New Grub Street · Chapter 8 (2/3)

Milvain had only to wait a minute or two. He surveyed Marian from head to foot when she appeared⁠—an impertinence as unintentional as that occasionally noticeable in his speech⁠—and smiled approval. They went out into the fog, which was not one of London’s densest, but made walking disagreeable enough.

“You have heard from the girls, I think?” Jasper resumed.

“Your sisters? Yes; they have been so kind as to write to me.”

“Told you all about their great work? I hope it’ll be finished by the end of the year. The bits they have sent me will do very well indeed. I knew they had it in them to put sentences together. Now I want them to think of patching up something or other for The English Girl; you know the paper?”

“I have heard of it.”

“I happen to know Mrs. Boston Wright, who edits it. Met her at a house the other day, and told her frankly that she would have to give my sisters something to do. It’s the only way to get on; one has to take it for granted that people are willing to help you. I have made a host of new acquaintances just lately.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Marian.

“Do you know⁠—but how should you? I am going to write for the new magazine, The Current.”

“Indeed!”

“Edited by that man Fadge.”

“Yes.”

“Your father has no affection for him, I know.”

“He has no reason to have, Mr. Milvain.”

“No, no. Fadge is an offensive fellow, when he likes; and I fancy he very often does like. Well, I must make what use of him I can. You won’t think worse of me because I write for him?”

“I know that one can’t exercise choice in such things.”

“True. I shouldn’t like to think that you regard me as a Fadge-like individual, a natural Fadgeite.”

Marian laughed.

“There’s no danger of my thinking that.”

But the fog was making their eyes water and getting into their throats. By when they reached Tottenham Court Road they were both thoroughly uncomfortable. The bus had to be waited for, and in the meantime they talked scrappily, coughily. In the vehicle things were a little better, but here one could not converse with freedom.

“What pestilent conditions of life!” exclaimed Jasper, putting his face rather near to Marian’s. “I wish to goodness we were back in those quiet fields⁠—you remember?⁠—with the September sun warm about us. Shall you go to Finden again before long?”

“I really don’t know.”

“I’m sorry to say my mother is far from well. In any case I must go at Christmas, but I’m afraid it won’t be a cheerful visit.”

Arrived in Hampstead Road he offered his hand for goodbye.

“I wanted to talk about all sorts of things. But perhaps I shall find you again some day.”

He jumped out, and waved his hat in the lurid fog.

Shortly before the end of December appeared the first number of The Current. Yule had once or twice referred to the forthcoming magazine with acrid contempt, and of course he did not purchase a copy.

“So young Milvain has joined Fadge’s hopeful standard,” he remarked, a day or two later, at breakfast. “They say his paper is remarkably clever; I could wish it had appeared anywhere else. Evil communications, etc.”

“But I shouldn’t think there’s any personal connection,” said Marian.

“Very likely not. But Milvain has been invited to contribute, you see.”

“Do you think he ought to have refused?”

“Oh no. It’s nothing to me; nothing whatever.”

Mrs. Yule glanced at her daughter, but Marian seemed unconcerned. The subject was dismissed. In introducing it Yule had had his purpose; there had always been an unnatural avoidance of Milvain’s name in conversation, and he wished to have an end of this. Hitherto he had felt a troublesome uncertainty regarding his position in the matter. From what his wife had told him it seemed pretty certain that Marian was disappointed by the abrupt closing of her brief acquaintance with the young man, and Yule’s affection for his daughter caused him to feel uneasy in the thought that perhaps he had deprived her of a chance of happiness. His conscience readily took hold of an excuse for justifying the course he had followed. Milvain had gone over to the enemy. Whether or not the young man understood how relentless the hostility was between Yule and Fadge mattered little; the probability was that he knew all about it. In any case intimate relations with him could not have survived this alliance with Fadge, so that, after all, there had been wisdom in letting the acquaintance lapse. To be sure, nothing could have come of it. Milvain was the kind of man who weighed opportunities; every step he took would be regulated by considerations of advantage; at all events that was the impression his character had made upon Yule. Any hopes that Marian might have been induced to form would assuredly have ended in disappointment. It was kindness to interpose before things had gone so far.

Henceforth, if Milvain’s name was unavoidable, it should be mentioned just like that of any other literary man. It seemed very unlikely indeed that Marian would continue to think of him with any special and personal interest. The fact of her having got into correspondence with his sisters was unfortunate, but this kind of thing rarely went on for very long.

