New Grub Street (41 page)

Intellectually again, he demanded an entire allegiance from his
daughter; he could not bear to think that her zeal on his behalf
was diminishing, that perhaps she was beginning to regard his work
as futile and antiquated in comparison with that of the new
generation. Yet this must needs be the result of frequent
intercourse with such a man as Milvain. It seemed to him that he
remarked it in her speech and manner, and at times he with
difficulty restrained himself from a reproach or a sarcasm which
would have led to trouble.

Had he been in the habit of dealing harshly with Marian, as with
her mother, of course his position would have been simpler. But he
had always respected her, and he feared to lose that measure of
respect with which she repaid him. Already he had suffered in her
esteem, perhaps more than he liked to think, and the increasing
embitterment of his temper kept him always in danger of the
conflict he dreaded. Marian was not like her mother; she could not
submit to tyrannous usage. Warned of that, he did his utmost to
avoid an outbreak of discord, constantly hoping that he might come
to understand his daughter's position, and perhaps discover that
his greatest fear was unfounded.

Twice in the course of the summer he inquired of his wife
whether she knew anything about the Milvains. But Mrs Yule was not
in Marian's confidence.

'I only know that she goes to see the young ladies, and that
they do writing of some kind.'

'She never even mentions their brother to you?'

'Never. I haven't heard his name from her since she told me the
Miss Milvains weren't coming here again.'

He was not sorry that Marian had taken the decision to keep her
friends away from St Paul's Crescent, for it saved him a recurring
annoyance; but, on the other hand, if they had continued to come,
he would not have been thus completely in the dark as to her
intercourse with Jasper; scraps of information must now and then
have been gathered by his wife from the girls' talk.

Throughout the month of July he suffered much from his wonted
bilious attacks, and Mrs Yule had to endure a double share of his
ill-temper, that which was naturally directed against her, and that
of which Marian was the cause. In August things were slightly
better; but with the return to labour came a renewal of Yule's
sullenness and savageness. Sundry pieces of ill-luck of a
professional kind—warnings, as he too well understood, that it was
growing more and more difficult for him to hold his own against the
new writers—exasperated his quarrel with destiny. The gloom of a
cold and stormy September was doubly wretched in that house on the
far borders of Camden Town, but in October the sun reappeared and
it seemed to mollify the literary man's mood. Just when Mrs Yule
and Marian began to hope that this long distemper must surely come
to an end, there befell an incident which, at the best of times,
would have occasioned misery, and which in the present juncture
proved disastrous.

It was one morning about eleven. Yule was in his study; Marian
was at the Museum; Mrs Yule had gone shopping. There came a sharp
knock at the front door, and the servant, on opening, was
confronted with a decently-dressed woman, who asked in a peremptory
voice if Mrs Yule was at home.

'No? Then is Mr Yule?'

'Yes, mum, but I'm afraid he's busy.'

'I don't care, I must see him. Say that Mrs Goby wants to see
him at once.'

The servant, not without apprehensions, delivered this message
at the door of the study.

'Mrs Goby? Who is Mrs Goby?' exclaimed the man of letters, irate
at the disturbance.

There sounded an answer out of the passage, for the visitor had
followed close.

'I am Mrs Goby, of the 'Olloway Road, wife of Mr C. O. Goby,
'aberdasher. I just want to speak to you, Mr Yule, if you please,
seeing that Mrs Yule isn't in.'

Yule started up in fury, and stared at the woman, to whom the
servant had reluctantly given place.

'What business can you have with me? If you wish to see Mrs
Yule, come again when she is at home.'

'No, Mr Yule, I will not come again!' cried the woman, red in
the face. 'I thought I might have had respectable treatment here,
at all events; but I see you're pretty much like your relations in
the way of behaving to people, though you do wear better clothes,
and—I s'pose—call yourself a gentleman. I won't come again, and you
shall just hear what I've got to say.

She closed the door violently, and stood in an attitude of
robust defiance.

