The rooms which Milvain had taken for himself and his sisters were
modest, but more expensive than their old quarters. As the change was
on his account he held himself responsible for the extra outlay. But for
his immediate prospects this step would have been unwarrantable, as
his earnings were only just sufficient for his needs on the previous
footing. He had resolved that his marriage must take place before
Christmas; till that event he would draw when necessary upon the girls’
little store, and then repay them out of Marian’s dowry.
‘And what are we to do when you are married?’ asked Dora.
The question was put on the first evening of their being all under the
same roof. The trio had had supper in the girls’ sitting-room, and
it was a moment for frank conversation. Dora rejoiced in the coming
marriage; her brother had behaved honourably, and Marian, she trusted,
would be very happy, notwithstanding disagreement with her father, which
seemed inevitable. Maud was by no means so well pleased, though she
endeavoured to wear smiles. It looked to her as if Jasper had been
guilty of a kind of weakness not to be expected in him. Marian, as an
individual, could not be considered an appropriate wife for such a
man with such a future; and as for her five thousand pounds, that was
ridiculous. Had it been ten--something can be made of ten thousand; but
a paltry five! Maud’s ideas on such subjects had notably expanded of
late, and one of the results was that she did not live so harmoniously
with her sister as for the first few months of their London career.
‘I have been thinking a good deal about that,’ replied Jasper to the
younger girl’s question. He stood with his back to the fire and smoked a
cigarette. ‘I thought at first of taking a flat; but then a flat of the
kind I should want would be twice the rent of a large house. If we have
a house with plenty of room in it you might come and live with us after
a time. At first I must find you decent lodgings in our neighbourhood.’
‘You show a good deal of generosity, Jasper,’ said Maud, ‘but pray
remember that Marian isn’t bringing you five thousand a year.’
‘I regret to say that she isn’t. What she brings me is five hundred a
year for ten years--that’s how I look at it. My own income will make
it something between six or seven hundred at first, and before long
probably more like a thousand. I am quite cool and collected. I
understand exactly where I am, and where I am likely to be ten years
hence. Marian’s money is to be spent in obtaining a position for myself.
At present I am spoken of as a “smart young fellow,” and that kind of
thing; but no one would offer me an editorship, or any other serious
help. Wait till I show that I have helped myself and hands will be
stretched to me from every side. ‘Tis the way of the world. I shall
belong to a club; I shall give nice, quiet little dinners to selected
people; I shall let it be understood by all and sundry that I have a
social position. Thenceforth I am quite a different man, a man to be
taken into account. And what will you bet me that I don’t stand in the
foremost rank of literary reputabilities ten years hence?’
‘I doubt whether six or seven hundred a year will be enough for this.’
‘If not, I am prepared to spend a thousand. Bless my soul! As if two or
three years wouldn’t suffice to draw out the mean qualities in the kind
of people I am thinking of! I say ten, to leave myself a great margin.’
‘Marian approves this?’
‘I haven’t distinctly spoken of it. But she approves whatever I think
good.’
The girls laughed at his way of pronouncing this.
‘And let us just suppose that you are so unfortunate as to fail?’
‘There’s no supposing it, unless, of course, I lose my health. I am not
presuming on any wonderful development of powers. Such as I am now, I
need only to be put on the little pedestal of a decent independence and
plenty of people will point fingers of admiration at me. You don’t fully
appreciate this. Mind, it wouldn’t do if I had no qualities. I have the
qualities; they only need bringing into prominence. If I am an unknown
man, and publish a wonderful book, it will make its way very slowly, or
not at all. If I, become a known man, publish that very same book, its
praise will echo over both hemispheres. I should be within the truth
if I had said “a vastly inferior book,” But I am in a bland mood at
present. Suppose poor Reardon’s novels had been published in the full
light of reputation instead of in the struggling dawn which was never to
become day, wouldn’t they have been magnified by every critic? You have
to become famous before you can secure the attention which would give
fame.’
He delivered this apophthegm with emphasis, and repeated it in another
form.
