Alfred Yule’s behaviour under his disappointment seemed to prove that
even for him the uses of adversity could be sweet. On the day after his
return home he displayed a most unwonted mildness in such remarks as
he addressed to his wife, and his bearing towards Marian was gravely
gentle. At meals he conversed, or rather monologised, on literary
topics, with occasionally one of his grim jokes, pointed for Marian’s
appreciation. He became aware that the girl had been overtaxing her
strength of late, and suggested a few weeks of recreation among new
novels. The coldness and gloom which had possessed him when he made a
formal announcement of the news appeared to have given way before the
sympathy manifested by his wife and daughter; he was now sorrowful, but
resigned.
He explained to Marian the exact nature of her legacy. It was to be paid
out of her uncle’s share in a wholesale stationery business, with which
John Yule had been connected for the last twenty years, but from which
he had not long ago withdrawn a large portion of his invested capital.
This house was known as ‘Turberville & Co.,’ a name which Marian now
heard for the first time.
‘I knew nothing of his association with them,’ said her father. ‘They
tell me that seven or eight thousand pounds will be realised from that
source; it seems a pity that the investment was not left to you intact.
Whether there will be any delay in withdrawing the money I can’t say.’
The executors were two old friends of the deceased, one of them a former
partner in his paper-making concern.
On the evening of the second day, about an hour after dinner was over,
Mr Hinks called at the house; as usual, he went into the study. Before
long came a second visitor, Mr Quarmby, who joined Yule and Hinks. The
three had all sat together for some time, when Marian, who happened to
be coming down stairs, saw her father at the study door.
‘Ask your mother to let us have some supper at a quarter to ten,’ he
said urbanely. ‘And come in, won’t you? We are only gossiping.’
It had not often happened that Marian was invited to join parties of
this kind.
‘Do you wish me to come?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I should like you to, if you have nothing particular to do.’
Marian informed Mrs Yule that the visitors would have supper, and then
went to the study. Mr Quarmby was smoking a pipe; Mr Hinks, who on
grounds of economy had long since given up tobacco, sat with his hands
in his trouser pockets, and his long, thin legs tucked beneath the
chair; both rose and greeted Marian with more than ordinary warmth.
‘Will you allow me five or six more puffs?’ asked Mr Quarmby, laying one
hand on his ample stomach and elevating his pipe as if it were a glass
of beaded liquor. ‘I shall then have done.’
‘As many more as you like,’ Marian replied.
The easiest chair was placed for her, Mr Hinks hastening to perform this
courtesy, and her father apprised her of the topic they were discussing.
‘What’s your view, Marian? Is there anything to be said for the
establishment of a literary academy in England?’
Mr Quarmby beamed benevolently upon her, and Mr Hinks, his scraggy neck
at full length, awaited her reply with a look of the most respectful
attention.
‘I really think we have quite enough literary quarrelling as it is,’ the
girl replied, casting down her eyes and smiling.
Mr Quarmby uttered a hollow chuckle, Mr Hinks laughed thinly and
exclaimed, ‘Very good indeed! Very good!’ Yule affected to applaud with
impartial smile.
‘It wouldn’t harmonise with the Anglo-Saxon spirit,’ remarked Mr Hinks,
with an air of diffident profundity.
Yule held forth on the subject for a few minutes in laboured phrases.
Presently the conversation turned to periodicals, and the three men were
unanimous in an opinion that no existing monthly or quarterly could be
considered as representing the best literary opinion.
‘We want,’ remarked Mr Quarmby, ‘we want a monthly review which
shall deal exclusively with literature. The Fortnightly, the
Contemporary--they are very well in their way, but then they are mere
miscellanies. You will find one solid literary article amid a confused
mass of politics and economics and general clap-trap.’
‘Articles on the currency and railway statistics and views of
evolution,’ said Mr Hinks, with a look as if something were grating
between his teeth.
‘The quarterlies?’ put in Yule. ‘Well, the original idea of the
quarterlies was that there are not enough important books published to
occupy solid reviewers more than four times a year. That may be true,
but then a literary monthly would include much more than professed
reviews. Hinks’s essays on the historical drama would have come out in
it very well; or your “Spanish Poets,” Quarmby.’
‘I threw out the idea to Jedwood the other day,’ said Mr Quarmby, ‘and
he seemed to nibble at it.’
‘Yes, yes,’ came from Yule; ‘but Jedwood has so many irons in the fire.
I doubt if he has the necessary capital at command just now. No doubt
he’s the man, if some capitalist would join him.’