'What's all this about?' asked the enraged author, overcoming an
impulse to take Mrs Goby by the shoulders and throw her out—though
he might have found some difficulty in achieving this feat. 'Who
are you? And why do you come here with your brawling?'

'I'm the respectable wife of a respectable man—that's who I am,
Mr Yule, if you want to know. And I always thought Mrs Yule was the
same, from the dealings we've had with her at the shop, though not
knowing any more of her, it's true, except that she lived in St
Paul's Crezzent. And so she may be respectable, though I can't say
as her husband behaves himself very much like what he pretends to
be. But I can't say as much for her relations in Perker Street,
'Olloway, which I s'pose they're your relations as well, at least
by marriage. And if they think they're going to insult me, and use
their blackguard tongues—'

'What are you talking about?' shouted Yule, who was driven to
frenzy by the mention of his wife's humble family. 'What have I to
do with these people?'

'What have you to do with them? I s'pose they're your relations,
ain't they? And I s'pose the girl Annie Rudd is your niece, ain't
she? At least, she's your wife's niece, and that comes to the same
thing, I've always understood, though I dare say a gentleman as has
so many books about him can correct me if I've made a mistake.'

She looked scornfully, though also with some surprise, round the
volumed walls.

'And what of this girl? Will you have the goodness to say what
your business is?'

'Yes, I will have the goodness! I s'pose you know very well that
I took your niece Annie Rudd as a domestic servant'—she repeated
this precise definition—'as a domestic servant, because Mrs Yule
'appened to 'arst me if I knew of a place for a girl of that kind,
as hadn't been out before, but could be trusted to do her best to
give satisfaction to a good mistress? I s'pose you know that?'

'I know nothing of the kind. What have I to do with
servants?'

'Well, whether you've much to do with them or little, that's how
it was. And nicely she's paid me out, has your niece, Miss Rudd. Of
all the trouble I ever had with a girl! And now when she's run away
back 'ome, and when I take the trouble to go arfter her, I'm to be
insulted and abused as never was! Oh, they're a nice respectable
family, those Rudds! Mrs Rudd—that's Mrs Yule's sister—what a nice,
polite-spoken lady she is, to be sure? If I was to repeat the
language—but there, I wouldn't lower myself. And I've been a brute
of a mistress; I ill-use my servants, and I don't give 'em enough
to eat, and I pay 'em worse than any woman in London! That's what
I've learnt about myself by going to Perker Street, 'Olloway. And
when I come here to ask Mrs Yule what she means by recommending
such a creature, from such a 'ome, I get insulted by her gentleman
husband.'

Yule was livid with rage, but the extremity of his scorn
withheld him from utterance of what he felt.

'As I said, all this has nothing to do with me. I will let Mrs
Yule know that you have called. I have no more time to spare.'

Mrs Goby repeated at still greater length the details of her
grievance, but long before she had finished Yule was sitting again
at his desk in ostentatious disregard of her. Finally, the
exasperated woman flung open the door, railed in a loud voice along
the passage, and left the house with an alarming crash.

It was not long before Mrs Yule returned. Before taking off her
things, she went down into the kitchen with certain purchases, and
there she learnt from the servant what had happened during her
absence. Fear and trembling possessed her—the sick, faint dread
always excited by her husband's wrath—but she felt obliged to go at
once to the study. The scene that took place there was one of
ignoble violence on Yule's part, and, on that of his wife, of
terrified self-accusation, changing at length to dolorous
resentment of the harshness with which she was treated. When it was
over, Yule took his hat and went out.

He did not return for the mid-day meal, and when Marian, late in
the afternoon, came back from the Museum, he was still absent.

Not finding her mother in the parlour, Marian called at the head
of the kitchen stairs. The servant answered, saying that Mrs Yule
was up in her bedroom, and that she didn't seem well. Marian at
once went up and knocked at the bedroom door. In a moment or two
her mother came out, showing a face of tearful misery.

'What is it, mother? What's the matter?'

They went into Marian's room, where Mrs Yule gave free utterance
to her lamentations.

