‘Better to go on, all the same,’ was Reardon’s opinion. ‘If the snow gets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all. But you had better not come; I forgot that you are as much out of sorts as I am.’
‘How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you!’
‘Diphtheria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age, isn’t it?’ Reardon asked when they were speeding along City Road.
‘I’m afraid there’s much danger.’
‘Why did she send?’
‘What an absurd question! You seem to have got into a thoroughly morbid state of mind about her. Do be human, and put away your obstinate folly.’
‘In my position you would have acted precisely as I have done. I have had no choice.’
‘I might; but we have both of us too little practicality. The art of living is the art of compromise. We have no right to foster sensibilities, and conduct ourselves as if the world allowed of ideal relations; it leads to misery for others as well as ourselves. Genial coarseness is what it behoves men like you and me to cultivate. Your reply to your wife’s last letter was preposterous. You ought to have gone to her of your own accord as soon as ever you heard she was rich; she would have thanked you for such common-sense disregard of delicacies. Let there be an end of this nonsense, I implore you!’
Reardon stared through the glass at the snow that fell thicker and thicker.
‘What are we—you and I?’ pursued the other. ‘We have no belief in immortality; we are convinced that this life is all; we know that human happiness is the origin and end of all moral considerations. What right have we to make ourselves and others miserable for the sake of an obstinate idealism? It is our duty to make the best of circumstances. Why will you go cutting your loaf with a razor when you have a serviceable bread-knife?’
Still Reardon did not speak. The cab rolled on almost silently.
‘You love your wife, and this summons she sends is proof that her thought turns to you as soon as she is in distress.’
‘Perhaps she only thought it her duty to let the child’s father know—’
‘Perhaps—perhaps—perhaps!’ cried Biffen, contemptuously. ‘There goes the razor again! Take the plain, human construction of what happens. Ask yourself what the vulgar man would do, and do likewise; that’s the only safe rule for you.’
They were both hoarse with too much talking, and for the last half of the drive neither spoke.
At the railway-station they ate and drank together, but with poor pretence of appetite. As long as possible they kept within the warmed rooms. Reardon was pale, and had anxious, restless eyes; he could not remain seated, though when he had walked about for a few minutes the trembling of his limbs obliged him to sink down. It was an unutterable relief to both when the moment of the train’s starting approached.
They clasped hands warmly, and exchanged a few last requests and promises.
‘Forgive my plain speech, old fellow,’ said Biffen. ‘Go and be happy!’
Then he stood alone on the platform, watching the red light on the last carriage as the train whirled away into darkness and storm.
Reardon had never been to Brighton, and of his own accord never would have gone; he was prejudiced against the place because its name has become suggestive of fashionable imbecility and the snobbishness which tries to model itself thereon; he knew that the town was a mere portion of London transferred to the sea-shore, and as he loved the strand and the breakers for their own sake, to think of them in such connection could be nothing but a trial of his temper. Something of this species of irritation affected him in the first part of his journey, and disturbed the mood of kindliness with which he was approaching Amy; but towards the end he forgot this in a growing desire to be beside his wife in her trouble. His impatience made the hour and a half seem interminable.
The fever which was upon him had increased. He coughed frequently; his breathing was difficult; though constantly moving, he felt as if, in the absence of excitement, his one wish would have been to lie down and abandon himself to lethargy. Two men who sat with him in the third-class carriage had spread a rug over their knees and amused themselves with playing cards for trifling sums of money; the sight of their foolish faces, the sound of their laughs, the talk they interchanged, exasperated him to the last point of endurance; but for all that he could not draw his attention from them. He seemed condemned by some spiritual tormentor to take an interest in their endless games, and to observe their visages until he knew every line with a hateful intimacy. One of the men had a moustache of unusual form; the ends curved upward with peculiar suddenness, and Reardon was constrained to speculate as to the mode of training by which this singularity had been produced. He could have shed tears of nervous distraction in his inability to turn his thoughts upon other things.
On alighting at his journey’s end he was seized with a fit of shivering, an intense and sudden chill which made his teeth chatter. In an endeavour to overcome this he began to run towards the row of cabs, but his legs refused such exercise, and coughing compelled him to pause for breath. Still shaking, he threw himself into a vehicle and was driven to the address Amy had mentioned. The snow on the ground lay thick, but no more was falling.
Heedless of the direction which the cab took, he suffered his physical and mental unrest for another quarter of an hour, then a stoppage told him that the house was reached. On his way he had heard a clock strike eleven.
The door opened almost as soon as he had rung the bell. He mentioned his name, and the maid-servant conducted him to a drawing-room on the ground-floor. The house was quite a small one, but seemed to be well furnished. One lamp burned on the table, and the fire had sunk to a red glow. Saying that she would inform Mrs Reardon at once, the servant left him alone.
He placed his bag on the floor, took off his muffler, threw back his overcoat, and sat waiting. The overcoat was new, but the garments beneath it were his poorest, those he wore when sitting in his garret, for he had neither had time to change them, nor thought of doing so.
He heard no approaching footstep but Amy came into the room in a way which showed that she had hastened downstairs. She looked at him, then drew near with both hands extended, and laid them on his shoulders, and kissed him. Reardon shook so violently that it was all he could do to remain standing; he seized one of her hands, and pressed it against his lips.
