New Grub Street (6 page)

'By all means.—There's my mother at the window; will you come in
for a moment?'

With a step of quite unusual sprightliness Mr Yule entered the
house. He could talk of but one subject, and Mrs Milvain had to
listen to a laboured account of the blunder just committed by The
Study. It was Alfred's Yule's characteristic that he could do
nothing lighthandedly. He seemed always to converse with effort; he
took a seat with stiff ungainliness; he walked with a stumbling or
sprawling gait.

When he and Jasper set out for their ramble, his loquacity was
in strong contrast with the taciturn mood he had exhibited
yesterday and the day before. He fell upon the general aspects of
contemporary literature.

'... The evil of the time is the multiplication of ephemerides.
Hence a demand for essays, descriptive articles, fragments of
criticism, out of all proportion to the supply of even tolerable
work. The men who have an aptitude for turning out this kind of
thing in vast quantities are enlisted by every new periodical, with
the result that their productions are ultimately watered down into
worthlessness.... Well now, there's Fadge. Years ago some of
Fadge's work was not without a certain—a certain conditional
promise of—of comparative merit; but now his writing, in my
opinion, is altogether beneath consideration; how Rackett could be
so benighted as to give him The Study—especially after a man like
Henry Hawkridge—passes my comprehension. Did you read a paper of
his, a few months back, in The Wayside, a preposterous
rehabilitation of Elkanah Settle? Ha! Ha! That's what such men are
driven to. Elkanah Settle! And he hadn't even a competent
acquaintance with his paltry subject. Will you credit that he twice
or thrice referred to Settle's reply to "Absalom and Achitophel" by
the title of "Absalom Transposed," when every schoolgirl knows that
the thing was called "Achitophel Transposed"! This was monstrous
enough, but there was something still more contemptible. He
positively, I assure you, attributed the play of "Epsom Wells" to
Crowne! I should have presumed that every student of even the most
trivial primer of literature was aware that "Epsom Wells" was
written by Shadwell.... Now, if one were to take Shadwell for the
subject of a paper, one might very well show how unjustly his name
has fallen into contempt. It has often occurred to me to do this.
"But Shadwell never deviates into sense." The sneer, in my opinion,
is entirely unmerited. For my own part, I put Shadwell very high
among the dramatists of his time, and I think I could show that his
absolute worth is by no means inconsiderable. Shadwell has distinct
vigour of dramatic conception; his dialogue....'

And as he talked the man kept describing imaginary geometrical
figures with the end of his walking-stick; he very seldom raised
his eyes from the ground, and the stoop in his shoulders grew more
and more pronounced, until at a little distance one might have
taken him for a hunchback. At one point Jasper made a pause to
speak of the pleasant wooded prospect that lay before them; his
companion regarded it absently, and in a moment or two asked:

'Did you ever come across Cottle's poem on the Malvern Hills?
No?

It contains a couple of the richest lines ever put into
print:

It needs the evidence of close deduction
To know that I shall ever reach the top.

Perfectly serious poetry, mind you!'

He barked in laughter. Impossible to interest him in anything
apart from literature; yet one saw him to be a man of solid
understanding, and not without perception of humour. He had read
vastly; his memory was a literary cyclopaedia. His failings,
obvious enough, were the results of a strong and somewhat pedantic
individuality ceaselessly at conflict with unpropitious
circumstances.

Towards the young man his demeanour varied between a shy
cordiality and a dignified reserve which was in danger of seeming
pretentious. On the homeward part of the walk he made a few
discreet inquiries regarding Milvain's literary achievements and
prospects, and the frank self-confidence of the replies appeared to
interest him. But he expressed no desire to number Jasper among his
acquaintances in town, and of his own professional or private
concerns he said not a word.

'Whether he could be any use to me or not, I don't exactly
know,' Jasper remarked to his mother and sisters at dinner. 'I
suspect it's as much as he can do to keep a footing among the
younger tradesmen. But I think he might have said he was willing to
help me if he could.'

'Perhaps,' replied Maud, 'your large way of talking made him
think any such offer superfluous.'

