cause to be

Thus they talked, amid the rattle of the cabwheels. By when they reached home silence had fallen upon

Mrs Yule's servants had a terrible time of it for the next few days. Too affectionate to turn her illtemper

against John and Amy, she relieved herself by severity to the domestic slaves, as an English matron is of

course justified in doing. Her daughter's position caused her even more concern than before; she constantly

lamented to herself: 'Oh, why didn't he die before she was married!'in which case Amy would never have

dreamt of wedding a penniless author. Amy declined to discuss the new aspect of things until twentyfour

'I shall do nothing whatever until the money is paid to me. And what I shall do then I don't know.'

She said so, but the sudden happiness of finding herself wealthy was not without its softening effect on

Amy's feelings. Generous impulses alternated with moods of discontent. The thought of her husband in his

squalid lodgings tempted her to forget injuries and disillusions, and to play the part of a generous wife. It

would be possible now for them to go abroad and spend a year or two in healthful travel; the result in

Reardon's case might be wonderful. He might recover all the energy of his imagination, and resume his

On the other hand, was it not more likely that he would lapse into a life of scholarly selfindulgence, such as

he had often told her was his ideal? In that event, what tedium and regret lay before her! Ten thousand

pounds sounded well, but what did it represent in reality? A poor four hundred a year, perhaps; mere decency

of obscure existence, unless her husband could glorify it by winning fame. If he did nothing, she would be the

wife of a man who had failed in literature. She would not be able to take a place in society. Life would be

This view of the future possessed her strongly when, on the second day, she went to communicate her news

to Mrs Carter. This amiable lady had now become what she always desired to be, Amy's intimate friend; they

saw each other very frequently, and conversed of most things with much frankness. It was between eleven

and twelve in the morning when Amy paid her visit, and she found Mrs Carter on the point of going out.

'I was coming to see you,' cried Edith. 'Why haven't you let me know of what has happened?'

'I supposed he would. And I haven't felt in the mood for talking about it, even with you.'

They went into Mrs Carter's boudoir, a tiny room full of such pretty things as can be purchased nowadays by

anyone who has a few shillings to spare, and tolerable taste either of their own or at secondhand. Had she

been left to her instincts, Edith would have surrounded herself with objects representing a much earlier stage

of artistic development; but she was quick to imitate what fashion declared becoming. Her husband regarded

her as a remarkable authority in all matters of personal or domestic ornamentation.

'And what are you going to do?' she inquired, examining Amy from head to foot, as if she thought that the

inheritance of so substantial a sum must have produced visible changes in her friend.

They talked for a while before Amy brought herself to utter what she was thinking.

'Isn't it a most ridiculous thing that married people who both wish to separate can't do so and be quite free

'So people say about every new step in civilisation. What would have been thought twenty years ago of a

proposal to make all married women independent of their husbands in money matters? All sorts of absurd

dangers were foreseen, no doubt. And it's the same now about divorce. In America people can get divorced if

they don't suit each otherat all events in some of the States and does any harm come of it? Just the

Edith mused. Such speculations were daring, but she had grown accustomed to think of Amy as an 'advanced'

'The law ought to encourage such separations, instead of forbidding them,' Amy pursued. 'If a husband and

wife find that they have made a mistake, what useless cruelty it is to condemn them to suffer the

'If so, we know that it has always failed, and always will fail; so the sooner such a profitless law is altered the

better. Isn't there some society for getting that kind of reform? I would subscribe fifty pounds a year to help

'It's because women who are happily married can't and won't understand the position of those who are not that

'But I understand you, Amy, and I grieve about you. What you are to do I can't think.'

'Oh, it's easy to see what I shall do. Of course I have no choice really. And I ought to have a choice; that's the

hardship and the wrong of it. Perhaps if I had, I should find a sort of pleasure in sacrificing myself.'

There were some new novels on the table; Amy took up a volume presently, and glanced over a page or two.

'I don't know how you can go on reading that sort of stuff, book after book,' she exclaimed.

'Best or worst, novels are all the same. Nothing but love, love, love; what silly nonsense it is! Why don't

people write about the really important things of life? Some of the French novelists do; several of Balzac's,

for instance. I have just been reading his "Cousin Pons," a terrible book, but I enjoyed it ever so much

'I should hope you do, indeed. What downright lies are accepted as indisputable! That about love being a

woman's whole life; who believes it really? Love is the most insignificant thing in most women's lives. It

occupies a few months, possibly a year or two, and even then I doubt if it is often the first consideration.'

'I'm sure there's a great opportunity for some clever novelist who will never write about love at all.'

'Yes, for a month or two, as I say. Think of the biographies of men and women; how many pages are devoted

to their love affairs? Compare those books with novels which profess to be biographies, and you see how

false such pictures are. Think of the very words "novel," "romance"what do they mean but exaggeration of

'Because there is so little love in real life. That's the truth of it. Why do poor people care only for stories about

'Am I? It's very nice to be told so. Perhaps I have some cleverness of a kind; but what use is it to me? My life

is being wasted. I ought to have a place in the society of clever people. I was never meant to live quietly in

'Oh, I wanted to ask you,' said Edith, soon after this. 'Do you wish Albert to say anything about youat the

Since the parting from her husband, there had proceeded in Amy a noticeable maturing of intellect. Probably

the one thing was a consequence of the other. During that last year in the flat her mind was held captive by

material cares, and this arrest of her natural development doubtless had much to do with the appearance of

acerbity in a character which had displayed so much sweetness, so much womanly grace. Moreover, it was

arrest at a critical point. When she fell in love with Edwin Reardon her mind had still to undergo the culture

of circumstances; though a woman in years she had seen nothing of life but a few phases of artificial society,

and her education had not progressed beyond the final schoolgirl stage. Submitting herself to Reardon's

influence, she passed through what was a highly useful training of the intellect; but with the result that she

became clearly conscious of the divergence between herself and her husband. In endeavouring to imbue her

with his own literary tastes, Reardon instructed Amy as to the natural tendencies of her mind, which till then

she had not clearly understood. When she ceased to read with the eyes of passion, most of the things which

were Reardon's supreme interests lost their value for her. A sound intelligence enabled her to think and feel in

many directions, but the special line of her growth lay apart from that in which the novelist and classical

When she found herself alone and independent, her mind acted like a spring when pressure is removed. After

a few weeks of desoeuvrement she obeyed the impulse to occupy herself with a kind of reading alien to

Reardon's sympathies. The solid periodicals attracted her, and especially those articles which dealt with

themes of social science. Anything that savoured of newness and boldness in philosophic thought had a

charm for her palate. She read a good deal of that kind of literature which may be defined as specialism

popularised; writing which addresses itself to educated, but not strictly studious, persons, and which forms

the reservoir of conversation for society above the sphere of turf and westendism. Thus, for instance, though

she could not undertake the volumes of Herbert Spencer, she was intelligently acquainted with the tenor of

their contents; and though she had never opened one of Darwin's books, her knowledge of his main theories

and illustrations was respectable. She was becoming a typical woman of the new time, the woman who has

Not many days after that conversation with Edith Carter, she had occasion to visit Mudie's, for the new

number of some periodical which contained an appetising title. As it was a sunny and warm day she walked

to New Oxford Street from the nearest Metropolitan station. Whilst waiting at the library counter, she heard a

familiar voice in her proximity; it was that of Jasper Milvain, who stood talking with a middleaged lady. As

Amy turned to look at him his eye met hers; clearly he had been aware of her. The review she desired was

handed to her; she moved aside, and turned over the pages. Then Milvain walked up.

He was armed capapie in the fashions of suave society; no Bohemianism of garb or person, for Jasper

knew he could not afford that kind of economy. On her part, Amy was much better dressed than usual, a

'What a time since we met!' said Jasper, taking her delicately gloved hand and looking into her face with his

It seemed as if he would draw back to let her pass, and so make an end of the colloquy. But Amy, though she

'Which way are you going?' Jasper inquired, with something more of the old freedom.

'I walked from Gower Street station, and I think, as it's so fine, I shall walk back again.'

He accompanied her. They turned up Museum Street, and Amy, after a short silence, made inquiry

'I am sorry I saw them only once, but no doubt you thought it better to let the acquaintance end there.'

'I really didn't think of it in that way at all,' Jasper replied.'We naturally understood it so, when you even

'But don't you feel that there would have been a good deal of awkwardness in my coming to Mrs Yule's?'

'Oh, that's a mistake! I have only seen your husband once since he went to Islington.'

'Well, we have drifted apart. For some reason he seemed to think that my companionship was not very

profitable. So it was better, on the whole, that I should see neither you nor him.'

Amy was wondering whether he had heard of her legacy. He might have been informed by a Wattleborough

'Do your sisters keep up their friendship with my cousin Marian?' she asked, quitting the previous difficult

It was the nearest he could come to a question concerning the future of Amy and her husband.

'Everything is still quite uncertain. But tell me something about our old acquaintances. How does Mr Biffen

'I scarcely ever see him, but I think he pegs away at an interminable novel, which no one will publish when

'I really think they do. Things go fairly well. And I have lately received a promise of very valuable help.'

They were passing Bedford Square. Amy glanced at the trees, now almost bare of foliage; then her eyes met

'I should have thought your aim would have been far more ambitious,' she said, with distinct utterance.

'Indeed? I remember now how you once spoke of her. And you will be married soon?'

'Probably before the end of the year. I see that you are criticising my motives. I am quite prepared for that in

everyone who knows me and the circumstances. But you must remember that I couldn't foresee anything of

'I am sure your motives are unassailable,' replied Amy, still with a smile. 'I imagined that you wouldn't marry

for years, and then some distinguished person. This throws new light upon your character.'

'Oh dear no! Butwell, to be sure, I can't say that I know Marian. I haven't seen her for years and years. She

'She's likely to shine in society? She is a brilliant girl, full of tact and insight?'

'It sounded very much like it, and I know from of old that you have a tendency that way.'

'The news surprised me a little, I confess. But I see that I am in danger of offending you.'

'Let us wait another five years, and then I will ask your opinion as to the success of my marriage. I don't take

a step of this kind without maturely considering it. Have I made many blunders as yet?'

'That is to say, you prefer to prophesy after the event. Very well, we shall see.'

In the length of Gower Street they talked of several other things less personal. By degrees the tone of their

conversation had become what it was used to be, now and then almost confidential.

'You are still at the same lodgings?' asked Amy, as they drew near to the railway station.

'I moved yesterday, so that the girls and I could be under the same roofuntil the next change.'

He promised, and with exchange of smiles which were something like a challenge they took leave of each

A touch of congestion in the right lung was a warning to Reardon that his halfyear of insufficient food and

general waste of strength would make the coming winter a hard time for him, worse probably than the last.

Biffen, responding in person to the summons, found him in bed, waited upon by a gaunt, dry, sententious

woman of sixtynot the landlady, but a lodger who was glad to earn one meal a day by any means that

'It wouldn't be very nice to die here, would it?' said the sufferer, with a laugh which was cut short by a cough.

'One would like a comfortable room, at least. Why, I don't know. I dreamt last night that I was in a ship that

had struck something and was going down; and it wasn't the thought of death that most disturbed me, but a

horror of being plunged in the icy water. In fact, I have had just the same feeling on shipboard. I remember

waking up midway between Corfu and Brindisi, on that shaky tub of a Greek boat; we were rolling a good

deal, and I heard a sort of alarmed rush and shouting up on deck. It was so warm and comfortable in the

berth, and I thought with intolerable horror of the possibility of sousing into the black depths.'

'Don't talk, my boy,' advised Biffen. 'Let me read you the new chapter of "Mr Bailey." It may induce a

Reardon was away from his duties for a week; he returned to them with a feeling of extreme shakiness, an

indisposition to exert himself, and a complete disregard of the course that events were taking. It was fortunate

that he had kept aside that small store of money designed for emergencies; he was able to draw on it now to

pay his doctor, and provide himself with better nourishment than usual. He purchased new boots, too, and

A change had come over him; he was no longer rendered miserable by thoughts of Amyseldom, indeed,

turned his mind to her at all. His secretaryship at Croydon was a haven within view; the income of

seventyfive pounds (the other half to go to his wife) would support him luxuriously, and for anything

beyond that he seemed to care little. Next Sunday he was to go over to Croydon and see the institution.

One evening of calm weather he made his way to Clipstone Street and greeted his friend with more show of

'I have been as nearly as possible a happy man all today,' he said, when his pipe was well lit. 'Partly the

sunshine, I suppose. There's no saying if the mood will last, but if it does all is well with me. I regret nothing

'No doubt of that, but I am content to be indebted to morbidness. One must have a rest from misery somehow.

Another kind of man would have taken to drinking; that has tempted me now and then, I assure you. But I

couldn't afford it. Did you ever feel tempted to drink merely for the sake of forgetting trouble?'

'Often enough. I have done it. I have deliberately spent a certain proportion of the money that ought to have

'Ha! that's interesting. But it never got the force of a habit you had to break?'

'No. Partly, I dare say, because I had the warning of poor Sykes before my eyes.'

'Never. He must be dead, I think. He would die either in the hospital or the workhouse.'

'Well,' said Reardon, musing cheerfully, 'I shall never become a drunkard; I haven't that diathesis, to use your

expression. Doesn't it strike you that you and I are very respectable persons? We really have no vices. Put us

on a social pedestal, and we should be shining lights of morality. I sometimes wonder at our inoffensiveness.

Why don't we run amuck against law and order? Why, at the least, don't we become savage revolutionists,

'Because we are passive beings, and were meant to enjoy life very quietly. As we can't enjoy, we just suffer

quietly, that's all. Bythebye, I want to talk about a difficulty in one of the Fragments of Euripides. Did you

This made a diversion for half an hour. Then Reardon returned to his former line of thought.

'As I was entering patients yesterday, there came up to the table a tall, goodlooking, very quiet girl, poorly

dressed, but as neat as could be. She gave me her name, then I asked "Occupation?" She said at once, "I'm

unfortunate, sir." I couldn't help looking up at her in surprise; I had taken it for granted she was a dressmaker

or something of the kind. And, do you know, I never felt so strong an impulse to shake hands, to show

sympathy, and even respect, in some way. I should have liked to say, "Why, I am unfortunate, too!" such a

'Well, so do I, as a rule. But in this case they were convincing. And there was no need whatever for her to

make such a declaration; she might just as well have said anything else; it's the merest form. I shall always

hear her voice saying, "I'm unfortunate, sir." She made me feel what a mistake it was for me to marry such a

girl as Amy. I ought to have looked about for some simple, kindhearted workgirl; that was the kind of wife

indicated for me by circumstances. If I had earned a hundred a year she would have thought we were

welltodo. I should have been an authority to her on everything under the sunand above it. No ambition

would have unsettled her. We should have lived in a couple of poor rooms somewhere, andwe should have

'What a shameless idealist you are!' said Biffen, shaking his head. 'Let me sketch the true issue of such a

marriage. To begin with, the girl would have married you in firm persuasion that you were a "gentleman" in

temporary difficulties, and that before long you would have plenty of money to dispose of. Disappointed in

this hope, she would have grown sharptempered, querulous, selfish. All your endeavours to make her

understand you would only have resulted in widening the impassable gulf. She would have misconstrued

your every sentence, found food for suspicion in every harmless joke, tormented you with the vulgarest forms

of jealousy. The effect upon your nature would have been degrading. In the end, you must have abandoned

every effort to raise her to your own level, and either have sunk to hers or made a rupture. Who doesn't know

the story of such attempts? I myself ten years ago, was on the point of committing such a folly, but, Heaven

'Well, you can judge for yourself but not for me. Of course I might have chosen the wrong girl, but I am

supposing that I had been fortunate. In any case there would have been a much better chance than in the

'Your marriage was sensible enough, and a few years hence you will be a happy man again.'

'I rather think I regard the matter more sanely than ever yet. I am quite free from sexual bias. I can see that

Amy was not my fit intellectual companion, and all emotion at the thought of her has gone from me. The

word "love" is a weariness to me. If only our idiotic laws permitted us to break the legal bond, how glad both

'You are depressed and anaemic. Get yourself in flesh, and view things like a man of this world.'

'But don't you think it the best thing that can happen to a man if he outgrows passion?'

'In all and any. The best moments of life are those when we contemplate beauty in the purely artistic

spiritobjectively. I have had such moments in Greece and Italy; times when I was a free spirit, utterly

remote from the temptations and harassings of sexual emotion. What we call love is mere turmoil. Who

'Haven't I told you,' he said, 'of that marvellous sunset at Athens? I was on the Pnyx; had been rambling about

there the whole afternoon. For I dare say a couple of hours I had noticed a growing rift of light in the clouds

to the west; it looked as if the dull day might have a rich ending. That rift grew broader and brighterthe

only bit of light in the sky. On Parnes there were white strips of ragged mist, hanging very low; the same on

Hymettus, and even the peak of Lycabettus was just hidden. Of a sudden, the sun's rays broke out. They

showed themselves first in a strangely beautiful way, striking from behind the seaward hills through the pass

that leads to Eleusis, and so gleaming on the nearer slopes of Aigaleos, making the clefts black and the

rounded parts of the mountain wonderfully brilliant with golden colour. All the rest of the landscape,

remember, was untouched with a ray of light. This lasted only a minute or two, then the sun itself sank into

the open patch of sky and shot glory in every direction; broadening beams smote upwards over the dark

clouds, and made them a lurid yellow. To the left of the sun, the gulf of Aegina was all golden mist, the

islands floating in it vaguely. To the right, over black Salamis, lay delicate strips of pale blueindescribably

'As if I saw it now! But wait. I turned eastward, and there to my astonishment was a magnificent rainbow, a

perfect semicircle, stretching from the foot of Parnes to that of Hymettus, framing Athens and its hills, which

grew brighter and brighterthe brightness for which there is no name among colours. Hymettus was of a

soft misty warmth, a something tending to purple, its ridges marked by exquisitely soft and indefinite

shadows, the rainbow coming right down in front. The Acropolis simply glowed and blazed. As the sun

descended all these colours grew richer and warmer; for a moment the landscape was nearly crimson. Then

suddenly the sun passed into the lower stratum of cloud, and the splendour died almost at once, except that

there remained the northern half of the rainbow, which had become double. In the west, the clouds were still

glorious for a time; there were two shaped like great expanded wings, edged with refulgence.'

'Stop!' cried Biffen, 'or I shall clutch you by the throat. I warned you before that I can't stand those

'Live in hope. Scrape together twenty pounds, and go there, if you die of hunger afterwards.'

'It's kind of you to encourage me; but if "Mr Bailey" is ever sold I don't mind undertaking to eat my duplicate

'But now, you remember what led me to that. What does a man care for any woman on earth when he is

'I am only maintaining that it is the best, and infinitely preferable to sexual emotion. It leaves, no doubt, no

bitterness of any kind. Poverty can't rob me of those memories. I have lived in an ideal world that was not

deceitful, a world which seems to me, when I recall it, beyond the human sphere, bathed in diviner light.'

It was four or five days after this that Reardon, on going to his work in City Road, found a note from Carter.

It requested him to call at the main hospital at halfpast eleven the next morning. He supposed the

appointment had something to do with his business at Croydon, whither he had been in the mean time. Some

He answered the summons punctually, and on entering the general office was requested by the clerk to wait

in Mr Carter's private room; the secretary had not yet arrived. His waiting lasted some ten minutes, then the

Reardon stood up in perturbation. He was anything but prepared, or disposed, for an interview with this lady.

She came towards him with hand extended and a countenance of suave friendliness.

'I doubted whether you would see me if I let you know,' she said. 'Forgive me this little bit of scheming, will

'I am come to see you quite on my own responsibility, quite. I took Mr Carter into my confidence, but begged

him not to let Mrs Carter know, lest she should tell Amy; I think he will keep his promise. It seemed to me

that it was really my duty to do whatever I could in these sad, sad circumstances.'

'I had better tell you at once that Amy's uncle at Wattleborough is dead, and that in his will he has bequeathed

Mrs Yule watched the effect of this. For a moment none was visible, but she saw at length that Reardon's lips

'You will feel, I am sure,' continued his motherinlaw, 'that this must put an end to your most unhappy

'It puts you both in a very different position, does it not? But for your distressing circumstances, I am sure

there would never have been such unpleasantnessnever. Neither you nor Amy is the kind of person to take

a pleasure in disagreement. Let me beg you to go and see her again. Everything is so different now. Amy has

not the faintest idea that I have come to see you, and she mustn't on any account be told, for her worst fault is

that sensitive pride of hers. And I'm sure you won't be offended, Edwin, if I say that you have very much the

same failing. Between two such sensitive people differences might last a lifetime, unless one could be

persuaded to take the first step. Do be generous! A woman is privileged to be a little obstinate, it is always

There was an involuntary affectedness in Mrs Yule's speech which repelled Reardon. He could not even put

faith in her assurance that Amy knew nothing of this intercession. In any case it was extremely distasteful to

'Under no circumstances could I do more than I already have done,' he replied. 'And after what you have told

'It is not in my power to do so. My poverty, as you justly say, was the cause of our parting; but if Amy is no

longer poor, that is very far from a reason why I should go to her as a suppliant for forgiveness.'

I really think I don't go too far in saying that at least some some provocation was given by you first of all. I

am so very, very far from wishing to say anything disagreeableI am sure you feel thatbut wasn't there

Reardon was tortured with nervousness. He wished to be alone, to think over what had happened, and Mrs

'There may have been ground for grief and concern,' he answered, 'but for complaint, no, I think not.'

'But I understand'the voice sounded rather irritable now'that you positively reproached and upbraided

'I may have lost my temper after Amy had shown But I can't review our troubles in this way.'

'I regret very much that I can't possibly do as you wish. It is all between Amy and myself. Interference by

'I am sorry you should use such a word as "interference,"' replied Mrs Yule, bridling a little. 'Very sorry,

indeed. I confess it didn't occur to me that my goodwill to you could be seen in that light.'

His earnestness was so unmistakable that Mrs Yule had no choice but to rise and bring the interview to an

Reardon lingered a little after her departure, then left the hospital and walked at a rapid pace in no particular

Ah! if this had happened in the first year of his marriage, what more blessed man than he would have walked

the earth! But it came after irreparable harm. No amount of wealth could undo the ruin caused by poverty.

It was natural for him, as soon as he could think with deliberation, to turn towards his only friend. But on

calling at the house in Clipstone Street he found the garret empty, and no one could tell him when its

occupant was likely to be back. He left a note, and made his way back to Islington. The evening had to be

'I was at the policecourt. Odd thingbut it always happens so that I should have spoken of Sykes the

other night. Last night I came upon a crowd in Oxford Street, and the nucleus of it was no other than Sykes

himself very drunk and disorderly, in the grip of two policemen. Nothing could be done for him; I was

useless as bail; he e'en had to sleep in the cell. But I went this morning to see what would become of him.

Such a spectacle when they brought him forward! It was only five shillings fine, and to my astonishment he

produced the money. I joined him outsideit required a little courageand had a long talk with him. He's

writing a London Letter for some provincial daily, and the first payment had thrown him off his balance.'

Reardon laughed gaily, and made inquiries about the eccentric gentleman. Only when the subject was

exhausted did he speak of his own concerns, relating quietly what he had learnt from Mrs Yule. Biffen's eyes

'So,' Reardon cried with exultation, 'there is the last burden off my mind! Henceforth I haven't a care! The

only thing that still troubled me was my inability to give Amy enough to live upon. Now she is provided for

'Biffen, you know me better. Could I accept a farthing of her money? This has made our coming together

again for ever impossible, unlessunless dead things can come to life. I know the value of money, but I can't

'No! But now everything is well. She has her child, and can devote herself to bringing the boy up. And Ibut

I shall be rich on my own account. A hundred and fifty a year; it would be a farce to offer Amy her share of

'I swear it! Let me save for a couple of years, and then get a good month's holiday, or more if possible, and,

as Pallas Athene liveth! we shall find ourselves at Marseilles, going aboard some boat of the Messageries. I

can't believe yet that this is true. Come, we will have a supper tonight. Come out into Upper Street, and let

'You are beside yourself. But never mind; let us rejoice by all means. There's every reason.'

'Amy, of course! I'm delighted on her account. Ah! but if it had come a long time ago, in the happy days!

Then she, too, would have gone to Greece, wouldn't she? Everything in life comes too soon or too late. What

it would have meant for her and for me! She would never have hated me then, never. Biffen, am I base or

contemptible? She thinks so. That's how poverty has served me. If you had seen her, how she looked at me,

when we met the other day, you would understand well enough why I couldn't live with her now, not if she

entreated me to. That would make me base if you like. Gods! how ashamed I should be if I yielded to such a

He had worked himself to such intensity of feeling that at length his voice choked and tears burst from his

On leaving the house they found themselves in a thick fog, through which trickled drops of warm rain.

Nevertheless, they pursued their purpose, and presently were seated in one of the boxes of a small

coffeeshop. Their only companion in the place was a cabdriver, who had just finished a meal, and was now

nodding into slumber over his plate and cup. Reardon ordered fried ham and eggs, the luxury of the poor, and

when the attendant woman was gone away to execute the order, he burst into excited laughter.

'With what magnificent scorn they would turn from us and our squalid feast! They have never known

struggle; not they. They are publicschool men, University men, club men, society men. An income of less

than three or four hundred a year is inconceivable to them; that seems the minimum for an educated man's

support. It would be smallminded to think of them with rancour, but, by Apollo! I know that we should

change places with them if the work we have done were justly weighed against theirs.'

