New Grub Street (47 page)

'Yes.' She spoke mechanically.

'But if only it should come to something! You don't know what it
would mean to me, Marian.'

'Yes, father; I know very well how you think and feel about
it.'

'Do you?' He leaned forward, his features working under stress
of emotion. 'If I could see myself the editor of an influential
review, all my bygone toils and sufferings would be as nothing; I
should rejoice in them as the steps to this triumph. Meminisse
juvabit! My dear, I am not a man fitted for subordinate places. My
nature is framed for authority. The failure of all my undertakings
rankles so in my heart that sometimes I feel capable of every
brutality, every meanness, every hateful cruelty. To you I have
behaved shamefully. Don't interrupt me, Marian. I have treated you
abominably, my child, my dear daughter—and all the time with a full
sense of what I was doing. That's the punishment of faults such as
mine. I hate myself for every harsh word and angry look I have
given you; at the time, I hated myself!'

'Father—'

'No, no; let me speak, Marian. You have forgiven me; I know it.
You were always ready to forgive, dear. Can I ever forget that
evening when I spoke like a brute, and you came afterwards and
addressed me as if the wrong had been on your side? It burns in my
memory. It wasn't I who spoke; it was the demon of failure, of
humiliation. My enemies sit in triumph, and scorn at me; the
thought of it is infuriating. Have I deserved this? Am I the
inferior of—of those men who have succeeded and now try to trample
on me? No! I am not! I have a better brain and a better heart!'

Listening to this strange outpouring, Marian more than forgave
the hypocrisy of the last day or two. Nay, could it be called
hypocrisy? It was only his better self declared at the impulse of a
passionate hope.

'Why should you think so much of these troubles, father? Is it
such a great matter that narrow-minded people triumph over
you?'

'Narrow-minded?' He clutched at the word. 'You admit they are
that?'

'I feel very sure that Mr Fadge is.'

'Then you are not on his side against me?'

'How could you suppose such a thing?'

'Well, well; we won't talk of that. Perhaps it isn't a great
matter. No—from a philosophical point of view, such things are
unspeakably petty. But I am not much of a philosopher.' He laughed,
with a break in his voice. 'Defeat in life is defeat, after all;
and unmerited failure is a bitter curse. You see, I am not too old
to do something yet. My sight is failing, but I can take care of
it. If I had my own review, I would write every now and then a
critical paper in my very best style. You remember poor old Hinks's
note about me in his book? We laughed at it, but he wasn't so far
wrong. I have many of those qualities. A man is conscious of his
own merits as well as of his defects. I have done a few admirable
things. You remember my paper on Lord Herbert of Cherbury? No one
ever wrote a more subtle piece of criticism; but it was swept aside
among the rubbish of the magazines. And it's just because of my
pungent phrases that I have excited so much enmity. Wait! Wait! Let
me have my own review, and leisure, and satisfaction of
mind—heavens! what I will write! How I will scarify!'

'That is unworthy of you. How much better to ignore your
enemies!

In such a position, I should carefully avoid every word that
betrayed personal feeling.'

'Well, well; you are of course right, my good girl. And I
believe I should do injustice to myself if I made you think that
those ignoble motives are the strongest in me. No; it isn't so.
From my boyhood I have had a passionate desire of literary fame,
deep down below all the surface faults of my character. The best of
my life has gone by, and it drives me to despair when I feel that I
have not gained the position due to me. There is only one way of
doing this now, and that is by becoming the editor of an important
periodical. Only in that way shall I succeed in forcing people to
pay attention to my claims. Many a man goes to his grave
unrecognised, just because he has never had a fair judgment.
Nowadays it is the unscrupulous men of business who hold the
attention of the public; they blow their trumpets so loudly that
the voices of honest men have no chance of being heard.'

