 31 A rescue and a summons. Part II Have you seen a coat lying about here? Was Biffin's first question. I threw mine over. What did you do that for? There are some valuable papers in the pockets. They searched in vain. On neither side of the roof was the coat discoverable. You must have pitched it into the street, said the man. This was a terrible blow. Biffin forgot his rescue from destruction and 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, Biffin said, when they were down on the ground floor, of course it's lost. It would be stolen at once. But may it not have fallen into your backyard? He was standing in the midst of a cluster of alarmed people, who stared at him in astonishment, for the reek through which he had fought his way had given him the aspect of a sweep. His suggestion prompted someone to run into the yard with the result that a muddy bundle was brought in and exhibited to him. Is this your coat, mister? Heaven be thanked! That's it! There are valuable papers in the pockets. He unrolled the garment, felt to make sure that Mr. Bailey was safe, and finally put it on. "'Will anyone here let me sit down in a room and give me a drink of water?' he asked, feeling now as if he must drop with exhaustion. The man who had rescued him performed this further kindness, and for half an hour, whilst tumult indescribable raged about him, Biffin 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 neighborhood where the people would receive him in a charitable spirit. With the aid of the police he passed to where the crowd was thinner and came out into Cleveland Street. Here most of the house doors were open, and he made several applications for hospitality, but either his story was doubted or his grimy appearance predisposed people against him. At length, when again his strength was all but at an end, he made an appeal to a policeman. Surely you can tell, he protested, after explaining his position, that I don't want to cheat anybody, I shall have money tomorrow. If no one will take me in you must haul me in on some charge to the police station. I shall have to lie down on the pavement in a minute. The officer recognized a man who was standing half dressed on a threshold close by. He stepped up to him and made representations which were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of an underground room furnished as a bed-chamber, 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. He went upstairs about nine o'clock in the morning. He discovered that his host kept an oil-shop. Lost everything, have you? asked the man sympathetically. Everything except the clothes I wear and some papers that I managed to save. All my books burnt. Biffen shook his head dollarously. Your account books cried the dealer in oil. Dear, dear, and what might your business be? The author corrected this misapprehension. In the end he was invited to break his fast, which he did right willingly. Then, with assurances that he would return before nightfall, he left the house. His steps were naturally first directed to Clipstone Street. The familiar abode was a gruesome ruin, still smoking. Neighbors informed him that Mr. Briggs' body had been brought forth in a horrible condition, but this was the only loss of life that had happened. Then he struck eastward, and at eleven came to Manville Street, Islington. He found reared by the fireside, looking very ill and speaking with hoarseness. Another cold? It looks like it. I wish you would take the trouble to go and buy me some vermin killer. That would suit my case. Then what would suit mine? Behold me, undeniably a philosopher, in the literal sense of the words Omnia mea mecum porto. He recounted his adventures, and with such humorous vivacity that when he ceased the two laughed together as if nothing more amusing had ever been heard. Ah! but my books—my books—exclamed Biffin with a genuine groan, and all my notes at one fell swoop. If I didn't laugh, old friend, I should sit down and cry. Indeed I should. All my classics, with years of scribbling in the margins. How am I to buy them again? You rescued Mr. Bailey. He must repay you. Biffin 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 reared and supplied, and wrote upon it the address of a firm of publishers. Have you note paper? I'll write to them. Impossible to call in my present guys. Indeed his attire was more like that of a bankrupt costar-monger than a man of letters. Collar he had none, for the griminess of that he wore last night had necessitated its being thrown aside. Round his throat was a dirty handkerchief. His coat had been brushed, but its recent experiences had brought it one stage nearer to that dissolution which must very soon be its fate. His grey trousers were now black, and his boots looked as if they had not been cleaned for weeks. Shall I say anything about the character of the book he asked, seating himself with pen and paper? Shall I hint that it deals with the ignobley decent? Better let them form their own judgment," replied Reardon in his hoarse voice. Then I'll just say that I submit to them a novel of modern life, the scope of which is in some degree indicated by its title. Pity they can't know how nearly it became a holocaust and that I risked my life to save it. If they're good enough to accept it I'll tell them the story. And now, Reardon, I'm ashamed of myself. But can you without inconvenience lend me ten shillings? Easily. I must write to two pupils to inform them of my change of address, from Garrett to Seller, and I must ask help from my prosperous brother. He gives it me unreluctantly, I know, but I'm always loath to apply to him. May I use your paper for these purposes? The brother of whom he spoke was employed in a house of business at Liverpool. The two had not met for years, but they corresponded, and were on terms such as Harold indicated. When he had finished his letters and had received the half-sovereign from Reardon, he went his way to deposit the brown paper parcel at the publishers. The clerk who received it from his hands probably thought that the author might have chosen a more respectable messenger. Two days later, early in the evening, the friends were again enjoying each other's company in Reardon's room. Both were invalids, for Biffin had, of course, caught a cold from his exposure and shirt-sleeves on the roof, and he was suffering from the shock to his nerves. But the thought that his novel was safe in the hands of publishers gave him energy to resist these influences. The absence of the pipe, for neither had any pallet 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 seek, he said, that you will always struggle on in such as existence as this. To every man of metal there does come an opportunity, and it surely is time for yours to present itself. I have a superstitious faith in Mr. Bailey. If he leads you to triumph, don't altogether forget me. Don't talk nonsense. What ages it seems since that day when I saw you in the library at Hastings, and heard you ask in vain for my book, and how grateful I was to you. I wonder whether any mortal ever asks for my books nowadays. Someday when I am well established at Croydon you shall go to Moody's and make inquiry of my novels ever by any chance leave the shelves, and then you shall give me a true and faithful report of the answer you get. He is quite forgotten, the attendant will say, be sure of it. I think not. To have had even a small reputation and to have outlived it is a sort of anticipation of death. The man Edwin Reardon, whose name was sometimes spoken in a tone of interest, is really and actually dead. And what remains of me is resigned to that. I have an odd fancy that it will make death itself easier. It is as if only half of me had now to die. Biffin tried to give a lighter turn to the gloomy subject. Thinking of my fiery adventure, he said, in his tone of dry deliberation, I find it vastly amusing to picture you as a witness at the inquest if I had been choked and consumed. No doubt it would have been made known that I rushed upstairs to save some particular piece of property. Several people heard me say so, and you alone would be able to conjecture what this was. Imagine the gaping wonderment of the coroner's jury. The Daily Telegraph would have made a leader out of me. This poor man was so strangely deluded as to the value of a novel in manuscript which it appears he had just completed that he positively sacrificed his life in the endeavor to rescue it from the flames. And the Saturday would have had a column of sneering jacocity 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. Parishing in the garret of a lodging-house which caught fire by the overturning of a drunkard's lamp, one would like to end otherwise. Where would you wish to die? asked Reardon musingly. At home, replied the other with pathetic emphasis. I have never had a home since I was a boy, and am never likely to have one. But to die at home is an unreasoning hope I still cherish. If you had never come to London, what would you have now been? Almost certainly a schoolmaster in some town. And one might be worse off than that, you know. Yes, one might live peaceably enough in such a position. And I, I should be in an estate agent's office, earning a sufficient salary, and most likely married to some unambitious country girl. I should have lived an intelligible life instead of only trying to live, aiming at modes of life beyond my reach. My mistake was that of numberless men nowadays. Because I was conscious of brains, I thought that the only place for me was London. It's easy enough to understand this common delusion. We form our ideas of London from old literature, we think of London as if it were the one center of intellectual life, we think and talk like Chatterton. But the truth is that intellectual men in our day do their best to keep away from London, when once they know the place. There are libraries everywhere, papers and magazines reach the north of Scotland as soon as they reach Brompton. It's only on rare occasions for special kinds of work that one is bound to live in London. And as for recreation, why, now that no English theatre exists, what is there in London that you can't enjoy in almost any part of England? At all events, a yearly visit of a week would be quite sufficient for all the special features of the town. London is only a huge shop, with an hotel on the upper stories. To be sure, if you make it your artistic subject, that's a different thing. But neither you or I would do that by deliberate choice. I think not. It's a huge misfortune, this will-of-the-wisp attraction exercised by London on young men of brains. They come here to be degraded or to perish when their true sphere is a life of peaceful remoteness. The type of man capable of success in London is more or less callous and cynical. If I had the training of boys, I would teach them to think of London as the last place where life can be lived worthily. And the place where you are most likely to die in squalid wretchedness. The one happy result of my experiences, said Reardon, is that they have cured me of ambition. What a miserable fellow I should be if I were still possessed with the desire to make a name. I can't even recall very clearly that state of mind. My strongest desire now is for peaceful obscurity. I'm tired out. I want to rest for the remainder of my life. You won't have much rest at Croydon. Oh, it isn't impossible. My time will be wholly occupied in a round of all but mechanical duties, and I think that will be the best medicine for my mind. I shall read very little, and that only in the classics. I don't say that I shall always be content in such 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 an earnest about that. The year after next if we are both alive assuredly we go. The year after next, Biffin smiled dubiously. I have demonstrated to you mathematically that it is possible. You have, but so are a great many other things that one does not dare to hope for. Someone knocked at the door, opened it, and said, Here's a telegram for you, Mr. Reardon. The friends looked at each other, as if some fear had entered the minds of both. Reardon opened the dispatch. It was from his wife, and ran thus. Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am staying with Mrs. Carter at her mother's at Brighton. The full address was given. You hadn't heard of her going there, said Biffin, when he had read the lines. No, I haven't seen Carter for several days, or perhaps he would have told me. Brighton at this time of year? But I believe there's a fashionable season about now, isn't there? I suppose that would account for it. He spoke in a sliding tone, but showed increasing agitation. Of course you will go. I must, though I am in no condition for making a journey. His friend examined him anxiously. Are you feverish at all this evening? Reardon held out a hand that the other might feel as pulse. The beat was rapid to begin with, and had been heightened since the arrival of the telegram. But go I must. The poor little fellow has no great place in my heart, but when A.B. sends for me I must go. Perhaps things are at the worst. When is there a train? Have you a timetable? Biffin was dispatched to the nearest shop to purchase one, and in the meanwhile Reardon packed a few necessaries in a small traveling bag, ancient and worn, but the object of his affection because it had accompanied him on his wanderings in the south. When Harold returned his appearance excited Reardon's astonishment. He was white from head to foot. Snow? It must have been falling heavily for an hour or more. Can't be helped. I must go. The nearest station for departure was London Bridge, and the next train left at 7.20. By Reardon's watch it was now about five minutes to seven. I don't know whether it's possible, he said, in confused hurry. But I must try. There isn't another train till ten past nine. Come with me to the station, Biffin. Both were ready. They rushed from the house and sped through the soft, steady fall of snowflakes to Upper Street. Here they were several minutes before they found a disengaged cab. Questioning the driver they learned what they would have known very well already but for their excitement. Impossible to get to London Bridge station in a quarter of an hour. Better to go on all the same, was Reardon's opinion. If the snow gets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all. But you had better not come. I forgot that you were as much out of sorts as I am. How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you. If Theria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age, isn't it? Reardon asked when they were speeding along City Road. I'm afraid there's much danger. Why did she sand? What an absurd question. You seem to have got into a thoroughly morbid state of mind about her. Do be human and put away your obstinate folly. And 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 you ever heard she was rich. She would have thanked you for such common-sense disregard of delicacies. Let there be an end of this nonsense I implore you. Reardon stared through the glass at the snow that fell thicker and thicker. What are we, you and I, pursued the other? We have no belief in immortality. We are convinced that this life is all. We know that human happiness is the origin and end of all moral considerations. What right have we to make ourselves and others miserable for the sake of an obstinate idealism? It is our duty to make the best of circumstances. Why will you go cutting your loaf with a razor when you have a serviceable bread knife? Still, Reardon did not speak. The cab rolled on almost silently. You love your wife and the summons she sends is proof that her thought turns to you as soon as she is in distress. Perhaps she only thought at her duty to let the child's father know. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, cried Biffin contemptuously. There goes the razor again. Take the plain human construction of what happens. Ask yourself what the vulgar man would do, and do likewise. That's the only safe rule for you. They were both hoarse with too much talking, and for the last half of the drive neither spoke. At the railway station they ate and drank together, but with poor pretense of appetite. As long as possible they kept within the warmed rooms. Reardon was pale and had anxious, restless eyes. He could not remain seated, though when he had walked about for a few minutes the trembling of his limbs obliged him to sink down. It was an unutterable relief to both when the moment of the train's starting approached. They clasped hands warmly and exchanged a few last requests and promises. Forgive my plain speech-old fellow, said Biffin. Go and be happy. Then he stood alone on the platform, watching the red light on the last carriage as the train whirled away into darkness and storm. End of Chapter 31. CHAPTER 32 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 Philippa. NEW GRUB STREET by George Gissing. CHAPTER 32. REARDON BECOMES PRACTICAL Reardon had never been to Brighton, and of his own accord never would have gone. He was prejudiced against the place because its name has become suggestive of fashionable imbecility and the snobbishness which tries to model itself thereon. He knew that the town was a mere portion of London transferred to the 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 half seem interminable. The fever which was upon him had increased. He coughed frequently. His breathing was difficult. Though constantly moving he felt as if in the absence of excitement his one wish would have been to lie down and abandon himself to lethargy. Two men who sat with him in the third-class carriage had spread a rug over their knees and amused themselves with playing cards for trifling sums of money. The sight of their foolish faces, the sound of their loves, the talk they exchanged 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 game 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 Raiden was constrained to speculate as to the mode of training by which this singularity had been produced. He could have shed tears of nervous distraction in his inability to turn his thoughts upon other things. On a lighting at his journey's end he was seized with a fit of shivering, an intense and sudden chill which made his teeth chatter. In an endeavour to overcome this he began to run towards the row of cabs, but his legs refused such exercise, and coughing compelled him to pause for breath. Still shaking he threw himself into a vehicle and was driven to the address Amy had mentioned. The snow on the ground lay thick, but no more was falling. Heedless of the direction which the cab took, he suffered his physical and mental unrest for another quarter of an hour, then a stoppage told him that the house was reached. On his way he had heard a clock strike eleven. The door opened almost as soon as he had rung the bell. He mentioned his name and the maid-servant conducted him to a drawing-room on the ground floor. The house was quite a small one, but seemed to be well furnished. One lamp burned on the table, and the fire had sunk to a red glow, saying that she would inform Mrs. Reardon at once the servant left him alone. He placed his bag on the floor, took off his muffler, threw back his overcoat, and sat waiting. The overcoat was new, but the garments beneath it were his poorest, those he wore when sitting in his garret, for he had neither had time to change them nor thought of doing so. He heard no approaching footstep, but Amy came into the room in a way which showed that she had hastened downstairs. She looked at him, then drew near with both hands extended, and laid them on his shoulders, and kissed him. Reardon shook so violently that it was all he could do to remain standing. He seized one of her hands and pressed it against his lips. "'How hot your breath is,' she said, and how you tremble. Are you ill?' "'A bad cold, that's all,' he answered thickly, and coughed. "'How is Willie?' "'In great danger. The doctor is coming again to-night. We thought that was his ring. You didn't expect me to-night? I couldn't feel sure whether you would come.' Why did you send for me, Amy? Because Willie was in danger, and you felt I ought to know about it. Yes. And because I—' She burst into tears. The display of emotion came very suddenly. Her words had been spoken in a firm voice, and only the pained knitting of her brows told what she was suffering. "'If Willie dies, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?' looked forth between her sobs. Reardon took her in his arms, and laid his head upon her head in the old, loving way. Do you wish me to go up and see him, Amy? Of course. But first let me tell you why we are here. Edith, Mrs. Carter, was coming to spend a week with her mother, and she pressed me to join her. I didn't really wish to. I was unhappy, and felt how impossible it was to go on always living away from you. Oh, that I had never come! Then Willie would have been as well as ever. Tell me when and how it began." She explained briefly, then went on to tell of other circumstances. "'I have a nurse with me in the room. It's my own bedroom, and this house is so small it will be impossible to give you a bed here, Edwin. But there's a hotel only a few yards away. Yes, yes, don't trouble about that. But you look so ill, you're shaking so. Is it a cold you have had long? Oh, my old habit, you remember, one cold after another all through the accursed winter. What does that matter when you speak kindly to me once more? I'd rather die now at your feet and see the old gentleness when you look at me than live on estranged from you. No, don't kiss me. I believe these vile sore throats are contagious. But your lips are so hot and parched. And to think of your coming this journey on such a night." Good old Biffin came to the station with me. He was angry because I had kept away from you so long. Have you given me your heart again, Amy? "'Oh, it has all been a wretched mistake. But we were so poor. Now all that is over, if only Willie can be saved to me. I am so anxious for the doctors coming, the poor little child can hardly draw a breath. How cruel it is that such suffering should come upon a little creature who has never done or thought ill! You are not the first, dearest, who has revolted against nature's cruelty. Let us go up at once, Edwin. Leave your coat and things here. Mrs. Winter, Edith's mother, is a very old lady. She has gone to bed. And I daresay you wouldn't care to see Mrs. Carter to-night." "'No, no. Only you and Willie.' "'When the doctor comes, hadn't you better ask his advice for yourself?' "'We shall see. Don't trouble about me.'" They went softly up to the first floor and entered a bedroom. Fortunately the light here was very dim, or the nurse who sat by the child's bed must have wondered that the eccentricity was which her patient's father attired himself. Bending over the little sufferer, Reardon felt for the first time since Willie's birth a strong fatherly emotion. Tears rushed to his eyes, and he almost crushed Amy's hand as he held it during the spasm of his intense feeling. He sat here for a long time without speaking. The warmth of the chamber had the reverse