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, there 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--’
Her voice was checked by agitation.
‘We were afraid of this,’ said Dora, in a tone of sympathy.
‘Jasper feared it might be the case,’ added Maud, more coldly, though
with friendliness.
‘Why I speak of it at all,’ Marian hastened to say, ‘is because I am so
afraid it should make a difference between yourselves and me.’
‘Oh! don’t think that!’ Dora exclaimed.
‘I am so ashamed,’ Marian went on in an uncertain tone, ‘but I think
it will be better if I don’t ask you to come and see me. It sounds
ridiculous; it is ridiculous and shameful. I couldn’t complain if you
refused to have anything more to do with me.’
‘Don’t let it trouble you,’ urged Maud, with perhaps a trifle more of
magnanimity in her voice than was needful. We quite understand. Indeed,
it shan’t make any difference to us.’
But Marian had averted her face, and could not meet these assurances
with any show of pleasure. Now that the step was taken she felt that
her behaviour had been very weak. Unreasonable harshness such as her
father’s ought to have been met more steadily; she had no right to make
it an excuse for such incivility to her friends. Yet only in some
such way as this could she make known to Jasper Milvain how her father
regarded him, which she felt it necessary to do. Now his sisters would
tell him, and henceforth there would be a clear understanding on both
sides. That state of things was painful to her, but it was better than
ambiguous relations.
‘Jasper is very sorry about it,’ said Dora, glancing rapidly at Marian.
‘But his connection with Mr Fadge came about in such a natural way,’
added the eldest sister. ‘And it was impossible for him to refuse
opportunities.’
‘Impossible; I know,’ Marian replied earnestly. ‘Don’t think that I
wish to justify my father. But I can understand him, and it must be very
difficult for you to do so. You can’t know, as I do, how intensely he
has suffered in these wretched, ignoble quarrels. If only you will let
me come here still, in the same way, and still be as friendly to me. My
home has never been a place to which I could have invited friends
with any comfort, even if I had had any to invite. There were always
reasons--but I can’t speak of them.’
‘My dear Marian,’ appealed Dora, ‘don’t distress yourself so! Do believe
that nothing whatever has happened to change our feeling to you. Has
there, Maud?’
‘Nothing whatever. We are not unreasonable girls, Marian.’
‘I am more grateful to you than I can say.’
It had seemed as if Marian must give way to the emotions which all but
choked her voice; she overcame them, however, and presently was able
to talk in pretty much her usual way, though when she smiled it was
but faintly. Maud tried to lead her thoughts in another direction by
speaking of work in which she and Dora were engaged. Already the sisters
were doing a new piece of compilation for Messrs Jolly and Monk; it was
more exacting than their initial task for the book market, and would
take a much longer time.
A couple of hours went by, and Marian had just spoken of taking her
leave, when a man’s step was heard rapidly ascending the nearest flight
of stairs.
‘Here’s Jasper,’ remarked Dora, and in a moment there sounded a short,
sharp summons at the door.
Jasper it was; he came in with radiant face, his eyes blinking before
the lamplight.
‘Well, girls! Ha! how do you do, Miss Yule? I had just the vaguest sort
of expectation that you might be here. It seemed a likely night; I
don’t know why. I say, Dora, we really must get two or three decent
easy-chairs for your room. I’ve seen some outside a second-hand
furniture shop in Hampstead Road, about six shillings apiece. There’s no
sitting on chairs such as these.’
That on which he tried to dispose himself, when he had flung aside his
trappings, creaked and shivered ominously.
‘You hear? I shall come plump on to the floor, if I don’t mind. My word,
what a day I have had! I’ve just been trying what I really could do
in one day if I worked my hardest. Now just listen; it deserves to be
chronicled for the encouragement of aspiring youth. I got up at 7.30,
and whilst I breakfasted I read through a volume I had to review. By
10.30 the review was written--three-quarters of a column of the Evening
Budget.’
‘Who is the unfortunate author?’ interrupted Maud, caustically.
‘Not unfortunate at all. I had to crack him up; otherwise I couldn’t
have done the job so quickly. It’s the easiest thing in the world to
write laudation; only an inexperienced grumbler would declare it was
easier to find fault. The book was Billington’s “Vagaries”; pompous
idiocy, of course, but he lives in a big house and gives dinners. Well,
from 10.30 to 11, I smoked a cigar and reflected, feeling that the day
wasn’t badly begun. At eleven I was ready to write my Saturday causerie
for the Will o’ the Wisp; it took me till close upon one o’clock, which
was rather too long. I can’t afford more than an hour and a half
for that job. At one, I rushed out to a dirty little eating-house
in Hampstead Road. Was back again by a quarter to two, having in the
meantime sketched a paper for The West End. Pipe in mouth, I sat down
to leisurely artistic work; by five, half the paper was done; the
other half remains for to-morrow. From five to half-past I read four
newspapers and two magazines, and from half-past to a quarter to six I
jotted down several ideas that had come to me whilst reading. At six I
was again in the dirty eating-house, satisfying a ferocious hunger. Home
once more at 6.45, and for two hours wrote steadily at a long affair I
have in hand for The Current. Then I came here, thinking hard all the
way. What say you to this? Have I earned a night’s repose?’