'I can't put up with it, Marian! Your father is too hard with
me.

I was wrong, I dare say, and I might have known what would have
come of it, but he couldn't speak to me worse if I did him all the
harm I could on purpose. It's all about Annie, because I found a
place for her at Mrs Goby's in the 'Olloway Road; and now Mrs
Goby's been here and seen your father, and told him she's been
insulted by the Rudds, because Annie went off home, and she went
after her to make inquiries. And your father's in such a passion
about it as never was. That woman Mrs Goby rushed into the study
when he was working; it was this morning, when I happened to be
out. And she throws all the blame on me for recommending her such a
girl. And I did it for the best, that I did! Annie promised me
faithfully she'd behave well, and never give me trouble, and she
seemed thankful to me, because she wasn't happy at home. And now to
think of her causing all this disturbance! I oughtn't to have done
such a thing without speaking about it to your father; but you know
how afraid I am to say a word to him about those people. And my
sister's told me so often I ought to be ashamed of myself never
helping her and her children; she thinks I could do such a lot if I
only liked. And now that I did try to do something, see what comes
of it!'

Marian listened with a confusion of wretched feelings. But her
sympathies were strongly with her mother; as well as she could
understand the broken story, her father seemed to have no just
cause for his pitiless rage, though such an occasion would be
likely enough to bring out his worst faults.

'Is he in the study?' she asked.

'No, he went out at twelve o'clock, and he's never been back
since. I feel as if I must do something; I can't bear with it,
Marian. He tells me I'm the curse of his life—yes, he said that. I
oughtn't to tell you, I know I oughtn't; but it's more than I can
bear. I've always tried to do my best, but it gets harder and
harder for me. But for me he'd never be in these bad tempers; it's
because he can't look at me without getting angry. He says I've
kept him back all through his life; but for me he might have been
far better off than he is. It may be true; I've often enough
thought it. But I can't bear to have it told me like that, and to
see it in his face every time he looks at me. I shall have to do
something. He'd be glad if only I was out of his way.'

'Father has no right to make you so unhappy,' said Marian. 'I
can't see that you did anything blameworthy; it seems to me that it
was your duty to try and help Annie, and if it turned out
unfortunately, that can't be helped. You oughtn't to think so much
of what father says in his anger; I believe he hardly knows what he
does say. Don't take it so much to heart, mother.'

'I've tried my best, Marian,' sobbed the poor woman, who felt
that even her child's sympathy could not be perfect, owing to the
distance put between them by Marian's education and refined
sensibilities. 'I've always thought it wasn't right to talk to you
about such things, but he's been too hard with me to-day.'

'I think it was better you should tell me. It can't go on like
this; I feel that just as you do. I must tell father that he is
making our lives a burden to us.'

'Oh, you mustn't speak to him like that, Marian! I wouldn't for
anything make unkindness between you and your father; that would be
the worst thing I'd done yet. I'd rather go away and work for my
own living than make trouble between you and him.'

'It isn't you who make trouble; it's father. I ought to have
spoken to him before this; I had no right to stand by and see how
much you suffered from his ill-temper.'

The longer they talked, the firmer grew Marian's resolve to
front her father's tyrannous ill-humour, and in one way or another
to change the intolerable state of things. She had been weak to
hold her peace so long; at her age it was a simple duty to
interfere when her mother was treated with such flagrant injustice.
Her father's behaviour was unworthy of a thinking man, and he must
be made to feel that.

Yule did not return. Dinner was delayed for half an hour, then
Marian declared that they would wait no longer. They two made a
sorry meal, and afterwards went together into the sitting-room. At
eight o'clock they heard the front door open, and Yule's footstep
in the passage. Marian rose.

'Don't speak till to-morrow!' whispered her mother, catching at
the girl's arm. 'Let it be till to-morrow, Marian!'

'I must speak! We can't live in this terror.'

She reached the study just as her father was closing the door
behind him. Yule, seeing her enter, glared with bloodshot eyes;
shame and sullen anger were blended on his countenance.