of an assuaging effect upon his difficult breathing and his frequent short cough. It seemed to oppress and confuse his brain. He began to feel a pain in his right side and could not sit upright on the chair. Amy kept regarding him without his being aware of it. "'Does your head ache?' she whispered. He nodded, but did not speak. "'Oh, why doesn't the doctor come? I must send in a few minutes.'" But as soon as she had spoken, a bell rang in the lower part of the house. Amy had no doubt that it announced the promised visit. She left the room and, in a minute or two, returned with the medical man. When the examination of the child was over, Reardon requested a few words with the doctor in the room downstairs. "'I'll come back to you,' he whispered to Amy. The two descended together and entered the drawing-room. "'Is there any hope for the little fellow?' Reardon asked. "'Yes, there was hope. A favourable turn might be expected.' "'Now I wish to trouble you for a moment on my own account. I shouldn't be surprised if you tell me that I have congestion of the lungs.' The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his interlocutor with curiosity. He now asked the necessary questions and made an examination. "'Have you had any lung trouble before this?' he inquired gravely. "'Slight congestion of the right lung, not many weeks ago. I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your symptoms to go so far without—' "'I have just come down from London,' interrupted Reardon. "'To bed this moment, my dear sir. There is inflammation, and I can't have a bed in this house. There is no spare room. I must go to the nearest hotel.' "'Positively?' "'Then let me take you. My carriage is at the door. One thing. I beg you won't tell my wife that this is serious. Wait till she is out of her anxiety about the child. You will need the services of a nurse—a most unfortunate thing that you are obliged to go to the hotel. It can't be helped. If a nurse is necessary, I must engage one.' He had the strange sensation of knowing that whatever was needful could be paid for. It relieved his mind immensely. To the rich illness has none of the worst horrors only understood by the poor. "'Don't speak a word more than you can help,' said the doctor, as he watched Reardon withdraw. Amy stood on the lower stairs and came down as soon as her husband showed himself. "'The doctor is good enough to take me in his carriage,' he whispered. "'It is better that I should go to bed and get a good night's rest. I wish I could have sat with you, Amy. Is it anything? You look worse than when you came, Edwin.' "'A feverish cold. Don't give it a thought, dearest. Go to Willie. Good night.' She threw her arms about him. "'I shall come to see you if you are not able to be here by nine in the morning,' she said, and added the name of the hotel to which he was to go. At this establishment the doctor was well known. By midnight, Reardon lay in a comfortable room, a huge catapalasm fixed upon him and other needful arrangements made. A waiter, undertaken to visit him at intervals throughout the night, and the man of medicine promised to return as soon as possible after daybreak. What sound was that? Soft and continuous, remote, now clearer, now confusedly murmuring? He must have slept, but now he lay in sudden perfect consciousness, and that music fell upon his ears. Ah, of course! It was the rising tide. He was near the Divine Sea. The nightlight enabled him to discern the principal object 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 harrassingly through his thoughts. If he had inflammation of the lungs, that was a disease of which one might die, and speedily. Death? No, no, no, impossible at such a time as this, when Amy, his own dear wife, had come back to him, and had brought him that which would ensure their happiness through all the years of a long life. He was still quite a young man. There must be great reserves of strength in him, and he had the will to live, the prevailing will, the passionate, all-conquering desire of happiness. How he had alarmed himself! Why, now he was calmer again, and again could listen to the music of the breakers. Not all the folly and baseness that paraded along this strip of the shore could change the sea's eternal melody. In a day or two he would walk on the sands with Amy, somewhere quite out of sight of the repulsive town. But Willie was ill, he had forgotten that. Poor little boy! In future the child should be more to him, though never what the mother was, his own love one again and for ever. Again an interval of unconsciousness brought to an end by that aching in his side. He breathed very quickly, could not help doing so. He had never felt so ill as this. Never. Was it not near morning? Then he dreamt. He was at Patras, was stepping into a boat to be rode out to the steamer which would bear him away from Greece. A magnificent night, though at the end of December, a sky of deep blue, thick set with stars. No sound but the steady splash of the oars or perhaps a voice from one of the many vessels that lay anchored in the harbour, each showing its lantern gleams. The water was as deep a blue as the sky, and sparkled with reflected radiance. And now he stood on deck in the light of early morning. Southward lay the Ionian islands. He looked for Ithaca and grieved that it had been passed in the oars 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 only allow a word or two to be uttered, and his visit was brief. Reardon was chiefly anxious to have news of the child, but for this he would have to wait. At ten, Amy entered the bedroom. Reardon could not raise himself, but he stretched out his hand and took hers, and gazed eagerly at her. She must have been weeping, he felt sure of that, and there was an expression on her face such as he had never seen there. How is Willie? Better, dear, much better. He still searched her face. Aught you to leave him. Hush! you mustn't speak. Tears broke from her eyes, and Reardon had the conviction that the child was dead. The truth, Amy! She threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and pressed her wet cheek against his hand. I have come to nurse you, dear husband, she said a moment after, standing up again and kissing his forehead. I have only you now. His heart sank, and for a moment so great a terror was upon him that he closed his eyes and seemed to pass into utter darkness. But those last words of hers repeated themselves in his mind, and at length they brought a deep solace. Poor little Willie had been the cause of the first coldness between him and Amy. Her love for him had given place to a mother's love for the child. Now it would be as in the first days of their marriage. They would again be all in all to each other. You oughtn't have come feeling so ill, she said to him. You should have let me know, dear. He smiled and kissed her hand. And you kept the truth from me last night in kindness." She checked herself, knowing that agitation must be harmful to him. She had hoped to conceal the child's death. But the effort was too much for her over-strung nerves, and indeed it was only possible for her to remain an hour or two by this sick bed, for she was exhausted by her night of watching, and the sudden agony with which it had concluded. Only after Amy's departure a professional nurse came to attend upon what the doctor had privately characterized as a very grave case. By the evening its gravity was in no respect diminished. The sufferer had ceased to cough and to make restless movements, and had become lethargic. Later he spoke deliriously, or rather muttered, for his words were seldom intelligible. Amy had returned to the room at four o'clock, and remained till far into the night. She was physically exhausted, and could do little but sit in a chair by the bedside, and shed silent tears, or gaze at vacancy in the woe of her sudden desolation. Telegrams had been exchanged with her mother, who was to arrive in Brighton to-morrow morning. The child's funeral would probably be on the third day from this. When she rose to go away for the night, leaving the nurse in attendance, Reardon seemed to lie in a state of unconsciousness. But just as she was turning from the bed, he opened his eyes and pronounced her name. "'I am here, Edwin,' she answered, bending over him. "'Will you let Biffin know?' he said, in low but very clear tones. "'That you are ill, dear. I will write at once, or telegraph, if you like, what is his address?' He had closed his eyes again, and there came no reply. Amy repeated her question twice. She was turning from him in hopelessness, when his voice became audible. "'I can't remember his new address. I know it, but I can't remember.' She had to leave him thus. The next day his breathing was so harassed that he had to be raised against pillows. But throughout the hours of daylight his mind was clear, and from time to time he whispered words of tenderness in reply to Amy's look. He never willingly relinquished her hand, and repeatedly he pressed it against his cheek or his lips. Veinly he still endeavored to recall his friend's address. "'Couldn't Mr. Carter discover it for you?' Amy asked. "'Perhaps. You might try.' She would have suggested applying to Jasper-Milvain, but that name must not be mentioned. Welp Dale also would perchance know where Biffin lived, but Welp Dale's address he had also forgotten. At night there were long periods of delirium, not mere confused muttering, but continuous talk which the listeners could follow perfectly. For the most part the sufferer's mind was occupied, with revival of the distress he had undergone whilst making those last efforts to write something worthy of himself. Amy's heart was wrong as she heard him living through that time of supreme misery, misery which she might have done so much to alleviate, had not selfish fears and irritated pride caused her to draw further and further from him. Hers was the kind of penitence which is forced by sheer stress of circumstances on a nature which resents any form of humiliation. She could not abandon herself to unreserved grief for what she had done or omitted, and the sense of this defect made a great part of her affliction. When her husband lay in mute lethargy she thought only of her dead child and mourned the loss, but his delirious utterances constrained her to break from that bitter sweet preoccupation to confuse her mourning with self-reproach and with fears. Though unconsciously he was addressing her, I can do no more, Amy. My brain seems to be worn out. I can't compose. I can't even think. Look, I've been sitting here for hours, and I have done only that little bit, half a dozen lines. Such poor stuff, too. I should burn it, only I can't afford. I must do my regular quantity every day, no matter what it is. The nurse, who was present when he talked in this way, looked to Amy for an explanation. My husband is an author, Amy answered. Not long ago he was obliged to write when he was ill and ought to have been resting. I always thought it must be hard work writing books, said the nurse with the 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'm only a poor creature, because I can do nothing better than this. If only I had money enough to rest for a year or two you should see, just because I have no money I must sink to this degradation, and I'm losing you as well you don't love me." He began to moan in anguish. But a happy change presently came over his dreaming. He fell into animated description of his experiences in Greece and Italy, and after talking for a long time he turned his head and said in a perfectly natural tone, Amy, do