'I am sorry. I might perhaps have made greater efforts to appear at ease when I was suffering.'
'Do you mean physical suffering?'
'Physical and mental. But that can't concern you. During my absence I will think of your reproof. I know that it is deserved, in some degree. If it is possible, you shall have less to complain of in future.'
He looked about the room, and at length seated himself; his eyes were fixed in a direction away from Marian.
'I suppose you had dinner somewhere?' Marian asked, after catching a glimpse of his worn, colourless face.
'Oh, I had a mouthful of something. It doesn't matter.'
It seemed as if he found some special pleasure in assuming this tone of martyrdom just now. At the same time he was becoming more absorbed in thought.
'Shall I have something brought up for you, father?'
'Something—? Oh no, no; on no account.'
He rose again impatiently, then approached his desk, and laid a hand on the telegram. Marian observed this movement, and examined his face; it was set in an expression of eagerness.
'You have nothing more to say, then?' He turned sharply upon her.
'I feel that I haven't made you understand me, but I can say nothing more.'
'I understand you very well—too well. That you should misunderstand and mistrust me, I suppose, is natural. You are young, and I am old. You are still full of hope, and I have been so often deceived and defeated that I dare not let a ray of hope enter my mind. Judge me; judge me as hardly as you like. My life has been one long, bitter struggle, and if now—. I say,' he began a new sentence, 'that only the hard side of life has been shown to me; small wonder if I have become hard myself. Desert me; go your own Way, as the young always do. But bear in mind my warning. Remember the caution I have given you.'
He spoke in a strangely sudden agitation. The arm with which he leaned upon the table trembled violently. After a moment's pause he added, in a thick voice:
'Leave me. I will speak to you again in the morning.'
Impressed in a way she did not understand, Marian at once obeyed, and rejoined her mother in the parlour. Mrs Yule gazed anxiously at her as she entered.
'Don't be afraid,' said Marian, with difficulty bringing herself to speak. 'I think it will be better.'
'Was that a telegram that came?' her mother inquired after a silence.
'Yes. I don't know where it was from. But father said he would have to leave town for a few days.'
They exchanged looks.
'Perhaps your uncle is very ill,' said the mother in a low voice.
'Perhaps so.'
The evening passed drearily. Fatigued with her emotions, Marian went early to bed; she even slept later than usual in the morning, and on descending she found her father already at the breakfast-table. No greeting passed, and there was no conversation during the meal. Marian noticed that her mother kept glancing at her in a peculiarly grave way; but she felt ill and dejected, and could fix her thoughts on no subject. As he left the table Yule said to her:
'I want to speak to you for a moment. I shall be in the study.'
She joined him there very soon. He looked coldly at her, and said in a distant tone:
'The telegram last night was to tell me that your uncle is dead.'
'Dead!'
'He died of apoplexy, at a meeting in Wattleborough. I shall go down this morning, and of course remain till after the funeral. I see no necessity for your going, unless, of course, it is your desire to do so.'
'No; I should do as you wish.'
'I think you had better not go to the Museum whilst I am away. You will occupy yourself as you think fit.'
'I shall go on with the Harrington notes.'
'As you please. I don't know what mourning it would be decent for you to wear; you must consult with your mother about that. That is all I wished to say.'
His tone was dismissal. Marian had a struggle with herself but she could find nothing to reply to his cold phrases. And an hour or two afterwards Yule left the house without leave-taking.
Soon after his departure there was a visitor's rat-tat at the door; it heralded Mrs Goby. In the interview which then took place Marian assisted her mother to bear the vigorous onslaughts of the haberdasher's wife. For more than two hours Mrs Goby related her grievances, against the fugitive servant, against Mrs Yule, against Mr Yule; meeting with no irritating opposition, she was able in this space of time to cool down to the temperature of normal intercourse, and when she went forth from the house again it was in a mood of dignified displeasure which she felt to be some recompense for the injuries of yesterday.
