New Grub Street (43 page)

'Was that a telegram that came?' her mother inquired after a
silence.

'Yes. I don't know where it was from. But father said he would
have to leave town for a few days.'

They exchanged looks.

'Perhaps your uncle is very ill,' said the mother in a low
voice.

'Perhaps so.'

The evening passed drearily. Fatigued with her emotions, Marian
went early to bed; she even slept later than usual in the morning,
and on descending she found her father already at the
breakfast-table. No greeting passed, and there was no conversation
during the meal. Marian noticed that her mother kept glancing at
her in a peculiarly grave way; but she felt ill and dejected, and
could fix her thoughts on no subject. As he left the table Yule
said to her:

'I want to speak to you for a moment. I shall be in the
study.'

She joined him there very soon. He looked coldly at her, and
said in a distant tone:

'The telegram last night was to tell me that your uncle is
dead.'

'Dead!'

'He died of apoplexy, at a meeting in Wattleborough. I shall go
down this morning, and of course remain till after the funeral. I
see no necessity for your going, unless, of course, it is your
desire to do so.'

'No; I should do as you wish.'

'I think you had better not go to the Museum whilst I am away.
You will occupy yourself as you think fit.'

'I shall go on with the Harrington notes.'

'As you please. I don't know what mourning it would be decent
for you to wear; you must consult with your mother about that. That
is all I wished to say.'

His tone was dismissal. Marian had a struggle with herself but
she could find nothing to reply to his cold phrases. And an hour or
two afterwards Yule left the house without leave-taking.

Soon after his departure there was a visitor's rat-tat at the
door; it heralded Mrs Goby. In the interview which then took place
Marian assisted her mother to bear the vigorous onslaughts of the
haberdasher's wife. For more than two hours Mrs Goby related her
grievances, against the fugitive servant, against Mrs Yule, against
Mr Yule; meeting with no irritating opposition, she was able in
this space of time to cool down to the temperature of normal
intercourse, and when she went forth from the house again it was in
a mood of dignified displeasure which she felt to be some
recompense for the injuries of yesterday.

A result of this annoyance was to postpone conversation between
mother and daughter on the subject of John Yule's death until a
late hour of the afternoon. Marian was at work in the study, or
endeavouring to work, for her thoughts would not fix themselves on
the matter in hand for many minutes together, and Mrs Yule came in
with more than her customary diffidence.

'Have you nearly done for to-day, dear?'

'Enough for the present, I think.'

She laid down her pen, and leant back in the chair.

'Marian, do you think your father will be rich?'

'I have no idea, mother. I suppose we shall know very soon.'

Her tone was dreamy. She seemed to herself to be speaking of
something which scarcely at all concerned her, of vague
possibilities which did not affect her habits of thought.

'If that happens,' continued Mrs Yule, in a low tone of
distress, 'I don't know what I shall do.'

Marian looked at her questioningly.

'I can't wish that it mayn't happen,' her mother went on; 'I
can't, for his sake and for yours; but I don't know what I shall
do. He'd think me more in his way than ever. He'd wish to have a
large house, and live in quite a different way; and how could I
manage then? I couldn't show myself; he'd be too much ashamed of
me. I shouldn't be in my place; even you'd feel ashamed of me.'

'You mustn't say that, mother. I have never given you cause to
think that.'

'No, my dear, you haven't; but it would be only natural. I
couldn't live the kind of life that you're fit for. I shall be
nothing but a hindrance and a shame to both of you.'

'To me you would never be either hindrance or shame; be quite
sure of that. And as for father, I am all but certain that, if he
became rich, he would be a very much kinder man, a better man in
every way. It is poverty that has made him worse than he naturally
is; it has that effect on almost everybody. Money does harm, too,
sometimes; but never, I think, to people who have a good heart and
a strong mind. Father is naturally a warm-hearted man; riches would
bring out all the best in him. He would be generous again, which he
has almost forgotten how to be among all his disappointments and
battlings. Don't be afraid of that change, but hope for it.'