'What does it matter? We are different types of intellectual workers. I think of them savagely now and then,

but only when hunger gets a trifle too keen. Their work answers a demand; ours or mine at all

eventsdoesn't. They are in touch with the reading multitude; they have the sentiments of the respectable;

they write for their class. Well, you had your circle of readers, and, if things hadn't gone against you, by this

'It's unlikely that I should ever have got more than two hundred pounds for a book; and, to have kept at my

best, I must have been content to publish once every two or three years. The position was untenable with no

private income. And I must needs marry a wife of dainty instincts! What astounding impudence! No wonder

They ate their ham and eggs, and exhilarated themselves with a cup of chicorycalled coffee. Then Biffen

drew from the pocket of his venerable overcoat the volume of Euripides he had brought, and their talk turned

once more to the land of the sun. Only when the coffeeshop was closed did they go forth again into the

foggy street, and at the top of Pentonville Hill they stood for ten minutes debating a metrical effect in one of

Day after day Reardon went about with a fever upon him. By evening his pulse was always rapid, and no

extremity of weariness brought him a refreshing sleep. In conversation he seemed either depressed or excited,

more often the latter. Save when attending to his duties at the hospital, he made no pretence of employing

himself; if at home, he sat for hours without opening a book, and his walks, excepting when they led him to

The hours of postal delivery found him waiting in an anguish of suspense. At eight o'clock each morning he

stood by his window, listening for the postman's knock in the street. As it approached he went out to the head

of the stairs, and if the knock sounded at the door of his house, he leaned over the banisters, trembling in

expectation. But the letter was never for him. When his agitation had subsided he felt glad of the

One day Carter appeared at the City Road establishment, and made an opportunity of speaking to his clerk in

'I suppose,' he said with a smile, 'they'll have to look out for someone else at Croydon?'

Seeing that Reardon was not disposed even to allude to private circumstances, the secretary said no more, and

Wandering in the city, about this time, Reardon encountered his friend the realist.

'In some indiscoverable hole. To save fuel, he spends his mornings at some readingrooms; the admission is

only a penny, and there he can see all the papers and do his writing and enjoy a grateful temperature.'

They repaired to the haunt in question. A flight of stairs brought them to a small room in which were exposed

the daily newspapers; another ascent, and they were in a room devoted to magazines, chess, and

refreshments; yet another, and they reached the department of weekly publications; lastly, at the top of the

house, they found a lavatory, and a chamber for the use of those who desired to write. The walls of this last

retreat were of blue plaster and sloped inwards from the floor; along them stood school desks with benches,

and in one place was suspended a ragged and dirty card announcing that paper and envelopes could be

purchased downstairs. An enormous basket full of wastepaper, and a small stove, occupied two corners; ink

blotches, satirical designs, and much scribbling in pen and pencil served for mural adornment. From the

adjacent lavatory came sounds of splashing and spluttering, and the busy street far below sent up its confused

Two persons only sat at the desks. One was a hungerbitten, out ofwork clerk, evidently engaged in

replying to advertisements; in front of him lay two or three finished letters, and on the ground at his feet were

several crumpled sheets of notepaper, representing abortive essays in composition. The other man, also

occupied with the pen, looked about forty years old, and was clad in a very rusty suit of tweeds; on the bench

beside him lay a grey overcoat and a silk hat which had for some time been moulting. His face declared the

habit to which he was a victim, but it had nothing repulsive in its lineaments and expression; on the contrary,

it was pleasing, amiable, and rather quaint. At this moment no one would have doubted his sobriety. With

coatsleeve turned back, so as to give free play to his right hand and wrist, revealing meanwhile a flannel

shirt of singular colour, and with his collar unbuttoned (he wore no tie) to leave his throat at ease as he bent

myopically over the paper, he was writing at express speed, evidently in the full rush of the ardour of

composition. The veins of his forehead were dilated, and his chin pushed forward in a way that made one

'I am! Upon my soul I am!' exclaimed the other looking up in alarm. 'For the love of Heaven don't put me out!

'Now let's try him again,' said Biffen, when considerably more than the requested time had elapsed. They

went up, and found Mr Sykes in an attitude of melancholy meditation. He had turned back his coat sleeve,

had buttoned his collar, and was eyeing the slips of completed manuscript. Biffen presented his companion,

'What do you think this is?' he exclaimed, pointing to his work. 'The first instalment of my autobiography for

the "Shropshire Weekly Herald." Anonymous, of course, but strictly veracious, with the omission of sundry

little personal failings which are nothing to the point. I call it "Through the Wilds of Literary London." An

old friend of mine edits the "Herald," and I'm indebted to him for the suggestion.'

'Most people will take it for fiction. I wish I had inventive power enough to write fiction anything like it. I

have published novels, Mr Reardon, but my experience in that branch of literature was peculiar as I may

say it has been in most others to which I have applied myself. My first stories were written for "The Young

Lady's Favourite," and most remarkable productions they were, I promise you. That was fifteen years ago, in

the days of my versatility. I could throw off my supplemental novelette of fifteen thousand words without

turning a hair, and immediately after it fall to, fresh as a daisy, on the "Illustrated History of the United

States," which I was then doing for Edward Coghlan. But presently I thought myself too good for the

"Favourite"; in an evil day I began to write threevolume novels, aiming at reputation. It wouldn't do. I

persevered for five years, and made about five failures. Then I went back to Bowring. "Take me on again, old

man, will you?" Bowring was a man of few words; he said, "Blaze away, my boy." And I tried to. But it was

no use; I had got out of the style; my writing was too literary by a long chalk. For a whole year I deliberately

strove to write badly, but Bowring was so pained with the feebleness of my efforts that at last he sternly bade

me avoid his sight. "What the devil," he roared one day, "do you mean by sending me stories about men and

women? You ought to know better than that, a fellow of your experience!" So I had to give it up, and there

'Biffen,' he continued, 'when I first made his acquaintance, had an idea of writing for the working classes; and

what do you think he was going to offer them? Stories about the working classes! Nay, never hang your head

for it, old boy; it was excusable in the days of your youth. Why, Mr Reardon, as no doubt you know well

enough, nothing can induce working men or women to read stories that treat of their own world. They are the

most consumed idealists in creation, especially the women. Again and again workgirls have said to me:

'So it is, but it comes out with delicious naivete in the working classes. Now, educated people like to read of

scenes that are familiar to them, though I grant you that the picture must be idealised if you're to appeal to

more than one in a thousand. The working classes detest anything that tries to represent their daily life. It isn't

because that life is too painful; no, no; it's downright snobbishness. Dickens goes down only with the best of

Presently the three went out together, and had dinner at an a la mode beef shop. Mr Sykes ate little, but took

copious libations of porter at twopence a pint. When the meal was over he grew taciturn.

'I'm afraid not, afraid not. In fact I have an appointment at twoat Aldgate station.'

'Now he'll go and soak till he's unconscious,' said Biffen. 'Poor fellow! Pity he ever earns anything at all. The

'No, no! Let a man drink himself to death rather. I have a horror of the workhouse. Remember the clock at

'Unphilosophic. I don't think I should be unhappy in the workhouse. I should have a certain satisfaction in the

thought that I had forced society to support me. And then the absolute freedom from care! Why, it's very

It was about a week after this, midway in November, that there at length came to Manville Street a letter

addressed in Amy's hand. It arrived at three one afternoon; Reardon heard the postman, but he had ceased to

rush out on every such occasion, and today he was feeling ill. Lying upon the bed, he had just raised his

head wearily when he became aware that someone was mounting to his room. He sprang up, his face and

'You must, of course, have heard [she wrote] that my uncle John has left me ten thousand pounds. It has not

yet come into my possession, and I had decided that I would not write to you till that happened, but perhaps

'If this money had come to me when you were struggling so hard to earn a living for us, we should never have

spoken the words and thought the thoughts which now make it so difficult for me to write to you. What I

wish to say is that, although the property is legally my own, I quite recognise that you have a right to share in

it. Since we have lived apart you have sent me far more than you could really afford, believing it your duty to

do so; now that things are so different I wish you, as well as myself, to benefit by the change.

'I said at our last meeting that I should be quite prepared to return to you if you took that position at Croydon.

There is now no need for you to pursue a kind of work for which you are quite unfitted, and I repeat that I am

willing to live with you as before. If you will tell me where you would like to make a new home I shall gladly

agree. I do not think you would care to leave London permanently, and certainly I should not.

'Please to let me hear from you as soon as possible. In writing like this I feel that I have done what you

expressed a wish that I should do. I have asked you to put an end to our separation, and I trust that I have not

The letter fell from his hand. It was such a letter as he might have expected, but the beginning misled him,

and as his agitation throbbed itself away he suffered an encroachment of despair which made him for a time

'Dear Amy,I thank you for your letter, and I appreciate your motive in writing it. But if you feel that you

have "done what I expressed a wish that you should do," you must have strangely misunderstood me.

'The only one thing that I wished was, that by some miracle your love for me might be revived. Can I

persuade myself that this is the letter of a wife who desires to return to me because in her heart she loves me?

If that is the truth you have been most unfortunate in trying to express yourself.

'You have written because it seemed your duty to do so. But, indeed, a sense of duty such as this is a

mistaken one. You have no love for me, and where there is no love there is no mutual obligation in marriage.

Perhaps you think that regard for social conventions will necessitate your living with me again. But have

more courage; refuse to act falsehoods; tell society it is base and brutal, and that you prefer to live an honest

'I cannot share your wealth, dear. But as you have no longer need of my helpas we are now quite

independent of each otherI shall cease to send the money which hitherto I have considered yours. In this

way I shall have enough, and more than enough, for my necessities, so that you will never have to trouble

yourself with the thought that I am suffering privations. At Christmas I go to Croydon, and I will then write

'For we may at all events be friendly. My mind is relieved from ceaseless anxiety on your account. I know

now that you are safe from that accursed poverty which is to blame for all our sufferings. You I do not blame,

though I have sometimes done so. My own experience teaches me how kindness can be embittered by

misfortune. Some great and noble sorrow may have the effect of drawing hearts together, but to struggle

against destitution, to be crushed by care about shillings and sixpencesthat must always degrade.

'No other reply than this is possible, so I beg you not to write in this way again. Let me know if you go to live

elsewhere. I hope Willie is well, and that his growth is still a delight and happiness to you.

That one word 'dear,' occurring in the middle of the letter, gave him pause as he read the lines over. Should he

not obliterate it, and even in such a way that Amy might see what he had done? His pen was dipped in the ink

for that purpose, but after all he held his hand. Amy was still dear to him, say what he might, and if she noted

A street gas lamp prevented the room from becoming absolutely dark. When he had closed the envelope he

lay down on his bed again, and watched the flickering yellowness upon the ceiling. He ought to have some

tea before going to the hospital, but he cared so little for it that the trouble of boiling water was too great.

The flickering light grew fainter; he understood at length that this was caused by fog that had begun to

descend. The fog was his enemy; it would be wise to purchase a respirator if this hideous weather continued,

for sometimes his throat burned, and there was a rasping in his chest which gave disagreeable admonition.

He fell asleep for half an hour, and on awaking he was feverish, as usual at this time of day. Well, it was time

The rooms which Milvain had taken for himself and his sisters were modest, but more expensive than their

old quarters. As the change was on his account he held himself responsible for the extra outlay. But for his

immediate prospects this step would have been unwarrantable, as his earnings were only just sufficient for his

needs on the previous footing. He had resolved that his marriage must take place before Christmas; till that

event he would draw when necessary upon the girls' little store, and then repay them out of Marian's dowry.

The question was put on the first evening of their being all under the same roof. The trio had had supper in

the girls' sittingroom, and it was a moment for frank conversation. Dora rejoiced in the coming marriage;

her brother had behaved honourably, and Marian, she trusted, would be very happy, notwithstanding

disagreement with her father, which seemed inevitable. Maud was by no means so well pleased, though she

endeavoured to wear smiles. It looked to her as if Jasper had been guilty of a kind of weakness not to be

expected in him. Marian, as an individual, could not be considered an appropriate wife for such a man with

such a future; and as for her five thousand pounds, that was ridiculous. Had it been ten something can be

made of ten thousand; but a paltry five! Maud's ideas on such subjects had notably expanded of late, and one

of the results was that she did not live so harmoniously with her sister as for the first few months of their

'I have been thinking a good deal about that,' replied Jasper to the younger girl's question. He stood with his

back to the fire and smoked a cigarette. 'I thought at first of taking a flat; but then a flat of the kind I should

want would be twice the rent of a large house. If we have a house with plenty of room in it you might come

and live with us after a time. At first I must find you decent lodgings in our neighbourhood.'

'You show a good deal of generosity, Jasper,' said Maud, 'but pray remember that Marian isn't bringing you

'I regret to say that she isn't. What she brings me is five hundred a year for ten yearsthat's how I look at it.

My own income will make it something between six or seven hundred at first, and before long probably more

like a thousand. I am quite cool and collected. I understand exactly where I am, and where I am likely to be

ten years hence. Marian's money is to be spent in obtaining a position for myself. At present I am spoken of

as a "smart young fellow," and that kind of thing; but no one would offer me an editorship, or any other

serious help. Wait till I show that I have helped myself and hands will be stretched to me from every side.

'Tis the way of the world. I shall belong to a club; I shall give nice, quiet little dinners to selected people; I

shall let it be understood by all and sundry that I have a social position. Thenceforth I am quite a different

man, a man to be taken into account. And what will you bet me that I don't stand in the foremost rank of

'If not, I am prepared to spend a thousand. Bless my soul! As if two or three years wouldn't suffice to draw

out the mean qualities in the kind of people I am thinking of! I say ten, to leave myself a great margin.'

'There's no supposing it, unless, of course, I lose my health. I am not presuming on any wonderful

development of powers. Such as I am now, I need only to be put on the little pedestal of a decent

independence and plenty of people will point fingers of admiration at me. You don't fully appreciate this.

Mind, it wouldn't do if I had no qualities. I have the qualities; they only need bringing into prominence. If I

am an unknown man, and publish a wonderful book, it will make its way very slowly, or not at all. If I,

become a known man, publish that very same book, its praise will echo over both hemispheres. I should be

within the truth if I had said "a vastly inferior book," But I am in a bland mood at present. Suppose poor

Reardon's novels had been published in the full light of reputation instead of in the struggling dawn which

was never to become day, wouldn't they have been magnified by every critic? You have to become famous

'You have to obtain reputation before you can get a fair hearing for that which would justify your repute. It's

the old story of the French publisher who said to Dumas: "Make a name, and I'll publish anything you write."

"But how the diable," cries the author, "am I to make a name if I can't get published?" If a man can't hit upon

any other way of attracting attention, let him dance on his head in the middle of the street; after that he may

hope to get consideration for his volume of poems. I am speaking of men who wish to win reputation before

they are toothless. Of course if your work is strong, and you can afford to wait, the probability is that half a

dozen people will at last begin to shout that you have been monstrously neglected, as you have. But that

happens when you are hoary and sapless, and when nothing under the sun delights you.'

'Now I, my dear girls, am not a man who can afford to wait. First of all, my qualities are not of the kind

which demand the recognition of posterity. My writing is for today, most distinctly hodiernal. It has no

value save in reference to today. The question is: How can I get the eyes of men fixed upon me? The

answer: By pretending I am quite independent of their gaze. I shall succeed, without any kind of doubt; and

But Jasper was not quite so well assured of the prudence of what he was about to do as he wished his sisters

to believe. The impulse to which he had finally yielded still kept its force; indeed, was stronger than ever

since the intimacy of lovers' dialogue had revealed to him more of Marian's heart and mind. Undeniably he

was in love. Not passionately, not with the consuming desire which makes every motive seem paltry

compared with its own satisfaction; but still quite sufficiently in love to have a great difficulty in pursuing his

daily tasks. This did not still the voice which bade him remember all the opportunities and hopes he was

throwing aside. Since the plighting of troth with Marian he had been over to Wimbledon, to the house of his

friend and patron Mr Horace Barlow, and there he had again met with Miss Rupert. This lady had no power

whatever over his emotions, but he felt assured that she regarded him with strong interest. When he imagined

the possibility of contracting a marriage with Miss Rupert, who would make him at once a man of solid

means, his head drooped, and he wondered at his precipitation. It had to be confessed that he was the victim

of a vulgar weakness. He had declared himself not of the first order of progressive men.

The conversation with Amy Reardon did not tend to put his mind at rest. Amy was astonished at so indiscreet

a step in a man of his calibre. Ah! if only Amy herself were free, with her ten thousand pounds to dispose of!

She, he felt sure, did not view him with indifference. Was there not a touch of pique in the elaborate irony

with which she had spoken of his choice?But it was idle to look in that direction.

He was anxious on his sisters' account. They were clever girls, and with energy might before long earn a bare

subsistence; but it began to be doubtful whether they would persevere in literary work. Maud, it was clear,

had conceived hopes of quite another kind. Her intimacy with Mrs Lane was effecting a change in her habits,

her dress, even her modes of speech. A few days after their establishment in the new lodgings, Jasper spoke

'I wonder whether you could satisfy my curiosity in a certain matter,' he said. 'Do you, by chance, know how

'Did she? Is there any particular, any quite special, reason for this expenditure?'

He took opportunities of investigating the matter, with the result that some ten days after he sought private

colloquy with Maud herself. She had asked his opinion of a little paper she was going to send to a ladies'

'I think this will do pretty well,' he said. 'There's rather too much thought in it, perhaps. Suppose you knock

out one or two of the less obvious reflections, and substitute a wholesome commonplace? You'll have a better

'No; you'll probably make it worth a guinea or so. You must remember that the people who read women's

papers are irritated, simply irritated, by anything that isn't glaringly obvious. They hate an unusual thought.

The art of writing for such papers indeed, for the public in generalis to express vulgar thought and

feeling in a way that flatters the vulgar thinkers and feelers. Just abandon your mind to it, and then let me see

Maud took up the manuscript and glanced over it with a contemptuous smile. Having observed her for a

The girl's face changed. She drew herself up, and looked away towards the window.

'Dolomore,' pursued her brother, 'is all very well in his way, but that way isn't yours. I believe he has a good

deal of money, but he has neither brains nor principle. There's no harm in your observing the nature and

habits of such individuals, but don't allow yourself to forget that they are altogether beneath you.'

'I'm quite sure of that; but you are inexperienced. On the whole, I do rather wish that you would go less

It was rather an unfortunate choice of yours. Very much better if you could have got on a good footing with

the Barnabys. If you are generally looked upon as belonging to the Lanes' set it will make it difficult for you

Maud was not to be drawn into argument, and Jasper could only hope that his words would have some weight

with her. The Mr Dolomore in question was a young man of rather offensive type athletic, dandiacal, and

halfeducated. It astonished Jasper that his sister could tolerate such an empty creature for a moment; who

has not felt the like surprise with regard to women's inclinations? He talked with Dora about it, but she was

'Maud won't allow anyone to interfere inher private affairs.''It would be unfortunate if she made me quarrel

Jasper himself saw a good deal of miscellaneous society at this time. He could not work so persistently as

usual, and with wise tactics he used the seasons of enforced leisure to extend his acquaintance. Marian and he

Of his old Bohemian associates he kept up intimate relations with one only, and that was Whelpdale. This

was in a measure obligatory, for Whelpdale frequently came to see him, and it would have been difficult to

repel a man who was always making known how highly he esteemed the privilege of Milvain's friendship,

and whose company on the whole was agreeable enough. At the present juncture Whelpdale's cheery flattery

was a distinct assistance; it helped to support Jasper in his selfconfidence, and to keep the brightest

'Whelpdale is anxious to make Marian's acquaintance,' Jasper said to his sisters one day. 'Shall we have him

'If I were to repeat that to him he'd go wild with delight. But don't be afraid; I shan't. I'll ask him to come for

A note was posted to Whelpdale; he was invited to present himself at eight o'clock, by which time Marian

would have arrived. Jasper's room was to be the scene of the assembly, and punctual to the minute the literary

adviser appeared. He was dressed with all the finish his wardrobe allowed, and his face beamed with

gratification; it was rapture to him to enter the presence of these three girls, one of whom he had, more suo,

held in romantic remembrance since his one meeting with her at Jasper's old lodgings. His eyes melted with

tenderness as he approached Dora and saw her smile of gracious recognition. By Maud he was profoundly

impressed. Marian inspired him with no awe, but he fully appreciated the charm of her features and her

modest gravity. After all, it was to Dora that his eyes turned again most naturally. He thought her exquisite,

and, rather than be long without a glimpse of her, he contented himself with fixing his eyes on the hem of her

As was to be expected in such a circle, conversation soon turned to the subject of literary struggles.

'I always feel it rather humiliating,' said Jasper, 'that I have gone through no very serious hardships. It must be

"Ah, I remember when I was within an ace of starving to death," and then come out with Grub Street

reminiscences of the most appalling kind. Unfortunately, I have always had enough to eat.'

'I haven't,' exclaimed Whelpdale. 'I have lived for five days on a few cents' worth of peanuts in the States.'

Delighted with the question, Whelpdale described that undesirable species of food.

'It was in Troy,' he went on, 'Troy, N.Y. To think that a man should live on peanuts in a town called Troy!'

'Tell us those adventures,' cried Jasper. 'It's a long time since I heard them, and the girls will enjoy it vastly.'

Dora looked at him with such goodhumoured interest that the traveller needed no further persuasion.

'It came to pass in those days,' he began, 'that I inherited from my godfather a small, a very small, sum of

money. I was making strenuous efforts to write for magazines, with absolutely no encouragement. As

everybody was talking just then of the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia, I conceived the brilliant idea of

crossing the Atlantic, in the hope that I might find valuable literary material at the Exhibitionor Exposition,

as they called itand elsewhere. I won't trouble you with an account of how I lived whilst I still had money;

sufficient that no one would accept the articles I sent to England, and that at last I got into perilous straits. I

went to New York, and thought of returning home, but the spirit of adventure was strong in me. "I'll go

West," I said to myself. "There I am bound to find material." And go I did, taking an emigrant ticket to

Chicago. It was December, and I should like you to imagine what a journey of a thousand miles by an

emigrant train meant at that season. The cars were deadly cold, and what with that and the hardness of the

seats I found it impossible to sleep; it reminded me of tortures I had read about; I thought my brain would

have burst with the need of sleeping. At Cleveland, in Ohio, we had to wait several hours in the night; I left

the station and wandered about till I found myself on the edge of a great cliff that looked over Lake Erie. A

magnificent picture! Brilliant moonlight, and all the lake away to the horizon frozen and covered with snow.

'Nothing could be more welcome,' cried Dora. 'Mr Whelpdale makes one feel quite chilly.'

There was laughter and chatting whilst Maud poured out the beverage. Then Whelpdale pursued his narrative.

'I reached Chicago with not quite five dollars in my pockets, and, with a courage which I now marvel at, I

paid immediately four dollars and a half for a week's board and lodging. "Well," I said to myself, "for a week

I am safe. If I earn nothing in that time, at least I shall owe nothing when I have to turn out into the streets." It

was a rather dirty little boardinghouse, in Wabash Avenue, and occupied, as I soon found, almost entirely

by actors. There was no fireplace in my bedroom, and if there had been I couldn't have afforded a fire. But

that mattered little; what I had to do was to set forth and discover some way of making money. Don't suppose

that I was in a desperate state of mind; how it was, I don't quite know, but I felt decidedly cheerful. It was

pleasant to be in this new region of the earth, and I went about the town like a tourist who has abundant

'I saw nothing for it but to apply at the office of some newspaper, and as I happened to light upon the biggest

of them first of all, I put on a bold face, marched in, asked if I could see the editor. There was no difficulty

whatever about this; I was told to ascend by means of the "elevator" to an upper storey, and there I walked

into a comfortable little room where a youngish man sat smoking a cigar at a table covered with print and

manuscript. I introduced myself, stated my business. "Can you give me work of any kind on your paper?"

"Well, what experience have you had?" "None whatever." The editor smiled. "I'm very much afraid you

would be no use to us. But what do you think you could do?" Well now, there was but one thing that by any

possibility I could do. I asked him: "Do you publish any fictionshort stories?" "Yes, we're always glad of a

short story, if it's good." This was a big daily paper; they have weekly supplements of all conceivable kinds

of matter. "Well," I said, "if I write a story of English life, will you consider it?" "With pleasure." I left him,

'It was a great thing to be permitted to write a story, but then what story? I went down to the shore of Lake

Michigan; walked there for half an hour in an icy wind. Then I looked for a stationer's shop, and laid out a

few of my remaining cents in the purchase of pen, ink, and papermy stock of all these things was at an end

when I left New York. Then back to the boardinghouse. Impossible to write in my bedroom, the temperature

was below zero; there was no choice but to sit down in the common room, a place like the smokeroom of a

poor commercial hotel in England. A dozen men were gathered about the fire, smoking, talking, quarrelling.

Favourable conditions, you see, for literary effort. But the story had to be written, and write it I did, sitting

there at the end of a deal table; I finished it in less than a couple of days, a good long story, enough to fill

three columns of the huge paper. I stand amazed at my power of concentration as often as I think of it!'

'You shall hear. I took my manuscript to the editor, and he told me to come and see him again next morning. I

didn't forget the appointment. As I entered he smiled in a very promising way, and said, "I think your story

will do. I'll put it into the Saturday supplement. Call on Saturday morning and I'll remunerate you." How well

I remember that word "remunerate"! I have had an affection for the word ever since. And remunerate me he

did; scribbled something on a scrap of paper, which I presented to the cashier. The sum was eighteen dollars.

'I have never come across an English editor who treated me with anything like that consideration and general

kindliness. How the man had time, in his position, to see me so often, and do things in such a human way, I

can't understand. Imagine anyone trying the same at the office of a London newspaper! To begin with, one

couldn't see the editor at all. I shall always think with profound gratitude of that man with the peaked brown

'Alas! they did. For some months I supported myself in Chicago, writing for that same paper, and for others.

But at length the flow of my inspiration was checked; I had written myself out. And I began to grow

homesick, wanted to get back to England. The result was that I found myself one day in New York again,

but without money enough to pay for a passage home. I tried to write one more story. But it happened, as I

was looking over newspapers in a readingroom, that I saw one of my Chicago tales copied into a paper

published at Troy. Now Troy was not very far off; and it occurred to me that, if I went there, the editor of this

paper might be disposed to employ me, seeing he had a taste for my fiction. And I went, up the Hudson by

steamboat. On landing at Troy I was as badly off as when I reached Chicago; I had less than a dollar. And the

worst of it was I had come on a vain errand; the editor treated me with scant courtesy, and no work was to be

got. I took a little room, paying for it day by day, and in the meantime I fed on those loathsome peanuts,

buying a handful in the street now and then. And I assure you I looked starvation in the face.'

'Don't ask me. They make straw hats there principally, and they sell peanuts. More I remember not.'