A result of this annoyance was to postpone conversation between mother and daughter on the subject of John Yule's death until a late hour of the afternoon. Marian was at work in the study, or endeavouring to work, for her thoughts would not fix themselves on the matter in hand for many minutes together, and Mrs Yule came in with more than her customary diffidence.
'Have you nearly done for to-day, dear?'
'Enough for the present, I think.'
She laid down her pen, and leant back in the chair.
'Marian, do you think your father will be rich?'
'I have no idea, mother. I suppose we shall know very soon.'
Her tone was dreamy. She seemed to herself to be speaking of something which scarcely at all concerned her, of vague possibilities which did not affect her habits of thought.
'If that happens,' continued Mrs Yule, in a low tone of distress, 'I don't know what I shall do.'
Marian looked at her questioningly.
'I can't wish that it mayn't happen,' her mother went on; 'I can't, for his sake and for yours; but I don't know what I shall do. He'd think me more in his way than ever. He'd wish to have a large house, and live in quite a different way; and how could I manage then? I couldn't show myself; he'd be too much ashamed of me. I shouldn't be in my place; even you'd feel ashamed of me.'
'You mustn't say that, mother. I have never given you cause to think that.'
'No, my dear, you haven't; but it would be only natural. I couldn't live the kind of life that you're fit for. I shall be nothing but a hindrance and a shame to both of you.'
'To me you would never be either hindrance or shame; be quite sure of that. And as for father, I am all but certain that, if he became rich, he would be a very much kinder man, a better man in every way. It is poverty that has made him worse than he naturally is; it has that effect on almost everybody. Money does harm, too, sometimes; but never, I think, to people who have a good heart and a strong mind. Father is naturally a warm-hearted man; riches would bring out all the best in him. He would be generous again, which he has almost forgotten how to be among all his disappointments and battlings. Don't be afraid of that change, but hope for it.'
Mrs Yule gave a troublous sigh, and for a few minutes pondered anxiously.
'I wasn't thinking so much about myself' she said at length. 'It's the hindrance I should be to father. Just because of me, he mightn't be able to use his money as he'd wish. He'd always be feeling that if it wasn't for me things would be so much better for him and for you as well.'
'You must remember,' Marian replied, 'that at father's age people don't care to make such great changes. His home life, I feel sure, wouldn't be so very different from what it is now; he would prefer to use his money in starting a paper or magazine. I know that would be his first thought. If more acquaintances came to his house, what would that matter? It isn't as if he wished for fashionable society. They would be literary people, and why ever shouldn't you meet with them?'
'I've always been the reason why he couldn't have many friends.'
'That's a great mistake. If father ever said that, in his bad temper, he knew it wasn't the truth. The chief reason has always been his poverty. It costs money to entertain friends; time as well. Don't think in this anxious way, mother. If we are to be rich, it will be better for all of us.'
Marian had every
reason for seeking to persuade herself that this was true. In her own heart there was a fear of how wealth might affect her father, but she could not bring herself to face the darker prospect. For her so much depended on that hope of a revival of generous feeling under sunny influences.
It was only after this conversation that she began to reflect on all the possible consequences of her uncle's death. As yet she had been too much disturbed to grasp as a reality the event to which she had often looked forward, though as to something still remote, and of quite uncertain results. Perhaps at this moment, though she could not know it, the course of her life had undergone the most important change. Perhaps there was no more need for her to labour upon this 'article' she was manufacturing.
She did not think it probable that she herself would benefit directly by John Yule's will. There was no certainty that even her father would, for he and his brother had never been on cordial terms. But on the whole it seemed likely that he would inherit money enough to free him from the toil of writing for periodicals. He himself anticipated that. What else could be the meaning of those words in which (and it was before the arrival of the news) he had warned her against 'people who made connections only with self-interest in view?' This threw a sudden light upon her father's attitude towards Jasper Milvain. Evidently he thought that Jasper regarded her as a possible heiress, sooner or later. That suspicion was rankling in his mind; doubtless it intensified the prejudice which originated in literary animosity.
