It had been a beautiful day, and there wanted still a couple of hours before the warm, golden sunlight would disappear. Harold stood and looked round his room. As always, it presented a neat, orderly aspect, but his eye caught sight of a volume which stood upside down, and this fault—particularly hateful to a bookish man—he rectified. He put his blotting-pad square on the table, closed the lid of the inkstand, arranged his pens. Then he took his hat and stick, locked the door behind him, and went downstairs. At the foot he spoke to his landlady, and told her that he should not return that night. As soon as possible after leaving the house he posted his letter.
His direction was westward; walking at a steady, purposeful pace, with cheery countenance and eyes that gave sign of pleasure as often as they turned to the sun-smitten clouds, he struck across Kensington Gardens, and then on towards Fulham, where he crossed the Thames to Putney. The sun was just setting; he paused a few moments on the bridge, watching the river with a quiet smile, and enjoying the splendour of the sky. Up Putney Hill he walked slowly; when he reached the top it was growing dark, but an unwonted effect in the atmosphere caused him to turn and look to the east. An exclamation escaped his lips, for there before him was the new-risen moon, a perfect globe, vast and red. He gazed at it for a long time.
When the daylight had entirely passed, he went forward on to the heath, and rambled, as if idly, to a secluded part, where trees and bushes made a deep shadow under the full moon. It was still quite warm, and scarcely a breath of air moved among the reddening leaves.
Sure at length that he was remote from all observation, he pressed into a little copse, and there reclined on the grass, leaning against the stem of a tree. The moon was now hidden from him, but by looking upward he could see its light upon a long, faint cloud, and the blue of the placid sky. His mood was one of ineffable peace. Only thoughts of beautiful things came into his mind; he had reverted to an earlier period of life, when as yet no mission of literary realism had been imposed upon him, and when his passions were still soothed by natural hope. The memory of his friend Reardon was strongly present with him, but of Amy he thought only as of that star which had just come into his vision above the edge of dark foliage—beautiful, but infinitely remote.
Recalling Reardon's voice, it brought to him those last words whispered by his dying companion. He remembered them now:
We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
CHAPTER XXXVI. JASPER'S DELICATE CASE
Only when he received Miss Rupert's amiably-worded refusal to become his wife was Jasper aware how firmly he had counted on her accepting him. He told Dora with sincerity that his proposal was a piece of foolishness; so far from having any regard for Miss Rupert, he felt towards her with something of antipathy, and at the same time he was conscious of ardent emotions, if not love, for another woman who would be no bad match even from the commercial point of view. Yet so strong was the effect upon him of contemplating a large fortune, that, in despite of reason and desire, he lived in eager expectation of the word which should make him rich. And for several hours after his disappointment he could not overcome the impression of calamity.
A part of that impression was due to the engagement which he must now fulfil. He had pledged his word to ask Marian to marry him without further delay. To shuffle out of this duty would make him too ignoble even in his own eyes. Its discharge meant, as he had expressed it, that he was 'doomed'; he would deliberately be committing the very error always so flagrant to him in the case of other men who had crippled themselves by early marriage with a penniless woman. But events had enmeshed him; circumstances had proved fatal. Because, in his salad days, he dallied with a girl who had indeed many charms, step by step he had come to the necessity of sacrificing his prospects to that raw attachment. And, to make it more irritating, this happened just when the way began to be much clearer before him.
Unable to think of work, he left the house and wandered gloomily about Regent's Park. For the first time in his recollection the confidence which was wont to inspirit him gave way to an attack of sullen discontent. He felt himself ill-used 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.
'The last three years,' he continued, 'have made no slight difference in my position. Recall where I stood when you first knew me. I have done something since then, I think, and by my own steady effort.'
'Indeed, you have.'
'Just now I am in need of a little encouragement. You don't notice any falling off in my work recently?'
'No, indeed.'
'Do you see my things in The Current and so on, generally?'
'I don't think I miss many of your articles. Sometimes I believe I have detected you when there was no signature.'
'And Dora has been doing well. Her story in that girls' paper has attracted attention. It's a great deal to have my mind at rest about both the girls. But I can't pretend to be in very good spirits.' He rose. 'Well, I must try to find out something more about poor Biffen.'
'Oh, you are not going yet, Mr Milvain?'
'Not, assuredly, because I wish to. But I have work to do.' He stepped aside, but came back as if on an impulse. 'May I ask you for your advice in a very delicate matter?'
Amy was a little disturbed, but she collected herself and smiled in a way that reminded Jasper of his walk with her along Gower Street.
'Let me hear what it is.'
He sat down again, and bent forward.
'If Marian insists that it is her duty to remain with her father, am I justified or not in freely consenting to that?'
'I scarcely understand. Has Marian expressed a wish to devote herself in that way?'
'Not distinctly. But I suspect that her conscience points to it. I am in serious doubt. On the one hand,' he explained in a tone of candour, 'who will not blame me if our engagement terminates in circumstances such as these? On the other—you are aware, by-the-by, that her father objects in the strongest way to this marriage?'
'No, I didn't know that.'
'He will neither see me nor hear of me. Merely because of my connection with Fadge. Think of that poor girl thus situated. And I could so easily put her at rest by renouncing all claim upon her.'