'No, I just didn't. I went one afternoon into a lawyer's office, thinking I might get some copying work, and

there I found an odd looking old man, sitting with an open Bible on his knees. He explained to me that he

wasn't the lawyer; that the lawyer was away on business, and that he was just guarding the office. Well, could

he help me? He meditated, and a thought occurred to him. "Go," he said, "to suchandsuch a

boardinghouse, and ask for Mr Freeman Sterling. He is just starting on a business tour, and wants a young

man to accompany him." I didn't dream of asking what the business was, but sped, as fast as my trembling

limbs would carry me, to the address he had mentioned. I asked for Mr Freeman Sterling, and found him. He

was a photographer, and his business at present was to go about getting orders for the reproducing of old

portraits. A goodnatured young fellow. He said he liked the look of me, and on the spot engaged me to

assist him in a housetohouse visitation. He would pay for my board and lodging, and give me a

commission on all the orders I obtained. Forthwith I sat down to a "square meal," and atemy conscience,

'I don't think I got halfadozen orders. Yet that good Samaritan supported me for five or six weeks, whilst

we travelled from Troy to Boston. It couldn't go on; I was ashamed of myself; at last I told him that we must

part. Upon my word, I believe he would have paid my expenses for another month; why, I can't understand.

But he had a vast respect for me because I had written in newspapers, and I do seriously think that he didn't

like to tell me I was a useless fellow. We parted on the very best of terms in Boston.'

'Well, no. In the meantime I had written to someone in England, begging the loan of just enough money to

enable me to get home. The money came a day after I had seen Sterling off by train.'

An hour and a half quickly passed, and Jasper, who wished to have a few minutes of Marian's company

before it was time for her to go, cast a significant glance at his sisters. Dora said innocently:

And Marian rose. This was a signal Whelpdale could not disregard. Immediately he made ready for his own

departure, and in less than five minutes was gone, his face at the last moment expressing blended delight and

'Too good of you to have asked me to come,' he said with gratitude to Jasper, who went to the door with him.

When Jasper returned to the room his sisters had vanished. Marian stood by the fire. He drew near to her,

'Marian, I have been thinking about that letter to your father. I had better get it written, don't you think?'

'Yes, I know. But I suspect you had rather I didn't wait any longer. Isn't that the truth?'

'Don't let it come before the last post. I had so much rather not. Manage it, if you can.'

'Very well. Now go and say goodnight to the girls. It's a vile night, and you must get home as soon as

'And you couldn't go away contentedly unless I repeated for the hundredth time that I love you?'

Jasper was unable to understand that such a jest sounded to her like profanity. She hid her face against him,

and whispered the words that would have enraptured her had they but come from his lips. The young man

found it pleasant enough to be worshipped, but he could not reply as she desired. A few phrases of

tenderness, and his lovevocabulary was exhausted; he even grew weary when something morethe

'You are a dear, good, tenderhearted girl,' he said, stroking her short, soft hair, which was exquisite to the

She left him, but stood for a few moments on the landing before going to the girls' room.

Marian had finished the rough draft of a paper on James Harrington, author of 'Oceana.' Her father went

through it by the midnight lamp, and the next morning made his comments. A black sky and sooty rain

strengthened his inclination to sit by the study fire and talk at large in a tone of flattering benignity.

said, tapping the manuscript with the mouthpiece of his pipe. 'Perhaps you might say a word or two more

about Cyriac Skinner; one mustn't be too allusive with general readers, their ignorance is incredible. But there

is so little to add to this paperso little to alterthat I couldn't feel justified in sending it as my own work. I

think it is altogether too good to appear anonymously. You must sign it, Marian, and have the credit that is

'Oh, do you think it's worth while?' answered the girl, who was far from easy under this praise. Of late there

had been too much of it; it made her regard her father with suspicions which increased her sense of trouble in

'Yes, yes; you had better sign it. I'll undertake there's no other girl of your age who could turn out such a

piece of work. I think we may fairly say that your apprenticeship is at an end. Before long,' he smiled

anxiously, 'I may be counting upon you as a valued contributor. And that reminds me; would you be disposed

Marian understood the intention that lay beneath this proposal. She saw that her father would not allow

himself to seem discouraged by the silence she maintained on the great subject which awaited her decision.

He was endeavouring gradually to involve her in his ambitions, to carry her forward by insensible steps. It

pained her to observe the suppressed eagerness with which he looked for her reply.

'I feel sure you would like Mrs Jedwood. One has no great opinion of her novels, but she is a woman of some

intellect. Let me book you for next Sunday; surely I have a claim to your companionship now and then.'

'You would probably do something rather good if you tried. But I don't urge it. My own efforts in that line

were a mistake, I'm disposed to think. Not that the things were worse than multitudes of books which

nowadays go down with the manyheaded. But I never quite knew what I wished to be at in fiction. I wasn't

content to write a mere narrative of the exciting kind, yet I couldn't hit upon subjects of intellectual cast that

altogether satisfied me. Well, well; I have tried my hand at most kinds of literature. Assuredly I merit the title

'Bytheby, what should you think of that title for a review Letters? It has never been used, so far as I

know. I like the word "letters." How much better "a man of letters" than "a literary man"! And apropos of

that, when was the word "literature" first used in our modern sense to signify a body of writing? In Johnson's

day it was pretty much the equivalent of our "culture." You remember his saying, "It is surprising how little

literature people have." His dictionary, I believe, defines the word as "learning, skill in letters"nothing

It was characteristic of Yule to dwell with gusto on little points such as this; he prosed for a quarter of an

'I think Letters wouldn't be amiss,' he said at length, returning to the suggestion which he wished to keep

before Marian's mind. 'It would clearly indicate our scope. No articles on bimetallism, as Quarmby

Though Marian feared the result, she was glad when Jasper made up his mind to write to her father. Since it

was determined that her money could not be devoted to establishing a review, the truth ought to be confessed

before Yule had gone too far in nursing his dangerous hope. Without the support of her love and all the

prospects connected with it, she would hardly have been capable of giving a distinct refusal when her reply

could no longer be postponed; to hold the money merely for her own benefit would have seemed to her too

selfish, however slight her faith in the project on which her father built so exultantly. When it was declared

that she had accepted an offer of marriage, a sacrifice of that kind could no longer be expected of her.

Opposition must direct itself against the choice she had made. It would be stern, perhaps relentless; but she

felt able to face any extremity of wrath. Her nerves quivered, but in her heart was an exhaustless source of

That a change had somehow come about in the girl Yule was aware. He observed her with the closest study

day after day. Her health seemed to have improved; after a long spell of work she had not the air of

despondent weariness which had sometimes irritated him, sometimes made him uneasy. She was more

womanly in her bearing and speech, and exercised an independence, appropriate indeed to her years, but such

as had not formerly declared itself The question with her father was whether these things resulted simply

from her consciousness of possessing what to her seemed wealth, or something else had happened of the

nature that he dreaded. An alarming symptom was the increased attention she paid to her personal

appearance; its indications were not at all prominent, but Yule, on the watch for such things, did not overlook

them. True, this also might mean nothing but a sense of relief from narrow means; a girl would naturally

His doubts came to an end two days after that proposal of a title for the new review. As he sat in his study the

servant brought him a letter delivered by the last evening post. The handwriting was unknown to him; the

'DEAR MR YULE,It is my desire to write to you with perfect frankness and as simply as I can on a

subject which has the deepest interest for me, and which I trust you will consider in that spirit of kindness

'On the occasion of that meeting I had the happiness of being presented to Miss Yule. She was not totally a

stranger to me; at that time I used to work pretty regularly in the Museum Reading room, and there I had

seen Miss Yule, had ventured to observe her at moments with a young man's attention, and had felt my

interest aroused, though I did not know her name. To find her at Finden seemed to me a very unusual and

When I came back from my holiday I was conscious of a new purpose in life, a new desire and a new motive

'My mother's death led to my sisters' coming to live in London. Already there had been friendly

correspondence between Miss Yule and the two girls, and now that the opportunity offered they began to see

each other frequently. As I was often at my sisters' lodgings it came about that I met Miss Yule there from

time to time. In this way was confirmed my attachment to your daughter. The better I knew her, the more

'Would it not have been natural for me to seek a renewal of the acquaintance with yourself which had been

begun in the country? Gladly I should have done so. Before my sisters' coming to London I did call one day

at your house with the desire of seeing you, but unfortunately you were not at home. Very soon after that I

learnt to my extreme regret that my connection with The Current and its editor would make any repetition of

my visit very distasteful to you. I was conscious of nothing in my literary life that could justly offend

youand at this day I can say the samebut I shrank from the appearance of importunity, and for some

months I was deeply distressed by the fear that what I most desired in life had become unattainable. My

means were very slight; I had no choice but to take such work as offered, and mere chance had put me into a

position which threatened ruin to the hope that you would some day regard me as a not unworthy suitor for

'Circumstances have led me to a step which at that time seemed impossible. Having discovered that Miss

Yule returned the feeling I entertained for her, I have asked her to be my wife, and she has consented. It is

now my hope that you will permit me to call upon you. Miss Yule is aware that I am writing this letter; will

you not let her plead for me, seeing that only by an unhappy chance have I been kept aloof from you? Marian

and I are equally desirous that you should approve our union; without that approval, indeed, something will

Half an hour after reading this Yule was roused from a fit of the gloomiest brooding by Marian's entrance.

She came towards him timidly, with pale countenance. He had glanced round to see who it was, but at once

'Forgive you?' he replied in a hard, deliberate voice. 'I assure you it is a matter of perfect indifference to me.

You are long since of age, and I have no power whatever to prevent your falling a victim to any schemer who

takes your fancy. It would be folly in me to discuss the question. I recognise your right to have as many

secrets as may seem good to you. To talk of forgiveness is the merest affectation.'

'No, I spoke sincerely. If it had seemed possible I should gladly have let you know about this from the first.

'I do. I will try to hope that even a sense of shame had something to do with it.'

'That had nothing to do with it,' said Marian, coldly. 'I have never had reason to feel ashamed.'

'Be it so. I trust you may never have reason to feel repentance. May I ask when you propose to be married?'

'As soon, I suppose, as your uncle's executors have discharged a piece of business which is distinctly germane

'Most decidedly I do. You will have the goodness to inform him that that is my reply to his letter.'

'I don't think that is the behaviour of a gentleman,' said Marian, her eyes beginning to gleam with resentment.

'I am not inclined to repeat what I have already fruitlessly told you. For the sake of a clear understanding,

however, I will let you know the practical result of my dislike. From the day of your marriage with that man

you are nothing to me. I shall distinctly forbid you to enter my house. You make your choice, and go your

'If you have made up your mind to that,' said Marian in a shaking voice, 'I can remain here no longer. Such

'I repeat that you are of age, and perfectly independent. It can be nothing to me how soon you go. You have

given proof that I am of less than no account to you, and doubtless the sooner we cease to afflict each other

It seemed as if the effect of these conflicts with her father were to develop in Marian a vehemence of temper

which at length matched that of which Yule was the victim. Her face, outlined to express a gentle gravity,

was now haughtily passionate; nostrils and lips thrilled with wrath, and her eyes were magnificent in their

'You shall not need to tell me that again,' she answered, and immediately left him.

She went into the sittingroom, where Mrs Yule was awaiting the result of the interview.

'Mother,' she said, with stern gentleness, 'this house can no longer be a home for me. I shall go away

'Oh, don't do that, Marian! What has he said to you? Come and talk to me, darlingtell me what he's

She clung to the girl despairingly, terrified by a transformation she would have thought impossible.

'He says that if I marry Mr Milvain he hopes never to see my face again. I can't stay here. You shall come and

see me, and we will be the same to each other as always. But father has treated me too unjustly. I can't live

'He doesn't mean it,' sobbed her mother. 'He says what he's sorry for as soon as the words are spoken. He

loves you too much, my darling, to drive you away like that. It's his disappointment, Marian; that's all it is.

He counted on it so much. I've heard him talk of it in his sleep; he made so sure that he was going to have that

new magazine, and the disappointment makes him that he doesn't know what he's saying. Only wait and see;

he'll tell you he didn't mean it, I know he will. Only leave him alone till he's had time to get over it. Do

'It's like a madman to talk in that way,' said the girl, releasing herself. 'Whatever his disappointment, I can't

endure it. I have worked hard for him, very hard, ever since I was old enough, and he owes me some

kindness, some respect. It would be different if he had the least reason for his hatred of Jasper. It is nothing

but insensate prejudice, the result of his quarrels with other people. What right has he to insult me by

'Then I am quicktempered too, and the sooner we are apart the better, as he said himself'

'My patience is at an end when I am treated as if I had neither rights nor feelings. However wrong the choice

I had made, this was not the way to behave to me. His disappointment? Is there a natural law, then, that a

daughter must be sacrificed to her father? My husband will have as much need of that money as my father

has, and he will be able to make far better use of it. It was wrong even to ask me to give my money away like

She was shaken with hysterical passion, the natural consequence of this outbreak in a nature such as hers. Her

mother, in the meantime, grew stronger by force of profound love that at length had found its opportunity of

expression. Presently she persuaded Marian to come upstairs with her, and before long the overburdened

'It is impossible for us to see each other day after day,' she said when calmer. 'He can't control his anger

against me, and I suffer too much when I am made to feel like this. I shall take a lodging not far off where

'No money? As if I couldn't borrow a few pounds until all my own comes to me! Dora Milvain can lend me

all I shall want; it won't make the least difference to her. I must have my money very soon now.'

'If you are coming to speak about Marian,' said her husband, turning upon her with savage eyes, 'you can save

'If she didn't go I should, so understand that! And if I go, you have seen the last of me. Make your choice,

He had yielded himself to that perverse frenzy which impels a man to acts and utterances most wildly at

conflict with reason. His sense of the monstrous irrationality to which he was committed completed what was

'If I wasn't a poor, helpless woman,' replied his wife, sinking upon a chair and crying without raising her

hands to her face, 'I'd go and live with her till she was married, and then make a home for myself. But I

haven't a penny, and I'm too old to earn my own living; I should only be a burden to her.'

'That shall be no hindrance,' cried Yule. 'Go, by all means; you shall have a sufficient allowance as long as I

can continue to work, and when I'm past that, your lot will be no harder than mine. Your daughter had the

chance of making provision for my old age, at no expense to herself. But that was asking too much of her.

Go, by all means, and leave me to make what I can of the rest of my life; perhaps I may save a few years still

It was idle to address him. Mrs Yule went into the sittingroom, and there sat weeping for an hour. Then she

Yule passed the night in the study. Towards morning he slept for an hour or two, just long enough to let the

fire go out and to get thoroughly chilled. When he opened his eyes a muddy twilight had begun to show at the

window; the sounds of a clapping door within the house, which had probably awakened him, made him aware

He drew up the blind. There seemed to be a frost, for the moisture of last night had all disappeared, and the

yard upon which the window looked was unusually clean. With a glance at the black grate he extinguished

his lamp, and went out into the passage. A few minutes' groping for his overcoat and hat, and he left the

His purpose was to warm himself with a vigorous walk, and at the same time to shake off if possible, the

nightmare of his rage and hopelessness. He had no distinct feeling with regard to his behaviour of the past

evening; he neither justified nor condemned himself; he did not ask himself whether Marian would today

leave her home, or if her mother would take him at his word and also depart. These seemed to be details

which his brain was too weary to consider. But he wished to be away from the wretchedness of his house, and

to let things go as they would whilst he was absent. As he closed the front door he felt as if he were escaping

His steps directing themselves more by habit than with any deliberate choice, he walked towards Camden

Road. When he had reached Camden Town railwaystation he was attracted by a coffee stall; a draught of

the steaming liquid, no matter its quality, would help his blood to circulate. He laid down his penny, and first

warmed his hands by holding them round the cup. Whilst standing thus he noticed that the objects at which

he looked had a blurred appearance; his eyesight seemed to have become worse this morning. Only a result of

his insufficient sleep perhaps. He took up a scrap of newspaper that lay on the stall; he could read it, but one

of his eyes was certainly weaker than the other; trying to see with that one alone, he found that everything

He laughed, as if the threat of new calamity were an amusement in his present state of mind. And at the same

moment his look encountered that of a man who had drawn near to him, a shabbily dressed man of middle

'Will you give me a cup of coffee?' asked the stranger, in a low voice and with shamefaced manner. 'It would

The accent was that of good breeding. Yule hesitated in surprise for a moment, then said:

'I am much obliged to you. I think I should be none the worse for one of those solid slices of bread and

The stallkeeper was just extinguishing his lights; the frosty sky showed a pale gleam of sunrise.

'Hard times, I'm afraid,' remarked Yule, as his beneficiary began to eat the luncheon with much appearance of

'Very hard times.' He had a small, thin, colourless countenance, with large, pathetic eyes; a slight moustache

and curly beard. His clothes were such as would be worn by some very poor clerk. 'I came here an hour ago,'

he continued, 'with the hope of meeting an acquaintance who generally goes from this station at a certain

time. I have missed him, and in doing so I missed what I had thought my one chance of a breakfast. When

one has neither dined nor supped on the previous day, breakfast becomes a meal of some importance.'

'I trust not. This is the first time that I have positively begged. I should have been too much ashamed to beg of

the kind of men who are usually at these places; they certainly have no money to spare. I was thinking of

making an appeal at a baker's shop, but it is very likely I should have been handed over to a policeman.

Indeed I don't know what I should have done; the last point of endurance was almost reached. I have no

clothes but these I wear, and they are few enough for the season. Still, I suppose the waistcoat must have

He did not talk like a beggar who is trying to excite compassion, but with a sort of detached curiosity

'Positively nothing. By profession I am a surgeon, but it's a long time since I practised. Fifteen years ago I

was comfortably established at Wakefield; I was married and had one child. But my capital ran out, and my

practice, never anything to boast of, fell to nothing. I succeeded in getting a place as an assistant to a man at

'You probably don't remember a railway accident that took place near Crewe in that yearit was 1869? I and

my wife and child were alone in a carriage that was splintered. One moment I was talking with them, in fairly

good spirits, and my wife was laughing at something I had said; the next, there were two crushed, bleeding

bodies at my feet. I had a broken arm, that was all. Well, they were killed on the instant; they didn't suffer.

'I was in a lunatic asylum for more than a year after that,' continued the man. 'Unhappily, I didn't lose my

senses at the moment; it took two or three weeks to bring me to that pass. But I recovered, and there has been

no return of the disease. Don't suppose that I am still of unsound mind. There can be little doubt that poverty

will bring me to that again in the end; but as yet I am perfectly sane. I have supported myself in various ways.

No, I don't drink; I see the question in your face. But I am physically weak, and, to quote Mrs Gummidge,

"things go contrairy with me." There's no use lamenting; this breakfast has helped me on, and I feel in much

'Could you tell by examination whether a man was threatened with cataract, or anything of that kind?'

The stranger made a close scrutiny of Yule's face, and asked certain questions with reference to his visual

'I hardly like to propose it,' he said at length, 'but if you were willing to accompany me to a very poor room

They turned away from the stall, and the exsurgeon led into a bystreet. Yule wondered at himself for

caring to seek such a singular consultation, but he had a pressing desire to hear some opinion as to the state of

his eyes. Whatever the stranger might tell him, he would afterwards have recourse to a man of recognised

standing; but just now companionship of any kind was welcome, and the poor hungry fellow, with his

dolorous life story, had made appeal to his sympathies. To give money under guise of a fee would be better

'This is the house,' said his guide, pausing at a dirty door. 'It isn't inviting, but the people are honest, so far as

In the room they entered was nothing noticeable; it was only the poorest possible kind of bedchamber, or all

but the poorest possible. Daylight had now succeeded to dawn, yet the first thing the stranger did was to

'Will you kindly place yourself with your back to the window?' he said. 'I am going to apply what is called

The other smiled, and at once offered a simple explanation of the term. By the appearance of the candle as it

reflected itself in the patient's eye it was possible, he said, to decide whether cataract had taken hold upon the

For a minute or two he conducted his experiment carefully, and Yule was at no loss to read the result upon

'How long have you suspected that something was wrong?' the surgeon asked, as he put down the candle.

'I don't like to speak with an air of authority. After all, I am only a surgeon who has bungled himself into

pauperdom. You must see a competent man; that much I can tell you in all earnestness.

He had some faint hope that the name might be recognised; that would have gone far, for the moment, to

counteract his trouble. But not even this poor satisfaction was to be granted him; to his hearer the name

'See a competent man, Mr Yule. Science has advanced rapidly since the days when I was a student; I am only

They talked for half an hour, until both were shaking with cold. Then Yule thrust his hand into his pocket.

'You will of course allow me to offer such return as I am able,' he said. 'The information isn't pleasant, but I

He laid five shillings on the chest of drawersthere was no table. The stranger expressed his gratitude.

'My name is Duke,' he said, 'and I was christened Victor possibly because I was doomed to defeat in life. I

He came out again by Camden Town station. The coffeestall had disappeared; the traffic of the great

highway was growing uproarious. Among all the strugglers for existence who rushed this way and that,

Alfred Yule felt himself a man chosen for fate's heaviest infliction. He never questioned the accuracy of the

stranger's judgment, and he hoped for no mitigation of the doom it threatened. His life was overand

He might as well go home, and take his place meekly by the fireside. He was beaten. Soon to be a useless old

It was a curious effect of the imagination that since coming into the open air again his eyesight seemed to be

far worse than before. He irritated his nerves of vision by incessant tests, closing first one eye then the other,

comparing his view of nearer objects with the appearance of others more remote, fancying an occasional

painwhich could have had no connection with his disease. The literary projects which had stirred so

actively in his mind twelve hours ago were become an insubstantial memory; to the one crushing blow had

succeeded a second, which was fatal. He could hardly recall what special piece of work he had been engaged

upon last night. His thoughts were such as if actual blindness had really fallen upon him.

At halfpast eight he entered the house. Mrs Yule was standing at the foot of the stairs; she looked at him,

then turned away towards the kitchen. He went upstairs. On coming down again he found breakfast ready as

usual, and seated himself at the table. Two letters waited for him there; he opened them.

When Mrs Yule came into the room a few moments later she was astonished by a burst of loud, mocking

laughter from her husband, excited, as it appeared, by something he was reading.

Mrs Yule ascended to her daughter's bedroom. She knocked, was bidden enter, and found Marian packing

clothes in a trunk. The girl looked as if she had been up all night; her eyes bore the traces of much weeping.

'He has come back, dear,' said Mrs Yule, in the low voice of apprehension, 'and he says you are to read this

Marian took the sheet, unfolded it, and read. As soon as she had reached the end she looked wildly at her

mother, seemed to endeavour vainly to speak, then fell to the floor in unconsciousness. The mother was only

just able to break the violence of her fall. Having snatched a pillow and placed it beneath Marian's head, she

'What is it?' she cried to him. 'Look, she has fallen down in a faint. Why are you treating her like this?'

'Attend to her,' Yule replied roughly. 'I suppose you know better than I do what to do when a person faints.'

The letter was a private communication from one of John Yule's executors. It seemed likely that the demand

upon Turberville Co. for an account of the deceased partner's share in their business had helped to bring

about a crisis in affairs that were already unstable. Something might be recovered in the legal proceedings

that would result, but there were circumstances which made the outlook very doubtful.

As Marian came to herself her father left the room. An hour afterwards Mrs Yule summoned him again to the

girl's chamber; he went, and found Marian lying on the bed, looking like one who had been long ill.

'I wish to ask you a few questions,' she said, without raising herself. 'Must my legacy necessarily be paid out

'This of course happens to me,' Marian said, with intense bitterness. 'None of the other legatees will suffer, I

Throughout the day Marian kept her room. Her intention to leave the house was, of course, abandoned; she

was the prisoner of fate. Mrs Yule would have tended her with unremitting devotion, but the girl desired to be

alone. At times she lay in silent anguish; frequently her tears broke forth, and she sobbed until weariness

overcame her. In the afternoon she wrote a letter to Mr Holden, begging that she might be kept constantly

It was not safe to reply. Mrs Yule sat down, and watched the girl raise the cup to her mouth with trembling

'This won't make any difference to youin the end, my darling,' the mother ventured to say at length,

alluding for the first time to the effect of the catastrophe on Marian's immediate prospects.

At seven, Marian went out. Finding herself weaker than she had thought, she stopped an empty cab that

presently passed her, and so drove to the Milvains' lodgings. In her agitation she inquired for Mr Milvain,

instead of for Dora, as was her habit; it mattered very little, for the landlady and her servants were of course

Jasper was at home, and working. He had but to look at Marian to see that something wretched had been

going on at her home; naturally he supposed it the result of his letter to Mr Yule.

'Your father has been behaving brutally,' he said, holding her hands and gazing anxiously at her.

She threw off her outdoor things, then took the fatal letter from her pocket and handed it to him. Jasper gave a

whistle of consternation, and looked vacantly from the paper to Marian's countenance.

'How the deuce comes this about?' he exclaimed. 'Why, wasn't your uncle aware of the state of things?'

'This has upset you horribly, I can see. Sit down, Marian. When did the letter come?'

'And you have been fretting over it all day. But come, we must keep up our courage; you may get something

Even whilst he spoke his eyes wandered absently. On the last word his voice failed, and he fell into

abstraction. Marian's look was fixed upon him, and he became conscious of it. He tried to smile.

'What were you writing?' she asked, making involuntary diversion from the calamitous theme.

'Rubbish for the Willo'theWisp. Listen to this paragraph about English concert audiences.'

It was as necessary to him as to her to have a respite before the graver discussion began. He seized gladly the

opportunity she offered, and read several pages of manuscript, slipping from one topic to another. To hear

him one would have supposed that he was in his ordinary mood; he laughed at his own jokes and points.

'They'll have to pay me more,' was the remark with which he closed. 'I only wanted to make myself

indispensable to them, and at the end of this year I shall feel pretty sure of that. They'll have to give me two

'Oh, I shall transfer myself to a better paper presently. It seems to me I must be stirring to some purpose.'

'There's something I must tell you. Father said I had better sign that Harrington article myself. If I do that, I

shall have a right to the money, I think. It will at least be eight guineas. And why shouldn't I go on writing for

'First of all, what about my letter to your father? We are forgetting all about it.'

