recollection the confidence which was wont to inspirit him gave way to an attack of sullen discontent. He felt himself illused by destiny, and therefore by Marian, who was fate’s instrument. It was not in his nature that this mood should last long, but it revealed to him those darker possibilities which his egoism would develop if it came seriously into conflict with overmastering misfortune. A hope, a craven hope, insinuated itself into the cracks of his infirm resolve. He would not examine it, but conscious of its existence he was able to go home in somewhat better spirits.
He wrote to Marian. If possible she was to meet him at half-past nine next morning at Gloucester Gate. He had reasons for wishing this interview to take place on neutral ground.
Early in the afternoon, when he was trying to do some work, there arrived a letter which he opened with impatient hand; the writing was Mrs Reardon’s, and he could not guess what she had to communicate.
‘DEAR MR MILVAIN,—I am distressed beyond measure to read in this
morning’s newspaper that poor Mr Biffen has put an end to his life. Doubtless you can obtain more details than are given in this bare report of the discovery of his body. Will you let me hear, or come and see me?’
He read and was astonished. Absorbed in his own affairs, he had not opened the newspaper to-day; it lay folded on a chair. Hastily he ran his eye over the columns, and found at length a short paragraph which stated that the body of a man who had evidently committed suicide by taking poison had been found on Putney Heath; that papers in his pockets identified him as one Harold Biffen, lately resident in Goodge Street, Tottenham Court Road; and that an inquest would be held, &c. He went to Dora’s room, and told her of the event, but without mentioning the letter which had brought it under his notice.
‘I suppose there was no alternative between that and starvation. I scarcely thought of Biffen as likely to kill himself. If Reardon had done it, I shouldn’t have felt the least surprise.’
‘Mr Whelpdale will be bringing us information, no doubt,’ said Dora, who, as she spoke, thought more of that gentleman’s visit than of the event that was to occasion it.
‘Really, one can’t grieve. There seemed no possibility of his ever earning enough to live decently upon. But why the deuce did he go all the way out there? Consideration for the people in whose house he lived, I dare say; Biffen had a good deal of native delicacy.’
Dora felt a secret wish that someone else possessed more of that desirable quality.
Leaving her, Jasper made a rapid, though careful, toilet, and was presently on his way to Westbourne Park. It was his hope that he should reach Mrs Yule’s house before any ordinary afternoon caller could arrive; and so he did. He had not been here since that evening when he encountered Reardon on the road and heard his reproaches. To his great satisfaction, Amy was alone in the drawing-room; he held her hand a trifle longer than was necessary, and returned more earnestly the look of interest with which she regarded him.
‘I was ignorant of this affair when your letter came,’ he began, ‘and I set out immediately to see you.’
‘I hoped you would bring me some news. What can have driven the poor man to such extremity?’
‘Poverty, I can only suppose. But I will see Whelpdale. I hadn’t come across Biffen for a long time.’
‘Was he still so very poor?’ asked Amy, compassionately.
‘I’m afraid so. His book failed utterly.’
‘Oh, if I had imagined him still in such distress, surely I might have done something to help him!’—So often the regretful remark of one’s friends, when one has been permitted to perish.
With Amy’s sorrow was mingled a suggestion of tenderness which came of her knowledge that the dead man had worshipped her. Perchance his death was in part attributable to that hopeless love.
‘He sent me a copy of his novel,’ she said, ‘and I saw him once or twice after that. But he was much better dressed than in former days, and I thought—’
Having this subject to converse upon put the two more quickly at ease than could otherwise have been the case. Jasper was closely observant of the young widow; her finished graces made a strong appeal to his admiration, and even in some degree awed him. He saw that her beauty had matured, and it was more distinctly than ever of the type to which he paid reverence. Amy might take a foremost place among brilliant women. At a dinner-table, in grand toilet, she would be superb; at polite receptions people would whisper: ‘Who is that?’
Biffen fell out of the dialogue.
‘It grieved me very much,’ said Amy, ‘to hear of the misfortune that befell my cousin.’
‘The legacy affair? Why, yes, it was a pity. Especially now that her father is threatened with blindness.’
‘Is it so serious? I heard indirectly that he had something the matter with his eyes, but I didn’t know—’
‘They may be able to operate before long, and perhaps it will be successful. But in the meantime Marian has to do his work.’
‘This explains the—the delay?’ fell from Amy’s lips, as she smiled.
Jasper moved uncomfortably. It was a voluntary gesture.
‘The whole situation explains it,’ he replied, with some show of impulsiveness. ‘I am very much afraid Marian is tied during her father’s life.’
‘Indeed? But there is her mother.’
‘No companion for her father, as I think you know. Even if Mr Yule recovers his sight, it is not at all likely that he will be able to work as before. Our difficulties are so grave that—’
He paused, and let his hand fail despondently.
‘I hope it isn’t affecting your work—your progress?’
‘To some extent, necessarily. I have a good deal of will, you remember, and what I have set my mind upon, no doubt, I shall some day achieve. But—one makes mistakes.’
There was silence.