‘How hot your breath is!’ she said. ‘And how you tremble! Are you ill?’
‘A bad cold, that’s all,’ he answered thickly, and coughed. ‘How is Willie?’
‘In great danger. The doctor is coming again to-night; we thought that was his ring.’
‘You didn’t expect me to-night?’
‘I couldn’t feel sure whether you would come.’
‘Why did you send for me, Amy? Because Willie was in danger, and you felt I ought to know about it?’
‘Yes—and because I—’
She burst into tears. The display of emotion came very suddenly; her words had been spoken in a firm voice, and only the pained knitting of her brows had told what she was suffering.
‘If Willie dies, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?’ broke forth between her sobs.
Reardon took her in his arms, and laid his hand upon her head in the old loving way.
‘Do you wish me to go up and see him, Amy?’
‘Of course. But first, let me tell you why we are here. Edith—Mrs Carter—was coming to spend a week with her mother, and she pressed me to join her. I didn’t really wish to; I was unhappy, and felt how impossible it was to go on always living away from you. Oh, that I had never come! Then Willie would have been as well as ever.’
‘Tell me when and how it began.’
She explained briefly, then went on to tell of other circumstances.
‘I have a nurse with me in the room. It’s my own bedroom, and this house is so small it will be impossible to give you a bed here, Edwin. But there’s an hotel only a few yards away.’
‘Yes, yes; don’t trouble about that.’
‘But you look so ill—you are shaking so. Is it a cold you have had long?’
‘Oh, my old habit; you remember. One cold after another, all through the accursed winter. What does that matter when you speak kindly to me once more? I had rather die now at your feet and see the old gentleness when you look at me, than live on estranged from you. No, don’t kiss me, I believe these vile sore-throats are contagious.’
‘But your lips are so hot and parched! And to think of your coming this journey, on such a night!’
‘Good old Biffen came to the station with me. He was angry because I had kept away from you so long. Have you given me your heart again, Amy?’
‘Oh, it has all been a wretched mistake! But we were so poor. Now all that is over; if only Willie can be saved to me! I am so anxious for the doctor’s coming; the poor little child can hardly draw a breath. How cruel it is that such suffering should come upon a little creature who has never done or thought ill!’
‘You are not the first, dearest, who has revolted against nature’s cruelty.’
‘Let us go up at once, Edwin. Leave your coat and things here. Mrs Winter—Edith’s mother—is a very old lady; she has gone to bed. And I dare say you wouldn’t care to see Mrs Carter to-night?’
‘No, no! only you and Willie.’
‘When the doctor comes hadn’t you better ask his advice for yourself?’
‘We shall see. Don’t trouble about me.’
They went softly up to the first floor, and entered a bedroom. Fortunately the light here was very dim, or the nurse who sat by the child’s bed must have wondered at the eccentricity with which her patient’s father attired himself. Bending over the little sufferer, Reardon felt for the first time since Willie’s birth a strong fatherly emotion; tears rushed to his eyes, and he almost crushed Amy’s hand as he held it during the spasm of his intense feeling.
He sat here for a long time without speaking. The warmth of the chamber had the reverse of an assuaging effect upon his difficult breathing and his frequent short cough—it seemed to oppress and confuse his brain. He began to feel a pain in his right side, and could not sit upright on the chair.
Amy kept regarding him, without his being aware of it.
‘Does your head ache?’ she whispered.
He nodded, but did not speak.
‘Oh, why doesn’t the doctor come? I must send in a few minutes.’
But as soon as she had spoken a bell rang in the lower part of the house. Amy had no doubt that it announced the promised visit.
She left the room, and in a minute or two returned with the medical man. When the examination of the child was over, Reardon requested a few words with the doctor in the room downstairs.
‘I’ll come back to you,’ he whispered to Amy.
The two descended together, and entered the drawing-room.
‘Is there any hope for the little fellow?’ Reardon asked.
Yes, there was hope; a favourable turn might be expected.
‘Now I wish to trouble you for a moment on my own account. I shouldn’t be surprised if you tell me that I have congestion of the lungs.’
The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his interlocutor with curiosity. He now asked the necessary questions, and made an examination.
‘Have you had any lung trouble before this?’ he inquired gravely.
‘Slight congestion of the right lung not many weeks ago.’
‘I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your symptoms to go so far without—’
‘I have just come down from London,’ interrupted Reardon.
‘Tut, tut, tut! To bed this moment, my dear sir! There is inflammation, and—’
‘I can’t have a bed in this house; there is no spare room. I must go to the nearest hotel.’
‘Positively? Then let me take you. My carriage is at the door.’
‘One thing—I beg you won’t tell my wife that this is serious. Wait till she is out of her anxiety about the child.’
‘You will need the services of a nurse. A most unfortunate thing that you are obliged to go to the hotel.’
‘It can’t be helped. If a nurse is necessary, I must engage one.’
He had the strange sensation of knowing that whatever was needful could be paid for; it relieved his mind immensely. To the rich, illness has none of the worst horrors only understood by the poor.
‘Don’t speak a word more than you can help,’ said the doctor as he watched Reardon withdraw.
Amy stood on the lower stairs, and came down as soon as her husband showed himself.
‘The doctor is good enough to take me in his carriage,’ he whispered. ‘It is better that I should go to bed, and get a good night’s rest. I wish I could have sat with you, Amy.’
