 CHAPTER XII WHEN A HOME COULD BE FOUND FOR HALF THE MONEY WAS RECLUSNESS. 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 a reproach, and whatever might have been the case before, there was no doubt that she now discussed him with her mother, possibly with other people. It was not likely that she concealed his own opinion of the book he had just finished. All their acquaintances would be prepared to greet its publication with private scoffing or with mournful shaking of the head. His feeling towards Amy entered upon a new phase. The stability of his love was a source of pain. Condemning himself, he felt at the same time that he was wronged. A coldness which was far from representing the truth began to affect his manner and speech, and Amy did not seem to notice it. At all events she made no kind of protest. They no longer talked of the old subjects, but of those mean concerns of material life which formerly they had agreed to dismiss as quickly as possible. Their relations to each other, not long ago an inexhaustible topic, would not bear spoken comment, both were too conscious of the danger signal when they looked that way. In the time of waiting for the publisher's offer, and now again when he was asking himself how he should use the rest that 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 to 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 formally disposed of to editors. Among his unused material lay a mass of notes he had made in a reading of Diogenus Laertius, and it seemed to him now that he might make something saleable out of those anecdotes of the philosophers. In a happier mood he could have written delightfully on such a subject. Not learnedly, but in the strain of a modern man whose humor and sensibility find free play among the classic ghosts. Even now he was able to recover something of the light touch which had given value to his published essays. Meanwhile the first number of the current had appeared, and Jasper Milvane 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 Milvane with the same frankness as formerly. One evening at the end of January he told Amy what he had been writing at the museum, and asked her if she would care to hear it read. I began to wonder what you were doing, she replied. Then why didn't you ask me? I was rather afraid to. Why afraid? It would have seemed like reminding you that you know what I mean, that a month or two more will see us at the same crisis again. Still I had rather you had shown an interest in my doings. After a pause Amy asked, do you think you can get a paper of this kind accepted? It isn't impossible. I think it's rather well done. Let me read you a page. Where will you send it? She interrupted. To the wayside. Why not try the current? Ask Milvane to introduce you to Mr. Fedge. They pay much better, you know. But this isn't so well suited for Fedge, and I much prefer to be independent as long as it's possible. That's one of your faults, Edwin, remarked his wife mildly. It's only the strongest men that can make their way independently. You ought to use every means that offers. Seeing that I am so weak? I didn't think it would offend you. I only meant, no, no, you are quite right. Certainly I am one of the men who need all the help they can get, but I assure you this thing won't do for the current. What a pity you will go hack to those musty old times. Now think of that article of Milvane's. If only you could do something of that kind. What do people care about Diogenus and his tub and his lantern? My dear girl, Diogenus Laertius had neither tub nor lantern that I know of. You are making a mistake, but it doesn't matter. No, I don't think it does. The caustic note was not very pleasant on Amy's lips. Whoever he was, the mass of readers will be frightened by his name. Well, we have to recognize that the massive readers will never care for anything I do. You will never convince me that you couldn't write in a popular way if you tried. I'm sure you are quite as clever as Milvane, reared and made an impatient gesture. Do leave Milvane aside for a little? He and I are as unlike as two men could be. What's the use of constantly comparing us? Amy looked at him. He had never spoken to her so brusquely. How can you say that I am constantly comparing you? If not spoken in words, then in your thoughts. That's not a very nice thing to say, Edwin. You make it so unmistakable, Amy. What I mean is that you are always regretting the difference between him and me. You lament that I can't write in that attractive way. Well, I lament it myself, for your sake. I wish I had Milvane's peculiar talent, so that I could get reputation and money. But I haven't. And there's an end of it. It irritates a man to be perpetually told of his disadvantages. I will never mention Milvane's name again, said Amy coldly. Now that's ridiculous and you know it. I feel the same about your irritation. I can't see that I have given any cause for it. Then we'll talk no more of the matter. Reared and through his manuscript aside and opened a book. Amy never asked him to resume his intention of reading what he had written. However, the paper was accepted. It came out in the wayside for March, and reared and 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 Holm would be published in April. He might get the five and twenty pounds contingent upon a certain sale, yet that could in no case be paid until the middle of the year, and long before then he would be penniless. His respite drew to an end. But now he took counsel of no one. As far as it was possible he lived in solitude, never seeing those of his acquaintances who were outside the literary world, and seldom even his colleagues. Milvane was so busy that he had only been able to look in twice or thrice since Christmas, and Reardon nowadays never went to Jasper's lodgings. He had the conviction that all was over with the happiness of his married life, though how the events which were to express his 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 camaraderie-ship. All the warmth of her nature was expended upon the child. Reardon learnt how easy it was for a mother to forget that both parents have a share in her offspring. He was beginning to dislike the child, but for Willie's existence Amy would still love him with undivided heart, not perhaps so passionately as once, but still with a lover's love. And Amy understood, or at all events remarked, this change in him. She was aware that he seldom asked a question about Willie, and that he listened with indifference when she spoke of the little fellow's progress. In part offended, she was also in part pleased. 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 into this extremity of helplessness. It is natural in a weak and sensitive man to dream of possibilities disturbed by the force of circumstances. 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 anxieties would restore her to her noble herself. How could he find fault with her? She knew nothing of such sordid life as he had gone through, and to lack money for necessities seemed to her degrading beyond endurance. Why, even the ordinary artisan's wife does not suffer such privations as hers at the end of the past year. For lack of that little money his life must be ruined. Of late he had often thought about the rich uncle, John Yule, who might perhaps leave something to Amy, but the hope was so uncertain. And supposing such a thing were to happen, would it be perfectly easy to live upon his wife's bounty, perhaps exhausting a small capital so that, some years hence, their position would be no better than before? Not long ago he could have taken anything from Amy's hand. Would it be so simple since the change that had come between them? Having written his second magazine article, it was rejected by two editors, and he had no choice but to hold it over until sufficient time had elapsed, to allow his again trying the wayside. He saw that he must perforce plan another novel. By this time he was resolute not to undertake three volumes. The advertisements informed him that numbers of authors were abandoning that Procrustian 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 preservere 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 Milvane and Amy herself had recommended. Writing a page or two of manuscript daily, and with several holocausts to retard him, he had done nearly a quarter of the story when there came a note from Jasper telling of Mrs. Milvane's death. He handed it across the breakfast table to Amy and watched her as she read it. I suppose it doesn't alter his position, Amy remarked, without much interest. I suppose not appreciably. He told me once his mother had a sufficient income, but whatever she leaves will go to his sisters, I should