New Grub Street (60 page)

'True. Take another slice.'

'I am greatly obliged to you.'

'Not at all. I have known hard times myself, and am likely to
know worse.'

'I trust not. This is the first time that I have positively
begged. I should have been too much ashamed to beg of the kind of
men who are usually at these places; they certainly have no money
to spare. I was thinking of making an appeal at a baker's shop, but
it is very likely I should have been handed over to a policeman.
Indeed I don't know what I should have done; the last point of
endurance was almost reached. I have no clothes but these I wear,
and they are few enough for the season. Still, I suppose the
waistcoat must have gone.'

He did not talk like a beggar who is trying to excite
compassion, but with a sort of detached curiosity concerning the
difficulties of his position.

'You can find nothing to do?' said the man of letters.

'Positively nothing. By profession I am a surgeon, but it's a
long time since I practised. Fifteen years ago I was comfortably
established at Wakefield; I was married and had one child. But my
capital ran out, and my practice, never anything to boast of, fell
to nothing. I succeeded in getting a place as an assistant to a man
at Chester. We sold up, and started on the journey.'

He paused, looking at Yule in a strange way.

'What happened then?'

'You probably don't remember a railway accident that took place
near Crewe in that year—it was 1869? I and my wife and child were
alone in a carriage that was splintered. One moment I was talking
with them, in fairly good spirits, and my wife was laughing at
something I had said; the next, there were two crushed, bleeding
bodies at my feet. I had a broken arm, that was all. Well, they
were killed on the instant; they didn't suffer. That has been my
one consolation.'

Yule kept the silence of sympathy.

'I was in a lunatic asylum for more than a year after that,'
continued the man. 'Unhappily, I didn't lose my senses at the
moment; it took two or three weeks to bring me to that pass. But I
recovered, and there has been no return of the disease. Don't
suppose that I am still of unsound mind. There can be little doubt
that poverty will bring me to that again in the end; but as yet I
am perfectly sane. I have supported myself in various ways.

No, I don't drink; I see the question in your face. But I am
physically weak, and, to quote Mrs Gummidge, "things go contrary
with me." There's no use lamenting; this breakfast has helped me
on, and I feel in much better spirits.'

'Your surgical knowledge is no use to you?'

The other shook his head and sighed.

'Did you ever give any special attention to diseases of the
eyes?'

'Special, no. But of course I had some acquaintance with the
subject.'

'Could you tell by examination whether a man was threatened with
cataract, or anything of that kind?'

'I think I could.'

'I am speaking of myself.'

The stranger made a close scrutiny of Yule's face, and asked
certain questions with reference to his visual sensations.

'I hardly like to propose it,' he said at length, 'but if you
were willing to accompany me to a very poor room that I have not
far from here, I could make the examination formally.'

'I will go with you.'

They turned away from the stall, and the ex-surgeon led into a
by-street. Yule wondered at himself for caring to seek such a
singular consultation, but he had a pressing desire to hear some
opinion as to the state of his eyes. Whatever the stranger might
tell him, he would afterwards have recourse to a man of recognised
standing; but just now companionship of any kind was welcome, and
the poor hungry fellow, with his dolorous life-story, had made
appeal to his sympathies. To give money under guise of a fee would
be better than merely offering alms.

'This is the house,' said his guide, pausing at a dirty door.
'It isn't inviting, but the people are honest, so far as I know. My
room is at the top.'

'Lead on,' answered Yule.

In the room they entered was nothing noticeable; it was only the
poorest possible kind of bed-chamber, or all but the poorest
possible. Daylight had now succeeded to dawn, yet the first thing
the stranger did was to strike a match and light a candle.

'Will you kindly place yourself with your back to the window?'
he said. 'I am going to apply what is called the catoptric test.
You have probably heard of it?'

'My ignorance of scientific matters is fathomless.'