you know that Biffin and I are going to Greece? She believed he spoke consciously, and replied, You must take me with you, Edwin. He paid no attention to this remark, but went on with the same deceptive accent. He deserves the holiday after nearly getting burnt to death to save his novel. Imagine the old fellow plunging headlong into the flames to rescue his manuscript. Don't say that authors can't be heroic. And he laughed gaily. Another morning broke. It was possible, said the doctors, a second had been summoned, that a crisis which drew near might bring the favourable turn. But Amy formed her own opinion from the way in which the nurse expressed herself. She felt sure that the gravest fears were entertained. Before noon reared an awoke from what had seemed natural sleep, saved for the rapid breathing, and of a sudden recollected the number of the house in Cleveland Street at which Biffin was now living. He uttered it without explanation. Amy at once conjectured his meaning, and as soon as her surmise was confirmed she dispatched a telegram to her husband's friend. That evening, as Amy was on the point of returning to the sick-room after having dined at her friend's house, it was announced that a gentleman named Biffin wished to see her. She found him in the dining-room, and even amid her distress it was a satisfaction to her that he presented a far more conventional appearance than in the old days. All the garments he wore, even his hat, gloves, and boots were new. A surprising state of things explained by the fact of his commercial brother having sent him a present of ten pounds, a practical expression of sympathy with him in his recent calamity. Biffin could not speak. He looked with alarm at Amy's pallid face. In a few words she told him of Reardon's condition. I feared this, he replied, under his breath. He was ill when I saw him off at London Bridge. But Willie is better, I trust. Amy tried to answer, but tears filled her eyes and her head drooped. Harold was overcome with a sense of fatality. Grief and dread held him motionless. They conversed brokenly for a few minutes, then left the house, Biffin carrying the handbag with which he had travelled hither. When they reached the hotel he waited apart until it was ascertained whether he could enter the sick-room. Amy rejoined him and said with a faint smile, he is conscious, and was very glad to hear that you had come, but don't let him try to speak much. The change that had come over his friend's countenance was to Harold, of course, far more gravely impressive than to those who had watched at the bedside. In the drawn features, large, sunken eyes, thin and discoloured lips, it seemed to him that he read too surely the presage of doom. After holding the shrunken hand for a moment he was convulsed with an agonising sob and had to turn away. Amy saw that her husband wished to speak to her. She bent over him. Ask him to stay, dear. Give him a room in the hotel. I will. Biffin 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 him to bend down, and whispered, It doesn't matter what happens. She is mine again. The next day was very cold, but a blue sky gleamed over land and sea. The drives and promenades were thronged with people in exuberant health and spirits. Biffin 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 was resignation of the injustice which triumphs so flagrantly in the destinies of men. Towards Amy he had no shadow of unkindness. The sight of her in tears had impressed him as profoundly in another way as that of his friend's wasted features. She and Reardon were again one, and his love for them both was stronger than any emotion of tenderness he had ever known. In the afternoon he again sat by the bedside. Every symptom of the sufferer's condition pointed to an approaching end, a face that had grown cadaverous, livid lips, breath drawn in hurrying gasps. Harold dispaired of another look of recognition. But as he sat with his forehead resting on his hand, Amy touched him, Reardon had turned his face in their direction, and with a conscious gaze. I shall never go with you to Greece, he said distinctly. There was silence again. Piffin did not move his eyes from the deathly mask. In a minute or two he saw a smile soften its lineaments, and Reardon again spoke. How often you and I have quoted it! We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and ah! The remaining words were indistinguishable, and as if the effort of utterance had exhausted him, his eyes closed, and he sank into lethargy. When he came down from his bedroom on the following morning, Piffin 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, would you take me there and let me see the room just as when he lived in it? Let the people in the house know what has happened and that I am responsible for whatever we'll be owing. Her resolve to behave composedly gave way as soon as Harold's broken voice had replied. Hysterical sobbing made further speech from her impossible, and Biffin, after holding her hand reverently for a moment, left her alone. On an evening of early summer, six months after the death of Edwin Reardon, Jasper, of the Fasile Pen, was bending over his desk, raiding rapidly by the warm western light which told that the sunset was near. Not far from him set his younger sister. She was reading, and the book in her hand bore the title, Mr. Bailey, Grocer. How will this do? Jasper exclaimed, suddenly throwing down his pen. And he read aloud a critical notice of the book with which Dora was occupied. A notice of the frankly eulogistic species, beginning with, it is seldom nowadays that the luckless reviewer of novels can draw the attention of the public to a new work which is at once powerful and original. And ending, the word is a bold one, but we do not hesitate to pronounce this book a masterpiece. Is that for the current? asked Dora, when he had finished. No, for the West End. Fedge won't allow anyone but himself to be lauded in that style. I may as well do the notice for the current now, as I've got my hand in. He turned to his desk again, and before daylight failed him, had produced a piece of more cautious writing, very favorable on the whole, but with reserves and slight censures. This also he read to Dora. You wouldn't suspect they were written by the same man, eh? No, you have changed the style very skillfully. I doubt if they'll be much use. Most people will fling the book down with yawns before they're half through with the first volume. If I knew a doctor who had many cases of insomnia in hand, I would recommend Mr. Bailey to him as a specific. Oh, but it is really clever, Jasper. Not a doubt of it. I half believe what I have written, and if only we could get it mentioned in a leader or two, and so on. Old Biffen's fame would be established with the better sort of readers. But he won't sell three hundred copies. I wonder whether Robertson would let me do a notice for his paper. Biffen ought to be grateful to you if he knew, said Dora, laughing. Yet now there are people who would cry out that this kind of thing is disgraceful. It's nothing of the kind. Speaking seriously, we know that a really good book will more likely than not receive fair treatment from two or three reviewers. Yes. But also more likely than not, it will be swamped in the flood of literature that pours forth week after week, and won't have attention fixed long enough upon it to establish its repute. The struggle for existence among books is nowadays as severe as among men. If a writer has friends connected with the press, it is the plain duty of those friends to do their utmost to help him. What matters 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 uses 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, Quoconc modo, as Biffen himself would say. I dare say he doesn't even think of you as a friend now. Very likely not, it's ages since I saw him. But there's much magnanimity in my character, as I have often told you. It delights me to be generous whenever I can afford it. Dusk was gathering about them. As they sat talking, there came a tap at the door, and the summons to enter was obeyed by Mr. Welpdale. 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 Welpdale was exhibited as a young man of greatly improved exterior. He wore a cream-colored waistcoat, a necktie of subtle hue, and delicate gloves. Prosperity breathed from his whole person. It was, in fact, only a moderate prosperity to which he had as yet attained, but the future beckoned to him flatteringly. Early in this year his enterprise as literary adviser had brought him in contact with a man of some pecuniary resources who proposed to establish an agency for the convenience of authors who were not skilled in disposing of their productions to the best advantage. Under the name of Fleet and Co., this business was shortly set on foot, and Welpdale's services were retained on satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicate system had given new scope to literary agencies, and Mr. Fleet was a man of keen eye for commercial opportunities. Well, have you read Biffen's book? asked Jasper. Wonderful, isn't it? A work of genius I am convinced. Ha! You have it there, Miss Dora. But I'm afraid it is hardly for you. And why not, Mr. Welpdale? You should only read of beautiful things of happy lives. This book must depress you. But why will you imagine me such a feeble-minded person? asked Dora. You have so often spoken like this. I have really no ambition to be a doll of such superfine wax. The habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned. Pray forgive me, he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards the girl with eyes which deprecated her displeasure. I am very far indeed from attributing weakness to you. It was only the natural, unreflecting impulse. One finds it so difficult to associate you, even as merely a reader, with such squalid scenes. The ignomely decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from that sphere in which you are naturally at home. There was some slight effectation in his language, but the tone attested sincere feeling. Jasper was watching him with half an eye, and glancing occasionally at Dora. No doubt, said the latter, it's my story in the English girl that inclines you to think me a goody-goody sort of young woman. So far from that, Miss Dora, I was only waiting for an opportunity to tell you how exceedingly delighted I have been with the last two weeks' installments. 