‘And what’s the value of it all?’ asked Maud.
‘Probably from ten to twelve guineas, if I calculated.’
‘I meant, what was the literary value of it?’ said his sister, with a
smile.
‘Equal to that of the contents of a mouldy nut.’
‘Pretty much what I thought.’
‘Oh, but it answers the purpose,’ urged Dora, ‘and it does no one any
harm.’
‘Honest journey-work!’ cried Jasper. ‘There are few men in London
capable of such a feat. Many a fellow could write more in quantity, but
they couldn’t command my market. It’s rubbish, but rubbish of a very
special kind, of fine quality.’
Marian had not yet spoken, save a word or two in reply to Jasper’s
greeting; now and then she just glanced at him, but for the most part
her eyes were cast down. Now Jasper addressed her.
‘A year ago, Miss Yule, I shouldn’t have believed myself capable of such
activity. In fact I wasn’t capable of it then.’
‘You think such work won’t be too great a strain upon you?’ she asked.
‘Oh, this isn’t a specimen day, you know. To-morrow I shall very likely
do nothing but finish my West End article, in an easy two or three
hours. There’s no knowing; I might perhaps keep up the high pressure
if I tried. But then I couldn’t dispose of all the work. Little by
little--or perhaps rather quicker than that--I shall extend my scope.
For instance, I should like to do two or three leaders a week for one of
the big dailies. I can’t attain unto that just yet.’
‘Not political leaders?’
‘By no means. That’s not my line. The kind of thing in which one makes a
column out of what would fill six lines of respectable prose. You call
a cigar a “convoluted weed,” and so on, you know; that passes for
facetiousness. I’ve never really tried my hand at that style yet; I
shouldn’t wonder if I managed it brilliantly. Some day I’ll write a few
exercises; just take two lines of some good prose writer, and expand
them into twenty, in half-a-dozen different ways. Excellent mental
gymnastics!’
Marian listened to his flow of talk for a few minutes longer, then took
the opportunity of a brief silence to rise and put on her hat. Jasper
observed her, but without rising; he looked at his sisters in a
hesitating way. At length he stood up, and declared that he too must be
off. This coincidence had happened once before when he met Marian here
in the evening.
‘At all events, you won’t do any more work to-night,’ said Dora.
‘No; I shall read a page of something or other over a glass of whisky,
and seek the sleep of a man who has done his duty.’
‘Why the whisky?’ asked Maud.
‘Do you grudge me such poor solace?’
‘I don’t see the need of it.’
‘Nonsense, Maud!’ exclaimed her sister. ‘He needs a little stimulant
when he works so hard.’
Each of the girls gave Marian’s hand a significant pressure as she took
leave of them, and begged her to come again as soon as she had a free
evening. There was gratitude in her eyes.
The evening was clear, and not very cold.
‘It’s rather late for you to go home,’ said Jasper, as they left the
house. ‘May I walk part of the way with you?’
Marian replied with a low ‘Thank you.’
‘I think you get on pretty well with the girls, don’t you?’
‘I hope they are as glad of my friendship as I am of theirs.’
‘Pity to see them in a place like that, isn’t it? They ought to have a
good house, with plenty of servants. It’s bad enough for a civilised
man to have to rough it, but I hate to see women living in a sordid way.
Don’t you think they could both play their part in a drawing-room, with
a little experience?’
‘Surely there’s no doubt of it.’
‘Maud would look really superb if she were handsomely dressed. She
hasn’t a common face, by any means. And Dora is pretty, I think. Well,
they shall go and see some people before long. The difficulty is, one
doesn’t like it to be known that they live in such a crib; but I daren’t
advise them to go in for expense. One can’t be sure that it would repay
them, though--Now, in my own case, if I could get hold of a few thousand
pounds I should know how to use it with the certainty of return; it
would save me, probably, a clear ten years of life; I mean, I should go
at a jump to what I shall be ten years hence without the help of money.
But they have such a miserable little bit of capital, and everything is
still so uncertain. One daren’t speculate under the circumstances.’
