New Grub Street · Chapter 20 (2/2)

A day or two later, Milvain wrote to Mrs. Yule, and told her that he had seen Reardon; he did not describe the circumstances under which the interview had taken place, but gave it as his opinion that Reardon was in a state of nervous illness, and made by suffering quite unlike himself. That he might be on the way to positive mental disease seemed likely enough. “Unhappily, I myself can be of no use to him; he has not the same friendly feeling for me as he used to have. But it is very certain that those of his friends who have the power should exert themselves to raise him out of this fearful slough of despond. If he isn’t effectually helped, there’s no saying what may happen. One thing is certain, I think: he is past helping himself. Sane literary work cannot be expected from him. It seems a monstrous thing that so good a fellow, and one with such excellent brains too, should perish by the way when influential people would have no difficulty in restoring him to health and usefulness.”

All the months of summer went by. Jasper kept his word, and never visited Mrs. Yule’s house; but once in July he met that lady at the Carters’, and heard then, what he knew from other sources, that the position of things was unchanged. In August, Mrs. Yule spent a fortnight at the seaside, and Amy accompanied her. Milvain and his sisters accepted an invitation to visit friends at Wattleborough, and were out of town about three weeks, the last ten days being passed in the Isle of Wight; it was an extravagant holiday, but Dora had been ailing, and her brother declared that they would all work better for the change. Alfred Yule, with his wife and daughter, rusticated somewhere in Kent. Dora and Marian exchanged letters, and here is a passage from one written by the former:

“Jasper has shown himself in an unusually amiable light since we left town. I looked forward to this holiday with some misgivings, as I know by experience that it doesn’t do for him and us to be too much together; he gets tired of our company, and then his selfishness⁠—believe me, he has a good deal of it⁠—comes out in a way we don’t appreciate. But I have never known him so forbearing. To me he is particularly kind, on account of my headaches and general shakiness. It isn’t impossible that this young man, if all goes well with him, may turn out far better than Maud and I ever expected. But things will have to go very well, if the improvement is to be permanent. I only hope he may make a lot of money before long. If this sounds rather gross to you, I can only say that Jasper’s moral nature will never be safe as long as he is exposed to the risks of poverty. There are such people, you know. As a poor man, I wouldn’t trust him out of my sight; with money, he will be a tolerable creature⁠—as men go.”

Dora, no doubt, had her reasons for writing in this strain. She would not have made such remarks in conversation with her friend, but took the opportunity of being at a distance to communicate them in writing.

On their return, the two girls made good progress with the book they were manufacturing for Messrs. Jolly and Monk, and early in October it was finished. Dora was now writing little things for The English Girl, and Maud had begun to review an occasional novel for an illustrated paper. In spite of their poor lodgings, they had been brought into social relations with Mrs. Boston Wright and a few of her friends; their position was understood, and in accepting invitations they had no fear lest unwelcome people should pounce down upon them in their shabby little sitting-room. The younger sister cared little for society such as Jasper procured them; with Marian Yule for a companion she would have been quite content to spend her evenings at home. But Maud relished the introduction to strangers. She was admired, and knew it. Prudence could not restrain her from buying a handsomer dress than those she had brought from her country home, and it irked her sorely that she might not reconstruct all her equipment to rival the appearance of well-to-do girls whom she studied and envied. Her disadvantages, for the present, were insuperable. She had no one to chaperon her; she could not form intimacies because of her poverty. A rare invitation to luncheon, a permission to call at the sacred hour of small-talk⁠—this was all she could hope for.

“I advise you to possess your soul in patience,” Jasper said to her, as they talked one day on the seashore. “You are not to blame that you live without conventional protection, but it necessitates your being very careful. These people you are getting to know are not rigid about social observances, and they won’t exactly despise you for poverty; all the same, their charity mustn’t be tested too severely. Be very quiet for the present; let it be seen that you understand that your position isn’t quite regular⁠—I mean, of course, do so in a modest and nice way. As soon as ever it’s possible, we’ll arrange for you to live with someone who will preserve appearances. All this is contemptible, of course; but we belong to a contemptible society, and can’t help ourselves. For Heaven’s sake, don’t spoil your chances by rashness; be content to wait a little, till some more money comes in.”

