 CHAPTER XIX Nor would it be true to represent Edwin Reardon as rising to the New Day wholly disconsolate. He too had slept unusually well, and with returning consciousness the sense of a burden removed was more instant than that of his loss and all the dreary circumstances attaching to it. He had no longer to fear the effects upon Amy of such a grievous change as from their home-like flat to the couple of rooms he had taken in Islington. For the moment this relief helped him to bear the pain of all that had happened and the uneasiness which troubled him when he reflected that his wife was henceforth a charge to her mother. Of course for the moment only. He had no sooner begun to move about to prepare his breakfast amid the relics of last evening's meal. To think of all the detestable work he had to do before tomorrow night, then his heart sank again. His position was well nigh as Dolores is that of any man who awoke that morning to the brutal realities of life. If only for the shame of it. How must they be speaking of him, Amy's relatives and her friends? A novelist who couldn't write novels, a husband who couldn't support his wife and child, a literate who made eager application for illiterate work at paltry wages, how interesting it would all sound in humorous gossip, and what hope had he that things would ever be better with him. Had he done well? Had he done wisely? Would it not have been better to have made that one last effort? There came before him a vision of quiet nooks beneath the Sussex cliffs, of the long lines of green breakers bursting into foam. He heard the wave music and tasted the briny freshness of the sea breeze. Inspiration after all would perchance have come to him. If Amy's love had but been of more enduring quality, if she had strengthened him for this last endeavour with the brave tenderness of an ideal wife, but he had seen such hateful things in her eyes. Her love was dead and she regarded him as the man who had spoiled her hopes of happiness. It was only for her own sake that she urged him to strive on, let his be the toil that hers might be the advantage if he succeeded. She would be glad if I were dead, she would be glad. He had the conviction of it, oh yes, she would shed tears, they come so easily to women. But to have him dead and out of her way, to be saved from her anomalous position, to see once more a chance in life, she would welcome it. But there was no time for brooding. Today he had to sell all the things that were superfluous and to make arrangements for the removal of his effects tomorrow. By Wednesday night, in accordance with his agreement, the flat must be free for the new occupier. He had taken only two rooms, and fortunately as things were, three would have cost more than he was likely to be able to afford for a long time. The rent of the two was to be six and six pence, and how, if Amy had consented to come, could he have met the expenses of their living out of his weekly twenty-five shillings? How could he have pretended to do literary work in such cramped quarters? He who had never been able to write a line save in strict seclusion. In his despair, he had faced the impossible. Amy had shown more wisdom, though in a spirit of unkindness. Towards ten o'clock he was leaving the flat to go and find people who would purchase his books and old clothing and other superfluidities, but before he could close the door behind him an approaching step on the stairs caught his attention. He saw the shining silk hat of a well-equipped gentleman. It was John Yule. Ha! Good morning, John exclaimed, looking up, a minute or two, and I should have been too late, I see. He spoke in quite a friendly way, and on reaching the landing shook hands. Are you obliged to go at once, or could I have a word with you? Come in. They entered the study, which was in some disorder, reared and made no reference to circumstances, but offered a chair and seated himself. Have a cigarette, said Yule, holding out a box of them? No, thank you. I don't smoke so early. Then I'll light one myself. It always makes talk easier to me. You're on the point of moving, I suppose. Yes, I am. Reardon tried to speak in quite a simple way, with no admission of embarrassment. He was not successful, and to his visitor the tone seemed rather offensive. I suppose you'll let Amy know your new address? Certainly. Why should I conceal it? No, no. I didn't mean to suggest that, but you might be taking it for granted that the rupture was final, I thought. There had never been any intimacy between these two men. Reardon regarded his wife's brother as rather snobbish and disagreeably selfish. John Yule looked upon the novelist as a prig, and now of late as a shuffling, untrustworthy fellow. It appeared to John that his brother-in-law was assuming a manner wholly unjustifiable, and he had a difficulty in behaving to him with courtesy. Reardon, on the other hand, felt injured by the turn his visitor's remarks were taking, and began to resent the visit altogether. I take nothing for granted, he said coldly, but I'm afraid nothing is to be gained by a discussion of our difficulties. The time for that is over. I can't quite see that. It seems to me that the time has just come. Please tell me to begin with. Do you come on Amy's behalf? In a way, yes. She hasn't sent me, but my mother and I are so astonished at what is happening that it was necessary for one or other of us to see you. I think it is all between Amy and myself. Things between husband and wife are generally best left to the people themselves, I know, but the fact is there are peculiar circumstances in the present case. It can be necessary for me to explain further. Reardon could find no suitable words of reply. He understood what you'll refer to, and began to feel the full extent of his humiliation. You mean, of course, he began, but his tongue failed him. Well, we should really like to know how long it is proposed that Amy shall remain with her mother. John was perfectly self-possessed. It took much to disturb his equanimity. He smoked his cigarette, which was in an amber mouthpiece, and seemed to enjoy its flavor. Reardon found himself observing the perfection of the young man's boots and trousers. That depends entirely on my wife herself, he replied mechanically. How so? I offer her the best home I can. Reardon felt himself a poor, pitiful creature and hated the well-dressed man who made him feel so. But really Reardon began the other, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. Do you tell me in seriousness that you expect Amy to live in such lodgings as you can afford on a pound a week? I don't. I said that I had offered her the best home I could. I know it's impossible, of course. Either he must speak thus, or break into senseless wrath. It was so hard to hold back the angry words that were on his lips, but he succeeded, and he was glad he had done so. Then it doesn't depend on Amy, said John. I suppose not. You see no reason, then, why she shouldn't live as at present for an indefinite time. To John, whose perspicacity was not remarkable, Reardon's changed tone conveyed simply an impression of bland impudence. He eyed his brother-in-law rather haughtily. I can only say, return the other, who was becoming wearily indifferent, that as soon as I can afford a decent home, I shall give my wife the opportunity of returning to me. But pray, when is that likely to be? John had passed the bounds. His manner was too frankly contemptuous. I see no right you have to examine me in this fashion, Reardon exclaimed. With Mrs. Ewell, I should have done my best to be patient if she had asked these questions. But you are not justified in putting them, at all events, not in this way. I'm very sorry you speak like this, Reardon, said the