Chapter 22 of New Grubb Street. Each day Jasper came to inquire of his sisters if they had news from Wattlebrough or from Marion Yule. He exhibited no impatience, spoke of the matter in a disinterested tone. Still, he came daily. One afternoon he found Dora working alone. Maud, he was told, had gone to lunch at Mrs Lane's. So soon again she's getting very thick with those people. Why don't they ask you? Maud has told them that I don't care to go out. It's all very well, but she mustn't neglect her work. Did she write anything last night or this morning? Dora bit the end of her pen and shook her head. Why not? The invitation came about five o'clock and it seemed to unsettle her. Precisely, that's what I'm afraid of. She isn't the kind of girl to stick at work if people begin to send her invitations. But I tell you what it is. You must talk seriously to her. She has to get her living, you know. Mrs Lane and her set are not likely to be much use, that's the worst of it. They'll merely waste her time and make her discontented. His sister executed an elaborate bit of cross-hatching on some waste paper. Her lips were drawn together and her brows wrinkled. At length she broke the silence by saying, Marion hasn't been yet. Jasper seemed to pay no attention. She looked up at him and saw that he was in thought. Did you go to those people last night? She inquired. Yes, by the by, Miss Rupert was there. He spoke as if the name would be familiar to his hero, but Dora seemed at a loss. Who is Miss Rupert? Didn't I tell you about her? I thought I did. Oh, I met her first of all at Barlow's, just after we got back from the seaside. Rather an interesting girl. She's the daughter of Manton Rupert, the advertising agent. But I wanted to get invited to their house. Useful people, you know. But is an advertising agent a gentleman? Jasper laughed. Do you think of him as a bill-poster? That all events he's enormously wealthy and has a magnificent house at Chislehurst. The girl goes about with her stepmother. I call her a girl, but she must be nearly thirty. And Mrs Rupert looks only two or three years older. I had quite a long talk with her, Miss Rupert.  She told me she was going to stay next week with the Barlow's, so I shall have her run out to Wimbledon one afternoon. Dora looked at him inquiringly. Just to see Miss Rupert, she asked, meeting his eyes. To be sure. Why not? Oh, ejaculated his sister, as if the question did not concern her. She isn't exactly good-looking. Pursued Jasper meditatively, with a quick glance at the listener, but fairly intellectual, plays very well, and has a nice contralto voice. She sang that new thing of Tostes, what do you call it? I thought her rather masculine when I first saw her, but the impression wears off when one knows her better. She rather takes to me, I fancy. But began Dora after a minute's silence. But what? inquired her brother, with an air of interest. I don't quite understand you, in general, or with reference to some particular. What right have you to go to places just to see this Miss Rupert? What right? he laughed. I'm a young man with my way to make, I can't afford to lose any opportunity. If Miss Rupert is so good as to take an interest in me, I have no objection. She's old enough to make friends for herself. Oh, then you consider her simply a friend. I shall see how things go on. But pray, do consider yourself perfectly free, asked Dora, with some indignation. Why shouldn't I? Then I think you have been behaving very strangely. Jasper saw that she was in earnest.  With regard to Marion, you mean? Of course I do. But Marion understands me perfectly. I have never for a moment tried to make her think that, well, to put it plainly, that I was in love with her. In all our conversations it has been my one object to afford her insight into my character and to explain my position. She has no excuse whatever for misinterpreting me and I feel assured that she has done nothing of the kind. Very well, if you feel satisfied with yourself. But come now Dora, what's all this about? You're Marion's friend. And of course I don't wish you to say a word about her. But let me explain myself. I have occasionally walked part of the way home with Marion when she and I have happened to go from here at the same time. Now there was nothing whatever in our talk at such times that anyone might not have listened to. We are both intellectual people and we talk in an intellectual way. You seem to have rather old-fashioned ideas, provincial ideas. A girl like Marion Yule claims the new privileges of woman. She would resent it if you supposed that she couldn't be friendly with a man without attributing intentions to him, to use the old word. We don't live in Wattleborough where liberty is rendered impossible by the cackling of gossips. No, but well, it seems to me rather strange that's all. We had better not talk about it any more. But I have only just begun to talk about it. I must try to make my position intelligible to you. Now suppose, a quite impossible thing, that Marion inherited some twenty or thirty thousand pounds. I should forthwith ask her to be my wife. Oh, indeed! I see no reason for sarcasm. It would be a most rational proceeding. I like her very much, but to marry her, supposing she would have me, without money would be a gross absurdity, simply spoiling my career and leading to all sorts of discontents. No one would suggest that you should marry as things are. No, but please to bear in mind that to obtain money somehow or other, and I see no other way than by marriage, is necessary to me, and that with as little delay as possible. I'm not at all likely to get a big editorship for some years to come, and I don't feel disposed to make myself prematurely old by toiling for a few hundreds per annum in the meantime. Now all this I have frankly and fully explained to Marion. I dare say she suspects what I should do when she came into possession of money. There's no harm in that, but she knows perfectly well that as things are, we remain intellectual friends. Then listen to me, Jasper. If we hear that Marion gets nothing from her uncle, you had better behave honestly and let her see that you haven't as much interest in her as before. That would be brutality. It would be honest. Well, no, it wouldn't. To be speaking, my interest in Marion wouldn't suffer at all. I should know that we could be nothing but friends, that's all. Either to, I haven't known what might come to pass. I don't know yet. So far from following your advice, I should let Marion understand that, if anything, I am more her friend than ever, seeing that henceforth there can be no ambiguities. I can only tell you that Maude would agree with me in what I have been saying. Then both of you have distorted views. I think not. It's you who are unprincipled. My dear girl, haven't I been showing you that no man could be more aboveboard, more straightforward? You've been talking nonsense, Jasper. Nonsense? Oh, this female lack of logic. Then my argument has been utterly thrown away. Now, that's one of the things I like in Miss Rupert. She can follow an argument and see consequences. And for that matter, so can Marion. I only wish it were possible to refer this question to her. There was a tap at the door. Dora called, come in, and Marion herself appeared. What an odd thing, exclaimed Jasper, lowering his voice. I was that moment saying I wished it were possible to refer a question to you. Dora reddened and stood in an embarrassed attitude. It was the old dispute whether women in general are capable of logic. But pardon me, Miss Yule. I forget that you have been occupied with sad things since I last saw you. Dora led her to a chair, asking if her father had returned. Yes, he came back yesterday. Jasper and his sister could not think it likely that Marion had suffered much from grief at her uncle's death. Practically, John Yule was a stranger to her. Yet her face bore the signs of acute mental trouble, and it seemed as if some agitation made it difficult for her to speak. The awkward silence that fell upon the three was broken by Jasper, who expressed a regret that he was obliged to take his leave. Maud is becoming a young lady of society, he said, just for the sake of saying something as he moved towards the door. If she comes back whilst you are here, Miss Yule, warn her that that is the path of destruction for literary people. You should bear that in mind yourself," remarked Dora, with a significant look. Oh, I'm cool-headed enough to make society serve my own ends. Marion turned her head with a sudden movement which was checked before she had quite looked round to him. The phrase he uttered last appeared to have affected her in some way. Her eyes fell, and an expression of pain was on her brows for a moment. I can only stay a few minutes," she said, bending with a faint smile towards Dora as soon as they were alone. I have come on my way from the museum. Where you have tired yourself to death as usual, I can see. No, I have done scarcely anything. I only pretended to read. My mind is too much troubled. Have you heard anything about my uncle's will? Nothing whatever. I thought it might have been spoken of in Wattleborough, and some friend might have written to you. But I suppose there has hardly been time for that. I shall surprise you very much. Father receives nothing, but I have a legacy of five thousand pounds. Dora kept her eyes down. Then what do you think, continued Marion, my cousin Amy has ten thousand pounds. Good gracious, what a difference that will make. Yes indeed, and her brother John has six thousand, but nothing to their mother. There are a good many other legacies, but most of the property goes to the Wattleborough Park, Yule Park it will be called, and to the volunteers and things of that kind. They say he wasn't as rich as people thought. Do you know what Miss Harrow gets? She has the house for her life, and fifteen hundred pounds.  