Was there any truth in his suspicion? She did not shrink from admitting that there might be. Jasper had from the first been so frank with her, had so often repeated that money was at present his chief need. If her father inherited substantial property, would it induce Jasper to declare himself more than her friend? She could view the possibility of that, and yet not for a moment be shaken in her love. It was plain that Jasper could not think of marrying until his position and prospects were greatly improved; practically, his sisters depended upon him. What folly it would be to draw back if circumstances led him to avow what hitherto he had so slightly disguised! She had the conviction that he valued her for her own sake; if the obstacle between them could only be removed, what matter how?
Would he be willing to abandon Clement Fadge, and come over to her father's side? If Yule were able to found a magazine?
Had she read or heard of a girl who went so far in concessions, Marian would have turned away, her delicacy offended. In her own case she could indulge to the utmost that practicality which colours a woman's thought even in mid passion. The cold exhibition of ignoble scheming will repel many a woman who, for her own heart's desire, is capable of that same compromise with her strict sense of honour.
Marian wrote to Dora Milvain, telling her what had happened. But she refrained from visiting her friends.
Each night found her more restless, each morning less able to employ herself. She shut herself in the study merely to be alone with her thoughts, to be able to walk backwards and forwards, or sit for hours in feverish reverie. From her father came no news. Her mother was suffering dreadfully from suspense, and often had eyes red with weeping. Absorbed in her own hopes and fears, whilst every hour harassed her more intolerably, Marian was unable to play the part of an encourager; she had never known such exclusiveness of self-occupation.
Yule's return was unannounced. Early in the afternoon, when he had been absent five days, he entered the house, deposited his travelling-bag in the passage, and went upstairs. Marian had come out of the study just in time to see him up on the first landing; at the same moment Mrs Yule ascended from the kitchen.
'Wasn't that father?'
'Yes, he has gone up.'
'Did he say anything?'
Marian shook her head. They looked at the travelling-bag, then went into the parlour and waited in silence for more than a quarter of an hour. Yule's foot was heard on the stairs; he came down slowly, paused in the passage, entered the parlour with his usual grave, cold countenance.
CHAPTER XXII. THE LEGATEES
Each day Jasper came to inquire of his sisters if they had news from Wattleborough or from Marian Yule. He exhibited no impatience, spoke of the matter in a disinterested tone; still, he came daily.
One afternoon he found Dora working alone. Maud, he was told, had gone to lunch at Mrs Lane's.
'So soon again? She's getting very thick with those people. And why don't they ask you?'
'Maud has told them that I don't care to go out.'
'It's all very well, but she mustn't neglect her work. Did she write anything last night or this morning?'
Dora bit the end of her pen and shook her head.
'Why not?'
'The invitation came about five o'clock, and it seemed to unsettle her.'
'Precisely. That's what I'm afraid of. She isn't the kind of girl to stick at work if people begin to send her invitations. But I tell you what it is, you must talk seriously to her; she has to get her living, you know. Mrs Lane and her set are not likely to be much use, that's the worst of it; they'll merely waste her time, and make her discontented.'
His sister executed an elaborate bit of cross-hatching on some waste paper. Her lips were drawn together, and her brows wrinkled. At length she broke the silence by saying:
'Marian hasn't been yet.'
Jasper seemed to pay no attention; she looked up at him, and saw that he was in thought.
'Did you go to those people last night?' she inquired.
'Yes. By-the-bye, Miss Rupert was there.'
He spoke as if the name would be familiar to his hearer, but Dora seemed at a loss.
'Who is Miss Rupert?'
'Didn't I tell you about her? I thought I did. Oh, I met her first of all at Barlow's, just after we got back from the seaside. Rather an interesting girl. She's a daughter of Manton Rupert, the advertising agent. I want to get invited to their house; useful people, you know.'