other, with calm insolence. It confirms unpleasant ideas, you know. What do you mean? Why, one can't help thinking that you are rather too much at your ease under these circumstances. It isn't exactly an everyday thing, you know, for a man's wife to be sent to her own people. Reardon could not endure the sound of these words. He interrupted hotly. I can't discuss it with you. You are utterly unable to comprehend me in my position. Utterly. I am useless to defend myself. You must take whatever view seems to you the natural one. John, having finished his cigarette, rose. The natural view is an uncommonly disagreeable one, he said. However, I have no intention of quarreling with you. I'll only just say that, as I take a share in the expenses of my mother's house, this question decidedly concerns me, and I'll add that I think it ought to concern you a good deal more than it seems to. Reardon, ashamed already of his violence, paused upon these remarks. It shall, he uttered at length, coldly. You have put it clearly enough to me, and you shan't have spoken in vain. Is there anything else you wish to say? Thank you, I think not. They parted with distant civility, and Reardon closed the door behind his visitor. He knew that his character was seen through a distorting medium by Amy's relatives, to some extent by Amy herself, but hitherto the reflection that this must always be the case when a man of his kind is judged by people of the world had strengthened him in defiance. An endeavor to explain himself would be maddeningly hopeless. Even Amy did not understand a right to trouble through which his intellectual and moral nature was passing, and to speak of such experiences to Mrs. Ewell or to John would be equivalent to addressing them in alien tongues. He and they had no common criterion by reference to which he could make himself intelligible. The practical tone in which John had explained the opposing view of the situation made it impossible for him to proceed as he had purposed. Amy would never come to him in his poor lodgings. Her mother, her brother, all her advisers would regard such a thing as out of the question. Very well, recognizing this, he must also recognize his wife's claim upon him for material support. It was not in his power to supply her with means sufficient to live upon, but what he could afford she should have. When he went out, it was with a different purpose from that of half an hour ago. After a short search in the direction of Edgeware Road, he found a dealer in secondhand furniture whom he requested to come as soon as possible to the flat on a matter of business. An hour later, the man kept his appointment. Having brought him into the study, Reardon said, I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions that I'll point out to you. Very good, sir, was the reply. Let's have a look through the rooms. That the price offered would be strictly a minimum Reardon knew well enough. The dealer was a rough and rather dirty fellow with the distrustful glance which distinguishes his class. Men of Reardon's type, when hapless enough to be forced into vulgar commerce, are doubly at a disadvantage. Not only their ignorance, but their sensitiveness makes them ready victims of even the least subtle man of business. To deal on equal terms with a person, you must be able to assert with calm confidence that you are not to be cheated. Reardon was too well aware that he would certainly be cheated and shrank scornfully from the higgling of the market. Moreover, he was in a half frenzied state of mind and cared for little but to be done with the hateful details of this process of ruin. He penciled a list of the articles he must retain for his own use. It would of course be cheaper to take a bare room than furnished lodgings, and every penny he could save was of importance to him. The chair beds dead with necessary linen and blankets, a table, two chairs, a looking glass, strictly the indispensable things, no need to complete the list. Then there were a few valuable wedding presents which belonged rather to Amy than to him. These he would get packed and send to Westbourne Park. The dealer made his calculation with many side glances at the vendor. And what may you ask for the lot? Pleased to make an offer. Most of the things has had a good deal of where, I know, I know, just let me hear what you will give. Well, if you want a valuation, I say 18 pound 10. It was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a man who understood such affairs would have obtained. That's the most you can give? Wouldn't pay me to give a six pence more? You see, he began to point out defects, but Reardon cut him short. Can you take them away at once? At once? Would two o'clock do? Yes, it would. And might you want these other things taken anywhere? Yes, but not till tomorrow. They have to go to Islington. What would you do it for? This bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way. Thereupon, Reardon sent to work to dispose of his books. By half past one, he had sold them for a couple of guineas. At two came the cart that was to take away the furniture, and at four o'clock, nothing remained in the flat save what had to be removed on the morrow. The next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a week's rent for the two rooms he had taken, and find a single room at the lowest possible cost. On the way, he entered an eating house and satisfied his hunger, for he had had nothing since breakfast. It took him a couple hours to discover the ideal garret. It was found at length in a narrow little byway running out of Upper Street. The rent was half a crown a week. At seven o'clock, he sat down in what once was called his study, and wrote the following letter. Enclosed in this envelope, you will find 20 pounds. I have been reminded that your relatives will be at the expense of your support. It seemed best to me to sell the furniture, and now I send you all the money I can spare at present. You will receive tomorrow a box containing several things I did not feel justified in selling. As soon as I begin to have my payment from Carter, half of it shall be sent to you every week. My address is Five Manville Street, Upper Street, Islington, Edwin Reardon. He enclosed the money in notes and gold, and addressed the envelope to his wife. She must receive it this very night, and he knew not how to ensure that safe by delivering it himself. So he went to Westbourne Park by train and walked to Mrs. Ewell's house. At this hour, the family were probably at dinner. Yes, the window of the dining room showed lights within, whilst those of the drawing room were in shadow. After a little hesitation, he rang the servant's bell. When the door opened, he handed his letter to the girl and requested that it might be given to Mrs. Reardon as soon as possible. With one more hasty glance at the window, Amy was perhaps enjoying her unwanted comfort. He walked quickly away. As he re-entered what had been his home, its bareness made his heart sink. An hour or two had sufficed for this devastation. Nothing remained upon the uncarcated floors, but the needments he would carry with him into the wilderness. Such few evidences of civilization as a poorest cannot well dispense with. Anger, revolt, a sense of outraged love, all manner of confused passions had sustained him throughout this day of toil. Now he had leisure to know how faint he was. He threw himself upon his chairbeds dead and lay for more than an hour in torpor of body and mind. But before he could sleep he must eat. Though it was cold, he could not exert himself to light a fire. There was some food still in the cupboard, and he consumed it in the fashion of a tired laborer with the plate on his lap, using his fingers and a knife. What had he to