'You have still to learn,' said Jasper, 'that modesty helps a
man in no department of modern life. People take you at your own
valuation. It's the men who declare boldly that they need no help
to whom practical help comes from all sides. As likely as not Yule
will mention my name to someone. "A young fellow who seems to see
his way pretty clear before him." The other man will repeat it to
somebody else, "A young fellow whose way is clear before him," and
so I come to the ears of a man who thinks "Just the fellow I want;
I must look him up and ask him if he'll do such-and-such a thing."
But I should like to see these Yules at home; I must fish for an
invitation.'

In the afternoon, Miss Harrow and Marian came at the expected
hour. Jasper purposely kept out of the way until he was summoned to
the tea-table.

The Milvain girls were so far from effusive, even towards old
acquaintances, that even the people who knew them best spoke of
them as rather cold and perhaps a trifle condescending; there were
people in Wattleborough who declared their airs of superiority
ridiculous and insufferable. The truth was that nature had endowed
them with a larger share of brains than was common in their circle,
and had added that touch of pride which harmonised so ill with the
restrictions of poverty. Their life had a tone of melancholy, the
painful reserve which characterises a certain clearly defined class
in the present day. Had they been born twenty years earlier, the
children of that veterinary surgeon would have grown up to a very
different, and in all probability a much happier, existence, for
their education would have been limited to the strictly needful,
and—certainly in the case of the girls—nothing would have
encouraged them to look beyond the simple life possible to a poor
man's offspring. But whilst Maud and Dora were still with their
homely schoolmistress, Wattleborough saw fit to establish a Girls'
High School, and the moderateness of the fees enabled these sisters
to receive an intellectual training wholly incompatible with the
material conditions of their life. To the relatively poor (who are
so much worse off than the poor absolutely) education is in most
cases a mocking cruelty. The burden of their brother's support made
it very difficult for Maud and Dora even to dress as became their
intellectual station; amusements, holidays, the purchase of such
simple luxuries as were all but indispensable to them, could not be
thought of. It resulted that they held apart from the society which
would have welcomed them, for they could not bear to receive
without offering in turn. The necessity of giving lessons galled
them; they felt—and with every reason—that it made their position
ambiguous. So that, though they could not help knowing many people,
they had no intimates; they encouraged no one to visit them, and
visited other houses as little as might be.

In Marian Yule they divined a sympathetic nature. She was unlike
any girl with whom they had hitherto associated, and it was the
impulse of both to receive her with unusual friendliness. The habit
of reticence could not be at once overcome, and Marian's own
timidity was an obstacle in the way of free intercourse, but
Jasper's conversation at tea helped to smooth the course of
things.

'I wish you lived anywhere near us,' Dora said to their visitor,
as the three girls walked in the garden afterwards, and Maud echoed
the wish.

'It would be very nice,' was Marian's reply. 'I have no friends
of my own age in London.'

'None?'

'Not one!'

She was about to add something, but in the end kept silence.

'You seem to get along with Miss Yule pretty well, after all,'
said Jasper, when the family were alone again.

'Did you anticipate anything else?' Maud asked.

'It seemed doubtful, up at Yule's house. Well, get her to come
here again before I go. But it's a pity she doesn't play the
piano,' he added, musingly.

For two days nothing was seen of the Yules. Jasper went each
afternoon to the stream in the valley, but did not again meet
Marian. In the meanwhile he was growing restless. A fortnight
always exhausted his capacity for enjoying the companionship of his
mother and sisters, and this time he seemed anxious to get to the
end of his holiday. For all that, there was no continuance of the
domestic bickering which had begun. Whatever the reason, Maud
behaved with unusual mildness to her brother, and Jasper in turn
was gently disposed to both the girls.

On the morning of the third day—it was Saturday—he kept silence
through breakfast, and just as all were about to rise from the
table, he made a sudden announcement:

'I shall go to London this afternoon.'

'This afternoon?' all exclaimed. 'But Monday is your day.'