Mrs Yule gave a troublous sigh, and for a few minutes pondered
anxiously.

'I wasn't thinking so much about myself' she said at length.
'It's the hindrance I should be to father. Just because of me, he
mightn't be able to use his money as he'd wish. He'd always be
feeling that if it wasn't for me things would be so much better for
him and for you as well.'

'You must remember,' Marian replied, 'that at father's age
people don't care to make such great changes. His home life, I feel
sure, wouldn't be so very different from what it is now; he would
prefer to use his money in starting a paper or magazine. I know
that would be his first thought. If more acquaintances came to his
house, what would that matter? It isn't as if he wished for
fashionable society. They would be literary people, and why ever
shouldn't you meet with them?'

'I've always been the reason why he couldn't have many
friends.'

'That's a great mistake. If father ever said that, in his bad
temper, he knew it wasn't the truth. The chief reason has always
been his poverty. It costs money to entertain friends; time as
well. Don't think in this anxious way, mother. If we are to be
rich, it will be better for all of us.'

Marian had every reason for seeking to persuade herself that
this was true. In her own heart there was a fear of how wealth
might affect her father, but she could not bring herself to face
the darker prospect. For her so much depended on that hope of a
revival of generous feeling under sunny influences.

It was only after this conversation that she began to reflect on
all the possible consequences of her uncle's death. As yet she had
been too much disturbed to grasp as a reality the event to which
she had often looked forward, though as to something still remote,
and of quite uncertain results. Perhaps at this moment, though she
could not know it, the course of her life had undergone the most
important change. Perhaps there was no more need for her to labour
upon this 'article' she was manufacturing.

She did not think it probable that she herself would benefit
directly by John Yule's will. There was no certainty that even her
father would, for he and his brother had never been on cordial
terms. But on the whole it seemed likely that he would inherit
money enough to free him from the toil of writing for periodicals.
He himself anticipated that. What else could be the meaning of
those words in which (and it was before the arrival of the news) he
had warned her against 'people who made connections only with
self-interest in view?' This threw a sudden light upon her father's
attitude towards Jasper Milvain. Evidently he thought that Jasper
regarded her as a possible heiress, sooner or later. That suspicion
was rankling in his mind; doubtless it intensified the prejudice
which originated in literary animosity.

Was there any truth in his suspicion? She did not shrink from
admitting that there might be. Jasper had from the first been so
frank with her, had so often repeated that money was at present his
chief need. If her father inherited substantial property, would it
induce Jasper to declare himself more than her friend? She could
view the possibility of that, and yet not for a moment be shaken in
her love. It was plain that Jasper could not think of marrying
until his position and prospects were greatly improved;
practically, his sisters depended upon him. What folly it would be
to draw back if circumstances led him to avow what hitherto he had
so slightly disguised! She had the conviction that he valued her
for her own sake; if the obstacle between them could only be
removed, what matter how?

Would he be willing to abandon Clement Fadge, and come over to
her father's side? If Yule were able to found a magazine?

Had she read or heard of a girl who went so far in concessions,
Marian would have turned away, her delicacy offended. In her own
case she could indulge to the utmost that practicality which
colours a woman's thought even in mid passion. The cold exhibition
of ignoble scheming will repel many a woman who, for her own
heart's desire, is capable of that same compromise with her strict
sense of honour.

Marian wrote to Dora Milvain, telling her what had happened. But
she refrained from visiting her friends.

Each night found her more restless, each morning less able to
employ herself. She shut herself in the study merely to be alone
with her thoughts, to be able to walk backwards and forwards, or
sit for hours in feverish reverie. From her father came no news.
Her mother was suffering dreadfully from suspense, and often had
eyes red with weeping. Absorbed in her own hopes and fears, whilst
every hour harassed her more intolerably, Marian was unable to play
the part of an encourager; she had never known such exclusiveness
of self-occupation.

