New Grub Street (15 page)

An embittered man is a man beset by evil temptations. The Study
contained each week certain columns of flying gossip, and when he
thought of this, Yule also thought of Clement Fadge, and sundry
other of his worst enemies. How the gossip column can be used for
hostile purposes, yet without the least overt offence, he had
learnt only too well. Sometimes the mere omission of a man's name
from a list of authors can mortify and injure. In our day the
manipulation of such paragraphs has become a fine art; but you
recall numerous illustrations. Alfred knew well enough how
incessantly the tempter would be at his ear; he said to himself
that in certain instances yielding would be no dishonour. He
himself had many a time been mercilessly treated; in the very
interest of the public it was good that certain men should suffer a
snubbing, and his fingers itched to have hold of the editorial pen.
Ha, ha! Like the war-horse he snuffed the battle afar off.

No work this evening, though there were tasks which pressed for
completion. His study—the only room on the ground level except the
dining-room—was small, and even a good deal of the floor was
encumbered with books, but he found space for walking nervously
hither and thither. He was doing this when, about half-past nine,
his wife appeared at the door, bringing him a cup of coffee and
some biscuits, his wonted supper. Marian generally waited upon him
at this time, and he asked why she had not come.

'She has one of her headaches again, I'm sorry to say,' Mrs Yule
replied. 'I persuaded her to go to bed early.'

Having placed the tray upon the table—books had to be pushed
aside—she did not seem disposed to withdraw.

'Are you busy, Alfred?'

'Why?'

'I thought I should like just to speak of something.'

She was using the opportunity of his good humour. Yule spoke to
her with the usual carelessness, but not forbiddingly.

'What is it? Those Holloway people, I'll warrant.'

'No, no! It's about Marian. She had a letter from one of those
young ladies this afternoon.'

'What young ladies?' asked Yule, with impatience of this
circuitous approach.

'The Miss Milvains.'

'Well, there's no harm that I know of. They're decent
people.'

'Yes; so you told me. But she began to speak about their
brother, and—'

'What about him? Do say what you want to say, and have done with
it!'

'I can't help thinking, Alfred, that she's disappointed you
didn't ask him to come here.'

Yule stared at her in slight surprise. He was still not angry,
and seemed quite willing to consider this matter suggested to him
so timorously.

'Oh, you think so? Well, I don't know. Why should I have asked
him? It was only because Miss Harrow seemed to wish it that I saw
him down there. I have no particular interest in him. And as
for—'

He broke off and seated himself. Mrs Yule stood at a
distance.

'We must remember her age,' she said.

'Why yes, of course.'

He mused, and began to nibble a biscuit.

'And you know, Alfred, she never does meet any young men. I've
often thought it wasn't right to her.'

'H'm! But this lad Milvain is a very doubtful sort of customer.
To begin with, he has nothing, and they tell me his mother for the
most part supports him. I don't quite approve of that. She isn't
well off, and he ought to have been making a living by now.

He has a kind of cleverness, may do something; but there's no
being sure of that.'

These thoughts were not coming into his mind for the first time.
On the occasion when he met Milvain and Marian together in the
country road he had necessarily reflected upon the possibilities of
such intercourse, and with the issue that he did not care to give
any particular encouragement to its continuance. He of course heard
of Milvain's leave-taking call, and he purposely refrained from
seeing the young man after that. The matter took no very clear
shape in his meditations; he saw no likelihood that either of the
young people would think much of the other after their parting, and
time enough to trouble one's head with such subjects when they
could no longer be postponed. It would not have been pleasant to
him to foresee a life of spinsterhood for his daughter; but she was
young, and—she was a valuable assistant.

How far did that latter consideration weigh with him? He put the
question pretty distinctly to himself now that his wife had
broached the matter thus unexpectedly. Was he prepared to behave
with deliberate selfishness? Never yet had any conflict been
manifested between his interests and Marian's; practically he was
in the habit of counting upon her aid for an indefinite period.

If indeed he became editor of The Study, why, in that case her
assistance would be less needful. And indeed it seemed probable
that young Milvain had a future before him.

'But, in any case,' he said aloud, partly continuing his
thoughts, partly replying to a look of disappointment on his wife's
face, 'how do you know that he has any wish to come and see
Marian?'

'I don't know anything about it, of course.'

'And you may have made a mistake about her. What made you think
she—had him in mind?'

'Well, it was her way of speaking, you know. And then, she asked
if you had got a dislike to him.'

'She did? H'm! Well, I don't think Milvain is any good to
Marian. He's just the kind of man to make himself agreeable to a
girl for the fun of the thing.'

Mrs Yule looked alarmed.

'Oh, if you really think that, don't let him come. I wouldn't
for anything.'

'I don't say it for certain.' He took a sip of his coffee. 'I
have had no opportunity of observing him with much attention. But
he's not the kind of man I care for.'

'Then no doubt it's better as it is.'

'Yes. I don't see that anything could be done now. We shall see
whether he gets on. I advise you not to mention him to her.'

'Oh no, I won't.'

She moved as if to go away, but her heart had been made uneasy
by that short conversation which followed on Marian's reading the
letter, and there were still things she wished to put into
words.

'If those young ladies go on writing to her, I dare say they'll
often speak about their brother.'

'Yes, it's rather unfortunate.'

'And you know, Alfred, he may have asked them to do it.'

'I suppose there's one subject on which all women can be
subtle,' muttered Yule, smiling. The remark was not a kind one, but
he did not make it worse by his tone.

The listener failed to understand him, and looked with her
familiar expression of mental effort.

'We can't help that,' he added, with reference to her
suggestion. 'If he has any serious thoughts, well, let him go on
and wait for opportunities.'

'It's a great pity, isn't it, that she can't see more people—of
the right kind?'