think. He has never said much to me. Nearly three weeks passed before they heard anything more from Jasper himself. Then he wrote, again from the country, saying that he purposed bringing his sisters to live in London. Another week, and one evening he appeared at the door. A want of heartiness in Reardon's reception of him might have been explained as gravity natural under the circumstances. But Jasper had before this become conscious that he was not welcomed here quite so cheerily as in the old days. He remarked it distinctly on that evening when he accompanied Amy home from Mrs. Ewell'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 cold 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 the present he was in the mood to give expression to his warmer feelings. Your book is announced, I see, he said, with an accent of pleasure as soon as he had seated himself. I didn't know it. Yes, new novel by the author of On Neutral Ground, down for the 16th of April, and I have a proposal to make about it. Will you let me ask Fage to have it noticed in Books of the Month in the May current? I strongly advise you to let it take its chance. The book isn't worth special notice, and whoever undertook to review it for Fage would either have to lie or stultify the magazine. Jasper turned to Amy. Now what is to be done with a man like this? What can one say to him, Mrs. Reardon? Edwin dislikes the book, Amy replied carelessly. That has nothing to do with the matter. We know quite well that in anything he writes there'll be something for a well-disposed reviewer to make a good deal of. If Fage will let me I should do the thing myself. Neither Reardon nor his wife spoke. Of course, went on Milvane, looking at the former. If you had rather I left it alone. I had much rather. Please don't say anything about it. There was an awkward silence. Amy broke it by saying, Are your sisters in town, Mr. Milvane? Yes, we came up two days ago. I found lodgings for them not far from Mornington Road. Poor girls. They don't quite know where they are yet. Of course, they will keep very quiet for a time. Then I must try to get friends for them. Well, they have one already, your cousin, Miss Ewell. She has already been to see them. I'm very glad of that. Amy took an opportunity of studying his face. There was again a silence as if of constraint. Reardon, glancing at his wife, said with hesitation. When they care to see other visitors, I'm sure Amy would be very glad. Certainly, his wife added. Thank you very much. Of course, I knew I could depend on Mrs. Reardon to show them kindness in that way. But let me speak frankly of something. My sisters have made quite a friend of Miss Ewell since she was down there last year. Wouldn't that, he turned to Amy, cause you a little awkwardness? Amy had a difficulty in replying. She kept her eyes on the ground. You have no quarrel with your cousin, remarked Reardon. None whatever. It's only my mother and my uncle. I can't imagine Miss Ewell 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 they should be. I shall see them every day, and Miss Ewell will come pretty often, I daresay. Reardon caught Amy's eye, but at once looked away again. My word, exclaimed Milvane, 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 pretty lucky thing that I have just got a sort of footing. Reardon muttered in a scent. And what are you doing now, Jasper inquired suddenly. Writing a one-volume story. I'm glad to hear that. Any special plan for its publication? No. Then why not offer it to Jedwood? He's publishing a series of one-volume novels. You know of Jedwood, don't you? He was Culpepper's manager, started business about half a year ago, and it looks as if he would do well. He married that woman. What's her name? Who wrote Mr. Henderson's Wives? 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 cyclopedia 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' 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 scripted an acquaintance with him. Oh, I suppose I haven't seen you since then. He's a dwarfish fellow with only one eye. Mrs. Boston Wright cries him up at every opportunity. Who is Mrs. Boston Wright? asked Reardon, laughing impatiently. At its the English girl, you know. She's had an extraordinary life. Was born on Mauritius? No, Salon. I forget some such place. Married a sailor at fifteen. Was shipwrecked somewhere, and only restored to life after terrific efforts. Her story leaves it all rather vague. Then she turns up as a newspaper correspondent at the Cape. Gave up that, and took to some kind of farming, I forget where. Married again. First husband lost in aforementioned shipwreck. This time a Baptist minister, and began to devote herself to soup-kitchens in Liverpool. Her husband burned to death somewhere. She's next discovered in the thick of literary society in London. A wonderful woman, I assure you, must be nearly fifty, but she looks twenty-five. He paused. Then added impulsively. Let me take you to one of her evenings. Nine on Thursday. Do persuade him, Mrs. Reardon. Reardon shook his head. No, no, I should be horribly out of my element. I can't see why. You would meet all sorts of well-known people, those you ought to have met long ago. Better still, let me ask her to send an imitation for both of you. I'm sure you'd like her, Mrs. Reardon. There's a good deal of humbug about her, it's true, but some solid qualities as well. No one has a word to say against her. And it's a splendid advertisement to have her for a friend. She'll talk about your books and articles till all is blue. Amy gave a questioning look to her husband, but Reardon moved in an uncomfortable way. We'll see about it, he said. Someday, perhaps. Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood, I happen to know a man who reads for him. Heavens, cried Reardon, who don't you know? The simplest thing in the world, at present is a large part of my business to make acquaintances. Why, look you, a man who has to live by his miscellaneous writings couldn't get on without a vast variety of acquaintances. One's own brain would soon run dry. A clever fellow knows how to use the brains of other people. Amy listened with an unconscious smile which expressed keen interest. Oh, pursuit jasper, when did you see Webdale last? Haven't seen him for a long time. You don't know what he's doing? The fellow has set up as a literary advisor. 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 has made six guineas in the first fortnight, so he says at all events. Now that's one of the finest jokes I ever heard. A man who can't get anyone to publish his own books makes a living by telling other people how to write. But it's a confounded swindle. Oh, I don't know. He's capable of correcting the grammar of literary aspirants and, as for recommending to publishers, well, anyone can recommend, I suppose. Reardon's indignation yielded to laughter. It's not impossible that he may thrive by this kind of thing. Not at all, assented jasper. Shortly after this, he looked at his watch. I must be off, my friends. I have something to write before I can go to my trucker bed, and it'll take me three hours at least. 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 guide, philosopher and friend. He indicated Amy, who laughed in a forced way. When he was gone, the two sat without speaking for several minutes. Do you care to make friends with those girls, as Reardon at length? I suppose in decency I must call upon them? I suppose so. You may find them very agreeable. Oh, yes. They conversed with their own thoughts for a while, then Reardon burst out laughing. Well, there's the successful man, you see. Someday he'll live in a mansion and dictate literary opinions to the universe. How has he offended you? Offended me, not at all. I'm glad of his cheerful prospects. Why should you refuse to go among those people? It might be good for you in several ways. If the chance had come when I was publishing my best work, I daresay I shouldn't have refused. But I certainly shall not present myself as the author of Margaret Home and the rubbish I'm now writing. Then you must cease to write rubbish. Yes, I must cease to write altogether. And do what? I wish to heaven I knew. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of New Grub Street. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chessie. New Grub Street by George Gissing. Chapter 13. A Warning. In the spring list of Mr. Jadwood's publications, announcement was made of a new work by Alfred Yule. It was called English Pros in the 19th century and consisted of a number of essays, several of which had already seen the light in periodicals, strung into continuity. The final chapter dealt with contemporary writers, more especially those who served to illustrate the author's theme, that journalism is the destruction of prose style. On certain popular writers of the day, there was an outpouring of gall, which was not likely to be received as though it were sweet ointment. The book met with rather severe treatment in critical columns. It could scarcely be ignored, the safest mode of attack when one's author has no expectant public, and only the most skillful could write of it in a hostile spirit without betraying that some of its strokes had told. An evening newspaper which peaked itself on independence, indulged in laughing appreciation of the polemical chapter, and the next day printed a scornful letter from a thinly disguised correspondent who assayed both book and reviewer. For the moment people talked more of Alfred Ewell than they had done since his memorable conflict with Clement Fetch. The publisher had hoped for this. Mr. Jadwood was an energetic and sanguine man, who had entered upon his business with a determination to rival, in a year 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, for sore revolutions in publishing and book selling, planned every week a score of unpride ventures which should appeal to the democratic generation just maturing. In the meantime was ready to publish anything which seemed likely to get talked about. The main number of the current, in its article headed Books of the Month, devoted about half a page to English prose in the 19th century. This notice was a consummate example of the flippant style of attack. Flippancy, the most hopeless form of intellectual wise, was a characterizing note of Mr. Fetch'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, headed stood alone, would fully have achieved this end. As it was, silence might have been better tactics. But Mr. Fetch knew that his enemy would smart under the poison pin points, and that was something gained. On the day that the current appeared, its treatment of Alfred Ewell was discussed at Mr. Jetwood's private office. Mr. Quombie, who had intimate relations with the publisher, happened to look in just as a young man, one of Mr. Jetwood's readers, was expressing a doubt whether Fetch himself was the author of the review. But there's Fetch's thumb mark all down the page, cried Mr. Quombie. He inspired the thing, of course, but I rather think it was written by that fellow Milwayne. Think so, asked the publisher. Well, I know with certainty that the notice of Markland's novel is his writing, and I have reasons for suspecting that he did Ewell's book as well. Smart youngster that, remarked Mr. Jetwood, who is he by the by? Somebody's illegitimate son, I believe, replied a source of trustworthy information with a laugh. Denham says he met him in New York a year or two ago under another name. Excuse me, interposed Mr. Quombie, there's a mistake in all that. He went on to state what he knew from Mule himself concerning Milwayne's history. Though in this instance a corrector, Mr. Quombie took an opportunity, a few hours later, of informing Mr. Hings that the attack on Mule in the current was almost certainly written by young Milwayne, with the result that when the rumor reached Mule's ears, it was delivered as an undoubted and well-known fact. It was a month prior to this that Milwayne made his call upon Mary and 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 Mary and must behave as discretion directed her. If she wished to invite the Miss Milwayne's to St. Paul's Crescent, he only begged that the times and seasons of the household might not be disturbed. As her habit was, Mary and took refuge in silence. Nothing could have been more welcome to her than the proximity of Mord 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 embarrassment 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, Mord and Dora came to St. Paul's Crescent. It was Sunday and Mr. Ewell purposely kept away from home. They had only been once to the house since then, again without meeting Mr. Ewell. Mary and, however, visited them at their lodgings frequently. Now and then she met Jasper there. The letter never spoke of her father and there was no question of inviting him to repeat his call. In the end, Marion was obliged to speak on the subject with her mother. Mrs. Ewell offered an occasion by asking when the Miss Millwains were coming again. I don't think I shall ever ask them again, Marion replied. Her mother understood and looked troubled. I must tell them how it is, that's all. The girl went on. They are sensible. They won't be offended with me. But your father has never had anything to say against them, urged Mrs. Ewell. Not a word to me, Marion. I'll tell you the truth if we had. It's too disagreeable all the same. I can't invite them here with pleasure. Father has grown prejudiced against them all and he won't change. No, I shall just tell them. It's very hard for you, sighed her mother, if I thought I could do any good by speaking. But I can't, my dear. I know it, mother. Let us go on as we did before. The day after this, when Ewell came home about the hour of dinner, he called Marion's name from within the study. Marion had not left the house today. Her work had been set in the shape of a long task of copying from this orderly manuscript. She left the sitting room in obedience to her father's summons. Here's something that will afford you amusement, he said, holding to her the new number of the current and indicating the notice of his book. She read a few lines, then threw the thing onto the table. That kind of writing sickens me, she exclaimed with anger in her eyes. Only bays and heartless people can write in that way. You surely won't let it trouble you. Oh, not for a moment, her father answered, with exaggerated show of calm. But I am surprised that you don't see the literary merit of the work. I thought it would distinctly appeal to you. There was a strangeness in his voice, as well as in the words, which caused her to look at him inquiringly. She knew him well enough to understand that such a notice would irritate him profoundly. But why should he go out of his way to show it her and with this peculiar acerbity of manner? Why do you say that, father? It doesn't occur to you who may probably have written it. She could not miss his meaning. A stonishment held her mute for a moment, then she said. Surely Mr. Fetch wrote it himself? I am told not. I am informed on very good authority that one of his young gentlemen has the credit of it. You refer, of course, to Mr. Milwayne, she replied quietly, but I think that can't be true. He looked keenly at her. He had expected a more decided protest. I see no reason for disbelieving it. I see every reason, until I have your evidence. This was not at all Marion's natural tone in argument with him. She was warned to be submissive. I was told, he continued, hardening face and voice, by someone who had it from Jetwood. Yule was conscious of untruth in this statement, but his mood would not allow him to speak ingeniously and he wished to note the effect upon Marion of what he said. There were two beliefs in him. On the one hand he recognized Fetch in every line of the writing, on the other he had a perverse satisfaction in convincing himself that it was Milwayne who had called so successfully the master's manner. He was not a kind of man who can resist an opportunity of justifying to himself and others, a cause into which he has been led by mingled feelings, all more or less unjustifiable. How should Jetwood know? asked Marion. Yule shrugged his shoulders, as if these things didn't get about among editors and publishers. In this case there's a mistake. And why pray? His voice trembled with color. Why need there be a mistake? Because Mr. Milwayne is quite incapable of reviewing your book in such a spirit. There is your mistake my girl. Milwayne will do anything that's asked of him, provided he's well enough paid. Marion reflected. When she raised her eyes again they were perfectly calm. What has led you to think dead? Don't I know the type of man? Norsitur exorcis. Have you let in enough for that? You'll find that you are misinformed, Marion replied, and therewith went from the room. She could not trust herself to converse longer. A resentment such as her father had never yet excited in her, such indeed as she had seldom, if ever conceived, threatened to force utterance for itself in words which would change the current of her whole life. She saw her father in his worst aspect, and her heart was shaken by an unnatural revolt from him. Let his assurance of what he reported be ever so firm. What right had he to make this use of it? His behavior was spiteful. Suppose he entertained suspicions which seemed to make it his duty to warn her against Milwayne. This was not the way to go about it. A