New Grub Street (25 page)

'If the chance had come when I was publishing my best work, I
dare say I shouldn't have refused. But I certainly shall not
present myself as the author of "Margaret Home," and the rubbish
I'm now writing.'

'Then you must cease to write rubbish.'

'Yes. I must cease to write altogether.'

'And do what?'

'I wish to Heaven I knew!'

In the spring list of Mr Jedwood's publications, announcement
was made of a new work by Alfred Yule. It was called 'English Prose
in the Nineteenth Century,' and consisted of a number of essays
(several of which had already seen the light in periodicals) strung
into continuity. The final chapter dealt with contemporary writers,
more especially those who served to illustrate the author's
theme—that journalism is the destruction of prose style: on certain
popular writers of the day there was an outpouring of gall which
was not likely to be received as though it were sweet ointment. The
book met with rather severe treatment in critical columns; it could
scarcely be ignored (the safest mode of attack when one's author
has no expectant public), and only the most skilful could write of
it in a hostile spirit without betraying that some of its strokes
had told. An evening newspaper which piqued itself on independence
indulged in laughing appreciation of the polemical chapter, and the
next day printed a scornful letter from a thinly-disguised
correspondent who assailed both book and reviewer. For the moment
people talked more of Alfred Yule than they had done since his
memorable conflict with Clement Fadge.

The publisher had hoped for this. Mr Jedwood was an energetic
and sanguine man, who had entered upon his business with a
determination to rival in a year or so the houses which had slowly
risen into commanding stability. He had no great capital, but the
stroke of fortune which had wedded him to a popular novelist
enabled him to count on steady profit from one source, and
boundless faith in his own judgment urged him to an initial outlay
which made the prudent shake their heads. He talked much of 'the
new era,' foresaw revolutions in publishing and book-selling,
planned every week a score of untried ventures which should appeal
to the democratic generation just maturing; in the meantime, was
ready to publish anything which seemed likely to get talked
about.

The May number of The Current, in its article headed 'Books of
the Month,' devoted about half a page to 'English Prose in the
Nineteenth Century.' This notice was a consummate example of the
flippant style of attack. Flippancy, the most hopeless form of
intellectual vice, was a characterising note of Mr Fadge's
periodical; his monthly comments on publications were already
looked for with eagerness by that growing class of readers who care
for nothing but what can be made matter of ridicule. The hostility
of other reviewers was awkward and ineffectual compared with this
venomous banter, which entertained by showing that in the book
under notice there was neither entertainment nor any other kind of
interest. To assail an author without increasing the number of his
readers is the perfection of journalistic skill, and The Current,
had it stood alone, would fully have achieved this end. As it was,
silence might have been better tactics. But Mr Fadge knew that his
enemy would smart under the poisoned pin-points, and that was
something gained.

On the day that The Current appeared, its treatment of Alfred
Yule was discussed in Mr Jedwood's private office. Mr Quarmby, who
had intimate relations with the publisher, happened to look in just
as a young man (one of Mr Jedwood's 'readers') was expressing a
doubt whether Fadge himself was the author of the review.

'But there's Fadge's thumb-mark all down the page,' cried Mr
Quarmby.

'He inspired the thing, of course; but I rather think it was
written by that fellow Milvain.'

'Think so?' asked the publisher.

'Well, I know with certainty that the notice of Markland's novel
is his writing, and I have reasons for suspecting that he did
Yule's book as well.'

'Smart youngster, that,' remarked Mr Jedwood. 'Who is he,
by-the-bye?'

'Somebody's illegitimate son, I believe,' replied the source of
trustworthy information, with a laugh. 'Denham says he met him in
New York a year or two ago, under another name.

'Excuse me,' interposed Mr Quarmby, 'there's some mistake in all
that.'

He went on to state what he knew, from Yule himself, concerning
Milvain's history. Though in this instance a corrector, Mr Quarmby
took an opportunity, a few hours later, of informing Mr Hinks that
the attack on Yule in The Current was almost certainly written by
young Milvain, with the result that when the rumour reached Yule's
ears it was delivered as an undoubted and well-known fact.

