New Grub Street (74 page)

'You will do me no wrong if you charge me with baseness,' he
replied gloomily. 'If I believe anything, I believe that I did love
you. But I knew myself and I should never have betrayed what I
felt, if for once in my life I could have been honourable.'

The rain pattered on the leaves and the grass, and still the sky
darkened.

'This is wretchedness to both of us,' Jasper added. 'Let us part
now, Marian. Let me see you again.'

'I can't see you again. What can you say to me more than you
have said now? I should feel like a beggar coming to you. I must
try and keep some little self-respect, if I am to live at all.'

'Then let me help you to think of me with indifference. Remember
me as a man who disregarded priceless love such as yours to go and
make himself a proud position among fools and knaves—indeed that's
what it comes to. It is you who reject me, and rightly. One who is
so much at the mercy of a vulgar ambition as I am, is no fit
husband for you. Soon enough you would thoroughly despise me, and
though I should know it was merited, my perverse pride would revolt
against it. Many a time I have tried to regard life practically as
I am able to do theoretically, but it always ends in hypocrisy. It
is men of my kind who succeed; the conscientious, and those who
really have a high ideal, either perish or struggle on in
neglect.'

Marian had overcome her excess of emotion.

'There is no need to disparage yourself' she said. 'What can be
simpler than the truth? You loved me, or thought you did, and now
you love me no longer. It is a thing that happens every day, either
in man or woman, and all that honour demands is the courage to
confess the truth. Why didn't you tell me as soon as you knew that
I was burdensome to you?'

'Marian, will you do this?—will you let our engagement last for
another six months, but without our meeting during that time?'

'But to what purpose?'

'Then we would see each other again, and both would be able to
speak calmly, and we should both know with certainty what course we
ought to pursue.'

'That seems to me childish. It is easy for you to contemplate
months of postponement. There must be an end now; I can bear it no
longer.'

The rain fell unceasingly, and with it began to mingle an
autumnal mist. Jasper delayed a moment, then asked calmly:

'Are you going to the Museum?'

'Yes.'

'Go home again for this morning, Marian. You can't work—'

'I must; and I have no time to lose. Good-bye!'

She gave him her hand. They looked at each other for an instant,
then Marian left the shelter of the tree, opened her umbrella, and
walked quickly away. Jasper did not watch her; he had the face of a
man who is suffering a severe humiliation.

A few hours later he told Dora what had come to pass, and
without extenuation of his own conduct. His sister said very
little, for she recognised genuine suffering in his tones and
aspect. But when it was over, she sat down and wrote to Marian.

'I feel far more disposed to congratulate you than to regret
what has happened. Now that there is no necessity for silence, I
will tell you something which will help you to see Jasper in his
true light. A few weeks ago he actually proposed to a woman for
whom he does not pretend to have the slightest affection, but who
is very rich, and who seemed likely to be foolish enough to marry
him. Yesterday morning he received her final answer—a refusal. I am
not sure that I was right in keeping this a secret from you, but I
might have done harm by interfering. You will understand (though
surely you need no fresh proof) how utterly unworthy he is of you.
You cannot, I am sure you cannot, regard it as a misfortune that
all is over between you. Dearest Marian, do not cease to think of
me as your friend because my brother has disgraced himself. If you
can't see me, at least let us write to each other. You are the only
friend I have of my own sex, and I could not bear to lose you.'

And much more of the same tenor.

Several days passed before there came a reply. It was written
with undisturbed kindness of feeling, but in few words.

'For the present we cannot see each other, but I am very far
from wishing that our friendship should come to an end. I must only
ask that you will write to me without the least reference to these
troubles; tell me always about yourself, and be sure that you
cannot tell me too much. I hope you may soon be able to send me the
news which was foreshadowed in our last talk—though "foreshadowed"
is a wrong word to use of coming happiness, isn't it? That paper I
sent to Mr Trenchard is accepted, and I shall be glad to have your
criticism when it comes out; don't spare my style, which needs a
great deal of chastening. I have been thinking: couldn't you use
your holiday in Sark for a story? To judge from your letters, you
could make an excellent background of word-painting.'

