‘Ha! this is lucky. There’s something here that may interest you, Whelpdale.’
‘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, Milvain! Now that’s really a kind thing to have done. By Jove! I must shake hands with you; I must indeed! Poor Reardon! Poor old fellow!’
His eyes gleamed with moisture. Dora, observing this, looked at him so gently and sweetly that it was perhaps well he did not meet her eyes; the experience would have been altogether too much for him.
‘It has been written for three months,’ said Jasper, ‘but we have held it over for a practical reason. When I was engaged upon it, I went to see Mortimer, and asked him if there was any chance of a new edition of Reardon’s books. He had no idea the poor fellow was dead, and the news seemed really to affect him. He promised to consider whether it would be worth while trying a new issue, and before long I heard from him that he would bring out the two best books with a decent cover and so on, provided I could get my article on Reardon into one of the monthlies. This was soon settled. The editor of The Wayside answered at once, when I wrote to him, that he should be very glad to print what I proposed, as he had a real respect for Reardon. Next month the books will be out—”Neutral Ground,” and “Hubert Reed.” Mortimer said he was sure these were the only ones that would pay for themselves. But we shall see. He may alter his opinion when my article has been read.’
‘Read it to us now, Jasper, will you?’ asked Dora.
The request was supported by Whelpdale, and Jasper needed no pressing. He seated himself so that the lamplight fell upon the pages, and read the article through. It was an excellent piece of writing (see The Wayside, June 1884), and in places touched with true emotion. Any intelligent reader would divine that the author had been personally acquainted with the man of whom he wrote, though the fact was nowhere stated. The praise was not exaggerated, yet all the best points of Reardon’s work were admirably brought out. One who knew Jasper might reasonably have doubted, before reading this, whether he was capable of so worthily appreciating the nobler man.
‘I never understood Reardon so well before,’ declared Whelpdale, 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, Milvain. 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’ll be the fortunate man?’
‘Fortunate, do you think?’ asked Dora quietly, without looking at him.
‘Oh, I spoke rather cynically, I’m afraid,’ Whelpdale 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 illused 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, unwomanly!’
‘Trust one woman for thinking the worst of another,’ observed Jasper with something like a sneer.
Dora gave him a look of strong disapproval; one might have suspected that brother and sister had before this fallen into disagreement on the delicate topic. Whelpdale felt obliged to interpose, and had of course no 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, Biffen will be profoundly grateful to you, I’m sure.’
‘I’m doing what I can for him, too. Run your eye over these slips.’
Whelpdale exhausted himself in terms of satisfaction.
‘You deserve to get on, my dear fellow. In a few years you will be the Aristarchus of our literary world.’
When the visitor rose to depart, Jasper said he would walk a short distance with him. As soon as they had left the house, the future Aristarchus made a confidential communication.
‘It may interest you to know that my sister Maud is shortly to be married.’
‘Indeed! May I ask to whom?’
‘A man you don’t know. His name is Dolomore—a fellow in society.’