father, actuated by simple motives of affection, would never speak and look thus. It was the hateful spirit of literary ranker that ruled him. The spirits that made people eager to believe all evil, that blinded and maddened. Never had she felt so strongly the unworthiness of the existence to which she was condemned. That contemptible review, and now her father's ignoble passion, such things were enough to make all literature appear morbid excrescence upon human life. Forgetful of the time, she sat in her bedroom until a knock at the door and her mother's voice admonished her that dinner was waiting. An impulse all but caused her to say that she would rather not go down for a meal, that she wished to be left alone. But this would be weak peevishness. She just looked at the glass to see that her face bore no unwanted signs and descended to take her place as usual. Throughout the dinner there passed no word of conversation. Yul was at his blackest. He gobbled a few mouthfuls, then occupied himself with the evening paper. On rising he said to Marion, have you copied the whole of that? The tone would have been uncivil if addressed to an impertinent servant. Not much more than half, was the cold reply. Can you finish it tonight? I'm afraid not. I am going out. Then I must do it myself. And he went to the study. Mrs. Yul was in an anguish of nervousness. What is it, dear? She asked of Marion in a pleading whisper. Oh, don't quarrel with your father. Don't. I can't be a slave-mother and I can't be treated unjustly. What is it? Let me go and speak to him. It's no use. We can't live in terror. For Mrs. Yul, this was unimaginable disaster. She had never dreamt that Marion, the still, gentle Marion, could be driven to revolt. And it had come with the suddenness of a thunder clap. She wished to ask what had taken place between father and daughter in the brief interview before dinner. But Marion gave her no chance, quitting the room upon those last trembling words. The girl had resolved to visit her friends, the sisters, and tell them that in future they must never come to see her at home. But it was no easy thing for her to stifle her conscience and leave her father to toil over that copying, which had need of being finished. Not her will, but her exasperated feeling had replied to him that she would not do the work. Already it astonished her that she had really spoken such words. And as the throbbing of her pulse is subsided, she saw more clearly into the motives of this wretched tumult which possessed her. Her mind was harassed with her fear less than defending Milwayne she had spoken foolishly. Had he not himself said to her that he might be guilty of base things just to make his way? Perhaps it was the intolerable pain of imagining that he had already made good his words, which robbed her of self-control and made her meet her father's rudeness with defiance. Impossible to carry out her purpose, she could not deliberately leave the house and spend some hours away with the thought of such wrath and misery left behind her. Gradually she was returning to her natural self. Fear and penitence were chill at her heart. She went down to the study, tapped and entered. Father, I said something that I did not really mean. Of course I shall go on with the copying and finish it as soon as possible. You will do nothing of the kind, my girl. He was in his usual place, already working at Marion's task. He spoke in a low, thick voice. Spend your evening as you choose. I have no need of you. I behaved very ill temperately. Forgive me, Father. Have the goodness to go away. You hear me? His eyes were inflamed and his discolored teeth showed themselves savagely. Marion does not, really does not approach him. She hesitated, but once more a sense of hateful injustice moved within her and she went away as quietly as she had entered. She said to herself that now it was her perfect right to go with her, she would. But the freedom was only in theory. Her submissive and timid nature kept her at home and upstairs in her own room. For, if she went to sit with her mother of necessity she must talk about what had happened and that she felt unable to do. Some friends to whom she could unboozle all her sufferings would now have been very precious to her. But Morton 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 Marion neither went out nor showed herself in the house proved her troubled state. But the mother had no confidence in her power to comfort. At the usual time she presented herself in the study with her husband's coffee. The face which was for an instant turned to her did not invite conversation, but this dress obliged her to speak. Why are you so cross with Marion, Alfred? You had better ask what she means by her extraordinary behavior. A word of harsh rebuff was the most she had expected. Thus encouraged she timidly put another question. How has she behaved? I suppose you have ears? But wasn't there something before that? You spoke so angry to her. Spoke so angry, did I? She's out, I suppose. No, she hasn't gone out. That will do. Don't disturb me any longer. She did not venture to linger. The breakfast next morning seemed likely to pass without any interchange of words. But when Yule was pushing back his chair, Marion, who looked pale and ill, addressed a question to him about the work she would ordinarily have pursued today at the reading room. He answered in a matter-of-fact tone, and for a few minutes they talked on the subject much as at any other time. Half an hour after, Marion said forth for the museum in the usual way. Her father stayed at home. It was the end of the episode for the present. Marion 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 wanted 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 per force she must stand face to face with him, and make it known she had her own claims upon life. It was as well he should hold that possibility in view. This evening no work was expected of her. Not long after dinner she prepared for going out. To her mother she mentioned she should be back about ten o'clock. Give my kind regards to them dear, if you like to, said Mrs Ewell just above her breath. Certainly I will. End of chapter 13 Chapter 14 Recruits 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 Nora Milvane had their lodgings. This was at the northeast of Regents 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 Door's pleasant voice as the Door opened and the visitor showed herself, and then came the friendly greeting which warmed Marian's heart, the greeting which, until lately, no house in London could afford her. The girls looked oddly out of place in the second floor sitting room, with its vulgar furniture and poultry ornaments. Maud especially so, for her fine figure was well displayed by the dress of Morning, and her pale, handsome face had as little congruence as possible with the background of humble circumstances. Dora impressed one as a simpler nature, but she too had distinctly the note of refinement which was out of harmony with these surroundings. They occupied only two rooms, the sleeping chamber being double bedded. They purchased food for themselves and prepared their own meals accepting 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 table lay a number of books. When disturbed the sisters had been engaged in studious reading. I'm not sure I do right in coming again so soon, said Marion as she took off her things. Your time is precious. So are you, replied Dora, laughing. It's only under protest that we work in the evening when we have been hard at it all day. We have news for you too, said Maud, who sat languidly in an uneasy chair. Good, I hope. Someone called to see us yesterday. I dare say you can guess who it was. Amy perhaps? Yes. And how did you like her? The sisters seemed to have a difficulty in answering. Dora was the first to speak. We thought she was sadly out of spirits. Indeed she told us that she hasn't been very well lately. But I think we shall like her if we come to know her better. It was rather awkward, Marion. 