New Grub Street (26 page)

Impossible to carry out her purpose; she could not deliberately
leave the house and spend some hours away with the thought of such
wrath and misery left behind her. Gradually she was returning to
her natural self; fear and penitence were chill at her heart.

She went down to the study, tapped, and entered.

'Father, I said something that I did not really mean. Of course
I shall go on with the copying and finish it as soon as
possible.'

'You will do nothing of the kind, my girl.' He was in his usual
place, already working at Marian's task; he spoke in a low, thick
voice. 'Spend your evening as you choose, I have no need of
you.'

'I behaved very ill-temperedly. Forgive me, father.'

'Have the goodness to go away. You hear me?'

His eyes were inflamed, and his discoloured teeth showed
themselves savagely. Marian durst not, really durst not approach
him. She hesitated, but once more a sense of hateful injustice
moved within her, and she went away as quietly as she had
entered.

She said to herself that now it was her perfect right to go
whither she would. But the freedom was only in theory; her
submissive and timid nature kept her at home—and upstairs in her
own room; for, if she went to sit with her mother, of necessity she
must talk about what had happened, and that she felt unable to do.
Some friend to whom she could unbosom all her sufferings would now
have been very precious to her, but Maud and Dora were her only
intimates, and to them she might not make the full confession which
gives solace.

Mrs Yule did not venture to intrude upon her daughter's privacy.
That Marian neither went out nor showed herself in the house proved
her troubled state, but the mother had no confidence in her power
to comfort. At the usual time she presented herself in the study
with her husband's coffee; the face which was for an instant turned
to her did not invite conversation, but distress obliged her to
speak.

'Why are you cross with Marian, Alfred?'

'You had better ask what she means by her extraordinary
behaviour.'

A word of harsh rebuff was the most she had expected. Thus
encouraged, she timidly put another question.

'How has she behaved?'

'I suppose you have ears?'

'But wasn't there something before that? You spoke so angry to
her.'

'Spoke so angry, did I? She is out, I suppose?'

'No, she hasn't gone out.'

'That'll do. Don't disturb me any longer.'

She did not venture to linger.

The breakfast next morning seemed likely to pass without any
interchange of words. But when Yule was pushing back his chair,
Marian—who looked pale and ill—addressed a question to him about
the work she would ordinarily have pursued to-day at the
Reading-room. He answered in a matter-of-fact tone, and for a few
minutes they talked on the subject much as at any other time. Half
an hour after, Marian set forth for the Museum in the usual way.
Her father stayed at home.

It was the end of the episode for the present. Marian felt that
the best thing would be to ignore what had happened, as her father
evidently purposed doing. She had asked his forgiveness, and it was
harsh in him to have repelled her; but by now she was able once
more to take into consideration all his trials and toils, his
embittered temper and the new wound he had received. That he should
resume his wonted manner was sufficient evidence of regret on his
part. Gladly she would have unsaid her resentful words; she had
been guilty of a childish outburst of temper, and perhaps had
prepared worse sufferings for the future.

And yet, perhaps it was as well that her father should be
warned. She was not all submission, he might try her beyond
endurance; there might come a day when perforce she must stand face
to face with him, and make it known she had her own claims upon
life. It was as well he should hold that possibility in view.

This evening no work was expected of her. Not long after dinner
she prepared for going out; to her mother she mentioned she should
be back about ten o'clock.

'Give my kind regards to them, dear—if you like to,' said Mrs
Yule just above her breath.

'Certainly I will.'

Marian walked to the nearest point of Camden Road, and there
waited for an omnibus, which conveyed her to within easy reach of
the street where Maud and Dora Milvain had their lodgings. This was
at the north-east of Regent's Park, and no great distance from
Mornington Road, where Jasper still dwelt.

On learning that the young ladies were at home and alone, she
ascended to the second floor and knocked.

'That's right!' exclaimed Dora's pleasant voice, as the door
opened and the visitor showed herself And then came the friendly
greeting which warmed Marian's heart, the greeting which until
lately no house in London could afford her.

