In conversation one day with Miss Cloud, he chanced to speak of some political incident in the reign of Queen Anne, a point which it seemed to him the historians had misunderstood.
"Have you reached that in your book?" asked Eveline, with a glance of interest.
His eyes dropped; he was uncomfortably aware of that lurking smile about the fresh-coloured lips.
"In the first rough draft," he constrained himself to answer. And Eveline's eyes reassured him, so friendly were they, so devoid of troublesome curiosity.
"Have you never thought, Mr. Marfleet, of publishing portions of your work in the periodicals—as some writers do?"
Yes, he had thought of it, and very lately. To be sure, no portion of his work was written, but might it not be possible to shape out of his notes a few interesting chapters, which the reviews would print and pay for. Miss Cloud's happy suggestion had a strong effect upon him; it revived his energies, and for the next few weeks he actually engaged in literary composition. He wrote a chapter of some length, and dispatched it to the editor of an important monthly. What was more, so sanguine had he become in consequence of his effort, that he revealed the matter to Miss Cloud.
"I am delighted!" was her exclamation—and she really looked it. "When do you think it will appear?"
"Oh," he faltered, "impossible to say. Perhaps—it might not strike the editor as worth much."
"What? the result of years and years of study! That's impossible." And Eveline added: "I have noticed, Mr. Marfleet, that you seem rather despondent of late."
The were alone on one of the garden terraces, and Eveline's voice had an intonation of peculiar gentleness. A more ardent admirer or less scrupulous man would have used the opportunity; Marfleet merely grew confused.
"It's nothing. I wasn't aware of its——"
"I'm afraid you work too hard," sounded in the soft, kindly accents.
"Oh dear no!" He laughed. "I feel perfectly well—perfectly."
And, indeed, there was little amiss in his appearance. He had a pleasant colour, a clear eye, the excellent teeth of a healthy man who did not smoke. For years he had gone to bed at eleven o'clock and risen only at nine; he had never fallen short in exercise, ate heartily, and found plenty of amusement. It would take a long time before mental distress such as he was now suffering wrote itself upon his countenance. No one thought it unnatural for Miss Cloud to take an interest in Mr. Marfleet; decidedly he was a presentable man, well set up, well featured, and always carefully dressed. Eveline for her part, could not be called handsome; but for her position, suitors would hardly have singled her from a group of amiable-looking young women. Yet the good blood in her veins, the kindly, intelligent light of her eyes, and that lurking smile, wrought durable bonds for the heart of any man once thoroughly subdued to their charm.
Not long after his conversation Miss Cloud went with her father to town, where she remained for more than three months. For nearly the same period Percy Marfleet lived in uncertainty as to the fate of his historical essay, and the time passed drearily enough. When Eveline's return grew near he resolved to make inquiries of the silent editor, and a speedy reply put an end to his suspense. The editor regretted that he could not make use of Mr. Marfleet's interesting paper, which he now sent back. It was a blow to Marfleet, and after a few days spent in recovering from dizziness, the poor fellow took a dark resolve.
While he still had a little money left he would go to London, and there, as a literary man at anyone's disposal, face the struggle for existence.
No need to make known his intention to the old friends. His departure should be explained as a temporary removal to London for purposes of study. In a month or so he could write that circumstances obliged him to stay in town for an indefinite period; his library should be sent up as if for use, but really for sale; and the house there would be no difficulty in letting for some fifty pounds a year—just enough, if the worst came to the worst, to save him from destitution. Of course, he must break the habits and the connections of a lifetime; unless he were so fortunate as to establish himself in a decent literary career, of which he had painfully little hope. The probability was that he would come to be thankful for hack work at the British Museum, such as he himself had occasionally employed a poor devil to do, ere yet the day of evil dawned on his life.
The resolve taken, he bore up manfully. All he had to do before actually leaving the town was to go through his papers, destroying and packing, and meanwhile to wear the accustomed face. Not a soul suspected him. He even took the chair at the annual meeting of the Literary Society, and made a speech which was considered brilliant. Not the faintest hint that he might be obliged to sever his connection with this and other local organisations. Two days later "our learned fellow-townsman" was reported as usual in the borough press, with wonted encomium; and Marfleet smiled dolefully as he glanced at the familiar column.
He knew the day of Miss Cloud's return; the day before would see his departure. To meet her, and answer questions about his historical essay, was a humiliation he could not endure. Doubtless, she had mentioned the matter to other people, and this disaster alone would have been all but sufficient to drive him into exile. How foolish to have spoken of his attempt! But it was all one, now. On the last day he sat hour after hour in his study, totally unoccupied, his mind a miserable blank; he sat till late at night, and on going to bed had but snatches of unrefreshing sleep. Early next morning, when only the humbler classes of the townsfolk were about, a cab conveyed him to the station. His servants understood that he would be away for two or three weeks—nothing more. When the moment came for breaking up the establishment, he must rely upon his sister, or her husband, resident a few miles out of the town, to transact the necessary business for him. Before mid-day he arrived in London, and went first of all to an hotel where he was known; but before nightfall he had searched for and settled upon a lodging; modest, as befitted his humble prospects. The address, however, was not such as would excite surprise when communicated to his friends.
Oddly enough, the next day brought him an access of cheerful, even sanguine spirits. Though late in December, the weather was remarkably bright; he walked about the streets with a revival of bodily vigour, and saw his position from quite a changed point of view. After all, was not this supposed calamity the very best thing that could have befallen him? Down yonder he was merely rusting, sinking into premature old age; here, "in streaming London's central roar," his energies would rise to the demand upon them. Pooh! as if such a man as he could not make a place for himself in literary life! There were at least two or three old college friends with whom he might renew intimacy—men pretty well to the front in various callings, and more likely than not able to be of use to him. He had done most unwisely in neglecting those early acquaintances. Nay—he saw it now—he ought never to have matte his home in that dull little country town, where ignorant flattery and facile triumphs fostered all the weaknesses of his temperament. Heaven be thanked, he was not yet forty, and his resources would last till he had got an independent footing. Ho, ho! How many a poor devil would be glad to exchange positions with him!
This mood lasted for about a week; a long time, considering that Marfleet lived alone in lodgings, and permitted his landlady to supply him with meals. But he was sustained by the renewal of acquaintance with two of those old friends of his, who really seemed quite glad to meet him again, and asked him to dinner, and talked as men do whom the world has provided with store of goods. To these men he by no means revealed the truth, but fell into their complacent tone, and spoke for the most part as if all were well with him. The second week saw him meditative, and inclined to solitude—which he had so little difficulty in securing. He now reproved himself for having struck a false note with his genial friends; it would be doubly hard to ask their advice or assistance. The weather, too, had turned to normal wretchedness, and his rooms were cold, dark, depressing. He began to suffer from indigestion, the natural result of his landlady's meals. Then a bilious headache and a severe catarrh simultaneously seized upon him; he could not go out, and just as little could think of inviting anyone to come and see him in his dreary durance.
Recovered