‘Is it anything? You look worse than when you came, Edwin.’
‘A feverish cold. Don’t give it a thought, dearest. Go to Willie. Good-night!’
She threw her arms about him.
‘I shall come to see you if you are not able to be here by nine in the morning,’ she said, and added the name of the hotel to which he was to go.
At this establishment the doctor was well known. By midnight Reardon lay in a comfortable room, a huge cataplasm fixed upon him, and other needful arrangements made. A waiter had undertaken to visit him at intervals through the night, and the man of medicine promised to return as soon as possible after daybreak.
What sound was that, soft and continuous, remote, now clearer, now confusedly murmuring? He must have slept, but now he lay in sudden perfect consciousness, and that music fell upon his ears. Ah! of course it was the rising tide; he was near the divine sea.
The night-light enabled him to discern the principal objects in the room, and he let his eyes stray idly hither and thither. But this moment of peacefulness was brought to an end by a fit of coughing, and he became troubled, profoundly troubled, in mind. Was his illness really dangerous? He tried to draw a deep breath, but could not. He found that he could only lie on his right side with any ease. And with the effort of turning he exhausted himself; in the course of an hour or two all his strength had left him. Vague fears flitted harassingly through his thoughts. If he had inflammation of the lungs—that was a disease of which one might die, and speedily. Death? No, no, no; impossible at such a time as this, when Amy, his own dear wife, had come back to him, and had brought him that which would insure their happiness through all the years of a long life.
He was still quite a young man; there must be great reserves of strength in him. And he had the will to live, the prevailing will, the passionate all-conquering desire of happiness.
How he had alarmed himself! Why, now he was calmer again, and again could listen to the music of the breakers. Not all the folly and baseness that paraded along this strip of the shore could change the sea’s eternal melody. In a day or two he would walk on the sands with Amy, somewhere quite out of sight of the repulsive town. But Willie was ill; he had forgotten that. Poor little boy! In future the child should be more to him; though never what the mother was, his own love, won again and for ever.
Again an interval of unconsciousness, brought to an end by that aching in his side. He breathed very quickly; could not help doing so. He had never felt so ill as this, never. Was it not near morning?
Then he dreamt. He was at Patras, was stepping into a boat to be rowed out to the steamer which would bear him away from Greece. A magnificent night, though at the end of December; a sky of deep blue, thick set with stars. No sound but the steady splash of the oars, or perhaps a voice from one of the many vessels that lay anchored in the harbour, each showing its lantern-gleams. The water was as deep a blue as the sky, and sparkled with reflected radiance.
And now he stood on deck in the light of early morning. Southward lay the Ionian Islands; he looked for Ithaca, and grieved that it had been passed in the hours of darkness. But the nearest point of the main shore was a rocky promontory; it reminded him that in these waters was fought the battle of Actium.
The glory vanished. He lay once more a sick man in a hired chamber, longing for the dull English dawn.
At eight o’clock came the doctor. He would allow only a word or two to be uttered, and his visit was brief. Reardon was chiefly anxious to have news of the child, but for this he would have to wait.
At ten Amy entered the bedroom. Reardon could not raise himself, but he stretched out his hand and took hers, and gazed eagerly at her. She must have been weeping, he felt sure of that, and there was an expression on her face such as he had never seen there.
‘How is Willie?’
‘Better, dear; much better.’
He still searched her face.
‘Ought you to leave him?’
‘Hush! You mustn’t speak.’
Tears broke from her eyes, and Reardon had the conviction that the child was dead.
‘The truth, Amy!’
She threw herself on her knees by the bedside, and pressed her wet cheek against his hand.
‘I am come to nurse you, dear husband,’ she said a moment after, standing up again and kissing his forehead. ‘I have only you now.’
His heart sank, and for a moment so great a terror was upon him that he closed his eyes and seemed to pass into utter darkness. But those last words of hers repeated themselves in his mind, and at length they brought a deep solace. Poor little Willie had been the cause of the first coldness between him and Amy; her love for him had given place to a mother’s love for the child. Now it would be as in the first days of their marriage; they would again be all in all to each other.
‘You oughtn’t to have come, feeling so ill,’ she said to him. ‘You should have let me know, dear.’
He smiled and kissed her hand.
‘And you kept the truth from me last night, in kindness.’
She checked herself, knowing that agitation must be harmful to him. She had hoped to conceal the child’s death, but the effort was too much for her overstrung nerves. And indeed it was only possible for her to remain an hour or two by this sick-bed, for she was exhausted by her night of watching, and the sudden agony with which it had concluded. Shortly after Amy’s departure, a professional nurse came to attend upon what the doctor had privately characterised as a very grave case.
By the evening its gravity was in no respect diminished. The sufferer had ceased to cough and to make restless movements, and had become lethargic; later, he spoke deliriously, or rather muttered, for his words were seldom intelligible. Amy had returned to the room at four o’clock, and remained till far into the night; she was physically exhausted, and could do little but sit in a chair by the bedside and shed silent tears, or gaze at vacancy in the woe of her sudden desolation. Telegrams had been exchanged with her mother, who was to arrive in Brighton to-morrow morning; the child’s funeral would probably be on the third day from this.