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 recognized, Miss Dora, as the new writer for modern English girls. The subject of this panagyric colored a little and left. Unmistakably she was pleased. Look here, Welpdale, said Jasper. I can't have this. Dora's conceit, pleased to remember, is to begin with, only a little less than my own, and you will make her unendurable. Her tale is well enough in its way, but then its way is a very humble one. I deny it, cried the other excitedly. How can it be called a humble line of work to provide reading, which is at once intellectual and moving and exquisitely pure, for the most important part of the population, the educated and refined young people, who are just passing from girlhood to womanhood. The most important fiddle-stick. You are grossly irreverent, my dear Milvain. I cannot appeal to your sister, for she is too modest to rate her own sex at its true value, but the vast majority of thoughtful men would support me. You yourself do, though you affect this profane way of speaking. And we know, he looked at Dora, that he wouldn't talk like this if Miss Yule were present. Jasper changed the topic of conversation, and presently Welpdale was able to talk with more calmness. The young man, since his association with Flea and Co., had become fertile in suggestions of literary enterprise, and at present he was occupied with a project of special hopefulness. I want to find a capitalist, he said, who will get possession of that paper-chat, and transform it according to an idea I have in my head. The thing is doing very indifferently, but I am convinced it might be made splendid property, with a few changes in the way of conducting it. The paper is rubbish, remarked Jasper, and the kind of rubbish, oddly enough, which doesn't attract people. Precisely, but the rubbish is capable of being made a very valuable article, if it were only handled properly. I have talked to the people about it again and again, but I can't get them to believe what I say. Now just listen to my notion. In the first place, I should slightly alter the name. Only slightly, but that little alteration would in itself have an enormous effect. Instead of chat, I should call it chit-chat. Jasper exploded with mirth. That's brilliant, he cried, a stroke of genius. Are you serious, or are you making fun of me? I believe it is a stroke of genius. Chat doesn't attract anyone, but chit-chat would sell like hotcakes, as they say in America. I know I am right. Laugh as you will. On the same principle, cried Jasper, if the tatler were changed to tittle-tattle, its circulation would be troubled. Welp, they'll smote his knee into light. An admirable idea. Many a true word uttered in joke, and this is an instance. Tittle-tattle, a magnificent title, the very thing to catch the multitude. Dora was joining in the merriment, and for a minute or two nothing but bursts of laughter could be heard. Now do let me go on, implored the man of projects, when the noise subsided. That's only one change, though a most important one. What I next propose is this. I know you will laugh again, but I will demonstrate to you that I am right. No article in the paper is to measure more than two inches in length, and every inch must be broken into at least two paragraphs. Superb. But you are joking, Mr. Welp-dale, exclaimed Dora. No, I am perfectly serious. Let me explain my principle. I would have my paper address itself to the quarter educated. That is to say, the great new generation that is being turned out by the board schools. The young men and women who can just read, but are incapable of sustained attention. People of this kind want something to occupy them in trains and on buses and trams. As a rule, they care for no newspapers, except the Sunday ones. What they want is the lightest and frothiest of chit-chatty information, bits of stories, bits of description, bits of scandal, bits of jokes, bits of statistics, bits of foolery. Am I not right? Everything must be very short, two inches at the utmost. Their attention can't sustain itself beyond two inches. Even chat is too solid for them. They want chit-chat. Jasper had begun to listen seriously. There's something in this, Welp-dale, he remarked. Ha! I have caught you, cried the other delightedly. Of course there's something in it. But began Dora and checked herself. You were going to say? Welp-dale bent towards her with deference. Surely these poor, silly people oughtn't to be encouraged in their weakness. Welp-dale'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 Welp-dale in one of the most notable projects of modern times. I shall think no more of it, said Welp-dale, gravely. You are right, Dora. Again Jasper burst into merriment. His sister reddened and looked uncomfortable. She began to speak timidly. You said this was for reading in trains and buses? Welp-dale caught at hope. Yes, and really, you know, it may be better at such times to read chit-chat than to be altogether vacant or to talk unprofitably. I am not sure. I bow to your opinion, unreservedly. So long as they only read the paper at such times, said Dora, still hesitating. One knows by experience that one can't really 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 on-top people, the quarter educated? It might encourage in some of them a taste for reading, don't you think? It might, assented Dora, musingly, and in that case you would be doing good. Distinct good. They smiled joyfully at each other. Then Welp-dale turned to Jasper. You are convinced that there is something in this? Seriously, I think there is. It would all depend on the skill of the fellows who put the thing together every week. They're all always to be one strongly sensational item. We won't call an article. For instance, you might display on a placard, what the queen eats, or how Gladstone's collars are made, things of that kind. To be sure, to be sure. And then, you know, added Welp-dale, 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 would ever that could be really demoralizing, sale of a sans dire. Well, what I was going to say was this. Would you come with me to the office of chat, and have a talk with my friend, Lake, the sub-editor? I know your time is very valuable, but then you're often running into the will of the wisp, and chat is just upstairs, you know. What use should I be? Oh, all the use in the world. Lake would pay most respectful attention to your opinion, though he thinks so little of mine. You are a man of note. I am nobody. I feel convinced that you could persuade the chat people to adopt my idea, and they might be willing to give me a contingent share of contingent profits, if I had really shown them the way to a good thing. Jasper promised to think the matter over. Whilst their talk still ran on the subject, a packet that had come by post was brought into the room. Opening it, Milvane exclaimed, Ha, this is lucky. There's something here that may interest you, Welpdale. Proofs? Yes, a paper I have written for the wayside. He looked at Dora, who smiled. How do you like the title? The novels of Edwin Reardon. You don't say so, cried the other. What a good-hearted fellow you are, Milvane. 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 worthwhile 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 read. Mortimer said he was sure these were the only ones that would pay for themselves, but we shall see. He may alter his opinion when my article has been read. Read it to us now, Jasper, will you? asked Dora. The request was supported by Welpdale, and Jasper needed no pressing. He seated himself so that the lamp-light fell upon the pages, and read the article through. It was an excellent piece of writing. See the wayside June 1884, and in places touched with true emotion. Any intelligent reader would divine that the author had been personally acquainted with the man of whom he wrote, though the fact was nowhere stated. The praise was not exaggerated, yet all the best points of Reardon's work were admirably brought out. One who knew Jasper might reasonably have doubted, before reading this, whether he was capable of so worthily appreciating the nobler man. I never understood Reardon so well before, declared Welpdale at the close. This is a good thing, well done. It's something to be proud of, Miss Dora. Yes, I feel that it is, she replied. Mrs. Reardon ought to be very grateful to you, Milving. By the by, do you ever see her? I have met her only once since his death, by chance. Of course she will marry again. I wonder who will be the fortunate man. Fortunate, do you think? asked Dora, quietly, without looking at him. Oh, I spoke rather cynically, I'm afraid. Welpdale hastened to reply. I was thinking of her money. Indeed, I knew Mrs. Reardon only very slightly. I don't think you need regret it, Dora remarked. Oh, well, come, come, put in her brother. We know very well that there was little enough blame on her side. There was great blame, Dora exclaimed. She behaved shamefully. I wouldn't speak to her. I wouldn't sit down in her company. Bosh, what do you know about it? Wait till you are married to a man like Reardon, and reduced to utter penury. Whoever my husband was, I would stand by him, if I starved to death. If he ill-used you? I am not talking of such cases. Mrs. Reardon had never anything of the kind to fear. It was impossible for a man such as her husband to behave harshly. Her conduct was cowardly, faithless, and unwomely. 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. Welpdale felt obliged to interpose, and had, of course, no choice but to support the girl. I can only say, he remarked with a smile, that Miss Dora takes a very noble point of view. One feels that a wife ought to be staunch. But it's so very unsafe to discuss matters in which one cannot know all the facts. We know quite enough of the facts, said Dora, with delightful pertinacity. Indeed, perhaps we do, assented her slave, then turning to her brother. Well, once more I congratulate you. I shall talk of your article incessantly, as soon as it appears, and I shall pester every one of my acquaintances to buy Reardon's books. Though it's no use to him, poor fellow. Still, he would have died more contentedly if he could have foreseen this. By the by, Biffin will be profoundly grateful to you, I'm sure. I'm doing what I can for him, too. Run your eye over these slips. Welpdale exhausted himself in terms of satisfaction. You deserve to get on, my dear fellow. In a few years you will be the aristarchess of our literary world. When the visitor rose to depart, Jasper said he would walk a short distance with him. As soon as they had left the house, the future aristarchess made a confidential communication. It may interest you to know that my sister Maude is shortly to be married. Indeed, may I ask to whom? A man you don't know. His name is Dallamore, a fellow in society. Rich then, I hope. Tolerably well to do. I dare say he has three or four thousand a year. Gracious heavens, why, that's magnificent. But Welpdale did not look quite so much satisfaction as his words expressed. Is it to be soon, he inquired. At the end of the season. Makes no difference to Dora and me, of course. Oh, really? No difference at all? You will let me come and see you, both, just in the old way, Milvane? Why the deuce, shouldn't you? To be sure, to be sure. By Jove, I really don't know how I should get on if I couldn't look in of an evening now and then. I have got so much into the habit of it. And I'm a lonely beggar, you know. I don't go into society. And really? He broke off, and Jasper began to speak of other things. When Milvane re-entered the house, Dora had gone to her own sitting-room. It was not quite ten o'clock. Taking one set of the proofs of his Reardon article, he put it into a large envelope. Then he wrote a short letter, which began, Dear Mrs. Reardon, and ended, very sincerely yours. The communication itself being as follows. I venture to send you the proofs of a paper which is to appear in next month's wayside, in the hope that it may seem to you not badly done, and that the reading of it may give you pleasure. If anything occurs to you which you would like me to add, or if you desire any omission, will you do me the kindness to let me know of it as soon as possible, and your suggestion shall at once be adopted? I am informed that the new edition of On Neutral Ground, and Hubert Read, will be ready next month. Need I say how glad I am that my friends' work is not to be forgotten? This note he also put into the envelope, which he made ready for posting. Then he sat for a long time in profound thought. Shortly after eleven his door opened, and Maude came in. She had been dining at Mrs. Lane's. Her attire was still simple, but of equality which would have signified recklessness. But for the outlook whereof Jasper spoke to Welpdale. 