'Will you kindly place yourself with your back to the window?' he said. 'I am going to apply what is called the catoptric test. You have probably heard of it?'
'My ignorance of scientific matters is fathomless.'
The other smiled, and at once offered a simple explanation of the term. By the appearance of the candle as it reflected itself in the patient's eye it was possible, he said, to decide whether cataract had taken hold upon the organ.
For a minute or two he conducted his experiment carefully, and Yule was at no loss to read the result upon his face.
'How long have you suspected that something was wrong?' the surgeon asked, as he put down the candle.
'For several months.'
'You haven't consulted anyone?'
'No one. I have kept putting it off. Just tell me what you have discovered.'
'The back of the right lens is affected beyond a doubt.'
'That means, I take it, that before very long I shall be practically blind?'
'I don't like to speak with an air of authority. After all, I am only a surgeon who has bungled himself into pauperdom. You must see a competent man; that much I can tell you in all earnestness.
Do you use your eyes much?'
'Fourteen hours a day, that's all.'
'H'm! You are a literary man, I think?'
'I am. My name is Alfred Yule.'
He had some faint hope that the name might be recognised; that would have gone far, for the moment, to counteract his trouble. But not even this poor satisfaction was to be granted him; to his hearer the name evidently conveyed nothing.
'See a competent man, Mr Yule. Science has advanced rapidly since the days when I was a student; I am only able to assure you of the existence of disease.'
They talked for half an hour, until both were shaking with cold. Then Yule thrust his hand into his pocket.
'You will of course allow me to offer such return as I am able,' he said. 'The information isn't pleasant, but I am glad to have it.'
He laid five shillings on the chest of drawers—there was no table. The stranger expressed his gratitude.
'My name is Duke,' he said, 'and I was christened Victor—possibly because I was doomed to defeat in life. I wish you could have associated the memory of me with happier circumstances.'
They shook hands, and Yule quitted the house.
He came out again by Camden Town station. The coffee-stall had disappeared; the traffic of the great highway was growing uproarious. Among all the strugglers for existence who rushed this way and that, Alfred Yule felt himself a man chosen for fate's heaviest infliction. He never questioned the accuracy of the stranger's judgment, and he hoped for no mitigation of the doom it threatened. His life was over—and wasted.
He might as well go home, and take his place meekly by the fireside. He was beaten. Soon to be a useless old man, a burden and annoyance to whosoever had pity on him.
It was a curious effect of the imagination that since coming into the open air again his eyesight seemed to be far worse than before. He irritated his nerves of vision by incessant tests, closing first one eye then the other, comparing his view of nearer objects with the appearance of others more remote, fancying an occasional pain—which could have had no connection with his disease. The literary projects which had stirred so actively in his mind twelve hours ago were become an insubstantial memory; to the one crushing blow had succeeded a second, which was fatal. He could hardly recall what special piece of work he had been engaged upon last night. His thoughts were such as if actual blindness had really fallen upon him.
At half-past eight he entered the house. Mrs Yule was standing at the foot of the stairs; she looked at him, then turned away towards the kitchen. He went upstairs. On coming down again he found breakfast ready as usual, and seated himself at the table. Two letters waited for him there; he opened them.
When Mrs Yule came into the room a few moments later she was astonished by a burst of loud, mocking laughter from her husband, excited, as it appeared, by something he was reading.
'Is Marian up?' he asked, turning to her.
'Yes.'
'She is not coming to breakfast?'
'No.'
'Then just take that letter to her, and ask her to read it.'
Mrs Yule ascended to her daughter's bedroom. She knocked, was bidden enter, and found Marian packing clothes in a trunk. The girl looked as if she had been up all night; her eyes bore the traces of much weeping.
'He has come back, dear,' said Mrs Yule, in the low voice of apprehension, 'and he says you are to read this letter.'
Marian took the sheet, unfolded it, and read. As soon as she had reached the end she looked wildly at her mother, seemed to endeavour vainly to speak, then fell to the floor in unconsciousness. The mother was only just able to break the violence of her fall. Having snatched a pillow and placed it beneath Marian's head, she rushed to the door and called loudly for her husband, who in a moment appeared.
'What is it?' she cried to him. 'Look, she has fallen down in a faint. Why are you treating her like this?'
'Attend to her,' Yule replied roughly. 'I suppose you know better than I do what to do when a person faints.'
The swoon lasted for several minutes.
'What's in the letter?' asked Mrs Yule whilst chafing the lifeless hands.
'Her money's lost. The people who were to pay it have just failed.'
'She won't get anything?'
'Most likely nothing at all.'
The letter was a private communication from one of John Yule's executors. It seemed likely that the demand upon Turberville & Co. for an account of the deceased partner's share in their business had helped to bring about a crisis in affairs that were already unstable. Something might be recovered in the legal proceedings that would result, but there were circumstances which made the outlook very doubtful.
As Marian came to herself her father left the room. An hour afterwards Mrs Yule summoned him again to the girl's chamber; he went, and found Marian lying on the bed, looking like one who had been long ill.
