In the end, Marian was obliged to speak on the subject with her mother. Mrs Yule offered an occasion by asking when the Miss Milvains were coming again.
'I don't think I shall ever ask them again,' Marian replied.
Her mother understood, and looked troubled.
'I must tell them how it is, that's all,' the girl went on. 'They are sensible; they won't be offended with me.'
'But your father has never had anything to say against them,' urged Mrs Yule. 'Not a word to me, Marian. I'd tell you the truth if he had.'
'It's too disagreeable, all the same. I can't invite them here with pleasure. Father has grown prejudiced against them all, and he won't change. No, I shall just tell them.'
'It's very hard for you,' sighed her mother. 'If I thought I could do any good by speaking—but I can't, my dear.'
'I know it, mother. Let us go on as we did before.'
The day after this, when Yule came home about the hour of dinner, he called Marian's name from within the study. Marian had not left the house to-day; her work had been set, in the shape of a long task of copying from disorderly manuscript. She left the sitting-room in obedience to her father's summons.
'Here's something that will afford you amusement,' he said, holding to her the new number of The Current, and indicating the notice of his book.
She read a few lines, then threw the thing on to the table.
'That kind of writing sickens me,' she exclaimed, with anger in her eyes. 'Only base and heartless people can write in that way. You surely won't let it trouble you?'
'Oh, not for a moment,' her father answered, with exaggerated show of calm. 'But I am surprised that you don't see the literary merit of the work. I thought it would distinctly appeal to you.'
There was a strangeness in his voice, as well as in the words, which caused her to look at him inquiringly. She knew him well enough to understand that such a notice would irritate him profoundly; but why should he go out of his way to show it her, and with this peculiar acerbity of manner?
'Why do you say that, father?'
'It doesn't occur to you who may probably have written it?'
She could not miss his meaning; astonishment held her mute for a moment, then she said:
'Surely Mr Fadge wrote it himself?'
'I am told not. I am informed on very good authority that one of his young gentlemen has the credit of it.'
'You refer, of course, to Mr Milvain,' she replied quietly. 'But I think that can't be true.'
He looked keenly at her. He had expected a more decided protest.
'I see no reason for disbelieving it.'
'I see every reason, until I have your evidence.'
This was not at all Marian's natural tone in argument with him. She was wont to be submissive.
'I was told,' he continued, hardening face and voice, 'by someone who had it from Jedwood.'
Yule was conscious of untruth in this statement, but his mood would not allow him to speak ingenuously, and he wished to note the effect upon Marian of what he said. There were two beliefs in him: on the one hand, he recognised Fadge in every line of the writing; on the other, he had a perverse satisfaction in convincing himself that it was Milvain who had caught so successfully the master's manner. He was not the kind of man who can resist an opportunity of justifying, to himself and others, a course into which he has been led by mingled feelings, all more or less unjustifiable.
'How should Jedwood know?' asked Marian.
Yule shrugged his shoulders.
'As if these things didn't get about among editors and publishers!'
'In this case, there's a mistake.'
'And why, pray?' His voice trembled with choler. 'Why need there be a mistake?'
'Because Mr Milvain is quite incapable of reviewing your book in such a spirit.'
'There is your mistake, my girl. Milvain will do anything that's asked of him, provided he's well enough paid.'
Marian reflected. When she raised her eyes again they were perfectly calm.
'What has led you to think that?'
'Don't I know the type of man? Noscitur ex sociis—have you Latin enough for that?'
'You'll find that you are misinformed,' Marian replied, and therewith went from the room.
She could not trust herself to converse longer. A resentment such as her father had never yet excited in her—such, indeed, as she had seldom, if ever, conceived—threatened to force utterance for itself in words which would change the current of her whole life. She saw her father in his worst aspect, and her heart was shaken by an unnatural revolt from him. Let his assurance of what he reported be ever so firm, what right had he to make this use of it? His behaviour was spiteful. Suppose he entertained suspicions which seemed to make it his duty to warn her against Milvain, this was not the way to go about it. A father actuated by simple motives of affection would never speak and look thus.
It was the hateful spirit of literary rancour that ruled him; the spirit that made people eager to believe all evil, that blinded and maddened. Never had she felt so strongly the unworthiness of the existence to which she was condemned. That contemptible review, and now her father's ignoble passion—such things were enough to make all literature appear a morbid excrescence upon human life.
Forgetful of the time, she sat in her bedroom until a knock at the door, and her mother's voice, admonished her that dinner was waiting. An impulse all but caused her to say that she would rather not go down for the meal, that she wished to be left alone. But this would be weak peevishness. She just looked at the glass to see that her face bore no unwonted signs, and descended to take her place as usual.
Throughout the dinner there passed no word of conversation. Yule was at his blackest; he gobbled a few mouthfuls, then occupied himself with the evening paper. On rising, he said to Marian:
'Have you copied the whole of that?'
The tone would have been uncivil if addressed to an impertinent servant.
'Not much more than half,' was the cold reply.
'Can you finish it to-night?'
'I'm afraid not. I am going out.'
'Then I must do it myself'
And he went to the study.
