New Grub Street (58 page)

'I have never come across an English editor who treated me with
anything like that consideration and general kindliness. How the
man had time, in his position, to see me so often, and do things in
such a human way, I can't understand. Imagine anyone trying the
same at the office of a London newspaper! To begin with, one
couldn't see the editor at all. I shall always think with profound
gratitude of that man with the peaked brown beard and pleasant
smile.'

'But did the pea-nuts come after that!' inquired Dora.

'Alas! they did. For some months I supported myself in Chicago,
writing for that same paper, and for others. But at length the flow
of my inspiration was checked; I had written myself out. And I
began to grow home-sick, wanted to get back to England. The result
was that I found myself one day in New York again, but without
money enough to pay for a passage home. I tried to write one more
story. But it happened, as I was looking over newspapers in a
reading-room, that I saw one of my Chicago tales copied into a
paper published at Troy. Now Troy was not very far off; and it
occurred to me that, if I went there, the editor of this paper
might be disposed to employ me, seeing he had a taste for my
fiction. And I went, up the Hudson by steamboat. On landing at Troy
I was as badly off as when I reached Chicago; I had less than a
dollar. And the worst of it was I had come on a vain errand; the
editor treated me with scant courtesy, and no work was to be got. I
took a little room, paying for it day by day, and in the meantime I
fed on those loathsome pea-nuts, buying a handful in the street now
and then. And I assure you I looked starvation in the face.'

'What sort of a town is Troy?' asked Marian, speaking for the
first time.

'Don't ask me. They make straw hats there principally, and they
sell pea-nuts. More I remember not.'

'But you didn't starve to death,' said Maud.

'No, I just didn't. I went one afternoon into a lawyer's office,
thinking I might get some copying work, and there I found an
odd-looking old man, sitting with an open Bible on his knees. He
explained to me that he wasn't the lawyer; that the lawyer was away
on business, and that he was just guarding the office. Well, could
he help me? He meditated, and a thought occurred to him. "Go," he
said, "to such-and-such a boarding-house, and ask for Mr Freeman
Sterling. He is just starting on a business tour, and wants a young
man to accompany him." I didn't dream of asking what the business
was, but sped, as fast as my trembling limbs would carry me, to the
address he had mentioned. I asked for Mr Freeman Sterling, and
found him. He was a photographer, and his business at present was
to go about getting orders for the reproducing of old portraits. A
good-natured young fellow. He said he liked the look of me, and on
the spot engaged me to assist him in a house-to-house visitation.
He would pay for my board and lodging, and give me a commission on
all the orders I obtained. Forthwith I sat down to a "square meal,"
and ate—my conscience, how I ate!'

'You were not eminently successful in that pursuit, I think?'
said Jasper.

'I don't think I got half-a-dozen orders. Yet that good
Samaritan supported me for five or six weeks, whilst we travelled
from Troy to Boston. It couldn't go on; I was ashamed of myself; at
last I told him that we must part. Upon my word, I believe he would
have paid my expenses for another month; why, I can't understand.
But he had a vast respect for me because I had written in
newspapers, and I do seriously think that he didn't like to tell me
I was a useless fellow. We parted on the very best of terms in
Boston.'

'And you again had recourse to pea-nuts?' asked Dora.

'Well, no. In the meantime I had written to someone in England,
begging the loan of just enough money to enable me to get home. The
money came a day after I had seen Sterling off by train.'

An hour and a half quickly passed, and Jasper, who wished to
have a few minutes of Marian's company before it was time for her
to go, cast a significant glance at his sisters. Dora said
innocently:

'You wished me to tell you when it was half-past nine,
Marian.'

And Marian rose. This was a signal Whelpdale could not
disregard. Immediately he made ready for his own departure, and in
less than five minutes was gone, his face at the last moment
expressing blended delight and pain.

'Too good of you to have asked me to come,' he said with
gratitude to Jasper, who went to the door with him. 'You are a
happy man, by Jove! A happy man!'