When she rose to go away for the night, leaving the nurse in attendance, Reardon seemed to lie in a state of unconsciousness, but just as she was turning from the bed, he opened his eyes and pronounced her name.
‘I am here, Edwin,’ she answered, bending over him.
‘Will you let Biffen know?’ he said in low but very clear tones.
‘That you are ill dear? I will write at once, or telegraph, if you like. What is his address?’
He had closed his eyes again, and there came no reply. Amy repeated her question twice; she was turning from him in hopelessness when his voice became audible.
‘I can’t remember his new address. I know it, but I can’t remember.’
She had to leave him thus.
The next day his breathing was so harassed that he had to be raised against pillows. But throughout the hours of daylight his mind was clear, and from time to time he whispered words of tenderness in reply to Amy’s look. He never willingly relinquished her hand, and repeatedly he pressed it against his cheek or lips. Vainly he still endeavoured to recall his friend’s address.
‘Couldn’t Mr Carter discover it for you?’ Amy asked.
‘Perhaps. You might try.’
She would have suggested applying to Jasper Milvain, but that name must not be mentioned. Whelpdale, also, would perchance know where Biffen lived, but Whelpdale’s address he had also forgotten.
At night there were long periods of delirium; not mere confused muttering, but continuous talk which the listeners could follow perfectly.
For the most part the sufferer’s mind was occupied with revival of the distress he had undergone whilst making those last efforts to write something worthy of himself. Amy’s heart was wrung as she heard him living through that time of supreme misery—misery which she might have done so much to alleviate, had not selfish fears and irritated pride caused her to draw further and further from him. Hers was the kind of penitence which is forced by sheer stress of circumstances on a nature which resents any form of humiliation; she could not abandon herself to unreserved grief for what she had done or omitted, and the sense of this defect made a great part of her affliction. When her husband lay in mute lethargy, she thought only of her dead child, and mourned the loss; but his delirious utterances constrained her to break from that bittersweet preoccupation, to confuse her mourning with self-reproach and with fears.
Though unconsciously, he was addressing her: ‘I can do no more, Amy. My brain seems to be worn out; I can’t compose, I can’t even think. Look! I have been sitting here for hours, and I have done only that little bit, half a dozen lines. Such poor stuff too! I should burn it, only I can’t afford. I must do my regular quantity every day, no matter what it is.’
The nurse, who was present when he talked in this way, looked to Amy for an explanation.
‘My husband is an author,’ Amy answered. ‘Not long ago he was obliged to write when he was ill and ought to have been resting.’
‘I always thought it must be hard work writing books,’ said the nurse with a shake of her head.
‘You don’t understand me,’ the voice pursued, dreadful as a voice always is when speaking independently of the will. ‘You think I am only a poor creature, because I can do nothing better than this. If only I had money enough to rest for a year or two, you should see. Just because I have no money I must sink to this degradation. And I am losing you as well; you don’t love me!’
He began to moan in anguish.
But a happy change presently came over his dreaming. He fell into animated description of his experiences in Greece and Italy, and after talking for a long time, he turned his head and said in a perfectly natural tone:
‘Amy, do you know that Biffen and I are going to Greece?’
She believed he spoke consciously, and replied:
‘You must take me with you, Edwin.’
He paid no attention to this remark, but went on with the same deceptive accent.
‘He deserves a holiday after nearly getting burnt to death to save his novel. Imagine the old fellow plunging headlong into the flames to rescue his manuscript! Don’t say that authors can’t be heroic!’
And he laughed gaily.
Another morning broke. It was possible, said the doctors (a second had been summoned), that a crisis which drew near might bring the favourable turn; but Amy formed her own opinion from the way in which the nurse expressed herself. She felt sure that the gravest fears were entertained. Before noon Reardon awoke from what had seemed natural sleep—save for the rapid breathing—and of a sudden recollected the number of the house in Cleveland Street at which Biffen was now living. He uttered it without explanation. Amy at once conjectured his meaning, and as soon as her surmise was confirmed she despatched a telegram to her husband’s friend.
That evening, as Amy was on the point of returning to the sick-room after having dined at her friend’s house, it was announced that a gentleman named Biffen wished to see her. She found him in the dining-room, and, even amid her distress, it was a satisfaction to her that he presented a far more conventional appearance than in the old days. All the garments he wore, even his hat, gloves, and boots, were new; a surprising state of things, explained by the fact of his commercial brother having sent him a present of ten pounds, a practical expression of sympathy with him in his recent calamity. Biffen could not speak; he looked with alarm at Amy’s pallid face. In a few words she told him of Reardon’s condition.
‘I feared this,’ he replied under his breath. ‘He was ill when I saw him off at London Bridge. But Willie is better, I trust?’
Amy tried to answer, but tears filled her eyes and her head drooped. Harold was overcome with a sense of fatality; grief and dread held him motionless.
They conversed brokenly for a few minutes, then left the house, Biffen carrying the hand-bag with which he had travelled hither. When they reached the hotel he waited apart until it was ascertained whether he could enter the sick-room. Amy rejoined him and said with a faint smile:
‘He is conscious, and was very glad to hear that you had come. But don’t let him try to speak much.’
The change that had come over his friend’s countenance was to Harold, of course, far more gravely impressive than to those who had watched at the bedside. In the drawn features, large sunken eyes, thin and discoloured lips, it seemed to him that he read too surely the presage of doom. After holding the shrunken hand for a moment he was convulsed with an agonising sob, and had to turn away.