‘You have to obtain reputation before you can get a fair hearing for
that which would justify your repute. It’s the old story of the French
publisher who said to Dumas: “Make a name, and I’ll publish anything you
write.” “But how the diable,” cries the author, “am I to make a name
if I can’t get published?” If a man can’t hit upon any other way of
attracting attention, let him dance on his head in the middle of the
street; after that he may hope to get consideration for his volume of
poems. I am speaking of men who wish to win reputation before they are
toothless. Of course if your work is strong, and you can afford to wait,
the probability is that half a dozen people will at last begin to shout
that you have been monstrously neglected, as you have. But that happens
when you are hoary and sapless, and when nothing under the sun delights
you.’
He lit a new cigarette.
‘Now I, my dear girls, am not a man who can afford to wait. First of
all, my qualities are not of the kind which demand the recognition of
posterity. My writing is for to-day, most distinctly hodiernal. It has
no value save in reference to to-day. The question is: How can I get
the eyes of men fixed upon me? The answer: By pretending I am quite
independent of their gaze. I shall succeed, without any kind of doubt;
and then I’ll have a medal struck to celebrate the day of my marriage.’
But Jasper was not quite so well assured of the prudence of what he was
about to do as he wished his sisters to believe. The impulse to which he
had finally yielded still kept its force; indeed, was stronger than
ever since the intimacy of lovers’ dialogue had revealed to him more of
Marian’s heart and mind. Undeniably he was in love. Not passionately,
not with the consuming desire which makes every motive seem paltry
compared with its own satisfaction; but still quite sufficiently in love
to have a great difficulty in pursuing his daily tasks. This did not
still the voice which bade him remember all the opportunities and hopes
he was throwing aside. Since the plighting of troth with Marian he had
been over to Wimbledon, to the house of his friend and patron Mr Horace
Barlow, and there he had again met with Miss Rupert. This lady had no
power whatever over his emotions, but he felt assured that she
regarded him with strong interest. When he imagined the possibility of
contracting a marriage with Miss Rupert, who would make him at once
a man of solid means, his head drooped, and he wondered at his
precipitation. It had to be confessed that he was the victim of a vulgar
weakness. He had declared himself not of the first order of progressive
men.
The conversation with Amy Reardon did not tend to put his mind at rest.
Amy was astonished at so indiscreet a step in a man of his calibre. Ah!
if only Amy herself were free, with her ten thousand pounds to dispose
of! She, he felt sure, did not view him with indifference. Was there not
a touch of pique in the elaborate irony with which she had spoken of his
choice?--But it was idle to look in that direction.
He was anxious on his sisters’ account. They were clever girls, and with
energy might before long earn a bare subsistence; but it began to be
doubtful whether they would persevere in literary work. Maud, it was
clear, had conceived hopes of quite another kind. Her intimacy with Mrs
Lane was effecting a change in her habits, her dress, even her modes of
speech. A few days after their establishment in the new lodgings, Jasper
spoke seriously on this subject with the younger girl.
‘I wonder whether you could satisfy my curiosity in a certain matter,’
he said. ‘Do you, by chance, know how much Maud gave for that new jacket
in which I saw her yesterday?’
Dora was reluctant to answer.
‘I don’t think it was very much.’
‘That is to say, it didn’t cost twenty guineas. Well, I hope not.
I notice, too, that she has been purchasing a new hat.’
‘Oh, that was very inexpensive. She trimmed it herself.’
‘Did she? Is there any particular, any quite special, reason for this
expenditure?’
‘I really can’t say, Jasper.’
‘That’s ambiguous, you know. Perhaps it means you won’t allow yourself
to say?’
‘No, Maud doesn’t tell me about things of that kind.’
He took opportunities of investigating the matter, with the result that
some ten days after he sought private colloquy with Maud herself. She
had asked his opinion of a little paper she was going to send to a
ladies’ illustrated weekly, and he summoned her to his own room.
‘I think this will do pretty well,’ he said. ‘There’s rather too much
thought in it, perhaps. Suppose you knock out one or two of the less
obvious reflections, and substitute a wholesome commonplace? You’ll have
a better chance, I assure you.’
‘But I shall make it worthless.’