Marian was pained by the humility of his pleading with her—for
what was all this but an endeavour to move her sympathies?—and by
the necessity she was under of seeming to turn a deaf ear. She
believed that there was some truth in his estimate of his own
powers; though as an editor he would almost certainly fail, as a
man of letters he had probably done far better work than some who
had passed him by on their way to popularity. Circumstances might
enable her to assist him, though not in the way he proposed. The
worst of it was that she could not let him see what was in her
mind. He must think that she was simply balancing her own
satisfaction against his, when in truth she suffered from the
conviction that to yield would be as unwise in regard to her
father's future as it would be perilous to her own prospect of
happiness.

'Shall we leave this to be talked of when the money has been
paid over to me?' she said, after a silence.

'Yes. Don't suppose I wish to influence you by dwelling on my
own hardships. That would be contemptible. I have only taken this
opportunity of making myself better known to you. I don't readily
talk of myself and in general my real feelings are hidden by the
faults of my temper. In suggesting how you could do me a great
service, and at the same time reap advantage for yourself I
couldn't but remember how little reason you have to think kindly of
me. But we will postpone further talk. You will think over what I
have said?'

Marian promised that she would, and was glad to bring the
conversation to an end.

When Sunday came, Yule inquired of his daughter if she had any
engagement for the afternoon.

'Yes, I have,' she replied, with an effort to disguise her
embarrassment.

'I'm sorry. I thought of asking you to come with me to
Quarmby's. Shall you be away through the evening?'

'Till about nine o'clock, I think.'

'Ah! Never mind, never mind.'

He tried to dismiss the matter as if it were of no moment, but
Marian saw the shadow that passed over his countenance. This was
just after breakfast. For the remainder of the morning she did not
meet him, and at the mid-day dinner he was silent, though he
brought no book to the table with him, as he was wont to do when in
his dark moods. Marian talked with her mother, doing her best to
preserve the appearance of cheerfulness which was natural since the
change in Yule's demeanour.

She chanced to meet her father in the passage just as she was
going out. He smiled (it was more like a grin of pain) and nodded,
but said nothing.

When the front door closed, he went into the parlour. Mrs Yule
was reading, or, at all events, turning over a volume of an
illustrated magazine.

'Where do you suppose she has gone?' he asked, in a voice which
was only distant, not offensive.

'To the Miss Milvains, I believe,' Mrs Yule answered, looking
aside.

'Did she tell you so?'

'No. We don't talk about it.'

He seated himself on the corner of a chair and bent forward, his
chin in his hand.

'Has she said anything to you about the review?'

'Not a word.'

She glanced at him timidly, and turned a few pages of her
book.

'I wanted her to come to Quarmby's, because there'll be a man
there who is anxious that Jedwood should start a magazine, and it
would be useful for her to hear practical opinions. There'd be no
harm if you just spoke to her about it now and then. Of course if
she has made up her mind to refuse me it's no use troubling myself
any more. I should think you might find out what's really going
on.'

Only dire stress of circumstances could have brought Alfred Yule
to make distinct appeal for his wife's help. There was no underhand
plotting between them to influence their daughter; Mrs Yule had as
much desire for the happiness of her husband as for that of Marian,
but she felt powerless to effect anything on either side.

'If ever she says anything, I'll let you know.'

'But it seems to me that you have a right to question her.'

'I can't do that, Alfred.'

'Unfortunately, there are a good many things you can't do.' With
that remark, familiar to his wife in substance, though the tone of
it was less caustic than usual, he rose and sauntered from the
room. He spent a gloomy hour in the study, then went off to join
the literary circle at Mr Quarmby's.

Occasionally Milvain met his sisters as they came out of church
on Sunday morning, and walked home to have dinner with them. He did
so to-day, though the sky was cheerless and a strong north-west
wind made it anything but agreeable to wait about in open
spaces.

'Are you going to Mrs Wright's this afternoon?' he asked, as
they went on together.

'I thought of going,' replied Maud. 'Marian will be with
Dora.'

'You ought both to go. You mustn't neglect that woman.'

He said nothing more just then, but when presently he was alone
with Dora in the sitting-room for a few minutes, he turned with a
peculiar smile and remarked quietly:

'I think you had better go with Maud this afternoon.'