Nothing, not a penny. Oh, I'm so grieved. I think it's so unkind, so wrong. Amy and her brother to have sixteen thousand pounds, and father, nothing. I can't understand it. There was no unkind feeling between him and father. He knew what a hard life father has had. Doesn't it seem heartless? What does your father say? I think he feels the unkindness more than he does the disappointment. Of course, he must have expected something. He came into the room where mother and I were, and sat down, and began to tell us about the will, just as if he were speaking to strangers about something he had read in the newspaper. That's the only way I can describe it. Then he got up and went away into the study. I waited a little, and then went to him there. He was sitting at work, as if he hadn't been away from home at all. I tried to tell him how sorry I was, but I couldn't say anything. I began to cry foolishly. He spoke kindly to me, far more kindly than he has done for a long time. But he wouldn't talk about the will, and I had to go away and leave him. Poor mother, for all she was afraid that we were going to be rich, is broken-hearted at his disappointment. Your mother was afraid, said Dora, because she thought herself unfitted for life in a large house, and feared we should think her in our way. She smiled sadly. Poor mother, she is so humble and so good. I do hope that father will be kinder to her. But there's no telling yet what the result of this may be. I feel guilty when I stand before him. But he must feel glad that you have five thousand pounds. Marion delayed her reply for a moment, her eyes down. Yes, perhaps he is glad of that. Perhaps? He can't help thinking, Dora, what use he could have made of it. It has always been his greatest wish to have a literary paper of his own, like the study, you know. He would have used the money in that way, I am sure. But all the same he ought to feel pleasure in your good fortune. Marion turned to another subject. Think of the Reardon's. What a change all at once. What will they do, I wonder? Surely they won't continue to live apart. We shall hear from Jasper. Whilst they were discussing the affairs of that branch of the family, Maud returned. There was ill humour on her handsome face, and she greeted Marion but coldly. Throwing off her hat and gloves and mantle, she listened to the repeated story of John Yule's bequests. But why has Mrs. Reardon so much more than anyone else? She asked. We can only suppose it is because she was the favourite child of the brother he liked best. Yet at her wedding he gave her nothing and spoke contemptuously of her for marrying a literary man. Fortunate for her poor husband that her uncle was able to forgive her, I wonder what's the date of the will. Who knows, but he may have rewarded her for quarrelling with Mr. Reardon. They're excited to laugh. I don't know when the will was made, said Marion, and I don't know whether Uncle had even heard of the Reardon's misfortunes. I suppose he must have done. My cousin John was at the funeral, but not my aunt's. I think it most likely father and John didn't speak a word to each other. Fortunately the relatives were lost sight of in the great crowd of Wattleborough people. There was an enormous procession, of course. Maud kept glancing at her sister. The ill humour had not altogether passed from her face, but it was now blended with reflectiveness. A few moments more, and Marion had to hasten home. When she was gone, the sisters looked at each other. Five thousand pounds, murmured the elder. I suppose that is considered nothing. I suppose so. He was here when Marion came, but didn't stay. Then you'll take him the news this evening. Yes, replied Dora. Then, after musing, he seemed annoyed that you were at the lanes again. Maud made a movement of indifference. What has been putting you out?  Some people who were to have come didn't turn up. And, well, it doesn't matter. She rose and glanced at herself in the little oblong mirror over the mantelpiece. Did Jasper ever speak to you of a miss Rupert? asked Dora. Not that I remember. What do you think? He told me in the calmest way that he didn't see why Marion should think of him as anything but the most ordinary friend. Said he had never given her reason to think anything else. Indeed, and miss Rupert is someone who has the honour of his preference. He says she is about thirty, and rather masculine, but a great heiress. Jasper is shameful. What do you expect? I consider it is your duty to let Marion know everything he says, otherwise you help to deceive her. He has no sense of honour in such things. Dora was so impatient to let her brother have the news that she left the house as soon as she had had tea on the chance of finding Jasper at home.  I was afraid Marion might still be with you, he said, laughing. I should have asked the landlady. Well, we can't stand talking here, you had better come in. He was in too much excitement to wait. Just tell me, what has she? Dora walked quickly towards the house, looking annoyed. Nothing at all, then what has her father? He has nothing, replied his sister, and she has five thousand pounds. Jasper walked on with bent head. He said nothing more until he was upstairs in the sitting room where Maud greeted him carelessly. Mrs. Reardon, anything? Dora informed him. What? he cried incredulously. Ten thousand? you don't say so. He burst into uproarious laughter. So Reardon is rescued from the slum and the clerk's desk. Well, I'm glad, by Jove I am. I should have liked it better if Marion had had the ten thousand and he the five, but it's an excellent joke. Perhaps the next thing will be that he'll refuse to have anything to do with his wife's money. That will be just like him. After amusing himself with this subject for a few minutes more, he turned to the window and stood there in silence. Are you going to have tea with us? Dora inquired. He did not seem to hear her. On a repetition of the inquiry he answered absently, Yes, I may as well, then I can go home and get to work. During the remainder of his stay he talked very little and as Maud also was in an abstracted mood, tea passed almost in silence. On the point of departing he asked, When is Marion likely to come here again? I haven't the least idea, answered Dora. He nodded and went his way. It was necessary for him to work at a magazine article which he had begun this morning and on reaching home he spread out his papers in the usual business-like fashion. The subject out of which he was manufacturing copy had its difficulties and was not altogether congenial to him. This morning he had laboured with unwanted effort to produce about a page of manuscript and now that he tried to resume the task his thoughts would not centre upon it. Jasper was too young to have thoroughly mastered the art of somnambulistic composition to write he was still obliged to give exclusive attention to the matter under treatment. Dr Johnson saying that a man may write at any time if he will set himself doggedly to it was often upon his lips and had even been of help to him as no doubt it has to many another man obliged to compose amid distracting circumstances but the formula had no efficacy this evening. Twice or thrice he rose from his chair paced the room with a determined brow and sat down again with vigorous clutch of the pen. Still he failed to ex-cogitate a single sentence that would serve his purpose. I must have it out with myself before I can do anything whilst his thoughts as he finally abandoned the endeavour. I must make up my mind. To this end he settled himself in an easy chair and began to smoke cigarettes. Some dozen of these aids to reflection only made him so nervous that he could no longer remain alone. He put on his hat and overcoat and went out to find that it was raining heavily. He returned for an umbrella and before long was walking aimlessly about the strand unable to make up his mind whether to turn into a theatre or not. Instead of doing so he sought a certain upper room of a familiar restaurant where the day's papers were to be seen and perchance and acquaintance might be met. Only half a dozen men were there reading and smoking and all were unknown to him. He drank a glass of lager beer, skimmed the news of the evening and again went out into the bad weather. After all it was better to go home. Everything he encountered had an unsettling effect upon him so that he was further than ever from the decision at which he wished to arrive. In Mornington Road he came upon Welpdale who was walking slowly under an umbrella. I've just called at your place. All right, come back if you like. But perhaps I shall waste your time, said Welpdale with unusual diffidence. After a short he gladly returned to the house. Milvane acquainted him with the fact of John Ewell's death and with its results so far as it concerned the Reardon's. They thought of how the couple would probably behave under this decisive change of circumstances. Miffin professes to know nothing about Mrs Reardon, said Welpdale. I suspect he keeps his knowledge to himself out of regard for Reardon. It wouldn't surprise me if they live apart for a long time yet. Not very likely. It was only want of money. They're not at all suited to each other. Mrs Reardon, no doubt, repents her marriage bitterly and I doubt whether Reardon cares much for his wife. As there's no way of getting divorced, they'll make the best of it. £10,000 produced about £400 a year.   I believe you seriously think that love, the sort of frenzy you understand by it, ought to endure throughout married life. How has a man come to your age with such primitive ideas? Well, I don't know. Perhaps you are a little in the opposite direction. I have much faith in marrying for love, as you know. What's more, I believe it's the very rarest thing for people to be in love with each other. Reardon and his wife perhaps were an instance. Perhaps, I'm not quite sure about her. As a rule, marriage is the result of a mild preference encouraged by circumstances and deliberately heightened into strong sexual feeling. You of all men know well enough that the same kind of feeling could be produced for almost any woman who wasn't repulsive. The same kind of feeling, but there's vast difference of degree. To be sure, I think it's only a matter of degree. When it rises to the point of frenzy, people may strictly be said to be in love, and as I tell you, I think that comes to pass very rarely indeed. For my own part, I have no experience of it and think I never shall have. I can't say the same. They laughed. I dare say you have imagined yourself in love or really been so, for ought I know, a dozen times. How the deuce you can attach any importance to such feeling where marriage is concerned, I don't understand. Well now, said Welpdale, I have never upheld the theory, at least not since I was sixteen, that a man can be in love only once or that there is one particular woman if he misses whom he can never be happy. There may be thousands of women whom I could love with equal sincerity. I object to the word love altogether. It has been vulgarized. Let us talk about compatibility. Now, I should say that, no doubt, and speaking scientifically, there is one particular woman supremely fitted to each man. I put aside consideration of circumstances. We know that circumstances will disturb any degree of abstract fitness. But in the nature of things, there must be one woman whose nature is specially well adapted to harmonize with mine or with yours. If there were any means of discovering this woman in each case, then I have no doubt it would be worth a man's utmost effort to do so and any amount of erotic jubilation would be reasonable when the discovery was made. But the thing is impossible and what's more, we know what ridiculous fallibility people display when they imagine they have found the best substitute for that indiscoverable. This is what makes me impatient with sentimental talk about marriage. An educated man mustn't play so into the hands of ironic destiny.  