Yule's return was unannounced. Early in the afternoon, when he
had been absent five days, he entered the house, deposited his
travelling-bag in the passage, and went upstairs. Marian had come
out of the study just in time to see him up on the first landing;
at the same moment Mrs Yule ascended from the kitchen.

'Wasn't that father?'

'Yes, he has gone up.'

'Did he say anything?'

Marian shook her head. They looked at the travelling-bag, then
went into the parlour and waited in silence for more than a quarter
of an hour. Yule's foot was heard on the stairs; he came down
slowly, paused in the passage, entered the parlour with his usual
grave, cold countenance.

Each day Jasper came to inquire of his sisters if they had news
from Wattleborough or from Marian Yule. He exhibited no impatience,
spoke of the matter in a disinterested tone; still, he came
daily.

One afternoon he found Dora working alone. Maud, he was told,
had gone to lunch at Mrs Lane's.

'So soon again? She's getting very thick with those people. And
why don't they ask you?'

'Maud has told them that I don't care to go out.'

'It's all very well, but she mustn't neglect her work. Did she
write anything last night or this morning?'

Dora bit the end of her pen and shook her head.

'Why not?'

'The invitation came about five o'clock, and it seemed to
unsettle her.'

'Precisely. That's what I'm afraid of. She isn't the kind of
girl to stick at work if people begin to send her invitations. But
I tell you what it is, you must talk seriously to her; she has to
get her living, you know. Mrs Lane and her set are not likely to be
much use, that's the worst of it; they'll merely waste her time,
and make her discontented.'

His sister executed an elaborate bit of cross-hatching on some
waste paper. Her lips were drawn together, and her brows wrinkled.
At length she broke the silence by saying:

'Marian hasn't been yet.'

Jasper seemed to pay no attention; she looked up at him, and saw
that he was in thought.

'Did you go to those people last night?' she inquired.

'Yes. By-the-bye, Miss Rupert was there.'

He spoke as if the name would be familiar to his hearer, but
Dora seemed at a loss.

'Who is Miss Rupert?'

'Didn't I tell you about her? I thought I did. Oh, I met her
first of all at Barlow's, just after we got back from the seaside.
Rather an interesting girl. She's a daughter of Manton Rupert, the
advertising agent. I want to get invited to their house; useful
people, you know.'

'But is an advertising agent a gentleman?'

Jasper laughed.

'Do you think of him as a bill-poster? At all events he is
enormously wealthy, and has a magnificent house at Chislehurst. The
girl goes about with her stepmother. I call her a girl, but she
must be nearly thirty, and Mrs Rupert looks only two or three years
older. I had quite a long talk with her—Miss Rupert, I mean—last
night. She told me she was going to stay next week with the
Barlows, so I shall have a run out to Wimbledon one afternoon.'

Dora looked at him inquiringly.

'Just to see Miss Rupert?' she asked, meeting his eyes.

'To be sure. Why not?'

'Oh!' ejaculated his sister, as if the question did not concern
her.

'She isn't exactly good-looking,' pursued Jasper, meditatively,
with a quick glance at the listener, 'but fairly intellectual.
Plays very well, and has a nice contralto voice; she sang that new
thing of Tosti's—what do you call it? I thought her rather
masculine when I first saw her, but the impression wears off when
one knows her better. She rather takes to me, I fancy.'

'But—' began Dora, after a minute's silence.

'But what?' inquired her brother with an air of interest.

'I don't quite understand you.'

'In general, or with reference to some particular?'

'What right have you to go to places just to see this Miss
Rupert?'

'What right?' He laughed. 'I am a young man with my way to make.
I can't afford to lose any opportunity. If Miss Rupert is so good
as to take an interest in me, I have no objection. She's old enough
to make friends for herself.'

'Oh, then you consider her simply a friend?'

'I shall see how things go on.'

'But, pray, do you consider yourself perfectly free?' asked
Dora, with some indignation.