When Jasper returned to the room his sisters had vanished.
Marian stood by the fire. He drew near to her, took her hands, and
repeated laughingly Whelpdale's last words.

'Is it true?' she asked.

'Tolerably true, I think.'

'Then I am as happy as you are.'

He released her hands, and moved a little apart.

'Marian, I have been thinking about that letter to your father.
I had better get it written, don't you think?'

She gazed at him with troubled eyes.

'Perhaps you had. Though we said it might be delayed until—'

'Yes, I know. But I suspect you had rather I didn't wait any
longer. Isn't that the truth?'

'Partly. Do just as you wish, Jasper.'

'I'll go and see him, if you like.'

'I am so afraid—No, writing will be better.'

'Very well. Then he shall have the letter to-morrow
afternoon.'

'Don't let it come before the last post. I had so much rather
not. Manage it, if you can.'

'Very well. Now go and say good-night to the girls. It's a vile
night, and you must get home as soon as possible.'

She turned away, but again came towards him, murmuring:

'Just a word or two more.'

'About the letter?'

'No. You haven't said—'

He laughed.

'And you couldn't go away contentedly unless I repeated for the
hundredth time that I love you?'

Marian searched his countenance.

'Do you think it foolish? I live only on those words.'

'Well, they are better than pea-nuts.'

'Oh don't! I can't bear to—'

Jasper was unable to understand that such a jest sounded to her
like profanity. She hid her face against him, and whispered the
words that would have enraptured her had they but come from his
lips. The young man found it pleasant enough to be worshipped, but
he could not reply as she desired. A few phrases of tenderness, and
his love-vocabulary was exhausted; he even grew weary when
something more—the indefinite something—was vaguely required of
him.

'You are a dear, good, tender-hearted girl,' he said, stroking
her short, soft hair, which was exquisite to the hand. 'Now go and
get ready.'

She left him, but stood for a few moments on the landing before
going to the girls' room.

Marian had finished the rough draft of a paper on James
Harrington, author of 'Oceana.' Her father went through it by the
midnight lamp, and the next morning made his comments. A black sky
and sooty rain strengthened his inclination to sit by the study
fire and talk at large in a tone of flattering benignity.

'Those paragraphs on the Rota Club strike me as singularly
happy,' he said, tapping the manuscript with the mouthpiece of his
pipe. 'Perhaps you might say a word or two more about Cyriac
Skinner; one mustn't be too allusive with general readers, their
ignorance is incredible. But there is so little to add to this
paper—so little to alter—that I couldn't feel justified in sending
it as my own work. I think it is altogether too good to appear
anonymously. You must sign it, Marian, and have the credit that is
due to you.'

'Oh, do you think it's worth while?' answered the girl, who was
far from easy under this praise. Of late there had been too much of
it; it made her regard her father with suspicions which increased
her sense of trouble in keeping a momentous secret from him.

'Yes, yes; you had better sign it. I'll undertake there's no
other girl of your age who could turn out such a piece of work. I
think we may fairly say that your apprenticeship is at an end.
Before long,' he smiled anxiously, 'I may be counting upon you as a
valued contributor. And that reminds me; would you be disposed to
call with me on the Jedwoods at their house next Sunday?'

Marian understood the intention that lay beneath this proposal.
She saw that her father would not allow himself to seem discouraged
by the silence she maintained on the great subject which awaited
her decision. He was endeavouring gradually to involve her in his
ambitions, to carry her forward by insensible steps. It pained her
to observe the suppressed eagerness with which he looked for her
reply.

'I will go if you wish, father, but I had rather not.'

'I feel sure you would like Mrs Jedwood. One has no great
opinion of her novels, but she is a woman of some intellect. Let me
book you for next Sunday; surely I have a claim to your
companionship now and then.'

Marian kept silence. Yule puffed at his pipe, then said with a
speculative air:

'I suppose it has never even occurred to you to try your hand at
fiction?'