'I wish to ask you a few questions,' she said, without raising herself. 'Must my legacy necessarily be paid out of that investment?'
'It must. Those are the terms of the will.'
'If nothing can be recovered from those people, I have no remedy?'
'None whatever that I can see.'
'But when a firm is bankrupt they generally pay some portion of their debts?'
'Sometimes. I know nothing of the case.'
'This of course happens to me,' Marian said, with intense bitterness. 'None of the other legatees will suffer, I suppose?'
'Someone must, but to a very small extent.'
'Of course. When shall I have direct information?'
'You can write to Mr Holden; you have his address.'
'Thank you. That's all.'
He was dismissed, and went quietly away.
PART FIVE
CHAPTER XXX. WAITING ON DESTINY
Throughout the day Marian kept her room. Her intention to leave the house was, of course, abandoned; she was the prisoner of fate. Mrs Yule would have tended her with unremitting devotion, but the girl desired to be alone. At times she lay in silent anguish; frequently her tears broke forth, and she sobbed until weariness overcame her. In the afternoon she wrote a letter to Mr Holden, begging that she might be kept constantly acquainted with the progress of things.
At five her mother brought tea.
'Wouldn't it be better if you went to bed now, Marian?' she suggested.
'To bed? But I am going out in an hour or two.'
'Oh, you can't, dear! It's so bitterly cold. It wouldn't be good for you.'
'I have to go out, mother, so we won't speak of it.'
It was not safe to reply. Mrs Yule sat down, and watched the girl raise the cup to her mouth with trembling hand.
'This won't make any difference to you—in the end, my darling,' the mother ventured to say at length, alluding
for the first time to the effect of the catastrophe on Marian's immediate prospects.
'Of course not,' was the reply, in a tone of self-persuasion.
'Mr Milvain is sure to have plenty of money before long.'
'Yes.'
'You feel much better now, don't you?'
'Much. I am quite well again.'
At seven, Marian went out. Finding herself weaker than she had thought, she stopped an empty cab that presently passed her, and so drove to the Milvains' lodgings. In her agitation she inquired for Mr Milvain, instead of for Dora, as was her habit; it mattered very little, for the landlady and her servants were of course under no misconception regarding this young lady's visits.
Jasper was at home, and working. He had but to look at Marian to see that something wretched had been going on at her home; naturally he supposed it the result of his letter to Mr Yule.
'Your father has been behaving brutally,' he said, holding her hands and gazing anxiously at her.
'There is something far worse than that, Jasper.'
'Worse?'
She threw off her outdoor things, then took the fatal letter from her pocket and handed it to him. Jasper gave a whistle of consternation, and looked vacantly from the paper to Marian's countenance.
'How the deuce comes this about?' he exclaimed. 'Why, wasn't your uncle aware of the state of things?'
'Perhaps he was. He may have known that the legacy was a mere form.'
'You are the only one affected?'
'So father says. It's sure to be the case.'
'This has upset you horribly, I can see. Sit down, Marian. When did the letter come?'
'This morning.'
'And you have been fretting over it all day. But come, we must keep up our courage; you may get something substantial out of the scoundrels still.'
Even whilst he spoke his eyes wandered absently. On the last word his voice failed, and he fell into abstraction. Marian's look was fixed upon him, and he became conscious of it. He tried to smile.
'What were you writing?' she asked, making involuntary diversion from the calamitous theme.
'Rubbish for the Will-o'-the-Wisp. Listen to this paragraph about English concert audiences.'
It was as necessary to him as to her to have a respite before the graver discussion began. He seized gladly the opportunity she offered, and read several pages of manuscript, slipping from one topic to another. To hear him one would have supposed that he was in his ordinary mood; he laughed at his own jokes and points.
'They'll have to pay me more,' was the remark with which he closed. 'I only wanted to make myself indispensable to them, and at the end of this year I shall feel pretty sure of that. They'll have to give me two guineas a column; by Jove! they will.'
'And you may hope for much more than that, mayn't you, before long?'
'Oh, I shall transfer myself to a better paper presently. It seems to me I must be stirring to some purpose.'
He gave her a significant look.
'What shall we do, Jasper?'
'Work and wait, I suppose.'
'There's something I must tell you. Father said I had better sign that Harrington article myself. If I do that, I shall have a right to the money, I think. It will at least be eight guineas. And why shouldn't I go on writing for myself—for us? You can help me to think of subjects.'
'First of all, what about my letter to your father? We are forgetting all about it.'
'He refused to answer.'
Marian avoided closer description of what had happened. It was partly that she felt ashamed of her father's unreasoning wrath, and feared lest Jasper's pride might receive an injury from which she in turn would suffer; partly that she was unwilling to pain her lover by making display of all she had undergone.
'Oh, he refused to reply! Surely that is extreme behaviour.'
What she dreaded seemed to be coming to pass. Jasper stood rather stiffly, and threw his head back.