‘No enormous capital needed,’ opined Mr Quarmby. ‘The thing would
pay its way almost from the first. It would take a place between the
literary weeklies and the quarterlies. The former are too academic,
the latter too massive, for multitudes of people who yet have strong
literary tastes. Foreign publications should be liberally dealt with.
But, as Hinks says, no meddling with the books that are no books--biblia
abiblia; nothing about essays on bimetallism and treatises for or
against vaccination.’
Even here, in the freedom of a friend’s study, he laughed his
Reading-room laugh, folding both hands upon his expansive waistcoat.
‘Fiction? I presume a serial of the better kind might be admitted?’ said
Yule.
‘That would be advisable, no doubt. But strictly of the better kind.’
‘Oh, strictly of the better kind,’ chimed in Mr Hinks.
They pursued the discussion as if they were an editorial committee
planning a review of which the first number was shortly to appear.
It occupied them until Mrs Yule announced at the door that supper was
ready.
During the meal Marian found herself the object of unusual attention;
her father troubled to inquire if the cut of cold beef he sent her was
to her taste, and kept an eye on her progress. Mr Hinks talked to her in
a tone of respectful sympathy, and Mr Quarmby was paternally jovial when
he addressed her. Mrs Yule would have kept silence, in her ordinary way,
but this evening her husband made several remarks which he had adapted
to her intellect, and even showed that a reply would be graciously
received.
Mother and daughter remained together when the men withdrew to their
tobacco and toddy. Neither made allusion to the wonderful change, but
they talked more light-heartedly than for a long time.
On the morrow Yule began by consulting Marian with regard to the
disposition of matter in an essay he was writing. What she said he
weighed carefully, and seemed to think that she had set his doubts at
rest.
‘Poor old Hinks!’ he said presently, with a sigh. ‘Breaking up, isn’t
he? He positively totters in his walk. I’m afraid he’s the kind of
man to have a paralytic stroke; it wouldn’t astonish me to hear at any
moment that he was lying helpless.’
‘What ever would become of him in that case?’
‘Goodness knows! One might ask the same of so many of us. What would
become of me, for instance, if I were incapable of work?’
Marian could make no reply.
‘There’s something I’ll just mention to you,’ he went on in a lowered
tone, ‘though I don’t wish you to take it too seriously. I’m beginning
to have a little trouble with my eyes.’
She looked at him, startled.
‘With your eyes?’
‘Nothing, I hope; but--well, I think I shall see an oculist. One doesn’t
care to face a prospect of failing sight, perhaps of cataract, or
something of that kind; still, it’s better to know the facts, I should
say.’
‘By all means go to an oculist,’ said Marian, earnestly.
‘Don’t disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all. But in any
case I must change my glasses.’
He rustled over some slips of manuscript, whilst Marian regarded him
anxiously.
‘Now, I appeal to you, Marian,’ he continued: ‘could I possibly save
money out of an income that has never exceeded two hundred and fifty
pounds, and often--I mean even in latter years--has been much less?’
‘I don’t see how you could.’
‘In one way, of course, I have managed it. My life is insured for five
hundred pounds. But that is no provision for possible disablement. If I
could no longer earn money with my pen, what would become of me?’
Marian could have made an encouraging reply, but did not venture to
utter her thoughts.
‘Sit down,’ said her father. ‘You are not to work for a few days, and I
myself shall be none the worse for a morning’s rest. Poor old Hinks!
I suppose we shall help him among us, somehow. Quarmby, of course, is
comparatively flourishing. Well, we have been companions for a quarter
of a century, we three. When I first met Quarmby I was a Grub Street
gazetteer, and I think he was even poorer than I. A life of toil! A life
of toil!’
‘That it has been, indeed.’
‘By-the-bye’--he threw an arm over the back of his chair--‘what did
you think of our imaginary review, the thing we were talking about last
night?’
‘There are so many periodicals,’ replied Marian, doubtfully.
‘So many? My dear child, if we live another ten years we shall see the
number trebled.’
‘Is it desirable?’
‘That there should be such growth of periodicals? Well, from one point
of view, no. No doubt they take up the time which some people would
give to solid literature. But, on the other hand, there’s a far greater
number of people who would probably not read at all, but for the
temptations of these short and new articles; and they may be induced to
pass on to substantial works. Of course it all depends on the quality of
the periodical matter you offer. Now, magazines like’--he named two or
three of popular stamp--‘might very well be dispensed with, unless one
regards them as an alternative to the talking of scandal or any other
vicious result of total idleness. But such a monthly as we projected
would be of distinct literary value. There can be no doubt that someone
or other will shortly establish it.’