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 ranked quite differently from her tones of a year ago. The pride which was natural to her had now affirmed support. She moved and uttered herself in queenly fashion. Has anyone been? she asked. Welpdale. Oh, I wanted to ask you, Jasper. Do you think it wise to let him come so often? There's a difficulty, you see. I can hardly tell him to shear off, and he's really a decent fellow. That may be, but I think it's rather unwise. Things are changed. In a few months Dora will be a good deal at my house, and we'll see all sorts of people. Yes, but what if they are the kind of people she doesn't care anything about? You must remember, old girl, that her tastes are quite different from yours. I say nothing, but perhaps it's as well they should be. You say nothing, but you add an insult, returned Maude, with a smile of superb disregard. We won't reopen the question. Oh, dear no. And by the by, I have a letter from Dalamor. It came just after you left. Well, he is quite willing to settle upon you a third of his income from the Collarys. He tells me it will represent between seven and eight hundred a year. I think it rather little, you know, but I congratulate myself on having got this out of him. Don't speak in that unpleasant way. It was only your abruptness that made any kind of difficulty. I have my own opinion on that point, and I shall beg leave to keep it. Probably he will thank me still more abrupt when I request, as I am now going to do, an interview with his solicitors. Is that allowable, asked Maude anxiously? Can you do that with any decency? If not, then I must do it with indecency. You will have the goodness to remember that if I don't look after your interests, no one else will. It's perhaps fortunate for you that I have a good deal of the man of business about me. Dolomore thought I was a dreamy literary fellow. I don't say that he isn't entirely honest, but he shows something of a disposition to play the autocrat, and I by no means intend to let him. If you had a father, Dolomore would have to submit his affairs to examination. I stand to you in local parentis, and I shall bait no jaw of my rights. But you can't say that his behaviour hasn't been perfectly straightforward. I don't wish to. I think, on the whole, he has behaved more honourably than was to be expected of a man of his kind. But he must treat me with respect. My position in the world is greatly superior to his. And by the gods I will be treated respectfully. It wouldn't be a miss, Maude, if you just gave him a hint to that effect. All I have to say is, Jasper, don't do me an irreparable injury. You might without meaning it. No fear whatever of it. I can behave as a gentleman, and I only expect Dolomore to do the same. Their conversation lasted for a long time, and when he was again left alone, Jasper again fell into a mood of thoughtfulness. By a late post on the following day he received this letter. Dear Mr. Milvane, 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 ever in 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 be but a consolation to me to think that, when the magazine appears, so many people will talk of Edwin and his books. I am deeply grateful to Mr. Mortimer for having undertaken to republish those two novels. If you have an opportunity, will you do me the great kindness to thank him on my behalf? At the same time, I must remember that it was you who first spoke to him on this subject. You say that it gladdens you to think Edwin will not be forgotten. And I am very sure that the friendly office you have so admirably performed will in itself reward you more than any poor expression of gratitude from me. I write hurriedly, anxious to let you hear as soon as possible. Believe me, dear Mr. Milvane, you are sincerely, Amy Reardon. New Grubb Street, by George Kissing Chapter 34, Part 1 Mary Anne was at work as usual in the reading room. She did her best, during the hours spent there, to convert herself into the literary machine, which it was her hope would someday be invented for construction in the less sensitive material than a 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 deceased eyes should be ready for the operator. It was surmised, moreover, that a good deal depended upon the girl's literary extortions. Mr. Combay and his gossip naturally took the darkest view of things. They were convinced that Alford Ewell could never recover his sight, and they had the Dolores satisfaction in relating the story of Mary Anne's legacy. Of her relations with Jasper Milvane, none of these persons had heard. Ewell had never spoken of that matter to any one of his friends. Jasper had to look in this morning for a hurried consultation of certain encyclopedic volumes. And it chants that Mary Anne was standing before the shelves to which his business led him. He saw her from a little distance, and paused. It seemed as if he would turn back. For a moment he wore a look of doubt and worry. But after all he proceeded. At the sound of his good morning, Mary Anne started. She was standing with an open book in hand, and looked up with a gleam of joy on her face. I wanted to see you today. She said, subduing her voice to the tone of ordinary conversation. I should have come this evening. You wouldn't have found me at home. From five to seven I shall be frantically busy, and then I have to rush off to dine with some people. I couldn't see you before five. Is it something important? Yes, it is. I tell you what. If you could meet me at Glochester 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 wit's end. Glochester Gate at four sharp. I don't think it will rain. He dragged out a tome of the Britannica. Mary Anne nodded, and returned to her seat. At the appointed hour she was waiting near the entrance of the 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 then began to fear that the passing rain might have led Jasper to think she would not come. Another five minutes, and from a handsome 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 three-shadows strip of the park which scars the canal. I'm so afraid that you haven't really time, said Mary Anne, 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 seem to come so rarely. If I get home at five it will be all right, he replied. What have you to tell me, Mary Anne? We have heard about the money at last. Oh! he avoided looking at her. And what's the upshot? I shall have nearly fifteen hundred pounds. So much as that. Well, that's better than nothing, isn't it? Very much better. They walked on in silence. Mary Anne stole a glance at her companion. I should have thought it's a great deal, she said presently, before I had begun to think of thousands. Fifteen hundred? Well, it means fifty pounds a year, I suppose. He chewed the end of his moustache. Let us sit down on this bench. Fifteen hundred? And nothing more is to be hoped for. Nothing. I should have thought man would wish to pay their debts, even after they had been bankrupt. But they tell us we can't expect anything more from these people. You're thinking of Walter Scott and that kind of thing, Jasper laughed. Oh, that's quiet un-business-like. It would be setting a pernicious example nowadays. Well, and what's to be done? Mary Anne had no answer for such a question. The tone of it was a new step to her heart, which had suffered so many during the past half-year. Now, I'll ask you frankly, Jasper went on, and I know you will reply in the same spirit. Would it be wise to ask Mary on this money? On this money? She looked into his face with painful earnestness. You mean, he said, that it can be spared for that purpose. What she really meant was uncertain even to herself. She had wished to hear how Jasper would receive the news, and thereby to direct her own course. Had he welcomed it as offering a possibility of their marriage, that would have gladdened her, though it would then have been necessary to show him all the difficulties by which she was beset. For some time they had not spoken of her father's position, and Jasper seemed willing to forget all about the complication of their troubles. But marriage did not occur to him, and he was evidently quiet 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 hurt him plead with her to neglect her parents for the sake of being his wife. Love excuses everything, and his selfishness would have been easily lost sight of in the assurance that he still desired her. You say, she replied with bent head, that it would bring us fifty pounds a year. If another fifty were added to that, my father and mother would be supported in case the worst comes. I might earn fifty pounds. You wish me to understand, Marianne, that I mustn't expect that she will bring me anything when we are married. His tone was that of acquiescence, not by any means of displeasure. He spoke as if desirous of saying for her something she found the difficulty in saying for herself. Jasper, it is so hard for me, so hard for me. How could I help remembering what she told me when I promised to be your wife? I spoke the truth rather brutally, he replied in a kind voice. Let all that be unsaid, forgotten. We are in quite a different position now. Be open with me, Marianne, 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 less you should seem to me unwomanly. You can be that. What is your own wish? What do you really wish to do, now that there is no uncertainty calling for postponements? Marianne raised her eyes, and was about to speak as she regarded him. But with the first accent her look fell. I wish to be your wife. He waited, thinking and struggling with himself. Yet you feel that it would be heartless to take and use this money for our own purposes. What is to become of my parents, Jasper? But then you admit that the fifteen hundred pounds won't support them. You talk of earning fifty pounds a year for them. Need I cease to write, dear, if we were married? Wouldn't you let me help them? But my dear girl, you are talking of granted that we shall have enough for themself. I didn't mean at once, she exclaimed hurriedly. In a short time, in a year, you are getting on so well, you will soon have a sufficient income, I am sure. Jasper rose. Let us walk as far as the next seat. Don't speak, I have something to think about. Moving on beside him, she slipped her hand softly within his arm, but Jasper did not put the arm into position to support hers, and her hand fell again, dropped suddenly. They reached another bench, and again became seated. It comes to this, Marianne, he said, with portentous gravity. Support you, I could, I have little doubt of that. Mode is provided for, and Dora can make a living for herself. I could support you, and leave you free to give your parents whatever you can earn by your own work. But he posed significantly. It was his wish that Marianne should supply the consequence, but she did not speak. Very well, he exclaimed. Then when are we to be married? The tone of resignation was too marked. Jasper was not good as a comedian. He lacked subtlety. We must wait, fell from Marianne's lips in the whisper of despair. Wait, but how long? he inquired, dispassionately. Do you wish to be freed from your engagement, Jasper? He was not strong enough to reply with a plain yes, and so have done with his perplexities. He feared the girl's face, and he feared his own subsequent emotions. Don't talk in that way, Marianne. The question is simply this. Are we to wait a year, or are we to wait five years? In a year's time, I shall probably be able to have a small house somewhere