‘No; you’ll probably make it worth a guinea or so. You must remember
that the people who read women’s papers are irritated, simply irritated,
by anything that isn’t glaringly obvious. They hate an unusual
thought. The art of writing for such papers--indeed, for the public in
general--is to express vulgar thought and feeling in a way that flatters
the vulgar thinkers and feelers. Just abandon your mind to it, and then
let me see it again.’
Maud took up the manuscript and glanced over it with a contemptuous
smile. Having observed her for a moment, Jasper threw himself back in
the chair and said, as if casually:
‘I am told that Mr Dolomore is becoming a great friend of yours.’
The girl’s face changed. She drew herself up, and looked away towards
the window.
‘I don’t know that he is a “great” friend.’
‘Still, he pays enough attention to you to excite remark.’
‘Whose remark?’
‘That of several people who go to Mrs Lane’s.’
‘I don’t know any reason for it,’ said Maud coldly.
‘Look here, Maud, you don’t mind if I give you a friendly warning?’
She kept silence, with a look of superiority to all monition.
‘Dolomore,’ pursued her brother, ‘is all very well in his way, but
that way isn’t yours. I believe he has a good deal of money, but he
has neither brains nor principle. There’s no harm in your observing
the nature and habits of such individuals, but don’t allow yourself to
forget that they are altogether beneath you.’
‘There’s no need whatever for you to teach me self-respect,’ replied the
girl.
‘I’m quite sure of that; but you are inexperienced. On the whole, I do
rather wish that you would go less frequently to Mrs Lane’s.
It was rather an unfortunate choice of yours. Very much better if you
could have got on a good footing with the Barnabys. If you are generally
looked upon as belonging to the Lanes’ set it will make it difficult for
you to get in with the better people.’
Maud was not to be drawn into argument, and Jasper could only hope that
his words would have some weight with her. The Mr Dolomore in question
was a young man of rather offensive type--athletic, dandiacal, and
half-educated. It astonished Jasper that his sister could tolerate such
an empty creature for a moment; who has not felt the like surprise with
regard to women’s inclinations? He talked with Dora about it, but she
was not in her sister’s confidence.
‘I think you ought to have some influence with her,’ Jasper said.
‘Maud won’t allow anyone to interfere in--her private affairs.’
‘It would be unfortunate if she made me quarrel with her.’
‘Oh, surely there isn’t any danger of that?’
‘I don’t know, she mustn’t be obstinate.’
Jasper himself saw a good deal of miscellaneous society at this time. He
could not work so persistently as usual, and with wise tactics he used
the seasons of enforced leisure to extend his acquaintance. Marian and
he were together twice a week, in the evening.
Of his old Bohemian associates he kept up intimate relations with one
only, and that was Whelpdale. This was in a measure obligatory, for
Whelpdale frequently came to see him, and it would have been difficult
to repel a man who was always making known how highly he esteemed the
privilege of Milvain’s friendship, and whose company on the whole was
agreeable enough. At the present juncture Whelpdale’s cheery flattery
was a distinct assistance; it helped to support Jasper in his
self-confidence, and to keep the brightest complexion on the prospect to
which he had committed himself.
‘Whelpdale is anxious to make Marian’s acquaintance,’ Jasper said to his
sisters one day. ‘Shall we have him here tomorrow evening?’
‘Just as you like,’ Maud replied.
‘You won’t object, Dora?’
‘Oh no! I rather like Mr Whelpdale.’
‘If I were to repeat that to him he’d go wild with delight. But don’t
be afraid; I shan’t. I’ll ask him to come for an hour, and trust to his
discretion not to bore us by staying too long.’
A note was posted to Whelpdale; he was invited to present himself at
eight o’clock, by which time Marian would have arrived. Jasper’s room
was to be the scene of the assembly, and punctual to the minute the
literary adviser appeared. He was dressed with all the finish his
wardrobe allowed, and his face beamed with gratification; it was rapture
to him to enter the presence of these three girls, one of whom he had,
_more suo_, held in romantic remembrance since his one meeting with her at
Jasper’s old lodgings. His eyes melted with tenderness as he approached
Dora and saw her smile of gracious recognition. By Maud he was
profoundly impressed. Marian inspired him with no awe, but he fully
appreciated the charm of her features and her modest gravity. After all,
it was to Dora that his eyes turned again most naturally. He thought
her exquisite, and, rather than be long without a glimpse of her, he
contented himself with fixing his eyes on the hem of her dress and the
boot-toe that occasionally peeped from beneath it.
