New Grub Street, George Gissing [10 best books of all time TXT] 📗

notice,” he said with indifference, “of anonymous gossip.”

“Well, then, I will tell you how I have heard. Maud came this morning, and told me that Mrs. Betterton had been asking her about it. Mrs. Betterton had heard from Mrs. Lane.”

“From Mrs. Lane? And from whom did she hear, pray?”

“That I don’t know. Is it true or not?”

“I have never told anyone that my engagement was at an end,” replied Jasper, deliberately.

The girl met his eyes.

“Then I was right,” she said. “Of course I told Maud that it was impossible to believe this for a moment. But how has it come to be said?”

“You might as well ask me how any lie gets into circulation among people of that sort. I have told you the truth, and there’s an end of it.”

Dora lingered for a while, but left the room without saying anything more.

She sat up late, mostly engaged in thinking, though at times an open book was in her hand. It was nearly half-past twelve when a very light rap at the door caused her to start. She called, and Jasper came in.

“Why are you still up?” he asked, avoiding her look as he moved forward and took a leaning attitude behind an easy-chair.

“Oh, I don’t know. Do you want anything?”

There was a pause; then Jasper said in an unsteady voice:

“I am not given to lying, Dora, and I feel confoundedly uncomfortable about what I said to you early this evening. I didn’t lie in the ordinary sense; it’s true enough that I have never told anyone that my engagement was at an end. But I have acted as if it were, and it’s better I should tell you.”

His sister gazed at him with indignation.

“You have acted as if you were free?”

“Yes. I have proposed to Miss Rupert. How Mrs. Lane and that lot have come to know anything about this I don’t understand. I am not aware of any connecting link between them and the Ruperts, or the Barlows either. Perhaps there are none; most likely the rumour has no foundation in their knowledge. Still, it is better that I should have told you. Miss Rupert has never heard that I was engaged, nor have her friends the Barlows⁠—at least I don’t see how they could have done. She may have told Mrs. Barlow of my proposal⁠—probably would; and this may somehow have got round to those other people. But Maud didn’t make any mention of Miss Rupert, did she?”

Dora replied with a cold negative.

“Well, there’s the state of things. It isn’t pleasant, but that’s what I have done.”

“Do you mean that Miss Rupert has accepted you?”

“No. I wrote to her. She answered that she was going to Germany for a few weeks, and that I should have her reply whilst she was away. I am waiting.”

“But what name is to be given to behaviour such as this?”

“Listen: didn’t you know perfectly well that this must be the end of it?”

“Do you suppose I thought you utterly shameless and cruel beyond words?”

“I suppose I am both. It was a moment of desperate temptation, though. I had dined at the Ruperts’⁠—you remember⁠—and it seemed to me there was no mistaking the girl’s manner.”

“Don’t call her a girl!” broke in Dora, scornfully. “You say she is several years older than yourself.”

“Well, at all events, she’s intellectual, and very rich. I yielded to the temptation.”

“And deserted Marian just when she has most need of help and consolation? It’s frightful!”

Jasper moved to another chair and sat down. He was much perturbed.

“Look here, Dora, I regret it; I do, indeed. And, what’s more, if that woman refuses me⁠—as it’s more than likely she will⁠—I will go to Marian and ask her to marry me at once. I promise that.”

His sister made a movement of contemptuous impatience.

“And if the woman doesn’t refuse you?”

“Then I can’t help it. But there’s one thing more I will say. Whether I marry Marian or Miss Rupert, I sacrifice my strongest feelings⁠—in the one case to a sense of duty, in the other to worldly advantage. I was an idiot to write that letter, for I knew at the time that there was a woman who is far more to me than Miss Rupert and all her money⁠—a woman I might, perhaps, marry. Don’t ask any questions; I shall not answer them. As I have said so much, I wished you to understand my position fully. You know the promise I have made. Don’t say anything to Marian; if I am left free I shall marry her as soon as possible.”

And so he left the room.

For a fortnight and more he remained in uncertainty. His life was very uncomfortable, for Dora would only speak to him when necessity compelled her; and there were two meetings with Marian, at which he had to act his part as well as he could. At length came the expected letter. Very nicely expressed, very friendly, very complimentary, but⁠—a refusal.

He handed it to Dora across the breakfast-table, saying with a pinched smile:

“Now you can look cheerful again. I am doomed.”

XXXV Fever and Rest

Milvain’s skilful efforts notwithstanding, Mr. Bailey, Grocer, had no success. By two publishers the book had been declined; the firm which brought it out offered the author half profits and fifteen pounds on account, greatly to Harold Biffen’s satisfaction. But reviewers in general were either angry or coldly contemptuous. “Let Mr. Biffen bear in mind,” said one of these sages, “that a novelist’s first duty is to tell a story.” “Mr. Biffen,” wrote another, “seems not to understand that a work of art must before everything else afford amusement.” “A pretentious book of the genre ennuyant,” was the brief comment of a Society journal. A weekly of high standing began its short notice in a rage: “Here is another of those intolerable productions for which we are indebted to the spirit of grovelling realism. This author, let it be said, is never offensive, but then one must go on to describe his work