out in the suburbs. If we are married then, I shall be happy enough with so good a wife, but my career will take a different shape. I shall just throw overboard certain of my ambitions, and work steadily on at earning a livelihood. If we wait five years, I may perhaps have obtained an editorship, and in that case I should of course have all sorts of better things to offer you. But dear, why shouldn't you get an editorship all the same if you are married? I have explained to you several times that the success of that kind is not comfortable with a small house in the suburbs, and all the ties of a narrow income. As a bachelor I can go about freely, make acquaintances, dine at people's houses, perhaps entertain a useful friend now and then, and so on. It is not married that succeeds in my line. It is a marriage plus opportunity. Marrying now, I cut myself off from opportunity, that's all. She kept silence. Decide my fate for me, Marianne. He pursued, magnanimously. Let us make up our minds and do what we decide to do. Indeed it doesn't concern me so much as yourself. Are you content to lead a simple, unambitious life, or should you prefer your husband to be a man of some distinction? I know so well what your own wish is. But to wait for years, you will cease to love me, and will only think of me as a hindrance in your way. Well now, when I said five years, of course I took a round number. Three. Two. My take all the difference to me. Let it be just as you wish. I can bear anything rather than lose your love. You feel then, then it will decidedly be wise not to marry, whilst we are still so poor. Yes, whatever you are convinced of is right. He again rose, and looked at his watch. Jesper, you don't think I have behaved selfishly and 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, I'll let them do as best they can. That would have been selfish with a vengeance. Now we are speaking kindly. Must you go, Jesper? I must indeed. Two hours work I am bound to get before seven o'clock, and I have been making it harder for you by disturbing your mind. No, no, it's all right now. I shall go at it with all the more energy. Now we have come to a decision. Dora has asked me to go to queue on Sunday. Shall you be able to come, dear? Bye, Jov, no! I have three engagements on Sunday afternoon. I'll try and keep the Sunday after. I will indeed. What are the engagements? She asked immediately. As they walked back towards Glochester Gate, he answered her question, showing how unpardonable it would be to neglect the people concerned. Then they parted, Jesper going off at a small pace homewards. Marianne 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 Ewell's sitting-room, and for the gatherings of the family at meals. Mrs. Ewell generally sat in the kitchen, and Marianne used her bedroom as a study. About half the collection of books had been sold. Those that remained were still a respectable library, almost covering the walls of the room, where their disconsulate possessor passed his mournful days. He could read for a few hours a day, but only large type, and fear of consequences kept him well within the limit of such indulgence laid down by his advisers. Though he in worldly spoke as if his case were hopeless, Ewell was very far from having resigned himself to this conviction. Indeed the prospect of spending his later 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 effect. On the whole he was not a sublipatient. At the time of their removal to these lodgings, seeing that Mary Anne 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. Ewell addressed his daughter in a grave, cold, civil tone, and Mary Anne replied gently, but without tenderness. For Mrs. Ewell the disaster to the family was distinctly in game. She could not but mourn her husband's affliction. Yet he no longer visited her with the fury or contemptuous impatience of former days, doubtless the fact of needing so much tendance had its softening influence on the man. He could not turn brutally upon his wife, when every hour of the day afforded him some proof of her absolute devotion. Of course his open-air exercise was still unhindered, and in this season of the returning sun he woked a great deal, decidedly to the advantage of his general health, which again must have been a source of benefit to his temper. Of evenings Mary Anne sometimes read to him. He never requested this, but he did not reject the kindness. This afternoon Mary Anne found her father examining a volume of prints, which had been lent him by Mr. Cormby. The table was late for dinner. Owing to Mary Anne's frequent absence at the museum, no change had been made in the order of meals. And Ewell said by the window, his book propped on a second chair. A whiteness in his eyes showed how the disease was progressing, but his face had a more wholesome colour than a year ago. Mr. Hinks and Mr. Gorba inquired very kindly after you today, said the girl, as she seated herself. Oh, is Hinks out again? Yes, but he looks very ill. They conversed of such matters until Mrs. Ewell, now her own servant, brought in the dinner. After the meal Mary Anne was in her bedroom for about an hour, then she went to her father, who sat in idleness, smoking. What is your mother doing? he asked, as she entered. Some needle work. I had perhaps better say, he spoke rather stiffly, and with averted face, that I make no exclusive claim to the use of this room. As I can no longer pretend to study, it would be idle to keep up the show of privacy that mustn't be disturbed. Perhaps you will mention to your mother that she is quite at liberty to sit here whenever she chooses. It was characteristic of him that he should wish to deliver this permission by proxy, but Mary Anne understood how much was implied in such an announcement. I will tell mother, she said, but at this moment I wish to speak to you privately. How would you advise me to invest my money? You all look surprised, and answered with cold dignity. It is strange that you should put such a question to me. I have supposed your interests were in the hands of some competent person. This will be my private affair, father. I wish to get as high a rate of interest as I safely can. I really must decline to advise, or interfere in any way. But as you have introduced the subject, I may as well put a question which is connected with it. Could you give me any idea as to how long you are likely to remain with us? At least a year was the answer, and very likely much longer. Am I to understand, then, that your marriage is indefinitely postponed? Yes, father, and will you tell me why? I can only say that it has seemed better to both of us. You all detected the sorrowful emotion she was endeavoring to suppress. His conception of Milvane'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 Marion might learn how rightly he had judged her wooer, and an involuntary pity for the girl did not prevent his hoping that the detestable alliance was doomed. With difficulty he refrained from smiling. I will make no comment on that, he remarked, with a certain emphasis. But do you imply that this investment of which you speak is to be solely for your own advantage? For mine, and for yours and mother's? There was a silence of a minute or two. As yet it had not been necessary to take any steps for raising money, but a few months more would see the family without resources, save those provided by Marion, who, without discussion, had been simply setting aside what she received for her work. You must be well aware, said Yule at length, that I cannot consent to benefit by any such offer. When it is necessary, I shall borrow on the security of— Why should you do that, Father, Marion interrupted? My money is yours. If you refuse it as a gift, then why may not I lend it to you as well as a stranger? Repay me when your eyes are restored. For the present all our anxieties are at an end. We can live very well until you are able to write again. For his sake she put it in his way, supposing him never able to earn anything, then indeed would come a time of hardship. But she could not contemplate that. The worst would only befall them in case she was forsaken by Jasper. And if that happened, all else would be of little account. This has come upon me as a surprise, said Yule, in his most reserved tone. I can give no definite reply. I must think of it. Should you like me to ask Mother to bring her sowing here now? Asked Marion, rising. Yes, you may do so. In this way the awkwardness of the situation was overcome, and when Marion next had occasion to speak of money matters, no serious objection was offered to her proposal. Dora Milvane, of course, learned what had come to pass. To anticipate criticism, her brother imparted to her the decision at which Marion and he had arrived. She reflected with an air of discontent. So you were quite satisfied, was her question at length, that Marion should toil to support her parents as well as herself. Can I help it? I shall think very ill of you if you don't marry her in a year at latest. I tell you, Marion has made a deliberate choice. She understands me perfectly, and is quite satisfied with my projects. You will have the kindness, Dora, not to disturb her faith in me. I agree to that, and in return I shall let you know when she begins to suffer from hunger. It won't be very long till then, you may be sure. How do you suppose three people are going to live on a hundred a year? And it's very doubtful indeed whether Marion can earn as much as fifty pounds. Never mind, I shall let you know when she is beginning to starve, and doubtless that will amuse you. At the end of July Maude was married. Between Mr. Dalamor and Jasper existed no superfluous kindness, each resenting the other's self-sufficiency. But Jasper, when once satisfied of his proposed brother-in-law's straightforwardness, was careful not to give offence to a man who might someday serve him. Provided this marriage resulted in moderate happiness to Maude, it was undoubtedly a magnificent stroke of luck. Mrs. Lane, the lady who has so often been casually mentioned, took upon herself those offices in connection with the ceremony which the bride's mother is wont to perform. At her house was held the wedding breakfast, and such other absurdities of usage as recommend themselves to society. Dora, of course, played the part of a bridesmaid, and Jasper went through his duties with a suave seriousness of a man who has convinced himself that he cannot afford to despise anything that the world sanctions. About the same time occurred another event, which was to have more importance for this aspiring little family than could as yet be foreseen. Wellpedale's noteworthy idea triumphed. The weekly paper called Chat was thoroughly transformed, and appeared as Chit Chat. From the first number, the success of the enterprise was beyond doubt. In a month's time all England was ringing with the fame of this noble new development of journalism. The proprietor saw his way to a solid fortune, and other men who had money to embark began to scheme imitative publications. It was clear that the quarter educated would soon be abundantly provided, with literature to their taste. Wellpedale's exaltation was unbounded, but in the fifth week of the life of Chit Chat something happened which threatened to overturn his sober reason. Jasper was walking along the strand one afternoon, when he saw his ingenious friend approaching him in a manner scarcely to be accounted for, unless Wellpedale's abstiniousness 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 letter called to him. Then he turned round, laughed insanely, grasped his acquaintance by the wrists, and drew him aside into a court. What do you think? he panted. What do you think has happened? No one would suppose, I hope, you seem to have gone mad. I've got Lake's place on Chit Chat, cried the other hoarsely. 