‘I am afraid,’ said Marian, ‘I haven’t so much sympathy with literary
undertakings as you would like me to have.’
Money is a great fortifier of self-respect. Since she had become really
conscious of her position as the owner of five thousand pounds, Marian
spoke with a steadier voice, walked with firmer step; mentally she felt
herself altogether a less dependent being. She might have confessed this
lukewarmness towards literary enterprise in the anger which her father
excited eight or nine days ago, but at that time she could not have
uttered her opinion calmly, deliberately, as now. The smile which
accompanied the words was also new; it signified deliverance from
pupilage.
‘I have felt that,’ returned her father, after a slight pause to command
his voice, that it might be suave instead of scornful. ‘I greatly fear
that I have made your life something of a martyrdom----’
‘Don’t think I meant that, father. I am speaking only of the general
question. I can’t be quite so zealous as you are, that’s all. I love
books, but I could wish people were content for a while with those we
already have.’
‘My dear Marian, don’t suppose that I am out of sympathy with you here.
Alas! how much of my work has been mere drudgery, mere labouring for a
livelihood! How gladly I would have spent much more of my time among
the great authors, with no thought of making money of them! If I speak
approvingly of a scheme for a new periodical, it is greatly because of
my necessities.’
He paused and looked at her. Marian returned the look.
‘You would of course write for it,’ she said.
‘Marian, why shouldn’t I edit it? Why shouldn’t it be your property?’
‘My property--?’
She checked a laugh. There came into her mind a more disagreeable
suspicion than she had ever entertained of her father. Was this
the meaning of his softened behaviour? Was he capable of calculated
hypocrisy? That did not seem consistent with his character, as she knew
it.
‘Let us talk it over,’ said Yule. He was in visible agitation and his
voice shook. ‘The idea may well startle you at first. It will seem to
you that I propose to make away with your property before you have even
come into possession of it.’ He laughed. ‘But, in fact, what I have in
mind is merely an investment for your capital, and that an admirable
one. Five thousand pounds at three per cent.--one doesn’t care to reckon
on more--represents a hundred and fifty a year. Now, there can be very
little doubt that, if it were invested in literary property such as I
have in mind, it would bring you five times that interest, and before
long perhaps much more. Of course I am now speaking in the roughest
outline. I should have to get trustworthy advice; complete and detailed
estimates would be submitted to you. At present I merely suggest to you
this form of investment.’
He watched her face eagerly, greedily. When Marian’s eyes rose to his he
looked away.
‘Then, of course,’ she said, ‘you don’t expect me to give any decided
answer.’
‘Of course not--of course not. I merely put before you the chief
advantages of such an investment. As I am a selfish old fellow, I’ll
talk about the benefit to myself first of all. I should be editor of the
new review; I should draw a stipend sufficient to all my needs--quite
content, at first, to take far less than another man would ask, and to
progress with the advance of the periodical. This position would enable
me to have done with mere drudgery; I should only write when I felt
called to do so--when the spirit moved me.’ Again he laughed, as though
desirous of keeping his listener in good humour. ‘My eyes would be
greatly spared henceforth.’
He dwelt on that point, waiting its effect on Marian. As she said
nothing he proceeded:
‘And suppose I really were doomed to lose my sight in the course of a
few years, am I wrong in thinking that the proprietor of this periodical
would willingly grant a small annuity to the man who had firmly
established it?’
‘I see the force of all that,’ said Marian; ‘but it takes for granted
that the periodical will be successful.’
‘It does. In the hands of a publisher like Jedwood--a vigorous man of
the new school--its success could scarcely be doubtful.’
‘Do you think five thousand pounds would be enough to start such a
review?’
‘Well, I can say nothing definite on that point. For one thing, the
coat must be made according to the cloth; expenditure can be largely
controlled without endangering success. Then again, I think Jedwood
would take a share in the venture. These are details. At present I only
want to familiarise you with the thought that an investment of this sort
will very probably offer itself to you.’
‘It would be better if we called it a speculation,’ said Marian, smiling
uneasily.