Marian made no reply.
‘You think I talk of nothing but money?’ Jasper said suddenly, looking
down into her face.
‘I know too well what it means to be without money.’
‘Yes, but--you do just a little despise me?’
‘Indeed, I don’t, Mr Milvain.’
‘If that is sincere, I’m very glad. I take it in a friendly sense. I am
rather despicable, you know; it’s part of my business to be so. But
a friend needn’t regard that. There is the man apart from his
necessities.’
The silence was then unbroken till they came to the lower end of Park
Street, the junction of roads which lead to Hampstead, to Highgate, and
to Holloway.
‘Shall you take an omnibus?’ Jasper asked.
She hesitated.
‘Or will you give me the pleasure of walking on with you? You are tired,
perhaps?’
‘Not the least.’
For the rest of her answer she moved forward, and they crossed into the
obscurity of Camden Road.
‘Shall I be doing wrong, Mr Milvain,’ Marian began in a very low
voice, ‘if I ask you about the authorship of something in this month’s
Current?’
‘I’m afraid I know what you refer to. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t
answer a question of the kind.’
‘It was Mr Fadge himself who reviewed my father’s book?’
‘It was--confound him! I don’t know another man who could have done the
thing so vilely well.’
‘I suppose he was only replying to my father’s attack upon him and his
friends.’
‘Your father’s attack is honest and straightforward and justifiable and
well put. I read that chapter of his book with huge satisfaction.
But has anyone suggested that another than Fadge was capable of that
masterpiece?’
‘Yes. I am told that Mr Jedwood, the publisher, has somehow made a
mistake.’
‘Jedwood? And what mistake?’
‘Father heard that you were the writer.’
‘I?’ Jasper stopped short. They were in the rays of a street-lamp, and
could see each other’s faces. ‘And he believes that?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And you believe--believed it?’
‘Not for a moment.’
‘I shall write a note to Mr Yule.’
Marian was silent a while, then said:
‘Wouldn’t it be better if you found a way of letting Mr Jedwood know the
truth?’
‘Perhaps you are right.’
Jasper was very grateful for the suggestion. In that moment he had
reflected how rash it would be to write to Alfred Yule on such a
subject, with whatever prudence in expressing himself. Such a letter,
coming under the notice of the great Fadge, might do its writer serious
harm.
‘Yes, you are right,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll stop that rumour at its source.
I can’t guess how it started; for aught I know, some enemy hath done
this, though I don’t quite discern the motive. Thank you very much for
telling me, and still more for refusing to believe that I could treat Mr
Yule in that way, even as a matter of business. When I said that I was
despicable, I didn’t mean that I could sink quite to such a point as
that. If only because it was your father--’
He checked himself and they walked on for several yards without
speaking.
‘In that case,’ Jasper resumed at length, ‘your father doesn’t think of
me in a very friendly way?’
‘He scarcely could--’
‘No, no. And I quite understand that the mere fact of my working for
Fadge would prejudice him against me. But that’s no reason, I hope, why
you and I shouldn’t be friends?’
‘I hope not.’
‘I don’t know that my friendship is worth much,’ Jasper continued,
talking into the upper air, a habit of his when he discussed his own
character. ‘I shall go on as I have begun, and fight for some of the
good things of life. But your friendship is valuable. If I am sure of
it, I shall be at all events within sight of the better ideals.’
Marian walked on with her eyes upon the ground. To her surprise she
discovered presently that they had all but reached St Paul’s Crescent.
‘Thank you for having come so far,’ she said, pausing.
‘Ah, you are nearly home. Why, it seems only a few minutes since we left
the girls. Now I’ll run back to the whisky of which Maud disapproves.’
‘May it do you good!’ said Marian with a laugh.
A speech of this kind seemed unusual upon her lips. Jasper smiled as he
held her hand and regarded her.
‘Then you can speak in a joking way?’
‘Do I seem so very dull?’
‘Dull, by no means. But sage and sober and reticent--and exactly what
I like in my friend, because it contrasts with my own habits. All the
better that merriment lies below it. Goodnight, Miss Yule.’
He strode off and in a minute or two turned his head to look at the
slight figure passing into darkness.
Marian’s hand trembled as she tried to insert her latch-key. When
she had closed the door very quietly behind her she went to the
sitting-room; Mrs Yule was just laying aside the sewing on which she had
occupied herself throughout the lonely evening.
‘I’m rather late,’ said the girl, in a voice of subdued joyousness.
‘Yes; I was getting a little uneasy, dear.’
‘Oh, there’s no danger.’