There's a good deal in all that, admitted Welkdale, though discontentedly. There's more than a good deal. There's the last word on the subject. The days of romantic love are gone by. The scientific spirit has put an end to that kind of self-deception. Romantic love was inextricably blended with all sorts of superstitions. Belief in personal immortality, in superior beings, in all the rest of it. What we think of now is moral and intellectual and physical compatibility. I mean, if we are reasonable people. And if we are not so unfortunate as to fall in love with an incompatible, added Welkdale, laughing, well, that is a form of unreason, a blind desire which science could explain in each case. I rejoice that I am not subject to that form of epilepsy. You positively never were in love. As you understand it, never. But I have felt a very distinct preference. Based on what you think compatibility. Yes, not strong enough to make me lose sight of prudence and advantage. No, not strong enough for that. He seemed to be reassuring himself. Then of course that can't be called love, said Welkdale. Perhaps not, but as I told you, a preference of this kind can be heightened into emotion if one chooses. In the case of which I am thinking, it easily might be. And I think it very improbable indeed that I should repent it if anything led me to indulge such an impulse. Welkdale smiled. This is very interesting. I hope it may lead to something. I don't think it will. I am far more likely to marry some woman for whom I have no preference, but who can serve me materially? I confess that amazes me. I know the value of money as well as you do, but I wouldn't marry a rich woman for whom I had no preference. By Jove, no. Yes, yes, you are a consistent sentimentalist. Doomed to perpetual disappointment, said the other, looking disconsolently about the room. Courage, my boy, I have every hope that I shall see you marry and repent. I admit the danger of that, but shall I tell you something I have observed? Each woman I fall in love with is of a higher type than the one before. Jasper roared irreverently, and his companion looked hurt. But I am perfectly serious, I assure you, to go back only three or four years. There was the daughter of my landlady in Barham Street. Well, a nice girl enough, but limited, decidedly limited. Next came that girl at the stationers. You remember, she was distinctly in advance, both in mind and person. Then there was Miss Emberton. Yes, I think she made again in advance. She had been at Bedford College, you know, and was really a girl of considerable attainments, morally admirable. Afterwards, he paused. The maiden from Birmingham, wasn't it? Said Jasper, again exploding. Yes, it was. Well, I can't be quite sure, but in many respects, that girl was my ideal. She really was. As you once or twice told me at the time, I really believe she would rank above Miss Emberton at all events from my point of view. And that's everything, you know. It's the effect a woman produces on one that has to be considered. The next should be a paragon, said Jasper. The next? Well, Dale again looked about the room, but added nothing, and fell into a long silence. When left to himself, Jasper walked about a little, then sat down at his writing table, for he felt easier in mind and fancied that he might still do a couple of hours' work before going to bed. He did in fact write half a dozen lines, but with the effort came back his former mood. Very soon the pen dropped, and he was once more in the throes of anxious mental debate. He sat till after midnight, and when he went to his bedroom, it was with a lingering step, which proved him still a prey to indecision. And of Chapter 22. Chapter 23 of New Grub Street. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. New Grub Street by George Gissing. Chapter 23. A Proposed Investment. Alfred Ewell's behaviour under his disappointment seemed to prove that even for him the uses of adversity could be sweet. On the day after his return home he displayed a most unwanted mildness in such remarks as he addressed to his wife, and his bearing towards Marion was gravely gentle. At meals he conversed, or rather monologised, on literary topics, with occasionally one of his grim jokes pointed for Marion's appreciation. He became aware that the girl had been overtaxing her strength of late and suggested a few weeks of recreation among new novels. The coldness and gloom which had possessed him when he made a formal announcement of the news appeared to have given way before the sympathy manifested by his wife and daughter. He was now sorrowful, but resigned. He explained to Marion the exact nature of her legacy. It was to be paid out of her uncle's share in a wholesale stationery business with which John Ewell had been connected for the last twenty years, but from which he had not long ago withdrawn a large portion of his invested capital. This house was known as Turbavillan Co., a name which Marion now heard for the first time. I knew nothing of his association with them, said her father. They tell me that seven or eight thousand pounds will be realised from that source. It seems a pity that the investment was not left to you intact. Whether there will be any delay in withdrawing the money, I can't say. The executors were two old friends of the deceased, one of them a former partner in his papermaking concern. On the evening of the second day, about an hour after dinner was over, Mr Hincks called at the house. As usual, he went into the study. Before long came a second visitor, Mr Quamby, who joined Ewell and Hincks. The three had all sat together for some time when Marion, who happened to be coming down the stairs, saw her father at the study door.  We are only gossiping. It had not often happened that Marion was invited to join parties of this kind. Do you wish me to come? she asked. Yes, I should like you to, if you have nothing particular to do. Marion informed Mrs Ewell that the visitors would have supper and then went to the study. Mr Quamby was smoking a pipe. Mr Hincks, who on grounds of economy had long since given up tobacco, sat with his hands in his trouser pockets and his long thin legs tucked beneath the chair. Both rose and greeted Marion with more than ordinary warmth. Will you allow me five or six more puffs? asked Mr Quamby, laying one hand on his ample stomach and elevating his pipe as if it were a glass of beaded liquor. I shall then have done. As many more as you like, Marion replied, the easiest chair was placed for her. Mr Hincks hastened to perform this courtesy and her father apprised her of the topic they were discussing. What's your view, Marion? Is there anything to be said for the establishment of a literary academy in England? Mr Quamby beamed benevolently upon her and Mr Hincks, his scraggy neck at full length, awaited her reply with a look of the most respectful attention. I really think we have quite enough literary quarrelling as it is, the girl replied, casting down her eyes and smiling. Mr Quamby uttered a hollow chuckle. Mr Hincks laughed thinly and exclaimed, Very good indeed, very good. Yule affected to applaud with impartial smile. It wouldn't harmonise with the Anglo-Saxon spirit, remarked Mr Hincks, with an air of diffident profundity. Yule held forth on the subject for a few minutes in laboured phrases. Presently the conversation turned to periodicals and the three men were unanimous in an opinion that no existing monthly or quarterly could be considered as representing the best literary opinion. We want, remarked Mr Quamby, we want a monthly review which will deal exclusively with literature. The fortnightly, the contemporary, they are very well in their way, but then they are mere miscellanies. You will find one solid literary article amid a confused mass of politics and economics and general claptrap. Articles on the currency and railway statistics and views of evolution, said Mr Hincks, with a look as if something were grating between his teeth. The quarterlies, put in Yule, well, the original idea of the quarterlies was that there are not enough important books published to occupy solid reviewers more than four times a year. That may be true, but then a literary monthly would include much more than professed reviews. Hincks's essays on the historical drama would have come out in it very well, or your Spanish poets, Quamby. I threw out the idea to Jedwood the other day, said Mr Quamby, and he seemed to nibble at it. Yes, yes, came from Yule, but Jedwood has so many irons in the fire, I doubt if he has the necessary capital at command just now. No doubt he's the man if some capitalist would join him. No enormous capital needed, opined Mr Quamby. The thing would pay its way almost from the first. It would take a place between the literary weeklies and the quarterlies. The former are too academic, the latter too massive for multitudes of people who yet have strong literary tastes. Foreign publications should be liberally dealt with, but, as Hinck says, no meddling with the books that are no books, biblia are biblia, nothing about essays on bimetalism or treatises for or against vaccination. Even here, in the freedom of a friend's study, he laughed his reading room laugh, folding both hands upon his expansive waistcoat. Fiction, I presume a serial of the batterkind, might be admitted, said Yule. That would be advisable, no doubt, but strictly of the batterkind. Oh, strictly of the batterkind, chimed in Mr Hinck's. They pursued the discussion as if they were an editorial committee planning a review of which the first number was shortly to appear. It occupied them until Mrs Yule announced that the door that supper was ready. During the meal, Marion found herself the object of unusual attention. Her father troubled to inquire if the cut of cold beef he sent her was to her taste and kept an eye on her progress. Mr Hinck's talked to her in a tone of respectful sympathy, and Mr Kwambi was paternally jovial when he addressed her. Mrs Yule would have kept silence in her ordinary way, but this evening her husband made several remarks, he had adapted to her intellect, and even showed that her reply would be graciously received. Mother and daughter remained together when the men withdrew to their tobacco and toddy. Neither made allusion to the wonderful change, but they talked more lightheartedly than for a long time. On the morrow Yule began by consulting Marion with regard to the disposition of matter in an essay he was writing. What she said he weighed carefully and seemed to think that she had set his doubts at rest. Poor old Hinck's, he said presently with a sigh, breaking up, isn't he? He positively totters in his walk. I'm afraid he's the kind of man to have a paralytic stroke. It wouldn't astonish me to hear at any moment that he was lying helpless. Whatever would become of him in that case? Goodness knows. One might ask the same of so many of us. What would become of me, for instance, if I were incapable of work? Marion could make no reply. There's something I'll just mention to you, he went on in a lowered tone. Though I don't wish you to take it too seriously, I'm beginning to have a little trouble with my eyes. She looked at him startled. With your eyes? Nothing, I hope, but, well, I think I shall see an oculist. One doesn't care to face a prospect of failing sight, perhaps of cataract or something of that kind. Still, it's better to know the facts, I should say. By all means, go to an oculist, said Marion earnestly. Don't disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all, but in any case, I must change my glasses. He rustled over some slips of manuscript, whilst Marion regarded him anxiously.  