Marian avoided closer description of what had happened. It was partly that she felt ashamed of her father's

unreasoning wrath, and feared lest Jasper's pride might receive an injury from which she in turn would suffer;

partly that she was unwilling to pain her lover by making display of all she had undergone.

What she dreaded seemed to be coming to pass. Jasper stood rather stiffly, and threw his head back.

'You know the reason, dear. That prejudice has entered into his very life. It is not you he dislikes; that is

impossible. He thinks of you only as he would of anyone connected with Mr Fadge.'

'Well, well; it isn't a matter of much moment. But what I have in mind is this. Will it be possible for you,

whilst living at home, to take a position of independence, and say that you are going to work for your own

'When I am your wife, I may be able to help. I could earn thirty or forty pounds a year, I think. That would

'But, my dear Marian, we surely oughtn't to think of marrying so long as expenses are so nicely fitted as all

'It simply means,' pursued Jasper, seating himself and crossing his legs, 'that I must move heaven and earth to

improve my position. You know that my faith in myself is not small; there's no knowing what I might do if I

used every effort. But, upon my word, I don't see much hope of our being able to marry for a year or two

'Can you promise to keep a little love for me all that time?' he asked with a constrained smile.

His tone was not altogether that which makes banter pleasant between lovers. Marian looked at him fearfully.

Was it possible for him in truth so to misunderstand her? He had never satisfied her heart's desire of infinite

love; she never spoke with him but she was oppressed with the suspicion that his love was not as great as

hers, and, worse still, that he did not wholly comprehend the selfsurrender which she strove to make plain in

'How can you doubt that I would wait faithfully for you for years if it were necessary?'

'It mustn't be years, that's very certain. I think it preposterous for a man to hold a woman bound in that

'But what question is there of holding me bound? Is love dependent on fixed engagements? Do you feel that,

She could not breathe a word which might be interpreted as fear lest the change of her circumstances should

make a change in his feeling. Yet that was in her mind. The existence of such a fear meant, of course, that she

did not entirely trust him, and viewed his character as something less than noble. Very seldom indeed is a

woman free from such doubts, however absolute her love; and perhaps it is just as rare for a man to credit in

his heart all the praises he speaks of his beloved. Passion is compatible with a great many of these

imperfections of intellectual esteem. To see more clearly into Jasper's personality was, for Marian, to suffer

She went to his side. Her heart ached because, in her great misery, he had not fondled her, and intoxicated her

'You mustn't be so literal, dearest. Women are so desperately matteroffact; it comes out even in their

Marian was not without perception of the irony of such an opinion on Jasper's lips.

'I am content for you to think so,' she said. 'There is only one fact in my life of any importance, and I can

'Well now, we are quite sure of each other. Tell me plainly, do you think me capable of forsaking you

The question made her wince. If delicacy had held her tongue, it had no control of HIS.

It was no answer, and Jasper, though obtuse compared with her, understood that it was none. But the emotion

which had prompted his words was genuine enough. Her touch, the perfume of her passion, had their exalting

effect upon him. He felt in all sincerity that to forsake her would be a baseness, revenged by the loss of such a

'There's an uphill fight before me, that's all,' he said, 'instead of the pretty smooth course I have been looking

You shall be my wife, and you shall have as many luxuries as if you had brought me a fortune.'

'Not a bit of it. Luxuries are a most important part of life. I had rather not live at all than never possess them.

Let me give you a useful hint; if ever I seem to you to flag, just remind me of the difference between these

lodgings and a richly furnished house. Just hint to me that Soandso, the journalist, goes about in his

carriage, and can give his wife a box at the theatre. Just ask me, casually, how I should like to run over to the

Riviera when London fogs are thickest. You understand? That's the way to keep me at it like a steamengine.'

'You are right. All those things enable one to live a better and fuller life. Oh, how cruel that Ithat we are

robbed in this way! You can have no idea how terrible a blow it was to me when I read that letter this

She was on the point of confessing that she had swooned, but something restrained her.

'I think he speaks more harshly than he feels. The worst was, that until he got your letter he had kept hoping

'Well, for the present I prefer to believe that the money isn't all lost. If the blackguards pay ten shillings in the

pound you will get two thousand five hundred out of them, and that's something. But how do you stand? Will

'But of course your interests will be properly looked after. Put yourself in communication with this Mr

Holden. I'll have a look into the law on the subject. Let us hope as long as we can. By Jove! There's no other

'Confound them!It grows upon one. One doesn't take in the whole of such a misfortune at once. We must

hold on to the last rag of hope, and in the meantime I'll half work myself to death. Are you going to see the

'Dora will cry her eyes out. Upon my word, Maud'll have to draw in her horns. I must frighten her into

'That isn't exactly the question. Could you do anything that would sell? With very moderate success in fiction

you might make three times as much as you ever will by magazine potboilers. A girl like you. Oh, you

'Well, I mean that lovescenes, and that kind of thing, would be very much in your line.'Marian was not

given to blushing; very few girls are, even on strong provocation. For the first time Jasper saw her cheeks

colour deeply, and it was with anything but pleasure. His words were coarsely inconsiderate, and wounded

'But surely there's no harm in my saying' he paused in astonishment. 'I meant nothing that could offend

She did not approach, but only because the painful thought he had excited kept her to that spot.

'Try your hand at a novel, dear, if you can possibly make time. Put me in it, if you like, and make me an

insensible masculine. The experiment is worth a try I'm certain. At all events do a few chapters, and let me

see them. A chapter needn't take you more than a couple of hours I should think.'

Marian refrained from giving any promise. She seemed irresponsive to his caresses. That thought which at

times gives trouble to all women of strong emotions was working in her: had she been too demonstrative, and

made her love too cheap? Now that Jasper's love might be endangered, it behoved her to use any arts which

nature prompted. And so, for once, he was not wholly satisfied with her, and at their parting he wondered

'Why didn't Marian come to speak a word?' said Dora, when her brother entered the girls' sittingroom about

'She brought me some enspiriting news, and thought it better I should have the reporting of it to you.'

'Cheerful, isn't it? The kind of thing that strengthens one's trust in Providence.'

The girls were appalled. Maud, who was reading by the fireside, let her book fall to her lap, and knit her

'Well, I shouldn't be surprised if that were found necessary,' replied her brother caustically. He was able now

to give vent to the feeling which in Marian's presence was suppressed, partly out of consideration for her, and

Jasper gave no answer, but kicked a footstool savagely out of his way and paced the room.

'Remember that it's a matter for your own consideration,' Jasper replied at length. 'You are living on your own

He bit the ends of his moustache, and his eyes glared at the impalpable thwarting force that to imagination

'There would have been no harm if I had done. She knows that I shouldn't have been such an ass as to talk of

'And did you propose to release her from the burden of her engagement?' Maud inquired.

'It's a confounded pity that you're not rich, Maud,' replied her brother with an involuntary laugh. 'You would

'We are here, and here we must stay,' was the final expression of his mood. 'I have only one superstition that I

know of and that forbids me to take a step backward. If I went into poorer lodgings again I should feel it was

inviting defeat. I shall stay as long as the position is tenable. Let us get on to Christmas, and then see how

'Perhaps not. But as I have made up my mind to be considerably better off than most literary men that

reflection wouldn't console me much. Things are in statu quo, that's all. I have to rely upon my own efforts.

When Marian entered the house and went upstairs, she was followed by her mother. On Mrs Yule's

'Father has been telling me something, Marian,' said Mrs Yule after a long silence. 'He says he is going to be

blind. There's something the matter with his eyes, and he went to see someone about it this afternoon. He'll

get worse and worse, until there has been an operation; and perhaps he'll never be able to use his eyes

'He doesn't seem to care much what happens. He talked of going to the workhouse, and things like that. But it

Physical weariness brought her a few hours of oblivion as soon as she had lain down, but her sleep came to

an end in the early morning, when the pressure of evil dreams forced her back to consciousness of real

sorrows and cares. A fogveiled sky added its weight to crush her spirit; at the hour when she usually rose it

was still all but as dark as midnight. Her mother's voice at the door begged her to lie and rest until it grew

lighter, and she willingly complied, feeling indeed scarcely capable of leaving her bed.

The thick black fog penetrated every corner of the house. It could be smelt and tasted. Such an atmosphere

produces low spirited languor even in the vigorous and hopeful; to those wasted by suffering it is the very

reek of the bottomless pit, poisoning the soul. Her face colourless as the pillow, Marian lay neither sleeping

nor awake, in blank extremity of woe; tears now and then ran down her cheeks, and at times her body was

Midway in the morning, when it was still necessary to use artificial light, she went down to the sittingroom.

The course of household life had been thrown into confusion by the disasters of the last day or two; Mrs

Yule, who occupied herself almost exclusively with questions of economy, cleanliness, and routine, had not

the heart to pursue her round of duties, and this morning, though under normal circumstances she would have

been busy in 'turning out' the diningroom, she moved aimlessly and despondently about the house, giving

the servant contradictory orders and then blaming herself for her absentmindedness. In the troubles of her

husband and her daughter she had scarcely greater shareso far as active participation wentthan if she

had been only a faithful old housekeeper; she could only grieve and lament that such discord had come

between the two whom she loved, and that in herself was no power even to solace their distresses. Marian

found her standing in the passage, with a duster in one hand and a hearthbrush in the other.

Marian entered the study. Her father was not in his place at the writingtable, nor yet seated in the chair

which he used when he had leisure to draw up to the fireside; he sat in front of one of the bookcases, bent

forward as if seeking a volume, but his chin was propped upon his hand, and he had maintained this position

for a long time. He did not immediately move. When he raised his head Marian saw that he looked older, and

she noticedor fancied she didthat there was some unfamiliar peculiarity about his eyes.

'I am obliged to you for coming,' he began with distant formality. 'Since I saw you last I have learnt

something which makes a change in my position and prospects, and it is necessary to speak on the subject. I

'Perhaps I needn't repeat what I have told your mother. You have learnt it from her, I dare say.'

'Thank you, but we will leave aside that aspect of the matter. For a few more months I may be able to pursue

my ordinary work, but before long I shall certainly be disabled from earning my livelihood by literature.

Whether this will in any way affect your own position I don't know. Will you have the goodness to tell me

'Is there any likelihood of your marriage taking place, let us say, within four months?'

'I understand. My reason for asking is this. My lease of this house terminates at the end of next March, and I

shall certainly not be justified in renewing it. If you are able to provide for yourself in any way it will be

sufficient for me to rent two rooms after that. This disease which affects my eyes may be only temporary; in

due time an operation may render it possible for me to work again. In hope of that I shall probably have to

borrow a sum of money on the security of my life insurance, though in the first instance I shall make the most

of what I can get for the furniture of the house and a large part of my library; your mother and I could live at

very slight expense in lodgings. If the disease prove irremediable, I must prepare myself for the worst. What I

wish to say is, that it will be better if from today you consider yourself as working for your own subsistence.

So long as I remain here this house is of course your home; there can be no question between us of trivial

expenses. But it is right that you should understand what my prospects are. I shall soon have no home to offer

'I think you will have no great difficulty in earning enough for yourself. I have done my best to train you in

writing for the periodicals, and your natural abilities are considerable. If you marry, I wish you a happy life.

The end of mine, of many long years of unremitting toil, is failure and destitution.'

'That's all I had to say,' concluded her father, his voice tremulous with selfcompassion. 'I will only beg that

there may be no further profitless discussion between us. This room is open to you, as always, and I see no

reason why we should not converse on subjects disconnected with our personal differences.'

'None. You can read up the subject for yourself at the British Museum. I prefer not to speak of it.'

'For the present the best you can do is to establish a connection for yourself with editors. Your name will be

an assistance to you. My advice is, that you send your "Harrington" article forthwith to Trenchard, writing

him a note. If you desire my help in the suggestion of new subjects, I will do my best to be of use.'

Marian withdrew. She went to the sittingroom, where an ochreous daylight was beginning to diffuse itself

and to render the lamp superfluous. With the dissipation of the fog rain had set in; its splashing upon the

Mrs Yule, still with a duster in her hand, sat on the sofa. Marian took a place beside her. They talked in low,

The chances are that you have neither understanding nor sympathy for men such as Edwin Reardon and

Harold Biffen. They merely provoke you. They seem to you inert, flabby, weakly envious, foolishly

obstinate, impiously mutinous, and many other things. You are made angrily contemptuous by their failure to

get on; why don't they bestir themselves, push and bustle, welcome kicks so long as halfpence follow, make

place in the world's eyein short, take a leaf from the book of Mr Jasper Milvain?

But try to imagine a personality wholly unfitted for the rough and tumble of the world's labourmarket. From

the familiar point of view these men were worthless; view them in possible relation to a humane order of

Society, and they are admirable citizens. Nothing is easier than to condemn a type of character which is

unequal to the coarse demands of life as it suits the average man. These two were richly endowed with the

kindly and the imaginative virtues; if fate threw them amid incongruous circumstances, is their endowment of

less value? You scorn their passivity; but it was their nature and their merit to be passive.

Gifted with independent means, each of them would have taken quite a different aspect in your eyes. The sum

of their faults was their inability to earn money; but, indeed, that inability does not call for unmingled

It was very weak of Harold Biffen to come so near perishing of hunger as he did in the days when he was

completing his novel. But he would have vastly preferred to eat and be satisfied had any method of obtaining

food presented itself to him. He did not starve for the pleasure of the thing, I assure you. Pupils were difficult

to get just now, and writing that he had sent to magazines had returned upon his hands. He pawned such of

his possessions as he could spare, and he reduced his meals to the minimum. Nor was he uncheerful in his

cold garret and with his empty stomach, for 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' drew steadily to an end.

He worked very slowly. The book would make perhaps two volumes of ordinary novel size, but he had

laboured over it for many months, patiently, affectionately, scrupulously. Each sentence was as good as he

could make it, harmonious to the ear, with words of precious meaning skilfully set. Before sitting down to a

chapter he planned it minutely in his mind; then he wrote a rough draft of it; then he elaborated the thing

phrase by phrase. He had no thought of whether such toil would be recompensed in coin of the realm; nay, it

was his conviction that, if with difficulty published, it could scarcely bring him money. The work must be

significant, that was all he cared for. And he had no society of admiring friends to encourage him. Reardon

understood the merit of the workmanship, but frankly owned that the book was repulsive to him. To the

public it would be worse than repulsivetedious, utterly uninteresting. No matter; it drew to its end.

The day of its completion was made memorable by an event decidedly more exciting, even to the author.

At eight o'clock in the evening there remained half a page to be written. Biffen had already worked about

nine hours, and on breaking off to appease his hunger he doubted whether to finish tonight or to postpone

the last lines till tomorrow. The discovery that only a small crust of bread lay in the cupboard decided him to

write no more; he would have to go out to purchase a loaf and that was disturbance.

But stay; had he enough money? He searched his pockets. Two pence and two farthings; no more.

You are probably not aware that at bakers' shops in the poor quarters the price of the halfquartern loaf varies

sometimes from week to week. At present, as Biffen knew, it was twopence threefarthings, a common

figure. But Harold did not possess three farthings, only two. Reflecting, he remembered to have passed

yesterday a shop where the bread was marked twopence halfpenny; it was a shop in a very obscure little street

off Hampstead Road, some distance from Clipstone Street. Thither he must repair. He had only his hat and a

muffler to put on, for again he was wearing his overcoat in default of the under one, and his ragged umbrella

To his delight the twopence halfpenny announcement was still in the baker's window. He obtained a loaf

wrapped it in the piece of paper he had broughtsmall bakers decline to supply paper for this purposeand

Having eaten, he looked longingly at his manuscript. But half a page more. Should he not finish it tonight?

The temptation was irresistible. He sat down, wrought with unusual speed, and at halfpast ten wrote with

His fire was out and he had neither coals nor wood. But his feet were frozen into lifelessness. Impossible to

go to bed like this; he must take another turn in the streets. It would suit his humour to ramble a while. Had it

not been so late he would have gone to see Reardon, who expected the communication of this glorious news.

So again he locked his door. Halfway downstairs he stumbled over something or somebody in the dark.

The answer was a loud snore. Biffen went to the bottom of the house and called to the landlady.

'Why, I 'spect it's Mr Briggs,' replied the woman, indulgently. 'Don't you mind him, Mr Biffen. There's no

'arm: he's only had a little too much. I'll go up an' make him go to bed as soon as I've got my 'ands clean.'

'The necessity for waiting till then isn't obvious,' remarked the realist with a chuckle, and went his way.

He walked at a sharp pace for more than an hour, and about midnight drew near to his own quarter again. He

had just turned up by the Middlesex Hospital, and was at no great distance from Clipstone Street, when a yell

and scamper caught his attention; a group of loafing blackguards on the opposite side of the way had

suddenly broken up, and as they rushed off he heard the word 'Fire!' This was too common an occurrence to

disturb his equanimity; he wondered absently in which street the fire might be, but trudged on without a

thought of making investigation. Repeated yells and rushes, however, assailed his apathy. Two women came

He could no longer be unconcerned. If in his own street the conflagration might be in the very house he

inhabited, and in that case He set off at a run. Ahead of him was a thickening throng, its position indicating

the entrance to Clipstone Street. Soon he found his progress retarded; he had to dodge this way and that, to

force progress, to guard himself against overthrows by the torrent of ruffiandom which always breaks forth at

the cry of fire. He could now smell the smoke, and all at once a black volume of it, bursting from upper

windows, alarmed his sight. At once he was aware that, if not his own dwelling, it must be one of those on

either side that was in flames. As yet no engine had arrived, and straggling policemen were only just

beginning to make their way to the scene of uproar. By dint of violent effort Biffen moved forward yard by

yard. A tongue of flame which suddenly illumined the fronts of the houses put an end to his doubt.

'Let me get past!' he shouted to the gaping and swaying mass of people in front of him. 'I live there! I must go

His educated accent moved attention. Repeating the demand again and again he succeeded in getting forward,

and at length was near enough to see that people were dragging articles of furniture out on to the pavement.

'You'll never get up there. It's that Briggs'the epithet was alliterative''as upset his lamp, and I 'ope

Biffen leaped on to the threshold, and crashed against Mrs Willoughby, the landlady, who was carrying a

'I told you to look after that drunken brute;' he said to her. 'Can I get upstairs?'

'What do I care whether you can or not!' the woman shrieked. 'My God! And all them new chairs as I

He heard no more, but bounded over a confusion of obstacles, and in a moment was on the landing of the first

storey. Here he encountered a man who had not lost his head, a stalwart mechanic engaged in slipping clothes

'If somebody don't drag that fellow Briggs down he'll be dead,' observed the man. 'He's layin' outside his

Smoke grew thick on the staircase. Burning was as yet confined to that front room on the second floor

tenanted by Briggs the disastrous, but in all likelihood the ceiling was ablaze, and if so it would be all but

impossible for Biffen to gain his own chamber, which was at the back on the floor above. No one was making

an attempt to extinguish the fire; personal safety and the rescue of their possessions alone occupied the

thoughts of such people as were still in the house. Desperate with the dread of losing his manuscript, his toil,

his one hope, the realist scarcely stayed to listen to a warning that the fumes were impassable; with head bent

he rushed up to the next landing. There lay Briggs, perchance already stifled, and through the open door

Biffen had a horrible vision of furnace fury. To go yet higher would have been madness but for one

encouragement: he knew that on his own storey was a ladder giving access to a trapdoor, by which he might

issue on to the roof, whence escape to the adjacent houses would be practicable. Again a leap forward!

In fact, not two minutes elapsed from his commencing the ascent of the stairs to the moment when, all but

fainting, he thrust the key into his door and fell forward into purer air. Fell, for he was on his knees, and had

begun to suffer from a sense of failing power, a sick whirling of the brain, a terror of hideous death. His

manuscript was on the table, where he had left it after regarding and handling it with joyful

selfcongratulation; though it was pitch dark in the room, he could at once lay his hand on the heap of paper.

Now he had it; now it was jammed tight under his left arm; now he was out again on the landing, in smoke

He said to himself: 'If I cannot instantly break out by the trap door it's all over with me.' That the exit would

open to a vigorous thrust he knew, having amused himself not long ago by going on to the roof. He touched

the ladder, sprang upwards, and felt the trap above him. But he could not push it back. 'I'm a dead man,'

flashed across his mind, 'and all for the sake of "Mr Bailey, Grocer."' A frenzied effort, the last of which his

muscles were capable, and the door yielded. His head was now through the aperture, and though the smoke

swept up about him, that gasp of cold air gave him strength to throw himself on the flat portion of the roof

So for a minute or two he lay. Then he was able to stand, to survey his position, and to walk along by the

parapet. He looked down upon the surging and shouting crowd in Clipstone Street, but could see it only at

What he had now to do he understood perfectly. This roof was divided from those on either hand by a stack

of chimneys; to get round the end of these stacks was impossible, or at all events too dangerous a feat unless

it were the last resource, but by climbing to the apex of the slates he would be able to reach the

chimneypots, to drag himself up to them, and somehow to tumble over on to the safer side. To this

undertaking he forthwith addressed himself. Without difficulty he reached the ridge; standing on it he found

that only by stretching his arm to the utmost could he grip the top of a chimneypot. Had he the strength

His life was still in danger; the increasing volumes of smoke warned him that in a few minutes the uppermost

storey might be in flames. He took off his overcoat to allow himself more freedom of action; the manuscript,

now an encumbrance, must precede him over the chimneystack, and there was only one way of effecting

that. With care he stowed the papers into the pockets of the coat; then he rolled the garment together, tied it

up in its own sleeves, took a deliberate aimand the bundle was for the present in safety.

Now for the gymnastic endeavour. Standing on tiptoe, he clutched the rim of the chimneypot, and strove to

raise himself. The hold was firm enough, but his arms were far too puny to perform such work, even when

death would be the penalty of failure. Too long he had lived on insufficient food and sat over the debilitating

desk. He swung this way and that, trying to throw one of his knees as high as the top of the brickwork, but

there was no chance of his succeeding. Dropping on to the slates, he sat there in perturbation.

He must cry for help. In front it was scarcely possible to stand by the parapet, owing to the black clouds of

smoke, now mingled with sparks; perchance he might attract the notice of some person either in the yards

behind or at the back windows of other houses. The night was so obscure that he could not hope to be seen;

voice alone must be depended upon, and there was no certainty that it would be heard far enough. Though he

stood in his shirtsleeves in a bitter wind no sense of cold affected him; his face was beaded with perspiration

drawn forth by his futile struggle to climb. He let himself slide down the rear slope, and, holding by the end

of the chimney brickwork, looked into the yards. At the same instant a face appeared to himthat of a man

who was trying to obtain a glimpse of this roof from that of the next house by thrusting out his head beyond

'By God! I expected to see the fire coming through already. Are you the as upset his lamp an' fired the

'By God! I wouldn't have helped you if you'd been him. How are you coming round? Blest if I see! You'll

break your bloomin' neck if you try this corner. You'll have to come over the chimneys; wait till I get a

The man disappeared for five minutes. To Biffen it seemed half an hour; he felt, or imagined he felt, the

slates getting hot beneath him, and the smoke was again catching his breath. But at length there was a shout

from the top of the chimneystack. The rescuer had seated himself on one of the pots, and was about to lower

on Biffen's side a ladder which had enabled him to ascend from the other. Biffen planted the lowest rung very

carefully on the ridge of the roof, climbed as lightly as possible, got a footing between two pots; the ladder

'Have you seen a coat lying about here?' was Biffen's first question. 'I threw mine over.'

This was a terrible blow; Biffen forgot his rescue from destruction in lament for the loss of his manuscript.

He would have pursued the fruitless search, but his companion, who feared that the fire might spread to

adjoining houses, insisted on his passing through the trapdoor and descending the stairs.'If the coat fell into

the street,' Biffen said, when they were down on the ground floor, 'of course it's lost; it would be stolen at

He was standing in the midst of a cluster of alarmed people, who stared at him in astonishment, for the reek

through which he had fought his way had given him the aspect of a sweep. His suggestion prompted someone

to run into the yard, with the result that a muddy bundle was brought in and exhibited to him.

He unrolled the garment, felt to make sure that 'Mr Bailey' was safe, and finally put it on.

'Will anyone here let me sit down in a room and give me a drink of water?' he asked, feeling now as if he

The man who had rescued him performed this further kindness, and for half an hour, whilst tumult

indescribable raged about him, Biffen sat recovering his strength. By that time the firemen were hard at work,

but one floor of the burning house had already fallen through, and it was probable that nothing but the shell

would be saved. After giving a full account of himself to the people among whom he had come, Harold

declared his intention of departing; his need of repose was imperative, and he could not hope for it in this

proximity to the fire. As he had no money, his only course was to inquire for a room at some house in the

immediate neighbourhood, where the people would receive him in a charitable spirit.

With the aid of the police he passed to where the crowd was thinner, and came out into Cleveland Street.

Here most of the housedoors were open, and he made several applications for hospitality, but either his

story was doubted or his grimy appearance predisposed people against him. At length, when again his

'Surely you can tell,' he protested, after explaining his position, 'that I don't want to cheat anybody. I shall

have money tomorrow. If no one will take me in you must haul me on some charge to the policestation; I

The officer recognised a man who was standing halfdressed on a threshold close by; he stepped up to him

and made representations which were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of an underground

room furnished as a bedchamber, which he agreed to rent for a week. His landlord was not ungracious, and

went so far as to supply him with warm water, that he might in a measure cleanse himself. This operation

rapidly performed, the hapless author flung himself into bed, and before long was fast asleep.

When he went upstairs about nine o'clock in the morning he discovered that his host kept an oilshop.

'Everything, except the clothes I wear and some papers that I managed to save. All my books burnt!'

'Your accountbooks!' cried the dealer in oil. 'Dear, dear!and what might your business be?'

The author corrected this misapprehension. In the end he was invited to break his fast, which he did right

willingly. Then, with assurances that he would return before nightfall, he left the house. His steps were

naturally first directed to Clipstone Street; the familiar abode was a gruesome ruin, still smoking. Neighbours

informed him that Mr Briggs's body had been brought forth in a horrible condition; but this was the only loss

Thence he struck eastward, and at eleven came to Manville Street, Islington. He found Reardon by the

'It looks like it. I wish you would take the trouble to go and buy me some verminkiller. That would suit my

'Then what would suit mine? Behold me, undeniably a philosopher; in the literal sense of the words omnia

He recounted his adventures, and with such humorous vivacity that when he ceased the two laughed together

'Ah, but my books, my books!' exclaimed Biffen, with a genuine groan. 'And all my notes! At one fell swoop!