Midway in October, about half-past eight one evening, Jasper received an unexpected visit from Dora. He was in his sitting-room, smoking and reading a novel.

“Anything wrong?” he asked, as his sister entered.

“No; but I’m alone this evening, and I thought I would see if you were in.”

“Where’s Maud, then?”

“She went to see the Lanes this afternoon, and Mrs. Lane invited her to go to the Gaiety tonight; she said a friend whom she had invited couldn’t come, and the ticket would be wasted. Maud went back to dine with them. She’ll come home in a cab.”

“Why is Mrs. Lane so affectionate all at once? Take your things off; I have nothing to do.”

“Miss Radway was going as well.”

“Who’s Miss Radway?”

“Don’t you know her? She’s staying with the Lanes. Maud says she writes for The West End.”

“And will that fellow Lane be with them?”

“I think not.”

Jasper mused, contemplating the bowl of his pipe.

“I suppose she was in rare excitement?”

“Pretty well. She has wanted to go to the Gaiety for a long time. There’s no harm, is there?”

Dora asked the question with that absent air which girls are wont to assume when they touch on doubtful subjects.

“Harm, no. Idiocy and lively music, that’s all. It’s too late, or I’d have taken you, for the joke of the thing. Confound it! she ought to have better dresses.”

“Oh, she looked very nice, in that best.”

“Pooh! But I don’t care for her to be running about with the Lanes. Lane is too big a blackguard; it reflects upon his wife to a certain extent.”

They gossiped for half an hour, then a tap at the door interrupted them; it was the landlady.

“Mr. Whelpdale has called to see you, sir. I mentioned as Miss Milvain was here, so he said he wouldn’t come up unless you sent to ask him.”

Jasper smiled at Dora, and said in a low voice.

“What do you say? Shall he come up? He can behave himself.”

“Just as you please, Jasper.”

“Ask him to come up, Mrs. Thompson, please.”

Mr. Whelpdale presented himself. He entered with much more ceremony than when Milvain was alone; on his visage was a grave respectfulness, his step was light, his whole bearing expressed diffidence and pleasurable anticipation.

“My younger sister, Whelpdale,” said Jasper, with subdued amusement.

The dealer in literary advice made a bow which did him no discredit, and began to speak in a low, reverential tone not at all disagreeable to the ear. His breeding, in truth, had been that of a gentleman, and it was only of late years that he had fallen into the hungry region of New Grub Street.

“How’s the Manual going off?” Milvain inquired.

“Excellently! We have sold nearly six hundred.”

“My sister is one of your readers. I believe she has studied the book with much conscientiousness.”

“Really? You have really read it, Miss Milvain?”

Dora assured him that she had, and his delight knew no bounds.

“It isn’t all rubbish, by any means,” said Jasper, graciously. “In the chapter on writing for magazines, there are one or two very good hints. What a pity you can’t apply your own advice, Whelpdale!”

“Now that’s horribly unkind of you!” protested the other. “You might have spared me this evening. But unfortunately it’s quite true, Miss Milvain. I point the way, but I haven’t been able to travel it myself. You mustn’t think I have never succeeded in getting things published; but I can’t keep it up as a profession. Your brother is the successful man. A marvellous facility! I envy him. Few men at present writing have such talent.”

“Please don’t make him more conceited than he naturally is,” interposed Dora.

“What news of Biffen?” asked Jasper, presently.

“He says he shall finish Mr. Bailey, Grocer, in about a month. He read me one of the later chapters the other night. It’s really very fine; most remarkable writing, it seems to me. It will be scandalous if he can’t get it published; it will, indeed.”

“I do hope he may!” said Dora, laughing. “I have heard so much of Mr. Bailey, that it will be a great disappointment if I am never to read it.”

“I’m afraid it would give you very little pleasure,” Whelpdale replied, hesitatingly. “The matter is so very gross.”

“And the hero grocer!” shouted Jasper, mirthfully. “Oh, but it’s quite decent; only rather depressing. The decently ignoble⁠—or, the ignobly decent? Which is Biffen’s formula? I saw him a week ago, and he looked hungrier than ever.”