Could I possibly save money out of an income that has never exceeded two hundred and fifty pounds, and often, I mean, even in latter years, has been much less? I don't see how you could. In one way, of course, I have managed it. My life is insured for five hundred pounds, but that is no provision for possible disablement. If I could no longer earn money with my pen, what would become of me? Marion could have made an encouraging reply, but did not venture to utter her thoughts. Sit down, said her father. You are not to work for a few days, and I myself shall be none the worse for a morning's rest. Poor old Hinx. I suppose we shall help him among us, somehow. Guambi, of course, is comparatively flourishing. Well, we have been companions for a quarter of a century, we three. When I first met Guambi, I was a grub-street gazetteer, and I think he was even poorer than I. A life of toil, a life of toil. That it has been, indeed.  What did you think of our imaginary review, the thing we were talking about last night? There are so many periodicals, replied Marion doubtfully. So many, my dear child, if we live another ten years we shall see the number travelled. Is it desirable that there should be such growth of periodicals? Well, from one point of view, no. No doubt they take up the time which some people would give to solid literature. But, on the other hand, there's a far greater number of people who would probably not read at all but for the temptations of these short and new articles, and they may be induced to pass on to substantial works. Of course, it all depends on the quality of the periodical matter you offer. Now, magazines like, he named two or three of popular stamp, might very well be dispensed with, unless one regards them as an alternative to the talking of scandal or any other vicious result of total idleness. But such a monthly, as we projected, would be of distinct literary value. There can be no doubt that someone or other will shortly establish it. I'm afraid," said Marion, I haven't so much sympathy with literary undertakings as you would like me to have. Money is a great fortifier of self-respect. Since she had become really conscious of her position as the owner of five thousand pounds, Marion spoke with a steadier voice, walked with a firmer step. Mentally, she felt herself altogether a less dependent being. She might have confessed this lukewarmness towards literary enterprise in the anger which her father excited eight or nine days ago, but at that time she could not have uttered her opinion calmly, deliberately as now. The smile which accompanied the words was also new. It signified deliverance from pupillage. I have felt that," returned her father, after a slight pause to command his voice that it might be suave instead of scornful. I greatly fear that I have made your life something of a martyrdom. Don't think I meant that, father. I'm speaking only of the general question. I can't be so zealous as you are, that's all. I love books, but I could wish people were content for a while with those we already have. My dear Marion, don't suppose that I'm out of sympathy with you here. Alas, how much of my work has been mere drudgery, mere laboring for a livelihood? How gladly I would have spent much more of my time among the great authors, with no thought of making money of them. If I speak approvingly of a scheme for a new periodical, it is greatly because of my necessities. He paused and looked at her. Marion returned the look. You would, of course, write for it, she said. Marion, why shouldn't I edit it? Why shouldn't it be your property? My property? She checked to laugh. Then came into her mind a more disagreeable suspicion than she had ever entertained of her father. Was this the meaning of his softened behaviour? Was he capable of calculated hypocrisy? That did not seem consistent with his character, as she knew it. Let us talk it over, said Yule. He was invisible agitation, and his voice shook. The idea may well startle you at first. It would seem to you that I propose to make a way with your property before you have even come into possession of it. He laughed. But in fact, what I have in mind is merely an investment for your capital, and that's an admirable one. Five thousand pounds at three percent, one doesn't care to reckon on more, represents a hundred and fifty a year. Now, there can be very little doubt that, if it were invested in literary property, such as I have in mind, it would bring you five times that interest, and before long, perhaps much more. Of course, I'm now speaking in the roughest outline. I should have to get trustworthy advice. Complete and detailed estimates would be submitted to you. At present, I merely suggest to you this form of investment. He watched her face, eagerly, greedily. When Marion's eyes rose to his, he looked away. Then, of course, she said, you don't expect me to give any decided answer. Of course not, of course not. I merely put before you the chief advantages of such an investment. As I am a selfish old fellow, I'll talk about the benefit to myself, first of all. I should be editor of the new review. I should draw a stipend sufficient to all my needs, quite content at first, to take far less than another man would ask, and to progress with the advance of the periodical. This position would enable me to have done with mere drudgery. I should only write when I felt called to do so. When the spirit moved me, again he laughed, as though desirous of keeping his listener in good humour. My eyes would be greatly spared henceforth. He dwelt on that point, waiting its effect on Marion. As she said nothing, he proceeded, and suppose I really were doomed to lose my sight in the course of a few years. Am I wrong in thinking that the proprietor of this periodical would willingly grant a small annuity to the man who had firmly established it? I see the force of all that, said Marion, but it takes for granted that the periodical will be successful. It does, in the hands of a publisher like Jedwood, a vigorous man of the new school. Its success could scarcely be doubtful. Do you think five thousand pounds would be enough to start such a review? Well, I can say nothing definite on that point. For one thing, the coat must be made according to the cloth. Expenditure can be largely controlled without endangering success. Then again, I think Jedwood would take a share in the venture. These are the details. At present, I only want to familiarise you with the thought that an investment of this sort will very probably offer itself to you. It would be better if we called it a speculation, said Marion, smiling uneasily. Her one object at present was to oblige her father to understand that the suggestion by no means lured her. She could not tell him what he proposed was out of the question, though as yet that was the light in which she saw it. His subtlety of approach had made her feel justified in dealing with him in a matter-of-fact way. He must see that she was not to be cajoled. Obviously, and in the nature of the case, he was urging a proposal in which he himself had all faith, but Marion knew his judgment was far from infallible. It mitigated her sense of behaving unkindly to reflect that in all likelihood this disposal of her money would be the worst possible for her own interests, and therefore for his. If indeed his dark forebodings were warranted, then upon her would fall the care of him, and the steadiness with which she faced that responsibility came from a hope of which she could not speak. Name it as you will," returned her father, hardly suppressing a note of irritation. True, every commercial enterprise is a speculation, but let me ask you one question and beg you to reply frankly. Do you distrust my ability to conduct this periodical? She did. She knew that he was not in touch with the interests of the day, and that all manner of considerations akin to the prime end of selling his review would make him an untrustworthy editor. But how could she tell him this? My opinion would be worthless," she replied. If Jed would were disposed to put confidence in me, you also would. There's no need to talk of that now, father. Indeed, I can't say anything that would sound like a promise. He flashed a glance at her. Then she was more than doubtful. But you have no objection, Marion, to talk in a friendly way of a project that would mean so much to me. But I'm afraid to encourage you," she replied frankly. It is impossible for me to say whether I can do as you wish or not. Yes, yes, I perfectly understand that. Heaven forbid that I should regard you as a child to be led independently of your own views and wishes. With so large a sum of money at stake, it would be monstrous if I acted rashly and tried to persuade you to do the same. The matter will have to be most gravely considered. Yes," she spoke mechanically. But if only it should come to something. You don't know what it would mean to me, Marion. Yes, father, I know very well how you think and feel about it. Do you?" he lent forward, his features working under the stress of emotion. If I could see myself the editor of an influential review, all my bygone toils and sufferings would be as nothing. I should rejoice in them as the steps to this triumph. Meme nisayu-wabit. My dear, I am not a man fitted for subordinate places. My nature is framed for authority. The failure of all my undertakings rankles so in my heart that sometimes I feel capable of every brutality, every meanness, every hateful cruelty. To you I have behaved shamefully. Don't interrupt me, Marion. I have treated you abominably, my child, my dear daughter, and all the time with a full sense of what I was doing. That's the punishment of faults such as mine.  