If I didn't laugh, old friend, I should sit down and cry; indeed I should. All my classics, with years of

Biffen had already laid the manuscript on the table; it was dirty and crumpled, but not to such an extent as to

render copying necessary. Lovingly he smoothed the pages and set them in order, then he wrapped the whole

in a piece of brown paper which Reardon supplied, and wrote upon it the address of a firm of publishers.

'Have you notepaper? I'll write to them; impossible to call in my present guise.'

Indeed his attire was more like that of a bankrupt costermonger than of a man of letters. Collar he had none,

for the griminess of that he wore last night had necessitated its being thrown aside; round his throat was a

dirty handkerchief. His coat had been brushed, but its recent experiences had brought it one stage nearer to

that dissolution which must very soon be its fate. His grey trousers were now black, and his boots looked as if

'Shall I say anything about the character of the book?' he asked, seating himself with pen and paper. 'Shall I

'Better let them form their own judgment,' replied Reardon, in his hoarse voice.

'Then I'll just say that I submit to them a novel of modern life, the scope of which is in some degree indicated

by its title. Pity they can't know how nearly it became a holocaust, and that I risked my life to save it. If

they're good enough to accept it I'll tell them the story. And now, Reardon, I'm ashamed of myself, but can

'I must write to two pupils, to inform them of my change of addressfrom garret to cellar. And I must ask

help from my prosperous brother. He gives it me unreluctantly, I know, but I am always loth to apply to him.

The brother of whom he spoke was employed in a house of business at Liverpool; the two had not met for

years, but they corresponded, and were on terms such as Harold indicated. When he had finished his letters,

and had received the halfsovereign from Reardon, he went his way to deposit the brownpaper parcel at the

publishers'. The clerk who received it from his hands probably thought that the author might have chosen a

Two days later, early in the evening, the friends were again enjoying each other's company in Reardon's

room. Both were invalids, for Biffen had of course caught a cold from his exposure in shirtsleeves on the

roof, and he was suffering from the shock to his nerves; but the thought that his novel was safe in the hands

of publishers gave him energy to resist these influences. The absence of the pipe, for neither had any palate

for tobacco at present, was the only external peculiarity of this meeting. There seemed no reason why they

should not meet frequently before the parting which would come at Christmas; but Reardon was in a mood of

profound sadness, and several times spoke as if already he were bidding his friend farewell.

'I find it difficult to think,' he said, 'that you will always struggle on in such an existence as this. To every

man of mettle there does come an opportunity, and it surely is time for yours to present itself. I have a

superstitious faith in "Mr Bailey." If he leads you to triumph, don't altogether forget me.'

'What ages it seems since that day when I saw you in the library at Hastings, and heard you ask in vain for my

book! And how grateful I was to you! I wonder whether any mortal ever asks for my books nowadays? Some

day, when I am well established at Croydon, you shall go to Mudie's, and make inquiry if my novels ever by

any chance leave the shelves, and then you shall give me a true and faithful report of the answer you get. "He

'To have had even a small reputation, and to have outlived it, is a sort of anticipation of death. The man

Edwin Reardon, whose name was sometimes spoken in a tone of interest, is really and actually dead. And

what remains of me is resigned to that. I have an odd fancy that it will make death itself easier; it is as if only

'Thinking of my fiery adventure,' he said, in his tone of dry deliberation, 'I find it vastly amusing to picture

you as a witness at the inquest if I had been choked and consumed. No doubt it would have been made known

that I rushed upstairs to save some particular piece of propertyseveral people heard me say soand you

alone would be able to conjecture what this was. Imagine the gaping wonderment of the coroner's jury! The

Daily Telegraph would have made a leader out of me. "This poor man was so strangely deluded as to the

value of a novel in manuscript, which it appears he had just completed, that he positively sacrificed his life in

the endeavour to rescue it from the flames." And the Saturday would have had a column of sneering jocosity

on the irrepressibly sanguine temperament of authors. At all events, I should have had my day of fame.'

'But what an ignoble death it would have been!' he pursued. 'Perishing in the garret of a lodginghouse which

caught fire by the overturning of a drunkard's lamp! One would like to end otherwise.'

'At home,' replied the other, with pathetic emphasis. 'I have never had a home since I was a boy, and am

never likely to have one. But to die at home is an unreasoning hope I still cherish.'

'Almost certainly a schoolmaster in some small town. And one might be worse off than that, you know.'

'Yes, one might live peaceably enough in such a position. And I I should be in an estateagent's office,

earning a sufficient salary, and most likely married to some unambitious country girl.

I should have lived an intelligible life, instead of only trying to live, aiming at modes of life beyond my

reach. My mistake was that of numberless men nowadays. Because I was conscious of brains, I thought that

the only place for me was London. It's easy enough to understand this common delusion. We form our ideas

of London from old literature; we think of London as if it were still the one centre of intellectual life; we

think and talk like Chatterton. But the truth is that intellectual men in our day do their best to keep away from

Londonwhen once they know the place. There are libraries everywhere; papers and magazines reach the

north of Scotland as soon as they reach Brompton; it's only on rare occasions, for special kinds of work, that

one is bound to live in London. And as for recreation, why, now that no English theatre exists, what is there

in London that you can't enjoy in almost any part of England? At all events, a yearly visit of a week would be

quite sufficient for all the special features of the town. London is only a huge shop, with an hotel on the upper

storeys. To be sure, if you make it your artistic subject, that's a different thing. But neither you nor I would do

'It's a huge misfortune, this willo'thewisp attraction exercised by London on young men of brains. They

come here to be degraded, or to perish, when their true sphere is a life of peaceful remoteness. The type of

man capable of success in London is more or less callous and cynical. If I had the training of boys, I would

teach them to think of London as the last place where life can be lived worthily.'

'The one happy result of my experiences,' said Reardon, is that they have cured me of ambition. What a

miserable fellow I should be if I were still possessed with the desire to make a name! I can't even recall very

clearly that state of mind. My strongest desire now is for peaceful obscurity. I am tired out; I want to rest for

'Oh, it isn't impossible. My time will be wholly occupied in a round of all but mechanical duties, and I think

that will be the best medicine for my mind. I shall read very little, and that only in the classics. I don't say that

I shall always be content in such a position; in a few years perhaps something pleasanter will offer. But in the

meantime it will do very well. Then there is our expedition to Greece to look forward to. I am quite in earnest

'You have; but so are a great many other things that one does not dare to hope for.'

The friends looked at each other, as if some fear had entered the minds of both. Reardon opened the despatch.

'Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am staying with Mrs Carter, at her mother's, at

'No. I haven't seen Carter for several days, or perhaps he would have told me. Brighton, at this time of year?

But I believe there's a fashionable "season" about now, isn't there? I suppose that would account for it.'

Reardon held out a hand that the other might feel his pulse. The beat was rapid to begin with, and had been

'But go I must. The poor little fellow has no great place in my heart, but, when Amy sends for me, I must go.

Biffen was despatched to the nearest shop to purchase one, and in the meanwhile Reardon packed a few

necessaries in a small travellingbag, ancient and worn, but the object of his affection because it had

accompanied him on his wanderings in the South. When Harold returned, his appearance excited Reardon's

The nearest station for departure was London Bridge, and the next train left at 7.20. By Reardon's watch it

'I don't know whether it's possible,' he said, in confused hurry, 'but I must try. There isn't another train till ten

Both were ready. They rushed from the house, and sped through the soft, steady fall of snowflakes into Upper

Street. Here they were several minutes before they found a disengaged cab. Questioning the driver, they

learnt what they would have known very well already but for their excitement: impossible to get to London

'Better to go on, all the same,' was Reardon's opinion. 'If the snow gets deep I shall perhaps not be able to

have a cab at all. But you had better not come; I forgot that you are as much out of sorts as I am.'

'Diphtheria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age, isn't it?' Reardon asked when they were speeding

'What an absurd question! You seem to have got into a thoroughly morbid state of mind about her. Do be

'In my position you would have acted precisely as I have done. I have had no choice.'

'I might; but we have both of us too little practicality. The art of living is the art of compromise. We have no

right to foster sensibilities, and conduct ourselves as if the world allowed of ideal relations; it leads to misery

for others as well as ourselves. Genial coarseness is what it behoves men like you and me to cultivate. Your

reply to your wife's last letter was preposterous. You ought to have gone to her of your own accord as soon as

ever you heard she was rich; she would have thanked you for such commonsense disregard of delicacies.

'What are weyou and I?' pursued the other. 'We have no belief in immortality; we are convinced that this

life is all; we know that human happiness is the origin and end of all moral considerations. What right have

we to make ourselves and others miserable for the sake of an obstinate idealism? It is our duty to make the

best of circumstances. Why will you go cutting your loaf with a razor when you have a serviceable

'You love your wife, and this summons she sends is proof that her thought turns to you as soon as she is in

'Perhapsperhapsperhaps!' cried Biffen, contemptuously. 'There goes the razor again! Take the plain,

human construction of what happens. Ask yourself what the vulgar man would do, and do likewise; that's the

They were both hoarse with too much talking, and for the last half of the drive neither spoke.

At the railwaystation they ate and drank together, but with poor pretence of appetite. As long as possible

they kept within the warmed rooms. Reardon was pale, and had anxious, restless eyes; he could not remain

seated, though when he had walked about for a few minutes the trembling of his limbs obliged him to sink

down. It was an unutterable relief to both when the moment of the train's starting approached.

Then he stood alone on the platform, watching the red light on the last carriage as the train whirled away into

Reardon had never been to Brighton, and of his own accord never would have gone; he was prejudiced

against the place because its name has become suggestive of fashionable imbecility and the snobbishness

which tries to model itself thereon; he knew that the town was a mere portion of London transferred to the

seashore, and as he loved the strand and the breakers for their own sake, to think of them in such connection

could be nothing but a trial of his temper. Something of this species of irritation affected him in the first part

of his journey, and disturbed the mood of kindliness with which he was approaching Amy; but towards the

end he forgot this in a growing desire to be beside his wife in her trouble. His impatience made the hour and a

The fever which was upon him had increased. He coughed frequently; his breathing was difficult; though

constantly moving, he felt as if, in the absence of excitement, his one wish would have been to lie down and

abandon himself to lethargy. Two men who sat with him in the thirdclass carriage had spread a rug over

their knees and amused themselves with playing cards for trifling sums of money; the sight of their foolish

faces, the sound of their laughs, the talk they interchanged, exasperated him to the last point of endurance; but

for all that he could not draw his attention from them. He seemed condemned by some spiritual tormentor to

take an interest in their endless games, and to observe their visages until he knew every line with a hateful

intimacy. One of the men had a moustache of unusual form; the ends curved upward with peculiar

suddenness, and Reardon was constrained to speculate as to the mode of training by which this singularity

had been produced. He could have shed teats of nervous distraction in his inability to turn his thoughts upon

On alighting at his journey's end he was seized with a fit of shivering, an intense and sudden chill which

made his teeth chatter. In an endeavour to overcome this he began to run towards the row of cabs, but his legs

refused such exercise, and coughing compelled him to pause for breath. Still shaking, he threw himself into a

vehicle and was driven to the address Amy had mentioned. The snow on the ground lay thick, but no more

Heedless of the direction which the cab took, he suffered his physical and mental unrest for another quarter of

an hour, then a stoppage told him that the house was reached. On his way he had heard a clock strike eleven.

The door opened almost as soon as he had rung the bell. He mentioned his name, and the maidservant

conducted him to a drawingroom on the groundfloor. The house was quite a small one, but seemed to be

well furnished. One lamp burned on the table, and the fire had sunk to a red glow. Saying that she would

He placed his bag on the floor, took off his muffler, threw back his overcoat, and sat waiting. The overcoat

was new, but the garments beneath it were his poorest, those he wore when sitting in his garret, for he had

He heard no approaching footstep but Amy came into the room in a way which showed that she had hastened

downstairs. She looked at him, then drew near with both hands extended, and laid them on his shoulders, and

kissed him. Reardon shook so violently that it was all he could do to remain standing; he seized one of her

'In great danger. The doctor is coming again tonight; we thought that was his ring.'

'Why did you send for me, Amy? Because Willie was in danger, and you felt I ought to know about it?'

She burst into tears. The display of emotion came very suddenly; her words had been spoken in a firm voice,

'If Willie dies, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?' broke forth between her sobs.

Reardon took her in his arms, and laid his hand upon her head in the old loving way.

'Of course. But first, let me tell you why we are here. Edith Mrs Carterwas coming to spend a week with

her mother, and she pressed me to join her. I didn't really wish to; I was unhappy, and felt how impossible it

was to go on always living away from you. Oh, that I had never come! Then Willie would have been as well

'I have a nurse with me in the room. It's my own bedroom, and this house is so small it will be impossible to

'Oh, my old habit; you remember. One cold after another, all through the accursed winter. What does that

matter when you speak kindly to me once more? I had rather die now at your feet and see the old gentleness

when you look at me, than live on estranged from you. No, don't kiss me, I believe these vile sorethroats are

'But your lips are so hot and parched! And to think of your coming this journey, on such a night!'

'Good old Biffen came to the station with me. He was angry because I had kept away from you so long. Have

'Oh, it has all been a wretched mistake! But we were so poor. Now all that is over; if only Willie can be saved

to me! I am so anxious for the doctor's coming; the poor little child can hardly draw a breath. How cruel it is

that such suffering should come upon a little creature who has never done or thought ill!'

'Let us go up at once, Edwin. Leave your coat and things here. Mrs WinterEdith's motheris a very old

lady; she has gone to bed. And I dare say you wouldn't care to see Mrs Carter to night?'

They went softly up to the first floor, and entered a bedroom. Fortunately the light here was very dim, or the

nurse who sat by the child's bed must have wondered at the eccentricity with which her patient's father attired

himself. Bending over the little sufferer, Reardon felt for the first time since Willie's birth a strong fatherly

emotion; tears rushed to his eyes, and he almost crushed Amy's hand as he held it during the spasm of his

He sat here for a long time without speaking. The warmth of the chamber had the reverse of an assuaging

effect upon his difficult breathing and his frequent short coughit seemed to oppress and confuse his brain.

He began to feel a pain in his right side, and could not sit upright on the chair.

But as soon as she had spoken a bell rang in the lower part of the house. Amy had no doubt that it announced

She left the room, and in a minute or two returned with the medical man. When the examination of the child

'Now I wish to trouble you for a moment on my own account. I shouldn't be surprised if you tell me that I

The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his interlocutor with curiosity. He now asked the

'I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your symptoms to go so far without'

'I can't have a bed in this house; there is no spare room. I must go to the nearest hotel.'

'One thingI beg you won't tell my wife that this is serious. Wait till she is out of her anxiety about the

'You will need the services of a nurse. A most unfortunate thing that you are obliged to go to the hotel.'

He had the strange sensation of knowing that whatever was needful could be paid for; it relieved his mind

immensely. To the rich, illness has none of the worst horrors only understood by the poor.

'Don't speak a word more than you can help,' said the doctor as he watched Reardon withdraw.

Amy stood on the lower stairs, and came down as soon as her husband showed himself.

'The doctor is good enough to take me in his carriage,' he whispered. 'It is better that I should go to bed, and

'I shall come to see you if you are not able to be here by nine in the morning,' she said, and added the name of

At this establishment the doctor was well known. By midnight Reardon lay in a comfortable room, a huge

cataplasm fixed upon him, and other needful arrangements made. A waiter had undertaken to visit him at

intervals through the night, and the man of medicine promised to return as soon as possible after daybreak.

What sound was that, soft and continuous, remote, now clearer, now confusedly murmuring? He must have

slept, but now he lay in sudden perfect consciousness, and that music fell upon his ears. Ah! of course it was

The nightlight enabled him to discern the principal objects in the room, and he let his eyes stray idly hither

and thither. But this moment of peacefulness was brought to an end by a fit of coughing, and he became

troubled, profoundly troubled, in mind. Was his illness really dangerous? He tried to draw a deep breath, but

could not. He found that he could only lie on his right side with any ease. And with the effort of turning he

exhausted himself; in the course of an hour or two all his strength had left him. Vague fears flitted

harassingly through his thoughts. If he had inflammation of the lungsthat was a disease of which one might

die, and speedily. Death? No, no, no; impossible at such a time as this, when Amy, his own dear wife, had

come back to him, and had brought him that which would insure their happiness through all the years of a

He was still quite a young man; there must be great reserves of strength in him. And he had the will to live,

How he had alarmed himself! Why, now he was calmer again, and again could listen to the music of the

breakers. Not all the folly and baseness that paraded along this strip of the shore could change the sea's

eternal melody. In a day or two he would walk on the sands with Amy, somewhere quite out of sight of the

repulsive town. But Willie was ill; he had forgotten that. Poor little boy! In future the child should be more to

Again an interval of unconsciousness, brought to an end by that aching in his side. He breathed very quickly;

could not help doing so. He had never felt so ill as this, never. Was it not near morning?

Then he dreamt. He was at Patras, was stepping into a boat to be rowed out to the steamer which would bear

him away from Greece. A magnificent night, though at the end of December; a sky of deep blue, thick set

with stars. No sound but the steady splash of the oars, or perhaps a voice from one of the many vessels that

lay anchored in the harbour, each showing its lanterngleams. The water was as deep a blue as the sky, and

And now he stood on deck in the light of early morning. Southward lay the Ionian Islands; he looked for

Ithaca, and grieved that it had been passed in the hours of darkness. But the nearest point of the main shore

was a rocky promontory; it reminded him that in these waters was fought the battle of Actium.

The glory vanished. He lay once more a sick man in a hired chamber, longing for the dull English dawn.

At eight o'clock came the doctor. He would allow only a word or two to be uttered, and his visit was brief.

Reardon was chiefly anxious to have news of the child, but for this he would have to wait.

At ten Amy entered the bedroom. Reardon could not raise himself, but he stretched out his hand and took

hers, and gazed eagerly at her. She must have been weeping, he felt sure of that, and there was an expression

Tears broke from her eyes, and Reardon had the conviction that the child was dead.

She threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and pressed her wet cheek against his hand.

'I am come to nurse you, dear husband,' she said a moment after, standing up again and kissing his forehead.

His heart sank, and for a moment so great a terror was upon him that he closed his eyes and seemed to pass

into utter darkness. But those last words of hers repeated themselves in his mind, and at length they brought a

deep solace. Poor little Willie had been the cause of the first coldness between him and Amy; her love for

him had given place to a mother's love for the child. Now it would be as in the first days of their marriage;

'You oughtn't to have come, feeling so ill,' she said to him. 'You should have let me know, dear.'

She checked herself, knowing that agitation must be harmful to him. She had hoped to conceal the child's

death, but the effort was too much for her overstrung nerves. And indeed it was only possible for her to

remain an hour or two by this sickbed, for she was exhausted by her night of watching, and the sudden

agony with which it had concluded. Shortly after Amy's departure, a professional nurse came to attend upon

By the evening its gravity was in no respect diminished. The sufferer had ceased to cough and to make

restless movements, and had become lethargic; later, he spoke deliriously, or rather muttered, for his words

were seldom intelligible. Amy had returned to the room at four o'clock, and remained till far into the night;

she was physically exhausted, and could do little but sit in a chair by the bedside and shed silent tears, or gaze

at vacancy in the woe of her sudden desolation. Telegrams had been exchanged with her mother, who was to

arrive in Brighton tomorrow morning; the child's funeral would probably be on the third day from this.

When she rose to go away for the night, leaving the nurse in attendance, Reardon seemed to lie in a state of

unconsciousness, but just as she was turning from the bed, he opened his eyes and pronounced her name.

'That you are ill dear? I will write at once, or telegraph, if you like. What is his address?'

He had closed his eyes again, and there came no reply. Amy repeated her question twice; she was turning

The next day his breathing was so harassed that he had to be raised against pillows. But throughout the hours

of daylight his mind was clear, and from time to time he whispered words of tenderness in reply to Amy's

look. He never willingly relinquished her hand, and repeatedly he pressed it against his cheek or lips. Vainly

She would have suggested applying to Jasper Milvain, but that name must not be mentioned. Whelpdale,

also, would perchance know where Biffen lived, but Whelpdale's address he had also forgotten.

At night there were long periods of delirium; not mere confused muttering, but continuous talk which the

For the most part the sufferer's mind was occupied with revival of the distress he had undergone whilst

making those last efforts to write something worthy of himself. Amy's heart was wrung as she heard him

living through that time of supreme miserymisery which she might have done so much to alleviate, had not

selfish fears and irritated pride caused her to draw further and further from him. Hers was the kind of

penitence which is forced by sheer stress of circumstances on a nature which resents any form of humiliation;

she could not abandon herself to unreserved grief for what she had done or omitted, and the sense of this

defect made a great part of her affliction. When her husband lay in mute lethargy, she thought only of her

dead child, and mourned the loss; but his delirious utterances constrained her to break from that bittersweet

Though unconsciously, he was addressing her: 'I can do no more, Amy. My brain seems to be worn out; I

can't compose, I can't even think. Look! I have been sitting here for hours, and I have done only that little bit,

half a dozen lines. Such poor stuff too! I should burn it, only I can't afford. I must do my regular quantity

The nurse, who was present when he talked in this way, looked to Amy for an explanation.

'My husband is an author,' Amy answered. 'Not long ago he was obliged to write when he was ill and ought to

'I always thought it must be hard work writing books,' said the nurse with a shake of her head.

'You don't understand me,' the voice pursued, dreadful as a voice always is when speaking independently of

the will. 'You think I am only a poor creature, because I can do nothing better than this. If only I had money

enough to rest for a year or two, you should see. Just because I have no money I must sink to this

But a happy change presently came over his dreaming. He fell into animated description of his experiences in

Greece and Italy, and after talking for a long time, he turned his head and said in a perfectly natural tone:

He paid no attention to this remark, but went on with the same deceptive accent.

'He deserves a holiday after nearly getting burnt to death to save his novel. Imagine the old fellow plunging

headlong into the flames to rescue his manuscript! Don't say that authors can't be heroic!'

Another morning broke. It was possible, said the doctors (a second had been summoned), that a crisis which

drew near might bring the favourable turn; but Amy formed her own opinion from the way in which the nurse

expressed herself. She felt sure that the gravest fears were entertained. Before noon Reardon awoke from

what had seemed natural sleepsave for the rapid breathing and of a sudden recollected the number of the

house in Cleveland Street at which Biffen was now living. He uttered it without explanation. Amy at once

conjectured his meaning, and as soon as her surmise was confirmed she despatched a telegram to her

That evening, as Amy was on the point of returning to the sick room after having dined at her friend's house,

it was announced that a gentleman named Biffen wished to see her. She found him in the diningroom, and,

even amid her distress, it was a satisfaction to her that he presented a far more conventional appearance than

in the old days. All the garments he wore, even his hat, gloves, and boots, were new; a surprising state of

things, explained by the fact of his commercial brother having sent him a present of ten pounds, a practical

expression of sympathy with him in his recent calamity. Biffen could not speak; he looked with alarm at

'I feared this,' he replied under his breath. 'He was ill when I saw him off at London Bridge. But Willie is

Amy tried to answer, but tears filled her eyes and her head drooped. Harold was overcome with a sense of

They conversed brokenly for a few minutes, then left the house, Biffen carrying the handbag with which he

had travelled hither. When they reached the hotel he waited apart until it was ascertained whether he could

'He is conscious, and was very glad to hear that you had come. But don't let him try to speak much.'

The change that had come over his friend's countenance was to Harold, of course, far more gravely

impressive than to those who had watched at the bedside. In the drawn features, large sunken eyes, thin and

discoloured lips, it seemed to him that he read too surely the presage of doom. After holding the shrunken

Biffen sat down by the bedside, and remained for half an hour. His friend inquired whether he had yet heard

about the novel; the answer was a shake of the head. When he rose, Reardon signed to him to bend down, and

The next day was very cold, but a blue sky gleamed over land and sea. The drives and promenades were

thronged with people in exuberant health and spirits. Biffen regarded this spectacle with resentful scorn; at

another time it would have moved him merely to mirth, but not even the sound of the breakers when he had

wandered as far as possible from human contact could help him to think with resignation of the injustice

which triumphs so flagrantly in the destinies of men. Towards Amy he had no shadow of unkindness; the

sight of her in tears had impressed him as profoundly, in another way, as that of his friend's wasted features.

She and Reardon were again one, and his love for them both was stronger than any emotion of tenderness he

In the afternoon he again sat by the bedside. Every symptom of the sufferer's condition pointed to an

approaching end: a face that had grown cadaverous, livid lips, breath drawn in hurrying gasps. Harold

despaired of another look of recognition. But as he sat with his forehead resting on his hand Amy touched

There was silence again. Biffen did not move his eyes from the deathly mask; in a minute or two he saw a

'How often you and I have quoted it!"We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our"'

The remaining words were indistinguishable, and, as if the effort of utterance had exhausted him, his eyes

When he came down from his bedroom on the following morning, Biffen was informed that his friend had

died between two and three o'clock. At the same time he received a note in which Amy requested him to

come and see her late in the afternoon. He spent the day in a long walk along the eastward cliffs; again the

sun shone brilliantly, and the sea was flecked with foam upon its changing green and azure. It seemed to him

that he had never before known solitude, even through all the years of his lonely and sad existence.

At sunset he obeyed Amy's summons. He found her calm, but with the signs of long weeping.

'At the last moment,' she said, 'he was able to speak to me, and you were mentioned. He wished you to have

all that he has left in his room at Islington. When I come back to London, will you take me there and let me

see the room just as when he lived in it? Let the people in the house know what has happened, and that I am

Her resolve to behave composedly gave way as soon as Harold's broken voice had replied. Hysterical sobbing

made further speech from her impossible, and Biffen, after holding her hand reverently for a moment, left her

On an evening of early summer, six months after the death of Edwin Reardon, Jasper of the facile pen was

bending over his desk, writing rapidly by the warm western light which told that sunset was near. Not far

from him sat his younger sister; she was reading, and the book in her hand bore the title, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer.'