'No use talking about it. Things are as they are. I can't see
that her life is unhappy.'

'It isn't very happy.'

'You think not?'

'I'm sure it isn't.'

'If I get The Study things may be different. Though—But it's no
use talking about what can't be helped. Now don't you go
encouraging her to think herself lonely, and so on. It's best for
her to keep close to work, I'm sure of that.'

'Perhaps it is.'

'I'll think it over.'

Mrs Yule silently left the room, and went back to her
sewing.

She had understood that 'Though—' and the 'what can't be
helped.' Such allusions reminded her of a time unhappier than the
present, when she had been wont to hear plainer language. She knew
too well that, had she been a woman of education, her daughter
would not now be suffering from loneliness.

It was her own choice that she did not go with her husband and
Marian to John Yule's. She made an excuse that the house could not
be left to one servant; but in any case she would have remained at
home, for her presence must needs be an embarrassment both to
father and daughter. Alfred was always ashamed of her before
strangers; he could not conceal his feeling, either from her or
from other people who had reason for observing him. Marian was not
perhaps ashamed, but such companionship put restraint upon her
freedom. And would it not always be the same? Supposing Mr Milvain
were to come to this house, would it not repel him when he found
what sort of person Marian's mother was?

She shed a few tears over her needlework.

At midnight the study door opened. Yule came to the dining-room
to see that all was right, and it surprised him to find his wife
still sitting there.

'Why are you so late?'

'I've forgot the time.'

'Forgotten, forgotten. Don't go back to that kind of language
again. Come, put the light out.'

Of the acquaintances Yule had retained from his earlier years
several were in the well-defined category of men with unpresentable
wives. There was Hinks, for instance, whom, though in anger he
spoke of him as a bore, Alfred held in some genuine regard. Hinks
made perhaps a hundred a year out of a kind of writing which only
certain publishers can get rid of and of this income he spent about
a third on books. His wife was the daughter of a laundress, in
whose house he had lodged thirty years ago, when new to London but
already long-acquainted with hunger; they lived in complete
harmony, but Mrs Hinks, who was four years the elder, still spoke
the laundress tongue, unmitigated and immitigable. Another pair
were Mr and Mrs Gorbutt. In this case there were no narrow
circumstances to contend with, for the wife, originally a
nursemaid, not long after her marriage inherited house property
from a relative. Mr Gorbutt deemed himself a poet; since his
accession to an income he had published, at his own expense, a
yearly volume of verses; the only result being to keep alive
rancour in his wife, who was both parsimonious and vain. Making no
secret of it, Mrs Gorbutt rued the day on which she had wedded a
man of letters, when by waiting so short a time she would have been
enabled to aim at a prosperous tradesman, who kept his gig and had
everything handsome about him. Mrs Yule suspected, not without
reason, that this lady had an inclination to strong liquors.
Thirdly came Mr and Mrs Christopherson, who were poor as church
mice. Even in a friend's house they wrangled incessantly, and made
tragi-comical revelations of their home life. The husband worked
casually at irresponsible journalism, but his chosen study was
metaphysics; for many years he had had a huge and profound book on
hand, which he believed would bring him fame, though he was not so
unsettled in mind as to hope for anything else. When an article or
two had earned enough money for immediate necessities he went off
to the British Museum, and then the difficulty was to recall him to
profitable exertions. Yet husband and wife had an affection for
each other. Mrs Christopherson came from Camberwell, where her
father, once upon a time, was the smallest of small butchers.
Disagreeable stories were whispered concerning her earlier life,
and probably the metaphysician did not care to look back in that
direction. They had had three children; all were happily
buried.

These men were capable of better things than they had done or
would ever do; in each case their failure to fulfil youthful
promise was largely explained by the unpresentable wife. They
should have waited; they might have married a social equal at
something between fifty and sixty.

Another old friend was Mr Quarmby. Unwedded he, and perpetually
exultant over men who, as he phrased it, had noosed themselves. He
made a fair living, but, like Dr Johnson, had no passion for clean
linen.

Yule was not disdainful of these old companions, and the fact
that all had a habit of looking up to him increased his pleasure in
their occasional society. If, as happened once or twice in half a
year, several of them were gathered together at his house, he
tasted a sham kind of social and intellectual authority which he
could not help relishing. On such occasions he threw off his
habitual gloom and talked vigorously, making natural display of his
learning and critical ability. The topic, sooner or later, was that
which is inevitable in such a circle—the demerits, the
pretentiousness, the personal weaknesses of prominent
contemporaries in the world of letters. Then did the room ring with
scornful laughter, with boisterous satire, with shouted irony, with
fierce invective. After an evening of that kind Yule was unwell and
miserable for several days.

It was not to be expected that Mr Quarmby, inveterate chatterbox
of the Reading-room and other resorts, should keep silence
concerning what he had heard of Mr Rackett's intentions. The rumour
soon spread that Alfred Yule was to succeed Fadge in the direction
of The Study, with the necessary consequence that Yule found
himself an object of affectionate interest to a great many people
of whom he knew little or nothing. At the same time the genuine old
friends pressed warmly about him, with congratulations, with hints
of their sincere readiness to assist in filling the columns of the
paper. All this was not disagreeable, but in the meantime Yule had
heard nothing whatever from Mr Rackett himself and his doubts did
not diminish as week after week went by.

The event justified him. At the end of October appeared an
authoritative announcement that Fadge's successor would be—not
Alfred Yule, but a gentleman who till of late had been quietly
working as a sub-editor in the provinces, and who had neither
friendships nor enmities among the people of the London literary
press. A young man, comparatively fresh from the university, and
said to be strong in pure scholarship. The choice, as you are
aware, proved a good one, and The Study became an organ of more
repute than ever.