At the time I hated myself. Father, no, no, let me speak, Marion. You have forgiven me, I know it. You were always ready to forgive, dear. Can I ever forget that evening when I spoke like a brute and you came afterwards and addressed me as if the wrong had been on your side? It burns in my memory. It wasn't I who spoke. It was the demon of failure, of humiliation. My enemies sit in triumph and scorn at me. The thought of it is infuriating. Have I deserved this? Am I the inferior of those men who have succeeded and now try to trample on me? No, I am not. I have a better brain and a better heart. Listening to this strange outpouring, Marion more than forgave the hypocrisy of the last day or two. Nay, could it be called hypocrisy? It was only his better self, declared at the impulse of a passionate hope. Why should you think so much of these troubles, father? Is it such a great matter that narrow-minded people triumph over you? Narrow-minded, he clutched at the word. You admit they are that? I feel very sure that Mr. Fadge is. Then you are not on his side against me. How could you suppose such a thing? Well, well, we won't talk of that. Perhaps it isn't a great matter. No, from a philosophical point of view, such things are unspeakably petty. But I am not much of a philosopher. He laughed with a break in his voice. Defeat in life is defeat after all, and unmerited failure is a bitter curse. You see, I am not too old to do something yet. My sight is failing, but I can take care of it. If I had my own review, I would write every now and then a critical paper in my very best style. You remember poor old Hinx's note about me in his book? We laughed at it, but he wasn't so far wrong. I have many of those qualities.  I have done a few admirable things. You remember my paper on Lord Herbert of Cherbury? No one ever wrote a more subtle piece of criticism. But it was swept aside among the rubbish of the magazines. And it's just because of my pungent phrases that I have excited so much enmity. Wait, wait! Let me have my own review and leisure and satisfaction of mind. Heavens, what I will write. How I will scarify. That is unworthy of you. How much better to ignore your enemies? In such a position, I should carefully avoid every word that betrayed personal feeling. Well, well, you are, of course, right, my good girl. And I believe I should do injustice to myself if I made you think that those ignoble motives are the strongest in me. No, it isn't so. From my boyhood, I have had a passionate desire of literary fame, deep down below all the surface faults of my character. The best of my life has gone by, and it drives me to despair when I feel that I have not gained the position due to me. There is only one way of doing this now, and that is by becoming the editor of an important periodical. Only in that way shall I succeed in forcing people to pay attention to my claims. Many a man goes to his grave unrecognized, just because he has never had a fair judgment. Nowadays, it is the unscrupulous men of business who hold the attention of the public. They blow their trumpets so loudly that the voices of honest men have no chance of being heard. Marion was pained by the humility of his pleading with her for what was all this but an endeavour to move her sympathies, and by the necessity she was under of seeming to turn a deaf ear. She believed that there was some truth in his estimate of his own powers, though as an editor he would almost certainly fail. As a man of letters he had probably done far better work than some who had passed him by on their way to popularity. Circumstances might enable her to assist him, though not in the way he proposed. The worst of it was that she could not let him see what was in her mind. He must think that she was simply balancing her own satisfaction against his, when in truth she suffered from the conviction that to yield would be as unwise to her father's future as it would be perilous to her own prospect of happiness. Shall we leave this to be talked of when the money has been paid over to me? she said after a silence. Yes, don't suppose I wish to influence you by dwelling on my own hardships. That would be contemptible. I have only taken this opportunity of making myself better known to you. I don't readily talk of myself, and in general my real feelings are hidden by the faults of my temper, in suggesting how you could do me a great service, and at the same time reap advantage for yourself. I couldn't but remember how little reason you have to think kindly of me, but we will postpone further talk. You will think over what I have said. Marion promised that she would and was glad to bring the conversation to an end. When Sunday came, you all inquired of his daughter if she had any engagement for the afternoon. Yes, I have, she replied, with an effort to disguise her embarrassment. I'm sorry, I thought of asking you to come with me to Kuambi's. Shall you be away through the evening? Till about nine o'clock, I think. Ah, never mind, never mind. He tried to dismiss the matter as if it were of no moment, but Marion saw the shadow that passed over his countenance. This was just after breakfast. For the remainder of the morning she did not meet him, and at the midday dinner he was silent, though he brought no book to the table with him, as he was wont to do when in his dark moods. Marion talked with her mother, doing her best to preserve the appearance of cheerfulness, which was natural since the change in yours, demeanor. She chanced to meet her father in the passage just as she was going out. He smiled. It was more like a grin of pain, and nodded but said nothing. When the front door closed he went into the parlour. Mrs Yule was reading, or at all events, turning over a volume of an illustrated magazine. Where do you suppose she has gone? he asked, in a voice which was only distant, not offensive. To the Miss Milvains, I believe, Mrs Yule answered, looking aside. Did she tell you so? No, we don't talk about it. He seated himself on the corner of a chair, and bent forward, his chin in his hands. As she said anything to you about the review, not a word. She glanced at him timidly and turned a few pages of her book. I wanted her to come to Kwambi's because there'll be a man there who is anxious that Jedwood should start a magazine, and it would be useful for her to hear practical opinions. There'd be no harm if she just spoke to her about it now and then. Of course, if she has made up her mind to refuse me, it's no use troubling myself anymore. I should think you might find out what's really going on. Only dire stress of circumstances could have brought Alfred Yule to make distinct appeal for his wife's help. There was no underhand plotting between them to influence their daughter. Mrs Yule had as much desire for the happiness of her husband Marion, but she felt powerless to effect anything on either side. If ever she says anything, I'll let you know. But it seems to me that you have a right to question her. I can't do that, Alfred. Unfortunately, there are good many things you can't do. With that remark, familiar to his wife in substance, though the tone of it was less caustic than usual, he rose and sauntered from the room. He spent a gloomy hour in the study, then went off to join the literary circle at Mr Kwambi's. And of Chapter 23, Chapter 24 of New Grubb Street. This is the LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. New Grubb Street by George Gissing. Chapter 24. Jasper's Magnanimity. Occasionally, Milvane met his sisters as they came out of church on Sunday morning and walked home to have dinner with them. He did so today, though the sky was cheerless and the strong northwest wind made it anything but agreeable to wait about in open spaces. Are you going to Mrs Wright's this afternoon? He asked as they went on together. I thought of going, replied Mord. Marion will be with Dora. You ought both to go. You mustn't neglect that woman. He said nothing more just then, but when presently he was alone with Dora in the sitting room for a few minutes, he turned with a peculiar smile and remarked quietly, I think you had better go with Mord this afternoon. But I can't. I expect Marion at three. That's just why I want you to go. She looked her surprise. I want to have a talk with Marion. We'll manage it in this way. And at a quarter to three, you two shall start. And as you go out, you can tell the landlady that if Miss Yule comes, she is to wait for you, as you won't belong. She'll come upstairs and I shall be there, you see? Dora turned half way, disturbed a little, but not displeased. And what about Miss Rupert? She asked. Oh, Miss Rupert may go to Jericho for all I care. I'm in a magnanimous mood. Very, I've no doubt. Well, you'll do this. One of the results of poverty, you see. One can't even have a private conversation with a friend without plotting to get the use of a room. But there shall be an end of this state of things. He nodded significantly. Thereupon Dora left the room to speak with her sister. The device was put into execution, and Jasper saw his sister's depart, knowing that they were not likely to return for some three hours. He seated himself comfortably by the fire and mused. Five minutes had hardly gone by when he looked at his watch, thinking Marion must be unpunctual. He was nervous, though he had believed himself secure against such weakness. His presence here, with the purpose he had in his mind, seemed to him distinctly a concession to impulses he ought to have controlled, but to this resolve he had come, and it was now too late to recommence the arguments with himself. Too late? Well, not strictly so. He had committed himself to nothing. Up to the last moment of freedom, he could always— That was doubtless Marion's knock at the front door. He jumped up, walked the length of the room, sat down on another chair, returned to his former seat. Then the door opened, and Marion came in. She was not surprised. The landlady had mentioned to her that Mr Milvane was upstairs, waiting the return of his sisters. I'm to make Dora's excuses, Jasper said. She begged you would forgive her, that you would wait. Oh, yes. And you were to be sure to take off your hat. He added in a laughing tone, and to put your umbrella in the corner, like that. He had always admired the shape of Marion's head, and the beauty of her short, soft, curly hair. As he watched her uncovering it, he was pleased with the grace of her arms, and the pliancy of her slight figure. Which is usually your chair. I'm sure I don't know. When one goes to see a friend frequently, one gets into regular habits in these matters. In Biffin's Garrett, I used to have the most uncomfortable chair it was ever my lot to sit upon. Still, I came to feel an affection for it. At Riordan's, I always had what was supposed to be the most luxurious seat, but it was too small for me, and I eyed it resentfully, on sitting down and rising. Have you any news about the Riordan's? Yes, I'm told that Riordan has had the offer of a secretary ship to a boy's home, or something of the kind, but I suppose there'll be no need for him to think of that now. Surely not. Oh, there's no saying. Why should he do work of that kind now? Perhaps his wife will tell him that she wants her money all for herself. Marian laughed. It was very rarely that Jasper had heard her laugh at all, and never so spontaneously as this. He liked the music. You haven't a very good