'I surmise that—that you yourself would also be put at rest by such a decision?'
'Don't look at me with that ironical smile,' he pleaded. 'What you have said is true. And really, why should I not be glad of it? I couldn't go about declaring that I was heartbroken, in any event; I must be content for people to judge me according to their disposition, and judgments are pretty sure to be unfavourable. What can I do? In either case I must to a certain extent be in the wrong. To tell the truth, I was wrong from the first.'
There was a slight movement about Amy's lips as these words were uttered: she kept her eyes down, and waited before replying.
'The case is too delicate, I fear, for my advice.'
'Yes, I feel it; and perhaps I oughtn't to have spoken of it at all. Well, I'll go back to my scribbling. I am so very glad to have seen you again.'
'It was good of you to take the trouble to come—whilst you have so much on your mind.'
Again Jasper held the white, soft hand for a superfluous moment.
The next morning it was he who had to wait at the rendezvous; he was pacing the pathway at least ten minutes before the appointed time. When Marian joined him, she was panting from a hurried walk, and this affected Jasper disagreeably; he thought of Amy Reardon's air of repose, and how impossible it would be for that refined person to fall into such disorder. He observed, too, with more disgust than usual, the signs in Marian's attire of encroaching poverty—her unsatisfactory gloves, her mantle out of fashion. Yet for such feelings he reproached himself, and the reproach made him angry.
They walked together in the same direction as when they met here before. Marian could not mistake the air of restless trouble on her companion's smooth countenance. She had divined that there was some grave reason for this summons, and the panting with which she had approached was half caused by the anxious beats of her heart. Jasper's long silence again was ominous. He began abruptly:
'You've heard that Harold Biffen has committed suicide?'
'No!' she replied, looking shocked.
'Poisoned himself. You'll find something about it in today's Telegraph.'
He gave her such details as he had obtained, then added:
'There are two of my companions fallen in the battle. I ought to think myself a lucky fellow, Marian. What?'
'You are better fitted to fight your way, Jasper.'
'More of a brute, you mean.'
'You know very well I don't. You have more energy and more intellect.'
'Well, it remains to be seen how I shall come out when I am weighted with graver cares than I have yet known.'
She looked at him inquiringly, but said nothing.
'I have made up my mind about our affairs,' he went on presently. 'Marian, if ever we are to be married, it must be now.'
The words were so unexpected that they brought a flush to her cheeks and neck.
'Now?'
'Yes. Will you marry me, and let us take our chance?'
Her heart throbbed violently.
'You don't mean at once, Jasper? You would wait until I know what father's fate is to be?'
'Well, now, there's the point. You feel yourself indispensable to your father at present?'
'Not indispensable, but—wouldn't it seem very unkind? I should be so afraid of the effect upon his health, Jasper. So much depends, we are told, upon his general state of mind and body. It would be dreadful if I were the cause of—'
She paused, and looked up at him touchingly.
'I understand that. But let us face our position. Suppose the operation is successful; your father will certainly not be able to use his eyes much for a long time, if ever; and perhaps he would miss you as much then as now. Suppose he does not regain his sight; could you then leave him?'
'Dear, I can't feel it would be my duty to renounce you because my father had become blind. And if he can see pretty well, I don't think I need remain with him.'
'Has one thing occurred to you? Will he consent to receive an allowance from a person whose name is Mrs Milvain?'
'I can't be sure,' she replied, much troubled.
'And if he obstinately refuses—what then? What is before him?'
Marian's head sank, and she stood still.
'
Why have you changed your mind so, Jasper?' she inquired at length.
'Because I have decided that the indefinitely long engagement would be unjust to you—and to myself. Such engagements are always dangerous; sometimes they deprave the character of the man or woman.'
She listened anxiously and reflected.
'Everything,' he went on, 'would be simple enough but for your domestic difficulties. As I have said, there is the very serious doubt whether your father would accept money from you when you are my wife. Then again, shall we be able to afford such an allowance?'
'I thought you felt sure of that?'
'I'm not very sure of anything, to tell the truth. I am harassed.
I can't get on with my work.'
'I am very, very sorry.'
'It isn't your fault, Marian, and—Well, then, there's only one thing to do. Let us wait, at all events, till your father has undergone the operation. Whichever the result, you say your own position will be the same.'
'Except, Jasper, that if father is helpless, I must find means of assuring his support.'
'In other words, if you can't do that as my wife, you must remain Marian Yule.'
After a silence, Marian regarded him steadily.
'You see only the difficulties in our way,' she said, in a colder voice. 'They are many, I know. Do you think them insurmountable?'
'Upon my word, they almost seem so,' Jasper exclaimed, distractedly.
'They were not so great when we spoke of marriage a few years hence.'
'A few years!' he echoed, in a cheerless voice. 'That is just what I have decided is impossible. Marian, you shall have the plain truth. I can trust your faith, but I can't trust my own. I will marry you now, but—years hence—how can I tell what may happen? I don't trust myself.'
'You say you "will" marry me now; that sounds as if you had made up your mind to a sacrifice.'
'I didn't mean that. To face difficulties, yes.'
Whilst they spoke, the sky had grown dark with a heavy cloud, and now spots of rain began to fall. Jasper looked about him in annoyance as he felt the moisture, but Marian did not seem aware of it.
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