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've seen reviews of it, she asked at once. Of course I ought to have had the courage to say no. But I admitted that I had seen one or two. Jasper showed us them. She looked very much annoyed, and after that we didn't find much to talk about. The reviews are very disagreeable, said Marion, with a troubled face. I have read the book since I saw you the other day, and I'm afraid it isn't good. But I have seen many worse novels more kindly reviewed. Jasper says it's because Mr. Reardon has no friends among the journalist. Still, replied Marion. I'm afraid they couldn't have given the book much praise if they wrote honestly. Did Amy ask you to go and see her? Yes, but she said it was uncertain how long they would be living at their present address. And really, we can't feel sure whether we should be welcome or not just now. Marion listened with bent head. She too had to make known to her friends that they were not welcome in her own home. But she knew not how to utter words which would sound so unkind. Your brother, she said after a pause, will soon find suitable friends for you. Before long, replied Dora with a look of amusement, he's going to tell us to call Mrs. Boston Wright. I hardly thought he was serious at first, but he says he really means it. Marion grew more and more silent. At home she felt that it would not be difficult to explain her troubles to these sympathetic girls. But now the time had come for speaking. She was oppressed by shame and anxiety. True, there was no absolute necessity for making the confession this evening. And if she chose to resist her father's prejudice, things might even go on in a seemingly natural way. But the loneliness of her life had developed in her a sensitiveness which could not endure situations such as the present. Difficulties which are of small account to people who take their part in active social life, harassed her to the destruction of all peace. Dora was not long in noticing the dejected mood which had come upon her friend. What's troubling you, Marion? Something I can hardly bear to speak of. Perhaps it will be the end of your friendship for me, and I should find it very hard to go back to my old solitude. The girls gazed at her, in doubt at first whether she spoke seriously. What can you mean, Dora exclaimed? What crime have you been committing? Maude, who leaned with her elbows on the table, searched Marion's face curiously, but said nothing. Has Mr. Malvane shown you the new number of the current? Marion went on to ask. They replied with a negative, and Maude added, He has nothing in it this month, except a review. A review? Repeated Marion in a low voice? Yes, of somebody's novel. Marklins, supplied Dora. Marion drew a breath, but remained for a moment with her eyes cast down. Do go on, dear, urged Dora. Whatever are you going to tell us? There's a notice of father's book, continued the other, a very ill-natured one. It's written by the editor, Mr. Fadge. Father and he have been unfriendly for a long time. Perhaps Mr. Malvane told you something of it. Dora replied that he had. I don't know how it is in other professions, Marion 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. But he is often quarreled with people who were at first his friends, but never so seriously as anyone 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'm sorry to say she looked with painful anxiety from one to the other of the sisters. This has turned him against your brother, and her voice was checked by agitation. We were afraid of this, said Dora in a tone of sympathy. Jasper feared it might be the case, added Maud more coldly, though with friendliness. Why I speak of it at all, Marion hastened to say, is because I am so afraid it should make a difference between yourselves and me. Oh, don't think that, Dora exclaimed. I am so ashamed, Marion went on in an uncertain tone, but I think it will be better if you don't come and see me. It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous and shameful. I couldn't complain if you refused to have anything more to do with me. Don't let it trouble you, urged Maud, with perhaps a trifle more magnanimity in her voice than was needful. We quite understand. Indeed, it shan't make any difference to us. But Marion had averted her face, and could not meet these assurances with any show of pleasure. Now that the step was taken, she felt her behavior 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 it known to Jasper Milvane how her father regarded him, which she felt it necessary to do. Now his sisters would tell him, and henceforth there would be a clear understanding on both sides. That state of things was painful to her, but it was better than ambiguous relations. Jasper is very sorry about it, said Dora, glancing rapidly at Marion. But his connection with Mr. Fadge came about in such a natural way, added the eldest sister, and it was impossible for him to refuse opportunities. Impossible, I know, Marion replied earnestly. Don't think 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, ignomal 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 any to invite. There are always reasons, but I can't speak of them. My dear Marion, appealed Dora, don't distress yourself so. Don't believe that nothing whatever has happened to change our feeling for you has their mod. Nothing, whatever, we are not unreasonable girls, Marion. I am more grateful to you than I can say. It had seemed as if Marion must give way to the emotions which Abbot 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. Mod 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 Mr. 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 Marion had just spoken of taken leave when a man's step was heard rapidly ascending the nearest flight of stairs. Here's Jasper, remarked Dora. And in a moment there sounded a short, sharp summons at the door. Jasper it was. He came in with radiant face, his eyes blinking before the lamp light. Well, girls, how do you do, Miss Yule? I just had the vaguest sort of expectation that you might be here. It seemed a likely night. I don't know why, I say. Dora, we really must get two or three decent easy chairs for your room. I've seen some outside a second-hand furniture shop in Hempstead Road, about six shillings apiece. There's no sitting on chairs such as these. That on which he tried to dispose himself, when he had flung aside his trappings, creaked and shivered ominously. You hear? I shall come plump on to the floor, if you don't mind. My word! What a day I've 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 the aspiring youth. I got up at 7.30, and whilst I breakfasted, I read through a volume I had to review. By 10.30 the review was written, three quarters of a column of the evening budget. Who is the unfortunate author, interrupted Maud costically? 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 the day wasn't badly begun. At 11 I was ready to write my Saturday coserie for the Will of 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 the job. At one I rushed out to a dirty little eating-house on Hempstead Road. Was back again by quarter to two, having in the meantime sketched a paper for the West End. Pipe in mouth I sat down to a leisurely artistic work. By five half the paper was done. The other half remains for tomorrow. From five to half past I read four newspapers and two magazines, and from half past to a quarter to six I jotted down several ideas that had come to me whilst reading. At six I was again in the dirty eating-house, satisfying a ferocious hunger. Home once more at six forty-five, and for two hours wrote steadily at a long affair I have in a hand for the current. Then I came here, thinking hard all the way. What say you to this? Have I earned a night's repose? And what's the value of it all? asked Mod. Probably from ten to twelve guineas, if I calculated. I meant what was the literary value of it, said the sister, with a smile. Equal to that of the contents of a moldy nut. Pretty much what I thought. Oh, but it answers the purpose, urged Dora, and it does no one any harm. Honest journey work, cried Jasper. There are few men in London capable of such a feat. Many a fellow could write more in quantity, but they couldn't command my market. It's rubbish, but rubbish of a very special kind of fine quality. Marian had not yet spoken, save a word or two, and reply to Jasper's greeting. Now and then she just glanced at him. But for the most part her eyes were cast down. Now Jasper addressed her. A year ago, Miss Ewell, I shouldn't have believed myself capable of such activity. In fact, I wasn't capable of it then. You think such work won't be too great a strain upon you? She asked. Oh, this isn't a specimen day, you know. 