do with delicacies? He felt utterly alone in the world. Unless it were Biffin, what mortal would give him kindly welcome under any roof? These stripped rooms were symbolical of his life. In money he had lost everything. Be thankful that you exist, that these morsels of food are still granted you. Man has a right to nothing in this world that he cannot pay for. Did you imagine that love was an exception? Foolish idealist, love is one of the first things to be frightened away by poverty. Go and live upon your twelve and six pence a week and on your memories of the past. In this room he had sat with Amy on their return from the wedding holiday. Shall you always love me as you do now? Forever, forever. Even if I disappoint you, if I failed? How could that affect my love? The voices seemed to be lingering still in a sad, faint echo, so short a time it was since those words were uttered. His own fault. A man has no business to fail, least of all can he be expected others to have time to look back upon him or pity him if he sink under the stress of conflict. Those behind will trample over his body. They can't help it. They themselves are born onwards by resistless pressure. He slept for a few hours, then lay watching the light of dawn as it revealed his desolation. The morning's post brought him a large, heavy envelope, the aspect of which for a moment puzzled him, but he recognized the handwriting and understood. The editor of the wayside, in a pleasantly written note, begged to return the paper on Pliny's letters which had recently been submitted to him. He was sorry it did not strike him as quite so interesting as the other contributions from Reardon's pen. This was a trifle. For the first time he received a rejected piece of writing without distress. He even laughed at the artistic completeness of the situation. The money would have been welcome, but on that very account he might have known it would not come. The cart that was to transfer his property to the room at Islington arrived about midday. By that time he had dismissed the last details of business in relation to the flat and was free to go back to the obscure world once he had risen. He felt that for two years and a half he had been a pretender. It was not natural to him to live in the manner of people who enjoy an assured income. He belonged to the class of casual wage earners. Back to obscurity. Carrying a bag which contained a few things best kept in his own care, he went by train to King's Cross and thence walked up Pentonville Hill to Upper Street and his own little byway. Manville Street was not unreasonably squalid. The house in which he had found a home was not alarming in its appearance and the woman who kept it had an honest face. Amy would have shrunk in apprehension, but to one who had experience of London Garrett's, this was a rather favourable specimen of its kind. The door closed more satisfactorily than poor biffens, for instance, and there were not many of those knotholes in the floor which give admission to piercing little drafts. Not a pain of the window was cracked, not one. A man might live here comfortably, could memory be destroyed? There's a letter come for you, said the landlady, as she admitted him. He'll find it on your mantle. He ascended hastily. The letter must be from Amy as no one else knew his address. Yes, and its contents were these. As you have really sold the furniture, I shall accept half this money that you send. I must buy clothing for myself and Willie, but the other 10 pounds I shall return to you as soon as possible. As for your offer of half of what you are to receive from Mr. Carter, that seems to me ridiculous. In any case, I cannot take it. If you seriously abandon all further hope from literature, I think it is your duty to make every effort to obtain a position suitable to a man of your education. Amy Reardon. Doubtless Amy thought it was her duty to write in this way. Not a word of sympathy. He must understand that no one was to blame but himself, and that her hardships were equal to his own. In the bag he had brought with him, there were writing materials. Standing at the mantelpiece, he forewith penned a reply to this letter. The money is for your support as far as it will go. If it comes back to me, I shall send it again. If you refuse to make use of it, you will have the kindness to put it aside and consider it as belonging to Willie. The other money of which I spoke will be sent to you once a month. As our concerns are no longer between us alone, I must protect myself against anyone who would be likely to accuse me of not giving you what I could afford. For your advice, I thank you, but remember that in withdrawing me from your affection, you have lost all right to offer me counsel. He went out and posted this at once. By three o'clock, the furniture of his room was arranged. He had not kept a carpet. That was luxury and beyond his due. His score of volumes must rank upon the mantelpiece. His clothing must be kept in the trunk. Cups, plates, knives, forks, and spoons would lie in the little open cupboard, the lowest section of which was for his supply of coals. When everything was in order, he drew water from a tap on the landing and washed himself. Then with his bag went out to make purchases. A loaf of bread, butter, sugar, condensed milk, a remnant of tea he had brought with him. On returning, he lit as small a fire as possible, put on his kettle and sat down to meditate. How familiar it all was to him and not unpleasant for it brought back the days when he had worked to such good purpose. It was like a restoration of youth. Of Amy, he would not think. Knowing his bitter misery, she could write to him in cold hard words without a touch, even a womanly feeling. If ever they were to meet again, the advance must be from her side. He had no more tenderness for her until she strove to revive it. Next morning, he called at the hospital to see Carter. The secretary's peculiar look and smile seemed to betray a knowledge of what had been going on since Sunday and his first words confirm this impression of Reardon's. You have removed, I hear. Yes, I had better give you my new address. Reardon's tone was meant to signify that further remark on the subject would be unwelcome. Musingly, Carter made a note of the address. You still wish to go on with this affair? Certainly. Come and have some lunch with me then and afterwards we'll go to the city road and talk things over on the spot. The vivacious young man was not quite so genial as of want, but he evidently strove to show that the renewal of their relations as employer and clerk would make no difference in the friendly intercourse which had since been established. The invitation to lunch evidently had this purpose. I suppose, said Carter when they were seated in a restaurant, you wouldn't object to anything better if a chance turned up. I should take it to be sure, but you don't want a job that would occupy all your time. You're going on with writing, of course? Not for the present, I think. Then you would like me to keep a look out. I haven't anything in view, nothing whatever, but one hears of things sometimes. I should be obliged to you if you could help me to anything satisfactory. Having brought himself to this admission, Reardon felt more at ease. To what purpose should he keep up transparent pretenses? It was manifestly his duty to earn as much money as he could in whatever way. Let the man of letters be forgotten. He was seeking for remunerative employment just as if he had never written a line. Amy did not return the 10 pounds and did not write again. So presumably she would accept the moiety of his earnings. He was glad of it. After paying half a crown for rent, there would be left ten shillings, something like three pounds that still remained to him he would not reckon. This must be for casualties. Half a sovereign was enough for his needs. In the old times he had counted it a competency which put his mind quite at rest. The day came and he entered upon his duties in City Road. It needed but an hour or two and all the intervening time was canceled. He was back once more in the days of no reputation, a harmless clerk, a decent wage earner. End of chapter 19, recording by Rosie. Chapter 20 of New Grub Street. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Emily Livingston. New Grub Street by George Gissing. Chapter 20. The End of Waiting. It was more than a fortnight after Reardon's removal to Islington when Jasper Milvane for the first time heard of what had happened. He was coming down from the office of the Will of the Wisp one afternoon after a talk with the editor concerning a paragraph in his last week's Cozerie which had been complained of as libelous and which would probably lead to the case so much desired by everyone connected with the paper. When someone descending from a higher story of the building overtook him and laid a hand on his shoulder, he turned and saw Welpdale. What brings you on these premises? He asked as they shook hands. A man I know has just been made sub-editor of chat upstairs. He is half-promised to let me do a column of answers to the correspondence. Cosmetics, fashions, Cozerie? I'm not so versatile as all that, unfortunately. You know, the general information column. Will you be so good as to inform me, through the medium of your invaluable paper, what was the exact area devastated by the great fire of London? That kind of thing, you know. Hoppern, that's the fellow's name, tells me that his predecessor always called the paper Chat Moss because of the frightful difficulty had in filling it up each week. Why the by, what a capital column that it is of yours in Will of the Wisp. I know nothing like it in English journalism. Upon my word, I don't. Glad you like it. Some people are less fervent in their admiration. Jasper recounted the affair which had just been under discussion in the office. It may cost a couple of thousands, but the advertisement is worth that. Pat Win thinks. Barlow is delighted. He wouldn't mind paying double the money to make those people a laughing stock for a week or two. They issued into the street and walked together. Milvane, with his keen eye and critical smile, unmistakably the modern young man who cultivates the art of success, his companion of a less pronounced type, but distinguished by a certain subtlety of countenance, a blending of the sentimental and the shrewd. Of course you know all about the Reardon's, said Welpdale. Haven't seen or heard of them lately. What is it? Then you don't know they have parted. Parted? I only heard about it last night. Biffin told me. Reardon is doing clerk's work at a hospital somewhere in the East End, and his wife has gone to live at her mother's house. Ho-ho! exclaimed Jasper thoughtfully. Then the crash has come. Of course I knew it must be impending. I'm sorry for Reardon. I'm sorry for his wife. Trust you for thinking of women first, Welpdale. It's in an honourable way, my dear fellow. I'm a slave to women, true, but all in an honourable way. After the last adventure of mine, most men would be savage and cynical, wouldn't they now? I'm nothing of the kind. I'm no worse of women, not a bit. I reverence them as much as ever. There must be a good deal of magnanimity in me, don't you think? Jasper laughed unrestrainedly. But it's the simple truth, pursued the other. You should have seen the letter I wrote to that girl in Birmingham. All charity and forgiveness. I meant it, every word of it. I shouldn't talk to everyone like this, you know, but it's as well to show a friend one's best qualities now and then. Is Reardon still living at the old place? No, no. They sold everything and left the flat. He's in lodging somewhere or other. I'm not quite intimate enough with him to go and see him under the circumstances, but I'm surprised you know nothing about it. I haven't seen much of them this year. Reardon, well, I'm afraid he hasn't very much of the virtue you claim for yourself. It rather annoys him to see me going ahead. Really? His character never struck me in that way. You haven't come enough in contact with him. At all events I can't explain his change of manner in any other way, but I'm sorry for him. I am indeed. At a hospital? I suppose Carter has given him the old job again. Don't know. Biffin doesn't talk very freely about it. There's a good deal of delicacy in Biffin, you know, a thoroughly good-hearted fellow, and so is Reardon, I believe, though no doubt he has his weaknesses. Oh, an excellent fellow, but weakness isn't the word. Why, I foresaw all this from the very beginning. The first hour's talk I ever had with him was enough to convince me that he never hold his own, but he really believed that the future was clear before him. He imagined he'd go on getting more and more for his books, an extraordinary thing that that girl had such faith in him. They parted soon after this, and Milvane went homeward, musing upon what he had heard. It was his purpose to spend the whole evening on some work which pressed for completion, but he found an unusual difficulty in settling to it. About eight o'clock he gave up the effort, arrayed himself in the costume of black and white, and journeyed to Westburn Park, where his destination was the house of Mrs. Edmund Yule. Of the servant who opened to him, he inquired if Mrs. Yule was at home, and received an answer in the affirmative. Any company with her? A lady, Mrs. Carter. Then pleased to give my name, and ask if Mrs. Yule can see me. He was speedily conducted to the drawing room, where he found the lady of the house, her son, and Mrs. Carter, for Mrs. Reardon his eye sought in vain. I'm so glad you have come, said Mrs. Yule in a confidential tone. I have been wishing to see you. Of course, you know our sad trouble. I have heard of it only today. From Mr. Reardon himself? No, I haven't seen him. I do wish you had. We should have been so anxious to know how he impressed you. How he impressed me? My mother has got hold of the notion, put in John Yule, that he's not exactly compost mentis. I'll admit that he went on in a queer sort of way the last time I saw him. And my husband thinks he is rather strange, remarked Mrs. Carter. He has gone back to the hospital, I understand. To a new branch that has just been opened in the city road, replied Mrs. Yule, and he's living in a dreadful place, one of the most shocking alleys in the worst part of Islington. I should have gone to see him, but I really feel afraid. They give me such an account of the place and everyone agrees that he has such a very wild look and speak so strangely. Between ourselves, said John, there's no use in exaggerating. He's living in a vile hole, that's true, and Carter says he looks miserably ill, but of course he may be as sane as we are. Jasper listened to all this with no small astonishment. And Mrs. Reardon, he asked. I am sorry to say she is far from well, replied Mrs. Yule. Today she has been obliged to keep her room. You can imagine what a shock it has been to her. It came with such extraordinary suddenness. Without a word of warning, her husband announced that he had taken a clerkship and was going to remove him immediately to the East End. Fancy! And this when he had already arranged, as you know, to go to the South Coast and write his next book under the influences of the sea air. He was anything but well, we all knew that, and we had all joined in advising him to spend the summer at the seaside. It seemed better that he should go alone. Mrs. Reardon would, of