As was to be expected in such a circle, conversation soon turned to the
subject of literary struggles.
‘I always feel it rather humiliating,’ said Jasper, ‘that I have gone
through no very serious hardships. It must be so gratifying to say to
young fellows who are just beginning:
“Ah, I remember when I was within an ace of starving to death,” and
then come out with Grub Street reminiscences of the most appalling kind.
Unfortunately, I have always had enough to eat.’
‘I haven’t,’ exclaimed Whelpdale. ‘I have lived for five days on a few
cents’ worth of pea-nuts in the States.’
‘What are pea-nuts, Mr Whelpdale?’ asked Dora.
Delighted with the question, Whelpdale described that undesirable
species of food.
‘It was in Troy,’ he went on, ‘Troy, N.Y. To think that a man should
live on pea-nuts in a town called Troy!’
‘Tell us those adventures,’ cried Jasper. ‘It’s a long time since I
heard them, and the girls will enjoy it vastly.’
Dora looked at him with such good-humoured interest that the traveller
needed no further persuasion.
‘It came to pass in those days,’ he began, ‘that I inherited from my
godfather a small, a very small, sum of money. I was making strenuous
efforts to write for magazines, with absolutely no encouragement.
As everybody was talking just then of the Centennial Exhibition at
Philadelphia, I conceived the brilliant idea of crossing the Atlantic,
in the hope that I might find valuable literary material at the
Exhibition--or Exposition, as they called it--and elsewhere. I won’t
trouble you with an account of how I lived whilst I still had money;
sufficient that no one would accept the articles I sent to England,
and that at last I got into perilous straits. I went to New York, and
thought of returning home, but the spirit of adventure was strong in me.
“I’ll go West,” I said to myself. “There I am bound to find material.”
And go I did, taking an emigrant ticket to Chicago. It was December, and
I should like you to imagine what a journey of a thousand miles by an
emigrant train meant at that season. The cars were deadly cold, and what
with that and the hardness of the seats I found it impossible to sleep;
it reminded me of tortures I had read about; I thought my brain would
have burst with the need of sleeping. At Cleveland, in Ohio, we had to
wait several hours in the night; I left the station and wandered about
till I found myself on the edge of a great cliff that looked over Lake
Erie. A magnificent picture! Brilliant moonlight, and all the lake away
to the horizon frozen and covered with snow. The clocks struck two as I
stood there.’
He was interrupted by the entrance of a servant who brought coffee.
‘Nothing could be more welcome,’ cried Dora. ‘Mr Whelpdale makes one
feel quite chilly.’
There was laughter and chatting whilst Maud poured out the beverage.
Then Whelpdale pursued his narrative.
‘I reached Chicago with not quite five dollars in my pockets, and, with
a courage which I now marvel at, I paid immediately four dollars and a
half for a week’s board and lodging. “Well,” I said to myself, “for a
week I am safe. If I earn nothing in that time, at least I shall owe
nothing when I have to turn out into the streets.” It was a rather dirty
little boarding-house, in Wabash Avenue, and occupied, as I soon found,
almost entirely by actors. There was no fireplace in my bedroom, and
if there had been I couldn’t have afforded a fire. But that mattered
little; what I had to do was to set forth and discover some way of
making money. Don’t suppose that I was in a desperate state of mind;
how it was, I don’t quite know, but I felt decidedly cheerful. It was
pleasant to be in this new region of the earth, and I went about the
town like a tourist who has abundant resources.’
He sipped his coffee.