‘You have been enjoying yourself, I can see.’
‘I have had a pleasant evening.’
In the retrospect it seemed the pleasantest she had yet spent with her
friends, though she had set out in such a different mood. Her mind was
relieved of two anxieties; she felt sure that the girls had not
taken ill what she told them, and there was no longer the least doubt
concerning the authorship of that review in The Current.
She could confess to herself now that the assurance from Jasper’s
lips was not superfluous. He might have weighed profit against other
considerations, and have written in that way of her father; she had not
felt that absolute confidence which defies every argument from human
frailty. And now she asked herself if faith of that unassailable kind is
ever possible; is it not only the poet’s dream, the far ideal?
Marian often went thus far in her speculation. Her candour was allied
with clear insight into the possibilities of falsehood; she was not
readily the victim of illusion; thinking much, and speaking little, she
had not come to her twenty-third year without perceiving what a distance
lay between a girl’s dream of life as it might be and life as it is. Had
she invariably disclosed her thoughts, she would have earned the repute
of a very sceptical and slightly cynical person.
But with what rapturous tumult of the heart she could abandon herself to
a belief in human virtues when their suggestion seemed to promise her a
future of happiness!
Alone in her room she sat down only to think of Jasper Milvain, and
extract from the memory of his words, his looks, new sustenance for
her hungry heart. Jasper was the first man who had ever evinced a
man’s interest in her. Until she met him she had not known a look
of compliment or a word addressed to her emotions. He was as far as
possible from representing the lover of her imagination, but from the
day of that long talk in the fields near Wattleborough the thought of
him had supplanted dreams. On that day she said to herself: I could love
him if he cared to seek my love. Premature, perhaps; why, yes, but one
who is starving is not wont to feel reluctance at the suggestion of
food. The first man who had approached her with display of feeling and
energy and youthful self-confidence; handsome too, it seemed to her. Her
womanhood went eagerly to meet him.
Since then she had made careful study of his faults. Each conversation
had revealed to her new weakness and follies. With the result that her
love had grown to a reality.
He was so human, and a youth of all but monastic seclusion had prepared
her to love the man who aimed with frank energy at the joys of life.
A taint of pedantry would have repelled her. She did not ask for high
intellect or great attainments; but vivacity, courage, determination to
succeed, were delightful to her senses. Her ideal would not have been
a literary man at all; certainly not a man likely to be prominent
in journalism; rather a man of action, one who had no restraints of
commerce or official routine. But in Jasper she saw the qualities that
attracted her apart from the accidents of his position. Ideal personages
do not descend to girls who have to labour at the British Museum; it
seemed a marvel to her, and of good augury, that even such a man as
Jasper should have crossed her path.
It was as though years had passed since their first meeting. Upon her
return to London had followed such long periods of hopelessness. Yet
whenever they encountered each other he had look and speech for her with
which surely he did not greet every woman. From the first his way of
regarding her had shown frank interest. And at length had come the
confession of his ‘respect,’ his desire to be something more to her than
a mere acquaintance. It was scarcely possible that he should speak as he
several times had of late if he did not wish to draw her towards him.
That was the hopeful side of her thoughts. It was easy to forget for a
time those words of his which one might think were spoken as distinct
warning; but they crept into the memory, unwelcome, importunate, as soon
as imagination had built its palace of joy. Why did he always recur to
the subject of money? ‘I shall allow nothing to come in my way;’ he once
said that as if meaning, ‘certainly not a love affair with a girl who
is penniless.’ He emphasised the word ‘friend,’ as if to explain that he
offered and asked nothing more than friendship.
But it only meant that he would not be in haste to declare himself. Of
a certainty there was conflict between his ambition and his love, but
she recognised her power over him and exulted in it. She had observed
his hesitancy this evening, before he rose to accompany her from
the house; her heart laughed within her as the desire drew him. And
henceforth such meetings would be frequent, with each one her influence
would increase. How kindly fate had dealt with her in bringing Maud and
Dora to London!
It was within his reach to marry a woman who would bring him wealth.
He had that in mind; she understood it too well. But not one moment’s
advantage would she relinquish. He must choose her in her poverty, and
be content with what his talents could earn for him. Her love gave her
the right to demand this sacrifice; let him ask for her love, and the
sacrifice would no longer seem one, so passionately would she reward
him.
He would ask it. To-night she was full of a rich confidence, partly, no
doubt, the result of reaction from her miseries. He had said at parting
that her character was so well suited to his; that he liked her. And
then he had pressed her hand so warmly. Before long he would ask her
love.
The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the valley
of the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine might at any
moment strike into its musty gloom.