opinion of Mrs. Riordan, she said. She's a very difficult person to judge. I never disliked her by any means, but she was decidedly out of place, as the wife of a struggling author. Perhaps I've been a little prejudiced against her since Riordan quarreled with me on her account. Marian was astonished at this unlooked-for explanation of the rupture between Milvane and his friend. That they had not seen each other for some months, she knew from Jasper himself, but no definite cause had been assigned. I may as well let you know all about it," Milvane continued, seeing that he had disconcerted the girl, as he meant to. I met Riordan not long after they had parted, and he charged me with being in great part the cause of his troubles. The listener did not raise her eyes. You would never imagine what my fault was. Riordan declared that the tone of my conversation had been morally injurious to his wife. He said I was always glorifying worldly success, and that this had made her discontented with her lot. Sounds rather ludicrous, don't you think? It was very strange. Riordan was in desperate earnest, poor fellow, and to tell you the truth, I fear there may have been something in his complaint. I told him at once that I should henceforth keep away from Mrs. Edmund Jules, and so I have done with the result, of course, that they suppose I condemn Mrs. Riordan's behaviour. The affair was a nuisance, but I had no choice, I think. You say that perhaps your talk really was harmful to her? It may have been, though such a danger never occurred to me. Then Amy must be very weak-minded, to be influenced by such a poultry fellow, to be influenced by anyone in such a way. You think the worst of me for this story? Jasper asked. I don't quite understand it. How did you talk to her? As I talk to everyone, you have heard me say the same things many a time. I simply declare my opinion that the end of literary work, unless one is a man of genius, is to secure comfort and repute. This doesn't seem to me very scandalous, but Mrs. Riordan was perhaps too urgent in repeating such views to her husband. She saw that in my case it was a misery to have solid results, and it was a misery to her that Riordan couldn't or wouldn't work in the same practical way. It was very unfortunate. And you are inclined to blame me? No, because I am so sure that you only spoke in the way natural to you, without a thought of such consequences. Jasper smiled. That's precisely the truth. Nearly all men who have their way to make think as I do, but most feel obliged to adopt a false tone to talk about literary conscientiousness and so on. I simply say what I think with no pretenses. I should like to be conscientious, but it's a luxury I can't afford. I've told you all this often enough, you know? Yes. But it hasn't been morally injurious to you, he said with a laugh. Not at all. Still, I don't like it. Jasper was startled. He gazed at her. Or he then to have dealt with her less frankly. Had he been mistaken in thinking that the usual openness of his talk was attractive to her? She spoke with quite unaccustomed decision. Indeed, he had noticed from her entrance that there was something unfamiliar in her way of conversing. She was so much more self-possessed than of want and did not seem to treat him with the same deference, the same subdual of her own personality. You don't like it, he repeated calmly. It has become rather tiresome to you. I feel sorry that you should always represent yourself in an unfavourable light. He was an acute man, but the self-confidence with which he had entered upon this dialogue, his conviction that he had but to speak when he wished to receive assurance of Marion's devotion, prevented him from understanding the tone of independence she had suddenly adopted. With more modesty, he would have felt more subtly at this juncture, would have divined that the girl had an exquisite pleasure in drawing back now that she saw him approaching her with unmistakable purpose, that she wished to be wooed in less off-hand fashion before confessing what was in her heart. For the moment he was disconcerted.  Yet I surely haven't always appeared so, to you, he said. No, not always. But you are in doubt concerning the real man. I'm not sure that I understand you. You say that you do really think as you speak. So I do. I think that there is no choice for a man who can't bear poverty. I have never said, though, that I had pleasure in mean necessities. I accept them, because I can't help it. It was a delight to Marian to observe the anxiety with which he turned to self-defense. Never in her life had she felt this joy of holding a position of command. It was nothing to her that Jasper valued her more because of her money, impossible for it to be otherwise. Satisfied that he did value her to begin with, for her own sake, she was very willing to accept her money as her ally in the winning of his love. He scarcely loved her yet as she understood the feeling, but she perceived her power over him and passion taught her how to exert it. But you resigned yourself very cheerfully to the necessity, she said, looking at him with merely intellectual eyes. You had rather I lamented my fate in not being able to devote myself to nobly unimmunerative work. There was a note of irony here. It caused her a tremor, but she held her position. That you never do so would make one think, but I won't speak unkindly. That I neither care for good work nor am capable of it, Jasper finished her sentence. I shouldn't have thought it would make you think so. Instead of replying, she turned her look towards the door. There was a footstep on the stairs, but it passed. I thought it might be Dora, she said. She won't be here for another couple of hours at least, replied Jasper, with a slight smile. But you said, I sent her to Mrs Boston writes that I might have an opportunity of talking to you. Will you forgive the stratagem? Marion resumed her former attitude, the faintest smile hovering about her lips. I'm glad there's plenty of time, he continued. To begin to suspect that you have been misunderstanding me of late, I must set that right. I don't think I have misunderstood you. That may mean something very disagreeable. I know that some people whom I esteem have a very poor opinion of me, but I can't allow you to be one of them. What do I seem to you? What is the result on your mind of all our conversations? I have already told you. Not seriously. Do you believe I am capable of generous feeling? To say no would be to put you in the lowest class of men, and that a very small one. Good. Then I'm not among the basest, but that doesn't give me very distinguished claims upon your consideration. Whatever I am, I am high in some of my ambitions. Which of them? For instance, I have been daring enough to hope that you might love me. Marion delayed for a moment, then said quietly, Why do you call that daring? Because I have enough of old fashioned thought to believe that a woman who is worthy of a man's love is higher than he and condescends in giving herself to him. His voice was not convincing. The phrase did not sound natural on his lips. It was not thus that she had hoped to hear him speak. He expressed himself thus conventionally he did not love her as she desired to be loved. I don't hold that view, she said. It doesn't surprise me. You are very reserved on all subjects and we have never spoken of this, but of course I know that your thought is never commonplace. Hold what view you like of woman's position. That doesn't affect mine. Is yours commonplace then? Desperately. Love is a very old and common thing and I believe I love you in the old and common way. I think you're beautiful. You seem to me womanly in the best sense, full of charm and sweetness. I know myself of course being in comparison. All this has been felt and said in the same way by men infinite in variety. Must I find some new expression before you can believe me? I know what you are thinking, he said. The thought is as inevitable as my consciousness of it. For an instant she looked at him. Yes, you look the thought. Why have I not spoken to you in this way before? Why have I waited until you are obliged to suspect my sincerity? My thought is not so easily read then, said Marion. To be sure it hasn't a gross form, but I know you wish, whatever your real feeling towards me, that I had spoken a fortnight ago. You would wish that of any man in my position, merely because it is painful to you to see a possible insincerity. Well, I am not insincer. I have thought of you as of no other woman for some time, but yes, you shall have the plain, coarse truth, which is good in its way, no doubt. I was afraid to say that I loved you. You don't flinch. So far so good. Now, what harm is there in this confession? In the common course of things, I shouldn't be in a position to marry for perhaps three or four years, and even then marriage would mean difficulties, restraints, obstacles. I have always dreaded the thought of marriage with a poor income. You remember? Love in a hut, with water under crust, is love forgiveness, cinders, ashes, dust. You know that that is true. Not always, I dare say, but for the vast majority of mortals. There is the instance of the reedens. They were in love with each other, if ever two people were, but poverty ruined everything. I am not in the confidence of either of them, but I feel sure each has wished the other dead. What else was to be expected? Should I have dared to take a wife in my present circumstances a wife as poor as myself? You will be in a much better position before long, said Marion. If you loved me, why should you have been afraid to ask me to have confidence in your future? It's also uncertain. It may be another ten years before I can count on an income of five or six hundred pounds if I have to struggle on in the common way. But tell me, what is your aim in life? What do you understand by success? Yes, I will tell you. My aim is to have easy command of all the pleasures desired by a cultivated man. I want to live among beautiful things and never to be troubled by a thought of vulgar difficulties. I want to travel and enrich my mind in foreign countries. I want to associate on equal terms with refined and interesting people. I want to be known to be familiarly referred to to feel when I enter a room that people regard me with some curiosity. He looked steadily at her with bright eyes. And that's all, asked Marion. That is very much. Besides, you don't know how I suffer in feeling myself at a disadvantage. My instincts are strongly social, yet I can't be at my ease in society simply because I can't do justice to myself. Want of money makes me the inferior of the people I talk with, though I might be superior to them in most things.  