The girls looked oddly out of place in this second-floor
sitting-room, with its vulgar furniture and paltry ornaments. Maud
especially so, for her fine figure was well displayed by the dress
of mourning, and her pale, handsome face had as little congruence
as possible with a background of humble circumstances.

Dora impressed one as a simpler nature, but she too had
distinctly the note of refinement which was out of harmony with
these surroundings. They occupied only two rooms, the
sleeping-chamber being double-bedded; they purchased food for
themselves and prepared their own meals, excepting dinner. During
the first week a good many tears were shed by both of them; it was
not easy to transfer themselves from the comfortable country home
to this bare corner of lodgers' London. Maud, as appeared at the
first glance, was less disposed than her sister to make the best of
things; her countenance wore an expression rather of discontent
than of sorrow, and she did not talk with the same readiness as
Dora.

On the round table lay a number of books; when disturbed, the
sisters had been engaged in studious reading.

'I'm not sure that I do right in coming again so soon,' said
Marian as she took off her things. 'Your time is precious.'

'So are you,' replied Dora, laughing. 'It's only under protest
that we work in the evening when we have been hard at it all
day.'

'We have news for you, too,' said Maud, who sat languidly on an
uneasy chair.

'Good, I hope?'

'Someone called to see us yesterday. I dare say you can guess
who it was.'

'Amy, perhaps?'

'Yes.'

'And how did you like her?'

The sisters seemed to have a difficulty in answering. Dora was
the first to speak.

'We thought she was sadly out of spirits. Indeed she told us
that she hasn't been very well lately. But I think we shall like
her if we come to know her better.'

'It was rather awkward, Marian,' the elder sister explained. 'We
felt obliged to say something about Mr Reardon's books, but we
haven't read any of them yet, you know, so I just said that I hoped
soon to read his new novel. "I suppose you have seen reviews of
it?" she asked at once. Of course I ought to have had the courage
to say no, but I admitted that I had seen one or two—Jasper showed
us them. She looked very much annoyed, and after that we didn't
find much to talk about.'

'The reviews are very disagreeable,' said Marian with a troubled
face. 'I have read the book since I saw you the other day, and I am
afraid it isn't good, but I have seen many worse novels more kindly
reviewed.'

'Jasper says it's because Mr Reardon has no friends among the
journalists.'

'Still,' replied Marian, 'I'm afraid they couldn't have given
the book much praise, if they wrote honestly. Did Amy ask you to go
and see her?'

'Yes, but she said it was uncertain how long they would be
living at their present address. And really, we can't feel sure
whether we should be welcome or not just now.'

Marian listened with bent head. She too had to make known to her
friends that they were not welcome in her own home; but she knew
not how to utter words which would sound so unkind.

'Your brother,' she said after a pause, 'will soon find suitable
friends for you.'

'Before long,' replied Dora, with a look of amusement, 'he's
going to take us to call on Mrs Boston Wright. I hardly thought he
was serious at first, but he says he really means it.'

Marian grew more and more silent. At home she had felt that it
would not be difficult to explain her troubles to these sympathetic
girls, but now the time had come for speaking, she was oppressed by
shame and anxiety. True, there was no absolute necessity for making
the confession this evening, and if she chose to resist her
father's prejudice, things might even go on in a seemingly natural
way. But the loneliness of her life had developed in her a
sensitiveness which could not endure situations such as the
present; difficulties which are of small account to people who take
their part in active social life, harassed her to the destruction
of all peace. Dora was not long in noticing the dejected mood which
had come upon her friend.

'What's troubling you, Marian?'

'Something I can hardly bear to speak of. Perhaps it will be the
end of your friendship for me, and I should find it very hard to go
back to my old solitude.'

The girls gazed at her, in doubt at first whether she spoke
seriously.

'What can you mean?' Dora exclaimed. 'What crime have you been
committing?'