And he read aloud a critical notice of the book with which Dora was occupied; a notice of the frankly

eulogistic species, beginning with: 'It is seldom nowadays that the luckless reviewer of novels can draw the

attention of the public to a new work which is at once powerful and original;' and ending: 'The word is a bold

'No, for The West End. Fadge won't allow anyone but himself to be lauded in that style. I may as well do the

He turned to his desk again, and before daylight failed him had produced a piece of more cautious writing,

very favourable on the whole, but with reserves and slight censures. This also he read to Dora.

'I doubt if they'll be much use. Most people will fling the book down with yawns before they're half through

the first volume. If I knew a doctor who had many cases of insomnia in hand, I would recommend "Mr

'Not a doubt of it. I half believe what I have written. And if only we could get it mentioned in a leader or two,

and so on, old Biffen's fame would be established with the better sort of readers. But he won't sell three

hundred copies. I wonder whether Robertson would let me do a notice for his paper?'

'Yet, now, there are people who would cry out that this kind of thing is disgraceful. It's nothing of the kind.

Speaking seriously, we know that a really good book will more likely than not receive fair treatment from

two or three reviewers; yes, but also more likely than not it will be swamped in the flood of literature that

pours forth week after week, and won't have attention fixed long enough upon it to establish its repute. The

struggle for existence among books is nowadays as severe as among men. If a writer has friends connected

with the press,. it is the plain duty of those friends to do their utmost to help him. What matter if they

exaggerate, or even lie? The simple, sober truth has no chance whatever of being listened to, and it's only by

volume of shouting that the ear of the public is held. What use is it to Biffen if his work struggles to slow

recognition ten years hence? Besides, as I say, the growing flood of literature swamps everything but works

of primary genius. If a clever and conscientious book does not spring to success at once, there's precious

small chance that it will survive. Suppose it were possible for me to write a round dozen reviews of this book,

in as many different papers, I would do it with satisfaction. Depend upon it, this kind of thing will be done on

that scale before long. And it's quite natural. A man's friends must be helped, by whatever means, quocunque

'Very likely not. It's ages since I saw him. But there's much magnanimity in my character, as I have often told

Dusk was gathering about them. As they sat talking, there came a tap at the door, and the summons to enter

'I was passing,' he said in his respectful voice, 'and couldn't resist the temptation.'

Jasper struck a match and lit the lamp. In this clearer light Whelpdale was exhibited as a young man of

greatly improved exterior; he wore a creamcoloured waistcoat, a necktie of subtle hue, and delicate gloves;

prosperity breathed from his whole person. It was, in fact, only a moderate prosperity to which he had as yet

Early in this year, his enterprise as 'literary adviser' had brought him in contact with a man of some pecuniary

resources, who proposed to establish an agency for the convenience of authors who were not skilled in

disposing of their productions to the best advantage. Under the name of Fleet Co., this business was shortly

set on foot, and Whelpdale's services were retained on satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicate system

had given new scope to literary agencies, and Mr Fleet was a man of keen eye for commercial opportunities.

'Wonderful, isn't it! A work of genius, I am convinced. Ha! you have it there, Miss Dora. But I'm afraid it is

'You should only read of beautiful things, of happy lives. This book must depress you.'

'But why will you imagine me such a feebleminded person?' asked Dora. 'You have so often spoken like

'Pray forgive me!' he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards the girl with eyes which deprecated her

displeasure. 'I am very far indeed from attributing weakness to you. It was only the natural, unreflecting

impulse; one finds it so difficult to associate you, even as merely a reader, with such squalid scenes.

The ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from that sphere in which you are naturally at home.'

There was some slight affectation in his language, but the tone attested sincere feeling. Jasper was watching

'No doubt,' said the latter, 'it's my story in The English Girl that inclines you to think me a goodygoody sort

'So far from that, Miss Dora, I was only waiting for an opportunity to tell you how exceedingly delighted I

have been with the last two weeks' instalments. In all seriousness, I consider that story of yours the best thing

of the kind that ever came under my notice. You seem to me to have discovered a new genre; such writing as

this has surely never been offered to girls, and all the readers of the paper must be immensely grateful to you.

I run eagerly to buy the paper each week; I assure you I do. The stationer thinks I purchase it for a sister, I

suppose. But each section of the story seems to be better than the last. Mark the prophecy which I now make:

when this tale is published in a volume its success will be great. You will be recognised, Miss Dora, as the

The subject of this panegyric coloured a little and laughed. Unmistakably she was pleased.

'Look here, Whelpdale,' said Jasper, 'I can't have this; Dora's conceit, please to remember, is, to begin with,

only a little less than my own, and you will make her unendurable. Her tale is well enough in its way, but

'I deny it!' cried the other, excitedly. 'How can it be called a humble line of work to provide reading, which is

at once intellectual and moving and exquisitely pure, for the most important part of the populationthe

educated and refined young people who are just passing from girlhood to womanhood?'

'You are grossly irreverent, my dear Milvain. I cannot appeal to your sister, for she's too modest to rate her

own sex at its true value, but the vast majority of thoughtful men would support me. You yourself do, though

you affect this profane way of speaking. And we know,' he looked at Dora, 'that he wouldn't talk like this if

Jasper changed the topic of conversation, and presently Whelpdale was able to talk with more calmness. The

young man, since his association with Fleet Co., had become fertile in suggestions of literary enterprise, and

'I want to find a capitalist,' he said, 'who will get possession of that paper Chat, and transform it according to

an idea I have in my head. The thing is doing very indifferently, but I am convinced it might be made

'The paper is rubbish,' remarked Jasper, 'and the kind of rubbishoddly enoughwhich doesn't attract

'Precisely, but the rubbish is capable of being made a very valuable article, if it were only handled properly. I

have talked to the people about it again and again, but I can't get them to believe what I say. Now just listen

to my notion. In the first place, I should slightly alter the name; only slightly, but that little alteration would

'Are you serious? Or are you making fun of me? I believe it is a stroke of genius. Chat doesn't attract anyone,

but ChitChat would sell like hot cakes, as they say in America. I know I am right; laugh as you will.'

'On the same principle,' cried Jasper, 'if The Tatler were changed to TittleTattle, its circulation would be

'An admirable idea! Many a true word uttered in joke, and this is an instance! TittleTattlea magnificent

Dora was joining in the merriment, and for a minute or two nothing but bursts of laughter could be heard.

'Now do let me go on,' implored the man of projects, when the noise subsided. 'That's only one change,

though a most important one. What I next propose is this:I know you will laugh again, but I will

demonstrate to you that I am right. No article in the paper is to measure more than two inches in length, and

'No, I am perfectly serious. Let me explain my principle. I would have the paper address itself to the

quartereducated; that is to say, the great new generation that is being turned out by the Board schools, the

young men and women who can just read, but are incapable of sustained attention. People of this kind want

something to occupy them in trains and on 'buses and trams. As a rule they care for no newspapers except the

Sunday ones; what they want is the lightest and frothiest of chitchatty informationbits of stories, bits of

description, bits of scandal, bits of jokes, bits of statistics, bits of foolery. Am I not right? Everything must be

very short, two inches at the utmost; their attention can't sustain itself beyond two inches. Even chat is too

'Ha! I have caught you?' cried the other delightedly. 'Of course there's something in it?'

Whelpdale's countenance fell. He looked ashamed of himself. But Jasper came speedily to the rescue.

'That's twaddle, Dora. Fools will be fools to the world's end. Answer a fool according to his folly; supply a

simpleton with the reading he craves, if it will put money in your pocket. You have discouraged poor

'I shall think no more of it,' said Whelpdale, gravely. 'You are right, Miss Dora.'

Again Jasper burst into merriment. His sister reddened, and looked uncomfortable. She began to speak

'Yes. And really, you know, it may be better at such times to read chitchat than to be altogether vacant, or to

'So long as they only read the paper at such times,' said Dora, still hesitating. 'One knows by experience that

one really can't fix one's attention in travelling; even an article in a newspaper is often too long.'

'Exactly! And if you find it so, what must be the case with the mass of untaught people, the

quartereducated? It might encourage in some of them a taste for readingdon't you think?'

'It might,' assented Dora, musingly. 'And in that case you would be doing good!'

'Seriously, I think there is. It would all depend on the skill of the fellows who put the thing together every

week. There ought always to be one strongly sensational itemwe won't call it article. For instance, you

might display on a placard: "What the Queen eats!" or "How Gladstone's collars are made!"things of that

'To be sure, to be sure. And then, you know,' added Whelpdale, glancing anxiously at Dora, 'when people had

been attracted by these devices, they would find a few things that were really profitable. We would give

nicely written little accounts of exemplary careers, of heroic deeds, and so on. Of course nothing whatever

that could be really demoralisingcela va sans dire. Well, what I was going to say was this: would you come

with me to the office of Chat, and have a talk with my friend Lake, the sub editor? I know your time is very

valuable, but then you're often running into the Willo'theWisp, and Chat is just upstairs, you know.'

'Oh, all the use in the world. Lake would pay most respectful attention to your opinion, though he thinks so

little of mine. You are a man of note, I am nobody. I feel convinced that you could persuade the Chat people

to adopt my idea, and they might be willing to give me a contingent share of contingent profits, if I had really

Jasper promised to think the matter over. Whilst their talk still ran on this subject, a packet that had come by

'Yes. A paper I have written for The Wayside.' He looked at Dora, who smiled. 'How do you like the

'You don't say so!' cried the other. 'What a goodhearted fellow you are, Milvain! Now that's really a kind

thing to have done. By Jove! I must shake hands with you; I must indeed! Poor Reardon! Poor old fellow!'

His eyes gleamed with moisture. Dora, observing this, looked at him so gently and sweetly that it was

perhaps well he did not meet her eyes; the experience would have been altogether too much for him.

'It has been written for three months,' said Jasper, 'but we have held it over for a practical reason. When I was

engaged upon it, I went to see Mortimer, and asked him if there was any chance of a new edition of Reardon's

books. He had no idea the poor fellow was dead, and the news seemed really to affect him. He promised to

consider whether it would be worth while trying a new issue, and before long I heard from him that he would

bring out the two best books with a decent cover and so on, provided I could get my article on Reardon into

one of the monthlies. This was soon settled. The editor of The Wayside answered at once, when I wrote to

him, that he should be very glad to print what I proposed, as he had a real respect for Reardon. Next month

the books will be out"Neutral Ground," and "Hubert Reed." Mortimer said he was sure these were the only

ones that would pay for themselves. But we shall see. He may alter his opinion when my article has been

The request was supported by Whelpdale, and Jasper needed no pressing. He seated himself so that the

lamplight fell upon the pages, and read the article through. It was an excellent piece of writing (see The

Wayside, June 1884), and in places touched with true emotion. Any intelligent reader would divine that the

author had been personally acquainted with the man of whom he wrote, though the fact was nowhere stated.

The praise was not exaggerated, yet all the best points of Reardon's work were admirably brought out. One

who knew Jasper might reasonably have doubted, before reading this, whether he was capable of so worthily

'I never understood Reardon so well before,' declared Whelpdale, at the close. 'This is a good thing well done.

'Mrs Reardon ought to be very grateful to you, Milvain. Bythe by, do you ever see her?'

'Oh, I spoke rather cynically, I'm afraid,' Whelpdale hastened to reply. 'I was thinking of her money. Indeed, I

'Oh, well, come, come!' put in her brother. 'We know very well that there was little enough blame on her

'Bosh! What do you know about it? Wait till you are married to a man like Reardon, and reduced to utter

'I am not talking of such cases. Mrs Reardon had never anything of the kind to fear. It was impossible for a

man such as her husband to behave harshly. Her conduct was cowardly, faithless, unwomanly!'

'Trust one woman for thinking the worst of another,' observed Jasper with something like a sneer.

Dora gave him a look of strong disapproval; one might have suspected that brother and sister had before this

fallen into disagreement on the delicate topic. Whelpdale felt obliged to interpose, and had of course no

'I can only say,' he remarked with a smile, 'that Miss Dora takes a very noble point of view. One feels that a

wife ought to be staunch. But it's so very unsafe to discuss matters in which one cannot know all the facts.'

'Indeed, perhaps we do,' assented her slave. Then, turning to her brother, 'Well, once more I congratulate you.

I shall talk of your article incessantly, as soon as it appears. And I shall pester every one of my acquaintances

to buy Reardon's books though it's no use to him, poor fellow. Still, he would have died more contentedly

if he could have foreseen this. Bytheby, Biffen will be profoundly grateful to you, I'm sure.'

'You deserve to get on, my dear fellow. In a few years you will be the Aristarchus of our literary world.'

When the visitor rose to depart, Jasper said he would walk a short distance with him. As soon as they had left

'Oh? Really? No difference at all? You will let me come and see youbothjust in the old way, Milvain?'

'To be sure, to be sure. By Jove! I really don't know how I should get on if I couldn't look in of an evening

now and then. I have got so much into the habit of it. AndI'm a lonely beggar, you know. I don't go into

When Milvain reentered the house, Dora had gone to her own sittingroom. It was not quite ten o'clock.

Taking one set of the proofs of his 'Reardon' article, he put it into a large envelope; then he wrote a short

letter, which began 'Dear Mrs Reardon,' and ended 'Very sincerely yours,' the communication itself being as

'I venture to send you the proofs of a paper which is to appear in next month's Wayside, in the hope that it

may seem to you not badly done, and that the reading of it may give you pleasure. If anything occurs to you

which you would like me to add, or if you desire any omission, will you do me the kindness to let me know

of it as soon as possible, and your suggestion shall at once be adopted. I am informed that the new edition of

"On Neutral Ground" and "Hubert Reed" will be ready next month. Need I say how glad I am that my friend's

This note he also put into the envelope, which he made ready for posting. Then he sat for a long time in

Shortly after eleven his door opened, and Maud came in. She had been dining at Mrs Lane's. Her attire was

still simple, but of quality which would have signified recklessness, but for the outlook whereof Jasper spoke

to Whelpdale. The girl looked very beautiful. There was a flush of health and happiness on her cheek, and

when she spoke it was in a voice that rang quite differently from her tones of a year ago; the pride which was

natural to her had now a firm support; she moved and uttered herself in queenly fashion.

'Oh! I wanted to ask you, Jasper: do you think it wise to let him come quite so often?'

'There's a difficulty, you see. I can hardly tell him to sheer off. And he's really a decent fellow.'

'That may be. ButI think it's rather unwise. Things are changed. In a few months, Dora will be a good deal

'Yes; but what if they are the kind of people she doesn't care anything about? You must remember, old girl,

that her tastes are quite different from yours. I say nothing, butperhaps it's as well they should be.'

'You say nothing, but you add an insult,' returned Maud, with a smile of superb disregard. 'We won't reopen

'Oh dear no! And, bytheby, I have a letter from Dolomore. It came just after you left.'

'He is quite willing to settle upon you a third of his income from the collieries; he tells me it will represent

between seven and eight hundred a year. I think it rather little, you know; but I congratulate myself on having

'Don't speak in that unpleasant way! It was only your abruptness that made any kind of difficulty.'

'I have my own opinion on that point, and I shall beg leave to keep it. Probably he will think me still more

abrupt when I request, as I am now going to do, an interview with his solicitors.'

'If not, then I must do it with indecency. You will have the goodness to remember that if I don't look after

your interests, no one else will. It's perhaps fortunate for you that I have a good deal of the man of business

about me. Dolomore thought I was a dreamy, literary fellow. I don't say that he isn't entirely honest, but he

shows something of a disposition to play the autocrat, and I by no means intend to let him. If you had a

'I don't wish to. I think, on the whole, he has behaved more honourably than was to be expected of a man of

his kind. But he must treat me with respect. My position in the world is greatly superior to his. And, by the

gods! I will be treated respectfully! It wouldn't be amiss, Maud, if you just gave him a hint to that effect.'

'All I have to say is, Jasper, don't do me an irreparable injury. You might, without meaning it.'

'No fear whatever of it. I can behave as a gentleman, and I only expect Dolomore to do the same.'

Their conversation lasted for a long time, and when he was again left alone Jasper again fell into a mood of

'DEAR MR MILVAIN,I have received the proofs, and have just read them; I hasten to thank you with all

my heart. No suggestion of mine could possibly improve this article; it seems to me perfect in taste, in style,

in matter. No one but you could have written this, for no one else understood Edwin so well, or had given

such thought to his work. If he could but have known that such justice would be done to his memory! But he

died believing that already he was utterly forgotten, that his books would never again be publicly spoken of.

This was a cruel fate. I have shed tears over what you have written, but they were not only tears of bitterness;

it cannot but be a consolation to me to think that, when the magazine appears, so many people will talk of

Edwin and his books. I am deeply grateful to Mr Mortimer for having undertaken to republish those two

novels; if you have an opportunity, will you do me the great kindness to thank him on my behalf? At the

same time, I must remember that it was you who first spoke to him on this subject. You say that it gladdens

you to think Edwin will not be forgotten, and I am very sure that the friendly office you have so admirably

performed will in itself reward you more than any poor expression of gratitude from me. I write hurriedly,

Marian was at work as usual in the Readingroom. She did her best, during the hours spent here, to convert

herself into the literary machine which it was her hope would some day be invented for construction in a less

sensitive material than human tissue. Her eyes seldom strayed beyond the limits of the desk; and if she had

occasion to rise and go to the reference shelves, she looked at no one on the way. Yet she herself was

occasionally an object of interested regard. Several readers were acquainted with the chief facts of her

position; they knew that her father was now incapable of work, and was waiting till his diseased eyes should

be ready for the operator; it was surmised, moreover, that a good deal depended upon the girl's literary

exertions. Mr Quarmby and his gossips naturally took the darkest view of things; they were convinced that

Alfred Yule could never recover his sight, and they had a dolorous satisfaction in relating the story of

Marian's legacy. Of her relations with Jasper Milvain none of these persons had heard; Yule had never

Jasper had to look in this morning for a hurried consultation of certain encyclopaedic volumes, and it chanced

that Marian was standing before the shelves to which his business led him. He saw her from a little distance,

and paused; it seemed as if he would turn back; for a moment he wore a look of doubt and worry. But after all

he proceeded. At the sound of his 'Goodmorning,' Marian startedshe was standing with an open book in

'I wanted to see you today,' she said, subduing her voice to the tone of ordinary conversation. 'I should have

'You wouldn't have found me at home. From five to seven I shall be frantically busy, and then I have to rush

'I tell you what. If you could meet me at Gloucester Gate at four, then I shall be glad of half an hour in the

park. But I mustn't talk now; I'm driven to my wits' end. Gloucester Gate, at four sharp. I don't think it'll rain.'

He dragged out a tome of the 'Britannica.' Marian nodded, and returned to her seat.

At the appointed hour she was waiting near the entrance of Regent's Park which Jasper had mentioned. Not

long ago there had fallen a light shower, but the sky was clear again. At five minutes past four she still

waited, and had begun to fear that the passing rain might have led Jasper to think she would not come.

Another five minutes, and from a hansom that rattled hither at full speed, the familiar figure alighted.

'Do forgive me!' he exclaimed. 'I couldn't possibly get here before. Let us go to the right.'

They betook themselves to that treeshadowed strip of the park which skirts the canal.

'I'm so afraid that you haven't really time,' said Marian, who was chilled and confused by this show of hurry.

She regretted having made the appointment; it would have been much better to postpone what she had to say

until Jasper was at leisure. Yet nowadays the hours of leisure seemed to come so rarely.

'If I get home at five, it'll be all right,' he replied. 'What have you to tell me, Marian?'

'I should have thought it a great deal,' she said presently, 'before I had begun to think of thousands.'

'Let us sit down on this bench. Fifteen hundredh'm! And nothing more is to be hoped for?'

'Nothing. I should have thought men would wish to pay their debts, even after they had been bankrupt; but

'You are thinking of Walter Scott, and that kind of thing' Jasper laughed. 'Oh, that's quite unbusinesslike; it

Marian had no answer for such a question. The tone of it was a new stab to her heart, which had suffered so

'Now, I'll ask you frankly,' Jasper went on, 'and I know you will reply in the same spirit: would it be wise for

What she really meant was uncertain even to herself. She had wished to hear how Jasper would receive the

news, and thereby to direct her own course. Had he welcomed it as offering a possibility of their marriage,

that would have gladdened her, though it would then have been necessary to show him all the difficulties by

which she was beset; for some time they had not spoken of her father's position, and Jasper seemed willing to

forget all about that complication of their troubles. But marriage did not occur to him, and he was evidently

quite prepared to hear that she could no longer regard this money as her own to be freely disposed of. This

was on one side a relief but on the other it confirmed her fears. She would rather have heard him plead with

her to neglect her parents for the sake of being his wife. Love excuses everything, and his selfishness would

'You say,' she replied, with bent head, 'that it would bring us fifty pounds a year. If another fifty were added

to that, my father and mother would be supported in case the worst comes. I might earn fifty pounds.'

'You wish me to understand, Marian, that I mustn't expect that you will bring me anything when we are

His tone was that of acquiescence; not by any means of displeasure. He spoke as if desirous of saying for her

'Jasper, it is so hard for me! So hard for me! How could I help remembering what you told me when I

'I spoke the truth rather brutally,' he replied, in a kind voice. 'Let all that be unsaid, forgotten. We are in quite

a different position now. Be open with me, Marian; surely you can trust my common sense and good feeling.

Put aside all thought of things I have said, and don't be restrained by any fear lest you should seem to me

unwomanlyyou can't be that. What is your own wish? What do you really wish to do, now that there is no

Marian raised her eyes, and was about to speak as she regarded him; but with the first accent her look fell.

'Yet you feel that it would be heartless to take and use this money for our own purposes?'

'But then you admit that the fifteen hundred pounds won't support them. You talk of earning fifty pounds a

'Need I cease to write, dear, if we were married? Wouldn't you let me help them?'

'But, my dear girl, you are taking for granted that we shall have enough for ourselves.'

'I didn't mean at once,' she explained hurriedly. 'In a short timein a year. You are getting on so well. You

'Let us walk as far as the next seat. Don't speak. I have something to think about.'

Moving on beside him, she slipped her hand softly within his arm; but Jasper did not put the arm into position

to support hers, and her hand fell again, dropped suddenly. They reached another bench, and again became

'It comes to this, Marian,' he said, with portentous gravity. 'Support you, I couldI have little doubt of that.

Maud is provided for, and Dora can make a living for herself. I could support you and leave you free to give

He paused significantly. It was his wish that Marian should supply the consequence, but she did not speak.

The tone of resignation was too marked. Jasper was not good as a comedian; he lacked subtlety.

He was not strong enough to reply with a plain 'Yes,' and so have done with his perplexities. He feared the

'Don't talk in that way, Marian. The question is simply this: Are we to wait a year, or are we to wait five

years? In a year's time, I shall probably be able to have a small house somewhere out in the suburbs. If we are

married then, I shall be happy enough with so good a wife, but my career will take a different shape. I shall

just throw overboard certain of my ambitions, and work steadily on at earning a livelihood. If we wait five

years, I may perhaps have obtained an editorship, and in that case I should of course have all sorts of better

'But, dear, why shouldn't you get an editorship all the same if you are married?'

'I have explained to you several times that success of that kind is not compatible with a small house in the

suburbs and all the ties of a narrow income. As a bachelor, I can go about freely, make acquaintances, dine at

people's houses, perhaps entertain a useful friend now and thenand so on. It is not merit that succeeds in

my line; it is merit plus opportunity. Marrying now, I cut myself off from opportunity, that's all.'

'Decide my fate for me, Marian,' he pursued, magnanimously. 'Let us make up our minds and do what we

decide to do. Indeed, it doesn't concern me so much as yourself. Are you content to lead a simple,

unambitious life? Or should you prefer your husband to be a man of some distinction?'

'I know so well what your own wish is. But to wait for yearsyou will cease to love me, and will only think

'Well now, when I said five years, of course I took a round number. Threetwo might make all the

'You feel, then, that it will decidedly be wise not to marry whilst we are still so poor?'

'Jasper, you don't think that I have behaved selfishly in wishing to let my father have the money?'

'I should have been greatly surprised if you hadn't wished it. I certainly can't imagine you saying: "Oh, let

'No, no; it's all right now. I shall go at it with all the more energy, now we have come to a decision.'

'By Jove, no! I have three engagements on Sunday afternoon. I'll try and keep the Sunday after; I will indeed.'

As they walked back towards Gloucester Gate, he answered her question, showing how unpardonable it

would be to neglect the people concerned. Then they parted, Jasper going off at a smart pace homewards.

Marian turned down Park Street, and proceeded for some distance along Camden Road. The house in which

she and her parents now lived was not quite so far away as St Paul's Crescent; they rented four rooms, one of

which had to serve both as Alfred Yule's sittingroom and for the gatherings of the family at meals. Mrs Yule

generally sat in the kitchen, and Marian used her bedroom as a study. About half the collection of books had

been sold; those that remained were still a respectable library, almost covering the walls of the room where

He could read for a few hours a day, but only large type, and fear of consequences kept him well within the

limit of such indulgence laid down by his advisers. Though he inwardly spoke as if his case were hopeless,

Yule was very far from having resigned himself to this conviction; indeed, the prospect of spending his latter

years in darkness and idleness was too dreadful to him to be accepted so long as a glimmer of hope remained.

He saw no reason why the customary operation should not restore him to his old pursuits, and he would have

borne it ill if his wife or daughter had ever ceased to oppose the despair which it pleased him to affect.

On the whole, he was noticeably patient. At the time of their removal to these lodgings, seeing that Marian

prepared herself to share the change as a matter of course, he let her do as she would without comment; nor

had he since spoken to her on the subject which had proved so dangerous. Confidence between them there

was none; Yule addressed his daughter in a grave, cold, civil tone, and Marian replied gently, but without

tenderness. For Mrs Yule the disaster to the family was distinctly a gain; she could not but mourn her

husband's affliction, yet he no longer visited her with the fury or contemptuous impatience of former days.