'But I can't. I expect Marian at three.'

'That's just why I want you to go.'

She looked her surprise.

'I want to have a talk with Marian. We'll manage it in this way.
At a quarter to three you two shall start, and as you go out you
can tell the landlady that if Miss Yule comes she is to wait for
you, as you won't be long. She'll come upstairs, and I shall be
there. You see?'

Dora turned half away, disturbed a little, but not
displeased.

'And what about Miss Rupert?' she asked.

'Oh, Miss Rupert may go to Jericho for all I care. I'm in a
magnanimous mood.'

'Very, I've no doubt.'

'Well, you'll do this? One of the results of poverty, you see;
one can't even have a private conversation with a friend without
plotting to get the use of a room. But there shall be an end of
this state of things.'

He nodded significantly. Thereupon Dora left the room to speak
with her sister.

The device was put into execution, and Jasper saw his sisters
depart knowing that they were not likely to return for some three
hours. He seated himself comfortably by the fire and mused. Five
minutes had hardly gone by when he looked at his watch, thinking
Marian must be unpunctual. He was nervous, though he had believed
himself secure against such weakness. His presence here with the
purpose he had in his mind seemed to him distinctly a concession to
impulses he ought to have controlled; but to this resolve he had
come, and it was now too late to recommence the arguments with
himself. Too late? Well, not strictly so; he had committed himself
to nothing; up to the last moment of freedom he could always—

That was doubtless Marian's knock at the front door. He jumped
up, walked the length of the room, sat down on another chair,
returned to his former seat. Then the door opened and Marian came
in.

She was not surprised; the landlady had mentioned to her that Mr
Milvain was upstairs, waiting the return of his sisters.

'I am to make 'Dora's excuses,' Jasper said. 'She begged you
would forgive her—that you would wait.'

'Oh yes.'

'And you were to be sure to take off your hat,' he added in a
laughing tone; 'and to let me put your umbrella in the corner—like
that.'

He had always admired the shape of Marian's head, and the beauty
of her short, soft, curly hair. As he watched her uncovering it, he
was pleased with the grace of her arms and the pliancy of her
slight figure.

'Which is usually your chair?'

'I'm sure I don't know.'

'When one goes to see a friend frequently, one gets into regular
habits in these matters. In Biffen's garret I used to have the most
uncomfortable chair it was ever my lot to sit upon; still, I came
to feel an affection for it. At Reardon's I always had what was
supposed to be the most luxurious seat, but it was too small for
me, and I eyed it resentfully on sitting down and rising.'

'Have you any news about the Reardons?'

'Yes. I am told that Reardon has had the offer of a
secretaryship to a boys' home, or something of the kind, at
Croydon. But I suppose there'll be no need for him to think of that
now.'

'Surely not!'

'Oh there's no saying.'

'Why should he do work of that kind now?'

'Perhaps his wife will tell him that she wants her money all for
herself.'

Marian laughed. It was very rarely that Jasper had heard her
laugh at all, and never so spontaneously as this. He liked the
music.

'You haven't a very good opinion of Mrs Reardon,' she said.

'She is a difficult person to judge. I never disliked her, by
any means; but she was decidedly out of place as the wife of a
struggling author. Perhaps I have been a little prejudiced against
her since Reardon quarrelled with me on her account.'

Marian was astonished at this unlooked-for explanation of the
rupture between Milvain and his friend. That they had not seen each
other for some months she knew from Jasper himself but no definite
cause had been assigned.

'I may as well let you know all about it,' Milvain continued,
seeing that he had disconcerted the girl, as he meant to. 'I met
Reardon not long after they had parted, and he charged me with
being in great part the cause of his troubles.'

The listener did not raise her eyes.

'You would never imagine what my fault was. Reardon declared
that the tone of my conversation had been morally injurious to his
wife. He said I was always glorifying worldly success, and that
this had made her discontented with her lot. Sounds rather
ludicrous, don't you think?'