“Ah, but poor Reardon! I passed him at King’s Cross not long ago. He didn’t see me⁠—walks with his eyes on the ground always⁠—and I hadn’t the courage to stop him. He’s the ghost of his old self. He can’t live long.”

Dora and her brother exchanged a glance. It was a long time since Jasper had spoken to his sisters about the Reardons; nowadays he seldom heard either of husband or wife.

The conversation that went on was so agreeable to Whelpdale, that he lost consciousness of time. It was past eleven o’clock when Jasper felt obliged to remind him.

“Dora, I think I must be taking you home.”

The visitor at once made ready for departure, and his leave-taking was as respectful as his entrance had been. Though he might not say what he thought, there was very legible upon his countenance a hope that he would again be privileged to meet Miss Dora Milvain.

“Not a bad fellow, in his way,” said Jasper, when Dora and he were alone again.

“Not at all.”

She had heard the story of Whelpdale’s hapless wooing half a year ago, and her recollection of it explained the smile with which she spoke.

“Never get on, I’m afraid,” Jasper pursued. “He has his allowance of twenty pounds a year, and makes perhaps fifty or sixty more. If I were in his position, I should go in for some kind of regular business; he has people who could help him. Good-natured fellow; but what’s the use of that if you’ve no money?”

They set out together, and walked to the girls’ lodgings. Dora was about to use her latchkey, but Jasper checked her. “No. There’s a light in the kitchen still; better knock, as we’re so late.”

“But why?”

“Never mind; do as I tell you.”

The landlady admitted them, and Jasper spoke a word or two with her, explaining that he would wait until his elder sister’s return; the darkness of the second-floor windows had shown that Maud was not yet back.

“What strange fancies you have!” remarked Dora, when they were upstairs.

“So have people in general, unfortunately.”

A letter lay on the table. It was addressed to Maud, and Dora recognised the handwriting as that of a Wattleborough friend.

“There must be some news here,” she said. “Mrs. Haynes wouldn’t write unless she had something special to say.”

Just upon midnight, a cab drew up before the house. Dora ran down to open the door to her sister, who came in with very bright eyes and more colour than usual on her cheeks.

“How late for you to be here!” she exclaimed, on entering the sitting-room and seeing Jasper.

“I shouldn’t have felt comfortable till I knew that you were back all right.”

“What fear was there?”

She threw off her wraps, laughing.

“Well, have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Oh yes!” she replied, carelessly. “This letter for me? What has Mrs. Haynes got to say, I wonder?”

She opened the envelope, and began to glance hurriedly over the sheet of paper. Then her face changed.

“What do you think? Mr. Yule is dead!”

Dora uttered an exclamation; Jasper displayed the keenest interest.

“He died yesterday⁠—no, it would be the day before yesterday. He had a fit of some kind at a public meeting, was taken to the hospital because it was nearest, and died in a few hours. So that has come, at last! Now what’ll be the result of it, I wonder?”

“When shall you be seeing Marian?” asked her brother.

“She might come tomorrow evening.”

“But won’t she go to the funeral?” suggested Dora.

“Perhaps; there’s no saying. I suppose her father will, at all events. The day before yesterday? Then the funeral will be on Saturday, I should think.”

“Ought I to write to Marian?” asked Dora.

“No; I wouldn’t,” was Jasper’s reply. “Better wait till she lets you hear. That’s sure to be soon. She may have gone to Wattleborough this afternoon, or be going tomorrow morning.”

The letter from Mrs. Haynes was passed from hand to hand. “Everybody feels sure,” it said, “that a great deal of his money will be left for public purposes. The ground for the park being already purchased, he is sure to have made provision for carrying out his plans connected with it. But I hope your friends in London may benefit.”

It was some time before Jasper could put an end to the speculative conversation and betake himself homewards. And even on getting back to his lodgings he was little disposed to go to bed. This event of John Yule’s death had been constantly in his mind, but there was always a fear that it might not happen for long enough; the sudden announcement excited him almost as much as if he were a relative of the deceased.

“Confound his public purposes!” was the thought upon which he at length slept.