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............