Yule spoke of the matter with his wife that evening.

“By the by, has Marian heard from those girls at Finden lately?”

“She had a letter one afternoon last week.”

“Do you see these letters?”

“No; she told me what was in them at first, but now she doesn’t.”

“She hasn’t spoken to you again of Milvain?”

“Not a word.”

“Well, I understood what I was about,” Yule remarked, with the confident air of one who doesn’t wish to remember that he had ever felt doubtful. “There was no good in having the fellow here. He has got in with a set that I don’t at all care for. If she ever says anything⁠—you understand⁠—you can just let me know.”

Marian had already procured a copy of The Current, and read it privately. Of the cleverness of Milvain’s contribution there could be no two opinions; it drew the attention of the public, and all notices of the new magazine made special reference to this article. With keen interest Marian sought after comments of the press; when it was possible she cut them out and put them carefully away.

January passed, and February. She saw nothing of Jasper. A letter from Dora in the first week of March made announcement that the Child’s History of the English Parliament would be published very shortly; it told her, too, that Mrs. Milvain had been very ill indeed, but that she seemed to recover a little strength as the weather improved. Of Jasper there was no mention.

A week later came the news that Mrs. Milvain had suddenly died.

This letter was received at breakfast-time. The envelope was an ordinary one, and so little did Marian anticipate the nature of its contents that at the first sight of the words she uttered an exclamation of pain. Her father, who had turned from the table to the fireside with his newspaper, looked round and asked what was the matter.

“Mrs. Milvain died the day before yesterday.”

“Indeed!”

He averted his face again and seemed disposed to say no more. But in a few moments he inquired:

“What are her daughters likely to do?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you know anything of their circumstances?”

“I believe they will have to depend upon themselves.”

Nothing more was said. Afterwards Mrs. Yule made a few sympathetic inquiries, but Marian was very brief in her replies.

Ten days after that, on a Sunday afternoon when Marian and her mother were alone in the sitting-room, they heard the knock of a visitor at the front door. Yule was out, and there was no likelihood of the visitor’s wishing to see anyone but him. They listened; the servant went to the door, and, after a murmur of voices, came to speak to her mistress.

“It’s a gentleman called Mr. Milvain,” the girl reported, in a way that proved how seldom callers presented themselves. “He asked for Mr. Yule, and when I said he was out, then he asked for Miss Yule.” Mother and daughter looked anxiously at each other. Mrs. Yule was nervous and helpless.

“Show Mr. Milvain into the study,” said Marian, with sudden decision.

“Are you going to see him there?” asked her mother in a hurried whisper.

“I thought you would prefer that to his coming in here.”

“Yes⁠—yes. But suppose father comes back before he’s gone?”

“What will it matter? You forget that he asked for father first.”

“Oh yes! Then don’t wait.”

Marian, scarcely less agitated than her mother, was just leaving the room, when she turned back again.

“If father comes in, you will tell him before he goes into the study?”

“Yes, I will.”

The fire in the study was on the point of extinction; this was the first thing Marian’s eye perceived on entering, and it gave her assurance that her father would not be back for some hours. Evidently he had intended it to go out; small economies of this kind, unintelligible to people who have always lived at ease, had been the lifelong rule with him. With a sensation of gladness at having free time before her, Marian turned to where Milvain was standing, in front of one of the bookcases. He wore no symbol of mourning, but his countenance was far graver than usual, and rather paler. They shook hands in silence.

“I am so grieved⁠—” Marian began with broken voice.

“Thank you. I know the girls have told you all about it. We knew for the last month that it must come before long, though there was a deceptive improvement just before the end.”

“Please to sit down, Mr. Milvain. Father went out not long ago, and I don’t think he will be back very soon.”

“It was not really Mr. Yule I wished to see,” said Jasper, frankly. “If he had been at home I should have spoken with him about what I have in mind, but if you will kindly give me a few minutes it will be much better.”

Marian glanced at the expiring fire. Her curiosity as to what Milvain had to say was mingled with an anxious doubt whether it was not too late to put on fresh coals; already the room was growing very chill, and this appearance of inhospitality troubled her.

“Do you wish to save it?” Jasper asked, understanding her look and movement.

“I’m afraid it has got too low.”

“I think not. Life in lodgings has made me skilful at this kind of thing; let me try my hand.”