course, have gone down for a few days now and then, after a moment's notice, everything has changed. And in such a dreadful way, I cannot believe that this is the behavior of a sane man. Jasper understood that an explanation of the matter might have been given in much more homely terms. It was natural that Mrs. Yule should leave out of sight the sufficient but ignoble cause of her son-in-law's behavior. You see in what a painful position we are placed, continued the euphemistic lady. It is so terrible even to hint that Mr. Reardon is not responsible for his actions. Yet how are we to explain to our friends this extraordinary state of things? My husband is afraid Mr. Reardon may fall seriously ill, said Mrs. Carter. And how dreadful! In such a place is that! It would be so kind of you to go and see him, Mr. Milvane urged Mrs. Yule. We should be so glad to hear of what you think. Certainly I will go, replied Jasper. Will you give me his address? He remained for an hour, and before his departure the subject was discussed with rather more frankness than at first. Even the word money was once or twice heard. Mr. Carter has very kindly promised, said Mrs. Yule, to do his best to hear of some position that would be suitable. It seems the most shocking thing that a successful author should abandon his career in this deliberate way. Who could have imagined anything of the kind two years ago? But it is clearly quite impossible for him to go on as at present, if there is really no reason for believing his mind disordered. A cab was summoned for Mrs. Carter, and she took her leave, suppressing her native cheerfulness to the tone of the occasion. A minute or two after, Milvane left the house. He had walked perhaps twenty yards, almost to the end of the silent street, in which his friend's house was situated, when a man came round the corner and approached him. At once he recognized the figure, and in a moment he was face to face with Reardon. Both stopped. Jasper held out his hand, but the other did not seem to notice it. You are coming from Mrs. Yule's said Reardon with a strange smile. By the gaslight his face showed pale and sunken, and he met Jasper's look with fixedness. Yes, I am. The fact is, I went there to hear of your address. Why haven't you let me know about all this? You went to the flat? No, I was told about you by Welpdale. Reardon turned in the direction once he had come, and began to walk slowly. Jasper kept beside him. I'm afraid there's something amiss between us, Reardon, said the latter, just glancing at his companion. There's something amiss between me and everyone, was the reply, in an unnatural voice. You look at things too gloomily, am I detaining you by the by, you were going? Nowhere. Then come to my rooms, and let's see if we can't talk more in the old way. Your old way of talk isn't much to my taste, Milvane, it has cost me too much. Jasper gazed at him. Was there some foundation in Mrs. Yule's seeming extravagance? This reply sounded so meaningless, and so unlike Reardon's manner of speech, that the younger man experienced a sudden alarm. Cost you too much? I don't understand you. They had turned into a broader thoroughfare, which, however, was less frequented at this hour. Reardon, his hands thrust into the pockets of a shabby overcoat, and his head bent forward, went on at a slow pace, observant of nothing. For a moment or two he delayed reply, then said in an unsteady voice, Your way of talking has always been to glorify success, to insist upon it as the one end a man ought to keep in view. If you had talked so to me alone, it wouldn't have mattered, but there was generally someone else present. Your words had their effect, I can see that now. It's very much owing to you that I am deserted, now that there's no hope of my ever succeeding. Jasper's first impulse was to meet this accusation with indignant denial, but a sense of compassion prevailed. It was so painful to see the defeated man, wandering at night near the house where his wife and child were comfortably sheltered, and the tone in which he spoke revealed such profound misery. That's the most astonishing thing to say, Jasper replied. Of course I know nothing of what has passed between you and your wife, but I feel certain that I have no more to do with what has happened than any other of your acquaintances. You may feel as certain as you will, but your words and your example have influenced my wife against me. You didn't intend that. I don't suppose it for a moment. It's my misfortune, that's all. That I intended nothing of the kind you need hardly say. I should think. But you are deceiving yourself in the strangest way. I'm afraid to speak plainly. I'm afraid of offending you. But can you recall something that I said about the time of your marriage? You didn't like it then, and it certainly won't be pleasant to you to remember it now. If you mean that your wife has grown unkind to you because you are unfortunate, there's no need to examine into other people's influence for an explanation of that. Reardon turned his face towards the speaker. Then you have always regarded my wife as a woman likely to fail me in time of need. I don't care to answer a question put in that way. If we are no longer to talk with the old friendliness, it is far better we shouldn't discuss things such as this. Well, practically you have answered. Of course I remember those words of yours that you refer to. Whether you were right or wrong doesn't affect what I say. He spoke with a dull doggedness, as though a mental fatigue did not allow him to say more. It is impossible to argue against such a charge, said Milvane. I am convinced that it isn't true, and that's all I can answer. But perhaps you think this extraordinary influence of mine is still being used against you. I know nothing about it, Reardon replied, in the same unmodulated voice. Well, as I have told you, this was my first visit to Mrs. Ewell's since your wife has been there, and I didn't see her. She isn't very well, and keeps her room. I'm glad it happened so that I didn't meet her. Henceforth I shall keep away from the family altogether. So long. At all events, as your wife remains with them. Of course I shan't tell anyone why. That would be impossible. But you shan't have to fear that I am decrying you by Jove, a noble figure you make of me. I have said what I didn't wish to say, and what I oughtn't to have said. You must misunderstand me. I can't help it. Reardon had been walking for hours, and was, in truth, exhausted. He became mute. Jasper, whose misrepresentation was willful, though not maliciously so, also fell into silence. He did not believe that his conversations with Amy had so seriously affected the course of events. But he knew that he had often said things to her, in private, which would scarcely have fallen from his lips if her husband had been present. Little deprecatory phrases, wrong rather in tone than in terms, which came of his irresistible desire to assume superiority whenever it was possible. He, too, was weak, but with quite another kind of weakness than Reardon's. His was the weakness of vanity, which sometimes leads a man to commit treacheries of which he would believe himself incapable. Self-accused, he took refuge in the pretense of misconception, which again was a betrayal of littleness. They drew near to Westbourne Park Station. You are living a long way from here? Jasper said coldly. Are you going by train? No. You said my wife was ill? Oh, not ill, at least. I didn't understand that it was anything serious. Why don't you walk back to the house? I am a judge of my own affairs. True. I beg your pardon. I take the train here, so I'll say good night. They nodded to each other, but did not shake hands. A day or two later, Milvane