Maud, who leaned with her elbows on the table, searched Marian's
face curiously, but said nothing.

'Has Mr Milvain shown you the new number of The Current?' Marian
went on to ask.

They replied with a negative, and Maud added:

'He has nothing in it this month, except a review.'

'A review?' repeated Marian in a low voice.

'Yes; of somebody's novel.'

'Markland's,' supplied Dora.

Marian drew a breath, but remained for a moment with her eyes
cast down.

'Do go on, dear,' urged Dora. 'Whatever are you going to tell
us?'

'There's a notice of father's book,' continued the other, 'a
very ill-natured one; it's written by the editor, Mr Fadge. Father
and he have been very unfriendly for a long time. Perhaps Mr
Milvain has told you something about it?'

Dora replied that he had.

'I don't know how it is in other professions,' Marian resumed,
'but I hope there is less envy, hatred and malice than in this of
ours. The name of literature is often made hateful to me by the
things I hear and read. My father has never been very fortunate,
and many things have happened to make him bitter against the men
who succeed; he has often quarrelled with people who were at first
his friends, but never so seriously with anyone as with Mr Fadge.
His feeling of enmity goes so far that it includes even those who
are in any way associated with Mr Fadge. I am sorry to say'—she
looked with painful anxiety from one to the other of her
hearers—'this has turned him against your brother, and—'

Her voice was checked by agitation.

'We were afraid of this,' said Dora, in a tone of sympathy.

'Jasper feared it might be the case,' added Maud, more coldly,
though with friendliness.

'Why I speak of it at all,' Marian hastened to say, 'is because
I am so afraid it should make a difference between yourselves and
me.'

'Oh! don't think that!' Dora exclaimed.

'I am so ashamed,' Marian went on in an uncertain tone, 'but I
think it will be better if I don't ask you to come and see me. It
sounds ridiculous; it is ridiculous and shameful. I couldn't
complain if you refused to have anything more to do with me.'

'Don't let it trouble you,' urged Maud, with perhaps a trifle
more of magnanimity in her voice than was needful. We quite
understand. Indeed, it shan't make any difference to us.'

But Marian had averted her face, and could not meet these
assurances with any show of pleasure. Now that the step was taken
she felt that her behaviour had been very weak. Unreasonable
harshness such as her father's ought to have been met more
steadily; she had no right to make it an excuse for such incivility
to her friends. Yet only in some such way as this could she make
known to Jasper Milvain how her father regarded him, which she felt
it necessary to do. Now his sisters would tell him, and henceforth
there would be a clear understanding on both sides. That state of
things was painful to her, but it was better than ambiguous
relations.

'Jasper is very sorry about it,' said Dora, glancing rapidly at
Marian.

'But his connection with Mr Fadge came about in such a natural
way,' added the eldest sister. 'And it was impossible for him to
refuse opportunities.'

'Impossible; I know,' Marian replied earnestly. 'Don't think
that I wish to justify my father. But I can understand him, and it
must be very difficult for you to do so. You can't know, as I do,
how intensely he has suffered in these wretched, ignoble quarrels.
If only you will let me come here still, in the same way, and still
be as friendly to me. My home has never been a place to which I
could have invited friends with any comfort, even if I had had any
to invite. There were always reasons—but I can't speak of
them.'

'My dear Marian,' appealed Dora, 'don't distress yourself so! Do
believe that nothing whatever has happened to change our feeling to
you. Has there, Maud?'

'Nothing whatever. We are not unreasonable girls, Marian.'

'I am more grateful to you than I can say.'

It had seemed as if Marian must give way to the emotions which
all but choked her voice; she overcame them, however, and presently
was able to talk in pretty much her usual way, though when she
smiled it was but faintly. Maud tried to lead her thoughts in
another direction by speaking of work in which she and Dora were
engaged. Already the sisters were doing a new piece of compilation
for Messrs Jolly and Monk; it was more exacting than their initial
task for the book market, and would take a much longer time.