Amy saw that her husband wished to speak to her; she bent over him.
‘Ask him to stay, dear. Give him a room in the hotel.’
‘I will.’
Biffen sat down by the bedside, and remained for half an hour. His friend inquired whether he had yet heard about the novel; the answer was a shake of the head. When he rose, Reardon signed to him to bend down, and whispered:
‘It doesn’t matter what happens; she is mine again.’
The next day was very cold, but a blue sky gleamed over land and sea. The drives and promenades were thronged with people in exuberant health and spirits. Biffen regarded this spectacle with resentful scorn; at another time it would have moved him merely to mirth, but not even the sound of the breakers when he had wandered as far as possible from human contact could help him to think with resignation of the injustice which triumphs so flagrantly in the destinies of men. Towards Amy he had no shadow of unkindness; the sight of her in tears had impressed him as profoundly, in another way, as that of his friend’s wasted features. She and Reardon were again one, and his love for them both was stronger than any emotion of tenderness he had ever known.
In the afternoon he again sat by the bedside. Every symptom of the sufferer’s condition pointed to an approaching end: a face that had grown cadaverous, livid lips, breath drawn in hurrying gasps. Harold despaired of another look of recognition. But as he sat with his forehead resting on his hand Amy touched him; Reardon had turned his face in their direction, and with a conscious gaze.
‘I shall never go with you to Greece,’ he said distinctly.
There was silence again. Biffen did not move his eyes from the deathly mask; in a minute or two he saw a smile soften its lineaments, and Reardon again spoke:
‘How often you and I have quoted it!—
“We are such stuffAs dreams are made on, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep.—“’
The remaining words were indistinguishable, and, as if the effort of utterance had exhausted him, his eyes closed, and he sank into lethargy.
When he came down from his bedroom on the following morning, Biffen was informed that his friend had died between two and three o’clock. At the same time he received a note in which Amy requested him to come and see her late in the afternoon. He spent the day in a long walk along the eastward cliffs; again the sun shone brilliantly, and the sea was flecked with foam upon its changing green and azure. It seemed to him that he had never before known solitude, even through all the years of his lonely and sad existence.
At sunset he obeyed Amy’s summons. He found her calm, but with the signs of long weeping.
‘At the last moment,’ she said, ‘he was able to speak to me, and you were mentioned. He wished you to have all that he has left in his room at Islington. When I come back to London, will you take me there and let me see the room just as when he lived in it? Let the people in the house know what has happened, and that I am responsible for whatever will be owing.’
Her resolve to behave composedly gave way as soon as Harold’s broken voice had replied. Hysterical sobbing made further speech from her impossible, and Biffen, after holding her hand reverently for a moment, left her alone.
On an evening of early summer, six months after the death of Edwin Reardon, Jasper of the facile pen was bending over his desk, writing rapidly by the warm western light which told that sunset was near. Not far from him sat his younger sister; she was reading, and the book in her hand bore the title, ‘Mr Bailey, Grocer.’
‘How will this do?’ Jasper exclaimed, suddenly throwing down his pen.
And he read aloud a critical notice of the book with which Dora was occupied; a notice of the frankly eulogistic species, beginning with: ‘It is seldom nowadays that the luckless reviewer of novels can draw the attention of the public to a new work which is at once powerful and original;’ and ending: ‘The word is a bold one, but we do not hesitate to pronounce this book a masterpiece.’
‘Is that for The Current?’ asked Dora, when he had finished.
‘No, for The West End. Fadge won’t allow anyone but himself to be lauded in that style. I may as well do the notice for The Current now, as I’ve got my hand in.’
He turned to his desk again, and before daylight failed him had produced a piece of more cautious writing, very favourable on the whole, but with reserves and slight censures. This also he read to Dora.
‘You wouldn’t suspect they were written by the same man, eh?’
‘No. You have changed the style very skilfully.’
‘I doubt if they’ll be much use. Most people will fling the book down with yawns before they’re half through the first volume. If I knew a doctor who had many cases of insomnia in hand, I would recommend “Mr Bailey” to him as a specific.’
‘Oh, but it is really clever, Jasper!’
‘Not a doubt of it. I half believe what I have written. And if only we could get it mentioned in a leader or two, and so on, old Biffen’s fame would be established with the better sort of readers. But he won’t sell three hundred copies. I wonder whether Robertson would let me do a notice for his paper?’
‘Biffen ought to be grateful to you, if he knew,’ said Dora, laughing.
‘Yet, now, there are people who would cry out that this kind of thing is disgraceful. It’s nothing of the kind. Speaking seriously, we know that a really good book will more likely than not receive fair treatment from two or three reviewers; yes, but also more likely than not it will be swamped in the flood of literature that pours forth week after week, and won’t have attention fixed long enough upon it to establish its repute. The struggle for existence among books is nowadays as severe as among men. If a writer has friends connected with the press, it is the plain duty of those friends to do their utmost to help him. What matter if they exaggerate, or even lie? The simple, sober truth has no chance whatever of being listened to, and it’s only by volume of shouting that the ear of the public is held. What use is it to Biffen if his work struggles to slow recognition ten years hence? Besides, as I say, the growing flood of literature swamps everything but works of primary genius. If a clever and conscientious book does not spring to success at once, there’s precious small chance that it will survive. Suppose it were possible for me to write a round dozen reviews of this book, in as many different papers, I would do it with satisfaction. Depend upon it, this kind of thing will be done on that scale before long. And it’s quite natural. A man’s friends must be helped, by whatever means,quocunque modo, as Biffen himself would say.’