Mrs Yule was in an anguish of nervousness.
'What is it, dear?' she asked of Marian, in a pleading whisper. 'Oh, don't quarrel with your father! Don't!'
'I can't be a slave, mother, and I can't be treated unjustly.'
'What is it? Let me go and speak to him.'
'It's no use. We CAN'T live in terror.'
For Mrs Yule this was unimaginable disaster. She had never dreamt that Marian, the still, gentle Marian, could be driven to revolt. And it had come with the suddenness of a thunderclap. She wished to ask what had taken place between father and daughter in the brief interview before dinner; but Marian gave her no chance, quitting the room upon those last trembling words.
The girl had resolved to visit her friends, the sisters, and tell them that in future they must never come to see her at home. But it was no easy thing for her to stifle her conscience, and leave her father to toil over that copying which had need of being finished. Not her will, but her exasperated feeling, had replied to him that she would not do the work; already it astonished her that she had really spoken such words. And as the throbbing of her pulses subsided, she saw more clearly into the motives of this wretched tumult which possessed her. Her mind was harassed with a fear lest in defending Milvain she had spoken foolishly. Had he not himself said to her that he might be guilty of base things, just to make his way? Perhaps it was the intolerable pain of imagining that he had already made good his words, which robbed her of self-control and made her meet her father's rudeness with defiance.
Impossible to carry out her purpose; she could not deliberately leave the house and spend some hours away with the thought of such wrath and misery left behind her. Gradually she was returning to her natural self; fear and penitence were chill at her heart.
She went down to t
he study, tapped, and entered.
'Father, I said something that I did not really mean. Of course I shall go on with the copying and finish it as soon as possible.'
'You will do nothing of the kind, my girl.' He was in his usual place, already working at Marian's task; he spoke in a low, thick voice. 'Spend your evening as you choose, I have no need of you.'
'I behaved very ill-temperedly. Forgive me, father.'
'Have the goodness to go away. You hear me?'
His eyes were inflamed, and his discoloured teeth showed themselves savagely. Marian durst not, really durst not approach him. She hesitated, but once more a sense of hateful injustice moved within her, and she went away as quietly as she had entered.
She said to herself that now it was her perfect right to go whither she would. But the freedom was only in theory; her submissive and timid nature kept her at home—and upstairs in her own room; for, if she went to sit with her mother, of necessity she must talk about what had happened, and that she felt unable to do. Some friend to whom she could unbosom all her sufferings would now have been very precious to her, but Maud and Dora were her only intimates, and to them she might not make the full confession which gives solace.
Mrs Yule did not venture to intrude upon her daughter's privacy. That Marian neither went out nor showed herself in the house proved her troubled state, but the mother had no confidence in her power to comfort. At the usual time she presented herself in the study with her husband's coffee; the face which was for an instant turned to her did not invite conversation, but distress obliged her to speak.
'Why are you cross with Marian, Alfred?'
'You had better ask what she means by her extraordinary behaviour.'
A word of harsh rebuff was the most she had expected. Thus encouraged, she timidly put another question.
'How has she behaved?'
'I suppose you have ears?'
'But wasn't there something before that? You spoke so angry to her.'
'Spoke so angry, did I? She is out, I suppose?'
'No, she hasn't gone out.'
'That'll do. Don't disturb me any longer.'
She did not venture to linger.
The breakfast next morning seemed likely to pass without any interchange of words. But when Yule was pushing back his chair, Marian—who looked pale and ill—addressed a question to him about the work she would ordinarily have pursued to-day at the Reading-room. He answered in a matter-of-fact tone, and for a few minutes they talked on the subject much as at any other time. Half an hour after, Marian set forth for the Museum in the usual way. Her father stayed at home.
It was the end of the episode for the present. Marian felt that the best thing would be to ignore what had happened, as her father evidently purposed doing. She had asked his forgiveness, and it was harsh in him to have repelled her; but by now she was able once more to take into consideration all his trials and toils, his embittered temper and the new wound he had received. That he should resume his wonted manner was sufficient evidence of regret on his part. Gladly she would have unsaid her resentful words; she had been guilty of a childish outburst of temper, and perhaps had prepared worse sufferings for the future.
And yet, perhaps it was as well that her father should be warned. She was not all submission, he might try her beyond endurance; there might come a day when perforce she must stand face to face with him, and make it known she had her own claims upon life. It was as well he should hold that possibility in view.
This evening no work was expected of her. Not long after dinner she prepared for going out; to her mother she mentioned she should be back about ten o'clock.
'Give my kind regards to them, dear—if you like to,' said Mrs Yule just above her breath.
'Certainly I will.'
CHAPTER XIV. ECRUITS
Marian walked to the nearest point of Camden Road, and there waited for an omnibus, which conveyed her to within easy reach of the street where Maud and Dora Milvain had their lodgings. This was at the north-east of Regent's Park, and no great distance from Mornington Road, where Jasper still dwelt.
On learning that the young ladies were at home and alone, she ascended to the second floor and knocked.
