from the house; her heart laughed
within her as the desire drew him. And henceforth such meetings would be
frequent, with each one her influence would increase. How kindly fate had dealt
with her in bringing Maud and Dora to London!
    It was within his reach to marry a woman who would bring him wealth. He had
that in mind; she understood it too well. But not one moment's advantage would
she relinquish. He must choose her in her poverty, and be content with what his
talents could earn for him. Her love gave her the right to demand this
sacrifice; let him ask for her love, and the sacrifice would no longer seem one,
so passionately would she reward him.
    He would ask it. To-night she was full of a rich confidence, partly, no
doubt, the result of reaction from her miseries. He had said at parting that her
character was so well suited to his; that he liked her. And then he had pressed
her hand so warmly. Before long he would ask her love.
    The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the valley of
the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine might at any moment strike
into its musty gloom.
 

                                   Chapter 15

                               The Last Resource

The past twelve months had added several years to Edwin Reardon's seeming age;
at thirty-three he would generally have been taken for forty. His bearing, his
personal habits, were no longer those of a young man; he walked with a stoop and
pressed noticeably on the stick he carried; it was rare for him to show the
countenance which tells of present cheerfulness or glad onward-looking; there
was no spring in his step; his voice had fallen to a lower key, and often he
spoke with that hesitation in choice of words which may be noticed in persons
whom defeat has made self-distrustful. Ceaseless perplexity and dread gave a
wandering, sometimes, a wild, expression to his eyes.
    He seldom slept, in the proper sense of the word; as a rule, he was
conscious all through the night of a kind of fighting between physical weariness
and wakeful toil of the mind. It often happened that some wholly imaginary
obstacle in the story he was writing kept him under a sense of effort throughout
the dark hours; now and again he woke, reasoned with himself, and remembered
clearly that the torment was without cause, but the short relief thus afforded
soon passed in the recollection of real distress. In his unsoothing slumber he
talked aloud, frequently wakening Amy; generally he seemed