got round to those other people. But Maud didn’t make any mention of Miss Rupert, did she?’
Dora replied with a cold negative.
‘Well, there’s the state of things. It isn’t pleasant, but that’s what I have done.’
‘Do you mean that Miss Rupert has accepted you?’
‘No. I wrote to her. She answered that she was going to Germany for a few weeks, and that I should have her reply whilst she was away. I am waiting.’
‘But what name is to be given to behaviour such as this?’
‘Listen: didn’t you know perfectly well that this must be the end of it?’
‘Do you suppose I thought you utterly shameless and cruel beyond words?’
‘I suppose I am both. It was a moment of desperate temptation, though. I had dined at the Ruperts’—you remember—and it seemed to me there was no mistaking the girl’s manner.’
‘Don’t call her a girl!’ broke in Dora, scornfully. ‘You say she is several years older than yourself.’
‘Well, at all events, she’s intellectual, and very rich. I yielded to the temptation.’
‘And deserted Marian just when she has most need of help and consolation? It’s frightful!’
Jasper moved to another chair and sat down. He was much perturbed.
‘Look here, Dora, I regret it; I do, indeed. And, what’s more, if that woman refuses me—as it’s more than likely she will—I will go to Marian and ask her to marry me at once. I promise that.’
His sister made a movement of contemptuous impatience.
‘And if the woman doesn’t refuse you?’
‘Then I can’t help it. But there’s one thing more I will say. Whether I marry Marian or Miss Rupert, I sacrifice my strongest feelings—in the one case to a sense of duty, in the other to worldly advantage. I was an idiot to write that letter, for I knew at the time that there was a woman who is far more to me than Miss Rupert and all her money—a woman I might, perhaps, marry. Don’t ask any questions; I shall not answer them. As I have said so much, I wished you to understand my position fully. You know the promise I have made. Don’t say anything to Marian; if I am left free I shall marry her as soon as possible.’
And so he left the room.
For a fortnight and more he remained in uncertainty. His life was very uncomfortable, for Dora would only speak to him when necessity compelled her; and there were two meetings with Marian, at which he had to act his part as well as he could. At length came the expected letter. Very nicely expressed, very friendly, very complimentary, but —a refusal.
He handed it to Dora across the breakfast-table, saying with a pinched smile:
‘Now you can look cheerful again. I am doomed.’
CHAPTER XXXV. FEVER AND REST
Milvain’s skilful efforts notwithstanding, ‘Mr Bailey, Grocer,’ had no success. By two publishers the book had been declined; the firm which brought it out offered the author half profits and fifteen pounds on account, greatly to Harold Biffen’s satisfaction. But reviewers in general were either angry or coldly contemptuous. ‘Let Mr Biffen bear in mind,’ said one of these sages, ‘that a novelist’s first duty is to tell a story.’ ‘Mr Biffen,’ wrote another, ‘seems not to understand that a work of art must before everything else afford amusement.’ ‘A pretentious book of the genre ennuyant,’ was the brief comment of a Society journal. A weekly of high standing began its short notice in a rage: ‘Here is another of those intolerable productions for which we are indebted to the spirit of grovelling realism. This author, let it be said, is never offensive, but then one must go on to describe his work by a succession of negatives; it is never interesting, never profitable, never—’ and the rest. The eulogy in The West End had a few timid echoes. That in The Current would have secured more imitators, but unfortunately it appeared when most of the reviewing had already been done. And, as Jasper truly said, only a concurrence of powerful testimonials could have compelled any number of people to affect an interest in this book. ‘The first duty of a novelist is to tell a story:’ the perpetual repetition of this phrase is a warning to all men who propose drawing from the life. Biffen only offered a slice of biography, and it was found to lack flavour.
He wrote to Mrs Reardon: ‘I cannot thank you enough for this very kind letter about my book; I value it more than I should the praises of all the reviewers in existence. You have understood my aim. Few people will do that, and very few indeed could express it with such clear conciseness.’
If Amy had but contented herself with a civil acknowledgment of the volumes he sent her! She thought it a kindness to write to him so appreciatively, to exaggerate her approval. The poor fellow was so lonely. Yes, but his loneliness only became intolerable when a beautiful woman had smiled upon him, and so forced him to dream perpetually of that supreme joy of life which to him was forbidden.
It was a fatal day, that on which Amy put herself under his guidance to visit Reardon’s poor room at Islington. In the old times, Harold had been wont to regard his friend’s wife as the perfect woman; seldom in his life had he enjoyed female society, and when he first met Amy it was years since he had spoken with any woman above the rank of a lodging-house keeper or a needle-plier. Her beauty seemed to him of a very high order, and her mental endowments filled him with an exquisite delight, not to be appreciated by men who have never been in his position. When the rupture came between Amy and her husband, Harold could not believe that she was in any way to blame; held to Reardon by strong friendship, he yet accused him of injustice to Amy. And what he saw of her at Brighton confirmed him in this judgment. When he accompanied her to Manville Street, he allowed her, of course, to remain alone in the room where Reardon had lived; but Amy presently summoned him, and asked him questions. Every tear she shed watered a growth of passionate tenderness in the solitary man’s heart. Parting from her at length, he went to hide his face in darkness and think of her—think of her.
A fatal day. There was an end of all his peace, all his capacity for labour, his patient endurance of penury. Once, when he was about three-and-twenty, he had been in love with a girl of gentle nature and fair intelligence; on account of his poverty, he could not even hope that his love might be returned, and he went away to bear the misery as best he might. Since then the life he had led precluded the forming of such attachments; it would never have been possible for him to support a wife of however humble origin. At intervals he felt the full weight of his loneliness, but there were happily long periods during which his Greek studies and his efforts in realistic fiction made him indifferent to the curse laid upon him. But after that hour of intimate speech with Amy, he never again knew rest of mind or heart.