He took the tongs and carefully disposed small pieces of coal upon the glow that remained. Marian stood apart with a feeling of shame and annoyance. But it is so seldom that situations in life arrange themselves with dramatic propriety; and, after all, this vulgar necessity made the beginning of the conversation easier.

“That will be all right now,” said Jasper at length, as little tongues of flame began to shoot here and there.

Marian said nothing, but seated herself and waited.

“I came up to town yesterday,” Jasper began. “Of course we have had a great deal to do and think about. Miss Harrow has been very kind indeed to the girls; so have several of our old friends in Wattleborough. It was necessary to decide at once what Maud and Dora are going to do, and it is on their account that I have come to see you.”

The listener kept silence, with a face of sympathetic attention.

“We have made up our minds that they may as well come to London. It’s a bold step; I’m by no means sure that the result will justify it. But I think they are perhaps right in wishing to try it.”

“They will go on with literary work?”

“Well, it’s our hope that they may be able to. Of course there’s no chance of their earning enough to live upon for some time. But the matter stands like this. They have a trifling sum of money, on which, at a pinch, they could live in London for perhaps a year and a half. In that time they may find their way to a sort of income; at all events, the chances are that a year and a half hence I shall be able to help them to keep body and soul together.”

The money of which he spoke was the debt owed to their father by William Milvain. In consequence of Mrs. Milvain’s pressing application, half of this sum had at length been paid and the remainder was promised in a year’s time, greatly to Jasper’s astonishment. In addition, there would be the trifle realised by the sale of furniture, though most of this might have to go in payment of rent unless the house could be relet immediately.

“They have made a good beginning,” said Marian.

She spoke mechanically, for it was impossible to keep her thoughts under control. If Maud and Dora came to live in London it might bring about a most important change in her life; she could scarcely imagine the happiness of having two such friends always near. On the other hand, how would it be regarded by her father? She was at a loss amid conflicting emotions.

“It’s better than if they had done nothing at all,” Jasper replied to her remark. “And the way they knocked that trifle together promises well. They did it very quickly, and in a far more workmanlike way than I should have thought possible.”

“No doubt they share your own talent.”

“Perhaps so. Of course I know that I have talent of a kind, though I don’t rate it very high. We shall have to see whether they can do anything more than mere booksellers’ work; they are both very young, you know. I think they may be able to write something that’ll do for The English Girl, and no doubt I can hit upon a second idea that will appeal to Jolly and Monk. At all events, they’ll have books within reach, and better opportunities every way than at Finden.”

“How do their friends in the country think of it?”

“Very dubiously; but then what else was to be expected? Of course, the respectable and intelligible path marked out for both of them points to a lifetime of governessing. But the girls have no relish for that; they’d rather do almost anything. We talked over all the aspects of the situation seriously enough⁠—it is desperately serious, no doubt of that. I told them fairly all the hardships they would have to face⁠—described the typical London lodgings, and so on. Still, there’s an adventurous vein in them, and they decided for the risk. If it came to the worst I suppose they could still find governess work.”

“Let us hope better things.”

“Yes. But now, I should have felt far more reluctant to let them come here in this way hadn’t it been that they regard you as a friend. Tomorrow morning you will probably hear from one or both of them. Perhaps it would have been better if I had left them to tell you all this, but I felt I should like to see you and⁠—put it in my own way. I think you’ll understand this feeling, Miss Yule. I wanted, in fact, to hear from yourself that you would be a friend to the poor girls.”

“Oh, you already know that! I shall be so very glad to see them often.”

Marian’s voice lent itself very naturally and sweetly to the expression of warm feeling. Emphasis was not her habit; it only needed that she should put off her ordinary reserve, utter quietly the emotional thought which so seldom might declare itself, and her tones had an exquisite womanliness.

Jasper looked full into her face.

“In that case they won’t miss the comfort of home so much. Of course they will have to go into very modest lodgings indeed. I have already been looking about. I should like to find rooms for them somewhere near my own place; it’s a decent neighbourhood, and the park is at hand, and then they wouldn’t be very far from you. They thought it might be possible to make a joint establishment with me, but I’m afraid that’s out of the question. The lodgings we should want in that case, everything considered, would cost more than the sum of our expenses if we live apart. Besides, there’s no harm in saying that I don’t think we should get along very well together. We’re all of us rather quarrelsome, to tell the truth, and we try each other’s tempers.”

Marian smiled and looked puzzled.

“Shouldn’t you have thought that?”

“I have seen no signs of quarrelsomeness.”