Dora sighed, and shook her little head, and thought of her
brother with unspeakable disdain.

When the fitting moment arrived, Alfred Yule underwent an
operation for cataract, and it was believed at first that the
result would be favourable. This hope had but short duration;
though the utmost prudence was exercised, evil symptoms declared
themselves, and in a few months' time all prospect of restoring his
vision was at an end. Anxiety, and then the fatal assurance,
undermined his health; with blindness, there fell upon him the
debility of premature old age.

The position of the family was desperate. Marian had suffered
much all the winter from attacks of nervous disorder, and by no
effort of will could she produce enough literary work to supplement
adequately the income derived from her fifteen hundred pounds. In
the summer of 1885 things were at the worst; Marian saw no
alternative but to draw upon her capital, and so relieve the
present at the expense of the future. She had a mournful warning
before her eyes in the case of poor Hinks and his wife, who were
now kept from the workhouse only by charity. But at this juncture
the rescuer appeared. Mr Quarmby and certain of his friends were
already making a subscription for the Yules' benefit, when one of
their number—Mr Jedwood, the publisher—came forward with a proposal
which relieved the minds of all concerned. Mr Jedwood had a brother
who was the director of a public library in a provincial town, and
by this means he was enabled to offer Marian Yule a place as
assistant in that institution; she would receive seventy-five
pounds a year, and thus, adding her own income, would be able to
put her parents beyond the reach of want. The family at once
removed from London, and the name of Yule was no longer met with in
periodical literature.

By an interesting coincidence, it was on the day of this
departure that there appeared a number of The West End in which the
place of honour, that of the week's Celebrity, was occupied by
Clement Fadge. A coloured portrait of this illustrious man
challenged the admiration of all who had literary tastes, and two
columns of panegyric recorded his career for the encouragement of
aspiring youth. This article, of course unsigned, came from the pen
of Jasper Milvain.

It was only by indirect channels that Jasper learnt how Marian
and her parents had been provided for. Dora's correspondence with
her friend soon languished; in the nature of things this could not
but happen; and about the time when Alfred Yule became totally
blind the girls ceased to hear anything of each other. An event
which came to pass in the spring sorely tempted Dora to write, but
out of good feeling she refrained.

For it was then that she at length decided to change her name
for that of Whelpdale. Jasper could not quite reconcile himself to
this condescension; in various discourses he pointed out to his
sister how much higher she might look if she would only have a
little patience.

'Whelpdale will never be a man of any note. A good fellow, I
admit, but borne in all senses. Let me impress upon you, my dear
girl, that I have a future before me, and that there is no
reason—with your charm of person and mind—why you should not marry
brilliantly. Whelpdale can give you a decent home, I admit, but as
regards society he will be a drag upon you.'

'It happens, Jasper, that I have promised to marry him,' replied
Dora, in a significant tone.

'Well, I regret it, but—you are of course your own mistress. I
shall make no unpleasantness. I don't dislike Whelpdale, and I
shall remain on friendly terms with him.'

'That is very kind of you,' said his sister suavely.

Whelpdale was frantic with exultation. When the day of the
wedding had been settled, he rushed into Jasper's study and fairly
shed tears before he could command his voice.

'There is no mortal on the surface of the globe one-tenth so
happy as I am!' he gasped. 'I can't believe it! Why in the name of
sense and justice have I been suffered to attain this blessedness?
Think of the days when I all but starved in my Albany Street
garret, scarcely better off than poor, dear old Biffen! Why should
I have come to this, and Biffen have poisoned himself in despair?
He was a thousand times a better and cleverer fellow than I. And
poor old Reardon, dead in misery! Could I for a moment compare with
him?'