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 little, or perhaps rather quicker than that, I shall extend my scope. For instance, I should like to do two or three leaders a week for one of the big dailies. I can't attain unto that just yet. Not political leaders. By no means. That's not my line. The kind of thing in which one makes a column out of what would fill six lines of respectable prose. You call a cigar a convoluted weed and so on. You know, that passes for facetiousness. I've never really tried my hand at that style yet. I shouldn't wonder if I managed it brilliantly. Someday I'll write a few exercises, just take two lines of some good prose writer and expand them into twenty, in half a dozen different ways. Excellent mental gymnastics. Marian listened to his flow of talk for a few minutes longer, then took the opportunity of a brief silence to rise and put on her hat. Jasper observed her, but without rising. He looked at his sisters in a hesitating way. At length he stood up and declared that he too must be off. This coincidence had happened once before when he ain't met Marian here in the evening. At all events you won't do any more work tonight, said Dora. No, I shall read a page of something over a glass of whiskey and seek the sleep of a man who has done his duty. Why the whiskey, asked Mod? Do you grudge me such a poor salis? I don't see the need of it. Nonsense Mod exclaimed her sister. He needs a little stimulant when he works so hard. Each of the girls gave Marian's hand a significant pressure as she took leave of them and begged her to come again as soon as she had a free evening. There was gratitude in her eyes. The evening was clear and not very cold. It's rather late for you to go home, said Jasper, as they left the house. May I walk part of the way with you? Marian replied with a low. Thank you. I think you get on pretty well with the girls, don't you? I hope they are as glad of my friendship as I am of theirs. Pity to see them in a place like that, isn't it? They ought to have had good house with plenty of servants. It's bad enough for a civilized man to have to rough it, but I hate to see women living in a sordid way. Don't you think they could both play their part in a drawing room with a little experience? Surely there's no doubt of it. Mod 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 concede some people before too 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 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 shall go to jump to what I shall be ten years hence without the help of money. But they have such a miserable little bit of capital, and everything is still so uncertain. One daren't speculate under the circumstances. Marian made no reply. You think I talk of nothing but money, Jasper said suddenly, looking down into her face. I know too well what it means to be without money. Yes, but you do just a little despise me. Indeed, I don't, Mr. Milvane. If that is sincere, I am 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 the roads which led to Hampstead, to Highgate, and to Holloway. Shall you take an omnibus, Jasper asked? She hesitated. Or will you give me the pleasure of walking on with you? You are tired, perhaps. Not the least. For the rest of her answer she moved forward, and they crossed into the obscurity of Camden Road. Shall I be doing wrong, Mr. Milvane? Marion began in a very low voice. If I ask you about the authorship of something in this month's current, I'm afraid I know what you refer to. There's no reason why I shouldn't answer a question of the kind. It was Mr. Fadge himself who reviewed my father's book. It was confound him. I don't know another man who could have done the thing so vilely well. I suppose he was only replying to my father's attack upon him and his friends. Your father's attack is honest and straightforward and justifiable and well put. I read the chapter of his book with huge satisfaction. But has anyone suggested that another than Fadge was capable of that kind of thing? Yes, I am told that Mr. Jedwood, the publisher, has somehow made a mistake. Jedwood? And what mistake? Father heard that you were the writer. I— Jasper stopped short. They were in the rays of the street lamp and could see each other's faces. And he believed that Mr. Jedwood was the author of the book. He believes that. I'm afraid so. And you believe—believed it? Not for a moment. I shall write a note to Mr. Yule. Marion was silent a while, then said, Wouldn't it be better if you found a way of letting Mr. Jedwood know the truth? Perhaps you are right. Jasper was very grateful for the suggestion. In that moment he had reflected how rash it would be to write to Alfred Yule on such a subject with whatever prudence in expressing himself. Such a letter coming under the notice of the great Fadge might do its writer's serious harm. Yes, you are right, he repeated. I'll stop that rumor at its source. I can't guess how it started. For ought I know, some enemy hath done this, though I don't quite discern the motive. Thank you very much for telling me. And still more for refusing to believe that I could treat Mr. Yule in that way, even as a matter of business. When I said that I was despicable, I didn't mean that I could sink quite to such a point as that. If only because it was your father. He checked himself and they walked on for several yards without speaking. In that case, Jasper resumed at length, Your father doesn't think of me in a very friendly way. He scarcely could. No, no, and I quite understand that the mere fact of my working for Fadge would prejudice him against me, but that's no reason I hope why you and I shouldn't be friends. I hope not. I don't know that my friendship is worth much, Jasper continued, talking into the upper air, a habit of his when he discussed his own character. I shall go on as I have begun and fight for some of the good things in life, but your friendship is valuable. If I am sure of it, I shall be at all events within sight of the better ideals. Marian walked on with her eyes upon the ground. To her surprise, she discovered presently that they had all but reached St. Paul's crescent. Thank you for having come so far, she said, pausing. Ah, you are nearly home. Why, it seems only a few minutes since we left the girls. Now I'll run back to the whiskey of which Maud disapproves. May it do you good, said Marian with a laugh. A speech of this kind seemed unusual upon her lips. Jasper smiled as he held her hand and regarded her. Then you can speak in a joking way. Do I seem so very dull? Dull by no means, but sage and sober and reticent, and exactly what I like in my friend, because it contrasts with my own habits, all the better that merriment lies below it. Good night, Miss Yule. He strode off and in a minute or two turned his head to look at the slight figure passing into the darkness. Marian's hand trembled as she tried to insert her latch-key. When she had closed the door very quietly behind her, she went to the sitting-room. Mrs. Yule was laying aside the sewing which she had occupied herself throughout the lonely evening. I'm rather late, said the girl, in a voice of subdued joyousness. Yes, I was getting a little uneasy, dear. Oh, there's no danger. You have been enjoying yourself, I can see. I have had a pleasant evening. In the retrospect, it seemed the pleasantest she had yet spent with her friends, though she had set out in such a different mood. Her mind was relieved of two anxieties. She felt sure that the girls had not taken ill when 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 she now 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 candor was allied with clear insight into the possibilities of falsehood. She was not readily the victim of illusion, thinking much and speaking little. She had not come to her twenty-third year without perceiving what a distance lay between a girl's dream of life as it might be, and life as it is. Had she invariably disclosed her thoughts, she would have earned the repute of a very skeptical and slightly cynical person. But with what raptuous tumult of the heart she could abandon herself to a belief in human virtues when their suggestions seemed to promise her a future of happiness. Alone in her room, she sat down only to think of Jasper Milvane. And extract from the memory of his words, his looks, new sustenance for her hungry heart. Jasper was the first man who'd ever evenced 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 Wattleboro, 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 want to feel reluctance at the suggestion of food. The first man who had approached her with display of feeling and energy and youthful self-confidence, handsome too it seemed to her, her womanhood went eagerly to meet him. Since then she had made careful study of his faults. Each conversation had revealed to her new weakness and follies. With the result that her love had grown to a reality. He was so human, and a youth of all but monastic seclusion had prepared her to love the man who aimed with frank energy at the joys of life. A taint of pedantry would have repelled her. She did not ask for high intellect or great attainments, but vivacity, courage, determination to succeed were delightful to her senses. Her ideal would not have been a literary man at all. Certainly not a man likely to be prominent in journalism. Rather a man of action, one who had no restraints of commerce or official routine. But in