250 a year. Lake and the editor quarreled, pummeled each other, neither know nor care what it was about. My fortunes made. You're a modest man, remarked Jasper, smiling. Certainly I am. I have always admitted it. But remember that there's my connection with the fleet as well. No need to give that up. Presently I shall be making a clear six hundred, my dear sir. A clear six hundred, if a penny. Satisfactory so far. But you must remember that I'm not a big gun like you. Why, my dear Milvain, a year ago I should have thought an income of two hundred a glorious competence. I don't aim at such things as are fit for you. You won't be content till you have thousands. Of course I know that. But I am a humble fellow. Yet no, by jingle I'm not. And one way I'm not, I must confess it. And what instance are you arrogant? I can't tell you, not yet. This is neither time nor place. I say, when will you dine with me? I shall give a dinner to half a dozen of my acquaintances somewhere or other. Poor old Biffin must come. When can you dine? Give me a week's notice, and I'll fit it in. That dinner came duly off. On the day that followed, Jasper and Dora left town for their holiday. They went to the Channel Islands, and spent more than half of the three weeks they had allowed themselves in Sark. Passing over from the Gearsney to that island, they were amused to see a copy of Chit Chat in the hands of an obese and well-dressed man. Is he one of the quarter educated? asked Dora, laughing. Not in Welpdale's sense of the word, but strictly speaking, no doubt he is. The quarter educated consists of a very large class indeed. How large the huge success of that paper is demonstrating. All right to Welpdale, and let him know that his benefaction has extended even to Sark. This letter was written, and in a few days there came a reply. Why, the fellow has written to you as well, exclaimed Jasper, taking up a second letter, both were on the table of their sitting-room when they came to their lodgings for lunch. That's his hand. It looks like it. Dora hummed an air as she regarded the envelope, then she took it away with her to her room upstairs. What had he to say, Jasper inquired when she came down again and seated herself at the table. Oh, a friendly letter! What does he say to you? Dora had never looked so animated and fresh of color 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 Welpdale's letter aloud. It was facetious, but oddly respectful. The reverence that fellow has for me is astonishing, he observed with a laugh. The queer thing is, it increases the better he knows me. Dora laughed for five minutes. Oh, what a splendid epigram, she exclaimed! It is indeed a queer thing, Jasper. Do you mean that to be a good joke, or was it better still by coming out unintentionally? You are a remarkable spirit, old girl. By the by, would you mind letting me see that letter of yours? He held out his hand. I left it upstairs. Dora replied carelessly. Rather presumptuous in him, it seems to me. Oh, he writes quite as respectfully to me, as he does to you, she returned, with a peculiar smile. But what business has he to write at all? It's confounded in pertinence. Now I come to think of it. I shall give him a hint to remember his position. Dora could not be quite sure whether he spoke seriously or not. As both of them had begun to eat, with an excellent appetite, a few moments were allowed to pass before the girl again spoke. His position is as good as ours, she said at length. As good as ours, the sub of a paltry rag, like chit-chat, and assistant to a literary agency? He makes considerably more money than we do. Money, what's money? Dora was again mirthful. Oh, of course money is nothing. We write for honor and glory. Don't forget to insist on that when you reprove Mr. Welpdale. No doubt it will impress him. Late in the evening of that day, when the brother and sister had strolled by Moonlay up to the windmill, which occupies the highest point of Sark, and as they stood looking upon the pale, expansive sea, dotted with the gleam of lighthouses near and far, Dora broke the silence to say quietly, I may as well tell you that Mr. Welpdale wants to know if I will marry him. The deuce he does, cried Jasper with a start. If I didn't half suspect something of that kind, what astounding impudence! You seriously think so? Well, don't you? You hardly know him to begin with, and then, oh, confound it. Very well, I'll tell him that his impudence astonishes me. You will? Certainly, of course, in civil terms. But don't let this make any difference between you and him. Just pretend to know nothing about it. No harm is done. You are speaking in earnest? Quite. He has written in a very proper way, and there's no reason whatever to disturb our friendliness with him. I have a right to give directions in a matter like this, and you'll please to obey them. Before going to bed Dora wrote a letter to Mr. Welpdale. Not indeed, accepting his offer forthwith, but conveying to him with much gracefulness and unmistakable encouragement to persevere. This was posted on the morrow, and its raider continued to benefit most remarkably by the sun and breezes and rocks grumbling of sark. Soon after the return to London, Dora had the satisfaction of paying the first visit to her sister at the Dalamore's house in Ovington Square. Mod was established in the midst of luxuries, and talked with laughing scorn of the days when she had inhabited Grubb Street. Her literary tases were henceforth to serve as merely a note of distinction, and added grace which made evident her superiority to the well-attired and smooth-tongued people among whom she was content to shine. On the one hand she had contact with the world of fashionable literature, on the other with that of fashionable ignorance. Mrs. Lane's house was a meeting point of the two spheres. I shan't be there very often, remarked Jasper, as Dora and he discussed their sister's magnificence. That's all very well in its way, but I aim at something higher. So do I, Dora replied. I'm very glad to hear that. I confess it seemed to me that you were rather too cordial with Welpdale yesterday. One must behave civilly. Mr. Welpdale quite understands me. You are sure of that? He didn't seem quite so gloomy as he ought to have been. The success of Chit Chat keeps him in good spirits. It was perhaps a week after this that Mrs. Dallamar came quite unexpectedly to the house by Regent's Park, as early as eleven o'clock in the morning. She had a long talk in private with Dora. Jasper was not at home. When he returned towards evening, Dora came to his room, with a countenance which disconcerted him. Is it true, she asked abruptly, standing before him with her hands strained together, that you have been representing yourself as no longer engaged to Marion? Who has told you so? That doesn't matter. I have heard it, and I want to know from you that it is false. Jasper thrust his hands into his pockets and walked apart. I can take no notice, he said with indifference, of anonymous gossip. Well, then, I will tell you how I have heard. Mod came this morning, and told me that Mrs. Betterton had been asking her about it. Mrs. Betterton had heard from Mrs. Lane. From Mrs. Lane? And from whom did she hear, pray? That I don't know. Is it true or not? I have never told anyone that my engagement was at an end, replied Jasper deliberately. The girl met his eyes. Then I was right, she said. Of course, I told Mod that it was impossible to believe this for a moment. But how has it come to be said? You might as well ask me how any lie gets into circulation among people of that sort. I have told you the truth, and there's an end of it. Dora lingered for a while, but left the room without saying anything more. She sat up late, mostly engaged in thinking, though at times an open book was in her hand. It was nearly half past twelve, when a very light wrap at the door caused her to start. She called, and Jasper came in. Why are you still up, he asked, avoiding her look as he moved forward, and took a leaning attitude behind an easy chair. Oh, I don't know. Do you want anything? There was a pause. Then Jasper said, in an unsteady voice, I am not giving to lying Dora, and I feel confoundedly uncomfortable about what I said to you early this evening. I didn't lie in the ordinary sense. It's true enough that I have never told anyone that my engagement was at an end. But I have acted as if it were. And it's better, I should tell you. His sister gazed at him with indignation. You have acted as if you were free? Yes, I have proposed to Miss Rupert. How Mrs. Lane and that lot have come to know anything about this I don't understand. I'm not aware of any connecting link between them and the Ruperts, or the Barbos, either. Perhaps there are none. Most likely the rumor 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 at Barbos. At least I don't see how they could have done. She may have told Mrs. Barlow of my proposal—probably would—and this may somehow have got round to those other people. But Maud didn't make any mention of Miss Rupert, did she? Dora replied with a cold negative. Well, there's a state of things. It isn't pleasant, but that's what I've done. Do you mean that Miss Rupert has accepted you? No, I wrote to her. She answered that she was going to Germany for a few weeks, and that I should have her reply whilst she was away. I am waiting. But what name is to be given to behaviour such as this? Listen, didn't you know perfectly well that this must be the end of it? Do you suppose I thought you utterly shameless and cruel beyond words? I suppose I am both. It was a moment of desperate temptation, though. I had dined at the Ruperts. You remember, and it seemed to me there is no mistaking the girl's manner. Don't call her a girl, broken Dora scornfully. You say she is several years older than yourself. Well, at all against. 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. Jesper moved to another chair, and sat down. He was much perturbed. Look here, Dora. I regret it. I do indeed. And what's more, if that woman refuses me, as it's more than likely she will, I will go to Marian and ask her to marry me at once. I promise that. His sister made a movement of contemptuous impatience. And if the woman doesn't refuse you? Then I can't help it. But there's one thing more I will say. Whether I marry Marian or Miss Rupert, I sacrifice my strongest feelings, in one case to a sense of duty, and the other to worldly advantage. I was an idiot to write that letter, for I knew at the time that there was a woman who is far more to me than Miss Rupert and all her money—a woman I might, perhaps, marry. Don't ask any questions. I shall not answer them. As I have said, I wish you to understand my position fully. You know the promise I have made. Don't say anything to Marian. If I am left free, I shall marry her as soon as possible. And so he left the room. For a fortnight and more he remained in uncertainty. His life was very uncomfortable, for Dora would only speak to him when necessity compelled her. And there were two meetings with Marian, at which he had to act his part as well as he could. At length came the expected letter. Very nicely expressed, very friendly, very complimentary, but a refusal. He handed it to Dora across the breakfast table, saying with a pinched smile, Now you can look cheerful again. I am doomed.