'You know the reason, dear. That prejudice has entered into his very life. It is not you he dislikes; that is impossible. He thinks of you only as he would of anyone connected with Mr Fadge.'
'Well, well; it isn't a matter of much moment. But what I have in mind is this. Will it be possible for you, whilst living at home, to take a position of independence, and say that you are going to work for your own profit?'
'At least I might claim half the money I can earn. And I was thinking more of—'
'Of what?'
'When I am your wife, I may be able to help. I could earn thirty or forty pounds a year, I think. That would pay the rent of a small house.'
She spoke with shaken voice, her eyes fixed upon his face.
'But, my dear Marian, we surely oughtn't to think of marrying so long as expenses are so nicely fitted as all that?'
'No. I only meant—'
She faltered, and her tongue became silent as her heart sank.
'It simply means,' pursued Jasper, seating himself and crossing his legs, 'that I must move heaven and earth to improve my position. You know that my faith in myself is not small; there's no knowing what I might do if I used every effort. But, upon my word, I don't see much hope of our being able to marry for a year or two under the most favourable circumstances.'
'No; I quite understand that.'
'Can you promise to keep a little love for me all that time?' he asked with a constrained smile.
'You know me too well to fear.'
'I thought you seemed a little doubtful.'
His tone was not altogether that which makes banter pleasant between lovers. Marian looked at him fearfully. Was it possible for him in truth so to misunderstand her? He had never satisfied her heart's desire of infinite love; she never spoke with him but she was oppressed with the suspicion that his love was not as great as hers, and, worse still, that he did not wholly comprehend the self-surrender which she strove to make plain in every word.
'You don't say that seriously, Jasper?'
'But answer seriously.'
'How can you doubt that I would wait faithfully for you for years if it were necessary?'
'It mustn't be years, that's very certain. I think it preposterous for a man to hold a woman bound in that hopeless way.'
'But what question is there of holding me bound? Is love dependent on fixed engagements? Do you feel that, if we agreed to part, your love would be at once a thing of the past?'
'Why no, of course not.'
'Oh, but how coldly you speak, Jasper!'
She could not breathe a word which might be interpreted as fear lest the change of her circumstances should make a change in his feeling. Yet that was in her mind. The existence of such a fear meant, of course, that she did not entirely trust him, and viewed his character as something less than noble. Very seldom indeed is a woman free from such doubts, however absolute her love; and perhaps it is just as rare for a man to credit in his heart all the praises he speaks of his beloved. Passion is compatible with a great many of these imperfections of intellectual esteem. To see more clearly into Jasper's personality was, for Marian, to suffer the more intolerable dread lest she should lose him.
She went to his side. Her heart ached because, in her great misery, he had not fondled her, and intoxicated her senses with loving words.
'How can I make you feel how much I love you?' she murmured.
'You mustn't be so literal, dearest. Women are so desperately matter-of-fact; it comes out even in their love-talk.'
Marian was not without perception of the irony of such an opinion on Jasper's lips.
'I am content for you to think so,' she said. 'There is only one fact in my life of any importance, and I can never lose sight of it.'
'Well now, we are quite sure of each other. Tell me plainly, do you think me capable of forsaking you because you have perhaps lost your money?'
The question made her wince. If delicacy had held her tongue, it had no control of HIS.
'How can I answer that better,' she said, 'than by sa
ying I love you?'
It was no answer, and Jasper, though obtuse compared with her, understood that it was none. But the emotion which had prompted his words was genuine enough. Her touch, the perfume of her passion, had their exalting effect upon him. He felt in all sincerity that to forsake her would be a baseness, revenged by the loss of such a wife.
'There's an uphill fight before me, that's all,' he said, 'instead of the pretty smooth course I have been looking forward to. But I don't fear it, Marian. I'm not the fellow to be beaten.
You shall be my wife, and you shall have as many luxuries as if you had brought me a fortune.'
'Luxuries! Oh, how childish you seem to think me!'
'Not a bit of it. Luxuries are a most important part of life. I had rather not live at all than never possess them. Let me give you a useful hint; if ever I seem to you to flag, just remind me of the difference between these lodgings and a richly furnished house. Just hint to me that So-and-so, the journalist, goes about in his carriage, and can give his wife a box at the theatre. Just ask me, casually, how I should like to run over to the Riviera when London fogs are thickest. You understand? That's the way to keep me at it like a steam-engine.'
'You are right. All those things enable one to live a better and fuller life. Oh, how cruel that I—that we are robbed in this way! You can have no idea how terrible a blow it was to me when I read that letter this morning.'
She was on the point of confessing that she had swooned, but something restrained her.
'Your father can hardly be sorry,' said Jasper.
'I think he speaks more harshly than he feels. The worst was, that until he got your letter he had kept hoping that I would let him have the money for a new review.'
'Well, for the present I prefer to believe that the money isn't all lost. If the blackguards pay ten shillings in the pound you will get two thousand five hundred out of them, and that's something. But how do you stand? Will your position be that of an ordinary creditor?'
'I am so ignorant. I know nothing of such things.'
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