'My dear fellow,' said Jasper, calmly, 'compose yourself and be
logical. In the first place, success has nothing whatever to do
with moral deserts; and then, both Reardon and Biffen were
hopelessly unpractical. In such an admirable social order as ours,
they were bound to go to the dogs. Let us be sorry for them, but
let us recognise causas rerum, as Biffen would have said. You have
exercised ingenuity and perseverance; you have your reward.'

'And when I think that I might have married fatally on thirteen
or fourteen different occasions. By-the-by, I implore you never to
tell Dora those stories about me. I should lose all her respect. Do
you remember the girl from Birmingham?' He laughed wildly. 'Heaven
be praised that she threw me over! Eternal gratitude to all and
sundry of the girls who have plunged me into wretchedness!'

'I admit that you have run the gauntlet, and that you have had
marvellous escapes. But be good enough to leave me alone for the
present. I must finish this review by midday.'

'Only one word. I don't know how to thank Dora, how to express
my infinite sense of her goodness. Will you try to do so for me?
You can speak to her with calmness. Will you tell her what I have
said to you?'

'Oh, certainly.—I should recommend a cooling draught of some
kind. Look in at a chemist's as you walk on.'

The heavens did not fall before the marriage-day, and the wedded
pair betook themselves for a few weeks to the Continent. They had
been back again and established in their house at Earl's Court for
a month, when one morning about twelve o'clock Jasper dropped in,
as though casually. Dora was writing; she had no thought of
entirely abandoning literature, and had in hand at present a very
pretty tale which would probably appear in The English Girl. Her
boudoir, in which she sat, could not well have been daintier and
more appropriate to the charming characteristics of its
mistress.

Mrs Whelpdale affected no literary slovenliness; she was dressed
in light colours, and looked so lovely that even Jasper paused on
the threshold with a smile of admiration.

'Upon my word,' he exclaimed, 'I am proud of my sisters! What
did you think of Maud last night? Wasn't she superb?'

'She certainly did look very well. But I doubt if she's very
happy.'

'That is her own look out; I told her plainly enough my opinion
of Dolomore. But she was in such a tremendous hurry.'

'You are detestable, Jasper! Is it inconceivable to you that a
man or woman should be disinterested when they marry?'

'By no means.'

'Maud didn't marry for money any more than I did.'

'You remember the Northern Farmer: "Doan't thou marry for money,
but go where money is." An admirable piece of advice. Well, Maud
made a mistake, let us say. Dolomore is a clown, and now she knows
it. Why, if she had waited, she might have married one of the
leading men of the day. She is fit to be a duchess, as far as
appearance goes; but I was never snobbish. I care very little about
titles; what I look to is intellectual distinction.'

'Combined with financial success.'

'Why, that is what distinction means.' He looked round the room
with a smile. 'You are not uncomfortable here, old girl. I wish
mother could have lived till now.'

'I wish it very, very often,' Dora replied in a moved voice.

'We haven't done badly, drawbacks considered. Now, you may speak
of money as scornfully as you like; but suppose you had married a
man who could only keep you in lodgings! How would life look to
you?'

'Who ever disputed the value of money? But there are things one
mustn't sacrifice to gain it.'

'I suppose so. Well, I have some news for you, Dora. I am
thinking of following your example.'

Dora's face changed to grave anticipation.

'And who is it?'

'Amy Reardon.'

His sister turned away, with a look of intense annoyance.

'You see, I am disinterested myself,' he went on. 'I might find
a wife who had wealth and social standing. But I choose Amy
deliberately.'

'An abominable choice!'

'No; an excellent choice. I have never yet met a woman so well
fitted to aid me in my career. She has a trifling sum of money,
which will be useful for the next year or two—'

'What has she done with the rest of it, then?'

'Oh, the ten thousand is intact, but it can't be seriously
spoken of. It will keep up appearances till I get my editorship and
so on. We shall be married early in August, I think. I want to ask
you if you will go and see her.'