‘I saw nothing for it but to apply at the office of some newspaper, and
as I happened to light upon the biggest of them first of all, I put on
a bold face, marched in, asked if I could see the editor. There was no
difficulty whatever about this; I was told to ascend by means of the
“elevator” to an upper storey, and there I walked into a comfortable
little room where a youngish man sat smoking a cigar at a table covered
with print and manuscript. I introduced myself, stated my business. “Can
you give me work of any kind on your paper?” “Well, what experience have
you had?” “None whatever.” The editor smiled. “I’m very much afraid you
would be no use to us. But what do you think you could do?” Well now,
there was but one thing that by any possibility I could do. I asked him:
“Do you publish any fiction--short stories?” “Yes, we’re always glad
of a short story, if it’s good.” This was a big daily paper; they have
weekly supplements of all conceivable kinds of matter. “Well,” I said,
“if I write a story of English life, will you consider it?” “With
pleasure.” I left him, and went out as if my existence were henceforth
provided for.’
He laughed heartily, and was joined by his hearers.
‘It was a great thing to be permitted to write a story, but then--what
story? I went down to the shore of Lake Michigan; walked there for half
an hour in an icy wind. Then I looked for a stationer’s shop, and
laid out a few of my remaining cents in the purchase of pen, ink, and
paper--my stock of all these things was at an end when I left New York.
Then back to the boarding-house. Impossible to write in my bedroom, the
temperature was below zero; there was no choice but to sit down in the
common room, a place like the smoke-room of a poor commercial hotel in
England. A dozen men were gathered about the fire, smoking, talking,
quarrelling. Favourable conditions, you see, for literary effort. But
the story had to be written, and write it I did, sitting there at the
end of a deal table; I finished it in less than a couple of days, a
good long story, enough to fill three columns of the huge paper. I stand
amazed at my power of concentration as often as I think of it!’
‘And was it accepted?’ asked Dora.
‘You shall hear. I took my manuscript to the editor, and he told me to
come and see him again next morning. I didn’t forget the appointment.
As I entered he smiled in a very promising way, and said, “I think
your story will do. I’ll put it into the Saturday supplement. Call on
Saturday morning and I’ll remunerate you.” How well I remember that
word “remunerate”! I have had an affection for the word ever since. And
remunerate me he did; scribbled something on a scrap of paper, which
I presented to the cashier. The sum was eighteen dollars. Behold me
saved!’
He sipped his coffee again.
‘I have never come across an English editor who treated me with anything
like that consideration and general kindliness. How the man had time, in
his position, to see me so often, and do things in such a human way,
I can’t understand. Imagine anyone trying the same at the office of a
London newspaper! To begin with, one couldn’t see the editor at all. I
shall always think with profound gratitude of that man with the peaked
brown beard and pleasant smile.’
‘But did the pea-nuts come after that!’ inquired Dora.
‘Alas! they did. For some months I supported myself in Chicago, writing
for that same paper, and for others. But at length the flow of my
inspiration was checked; I had written myself out. And I began to grow
home-sick, wanted to get back to England. The result was that I found
myself one day in New York again, but without money enough to pay for a
passage home. I tried to write one more story. But it happened, as I was
looking over newspapers in a reading-room, that I saw one of my Chicago
tales copied into a paper published at Troy. Now Troy was not very far
off; and it occurred to me that, if I went there, the editor of this
paper might be disposed to employ me, seeing he had a taste for my
fiction. And I went, up the Hudson by steamboat. On landing at Troy I
was as badly off as when I reached Chicago; I had less than a dollar.
And the worst of it was I had come on a vain errand; the editor treated
me with scant courtesy, and no work was to be got. I took a little room,
paying for it day by day, and in the meantime I fed on those loathsome
pea-nuts, buying a handful in the street now and then. And I assure you
I looked starvation in the face.’
‘What sort of a town is Troy?’ asked Marian, speaking for the first
time.
‘Don’t ask me. They make straw hats there principally, and they sell
pea-nuts. More I remember not.’
‘But you didn’t starve to death,’ said Maud.
‘No, I just didn’t. I went one afternoon into a lawyer’s office,
thinking I might get some copying work, and there I found an odd-looking
old man, sitting with an open Bible on his knees. He explained to me
that he wasn’t the lawyer; that the lawyer was away on business,
and that he was just guarding the office. Well, could he help me?