'That's right!' exclaimed Dora's pleasant voice, as the door opened and the visitor showed herself And then came the friendly greeting which warmed Marian's heart, the greeting which until lately no house in London could afford her.
The girls looked oddly out of place in this second-floor sitting-room, with its vulgar furniture and paltry ornaments. Maud especially so, for her fine figure was well displayed by the dress of mourning, and her pale, handsome face had as little congruence as possible with a background of humble circumstances.
Dora impressed one as a simpler nature, but she too had distinctly the note of refinement which was out of harmony with these surroundings. They occupied only two rooms, the sleeping-chamber being double-bedded; they purchased food for themselves and prepared their own meals, excepting dinner. During the first week a good many tears were shed by both of them; it was not easy to transfer themselves from the comfortable country home to this bare corner of lodgers' London. Maud, as appeared at the first glance, was less disposed than her sister to make the best of things; her countenance wore an expression rather of discontent than of sorrow, and she did not talk with the same readiness as Dora.
On the round table lay a number of books; when disturbed, the sisters had been engaged in studious reading.
'I'm not sure that I do right in coming again so soon,' said Marian as she took off her things. 'Your time is precious.'
'So are you,' replied Dora, laughing. 'It's only under protest that we work in the evening when we have been hard at it all day.'
'We have news for you, too,' said Maud, who sat languidly on an uneasy chair.
'Good, I hope?'
'Someone called to see us yesterday. I dare say you can guess who it was.'
'Amy, perhaps?'
'Yes.'
'And how did you like her?'
The sisters seemed to have a difficulty in answering. Dora was the first to speak.
'We thought she was sadly out of spirits. Indeed she told us that she hasn't been very well lately. But I think we shall like her if we come to know her better.'
'It was rather awkward, Marian,' the elder sister explained. 'We felt obliged to say something about Mr Reardon's books, but we haven't read any of them yet, you know, so I just said that I hoped soon to read his new novel. "I suppose you have seen reviews of it?" she asked at once. Of course I ought to have had the courage to say no, but I admitted that I had seen one or two—Jasper showed us them. She looked very much annoyed, and after that we didn't find much to talk about.'
'The reviews are very disagreeable,' said Marian with a troubled face. 'I have read the book since I saw you the other day, and I am afraid it isn't good, but I have seen many worse novels more kindly reviewed.'
'Jasper says it's because Mr Reardon has no friends among the journalists.'
'Still,' replied Marian, 'I'm afraid they couldn't have given the book much praise, if they wrote honestly. Did Amy ask you to go and see her?'
'Yes, but she said it was uncertain how long they would be living at their present address. And really, we can't feel sure whether we should be welcome or not just now.'
Marian listened with bent head. She too had to make known to her friends that they were not welcome in her own home; but she knew not how to utter words which would sound so unkind.
'Your brother,' she said after a pause, 'will soon find suitable friends for you.'
'Before long,' replied Dora, with a look of amusement, 'he's going to take us to call on Mrs Boston Wright. I hardly thought he was serious at first, but he says he really means it.'
Marian grew more and more silent. At home she had felt that it would not be difficult to explain her troubles to these sympathetic girls, but now the time had come for speaking, she was oppressed by shame and anxiety. True, t
here was no absolute necessity for making the confession this evening, and if she chose to resist her father's prejudice, things might even go on in a seemingly natural way. But the loneliness of her life had developed in her a sensitiveness which could not endure situations such as the present; difficulties which are of small account to people who take their part in active social life, harassed her to the destruction of all peace. Dora was not long in noticing the dejected mood which had come upon her friend.
'What's troubling you, Marian?'
'Something I can hardly bear to speak of. Perhaps it will be the end of your friendship for me, and I should find it very hard to go back to my old solitude.'
The girls gazed at her, in doubt at first whether she spoke seriously.
'What can you mean?' Dora exclaimed. 'What crime have you been committing?'
Maud, who leaned with her elbows on the table, searched Marian's face curiously, but said nothing.
'Has Mr Milvain shown you the new number of The Current?' Marian went on to ask.
They replied with a negative, and Maud added:
'He has nothing in it this month, except a review.'
'A review?' repeated Marian in a low voice.
'Yes; of somebody's novel.'
'Markland's,' supplied Dora.
Marian drew a breath, but remained for a moment with her eyes cast down.
'Do go on, dear,' urged Dora. 'Whatever are you going to tell us?'
'There's a notice of father's book,' continued the other, 'a very ill-natured one; it's written by the editor, Mr Fadge. Father and he have been very unfriendly for a long time. Perhaps Mr Milvain has told you something about it?'
Dora replied that he had.
'I don't know how it is in other professions,' Marian resumed, 'but I hope there is less envy, hatred and malice than in this of ours. The name of literature is often made hateful to me by the things I hear and read. My father has never been very fortunate, and many things have happened to make him bitter against the men who succeed; he has often quarrelled with people who were at first his friends, but never so seriously with anyone as with Mr Fadge. His feeling of enmity goes so far that it includes even those who are in any way associated with Mr Fadge. I am sorry to say'—she looked with painful anxiety from one to the other of her hearers—'this has turned him against your brother, and—'
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