'No, I shall go this afternoon, by the 2.45.'

And he left the room. Mrs Milvain and the girls exchanged
looks.

'I suppose he thinks the Sunday will be too wearisome,' said the
mother.

'Perhaps so,' Maud agreed, carelessly.

Half an hour later, just as Dora was ready to leave the house
for her engagements in Wattleborough, her brother came into the
hall and took his hat, saying:

'I'll walk a little way with you, if you don't mind.'

When they were in the road, he asked her in an offhand
manner:

'Do you think I ought to say good-bye to the Yules? Or won't it
signify?'

'I should have thought you would wish to.'

'I don't care about it. And, you see, there's been no hint of a
wish on their part that I should see them in London. No, I'll just
leave you to say good-bye for me.'

'But they expect to see us to-day or to-morrow. You told them
you were not going till Monday, and you don't know but Mr Yule
might mean to say something yet.'

'Well, I had rather he didn't,' replied Jasper, with a
laugh.

'Oh, indeed?'

'I don't mind telling you,' he laughed again. 'I'm afraid of
that girl. No, it won't do! You understand that I'm a practical
man, and I shall keep clear of dangers. These days of holiday
idleness put all sorts of nonsense into one's head.'

Dora kept her eyes down, and smiled ambiguously.

'You must act as you think fit,' she remarked at length.

'Exactly. Now I'll turn back. You'll be with us at dinner?'

They parted. But Jasper did not keep to the straight way home.
First of all, he loitered to watch a reaping-machine at work; then
he turned into a lane which led up the hill on which was John
Yule's house. Even if he had purposed making a farewell call, it
was still far too early; all he wanted to do was to pass an hour of
the morning, which threatened to lie heavy on his hands. So he
rambled on, and went past the house, and took the field-path which
would lead him circuitously home again.

His mother desired to speak to him. She was in the dining-room;
in the parlour Maud was practising music.

'I think I ought to tell you of something I did yesterday,
Jasper,' Mrs Milvain began. 'You see, my dear, we have been rather
straitened lately, and my health, you know, grows so uncertain,
and, all things considered, I have been feeling very anxious about
the girls. So I wrote to your uncle William, and told him that I
must positively have that money. I must think of my own children
before his.'

The matter referred to was this. The deceased Mr Milvain had a
brother who was a struggling shopkeeper in a Midland town. Some ten
years ago, William Milvain, on the point of bankruptcy, had
borrowed a hundred and seventy pounds from his brother in
Wattleborough, and this debt was still unpaid; for on the death of
Jasper's father repayment of the loan was impossible for William,
and since then it had seemed hopeless that the sum would ever be
recovered. The poor shopkeeper had a large family, and Mrs Milvain,
notwithstanding her own position, had never felt able to press him;
her relative, however, often spoke of the business, and declared
his intention of paying whenever he could.

'You can't recover by law now, you know,' said Jasper.

'But we have a right to the money, law or no law. He must pay
it.'

'He will simply refuse—and be justified. Poverty doesn't allow
of honourable feeling, any more than of compassion. I'm sorry you
wrote like that. You won't get anything, and you might as well have
enjoyed the reputation of forbearance.'

Mrs Milvain was not able to appreciate this characteristic
remark. Anxiety weighed upon her, and she became irritable.

'I am obliged to say, Jasper, that you seem rather thoughtless.
If it were only myself I would make any sacrifice for you; but you
must remember—'

'Now listen, mother,' he interrupted, laying a hand on her
shoulder; 'I have been thinking about all this, and the fact of the
matter is, I shall do my best to ask you for no more money. It may
or may not be practicable, but I'll have a try. So don't worry. If
uncle writes that he can't pay, just explain why you wrote, and
keep him gently in mind of the thing, that's all. One doesn't like
to do brutal things if one can avoid them, you know.'

The young man went to the parlour and listened to Maud's music
for awhile. But restlessness again drove him forth. Towards eleven
o'clock he was again ascending in the direction of John Yule's
house. Again he had no intention of calling, but when he reached
the iron gates he lingered.