It was a month prior to this that Milvain made his call upon
Marian Yule, on the Sunday when her father was absent. When told of
the visit, Yule assumed a manner of indifference, but his daughter
understood that he was annoyed. With regard to the sisters who
would shortly be living in London, he merely said that Marian must
behave as discretion directed her. If she wished to invite the Miss
Milvains to St Paul's Crescent, he only begged that the times and
seasons of the household might not be disturbed.

As her habit was, Marian took refuge in silence. Nothing could
have been more welcome to her than the proximity of Maud and Dora,
but she foresaw that her own home would not be freely open to them;
perhaps it might be necessary to behave with simple frankness, and
let her friends know the embarrassments of the situation. But that
could not be done in the first instance; the unkindness would seem
too great. A day after the arrival of the girls, she received a
note from Dora, and almost at once replied to it by calling at her
friends' lodgings. A week after that, Maud and Dora came to St
Paul's Crescent; it was Sunday, and Mr Yule purposely kept away
from home. They had only been once to the house since then, again
without meeting Mr Yule. Marian, however, visited them at their
lodgings frequently; now and then she met Jasper there. The latter
never spoke of her father, and there was no question of inviting
him to repeat his call.

In the end, Marian was obliged to speak on the subject with her
mother. Mrs Yule offered an occasion by asking when the Miss
Milvains were coming again.

'I don't think I shall ever ask them again,' Marian replied.

Her mother understood, and looked troubled.

'I must tell them how it is, that's all,' the girl went on.
'They are sensible; they won't be offended with me.'

'But your father has never had anything to say against them,'
urged Mrs Yule. 'Not a word to me, Marian. I'd tell you the truth
if he had.'

'It's too disagreeable, all the same. I can't invite them here
with pleasure. Father has grown prejudiced against them all, and he
won't change. No, I shall just tell them.'

'It's very hard for you,' sighed her mother. 'If I thought I
could do any good by speaking—but I can't, my dear.'

'I know it, mother. Let us go on as we did before.'

The day after this, when Yule came home about the hour of
dinner, he called Marian's name from within the study. Marian had
not left the house to-day; her work had been set, in the shape of a
long task of copying from disorderly manuscript. She left the
sitting-room in obedience to her father's summons.

'Here's something that will afford you amusement,' he said,
holding to her the new number of The Current, and indicating the
notice of his book.

She read a few lines, then threw the thing on to the table.

'That kind of writing sickens me,' she exclaimed, with anger in
her eyes. 'Only base and heartless people can write in that way.
You surely won't let it trouble you?'

'Oh, not for a moment,' her father answered, with exaggerated
show of calm. 'But I am surprised that you don't see the literary
merit of the work. I thought it would distinctly appeal to
you.'

There was a strangeness in his voice, as well as in the words,
which caused her to look at him inquiringly. She knew him well
enough to understand that such a notice would irritate him
profoundly; but why should he go out of his way to show it her, and
with this peculiar acerbity of manner?

'Why do you say that, father?'

'It doesn't occur to you who may probably have written it?'

She could not miss his meaning; astonishment held her mute for a
moment, then she said:

'Surely Mr Fadge wrote it himself?'

'I am told not. I am informed on very good authority that one of
his young gentlemen has the credit of it.'

'You refer, of course, to Mr Milvain,' she replied quietly. 'But
I think that can't be true.'

He looked keenly at her. He had expected a more decided
protest.

'I see no reason for disbelieving it.'

'I see every reason, until I have your evidence.'

This was not at all Marian's natural tone in argument with him.
She was wont to be submissive.

'I was told,' he continued, hardening face and voice, 'by
someone who had it from Jedwood.'