Imagine my never having been out of England. It shames me when people talk familiarly of the continent. So, with regard to all manner of amusements and pursuits at home, impossible for me to appear among my acquaintances at the theatre, at concerts. I'm perpetually at a disadvantage. I haven't fair play. Suppose me possessed of money enough to live a full and active life for the next five years. Why, at the end of that time, my position would be secure. To him that hath shall be given. You know how universally true that is. And yet, came in a low voice from Marion, you say that you love me. You mean I speak as if no such thing as love existed. But you asked me what I understood by success. I'm speaking of worldly things. Now, suppose I had said to you my one aim and desire in life is to win your love. Could you have believed me? Such phrases are always untrue. I don't know how it can give anyone pleasure to hear them. But if I say to you all the satisfactions I have described would be immensely heightened if they were shared with a woman who loved me, there is the simple truth. Marion's heart sank. She did not want truth such as this. She would have preferred that he should utter the poor common falsehoods. Hungry for passionate love, she heard with a sense of desolation all this calm reasoning. That Jasper was of cold temperament, she had often feared. Yet there was always the consoling thought that she did not see with perfect clearness into his nature. Now and then had come a flash, a hint of possibilities. She had looked forward with trembling eagerness to some sudden revelation. But it seemed as if he knew no word of the language which would have called such joyous response from her expectant soul. We have talked for a long time, she said, turning her head as if his last words were of no significance. As Dora is not coming I think I will go now. She rose and went towards the chair on which lay her out-of-door things. At once Jasper stepped to her side. You will go without giving me any answer. Answer to what? Will you be my wife? It is too soon to ask me that. Too soon, haven't you known for months that I thought of you with far more than friendliness? How was it possible I should know that? You have explained to me why you would not let your real feelings be understood. The reproach was merited and not easy to be out-faced. He turned away for an instant, then with a sudden movement caught both her hands. Whatever I have done or said or thought in the past that is of no account now. I love you, Marion. I want you to be my wife. I have never seen any other girl who impressed me as you did from the first.  Let us forget for a moment all our circumstances.  Whatever answer you give, I love you. Till now her heart had only fluttered a little. It was a great part of her distress that the love she had so long nurtured seemed shrinking together into some far corner of her being whilst she listened to the discourses which prefaced Jasper's declaration. She was nervous, painfully self-conscious, touched with mainly shame, but could not abandon herself to that delicious emotion to have been the fulfilment of all her secret imaginings. Now at length there began a throbbing in her bosom.  She felt a change in the hands that held hers, a warmth, a moist softness. It caused a shock through her veins. He was trying to draw her nearer and kept at full arms' length and looked irresponsive. Marion she wished to answer, but a spirit of perversity held her tongue.  Persisting she at length withdrew her hands, Jasper's face expressed something like dismay. You have not offended me, she said, but I am not sure that you don't deceive yourself by thinking for the moment that I am necessary to your happiness. The emotional current which had passed from her flesh to his whilst their hands were linked made him incapable of standing aloof from her. He saw that her face and neck were warmer hewed and her beauty became more desirable to him than ever yet. You are more to me than anything else in the compass of life, he exclaimed, again pressing forward.  His arm captured her and she did not resist.  You do love me, Marion. I love you. And there followed the antiphony of Arda that finds its first utterance, a subdued music often interrupted, ever returning upon the same rich note. Marion closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the luxury of the dream.  All the pedantry of her daily toil slipped away like a cumbrous garment. She was clad only in her womanhood. Once or twice a shudder of strange self-consciousness went through her and she felt guilty, immodest, but upon that sensation followed a surge of passionate joy, obliterating memory and forethought. How shall I see you? Jasper asked at length. Where can we meet? It was a difficulty. The season no longer allowed lingering under the open sky, but Marion could not go to his lodgings and it seemed impossible for him to visit her at home. Will your father persist in unfriendliness to me? She was only just beginning to reflect on all that was involved in this new relation. I have no hope that he will change, she said sadly. He will refuse to countenance your marriage. I shall disappoint him and grieve him bitterly. He has asked me to use my money to review. Which he is to edit? Yes, do you think there would be any hope of its success? Jasper shook his head. Your father is not the man for that, Marion. I don't say it disrespectfully. I mean that he doesn't seem to me to have that kind of attitude. It would be a disastrous speculation. I felt that. Of course I can't think of it now.  Don't trouble, said Jasper. Wait a little till I have made myself independent of Faj and a few other men, and your father shall see how heartily I wish to be of use to him. He will miss your help, I'm afraid. Yes, I shall feel it a cruelty when I have to leave him. He has only just told me that his sight is beginning to fail. Oh, why didn't his brother leave him a little money? He has done kindness. Surely he had a much better right than Amy or than myself either. But literature has been a curse to father all his life. My uncle hated it, and I suppose that was why he left father nothing. But how am I to see you often? That's the first question. I know what I shall do. I must take new lodgings for the girls and myself all in the same house. Then you will come to my room without any difficulty. These astonishing proprieties are so easily satisfied after all. You will really do that? Yes, I shall go and look for rooms tomorrow. Then, when you come, you can always ask for Mord or Dora, you know. They will be very glad of a change to more respectable quarters. I won't stay to see them now, Jasper, said Marion, her thoughts turning to the girls. Very well, you are safe for another hour. But to make certain you shall go at a quarter to five. Your mother won't be against us? Poor mother, no. But she won't dare to justify me before father. I feel as if I should play a mean part in leaving it to you to tell your father. Marion, I will brave it out and go and see him. Oh, it would be better not to.  Marion pondered this proposal. You shall do that, Jasper, if you are willing, but not yet, presently. You don't wish him to know at once. We had better wait a little. You know, she added, laughing, that my legacy is only in name minus yet. The will hasn't been proved and then the money will have to be realised. She informed him of the details. Jasper listened with his eyes on the ground. They were now sitting on chairs drawn close to each other. It was with a sense of relief that Jasper had passed from ditherams to conversation on practical points. Marion's excited sensitiveness could not but observe this and she kept watching the motions of his countenance. At length he even let go her hand. You would prefer, he said reflectively, nothing should be said to your father until that business is finished. If you consent to it. Oh, I have no doubt it's as well. Her little phrase of self-subjection and its tremulous tone called for another answer than this. Jasper fell again into thought and clearly it was thought of practical things. I must go now, Jasper, she said. Must you? Well, if you would rather. I must go now, although she was still seated. Marion moved a few steps away but turned and approached him again. Do you really love me? she asked, taking one of his hands and folding it between her own. I do indeed love you Marion. Are you still doubtful? You're not sorry that I must go. But I am dearest. I wish we could sit here undisturbed all through the evening. Her touch had the same effect as before.  Are you sorry that I wear my hair short? she asked, longing for more praise than he had bestowed on her. Sorry? It is perfect. Everything else seems vulgar compared with this way of yours. How strange you would look with plaits and that kind of thing. It pleases you. There is nothing in you that doesn't please me, my thoughtful girl. You called me that before. Do I seem so very thoughtful?  She quivered with delight her face hidden against his breast. I seem to be new born Jasper. Everything in the world is new to me and I am strange to myself. I have never known an hour of happiness till now and I can't believe yet that it has come to me. She at length attired herself and they left the house together. Of course, not unobserved by the landlady. Jasper walked about half the way to St. Paul's Crescent. It was arranged that he should address a letter for her to the care of his sisters but in a day or two the change of lodgings would be affected. When they had parted and looked back but Jasper was walking quickly away his head bent in profound meditation. And of Chapter 24 A Fruitless Meeting The intellectual man who kills himself is most often brought to that decision by conviction of his insignificance. Self-pity merges in self-scorn and the humiliated soul is intolerant of existence. He who survives under like conditions does so because misery magnifies him in his own estimate. It was by force of commiserating his own lot that Edwin Reardon continued to talk about his life and his life in his own lot that Edwin Reardon continued to live through the first month after his parting from Amy. Once or twice a week sometimes early in the evening sometimes at midnight or later he haunted the street at Westbourne Park where his wife was dwelling and on each occasion he returned to his garret with a fortified sense of the injustice to which he was submitted of revolt against the circumstances which had driven him into outer darkness of bitterness against his wife in his own comfort rather than share his downfall. At times he was not far from that state of sheer distraction which Mrs. Edwin Duel preferred to suppose that he had reached. An extraordinary arrogance now and then possessed him. He stood amid his poor surroundings with the sensation of an outraged exile and laughed aloud in furious contempt of all who censured or pitied him. On hearing from Jasper Milvane that Amy had fallen ill or at all events was suffering in health from what she had gone through he felt a momentary pain which all but determined him to hasten to her side. The reaction was a feeling of distinct pleasure that she had her share of pain and even a hope that her illness might become grave.  