The other smiled, and at once offered a simple explanation of
the term. By the appearance of the candle as it reflected itself in
the patient's eye it was possible, he said, to decide whether
cataract had taken hold upon the organ.

For a minute or two he conducted his experiment carefully, and
Yule was at no loss to read the result upon his face.

'How long have you suspected that something was wrong?' the
surgeon asked, as he put down the candle.

'For several months.'

'You haven't consulted anyone?'

'No one. I have kept putting it off. Just tell me what you have
discovered.'

'The back of the right lens is affected beyond a doubt.'

'That means, I take it, that before very long I shall be
practically blind?'

'I don't like to speak with an air of authority. After all, I am
only a surgeon who has bungled himself into pauperdom. You must see
a competent man; that much I can tell you in all earnestness.

Do you use your eyes much?'

'Fourteen hours a day, that's all.'

'H'm! You are a literary man, I think?'

'I am. My name is Alfred Yule.'

He had some faint hope that the name might be recognised; that
would have gone far, for the moment, to counteract his trouble. But
not even this poor satisfaction was to be granted him; to his
hearer the name evidently conveyed nothing.

'See a competent man, Mr Yule. Science has advanced rapidly
since the days when I was a student; I am only able to assure you
of the existence of disease.'

They talked for half an hour, until both were shaking with cold.
Then Yule thrust his hand into his pocket.

'You will of course allow me to offer such return as I am able,'
he said. 'The information isn't pleasant, but I am glad to have
it.'

He laid five shillings on the chest of drawers—there was no
table. The stranger expressed his gratitude.

'My name is Duke,' he said, 'and I was christened
Victor—possibly because I was doomed to defeat in life. I wish you
could have associated the memory of me with happier
circumstances.'

They shook hands, and Yule quitted the house.

He came out again by Camden Town station. The coffee-stall had
disappeared; the traffic of the great highway was growing
uproarious. Among all the strugglers for existence who rushed this
way and that, Alfred Yule felt himself a man chosen for fate's
heaviest infliction. He never questioned the accuracy of the
stranger's judgment, and he hoped for no mitigation of the doom it
threatened. His life was over—and wasted.

He might as well go home, and take his place meekly by the
fireside. He was beaten. Soon to be a useless old man, a burden and
annoyance to whosoever had pity on him.

It was a curious effect of the imagination that since coming
into the open air again his eyesight seemed to be far worse than
before. He irritated his nerves of vision by incessant tests,
closing first one eye then the other, comparing his view of nearer
objects with the appearance of others more remote, fancying an
occasional pain—which could have had no connection with his
disease. The literary projects which had stirred so actively in his
mind twelve hours ago were become an insubstantial memory; to the
one crushing blow had succeeded a second, which was fatal. He could
hardly recall what special piece of work he had been engaged upon
last night. His thoughts were such as if actual blindness had
really fallen upon him.

At half-past eight he entered the house. Mrs Yule was standing
at the foot of the stairs; she looked at him, then turned away
towards the kitchen. He went upstairs. On coming down again he
found breakfast ready as usual, and seated himself at the table.
Two letters waited for him there; he opened them.

When Mrs Yule came into the room a few moments later she was
astonished by a burst of loud, mocking laughter from her husband,
excited, as it appeared, by something he was reading.

'Is Marian up?' he asked, turning to her.

'Yes.'

'She is not coming to breakfast?'

'No.'

'Then just take that letter to her, and ask her to read it.'

Mrs Yule ascended to her daughter's bedroom. She knocked, was
bidden enter, and found Marian packing clothes in a trunk. The girl
looked as if she had been up all night; her eyes bore the traces of
much weeping.

'He has come back, dear,' said Mrs Yule, in the low voice of
apprehension, 'and he says you are to read this letter.'

Marian took the sheet, unfolded it, and read. As soon as she had
reached the end she looked wildly at her mother, seemed to
endeavour vainly to speak, then fell to the floor in
unconsciousness. The mother was only just able to break the
violence of her fall. Having snatched a pillow and placed it
beneath Marian's head, she rushed to the door and called loudly for
her husband, who in a moment appeared.