wrote to Mrs. Ewell, 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 his way to a 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. Ewell's house. But once in July he met that lady at the Carter's and heard then what he knew from other sources that the position of things was unchanged. In August Mrs. Ewell spent a fortnight at the seaside and Amy accompanied her. Milvane and his sisters accepted an invitation to visit the friends at Waddleborough 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 Ewell, with his wife and daughter, rusticated somewhere in Kent. Dora and Marion 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 that we don't appreciate. But I have never known him to be 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 Maude 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 risk 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 riding 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 riding. On their return, the two girls made good progress with the book they were manufacturing for Mr. Jolly and Monk, and early in October it was finished. Dora was now riding little things for the English girl, and Maude 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 Mary and Yule for a companion she would have been quite content to spend her evenings at home. But Maude relished the introduction to strangers. She was admired and knew it. Prudence could not restrain her from buying a handsome redress than those she had brought from her country-home, and it irked her solely 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 shop around 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 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 so 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 Maude then? She went to go 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. Maude 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. Maude 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 the absent air which girls are want to assume when they touch on doubtful subjects. Harm? No. It is see in lively music, that's all. It's too later 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. Poo! 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. Welpdale is called to see you, sir. I mentioned, as Miss Mulvane 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. Welpdale presented himself. He entered with much more ceremony than when Mulvane was alone. On his visage was a grave respectfulness. His step was light, his whole bearing expressed diffidence and pleasurable anticipation. My younger sister, Welpdale, said Jasper with subdued amusement. The dealer, in literary advice, made a bow which did himself no discredit, and began to speak in a low, reverential tone, not at all disagreeable to the ear. His breeding and 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 is the manual going off, Mulvane 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 Mulvane? 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, Welpdale. Now that's horribly unkind of you, protested the other. You might have spared me this evening. But unfortunately it's quite true, Miss Mulvane. I pointed 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 Biffin? asked Jasper presently. He says he shall finish Mr. Bailey Groscher 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, Dull replied hesitatingly. The matter is so very gross. And the hero Groscher shouted Jasper mirthfully. Oh, but it's quite decent, only rather depressing. The decently ignoble, or the ignobely decent. Which is Biffin's formula. I saw him a week ago, and he looked hungrier than ever. But poor Reardon! I passed him at King's Cross not long ago. He didn't see me, walks with his eyes to the ground always, and I had 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 Reardon's. Nowadays he seldom heard either of husband or wife. The conversation that went on was so agreeable to Welpdale 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 continents a hope that he would again be privileged to meet Miss Dora Milvane. Not a bad fellow in his way, said Jasper when Dora and he were alone again. Not at all. She heard the story of Welpdale'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 he 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 girl's lodgings. Dora was about to use her latch-key, but Jasper checked in. 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 Maude 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 Maude, and Dora recognized 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 color than usual on her cheeks. How very 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 from 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. Ewell 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 it'll be the result of it, I wonder. When shall you be seeing Marion? asked her brother. She might come to-morrow 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. All tied to right Marion? asked Dora. No, I wouldn't, was Jasper's reply. Better wait till she lets you here. That's sure to be soon. She may have gone to Waddleborough this afternoon, or be going to-morrow morning. The letter from Miss 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 but take 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. End of Chapter 20. Recording by Emily Livingston. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. New Grub Street by George Gissing. Chapter 21. Part 1. Mr Yule Leaves Town. Since the domestic incidents connected with that unpleasant review in The Current, the relations between Alfred Yule and his daughter had suffered a permanent change, though not in a degree noticeable by anyone but the two concerned. To all appearances they worked together and conversed very much as they had been want to do, but Marion was made to feel in many subtle ways that her father no longer had complete confidence in her. No longer took the same pleasure as formerly in the skill and conscientiousness of her work, and Yule on his side perceived too clearly that the girl was preoccupied with something other than her old wish to aid and satisfy him, that she had a new life of her own, alien to, and in some respects irreconcilable with. The existence in which he desired to confirm her. There was no renewal of open disagreement, but their conversations frequently ended by tacit neutral consent at a point which threatened divergence, and in Yule's case every such warning was a cause of intense irritation. He feared to provoke Marion, and this fear was again a torture to his pride. Beyond the fact that his daughter was in constant communication with the Miss Milvains, he knew and could discover nothing of the terms on which she stood with the girl's brother, and this ignorance was harder to bear than full assurance of a disagreeable fact would have been. That a man like Jasper Milvain, whose name was every now and then forced upon his notice as a rising periodicalist and a faithful henchman of the unspeakable fadge, that a young fellow of such excellent prospects should seriously attach himself to a girl like Marion, seemed to him highly improbable, save indeed for the one consideration that Milvain, who assuredly had a very keen eye to chances, might regard the girl as a niece of old John Yule, and therefore worth holding in view until it was decided whether or not she would benefit by her uncle's decease. Fixed in his antipathy to the young man, he would not allow himself to admit any but a base motive on Milvain's side, if indeed Marion and Jasper were more to each other than slight acquaintances, and he persuaded himself that anxiety for the girl's welfare was at least as strong a motive with him as mere prejudice against the ally of fadge, and it might be the reviewer