'I haven't the least inclination that way.'

'You would probably do something rather good if you tried. But I
don't urge it. My own efforts in that line were a mistake, I'm
disposed to think. Not that the things were worse than multitudes
of books which nowadays go down with the many-headed. But I never
quite knew what I wished to be at in fiction. I wasn't content to
write a mere narrative of the exciting kind, yet I couldn't hit
upon subjects of intellectual cast that altogether satisfied me.
Well, well; I have tried my hand at most kinds of literature.
Assuredly I merit the title of man of letters.'

'You certainly do.'

'By-the-by, what should you think of that title for a
review—Letters? It has never been used, so far as I know. I like
the word "letters." How much better "a man of letters" than "a
literary man"! And apropos of that, when was the word "literature"
first used in our modern sense to signify a body of writing? In
Johnson's day it was pretty much the equivalent of our "culture."
You remember his saying, "It is surprising how little literature
people have." His dictionary, I believe, defines the word as
"learning, skill in letters"—nothing else.'

It was characteristic of Yule to dwell with gusto on little
points such as this; he prosed for a quarter of an hour, with a
pause every now and then whilst he kept his pipe alight.

'I think Letters wouldn't be amiss,' he said at length,
returning to the suggestion which he wished to keep before Marian's
mind. 'It would clearly indicate our scope. No articles on
bimetallism, as Quarmby said—wasn't it Quarmby?'

He laughed idly.

'Yes, I must ask Jedwood how he likes the name.'

Though Marian feared the result, she was glad when Jasper made
up his mind to write to her father. Since it was determined that
her money could not be devoted to establishing a review, the truth
ought to be confessed before Yule had gone too far in nursing his
dangerous hope. Without the support of her love and all the
prospects connected with it, she would hardly have been capable of
giving a distinct refusal when her reply could no longer be
postponed; to hold the money merely for her own benefit would have
seemed to her too selfish, however slight her faith in the project
on which her father built so exultantly. When it was declared that
she had accepted an offer of marriage, a sacrifice of that kind
could no longer be expected of her. Opposition must direct itself
against the choice she had made. It would be stern, perhaps
relentless; but she felt able to face any extremity of wrath. Her
nerves quivered, but in her heart was an exhaustless source of
courage.

That a change had somehow come about in the girl Yule was aware.
He observed her with the closest study day after day. Her health
seemed to have improved; after a long spell of work she had not the
air of despondent weariness which had sometimes irritated him,
sometimes made him uneasy. She was more womanly in her bearing and
speech, and exercised an independence, appropriate indeed to her
years, but such as had not formerly declared itself The question
with her father was whether these things resulted simply from her
consciousness of possessing what to her seemed wealth, or something
else had happened of the nature that he dreaded. An alarming
symptom was the increased attention she paid to her personal
appearance; its indications were not at all prominent, but Yule, on
the watch for such things, did not overlook them. True, this also
might mean nothing but a sense of relief from narrow means; a girl
would naturally adorn herself a little under the circumstances.

His doubts came to an end two days after that proposal of a
title for the new review. As he sat in his study the servant
brought him a letter delivered by the last evening post. The
handwriting was unknown to him; the contents were these:

'DEAR MR YULE,—It is my desire to write to you with perfect
frankness and as simply as I can on a subject which has the deepest
interest for me, and which I trust you will consider in that spirit
of kindness with which you received me when we first met at
Finden.

'On the occasion of that meeting I had the happiness of being
presented to Miss Yule. She was not totally a stranger to me; at
that time I used to work pretty regularly in the Museum
Reading-room, and there I had seen Miss Yule, had ventured to
observe her at moments with a young man's attention, and had felt
my interest aroused, though I did not know her name. To find her at
Finden seemed to me a very unusual and delightful piece of good
fortune.

When I came back from my holiday I was conscious of a new
purpose in life, a new desire and a new motive to help me on in my
chosen career.