‘I dare say he doesn’t even think of you as a friend now.’
‘Very likely not. It’s ages since I saw him. But there’s much magnanimity in my character, as I have often told you. It delights me to be generous, whenever I can afford it.’
Dusk was gathering about them. As they sat talking, there came a tap at the door, and the summons to enter was obeyed by Mr Whelpdale.
‘I was passing,’ he said in his respectful voice, ‘and couldn’t resist the temptation.’
Jasper struck a match and lit the lamp. In this clearer light Whelpdale was exhibited as a young man of greatly improved exterior; he wore a cream-coloured waistcoat, a necktie of subtle hue, and delicate gloves; prosperity breathed from his whole person. It was, in fact, only a moderate prosperity to which he had as yet attained, but the future beckoned to him flatteringly.
Early in this year, his enterprise as ‘literary adviser’ had brought him in contact with a man of some pecuniary resources, who proposed to establish an agency for the convenience of authors who were not skilled in disposing of their productions to the best advantage. Under the name of Fleet & Co., this business was shortly set on foot, and Whelpdale’s services were retained on satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicate system had given new scope to literary agencies, and Mr Fleet was a man of keen eye for commercial opportunities.
‘Well, have you read Biffen’s book?’ asked Jasper.
‘Wonderful, isn’t it! A work of genius, I am convinced. Ha! you have it there, Miss Dora. But I’m afraid it is hardly for you.’
‘And why not, Mr Whelpdale?’
‘You should only read of beautiful things, of happy lives. This book must depress you.’
‘But why will you imagine me such a feeble-minded person?’ asked Dora. ‘You have so often spoken like this. I have really no ambition to be a doll of such superfine wax.’
The habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned.
‘Pray forgive me!’ he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards the girl with eyes which deprecated her displeasure. ‘I am very far indeed from attributing weakness to you. It was only the natural, unreflecting impulse; one finds it so difficult to associate you, even as merely a reader, with such squalid scenes.
The ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from that sphere in which you are naturally at home.’
There was some slight affectation in his language, but the tone attested sincere feeling. Jasper was watching him with half an eye, and glancing occasionally at Dora.
‘No doubt,’ said the latter, ‘it’s my story in The English Girl that inclines you to think me a goody-goody sort of young woman.’
‘So far from that, Miss Dora, I was only waiting for an opportunity to tell you how exceedingly delighted I have been with the last two weeks’ instalments. In all seriousness, I consider that story of yours the best thing of the kind that ever came under my notice. You seem to me to have discovered a new genre; such writing as this has surely never been offered to girls, and all the readers of the paper must be immensely grateful to you. I run eagerly to buy the paper each week; I assure you I do. The stationer thinks I purchase it for a sister, I suppose. But each section of the story seems to be better than the last. Mark the prophecy which I now make: when this tale is published in a volume its success will be great. You will be recognised, Miss Dora, as the new writer for modern English girls.’
The subject of this panegyric coloured a little and laughed. Unmistakably she was pleased.
‘Look here, Whelpdale,’ said Jasper, ‘I can’t have this; Dora’s conceit, please to remember, is, to begin with, only a little less than my own, and you will make her unendurable. Her tale is well enough in its way, but then its way is a very humble one.’
‘I deny it!’ cried the other, excitedly. ‘How can it be called a humble line of work to provide reading, which is at once intellectual and moving and exquisitely pure, for the most important part of the population—the educated and refined young people who are just passing from girlhood to womanhood?’
‘The most important fiddlestick!’
‘You are grossly irreverent, my dear Milvain. I cannot appeal to your sister, for she’s too modest to rate her own sex at its true value, but the vast majority of thoughtful men would support me. You yourself do, though you affect this profane way of speaking. And we know,’ he looked at Dora, ‘that he wouldn’t talk like this if Miss Yule were present.’
Jasper changed the topic of conversation, and presently Whelpdale was able to talk with more calmness. The young man, since his association with Fleet & Co., had become fertile in suggestions of literary enterprise, and at present he was occupied with a project of special hopefulness.
‘I want to find a capitalist,’ he said, ‘who will get possession of that paper Chat, and transform it according to an idea I have in my head. The thing is doing very indifferently, but I am convinced it might be made splendid property, with a few changes in the way of conducting it.’
‘The paper is rubbish,’ remarked Jasper, ‘and the kind of rubbish—oddly enough—which doesn’t attract people.’
‘Precisely, but the rubbish is capable of being made a very valuable article, if it were only handled properly. I have talked to the people about it again and again, but I can’t get them to believe what I say. Now just listen to my notion. In the first place, I should slightly alter the name; only slightly, but that little alteration would in itself have an enormous effect. Instead of Chat I should call it Chit-Chat!’
Jasper exploded with mirth.
‘That’s brilliant!’ he cried. ‘A stroke of genius!’