Her one object at present was to oblige her father to understand that
the suggestion by no means lured her. She could not tell him that what
he proposed was out of the question, though as yet that was the light in
which she saw it. His subtlety of approach had made her feel justified
in dealing with him in a matter-of-fact way. He must see that she was
not to be cajoled. Obviously, and in the nature of the case, he was
urging a proposal in which he himself had all faith; but Marian knew
his judgment was far from infallible. It mitigated her sense of behaving
unkindly to reflect that in all likelihood this disposal of her money
would be the worst possible for her own interests, and therefore for
his. If, indeed, his dark forebodings were warranted, then upon her
would fall the care of him, and the steadiness with which she faced that
responsibility came from a hope of which she could not speak.
‘Name it as you will,’ returned her father, hardly suppressing a note of
irritation. ‘True, every commercial enterprise is a speculation. But let
me ask you one question, and beg you to reply frankly. Do you distrust
my ability to conduct this periodical?’
She did. She knew that he was not in touch with the interests of the
day, and that all manner of considerations akin to the prime end of
selling his review would make him an untrustworthy editor.
But how could she tell him this?
‘My opinion would be worthless,’ she replied.
‘If Jedwood were disposed to put confidence in me, you also would?’
‘There’s no need to talk of that now, father. Indeed, I can’t say
anything that would sound like a promise.’
He flashed a glance at her. Then she was more than doubtful?
‘But you have no objection, Marian, to talk in a friendly way of a
project that would mean so much to me?’
‘But I am afraid to encourage you,’ she replied, frankly. ‘It is
impossible for me to say whether I can do as you wish, or not.’
‘Yes, yes; I perfectly understand that. Heaven forbid that I should
regard you as a child to be led independently of your own views and
wishes! With so large a sum of money at stake, it would be monstrous
if I acted rashly, and tried to persuade you to do the same. The matter
will have to be most gravely considered.’
‘Yes.’ She spoke mechanically.
‘But if only it should come to something! You don’t know what it would
mean to me, Marian.’
‘Yes, father; I know very well how you think and feel about it.’
‘Do you?’ He leaned forward, his features working under stress of
emotion. ‘If I could see myself the editor of an influential review, all
my bygone toils and sufferings would be as nothing; I should rejoice in
them as the steps to this triumph. Meminisse juvabit! My dear, I am not
a man fitted for subordinate places. My nature is framed for authority.
The failure of all my undertakings rankles so in my heart that sometimes
I feel capable of every brutality, every meanness, every hateful
cruelty. To you I have behaved shamefully. Don’t interrupt me, Marian.
I have treated you abominably, my child, my dear daughter--and all the
time with a full sense of what I was doing. That’s the punishment of
faults such as mine. I hate myself for every harsh word and angry look I
have given you; at the time, I hated myself!’
‘Father--’
‘No, no; let me speak, Marian. You have forgiven me; I know it. You were
always ready to forgive, dear. Can I ever forget that evening when I
spoke like a brute, and you came afterwards and addressed me as if the
wrong had been on your side? It burns in my memory. It wasn’t I who
spoke; it was the demon of failure, of humiliation. My enemies sit
in triumph, and scorn at me; the thought of it is infuriating. Have I
deserved this? Am I the inferior of--of those men who have succeeded
and now try to trample on me? No! I am not! I have a better brain and a
better heart!’
Listening to this strange outpouring, Marian more than forgave the
hypocrisy of the last day or two. Nay, could it be called hypocrisy? It
was only his better self declared at the impulse of a passionate hope.
‘Why should you think so much of these troubles, father? Is it such a
great matter that narrow-minded people triumph over you?’
‘Narrow-minded?’ He clutched at the word. ‘You admit they are that?’
‘I feel very sure that Mr Fadge is.’
‘Then you are not on his side against me?’
‘How could you suppose such a thing?’
‘Well, well; we won’t talk of that. Perhaps it isn’t a great matter.
No--from a philosophical point of view, such things are unspeakably
petty. But I am not much of a philosopher.’ He laughed, with a break in
his voice. ‘Defeat in life is defeat, after all; and unmerited failure
is a bitter curse. You see, I am not too old to do something yet. My
sight is failing, but I can take care of it. If I had my own review, I
would write every now and then a critical paper in my very best style.
You remember poor old Hinks’s note about me in his book? We laughed at
it, but he wasn’t so far wrong. I have many of those qualities. A man is
conscious of his own merits as well as of his defects. I have done a few
admirable things. You remember my paper on Lord Herbert of Cherbury? No
one ever wrote a more subtle piece of criticism; but it was swept aside
among the rubbish of the magazines. And it’s just because of my pungent
phrases that I have excited so much enmity. Wait! Wait! Let me have my
own review, and leisure, and satisfaction of mind--heavens! what I will
write! How I will scarify!’