of English prose. Milvain was quite capable of playing fast and loose with a girl, and Marion, owing to the peculiar circumstances of her position, would easily be misled by the pretense of a clever speculator. That she had never spoken again about the review in the current might receive several explanations. Perhaps she had not been able to convince herself either for or against Milvain's authorship. Perhaps she had reason to suspect that the young man was the author. Perhaps she merely shrank from reviving a discussion in which she might betray what she desired to keep secret. This last was the truth. Finding that her father did not recur to the subject, Marion concluded that he had found himself to be misinformed. But Yule, though he heard the original rumour denied by people whom in other matters he would have trusted, would not lay aside the doubt that flattered his prejudices. If Milvain were not the writer of the review, he very well might have been, and what certainty could be arrived at in matters of literary gossip. There was an element of jealousy in the father's feeling. If he did not love Marion with all the warmth of which a parent is capable, at least he had more affection for her than for any other person, and of this he became strongly aware now that the girl seemed to be turning from him. If he lost Marion, he would indeed be a lonely man, for he considered his wife of no account. Intellectually again, he demanded an entire allegiance from his daughter. He could not bear to think that her zeal on his behalf was diminishing, that perhaps she was beginning to regard his work as futile and antiquated in comparison with that of the new generation. Yet this must needs be the result of frequent intercourse with such a man as Milvain. It seemed to him that he remarked it in her speech and manner, and at times he with difficulty restrained himself from a reproach or a sarcasm which would have led to trouble. Had he been in the habit of dealing harshly with Marion, as with her mother, of course his position would have been simpler. He had always respected her, and he feared to lose that measure of respect with which she repaid him. Already he had suffered in her esteem perhaps more than he liked to think, and the increasing embitterment of his temper kept him always in danger of the conflict he dreaded. Marion was not like her mother. She could not submit to tyrannous usage. Warned of that, he did his utmost to avoid an outbreak of discord, constantly hoping that he might come to understand his daughter's position and perhaps discover that his greatest fear was unfounded. Twice in the course of the summer he inquired of his wife whether she knew anything about the Milvains, but Mrs Yule was not in Marion's confidence. I only know that she goes to see the young ladies and that they do writing of some kind. She never even mentions their brother to you? However, I haven't heard his name from her since she told me the Miss Milvains weren't coming here again. He was not sorry that Marion had taken the decision to keep her friends away from St Paul's present, for it saved him a recurring annoyance. But on the other hand, if they had continued to come, he would not have been thus completely in the dark as to her intercourse with Jasper. Scraps of information must now and then have been gathered by his wife from the girls' talk. Throughout the month of July he suffered much from his wanted bilious attacks, and Mrs Yule had to endure a double share of his ill temper, that which was naturally directed against her and that of which Marion was the cause. In August things were slightly better, but with the return to labour came a renewal of Yule's sullenness and savageness. Sundry pieces of ill luck of a professional kind, warnings, as he too well understood, that it was growing more and more difficult for him to hold his own against the new writers, exasperated his quarrel with destiny. The gloom of a cold and stormy September was doubly wretched in that house on the far borders of Camden Town, but in October the sun reappeared and it seemed to modify the literary man's mood. Just when Mrs Yule and Marion began to hope that this long distemper must surely come to an end, there befell an incident which at the best of times would have occasioned misery and which in the present juncture proved disastrous. It was one morning about eleven. Yule was in his study. Marion was at the museum. Mrs Yule had gone shopping. There came a sharp knock at the front door and the servant, on opening, was confronted with a decently dressed woman who asked in a peremptory voice if Mrs Yule was at home. No, then is Mr Yule? Yes, Mum, but I'm afraid he's busy. I don't care, I must see him, say that Mrs Gobi wants to see him at once. The servant, not without apprehensions, delivered this message at the door of the study. Mrs Gobi? Who is Mrs Gobi? exclaimed the man of letters. I rate at the disturbance. There sounded an answer out of the passage for the visitor had followed close. I am Mrs Gobi of the Ollaway Road, wife of Mr C. O. Gobi Abbadasha. I just want to speak to you, Mr Yule, if you please, seeing that Mrs Yule isn't in. Yule started up in fury and stared at the woman to whom the servant had reluctantly given place. What business can you have with me? If you wish to see Mrs Yule, come again when she is at home. No, Mr Yule, I will not come again, cried the woman red in the face. I thought I might have had respectable treatment here at all events, but I see you're pretty much like your relations in a way of behaving to people, though you do wear better clothes and I suppose call yourself a gentleman. I won't come again and you shall just hear what I've got to say. She closed the door violently and stood in an attitude of robust defiance. What's all this about? asked the enraged author, overcoming an impulse to take Mrs Gobi by the shoulders and throw her out, though he might have found some difficulty in achieving this feat. Who are you and why'd you come here with your brawling? I'm the respectable wife of a respectable man, that's who I am, Mr Yule, if you want to know, and I always thought Mrs Yule was the same. From the dealings we've had with her at the shop, though not knowing any more of her, it's true except that she lived in St Paul's Crescent and so she may be respectable, though I can't say as her husband behaves himself very much like what he pretends to be, but I can't say as much for her relations in Perker Street, Ollaway, which I suppose they're your relations as well, at least by marriage, but they think they're going to insult me and use their black-eyed tongues. What are you talking about? shouted Yule, who was driven to frenzy by the mention of his wife's humble family. What have I to do with these people? What have you to do with them? I suppose they're your relations, ain't they? And I suppose the girl and he raddies your niece, ain't she? At least she's your wife's niece, and that comes to the same thing I've always understood, but I can't say a gentleman as has so many books about him can correct me if I've made a mistake. She looked scornfully, but also with some surprise round the volumed walls. And what of this girl? Will you have the goodness to say what your business is? Yes, I will have the goodness. I suppose you know very well that I took your niece, and he rad as a domestic servant. She repeated this precise definition as a domestic servant because Mrs Yule happened to ask me if I knew of a place for a girl of that kind as hadn't been out before but could be trusted to do her best to give satisfaction to a good mistress. I suppose you know that. I know nothing of the kind. What have I to do with servants? Well, whether you've much to do with them all little, that's