But it was not merely nor in great part a malicious satisfaction. He succeeded in believing that Amy suffered because she still had a remnant of love for him. As the days went by and he heard nothing disappointment and resentment occupied him. At length he ceased to haunt the neighborhood. His desires grew sullen. He became fixed in the resolve to hold entirely apart and doggedly await the issue. At the end of each month he sent half the money he had received from Carter simply enclosing postal orders in an envelope addressed to his wife. The first two remittances were in no way acknowledged. The third brought a short note from Amy. As you continued to send these sums of money I had perhaps better let you know that I cannot use them for any purposes of my own. Perhaps a sense of duty leads you to make the sacrifice. But I am afraid it is more likely that you wished to remind me every month that you were undergoing privations and to pay me in this way. What you have sent I have deposited in the Post Office Savings Bank and I shall continue to do so. A.R. For a day or two Brearden persevered in an intention of not replying but the desire to utter his turbid feelings became in the end too strong. He wrote, I regard it as quite natural that you should put the worst interpretation on whatever I do. As for my privations I think very little of them. They are a trifle in comparison with the thought and I am far indeed from thinking that you can be pained by whatever I may undergo that would suppose some generosity in your nature. This was no sooner posted than he would gladly have recalled it. He knew that it was undignified that it contained as many falsehoods as lines and he was ashamed of himself for having written so. But he could not pen a letter of retraction and there remained with him a new cause of exasperated wretchedness. Accepting the people with whom he came in contact at the hospital he had no society but that of Biffin. The realest visited him once a week and this friendship drew closer than it had been in the time of Reardon's prosperity. Biffin was a man of so much natural delicacy that there was a pleasure in imparting to him the details of private sorrow. Though profoundly sympathetic he did his best to oppose Reardon's harsher judgments of Amy and herein gave his friend a satisfaction which might not be avowed. I really do not see, he exclaimed, as they sat in the garret one night of Midsummer. How your wife could have acted otherwise. Of course I am quite unable to judge the attitude of her mind but I think I cannot help thinking from what I knew of her that there has been strictly a misunderstanding between you. It was a hard and miserable thing that she should have to leave you for a time and you couldn't face the necessity in a just spirit. Don't you think there's some truth in your thinking at it? As a woman it was her part to soften the hateful necessity. She made it worse. I'm not sure that you don't demand too much of her. Unhappily I know little or nothing of delicately bred women but I have a suspicion that one oughtn't to expect heroism in them any more than in the women of the lower classes. I think of women as creatures to be protected, as a man justified in asking them to be stronger than himself. Of course," replied Reardon, there's no use in demanding more than a character is capable of, but I believed her of finer stuff, my bitterness comes of the disappointment. I suppose there were faults of temper on both sides and you saw at last only each other's weaknesses. I saw the truth which had always been disguised for me. Biffin persisted in looking doubtful and in secret Reardon thanked him for it. As the realist progressed with his novel Mr. Bailey Grocer, he read the chapters to Reardon not only for his own satisfaction but in great part because he hoped that this example of productivity might in the end encourage the listener to resume his own literary tasks. Reardon found much to criticize in his friends' work. It was noteworthy that he objected and condemned with much less hesitation than in his better days. For sensitive reticence is one of the virtues want to be assailed by suffering in the weaker natures. Biffin purposely urged these discussions as far as possible and doubtless they benefited Reardon for the time. But the defeated novelist could not be induced to undertake another practical illustration of his own views. Occasionally he had an impulse to plan a story but an hours turning it over in his mind sufficed to disgust him. His ideas seemed barren, vapid. It would have been impossible for him to write half a dozen pages and the thought of a whole book overcame him with the dread of insurmountable difficulties in measurable toil. In time, however, he was able to read. He had a pleasure in contemplating the little collection of sterling books that alone remained to him from his library. The sight of many volumes would have been a weariness but these few, when he was again able to think of books at all, were as friendly countenances. He could not read continuously Shakespeare, for instance, and dreamed over a page or two. From such glimpses that remained in his head a line or a short passage which he kept repeating to himself wherever he went. Generally some example of sweet or sonorous meter which had a soothing effect upon him. With odd result on one occasion he was walking in one of the back streets of Islington and stopped idly to gaze into the window of some small shop. Standing thus he forgot himself and recited aloud. Caesar tits his schoolmaster an argument that he has plucked when hither he sends so poor opinion of his wing which had superfluous kings for messengers, not many moons gone by.  He kept one suit of clothes for his hours of attendance at the hospital. It was still decent and with much care would remain so for a long time. That which he wore at home and in his street wanderings declared poverty at every point. It had been discarded before he left the old abode. In his present state of mind he cared nothing how disreputable he looked to passersby. These seedy hab elements were the tokens of his degradation and at times he regarded them as happening to see himself in a shop mirror with pleasurable contempt. The same spirit often led him for a meal to the poorest of eating-houses places where he rubbed elbows with ragged creatures who had somehow obtained the price of a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter. He liked to contrast himself with these comrades in misfortune. This is the rate at which the world esteems me. I am worth no better provision than this. Or else, instead of emphasizing the contrast, he defiantly took a place among the miserables of the netherworld and nursed hatred of all who were well to do. One of these he desired to regard with gratitude but found it difficult to support that feeling. Carter, the vivacious, though at first perfectly unembarrassed in his relations with the city-road clerk, gradually exhibited a change of demeanor. Reardon occasionally found the young man's eyes fixed upon him with a singular expression of the secretary's talk, though still as a rural genial, was want to suffer curious interruptions during which he seemed to be musing on something Reardon had said or on some point of his behaviour. The explanation of this was that Carter had begun to think there might be a foundation for Mrs. Yule's hypothesis that the novelist was not altogether in his sound senses. At first he scouted the idea but as time went on it seemed to him that Reardon's countenance certainly had a gaunt wildness which suggested disagreeable things. Especially did he remark this after his return from an August holiday in Norway. Uncoming for the first time to the city-road branch he sat down and began to favour Reardon with a lively description of how he had enjoyed himself abroad. It never occurred to him that such talk was not likely to inspire the man who had passed his August between the Garret and the hospital, but he observed before long that his listener was glancing hither and thither in a rather strange way. You haven't been ill since I saw you," he inquired. Oh, no! But you look as if you might have been.  I have no wish for it, said Reardon. I'll imagine I have been to Norway. It has done me good to hear of your holiday. I'm glad of that, but it isn't quite the same thing, you know, as having a run somewhere yourself. Oh, much better! To enjoy myself may be mere selfishness, but to enjoy another's enjoyment is the purest satisfaction, good for body and soul. I am cultivating altruism. What's that? A highly rarefied form of happiness. The curious thing about it is that it won't grow unless you have just twice as much faith in it as is required for assent to the Athanasian creed. Oh! Carter went away more than puzzled.  No understanding a word he said. All this time he was on the lookout for employment that would be more suitable to his unfortunate clerk. Whether slightly demented or not, Reardon gave no sign of an inability to discharge his duties. He was conscientious as ever, and to my, unless he changed greatly, be relied upon in positions of more responsibility than his present one. And at length, early in October, there came to the secretary's knowledge an opportunity with which he lost no time in acquainting Reardon. The latter repaired that evening to Clipstone Street, and climbed to Biffen's chamber. He entered with a cheerful look and exclaimed, I have just invented a riddle. See if you can guess it. Why is a London lodging-house like the human body? Biffen looked with some concern at his friend, so unwanted was a sally of this kind. Why is a London lodging-house? Haven't the least idea. Because the brains are always at the top. Not bad, I think, eh? Well, no, it'll pass. Distinctly professional, though. The general public would fail to see the point, I'm afraid. But what has come to you? Good tidings. Carter has offered me a place which will be a decided improvement. A house found, or rooms at all events, and a salary a hundred and fifty a year. By Plutus, that's good hearing. Some duties attached, I suppose. I'm afraid that was inevitable, as things go. It's the secretarieship of a home for dust-a-toop boys at Croydon. The post is far from a sinecure, Carter assures me. There's a great deal of purely secretarial work. And there's a great deal of practical work. Some of it rather rough, I fancy. It seems doubtful whether I'm exactly the man. The present-holder is a burly fellow over six feet high, delighting in gymnastics, and rather fond of a fight now and then when opportunity offers. But he is departing at Christmas, going somewhere as a missionary, and I can have the place if I choose. As I suppose you do. Yes, I shall try it, decidedly. Biffin waited a little, then asked.  There's no saying. End of Chapter 25 Part 1