Jasper she saw the qualities that attracted her apart from the accidents of his position. Ideal personages do not descend to girls who have to labor for their own benefit. It seemed a marvel to her, and a good augury, that even such a man as Jasper should have crossed her path. It was as though years had passed since their first meeting. Upon her return to London had followed such long periods of hopelessness. Yet whenever they encountered each other he had to look in 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 to the confession of his respect. His desire to be something more to her than a mere acquaintance. It was scarcely possible that he should speak as he several times had of late if he did not wish to draw her towards him. That was the hopeful side of her thoughts. It was easy to forget for a time those words of his which one might think were spoken as distinct warning, but they crept into the memory, unwelcome, impertune, 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 emphasized the word friend as if to explain that he offered and asked nothing more than friendship, but it only meant that he would not be in haste to declare himself. Of a certainty there was conflict between his ambition and his love, but she recognized her power over him and exalted 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 Maude and Dora to London! It was within 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 poverty and be content with what his talents could earn for him. Her love gave her the right to demand the 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 love. 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 pressed her hand so warmly, before long he would ask her love. The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the valley of the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine might at any moment strike into its musty gloom. End of 14. Recording by Emily Livingston. At 33 he would generally have been taken for forty. His bearing, his personal habits, were no longer those of a young man. He walked with a stoop, and pressed noticeably on the stick he carried. It was rare for him to show the countenance which tells of present cheerfulness, or glad onward looking. There was no spring in his step. His voice had fallen to a lower key, and often he spoke with that hesitation in choice of words, which may be noticed in persons whom defeat has made self distrustful. Ceaseless perplexity and dread gave a wandering, sometimes a wild expression to his eyes. He seldom slept in the proper sense of the word. As a rule he was conscious all through the night of a kind of fighting between physical weariness and wakeful toil of the mind. It often happened that some wholly imaginary obstacle in the story he was writing kept him under a sense of effort throughout the dark hours. Now and again he woke, reasoned with himself, and remembered clearly that the torment was without cause, but the short relief thus afforded soon passed in the recollection of real distress. In his unsoothing slumber he talked aloud, frequently wakening Amy. Generally he seemed to be holding a dialogue with someone who had imposed an intolerable task upon him. He protested passionately, appealed, argued in the strangest way about the injustice of what was demanded. Once Amy heard him begging for money, positively begging, like some poor wretch in the street. It was horrible, and made her shed tears. When he asked what he had been saying she could not bring herself to tell him. When the striking clocks summoned him remorselessly to rise and work he often reeled with dizziness. It seemed to him that the greatest happiness attainable would be to creep into some dark, warm corner out of the sight and memory of men and lie there torpid with a blessed half-consciousness that death was slowly overcoming him. Of all the sufferings collected into each four and twenty hours this of rising to a new day was the worst. The one-volume story which he had calculated would take him four or five weeks was with difficulty finished in two months. March winds made an invalid of him. At one time he was threatened with bronchitis, and for several days had to abandon even the effort to work. In previous winters he had been want to undergo a good deal of martyrdom from the London climate, but never in such a degree as now mental illness seemed to have enfeebled his body. It was strange that he succeeded in doing work of any kind, for he had no hope from the result. This one last effort he would make, just to complete the undeniableness of his failure, and then literature should be thrown behind him. While other pursuit was possible to him he knew not, but perhaps he might discover some mode of earning a livelihood. Had it been a question of gaining a pound a week, as in the old days, he might have hoped to obtain some clerkship like that at the hospital, where no commercial experience or aptitude was demanded. But in his present position such an income would be useless. Could he take Amy and the child to live in a garret? On less than a hundred a year it was scarcely possible to maintain outward decency. Already his own clothing began to declare him poverty-stricken, and but for gifts from her mother Amy would have reached the like-pass. They lived in dread of the pettiest casual expense, for the day of pennilessness was again approaching. Amy was oftener from home than had been her custom. Occasionally she went away soon after breakfast, and spent the whole day at her mother's house. It saves food, she said with a bitter laugh, when Reardon once expressed surprise that she should be going again so soon. And gives you an opportunity of bewailing your hard fate, he returned coldly. The reproach was ignoble, and he could not be surprised that Amy left the house without another word to him. Yet he resented that, as he had resented her sorrowful jest. The feeling of unmanliness in his own position tortured him into a mood of perversity. Through the day he wrote only a few lines, and on Amy's return he resolved not to speak to her. There was a sense of repose in this change of attitude. He encouraged himself in the view that Amy was treating him with cruel neglect. She, surprised that her friendly questions elicited no answer, looked into his face, and saw a soul in anger of which Reardon had never seemed capable. Her indignation took fire, and she left him to himself. For a day or two he persevered in his muteness, uttering a word only when it could not be avoided. Amy was at first so resentful that she contemplated leaving him to his ill temper, and dwelling at her mother's house until he chose to recall her. But his face grew so haggard and fixed misery that compassionate length prevailed over her injured pride. Late in the evening she went to the study, and found him sitting unoccupied. Edwin? What do you want? he asked, indifferently. Why are you behaving to me like this? Surely it makes no difference to you how I behave. You can easily forget that I exist, and live your own life. What have I done to make this change in you? Is it a change? You know it is. How did I behave before? he asked, glancing at her. Like yourself, kindly and gently. If I always did so, and spite of things that might have embittered another man's temper, I think it deserved some return of kindness from you. What things do you mean? Circumstances for which neither of us is to blame. I am not conscious of having failed in kindness, said Amy distantly. Then that only shows that you have forgotten your old self, and utterly changed in your feeling to me. When we first came to live here, could you have imagined yourself leaving me alone for long, miserable days just because I was suffering under misfortunes? You have shown too plainly that you don't care to give me the help, even of a kind word. You get away from me as often as you can, as if to remind me that we have no longer any interest in common. Other people are your confidence. You speak of me to them, as if I were purposely dragging you down into a mean condition. How can you know what I say about you? Isn't it true? He asked, flashing an angry glance at her. It is not true. Of course I have talked to mother about her difficulties. How could I help it? And to other people? Not in a way that you could find fault with. In a way that makes me seem contemptible to them. You show them that I have made you poor and unhappy, and you are glad to have their sympathy. What you mean is that I oughtn't to see anyone. There's no other way of avoiding such reproaches 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 prospect seemed bright, you could sympathize 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've given me no help, besides the burden of cheerless work. I