Doubtless the fact of needing so much tendance had its softening influence on the man; he could not turn

brutally upon his wife when every hour of the day afforded him some proof of her absolute devotion. Of

course his openair exercise was still unhindered, and in this season of the returning sun he walked a great

deal, decidedly to the advantage of his general healthwhich again must have been a source of benefit to his

temper. Of evenings, Marian sometimes read to him. He never requested this, but he did not reject the

This afternoon Marian found her father examining a volume of prints which had been lent him by Mr

Quarmby. The table was laid for dinner (owing to Marian's frequent absence at the Museum, no change had

been made in the order of meals), and Yule sat by the window, his book propped on a second chair. A

whiteness in his eyes showed how the disease was progressing, but his face had a more wholesome colour

'Mr Hinks and Mr Gorbutt inquired very kindly after you today,' said the girl, as she seated herself.

They conversed of such matters until Mrs Yulenow her own servantbrought in the dinner. After the

meal, Marian was in her bedroom for about an hour; then she went to her father, who sat in idleness,

'I had perhaps better say'he spoke rather stiffly, and with averted face'that I make no exclusive claim to

the use of this room. As I can no longer pretend to study, it would be idle to keep up the show of privacy that

mustn't be disturbed. Perhaps you will mention to your mother that she is quite at liberty to sit here whenever

It was characteristic of him that he should wish to deliver this permission by proxy. But Marian understood

'I will tell mother,' she said. 'But at this moment I wished to speak to you privately. How would you advise

'It is strange that you should put such a question to me. I should have supposed your interests were in the

'This will be my private affair, father. I wish to get as high a rate of interest as I safely can.'

'I really must decline to advise, or interfere in any way. But, as you have introduced this subject, I may as

well put a question which is connected with it. Could you give me any idea as to how long you are likely to

Yule detected the sorrowful emotion she was endeavouring to suppress. His conception of Milvain's character

made it easy for him to form a just surmise as to the reasons for this postponement; he was gratified to think

that Marian might learn how rightly he had judged her wooer, and an involuntary pity for the girl did not

prevent his hoping that the detestable alliance was doomed. With difficulty he refrained from smiling.

'I will make no comment on that,' he remarked, with a certain emphasis. 'But do you imply that this

There was a silence of a minute or two. As yet it had not been necessary to take any steps for raising money,

but a few months more would see the family without resources, save those provided by Marian, who, without

'You must be well aware,' said Yule at length, 'that I cannot consent to benefit by any such offer. When it is

'Why should you do that, father?' Marian interrupted. 'My money is yours. If you refuse it as a gift, then why

may not I lend to you as well as a stranger? Repay me when your eyes are restored. For the present, all our

anxieties are at an end. We can live very well until you are able to write again.'

For his sake she put it in his way. Supposing him never able to earn anything, then indeed would come a time

of hardship; but she could not contemplate that. The worst would only befall them in case she was forsaken

'This has come upon me as a surprise,' said Yule, in his most reserved tone. 'I can give no definite reply; I

'Should you like me to ask mother to bring her sewing here now?' asked Marian, rising.

In this way the awkwardness of the situation was overcome, and when Marian next had occasion to speak of

Dora Milvain of course learnt what had come to pass; to anticipate criticism, her brother imparted to her the

decision at which Marian and he had arrived. She reflected with an air of discontent.

'So you are quite satisfied,' was her question at length, 'that Marian should toil to support her parents as well

'I tell you, Marian has made a deliberate choice. She understands me perfectly, and is quite satisfied with my

'I agree to that; and in return I shall let you know when she begins to suffer from hunger. It won't be very long

till then, you may be sure. How do you suppose three people are going to live on a hundred a year? And it's

very doubtful indeed whether Marian can earn as much as fifty pounds. Never mind; I shall let you know

At the end of July Maud was married. Between Mr Dolomore and Jasper existed no superfluous kindness,

each resenting the other's selfsufficiency; but Jasper, when once satisfied of his proposed brotherinlaw's

straightforwardness, was careful not to give offence to a man who might some day serve him. Provided this

marriage resulted in moderate happiness to Maud, it was undoubtedly a magnificent stroke of luck. Mrs Lane,

the lady who has so often been casually mentioned, took upon herself those offices in connection with the

ceremony which the bride's mother is wont to perform; at her house was held the weddingbreakfast, and

such other absurdities of usage as recommend themselves to Society. Dora of course played the part of a

bridesmaid, and Jasper went through his duties with the suave seriousness of a man who has convinced

About the same time occurred another event which was to have more importance for this aspiring little family

than could as yet be foreseen. Whelpdale's noteworthy idea triumphed; the weekly paper called Chat was

thoroughly transformed, and appeared as Chit Chat. From the first number, the success of the enterprise was

beyond doubt; in a month's time all England was ringing with the fame of this noble new development of

journalism; the proprietor saw his way to a solid fortune, and other men who had money to embark began to

scheme imitative publications. It was clear that the quartereducated would soon be abundantly provided

Whelpdale's exultation was unbounded, but in the fifth week of the life of ChitChat something happened

which threatened to overturn his sober reason. Jasper was walking along the Strand one afternoon, when he

saw his ingenious friend approaching him in a manner scarcely to be accounted for, unless Whelpdale's

abstemiousness had for once given way before convivial invitation. The young man's hat was on the back of

his head, and his coat flew wildly as he rushed forwards with perspiring face and glaring eyes. He would have

passed without observing Jasper, had not the latter called to him; then he turned round, laughed insanely,

'I've got Lake's place on ChitChat!' cried the other hoarsely. 'Two hundred and fifty a year! Lake and the

editor quarrelled pummelled each otherneither know nor care what it was about. My fortune's made!'

'Certainly I am. I have always admitted it. But remember that there's my connection with Fleet as well; no

need to give that up. Presently I shall be making a clear six hundred, my dear sir!

'But you must remember that I'm not a big gun, like you! Why, my dear Milvain, a year ago I should have

thought an income of two hundred a glorious competence. I don't aim at such things as are fit for you. You

won't be content till you have thousands; of course I know that. But I'm a humble fellow. Yet no; by Jingo,

'I can't tell younot yet; this is neither time nor place. I say, when will you dine with me? I shall give a

dinner to half a dozen of my acquaintances somewhere or other. Poor old Biffen must come. When can you

That dinner came duly off. On the day that followed, Jasper and Dora left town for their holiday; they went to

the Channel Islands, and spent more than half of the three weeks they had allowed themselves in Sark.

Passing over from Guernsey to that island, they were amused to see a copy of ChitChat in the hands of an

'Not in Whelpdale's sense of the word. But, strictly speaking, no doubt he is. The quartereducated constitute

a very large class indeed; how large, the huge success of that paper is demonstrating. I'll write to Whelpdale,

'Why, the fellow has written to you as well!' exclaimed Jasper, taking up a second letter; both were on the

table of their sittingroom when they came to their lodgings for lunch. 'That's his hand.'

Dora hummed an air as she regarded the envelope, then she took it away with her to her room upstairs.

'What had he to say?' Jasper inquired, when she came down again and seated herself at the table.

Dora had never looked so animated and fresh of colour since leaving London; her brother remarked this, and

was glad to think that the air of the Channel should be doing her so much good. He read Whelpdale's letter

'The reverence that fellow has for me is astonishing,' he observed with a laugh. 'The queer thing is, it

'Oh, what a splendid epigram!' she exclaimed. 'It is indeed a queer thing, Jasper! Did you mean that to be a

'You are in remarkable spirits, old girl. Bytheby, would you mind letting me see that letter of yours?'

'Oh, he writes quite as respectfully to me as he does to you,' she returned, with a peculiar smile.

'But what business has he to write at all? It's confounded impertinence, now I come to think of it. I shall give

Dora could not be quite sure whether he spoke seriously or not. As both of them had begun to eat with an

excellent appetite, a few moments were allowed to pass before the girl again spoke.

'As good as ours? The "sub." of a paltry rag like ChitChat, and assistant to a literary agency!'

'Oh, of course money is nothing! We write for honour and glory. Don't forget to insist on that when you

Late in the evening of that day, when the brother and sister had strolled by moonlight up to the windmill

which occupies the highest point of Sark, and as they stood looking upon the pale expanse of sea, dotted with

'The deuce he does!' cried Jasper, with a start. 'If I didn't half suspect something of that kind! What

'Well, don't you? You hardly know him, to begin with. And then oh, confound it!'

'Certainly. Of course in civil terms. But don't let this make any difference between you and him. Just pretend

'Quite. He has written in a very proper way, and there's no reason whatever to disturb our friendliness with

him. I have a right to give directions in a matter like this, and you'll please to obey them.'

Before going to bed Dora wrote a letter to Mr Whelpdale, not, indeed, accepting his offer forthwith, but

conveying to him with much gracefulness an unmistakable encouragement to persevere. This was posted on

the morrow, and its writer continued to benefit most remarkably by the sun and breezes and rockscrambling

Soon after their return to London, Dora had the satisfaction 6f paying the first visit to her sister at the

Dolomores' house in Ovington Square. Maud was established in the midst of luxuries, and talked with

laughing scorn of the days when she inhabited Grub Street; her literary tastes were henceforth to serve as

merely a note of distinction, an added grace which made evident her superiority to the wellattired and

smoothtongued people among whom she was content to shine. On the one hand, she had contact with the

world of fashionable literature, on the other with that of fashionable ignorance. Mrs Lane's house was a

'I shan't be there very often,' remarked Jasper, as Dora and he discussed their sister's magnificence. 'That's all

'I'm very glad to hear that. I confess it seemed to me that you were rather too cordial with Whelpdale

'You are sure of that? He didn't seem quite so gloomy as he ought to have been.'

It was perhaps a week after this that Mrs Dolomore came quite unexpectedly to the house by Regent's Park,

as early as eleven o'clock in the morning. She had a long talk in private with Dora. Jasper was not at home;

when he returned towards evening, Dora came to his room with a countenance which disconcerted him.

'Is it true,' she asked abruptly, standing before him with her hands strained together, 'that you have been

'That doesn't matter. I have heard it, and I want to know from you that it is false.'

'Well, then, I will tell you how I have heard. Maud came this morning, and told me that Mrs Betterton had

'I have never told anyone that my engagement was at an end,' replied Jasper, deliberately.

'Then I was right,' she said. 'Of course I told Maud that it was impossible to believe this for a moment. But

'You might as well ask me how any lie gets into circulation among people of that sort. I have told you the

She sat up late, mostly engaged in thinking, though at times an open book was in her hand. It was nearly

halfpast twelve when a very light rap at the door caused her to start. She called, and Jasper came in.

'Why are you still up?' he asked, avoiding her look as he moved forward and took a leaning attitude behind an

'I am not given to lying, Dora, and I feel confoundedly uncomfortable about what I said to you early this

evening. I didn't lie in the ordinary sense; it's true enough that I have never told anyone that my engagement

was at an end. But I have acted as if it were, and it's better I should tell you.'

'Yes. I have proposed to Miss Rupert. How Mrs Lane and that lot have come to know anything about this I

don't understand. I am not aware of any connecting link between them and the Ruperts, or the Barlows either.

Perhaps there are none; most likely the rumour has no foundation in their knowledge. Still, it is better that I

should have told you. Miss Rupert has never heard that I was engaged, nor have her friends the Barlowsat

least I don't see how they could have done. She may have told Mrs Barlow of my proposalprobably would;

and this may somehow have got round to those other people. But Maud didn't make any mention of Miss

'Well, there's the state of things. It isn't pleasant, but that's what I have done.'

'No. I wrote to her. She answered that she was going to Germany for a few weeks, and that I should have her

'I suppose I am both. It was a moment of desperate temptation, though. I had dined at the Ruperts'you

'Don't call her a girl!' broke in Dora, scornfully. 'You say she is several years older than yourself.'

'Well, at all events, she's intellectual, and very rich. I yielded to the temptation.'

'And deserted Marian just when she has most need of help and consolation? It's frightful!'

'Look here, Dora, I regret it; I do, indeed. And, what's more, if that woman refuses meas it's more than

likely she willI will go to Marian and ask her to marry me at once. I promise that.'

'Then I can't help it. But there's one thing more I will say. Whether I marry Marian or Miss Rupert, I sacrifice

my strongest feelingsin the one case to a sense of duty, in the other to worldly advantage. I was an idiot to

write that letter, for I knew at the time that there was a woman who is far more to me than Miss Rupert and

all her moneya woman I might, perhaps, marry. Don't ask any questions; I shall not answer them. As I

have said so much, I wished you to understand my position fully. You know the promise I have made. Don't

say anything to Marian; if I am left free I shall marry her as soon as possible.'

For a fortnight and more he remained in uncertainty. His life was very uncomfortable, for Dora would only

speak to him when necessity compelled her; and there were two meetings with Marian, at which he had to act

his part as well as he could. At length came the expected letter. Very nicely expressed, very friendly, very

Milvain's skilful efforts notwithstanding, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer,' had no success. By two publishers the book had

been declined; the firm which brought it out offered the author half profits and fifteen pounds on account,

greatly to Harold Biffen's satisfaction. But reviewers in general were either angry or coldly contemptuous.

'Let Mr Biffen bear in mind,' said one of these sages, 'that a novelist's first duty is to tell a story.' 'Mr Biffen,'

wrote another, 'seems not to understand that a work of art must before everything else afford amusement.' 'A

pretentious book of the genre ennuyant,' was the brief comment of a Society journal. A weekly of high

standing began its short notice in a rage: 'Here is another of those intolerable productions for which we are

indebted to the spirit of grovelling realism. This author, let it be said, is never offensive, but then one must go

on to describe his work by a succession of negatives; it is never interesting, never profitable, never' and the

rest. The eulogy in The West End had a few timid echoes. That in The Current would have secured more

imitators, but unfortunately it appeared when most of the reviewing had already been done. And, as Jasper

truly said, only a concurrence of powerful testimonials could have compelled any number of people to affect

an interest in this book. 'The first duty of a novelist is to tell a story:' the perpetual repetition of this phrase is

a warning to all men who propose drawing from the life. Biffen only offered a slice of biography, and it was

He wrote to Mrs Reardon: 'I cannot thank you enough for this very kind letter about my book; I value it more

than I should the praises of all the reviewers in existence. You have understood my aim. Few people will do

If Amy had but contented herself with a civil acknowledgment of the volumes he sent her! She thought it a

kindness to write to him so appreciatively, to exaggerate her approval. The poor fellow was so lonely. Yes,

but his loneliness only became intolerable when a beautiful woman had smiled upon him, and so forced him

It was a fatal day, that on which Amy put herself under his guidance to visit Reardon's poor room at Islington.

In the old times, Harold had been wont to regard his friend's wife as the perfect woman; seldom in his life had

he enjoyed female society, and when he first met Amy it was years since he had spoken with any woman

above the rank of a lodginghouse keeper or a needleplier. Her beauty seemed to him of a very high order,

and her mental endowments filled him with an exquisite delight, not to be appreciated by men who have

never been in his position. When the rupture came between Amy and her husband, Harold could not believe

that she was in any way to blame; held to Reardon by strong friendship, he yet accused him of injustice to

Amy. And what he saw of her at Brighton confirmed him in this judgment. When he accompanied her to

Manville Street, he allowed her, of course, to remain alone in the room where Reardon had lived; but Amy

presently summoned him, and asked him questions. Every tear she shed watered a growth of passionate

tenderness in the solitary man's heart. Parting from her at length, he went to hide his face in darkness and

A fatal day. There was an end of all his peace, all his capacity for labour, his patient endurance of penury.

Once, when he was about threeandtwenty, he had been in love with a girl of gentle nature and fair

intelligence; on account of his poverty, he could not even hope that his love might be returned, and he went

away to bear the misery as best he might. Since then the life he had led precluded the forming of such

attachments; it would never have been possible for him to support a wife of however humble origin. At

intervals he felt the full weight of his loneliness, but there were happily long periods during which his Greek

studies and his efforts in realistic fiction made him indifferent to the curse laid upon him. But after that hour

Accepting what Reardon had bequeathed to him, he removed the books and furniture to a room in that part of

the town which he had found most convenient for his singular tutorial pursuits. The winter did not pass

without days of all but starvation, but in March he received his fifteen pounds for 'Mr Bailey,' and this was a

fortune, putting him beyond the reach of hunger for full six months. Not long after that he yielded to a

temptation that haunted him day and night, and went to call upon Amy, who was still living with her mother

at Westbourne Park. When he entered the drawingroom Amy was sitting there alone; she rose with an

He could scarcely speak; her beauty, as she stood before him in the graceful black dress, was anguish to his

excited nerves, and her voice was so cruel in its conventional warmth. When he looked at her eyes, he

remembered how their brightness had been dimmed with tears, and the sorrow he had shared with her seemed

to make him more than an ordinary friend. When he told her of his success with the publishers, she was

Of the halfdozen he would receive, he scarcely knew how to dispose of three. And Amy expressed her

gratitude in the most charming way. She had gained much in point of manner during the past twelve months;

her ten thousand pounds inspired her with the confidence necessary to a perfect demeanour. That slight

hardness which was wont to be perceptible in her tone had altogether passed away; she seemed to be

Mrs Yule came in, and was all graciousness. Then two callers presented themselves. Biffen's pleasure was at

an end as soon as he had to adapt himself to polite dialogue; he escaped as speedily as possible.

He was not the kind of man that deceives himself as to his own aspect in the eyes of others. Be as kind as she

might, Amy could not set him strutting Malvoliowise; she viewed him as a poor devil who often had to

pawn his coata man of parts who would never get on in the worlda friend to be thought of kindly

because her dead husband had valued him. Nothing more than that; he understood perfectly the limits of her

feeling. But this could not put restraint upon the emotion with which he received any most trifling utterance

of kindness from her. He did not think of what was, but of what, under changed circumstances, might be. To

encourage such fantasy was the idlest selftorment, but he had gone too far in this form of indulgence. He

In that letter with which he replied to her praises of his book, perchance he had allowed himself to speak too

He wrote in reckless delight, and did not wait for the prudence of a later hour. When it was past recall, he

would gladly have softened many of the expressions the letter contained. 'I value it more than the praises of

all the reviewers in existence' would Amy be offended at that? 'Yours in gratitude and reverence,' he had

signed himselfthe kind of phrase that comes naturally to a passionate man, when he would fain say more

than he dares. To what purpose this halfrevelation? Unless, indeed, he wished to learn once and for ever, by

the gentlest of repulses, that his homage was only welcome so long as it kept well within conventional terms.

He passed a month of distracted idleness, until there came a day when the need to see Amy was so imperative

that it mastered every consideration. He donned his best clothes, and about four o'clock presented himself at

Mrs Yule's house. By ill luck there happened to be at least half a dozen callers in the drawingroom; the

strappado would have been preferable, in his eyes, to such an ordeal as this. Moreover, he was convinced that

both Amy and her mother received him with far less cordiality than on the last occasion. He had expected it,

but he bit his lips till the blood came. What business had he among people of this kind? No doubt the visitors

wondered at his comparative shabbiness, and asked themselves how he ventured to make a call without the

Ten minutes saw him in the street again, vowing that he would never approach Amy more. Not that he found

He lived on the third floor of a house in Goodge Street, above a baker's shop. The bequest of Reardon's

furniture was a great advantage to him, as he had only to pay rent for a bare room; the books, too, came as a

godsend, since the destruction of his own. He had now only one pupil, and was not exerting himself to find

For the failure of his book he cared nothing. It was no more than he anticipated. The work was donethe

It was doubtful whether he loved Amy, in the true sense of exclusive desire. She represented for him all that

is lovely in womanhood; to his starved soul and senses she was woman, the complement of his frustrate

being. Circumstance had made her the means of exciting in him that natural force which had hitherto either

Companionless, inert, he suffered the tortures which are so ludicrous and contemptible to the happily

married. Life was barren to him, and would soon grow hateful; only in sleep could he cast off the unchanging

thoughts and desires which made all else meaningless. And rightly meaningless: he revolted against the

By what fatality was he alone of men withheld from the winning of a woman's love?

He could not bear to walk the streets where the faces of beautiful women would encounter him. When he

must needs leave the house, he went about in the poor, narrow ways, where only spectacles of coarseness,

and want, and toil would be presented to him. Yet even here he was too often reminded that the

povertystricken of the class to which poverty is natural were not condemned to endure in solitude. Only he

who belonged to no class, who was rejected alike by his fellows in privation and by his equals in intellect,

The summer went by, and he was unconscious of its warmth and light. How his days passed he could not

One evening in early autumn, as he stood before the bookstall at the end of Goodge Street, a familiar voice

accosted him. It was Whelpdale's. A month or two ago he had stubbornly refused an invitation to dine with

Whelpdale and other acquaintancesyou remember what the occasion wasand since then the prosperous

'I've something to tell you,' said the assailer, taking hold of his arm. 'I'm in a tremendous state of mind, and

want someone to share my delight. You can walk a short way, I hope? Not too busy with some new book?'

'You are writing a new book, I suppose? Don't be discouraged, old fellow. "Mr Bailey" will have his day yet;

I know men who consider it an undoubted work of genius. What's the next to deal with?'

'I haven't decided yet,' replied Harold, merely to avoid argument. He spoke so seldom that the sound of his

'Thinking over it, I suppose, in your usual solid way. Don't be hurried. But I must tell you of this affair of

mine. You know Dora Milvain? I have asked her to marry me, and, by the Powers! she has given me an

encouraging answer. Not an actual yes, but encouraging! She's away in the Channel Islands, and I wrote'

He talked on for a quarter of an hour. Then, with a sudden movement, the listener freed himself.

A week or two more would see him at the end of his money. He had no lessons now, and could not write;

from his novel nothing was to be expected. He might apply again to his brother, but such dependence was

unjust and unworthy. And why should he struggle to preserve a life which had no prospect but of misery?

It was in the hours following his encounter with Whelpdale that he first knew the actual desire of death, the

simple longing for extinction. One must go far in suffering before the innate will tolive is thus truly

overcome; weariness of bodily anguish may induce this perversion of the instincts; less often, that despair of

suppressed emotion which had fallen upon Harold. Through the night he kept his thoughts fixed on death in

The next night it was the same. Moving about among common needs and occupations, he knew not a

moment's cessation of heartache, but when he lay down in the darkness a hopeful summons whispered to

him. Night, which had been the worst season of his pain, had now grown friendly; it came as an anticipation

A few more days, and he was possessed by a calm of spirit such as he had never known. His resolve was

taken, not in a moment of supreme conflict, but as the result of a subtle process by which his imagination had

become in love with death. Turning from contemplation of life's one rapture, he looked with the same

One afternoon he went to the Museum Readingroom, and was busy for a few minutes in consultation of a

volume which he took from the shelves of medical literature. On his way homeward he entered two or three

chemists' shops. Something of which he had need could be procured only in very small quantities; but

repetition of his demand in different places supplied him sufficiently. When he reached his room, he emptied

the contents of sundry little bottles into one larger, and put this in his pocket. Then he wrote rather a long

It had been a beautiful day, and there wanted still a couple of hours before the warm, golden sunlight would

disappear. Harold stood and looked round his room. As always, it presented a neat, orderly aspect, but his eye

caught sight of a volume which stood upside down, and this faultparticularly hateful to a bookish manhe

rectified. He put his blottingpad square on the table, closed the lid of the inkstand, arranged his pens. Then

he took his hat and stick, locked the door behind him, and went downstairs. At the foot he spoke to his

landlady, and told her that he should not return that night. As soon as possible after leaving the house he

His direction was westward; walking at a steady, purposeful pace, with cheery countenance and eyes that

gave sign of pleasure as often as they turned to the sunsmitten clouds, he struck across Kensington Gardens,

and then on towards Fulham, where he crossed the Thames to Putney. The sun was just setting; he paused a

few moments on the bridge, watching the river with a quiet smile, and enjoying the splendour of the sky. Up

Putney Hill he walked slowly; when he reached the top it was growing dark, but an unwonted effect in the

atmosphere caused him to turn and look to the east. An exclamation escaped his lips, for there before him was

the newrisen moon, a perfect globe, vast and red. He gazed at it for a long time.

When the daylight had entirely passed, he went forward on to the heath, and rambled, as if idly, to a secluded

part, where trees and bushes made a deep shadow under the full moon. It was still quite warm, and scarcely a

Sure at length that he was remote from all observation, he pressed into a little copse, and there reclined on the

grass, leaning against the stem of a tree. The moon was now hidden from him, but by looking upward he

could see its light upon a long, faint cloud, and the blue of the placid sky. His mood was one of ineffable

peace. Only thoughts of beautiful things came into his mind; he had reverted to an earlier period of life, when

as yet no mission of literary realism had been imposed upon him, and when his passions were still soothed by

natural hope. The memory of his friend Reardon was strongly present with him, but of Amy he thought only

as of that star which had just come into his vision above the edge of dark foliagebeautiful, but infinitely

Recalling Reardon's voice, it brought to him those last words whispered by his dying companion. He

We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

Only when he received Miss Rupert's amiablyworded refusal to become his wife was Jasper aware how

firmly he had counted on her accepting him. He told Dora with sincerity that his proposal was a piece of

foolishness; so far from having any regard for Miss Rupert, he felt towards her with something of antipathy,

and at the same time he was conscious of ardent emotions, if not love, for another woman who would be no

bad match even from the commercial point of view. Yet so strong was the effect upon him of contemplating a

large fortune, that, in despite of reason and desire, he lived in eager expectation of the word which should

make him rich. And for several hours after his disappointment he could not overcome the impression of

A part of that impression was due to the engagement which he must now fulfil. He had pledged his word to

ask Marian to marry him without further delay. To shuffle out of this duty would make him too ignoble even

in his own eyes. Its discharge meant, as he had expressed it, that he was 'doomed'; he would deliberately be

committing the very error always so flagrant to him in the case of other men who had crippled themselves by

early marriage with a penniless woman. But events had enmeshed him; circumstances had proved fatal.

