IT was the title that, for some fifteen years, had been tacked to the name of Percy Marfleet whenever he was mentioned in the local newspapers. Not undeservedly, for in his knowledge of books he much surpassed the leading men of the town, and his life was entirely devoted to study. Miss Cloud, the borough member's daughter, who had been at Girton, herself the marvel of womanhood in this not altogether benighted region, spoke of Mr. Marfleet with respect; indeed, for the last twelvemonth or so it had been generally surmised that the friendship between these distinguished persons would end in closer alliance—a most interesting and delightful prospect. The lady had entered upon her twenty-seventh year; Marfleet drew towards forty, but preserved the complexion and the carriage of youth. For him, such a union would in every way be advantageous, as, from his way of living, he evidently possessed but a modest competence, while Miss Cloud shone as the sole heiress of her father's fortune.
For a man of parts and ambition, raised above the necessity of exerting himself to earn a livelihood, it is dangerous, after academic success, to return to his native country-town and settle there with the purpose of productive study. As a rule, men have no such temptation; Percy Marfleet, whose bent of mind was all towards homeliness, and who shrank from the tumult of the great world, even while crediting himself with power to win distinction, decided after a very brief trial of London that he could not do better than go back to the scenes of his youth, where kindly notice would inspire him, where his health would be at its best, and where a modest income would, he imagined, assure him a much better status than among strangers. His family had a good name in the town; since the death of his parents and the marriage of his sister, upon him alone lay the duty of keeping the name in honourable prominence. Moreover, he owned the house in which he had been born, where the days of his boyhood had been passed. With infinite contentment he read the newspaper paragraph which made known that "Mr. Percy Marfleet, the son of our late honoured townsman, having completed a distinguished career at the University of Cambridge," had returned to the town, and intended to make it his permanent abode.
From his earliest school-prize to the final honours at Cambridge, each step of Percy's progress had been chronicled by the local paper. No special brilliance appeared in the successive achievements: he had done well, nothing more; but local pride made much of his academic record. He was understood to be great in "history"; to historic study his life would be dedicated; if he ran up to London or to Cambridge, the newspaper announced that he was gone for the purpose of "consulting original documents." At first, he declined to take any part in the affairs of the town, for which he had absolutely no leisure; but little by little certain honours were thrust upon him, and the satisfaction of making little speeches, carefully prepared and no less carefully reported, lured his mind from exclusive occupation with the past. At length he could be depended upon for an annual lecture at the Literary Society, for an address here or there, for the active patronage of any enlightened movement—unconnected with politics. From strictly municipal business he succeeded in holding aloof, his true reason being fear of expense; but, this prudence notwithstanding, the esteem he enjoyed necessarily cost him something in coin of the realm, and such demands upon his pocket grew heavier and more frequent with the progress of time. The day came when Percy had seriously to consider his financial position. Seeing no immediate way out of the difficulty, and feeling so comfortable in his daily life that a complete change could hardly be thought of, he insensibly drifted into carelessness of the future. And so it came about that, in his thirty-eighth year, having long lived upon capital, with steady growth of expenditure from Christmas to Christmas, he saw before him an inevitable crisis. Income he no longer possessed; merely a sum of money which, even with parsimonious management, could last him only a short time, and at the present rate of living would dissolve with awful rapidity.
In the way of literary production he had done nothing. Years ago he made no secret of his undertaking: the work of his life was to be a continuation of Macaulay; latterly he very seldom spoke on this subject, or even distantly alluded to it. Since his thirtieth year scarcely a jotting had been added to the notes and rough sketches previously accumulated. Nowadays he only read, and for the most part his reading had no connection with historic research. A large library, collected at no small outlay, gathered dust upon the shelves. Expensive publications still reached him, simply because he lacked the courage to discontinue his subscriptions, and so to confess that his one object in life had melted away, together with his money. He spent the wonted number of hours locked in his study, but more often than not a day dragged through in sluggish mooning or in the tortures of anxiety. As usual, he pottered about the garden; as usual, he paid and received visits, attended meetings, made little speeches, helped to get up little entertainments of an intellectual cast. And no fellow-townsman marked the slightest change in him.
One hope remained; yet it could hardly be called a hope: rather, a troubled imagination of something that might have fallen to his lot in happier circumstances. Until of late no thoughts of marriage had lured or perturbed him; he cared but moderately for the society of women, and, like most men of his temper, kept very clearly in view the sacrifices and perils attaching to wedlock; his pleasant, roomy house, always quiet and fragrant under the rule of an excellent domestic, would undergo such changes if a mistress entered into possession. For all that, there was one woman who often occupied his thoughts, and in some degree had power over his emotions; in part because of her social rank, partly because of her education, and, last but not least, by virtue of her personal charm. Certainly he liked Eveline Cloud; he was flattered by the deference she paid him, and felt something very attractive in the modesty with which she spoke of her own attainments. By slow degrees their intimacy had grown and ripened. At first he was slightly afraid of her; the smile ever lurking about her lips seemed to threaten criticism of an unfamiliar keenness: who could say what equipment of modern views these young ladies brought with them from Girton? Gradually he perceived that Eveline's position in the town was somewhat like his own—that her prestige rested upon vague report rather than on present evidence of learning and ability. He judged her intelligent, but certainly not profound. Nor did she make parade of erudition; her tastes seemed decidedly simple; if he mistook not, she preferred the companionship of her provincial friends to the society she met when with her father in London. Her interest in local concerns became more pronounced; she was fervent in orthodoxy, and, as years went on, accepted with decision her place as leading lady in social or charitable organisations. Personally, Miss Cloud no longer overawed him, for he felt that he understood her. Her behaviour to him was of such frank friendliness that no wonder their acquaintances observed them with a genial smile. Marfleet sometimes came away from the house brooding. But for his incredible folly, which had brought him within sight of disaster he saw no means of repairing, might he not reasonably have aspired to a marriage which would at once exalt his position and promote his happiness? What possibility of it now? The secret, of which no one had a suspicion, weighed but the more heavily upon his own mind.
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.