He meditated, and a thought occurred to him. “Go,” he said, “to
such-and-such a boarding-house, and ask for Mr Freeman Sterling. He is
just starting on a business tour, and wants a young man to accompany
him.” I didn’t dream of asking what the business was, but sped, as fast
as my trembling limbs would carry me, to the address he had mentioned. I
asked for Mr Freeman Sterling, and found him. He was a photographer,
and his business at present was to go about getting orders for the
reproducing of old portraits. A good-natured young fellow. He said he
liked the look of me, and on the spot engaged me to assist him in a
house-to-house visitation. He would pay for my board and lodging, and
give me a commission on all the orders I obtained. Forthwith I sat down
to a “square meal,” and ate--my conscience, how I ate!’
‘You were not eminently successful in that pursuit, I think?’ said
Jasper.
‘I don’t think I got half-a-dozen orders. Yet that good Samaritan
supported me for five or six weeks, whilst we travelled from Troy to
Boston. It couldn’t go on; I was ashamed of myself; at last I told
him that we must part. Upon my word, I believe he would have paid my
expenses for another month; why, I can’t understand. But he had a vast
respect for me because I had written in newspapers, and I do seriously
think that he didn’t like to tell me I was a useless fellow. We parted
on the very best of terms in Boston.’
‘And you again had recourse to pea-nuts?’ asked Dora.
‘Well, no. In the meantime I had written to someone in England, begging
the loan of just enough money to enable me to get home. The money came a
day after I had seen Sterling off by train.’
An hour and a half quickly passed, and Jasper, who wished to have a few
minutes of Marian’s company before it was time for her to go, cast a
significant glance at his sisters. Dora said innocently:
‘You wished me to tell you when it was half-past nine, Marian.’
And Marian rose. This was a signal Whelpdale could not disregard.
Immediately he made ready for his own departure, and in less than five
minutes was gone, his face at the last moment expressing blended delight
and pain.
‘Too good of you to have asked me to come,’ he said with gratitude to
Jasper, who went to the door with him. ‘You are a happy man, by Jove! A
happy man!’
When Jasper returned to the room his sisters had vanished. Marian
stood by the fire. He drew near to her, took her hands, and repeated
laughingly Whelpdale’s last words.
‘Is it true?’ she asked.
‘Tolerably true, I think.’
‘Then I am as happy as you are.’
He released her hands, and moved a little apart.
‘Marian, I have been thinking about that letter to your father. I had
better get it written, don’t you think?’
She gazed at him with troubled eyes.
‘Perhaps you had. Though we said it might be delayed until--’
‘Yes, I know. But I suspect you had rather I didn’t wait any longer.
Isn’t that the truth?’
‘Partly. Do just as you wish, Jasper.’
‘I’ll go and see him, if you like.’
‘I am so afraid--No, writing will be better.’
‘Very well. Then he shall have the letter to-morrow afternoon.’
‘Don’t let it come before the last post. I had so much rather not.
Manage it, if you can.’
‘Very well. Now go and say good-night to the girls. It’s a vile night,
and you must get home as soon as possible.’
She turned away, but again came towards him, murmuring:
‘Just a word or two more.’
‘About the letter?’
‘No. You haven’t said--’
He laughed.
‘And you couldn’t go away contentedly unless I repeated for the
hundredth time that I love you?’
Marian searched his countenance.
‘Do you think it foolish? I live only on those words.’
‘Well, they are better than pea-nuts.’
‘Oh don’t! I can’t bear to--’
Jasper was unable to understand that such a jest sounded to her like
profanity. She hid her face against him, and whispered the words that
would have enraptured her had they but come from his lips. The young man
found it pleasant enough to be worshipped, but he could not reply as
she desired. A few phrases of tenderness, and his love-vocabulary
was exhausted; he even grew weary when something more--the indefinite
something--was vaguely required of him.
‘You are a dear, good, tender-hearted girl,’ he said, stroking her
short, soft hair, which was exquisite to the hand. ‘Now go and get
ready.’
She left him, but stood for a few moments on the landing before going to
the girls’ room.