‘That is unworthy of you. How much better to ignore your enemies!
In such a position, I should carefully avoid every word that betrayed
personal feeling.’
‘Well, well; you are of course right, my good girl. And I believe I
should do injustice to myself if I made you think that those ignoble
motives are the strongest in me. No; it isn’t so. From my boyhood I
have had a passionate desire of literary fame, deep down below all the
surface faults of my character. The best of my life has gone by, and it
drives me to despair when I feel that I have not gained the position due
to me. There is only one way of doing this now, and that is by becoming
the editor of an important periodical. Only in that way shall I succeed
in forcing people to pay attention to my claims. Many a man goes to
his grave unrecognised, just because he has never had a fair judgment.
Nowadays it is the unscrupulous men of business who hold the attention
of the public; they blow their trumpets so loudly that the voices of
honest men have no chance of being heard.’
Marian was pained by the humility of his pleading with her--for what was
all this but an endeavour to move her sympathies?--and by the necessity
she was under of seeming to turn a deaf ear. She believed that there
was some truth in his estimate of his own powers; though as an editor
he would almost certainly fail, as a man of letters he had probably
done far better work than some who had passed him by on their way to
popularity. Circumstances might enable her to assist him, though not in
the way he proposed. The worst of it was that she could not let him see
what was in her mind. He must think that she was simply balancing
her own satisfaction against his, when in truth she suffered from the
conviction that to yield would be as unwise in regard to her father’s
future as it would be perilous to her own prospect of happiness.
‘Shall we leave this to be talked of when the money has been paid over
to me?’ she said, after a silence.
‘Yes. Don’t suppose I wish to influence you by dwelling on my
own hardships. That would be contemptible. I have only taken this
opportunity of making myself better known to you. I don’t readily talk
of myself and in general my real feelings are hidden by the faults of
my temper. In suggesting how you could do me a great service, and at the
same time reap advantage for yourself I couldn’t but remember how little
reason you have to think kindly of me. But we will postpone further
talk. You will think over what I have said?’
Marian promised that she would, and was glad to bring the conversation
to an end.
When Sunday came, Yule inquired of his daughter if she had any
engagement for the afternoon.
‘Yes, I have,’ she replied, with an effort to disguise her
embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry. I thought of asking you to come with me to Quarmby’s. Shall
you be away through the evening?’
‘Till about nine o’clock, I think.’
‘Ah! Never mind, never mind.’
He tried to dismiss the matter as if it were of no moment, but Marian
saw the shadow that passed over his countenance. This was just after
breakfast. For the remainder of the morning she did not meet him, and at
the mid-day dinner he was silent, though he brought no book to the table
with him, as he was wont to do when in his dark moods. Marian
talked with her mother, doing her best to preserve the appearance of
cheerfulness which was natural since the change in Yule’s demeanour.
She chanced to meet her father in the passage just as she was going
out. He smiled (it was more like a grin of pain) and nodded, but said
nothing.
When the front door closed, he went into the parlour. Mrs Yule was
reading, or, at all events, turning over a volume of an illustrated
magazine.
‘Where do you suppose she has gone?’ he asked, in a voice which was only
distant, not offensive.
‘To the Miss Milvains, I believe,’ Mrs Yule answered, looking aside.
‘Did she tell you so?’
‘No. We don’t talk about it.’
He seated himself on the corner of a chair and bent forward, his chin in
his hand.
‘Has she said anything to you about the review?’
‘Not a word.’
She glanced at him timidly, and turned a few pages of her book.
‘I wanted her to come to Quarmby’s, because there’ll be a man there who
is anxious that Jedwood should start a magazine, and it would be useful
for her to hear practical opinions. There’d be no harm if you just spoke
to her about it now and then. Of course if she has made up her mind
to refuse me it’s no use troubling myself any more. I should think you
might find out what’s really going on.’
Only dire stress of circumstances could have brought Alfred Yule to make
distinct appeal for his wife’s help. There was no underhand plotting
between them to influence their daughter; Mrs Yule had as much desire
for the happiness of her husband as for that of Marian, but she felt
powerless to effect anything on either side.
‘If ever she says anything, I’ll let you know.’
‘But it seems to me that you have a right to question her.’
‘I can’t do that, Alfred.’
‘Unfortunately, there are a good many things you can’t do.’ With that
remark, familiar to his wife in substance, though the tone of it was
less caustic than usual, he rose and sauntered from the room. He spent
a gloomy hour in the study, then went off to join the literary circle at
Mr Quarmby’s.