Yule was conscious of untruth in this statement, but his mood
would not allow him to speak ingenuously, and he wished to note the
effect upon Marian of what he said. There were two beliefs in him:
on the one hand, he recognised Fadge in every line of the writing;
on the other, he had a perverse satisfaction in convincing himself
that it was Milvain who had caught so successfully the master's
manner. He was not the kind of man who can resist an opportunity of
justifying, to himself and others, a course into which he has been
led by mingled feelings, all more or less unjustifiable.

'How should Jedwood know?' asked Marian.

Yule shrugged his shoulders.

'As if these things didn't get about among editors and
publishers!'

'In this case, there's a mistake.'

'And why, pray?' His voice trembled with choler. 'Why need there
be a mistake?'

'Because Mr Milvain is quite incapable of reviewing your book in
such a spirit.'

'There is your mistake, my girl. Milvain will do anything that's
asked of him, provided he's well enough paid.'

Marian reflected. When she raised her eyes again they were
perfectly calm.

'What has led you to think that?'

'Don't I know the type of man? Noscitur ex sociis—have you Latin
enough for that?'

'You'll find that you are misinformed,' Marian replied, and
therewith went from the room.

She could not trust herself to converse longer. A resentment
such as her father had never yet excited in her—such, indeed, as
she had seldom, if ever, conceived—threatened to force utterance
for itself in words which would change the current of her whole
life. She saw her father in his worst aspect, and her heart was
shaken by an unnatural revolt from him. Let his assurance of what
he reported be ever so firm, what right had he to make this use of
it? His behaviour was spiteful. Suppose he entertained suspicions
which seemed to make it his duty to warn her against Milvain, this
was not the way to go about it. A father actuated by simple motives
of affection would never speak and look thus.

It was the hateful spirit of literary rancour that ruled him;
the spirit that made people eager to believe all evil, that blinded
and maddened. Never had she felt so strongly the unworthiness of
the existence to which she was condemned. That contemptible review,
and now her father's ignoble passion—such things were enough to
make all literature appear a morbid excrescence upon human
life.

Forgetful of the time, she sat in her bedroom until a knock at
the door, and her mother's voice, admonished her that dinner was
waiting. An impulse all but caused her to say that she would rather
not go down for the meal, that she wished to be left alone. But
this would be weak peevishness. She just looked at the glass to see
that her face bore no unwonted signs, and descended to take her
place as usual.

Throughout the dinner there passed no word of conversation. Yule
was at his blackest; he gobbled a few mouthfuls, then occupied
himself with the evening paper. On rising, he said to Marian:

'Have you copied the whole of that?'

The tone would have been uncivil if addressed to an impertinent
servant.

'Not much more than half,' was the cold reply.

'Can you finish it to-night?'

'I'm afraid not. I am going out.'

'Then I must do it myself'

And he went to the study.

Mrs Yule was in an anguish of nervousness.

'What is it, dear?' she asked of Marian, in a pleading whisper.
'Oh, don't quarrel with your father! Don't!'

'I can't be a slave, mother, and I can't be treated
unjustly.'

'What is it? Let me go and speak to him.'

'It's no use. We CAN'T live in terror.'

For Mrs Yule this was unimaginable disaster. She had never
dreamt that Marian, the still, gentle Marian, could be driven to
revolt. And it had come with the suddenness of a thunderclap. She
wished to ask what had taken place between father and daughter in
the brief interview before dinner; but Marian gave her no chance,
quitting the room upon those last trembling words.

The girl had resolved to visit her friends, the sisters, and
tell them that in future they must never come to see her at home.
But it was no easy thing for her to stifle her conscience, and
leave her father to toil over that copying which had need of being
finished. Not her will, but her exasperated feeling, had replied to
him that she would not do the work; already it astonished her that
she had really spoken such words. And as the throbbing of her
pulses subsided, she saw more clearly into the motives of this
wretched tumult which possessed her. Her mind was harassed with a
fear lest in defending Milvain she had spoken foolishly. Had he not
himself said to her that he might be guilty of base things, just to
make his way? Perhaps it was the intolerable pain of imagining that
he had already made good his words, which robbed her of
self-control and made her meet her father's rudeness with
defiance.