‘Are you serious? Or are you making fun of me? I believe it is a stroke of genius. Chat doesn’t attract anyone, but Chit-Chat would sell like hot cakes, as they say in America. I know I am right; laugh as you will.’
‘On the same principle,’ cried Jasper, ‘if The Tatler were changed to Tittle-Tattle, its circulation would be trebled.’
Whelpdale smote his knee in delight.
‘An admirable idea! Many a true word uttered in joke, and this is an instance! Tittle-Tattle—a magnificent title; the very thing to catch the multitude.’
Dora was joining in the merriment, and for a minute or two nothing but bursts of laughter could be heard.
‘Now do let me go on,’ implored the man of projects, when the noise subsided. ‘That’s only one change, though a most important one. What I next propose is this:—I know you will laugh again, but I will demonstrate to you that I am right. No article in the paper is to measure more than two inches in length, and every inch must be broken into at least two paragraphs.’
‘Superb!’
‘But you are joking, Mr Whelpdale!’ exclaimed Dora.
‘No, I am perfectly serious. Let me explain my principle. I would have the paper address itself to the quarter-educated; that is to say, the great new generation that is being turned out by the Board schools, the young men and women who can just read, but are incapable of sustained attention. People of this kind want something to occupy them in trains and on ‘buses and trams. As a rule they care for no newspapers except the Sunday ones; what they want is the lightest and frothiest of chit-chatty information—bits of stories, bits of description, bits of scandal, bits of jokes, bits of statistics, bits of foolery. Am I not right? Everything must be very short, two inches at the utmost; their attention can’t sustain itself beyond two inches. Even chat is too solid for them: they want chit-chat.’
Jasper had begun to listen seriously.
‘There’s something in this, Whelpdale,’ he remarked.
‘Ha! I have caught you?’ cried the other delightedly. ‘Of course there’s something in it?’
‘But—’ began Dora, and checked herself.
‘You were going to say—’ Whelpdale bent towards her with deference.
‘Surely these poor, silly people oughtn’t to be encouraged in their weakness.’
Whelpdale’s countenance fell. He looked ashamed of himself. But Jasper came speedily to the rescue.
‘That’s twaddle, Dora. Fools will be fools to the world’s end. Answer a fool according to his folly; supply a simpleton with the reading he craves, if it will put money in your pocket. You have discouraged poor Whelpdale in one of the most notable projects of modern times.’
‘I shall think no more of it,’ said Whelpdale, gravely. ‘You are right, Miss Dora.’
Again Jasper burst into merriment. His sister reddened, and looked uncomfortable. She began to speak timidly:
‘You said this was for reading in trains and ‘buses?’
Whelpdale caught at hope.
‘Yes. And really, you know, it may be better at such times to read chit-chat than to be altogether vacant, or to talk unprofitably. I am not sure; I bow to your opinion unreservedly.’
‘So long as they only read the paper at such times,’ said Dora, still hesitating. ‘One knows by experience that one really can’t fix one’s attention in travelling; even an article in a newspaper is often too long.’
‘Exactly! And if you find it so, what must be the case with the mass of untaught people, the quarter-educated? It might encourage in some of them a taste for reading—don’t you think?’
‘It might,’ assented Dora, musingly. ‘And in that case you would be doing good!’
‘Distinct good!’
They smiled joyfully at each other. Then Whelpdale turned to Jasper:
‘You are convinced that there is something in this?’
‘Seriously, I think there is. It would all depend on the skill of the fellows who put the thing together every week. There ought always to be one strongly sensational item—we won’t call it article. For instance, you might display on a placard: “What the Queen eats!” or “How Gladstone’s collars are made!”—things of that kind.’
‘To be sure, to be sure. And then, you know,’ added Whelpdale, glancing anxiously at Dora, ‘when people had been attracted by these devices, they would find a few things that were really profitable. We would give nicely written little accounts of exemplary careers, of heroic deeds, and so on. Of course nothing whatever that could be really demoralising—cela va sans dire. Well, what I was going to say was this: would you come with me to the office of Chat, and have a talk with my friend Lake, the sub-editor? I know your time is very valuable, but then you’re often running into the Will-o’-the-Wisp, and Chat is just upstairs, you know.’
‘What use should I be?’
‘Oh, all the use in the world. Lake would pay most respectful attention to your opinion, though he thinks so little of mine. You are a man of note, I am nobody. I feel convinced that you could persuade the Chat people to adopt my idea, and they might be willing to give me a contingent share of contingent profits, if I had really shown them the way to a good thing.’
Jasper promised to think the matter over. Whilst their talk still ran on this subject, a packet that had come by post was brought into the room. Opening it, Milvain exclaimed:
‘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 ill-used you?’
‘I am not talking of such cases. Mrs Reardon had never anything of the kind to fear. It was impossible for a man such as her husband to behave harshly. Her conduct was cowardly, faithless, 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.’
‘Rich, then, I hope?’
‘Tolerably well-to-do. I dare say he has three or four thousand a year!’
‘Gracious heavens! Why, that’s magnificent.’
But Whelpdale did not look quite so much satisfaction as his words expressed.
‘Is it to be soon?’ he inquired.
‘At the end of the season. Make no difference to Dora and me, of course.’
‘Oh? Really? No difference at all? You will let me come and see you—both—just in the old way, Milvain?’