have had to bear that of your growing coldness. I can't remember one instance when you have spoken to me as a wife might, a wife who is something more than a man's housekeeper. The passion in his voice and the harshness of the accusation made her unable to reply. You said rightly, he went on, that I have always been kind and gentle. I never thought I could speak to you or feel to you in any other way. But I have undergone too much, and you have deserted me. Surely it was too soon to do that. So long as I endeavored 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 partook in this outbreak were numerous and complex. He felt all that he expressed. But at the same time it seemed to him that he had the choice between two ways of uttering his emotion. The tenderly appealing and the sternly reproachful. He took the latter course because it was less natural to him than the former. His desire was to impress Amy with the bitter intensity of his sufferings. Pathos and loving words seemed to have lost their power upon her. But perhaps if he yielded to that other form of passion she would be shaken out of her coldness. The stress of injured love is always tempted to speech, which seems its contradiction. Reardon had the strangest mixture of pain and pleasure and flinging out these first words of wrath that he had ever addressed to Amy. They consoled him under the humiliating sense of his weakness. And yet he watched with dread his wife's countenance as she listened to him. He hoped to cause her pain equal to his own, for then it would be in his power at once to throw off this disguise and soothe her with every softest word his heart could suggest. That she had really ceased to love him he could not, durst not believe. But his nature demanded frequent assurance of affection. Amy had abandoned too soon the caresses of their ardent time. She was absorbed in her maternity and thought it enough to be her husband's friend. Ashamed to make appeal directly for the tenderness she no longer offered he accused her of utter indifference, of abandoning him, and all but betraying him that in self-defense she might show what really was in her heart. But Amy made no movement towards him. How can you say that I have deserted you? She returned, with cold indignation. When did I refuse to share your poverty? When did I grumble at what we have had to go through? Ever since the troubles began you have let me know what your thoughts were, even if you didn't speak them. You have never shared my lot willingly. I can't recall one word of encouragement from you, but many, many which made the struggle harder for me. Then it would be better for you if I went away altogether and left you free to do the best for yourself. If that is what you mean by all this, why not say it plainly? I won't be a burden to you. Someone will give me a home. And you would leave me without regret? Your only care would be that you are still bound to me? You must think of me what you like. I don't care to defend myself. You won't admit then that I have anything to complain of? I seem to you simply in a bad temper without a cause. To tell you the truth, that's just what I do think. I came here to ask what I have done that you were angry with me, and to break out furiously with all sorts of vaguely approaches. You have much to endure, I know that, but it's no reason why you should turn against me. I have never neglected my duty. Is the duty all on my side? I believe there are very few wives who would be as patient as I have been. Reared and gazed at her for a moment, then turned away. The distance between them was greater than he had thought, and now he repented of having given way to an impulse so alien to his true feelings. Anger only estranged her, whereas by speech of a different kind he might have won the caress for which he hungered. Amy, seeing that he would say nothing more, left him to himself. It grew late in the night. The fire had gone out, but Reared and still sat in the cold room. Thoughts of self-destruction were again haunting him, as they had done during the black months of last year. If he had lost Amy's love, and all through the mental impotence which would have made 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 and the prospect of Willys growing to manhood. He had just heard the work-house clock strike two, when, without the warning of a footstep, the door opened. Amy came in, she wore her dressing-gown, and her hair was arranged for the night. Why do you stay here? she asked. It was not the same voice as before. He saw that her eyes were red and swollen. Have you been crying, Amy? Never mind. Do you know what time it is? He went towards her. Why have you been crying? There are many things to cry for. Amy, have you any love for me still, or has poverty robbed me of at all? I have never said that I didn't love you. Why do you accuse me of such things? He took her in his arms and held her passionately and kissed her face again and again. Amy's tears broke forth anew. Why should we come to such utter ruin? she sobbed. Oh, try, try if you can't save us even yet. You know without my saying it that I do love you. It's dreadful to me to think that all our happy life should be at an end, when we thought of such a future together. Is it impossible? Can't you work as you used to and succeed as we felt confident you would? Don't despair yet, Edwin. Do, do try, whilst there is still time. Darling, darling, if only I could. I have thought of something, dearest. Do as you proposed last year, find a tenant for the flat whilst we still have a little money, and then go away into some quiet country place where you can get back your health and live for very little, and write another book, a good book, that'll bring you reputation again. I and Willie can go and live at mothers for the summer months. Do this. It would cost you so little, living alone, wouldn't it? I didn't know that I was well cared for. Mother would be willing to have me for a few months, and it's easy to explain that your health has failed, that you're obliged to go away for a time. But why shouldn't you go with me if we are to let this place? We shouldn't have enough money. I want to free your mind from the burden whilst you are writing. And what is before us if we go on in this way? You don't think you will get much for what you're writing now, do you? Weirdin shook his head. Then how can we live even till the end of the year? Something must be done, you know. If we get into poor lodgings, what hope is there that you'll be able to write anything good? But, Amy, I have no faith in my power of... Oh, it would be different. A few days, a week, or a fortnight of real holiday in the 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 just for you to do, how you could save yourself. How can you sink down to the position of a poor cleric in some office? That can't be your fate, Edwin. It's incredible. Oh, after such bright hopes, make one more effort. Have you forgotten that we were to go to the south together? You were to take me to Italy and Greece. How can that ever be if you fail utterly in literature? How can you ever hope to earn more than bear sustenance at any other kind of work? He all but lost consciousness of her words and gazing at the face she held up to his. You love me? Say again that you love me. Dear, I love you with all my heart, but I am so afraid of the future. I can't bear poverty. I have found that I can't bear it. And I dread to think of your becoming only an ordinary man. Reared and laughed. But I am not only an ordinary man, Amy. If I never write another line, that won't undo what I have done. It's little enough to be sure, but you know what I am. Do you only love the author and me? Don't you think of me apart from all that I may do or not do? If I had to earn my living as a clerk, would that make me a clerk in soul? You shall not fall to that. It would be too bitter a shame to lose all you have gained in these long years of work. Let me plan for you. Do as I wish. You are to be what we hoped from the first. Take all the summer months. How long will it be before you can finish this short book? A week or two. Then finish it, and see what you can get for it. And try it once to find a tenant to take this place off her hands. That would be twenty-five pounds saved for the rest of the year. You could live on so little by yourself, couldn't you? Oh, on ten shillings a week, if need be. But not to starve yourself, you know. Don't you feel that my plan is a good one? When I came to you to-night, I meant to speak of this. But you were so cruel. Forgive me, dearest love. I was half a madman. You have been so cold to me for a long time. I have been distracted. It was as if we were drawing nearer and nearer to the edge of a cataract.