'What is it?' she cried to him. 'Look, she has fallen down in a
faint. Why are you treating her like this?'

'Attend to her,' Yule replied roughly. 'I suppose you know
better than I do what to do when a person faints.'

The swoon lasted for several minutes.

'What's in the letter?' asked Mrs Yule whilst chafing the
lifeless hands.

'Her money's lost. The people who were to pay it have just
failed.'

'She won't get anything?'

'Most likely nothing at all.'

The letter was a private communication from one of John Yule's
executors. It seemed likely that the demand upon Turberville &
Co. for an account of the deceased partner's share in their
business had helped to bring about a crisis in affairs that were
already unstable. Something might be recovered in the legal
proceedings that would result, but there were circumstances which
made the outlook very doubtful.

As Marian came to herself her father left the room. An hour
afterwards Mrs Yule summoned him again to the girl's chamber; he
went, and found Marian lying on the bed, looking like one who had
been long ill.

'I wish to ask you a few questions,' she said, without raising
herself. 'Must my legacy necessarily be paid out of that
investment?'

'It must. Those are the terms of the will.'

'If nothing can be recovered from those people, I have no
remedy?'

'None whatever that I can see.'

'But when a firm is bankrupt they generally pay some portion of
their debts?'

'Sometimes. I know nothing of the case.'

'This of course happens to me,' Marian said, with intense
bitterness. 'None of the other legatees will suffer, I
suppose?'

'Someone must, but to a very small extent.'

'Of course. When shall I have direct information?'

'You can write to Mr Holden; you have his address.'

'Thank you. That's all.'

He was dismissed, and went quietly away.

Throughout the day Marian kept her room. Her intention to leave
the house was, of course, abandoned; she was the prisoner of fate.
Mrs Yule would have tended her with unremitting devotion, but the
girl desired to be alone. At times she lay in silent anguish;
frequently her tears broke forth, and she sobbed until weariness
overcame her. In the afternoon she wrote a letter to Mr Holden,
begging that she might be kept constantly acquainted with the
progress of things.

At five her mother brought tea.

'Wouldn't it be better if you went to bed now, Marian?' she
suggested.

'To bed? But I am going out in an hour or two.'

'Oh, you can't, dear! It's so bitterly cold. It wouldn't be good
for you.'

'I have to go out, mother, so we won't speak of it.'

It was not safe to reply. Mrs Yule sat down, and watched the
girl raise the cup to her mouth with trembling hand.

'This won't make any difference to you—in the end, my darling,'
the mother ventured to say at length, alluding for the first time
to the effect of the catastrophe on Marian's immediate
prospects.

'Of course not,' was the reply, in a tone of
self-persuasion.

'Mr Milvain is sure to have plenty of money before long.'

'Yes.'

'You feel much better now, don't you?'

'Much. I am quite well again.'

At seven, Marian went out. Finding herself weaker than she had
thought, she stopped an empty cab that presently passed her, and so
drove to the Milvains' lodgings. In her agitation she inquired for
Mr Milvain, instead of for Dora, as was her habit; it mattered very
little, for the landlady and her servants were of course under no
misconception regarding this young lady's visits.

Jasper was at home, and working. He had but to look at Marian to
see that something wretched had been going on at her home;
naturally he supposed it the result of his letter to Mr Yule.

'Your father has been behaving brutally,' he said, holding her
hands and gazing anxiously at her.

'There is something far worse than that, Jasper.'

'Worse?'

She threw off her outdoor things, then took the fatal letter
from her pocket and handed it to him. Jasper gave a whistle of
consternation, and looked vacantly from the paper to Marian's
countenance.

'How the deuce comes this about?' he exclaimed. 'Why, wasn't
your uncle aware of the state of things?'