Because, in his salad days, he dallied with a girl who had indeed many charms, step by step he had come to

the necessity of sacrificing his prospects to that raw attachment. And, to make it more irritating, this

Unable to think of work, he left the house and wandered gloomily about Regent's Park. For the first time in

his recollection the confidence which was wont to inspirit him gave way to an attack of sullen discontent. He

felt himself illused by destiny, and therefore by Marian, who was fate's instrument. It was not in his nature

that this mood should last long, but it revealed to him those darker possibilities which his egoism would

develop if it came seriously into conflict with overmastering misfortune. A hope, a craven hope, insinuated

itself into the cracks of his infirm resolve. He would not examine it, but conscious of its existence he was able

He wrote to Marian. If possible she was to meet him at halfpast nine next morning at Gloucester Gate. He

Early in the afternoon, when he was trying to do some work, there arrived a letter which he opened with

impatient hand; the writing was Mrs Reardon's, and he could not guess what she had to communicate.

morning's newspaper that poor Mr Biffen has put an end to his life. Doubtless you can obtain more details

than are given in this bare report of the discovery of his body. Will you let me hear, or come and see me?'

He read and was astonished. Absorbed in his own affairs, he had not opened the newspaper today; it lay

folded on a chair. Hastily he ran his eye over the columns, and found at length a short paragraph which stated

that the body of a man who had evidently committed suicide by taking poison had been found on Putney

Heath; that papers in his pockets identified him as one Harold Biffen, lately resident in Goodge Street,

Tottenham Court Road; and that an inquest would be held, He went to Dora's room, and told her of the event,

'I suppose there was no alternative between that and starvation. I scarcely thought of Biffen as likely to kill

'Mr Whelpdale will be bringing us information, no doubt,' said Dora, who, as she spoke, thought more of that

'Really, one can't grieve. There seemed no possibility of his ever earning enough to live decently upon. But

why the deuce did he go all the way out there? Consideration for the people in whose house he lived, I dare

Dora felt a secret wish that someone else possessed more of that desirable quality.

Leaving her, Jasper made a rapid, though careful, toilet, and was presently on his way to Westbourne Park. It

was his hope that he should reach Mrs Yule's house before any ordinary afternoon caller could arrive; and so

he did. He had not been here since that evening when he encountered Reardon on the road and heard his

reproaches. To his great satisfaction, Amy was alone in the drawingroom; he held her hand a trifle longer

than was necessary, and returned more earnestly the look of interest with which she regarded him.

'I was ignorant of this affair when your letter came,' he began, 'and I set out immediately to see you.'

'I hoped you would bring me some news. What can have driven the poor man to such extremity?'

'Poverty, I can only suppose. But I will see Whelpdale. I hadn't come across Biffen for a long time.'

'Oh, if I had imagined him still in such distress, surely I might have done something to help him!'So often

With Amy's sorrow was mingled a suggestion of tenderness which came of her knowledge that the dead man

had worshipped her. Perchance his death was in part attributable to that hopeless love.

'He sent me a copy of his novel,' she said, 'and I saw him once or twice after that. But he was much better

Having this subject to converse upon put the two more quickly at ease than could otherwise have been the

case. Jasper was closely observant of the young widow; her finished graces made a strong appeal to his

admiration, and even in some degree awed him. He saw that her beauty had matured, and it was more

distinctly than ever of the type to which he paid reverence. Amy might take a foremost place among brilliant

women. At a dinnertable, in grand toilet, she would be superb; at polite receptions people would whisper:

'It grieved me very much,' said Amy, 'to hear of the misfortune that befell my cousin.'

'The legacy affair? Why, yes, it was a pity. Especially now that her father is threatened with blindness.'

'Is it so serious? I heard indirectly that he had something the matter with his eyes, but I didn't know'

'They may be able to operate before long, and perhaps it will be successful. But in the meantime Marian has

'The whole situation explains it,' he replied, with some show of impulsiveness. 'I am very much afraid Marian

'No companion for her father, as I think you know. Even if Mr Yule recovers his sight, it is not at all likely

'To some extent, necessarily. I have a good deal of will, you remember, and what I have set my mind upon,

'The last three years,' he continued, 'have made no slight difference in my position. Recall where I stood when

you first knew me. I have done something since then, I think, and by my own steady effort.'

'Just now I am in need of a little encouragement. You don't notice any falling off in my work recently?'

'I don't think I miss many of your articles. Sometimes I believe I have detected you when there was no

'And Dora has been doing well. Her story in that girls' paper has attracted attention. It's a great deal to have

my mind at rest about both the girls. But I can't pretend to be in very good spirits.' He rose. 'Well, I must try

'Not, assuredly, because I wish to. But I have work to do.' He stepped aside, but came back as if on an

Amy was a little disturbed, but she collected herself and smiled in a way that reminded Jasper of his walk

'If Marian insists that it is her duty to remain with her father, am I justified or not in freely consenting to that?'

'I scarcely understand. Has Marian expressed a wish to devote herself in that way?'

'Not distinctly. But I suspect that her conscience points to it. I am in serious doubt. On the one hand,' he

explained in a tone of candour, 'who will not blame me if our engagement terminates in circumstances such

as these? On the otheryou are aware, by theby, that her father objects in the strongest way to this

'He will neither see me nor hear of me. Merely because of my connection with Fadge. Think of that poor girl

thus situated. And I could so easily put her at rest by renouncing all claim upon her.'

'Don't look at me with that ironical smile,' he pleaded. 'What you have said is true. And really, why should I

not be glad of it? I couldn't go about declaring that I was heartbroken, in any event; I must be content for

people to judge me according to their disposition, and judgments are pretty sure to be unfavourable. What can

I do? In either case I must to a certain extent be in the wrong. To tell the truth, I was wrong from the first.'

There was a slight movement about Amy's lips as these words were uttered: she kept her eyes down, and

'Yes, I feel it; and perhaps I oughtn't to have spoken of it at all. Well, I'll go back to my scribbling. I am so

'It was good of you to take the trouble to comewhilst you have so much on your mind.'

The next morning it was he who had to wait at the rendezvous; he was pacing the pathway at least ten

minutes before the appointed time. When Marian joined him, she was panting from a hurried walk, and this

affected Jasper disagreeably; he thought of Amy Reardon's air of repose, and how impossible it would be for

that refined person to fall into such disorder. He observed, too, with more disgust than usual, the signs in

Marian's attire of encroaching povertyher unsatisfactory gloves, her mantle out of fashion. Yet for such

They walked together in the same direction as when they met here before. Marian could not mistake the air of

restless trouble on her companion's smooth countenance. She had divined that there was some grave reason

for this summons, and the panting with which she had approached was half caused by the anxious beats of

'There are two of my companions fallen in the battle. I ought to think myself a lucky fellow, Marian. What?'

'Well, it remains to be seen how I shall come out when I am weighted with graver cares than I have yet

'I have made up my mind about our affairs,' he went on presently. 'Marian, if ever we are to be married, it

'You don't mean at once, Jasper? You would wait until I know what father's fate is to be?'

'Well, now, there's the point. You feel yourself indispensable to your father at present?'

'Not indispensable, butwouldn't it seem very unkind? I should be so afraid of the effect upon his health,

Jasper. So much depends, we are told, upon his general state of mind and body. It would be dreadful if I were

'I understand that. But let us face our position. Suppose the operation is successful; your father will certainly

not be able to use his eyes much for a long time, if ever; and perhaps he would miss you as much then as

'Dear, I can't feel it would be my duty to renounce you because my father had become blind. And if he can

'Has one thing occurred to you? Will he consent to receive an allowance from a person whose name is Mrs

'Because I have decided that the indefinitely long engagement would be unjust to youand to myself. Such

engagements are always dangerous; sometimes they deprave the character of the man or woman.'

'Everything,' he went on, 'would be simple enough but for your domestic difficulties. As I have said, there is

the very serious doubt whether your father would accept money from you when you are my wife. Then again,

'It isn't your fault, Marian, and Well, then, there's only one thing to do. Let us wait, at all events, till your

father has undergone the operation. Whichever the result, you say your own position will be the same.'

'Except, Jasper, that if father is helpless, I must find means of assuring his support.'

'You see only the difficulties in our way,' she said, in a colder voice. 'They are many, I know. Do you think

'A few years!' he echoed, in a cheerless voice. 'That is just what I have decided is impossible. Marian, you

shall have the plain truth. I can trust your faith, but I can't trust my own. I will marry you now, butyears

'You say you "will" marry me now; that sounds as if you had made up your mind to a sacrifice.'

Whilst they spoke, the sky had grown dark with a heavy cloud, and now spots of rain began to fall. Jasper

looked about him in annoyance as he felt the moisture, but Marian did not seem aware of it.

'What do I care for a drop of rain,' she exclaimed with passionate sadness, 'when all my life is at stake! How

am I to understand you? Every word you speak seems intended to dishearten me. Do you no longer love me?

Why need you conceal it, if that is the truth? Is that what you mean by saying you distrust yourself?

If you do so, there must be reason for it in the present. Could I distrust myself? Can I force myself in any

'We must see each other again, Marian. We can't stand and talk in the rainconfound it! Cursed climate,

'I can't go till you have spoken more plainly, Jasper! How am I to live an hour in such uncertainty as this? Do

you love me or not? Do you wish me to be your wife, or are you sacrificing yourself?'

'I do wish it!' Her emotion had an effect upon him, and his voice trembled. 'But I can't answer for

'What can I do? What can I do?' she sobbed. 'Oh, if I were but heartless to everyone but to you! If I could

give you my money, and leave my father and mother to their fate! Perhaps some could do that. There is no

natural law that a child should surrender everything for her parents. You know so much more of the world

'Good God! This is frightful, Marian. I can't stand it. Live as you are doing. Let us wait and see.'

He had made a pretence of holding his umbrella over her, but Marian turned away and walked to a little

distance, and stood beneath the shelter of a great tree, her face averted from him. Moving to follow, he saw

that her frame was shaken by soundless sobbing. When his footsteps came close to her, she again looked at

'I know now,' she said, 'how foolish it is when they talk of love being unselfish. In what can there be more

selfishness? I feel as if I could hold you to your promise at any cost, though you have made me understand

that you regard our engagement as your great misfortune. I have felt it for weeksoh, for months! But I

couldn't say a word that would seem to invite such misery as this. You don't love me, Jasper, and that's an end

'Whether I love you or not, I feel as if no sacrifice would be too great that would bring you the happiness you

'Deserve!' she repeated bitterly. 'Why do I deserve it? Because I long for it with all my heart and soul? There's

'No; because it isn't in your power to call dead love to life again. I think perhaps you never loved me. Jasper, I

could give my right hand if you had said you loved me beforeI can't put it into words; it sounds too base,

and I don't wish to imply that you behaved basely. But if you had said you loved me before that, I should

'You will do me no wrong if you charge me with baseness,' he replied gloomily. 'If I believe anything, I

believe that I did love you. But I knew myself and I should never have betrayed what I felt, if for once in my

'This is wretchedness to both of us,' Jasper added. 'Let us part now, Marian. Let me see you again.'

'I can't see you again. What can you say to me more than you have said now? I should feel like a beggar

coming to you. I must try and keep some little selfrespect, if I am to live at all.'

'Then let me help you to think of me with indifference. Remember me as a man who disregarded priceless

love such as yours to go and make himself a proud position among fools and knavesindeed that's what it

comes to. It is you who reject me, and rightly. One who is so much at the mercy of a vulgar ambition as I am,

is no fit husband for you. Soon enough you would thoroughly despise me, and though I should know it was

merited, my perverse pride would revolt against it. Many a time I have tried to regard life practically as I am

able to do theoretically, but it always ends in hypocrisy. It is men of my kind who succeed; the conscientious,

and those who really have a high ideal, either perish or struggle on in neglect.'

'There is no need to disparage yourself' she said. 'What can be simpler than the truth? You loved me, or

thought you did, and now you love me no longer. It is a thing that happens every day, either in man or

woman, and all that honour demands is the courage to confess the truth. Why didn't you tell me as soon as

'Marian, will you do this?will you let our engagement last for another six months, but without our meeting

'Then we would see each other again, and both would be able to speak calmly, and we should both know with

'That seems to me childish. It is easy for you to contemplate months of postponement. There must be an end

The rain fell unceasingly, and with it began to mingle an autumnal mist. Jasper delayed a moment, then asked

She gave him her hand. They looked at each other for an instant, then Marian left the shelter of the tree,

opened her umbrella, and walked quickly away. Jasper did not watch her; he had the face of a man who is

A few hours later he told Dora what had come to pass, and without extenuation of his own conduct. His sister

said very little, for she recognised genuine suffering in his tones and aspect. But when it was over, she sat

'I feel far more disposed to congratulate you than to regret what has happened. Now that there is no necessity

for silence, I will tell you something which will help you to see Jasper in his true light. A few weeks ago he

actually proposed to a woman for whom he does not pretend to have the slightest affection, but who is very

rich, and who seemed likely to be foolish enough to marry him. Yesterday morning he received her final

answera refusal. I am not sure that I was right in keeping this a secret from you, but I might have done

harm by interfering. You will understand (though surely you need no fresh proof) how utterly unworthy he is

of you. You cannot, I am sure you cannot, regard it as a misfortune that all is over between you. Dearest

Marian, do not cease to think of me as your friend because my brother has disgraced himself. If you can't see

me, at least let us write to each other. You are the only friend I have of my own sex, and I could not bear to

Several days passed before there came a reply. It was written with undisturbed kindness of feeling, but in few

'For the present we cannot see each other, but I am very far from wishing that our friendship should come to

an end. I must only ask that you will write to me without the least reference to these troubles; tell me always

about yourself, and be sure that you cannot tell me too much. I hope you may soon be able to send me the

news which was foreshadowed in our last talkthough "foreshadowed" is a wrong word to use of coming

happiness, isn't it? That paper I sent to Mr Trenchard is accepted, and I shall be glad to have your criticism

when it comes out; don't spare my style, which needs a great deal of chastening. I have been thinking:

couldn't you use your holiday in Sark for a story? To judge from your letters, you could make an excellent

Dora sighed, and shook her little head, and thought of her brother with unspeakable disdain.

When the fitting moment arrived, Alfred Yule underwent an operation for cataract, and it was believed at first

that the result would be favourable. This hope had but short duration; though the utmost prudence was

exercised, evil symptoms declared themselves, and in a few months' time all prospect of restoring his vision

was at an end. Anxiety, and then the fatal assurance, undermined his health; with blindness, there fell upon

The position of the family was desperate. Marian had suffered much all the winter from attacks of nervous

disorder, and by no effort of will could she produce enough literary work to supplement adequately the

income derived from her fifteen hundred pounds. In the summer of 1885 things were at the worst; Marian

saw no alternative but to draw upon her capital, and so relieve the present at the expense of the future. She

had a mournful warning before her eyes in the case of poor Hinks and his wife, who were now kept from the

workhouse only by charity. But at this juncture the rescuer appeared. Mr Quarmby and certain of his friends

were already making a subscription for the Yules' benefit, when one of their numberMr Jedwood, the

publisher came forward with a proposal which relieved the minds of all concerned. Mr Jedwood had a

brother who was the director of a public library in a provincial town, and by this means he was enabled to

offer Marian Yule a place as assistant in that institution; she would receive seventyfive pounds a year, and

thus, adding her own income, would be able to put her parents beyond the reach of want. The family at once

removed from London, and the name of Yule was no longer met with in periodical literature.

By an interesting coincidence, it was on the day of this departure that there appeared a number of The West

End in which the place of honour, that of the week's Celebrity, was occupied by Clement Fadge. A coloured

portrait of this illustrious man challenged the admiration of all who had literary tastes, and two columns of

panegyric recorded his career for the encouragement of aspiring youth. This article, of course unsigned, came

It was only by indirect channels that Jasper learnt how Marian and her parents had been provided for. Dora's

correspondence with her friend soon languished; in the nature of things this could not but happen; and about

the time when Alfred Yule became totally blind the girls ceased to hear anything of each other. An event

which came to pass in the spring sorely tempted Dora to write, but out of good feeling she refrained.

For it was then that she at length decided to change her name for that of Whelpdale. Jasper could not quite

reconcile himself to this condescension; in various discourses he pointed out to his sister how much higher

'Whelpdale will never be a man of any note. A good fellow, I admit, but borne in all senses. Let me impress

upon you, my dear girl, that I have a future before me, and that there is no reasonwith your charm of

person and mindwhy you should not marry brilliantly. Whelpdale can give you a decent home, I admit, but

'It happens, Jasper, that I have promised to marry him,' replied Dora, in a significant tone.

'Well, I regret it, butyou are of course your own mistress. I shall make no unpleasantness. I don't dislike

Whelpdale was frantic with exultation. When the day of the wedding had been settled, he rushed into Jasper's

'There is no mortal on the surface of the globe onetenth so happy as I am!' he gasped. 'I can't believe it! Why

in the name of sense and justice have I been suffered to attain this blessedness? Think of the days when I all

but starved in my Albany Street garret, scarcely better off than poor, dear old Biffen! Why should I have

come to this, and Biffen have poisoned himself in despair? He was a thousand times a better and cleverer

fellow than I. And poor old Reardon, dead in misery! Could I for a moment compare with him?'

'My dear fellow,' said Jasper, calmly, 'compose yourself and be logical. In the first place, success has nothing

whatever to do with moral deserts; and then, both Reardon and Biffen were hopelessly unpractical. In such an

admirable social order as ours, they were bound to go to the dogs. Let us be sorry for them, but let us

recognise causas rerum, as Biffen would have said. You have exercised ingenuity and perseverance; you have

'And when I think that I might have married fatally on thirteen or fourteen different occasions. Bytheby, I

implore you never to tell Dora those stories about me. I should lose all her respect. Do you remember the girl

from Birmingham?' He laughed wildly. 'Heaven be praised that she threw me over! Eternal gratitude to all

'I admit that you have run the gauntlet, and that you have had marvellous escapes. But be good enough to

'Only one word. I don't know how to thank Dora, how to express my infinite sense of her goodness. Will you

try to do so for me? You can speak to her with calmness. Will you tell her what I have said to you?'

'Oh, certainly.I should recommend a cooling draught of some kind. Look in at a chemist's as you walk on.'

The heavens did not fall before the marriageday, and the wedded pair betook themselves for a few weeks to

the Continent. They had been back again and established in their house at Earl's Court for a month, when one

morning about twelve o'clock Jasper dropped in, as though casually. Dora was writing; she had no thought of

entirely abandoning literature, and had in hand at present a very pretty tale which would probably appear in

The English Girl. Her boudoir, in which she sat, could not well have been daintier and more appropriate to

Mrs Whelpdale affected no literary slovenliness; she was dressed in light colours, and looked so lovely that

'Upon my word,' he exclaimed, 'I am proud of my sisters! What did you think of Maud last night? Wasn't she

'That is her own look out; I told her plainly enough my opinion of Dolomore. But she was in such a

'You are detestable, Jasper! Is it inconceivable to you that a man or woman should be disinterested when they

'You remember the Northern Farmer: "Doan't thou marry for money, but go where money is." An admirable

piece of advice. Well, Maud made a mistake, let us say. Dolomore is a clown, and now she knows it. Why, if

she had waited, she might have married one of the leading men of the day. She is fit to be a duchess, as far as

appearance goes; but I was never snobbish. I care very little about titles; what I look to is intellectual

'Why, that is what distinction means.' He looked round the room with a smile. 'You are not uncomfortable

'We haven't done badly, drawbacks considered. Now, you may speak of money as scornfully as you like; but

suppose you had married a man who could only keep you in lodgings! How would life look to you?'

'Who ever disputed the value of money? But there are things one mustn't sacrifice to gain it.'

'I suppose so. Well, I have some news for you, Dora. I am thinking of following your example.'

'You see, I am disinterested myself,' he went on. 'I might find a wife who had wealth and social standing. But

'No; an excellent choice. I have never yet met a woman so well fitted to aid me in my career. She has a

'Oh, the ten thousand is intact, but it can't be seriously spoken of. It will keep up appearances till I get my

editorship and so on. We shall be married early in August, I think. I want to ask you if you will go and see

'This is idiotic prejudice, Dora. I think I have some claim upon you; I have shown some kindness'

'You have, and I am not ungrateful. But I dislike Mrs Reardon, and I couldn't bring myself to be friendly with

'Too well. You yourself have taught me to know her. Don't compel me to say what I think of her.'

'She is beautiful, and highminded, and warmhearted. I don't know a womanly quality that she doesn't

'Then we shall quarrel. I haven't deserved this, Dora. If you refuse to meet my wife on terms of decent

friendliness, there's no more intercourse between your house and mine. You have to choose. Persist in this

Dora, who was now as angry as he, gave a short affirmative, and Jasper at once left her.

But it was very unlikely that things should rest at this pass. The brother and sister were bound by a strong

'My dear wife,' he exclaimed, in despair at the threatened calamity, 'you are right, a thousand times, but it's

impossible for you to be on ill terms with Jasper. There's no need for you to see much of Mrs Reardon'

'I mean by her base conduct. She is a cold, cruel, unprincipled creature! Jasper makes himself more than ever

All the same, in less than three weeks Mrs Whelpdale had called upon Amy, and the call was returned. The

two women were perfectly conscious of reciprocal dislike, but they smothered the feeling beneath

conventional suavities. Jasper was not backward in making known his gratitude for Dora's concession, and

indeed it became clear to all his intimates that this marriage would be by no means one of mere interest; the

Let lapse the ensuing twelve months, and come to an evening at the end of July, 1886. Mr and Mrs Milvain

are entertaining a small and select party of friends at dinner. Their house in Bayswater is neither large nor

internally magnificent, but it will do very well for the temporary sojourn of a young man of letters who has

much greater things in confident expectation, who is a good deal talked of, who can gather clever and worthy

people at his table, and whose matchless wife would attract men of taste to a very much poorer abode.

Jasper had changed considerably in appearance since that last holiday that he spent in his mother's house at

Finden. At present he would have been taken for fiveandthirty, though only in his twentyninth year; his

hair was noticeably thinning; his moustache had grown heavier; a wrinkle or two showed beneath his eyes;

his voice was softer, yet firmer. It goes without saying that his evening uniform lacked no point of perfection,

and somehow it suggested a more elaborate care than that of other men in the room. He laughed frequently,

and with a throwing back of the head which seemed to express a spirit of triumph.

Amy looked her years to the full, but her type of beauty, as you know, was independent of youthfulness. That

suspicion of masculinity observable in her when she became Reardon's wife impressed one now only as the

consummate grace of a perfectlybuilt woman. You saw that at forty, at fifty, she would be one of the

stateliest of dames. When she bent her head towards the person with whom she spoke, it was an act of

queenly favour. Her words were uttered with just enough deliberation to give them the value of an opinion;

she smiled with a delicious shade of irony; her glance intimated that nothing could be too subtle for her

The guests numbered six, and no one of them was insignificant. Two of the men were about Jasper's age, and

they had already made their mark in literature; the third was a novelist of circulating fame, spirally crescent.

The three of the stronger sex were excellent modern types, with sweet lips attuned to epigram, and good

'Going to one of the quarterlies, they say,' remarked a lady. 'He is getting terribly autocratic. Have you heard

the delightful story of his telling Mr Rowland to persevere, as his last work was one of considerable

Mr Rowland was a man who had made a merited reputation when Fadge was still on the lower rungs of

journalism. Amy smiled and told another anecdote of the great editor. Whilst speaking, she caught her

husband's eye, and perhaps this was the reason why her story, at the close, seemed rather amiably

When the ladies had withdrawn, one of the younger men, in a conversation about a certain magazine,

'Thomas always maintains that it was killed by that solemn old stager, Alfred Yule. By the way, he is dead

'So Jedwood told me this morning. He died in the country somewhere, blind and fallen on evil days, poor old

All the guests were ignorant of any tie of kindred between their host and the man spoken of.

'I believe,' said the novelist, 'that he had a clever daughter who used to do all the work he signed. That used to

'Oh, there was much exaggeration in that,' remarked Jasper, blandly. 'His daughter assisted him, doubtless,

An hour and a half later, when the last stranger had taken his leave, Jasper examined two or three letters

which had arrived since dinnertime and were lying on the hall table. With one of them open in his hand, he

suddenly sprang up the stairs and leaped, rather than stepped, into the drawingroom. Amy was reading an

It was a communication from the publishers who owned The Current; they stated that the editorship of that

review would shortly be resigned by Mr Fadge, and they inquired whether Milvain would feel disposed to

Amy sprang up and threw her arms about her husband's neck, uttering a cry of delight.

'Do you think this would have been offered to me but for the spacious life we have led of late? Never! Was I

He returned her embrace ardently, and gazed into her eyes with profound tenderness.

They placed themselves on a settee, Jasper with an arm about his wife's waist, as if they were newly plighted

'I must make inquiries tomorrow. I suppose there will be a notice in The Study and some of the other papers.

I hope somebody will make it an opportunity to have a hit at that ruffian Fadge. Bytheby, it doesn't much

matter now how you speak of Fadge; but I was a trifle anxious when I heard your story at dinner.'

'I can't help thinking at times of the poor girl, Amy. Life will be easier for her now, with only her mother to

support. Someone spoke of her this evening, and repeated Fadge's lie that she used to do all her father's

'She was capable of doing it. I must seem to you rather a poor brained woman in comparison. Isn't it true?'

'My dearest, you are a perfect woman, and poor Marian was only a clever schoolgirl. Do you know, I never

could help imagining that she had inkstains on her fingers. Heaven forbid that I should say it unkindly! It

'Her image is very faint before me,' Jasper pursued, 'and soon I shall scarcely be able to recall it. Yes, you are

right; she nearly ruined me. And in more senses than one. Poverty and struggle, under such circumstances,

would have made me a detestable creature. As it is, I am not such a bad fellow, Amy.'

'No, I am far from a bad fellow. I feel kindly to everyone who deserves it. I like to be generous, in word and

deed. Trust me, there's many a man who would like to be generous, but is made despicably mean by

necessity. What a true sentence that is of Landor's: "It has been repeated often enough that vice leads to

misery; will no man declare that misery leads to vice?" I have much of the weakness that might become

viciousness, but I am now far from the possibility of being vicious. Of course there are men, like Fadge, who

seem only to grow meaner the more prosperous they are; but these are exceptions. Happiness is the nurse of

'True. "The glorious privilege of being independent"yes, Burns understood the matter. Go to the piano,

dear, and play me something. If I don't mind, I shall fall into Whelpdale's vein, and talk about my

'Yes, for rich people. How I pity the poor devils!Play anything. Better still if you will sing, my