'But is an advertising agent a gentleman?'
Jasper laughed.
'Do you think of him as a bill-poster? At all events he is enormously wealthy, and has a magnificent house at Chislehurst. The girl goes about with her stepmother. I call her a girl, but she must be nearly thirty, and Mrs Rupert looks only two or three years older. I had quite a long talk with her—Miss Rupert, I mean—last night. She told me she was going to stay next week with the Barlows, so I shall have a run out to Wimbledon one afternoon.'
Dora looked at him inquiringly.
'Just to see Miss Rupert?' she asked, meeting his eyes.
'To be sure. Why not?'
'Oh!' ejaculated his sister, as if the question did not concern her.
'She isn't exactly good-looking,' pursued Jasper, meditatively, with a quick glance at the listener, 'but fairly intellectual. Plays very well, and has a nice contralto voice; she sang that new thing of Tosti's—what do you call it? I thought her rather masculine when I first saw her, but the impression wears off when one knows her better. She rather takes to me, I fancy.'
'But—' began Dora, after a minute's silence.
'But what?' inquired her brother with an air of interest.
'I don't quite understand you.'
'In general, or with reference to some particular?'
'What right have you to go to places just to see this Miss Rupert?'
'What right?' He laughed. 'I am a young man with my way to make. I can't afford to lose any opportunity. If Miss Rupert is so good as to take an interest in me, I have no objection. She's old enough to make friends for herself.'
'Oh, then you consider her simply a friend?'
'I shall see how things go on.'
'But, pray, do you consider yourself perfectly free?' asked Dora, with some indignation.
'Why shouldn't I?'
'Then I think you have been behaving very strangely.'
Jasper saw that she was in earnest. He stroked the back of his head and smiled at the wall.
'With regard to Marian, you mean?'
'Of course I do.'
'But Marian understands me perfectly. I have never for a moment tried to make her think that—well, to put it plainly, that I was in love with her. In all our conversations it has been my one object to afford her insight into my character, and to explain my position. She has no excuse whatever for misinterpreting me. And I feel assured that she has done nothing of the kind.'
'Very well, if you feel satisfied with yourself—'
'But come now, Dora; what's all this about? You are Marian's friend, and, of course, I don't wish you to say a word about her.
But let me explain myself. I have occasionally walked part of the way home with Marian, when she and I have happened to go from here at the same time; now there was nothing whatever in our talk at such times that anyone mightn't have listened to. We are both intellectual people, and we talk in an intellectual way. You seem to have rather old-fashioned ideas—provincial ideas. A girl like Marian Yule claims the new privileges of woman; she would resent it if you supposed that she couldn't be friendly with a man without attributing "intentions" to him—to use the old word. We don't live in Wattleborough, where liberty is rendered impossible by the cackling of gossips.'
'No, but—'
'Well?'
'It seems to me rather strange, that's all. We had better not talk about it any more.'
'But I have only just begun to talk about it; I must try to make my position intelligible to you. Now, suppose—a quite impossible thing—that Marian inherited some twenty or thirty thousand pounds; I should forthwith ask her to be my wife.'
'Oh indeed!'
'I see no reason for sarcasm. It would be a most rational proceeding. I like her very much; but to marry her (supposing she would have me) without money would he a gross absurdity, simply spoiling my career, and leading to all sorts of discontents.'
'No one would suggest that you should marry as things are.'
'No; but please to bear in mind that to obtain money somehow or other—and I see no other way than by marriage—is necessary to me, and that with as little delay as possible. I am not at all likely to get a big editorship for some years to come, and I don't feel disposed to make myself prematurely old by toiling for a few hundreds per annum in the meantime. Now all this I have frankly and fully explained to Marian. I dare say she suspects what I should do if she came into possession of money; there's no harm in that. But she knows perfectly well that, as things are, we remain intellectual friends.'
New Grub Street Page 32