‘Why the deuce shouldn’t you?’
‘To be sure, to be sure. By Jove! I really don’t know how I should get on if I couldn’t look in of an evening now and then. I have got so much into the habit of it. And—I’m a lonely beggar, you know. I don’t go into society, and really—’
He broke off, and Jasper began to speak of other things.
When Milvain re-entered the house, Dora had gone to her own sitting-room. It was not quite ten o’clock. Taking one set of the proofs of his ‘Reardon’ article, he put it into a large envelope; then he wrote a short letter, which began ‘Dear Mrs Reardon,’ and ended ‘Very sincerely yours,’ the communication itself being as follows:
‘I venture to send you the proofs of a paper which is to appear in next month’s Wayside, in the hope that it may seem to you not badly done, and that the reading of it may give you pleasure. If anything occurs to you which you would like me to add, or if you desire any omission, will you do me the kindness to let me know of it as soon as possible, and your suggestion shall at once be adopted. I am informed that the new edition of “On Neutral Ground” and “Hubert Reed” will be ready next month. Need I say how glad I am that my friend’s work is not to be forgotten?’
This note he also put into the envelope, which he made ready for posting. Then he sat for a long time in profound thought.
Shortly after eleven his door opened, and Maud came in. She had been dining at Mrs Lane’s. Her attire was still simple, but of quality which would have signified recklessness, but for the outlook whereof Jasper spoke to Whelpdale. The girl looked very beautiful. There was a flush of health and happiness on her cheek, and when she spoke it was in a voice that rang quite differently from her tones of a year ago; the pride which was natural to her had now a firm support; she moved and uttered herself in queenly fashion.
‘Has anyone been?’ she asked.
‘Whelpdale.’
‘Oh! I wanted to ask you, Jasper: do you think it wise to let him come quite so often?’
‘There’s a difficulty, you see. I can hardly tell him to sheer off. And he’s really a decent fellow.’
‘That may be. But—I think it’s rather unwise. Things are changed. In a few months, Dora will be a good deal at my house, and will see all sorts of people.’
‘Yes; but what if they are the kind of people she doesn’t care anything about? You must remember, old girl, that her tastes are quite different from yours. I say nothing, but—perhaps it’s as well they should be.’
‘You say nothing, but you add an insult,’ returned Maud, with a smile of superb disregard. ‘We won’t reopen the question.’
‘Oh dear no! And, by-the-by, I have a letter from Dolomore. It came just after you left.’
‘Well?’
‘He is quite willing to settle upon you a third of his income from the collieries; he tells me it will represent between seven and eight hundred a year. I think it rather little, you know; but I congratulate myself on having got this out of him.’
‘Don’t speak in that unpleasant way! It was only your abruptness that made any kind of difficulty.’
‘I have my own opinion on that point, and I shall beg leave to keep it. Probably he will think me still more abrupt when I request, as I am now going to do, an interview with his solicitors.’
‘Is that allowable?’ asked Maud, anxiously. ‘Can you do that with any decency?’
‘If not, then I must do it with indecency. You will have the goodness to remember that if I don’t look after your interests, no one else will. It’s perhaps fortunate for you that I have a good deal of the man of business about me. Dolomore thought I was a dreamy, literary fellow. I don’t say that he isn’t entirely honest, but he shows something of a disposition to play the autocrat, and I by no means intend to let him. If you had a father, Dolomore would have to submit his affairs to examination.
I stand to you in loco parentis, and I shall bate no jot of my rights.’
‘But you can’t say that his behaviour hasn’t been perfectly straightforward.’
‘I don’t wish to. I think, on the whole, he has behaved more honourably than was to be expected of a man of his kind. But he must treat me with respect. My position in the world is greatly superior to his. And, by the gods! I will be treated respectfully! It wouldn’t be amiss, Maud, if you just gave him a hint to that effect.’
‘All I have to say is, Jasper, don’t do me an irreparable injury. You might, without meaning it.’
‘No fear whatever of it. I can behave as a gentleman, and I only expect Dolomore to do the same.’
Their conversation lasted for a long time, and when he was again left alone Jasper again fell into a mood of thoughtfulness.
By a late post on the following day he received this letter:
‘DEAR MR MILVAIN,—I have received the proofs, and have just read them; I hasten to thank you with all my heart. No suggestion of mine could possibly improve this article; it seems to me perfect in taste, in style, in matter. No one but you could have written this, for no one else understood Edwin so well, or had given such thought to his work. If he could but have known that such justice would be done to his memory! But he died believing that already he was utterly forgotten, that his books would never again be publicly spoken of. This was a cruel fate. I have shed tears over what you have written, but they were not only tears of bitterness; it cannot but be a consolation to me to think that, when the magazine appears, so many people will talk of Edwin and his books. I am deeply grateful to Mr Mortimer for having undertaken to republish those two novels; if you have an opportunity, will you do me the great kindness to thank him on my behalf? At the same time, I must remember that it was you who first spoke to him on this subject. You say that it gladdens you to think Edwin will not be forgotten, and I am very sure that the friendly office you have so admirably performed will in itself reward you more than any poor expression of gratitude from me. I write hurriedly, anxious to let you hear as soon as possible.
‘Believe me, dear Mr Milvain,
‘Yours sincerely,
‘AMY REARDON.’