how it was. And nicely, she's paid me out as your niece, Miss Rudd, of all the trouble I've ever had with a girl. And now she's run away back home and when I take the trouble to go after her, I'm to be insulted and abused as never was. Oh, they're a nice respectable family, those Rudds. Mrs Rudd, that's Mrs Yule's sister. What a nice polite spoken lady she is to be sure. If I was to repeat the language, but there, I wouldn't lower myself. And I've been a brute of a mistress. I ill use my servants and I don't give them enough to eat and I pay them worse than any woman in London. That's what I've learnt about myself by going to Perka Street all the way. And when I come here to ask Mrs Yule what she means by recommending such a creature from such a home, I get insulted by a gentleman husband. Yule was livid with rage, but the extremity of his scorn withheld him from utterance of what he felt. As I said, all this has nothing to do with me. I will let Mrs Yule know that you have called. I have no more time to spare. Mrs Gobi repeated at still greater length the details of her grievance, but long before she had finished, Yule was sitting again at his desk in ostentatious disregard of her. Finally the exasperated woman flung open the door, railed in a loud voice along the passage and left the house with an alarming crash. It was not long before Mrs Yule returned. Before taking off her things she went down into the kitchen with certain purchases and there she learnt from the servant what had happened during her absence. Fear and trembling possessed her. The sick faint dread always excited by her husband's wrath, but she felt obliged to go at once to the study. The scene that took place there was one of ignoble violence on Yule's part and, on that of his wife, of terrified self-accusation, changing at length to dolerous resentment of the harshness with which she was treated. When it was over, Yule took his hat and went out. He did not return for the midday meal and when Marion, late in the afternoon, came back from the museum he was still absent. Not finding her mother in the parlour, Marion called at the head of the kitchen stairs. The servant answered, saying that Mrs Yule was up in her bedroom and that she didn't seem well. Marion at once went up and knocked at the bedroom door. In a moment or two her mother came out, showing a face of tearful misery. What is it, mother? What's the matter? They went into Marion's room where Mrs Yule gave free utterance to her lamentations. I can't put up with it, Marion. Your father is too hard with me. I was wrong, I daresay, and I might have known what would have come of it, but he couldn't speak to me worse if I did him all the harm I could on purpose. It's all about Annie because I found a place for her at Mrs Gobi's in the Ollaway Road and now Mrs Gobi's been here and seen your father and told him she's been insulted by the rugs because Annie went off home and she went after her to make inquiries. And your father's in such a passion about it as never was. The woman Mrs Gobi rushed into the study when he was working. It was this morning when I happened to be out and she throws all the blame on me for recommending her such a girl and I did it for the best, that I did. Annie promised me faithfully she'd behave well and never give me trouble and she seemed thankful to me because she wasn't happy at home. And now to think of her causing all this disturbance I ought to have done such a thing without speaking about it to your father but you know how afraid I am to say a word to him about those people. When my sister's told me so often I ought to be ashamed of myself never helping her and her children she thinks I could do such a lot if only I liked. And now that I did try to do something see what comes of it. Marian listened with a confusion of wretched feelings but her sympathies were strongly with her mother as well as she could understand the broken story her father seemed to have no just cause for his pitiless rage though such an occasion would be likely enough to bring out his worst faults. Is he in the study? she asked. No, he went out at 12 o'clock and he's never been back since I feel as if I must do something I can't bear with it Marian he tells me I'm the curse of his life yes he said that I ought to tell you I know I ought but it's more than I can bear I've always tried to do my best but it gets harder and harder for me but for me he'd never be in these bad tempers it's because he can't look at me without getting angry he says I've kept him back all through his life but for me he might have been far better off than he is it may be true I've often enough thought that but I can't bear to have it told me like that to see it in his face every time he looks at me I shall have to do something he'd be glad if only I was out of his way father has no right to make you so unhappy said Marian I can't see that you did anything blameworthy it seems to me that it was your duty to try and help Annie and if it turned out unfortunately that can't be helped you ought to think so much of what father says in his anger I believe he hardly knows what he does say don't take it so much to heart mother I've tried my best Marian sobbed the poor woman who felt that even her charred sympathy could not be perfect owing to the distance put between them by Marian's education and refined sensibilities I've always thought it wasn't right to talk to you about such things but he's been too hard with me today I think it was better you should tell me it can't go on like this I feel that just as you do I must tell father that he's making our lives a burden to us oh you mustn't speak to him like that Marian I wouldn't for anything make unkindness between you and your father that would be the worst thing I'd done yet I'd rather go away and work for my own living than make trouble between you and him it isn't you who make trouble it's father I ought to have spoken to him before this I had no right to stand by and see how much you suffered from his ill temper the longer they talked the firmer grew Marian's resolve to front her father's tyrannous ill humour and in one way or another to change the intolerable state of things she had been weak to hold her peace so long at her age it was a simple duty to interfere when her mother was treated with such a flagrant injustice her father's behaviour was unworthy of a thinking man it must be made to feel that End of Chapter 21 Part 1 Section 26 of New Grub Street Chapter 21 Part 2 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For further information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org New Grub Street by George Gissing Chapter 21 Part 2 Mr Yule leaves town Yule did not return dinner was delayed for half an hour then Marian declared that they would wait no longer they too made a sorry meal and afterwards went together into the sitting room at eight o'clock they heard the front door open and Yule's footstep in the passage Marian rose Don't speak till tomorrow whispered her mother catching at the girl's arm let it be till tomorrow Marian I must speak we can't live in this terror she reached the study just as her father was closing the door behind him Yule seeing her enter glared with bloodshot eyes shame and sullen anger were blended on his countenance will you tell me what is wrong father Marian asked in a voice which betrayed her nervous suffering yet indicated the result with which she had come I'm not at all disposed to talk of the matter he replied with the awkward rotundity of phrase which distinguished him in his worst humour for information you had better go to Mrs Gobi or a person of some such name in Holloway Road I have nothing more to do with it it was very unfortunate that the woman came and troubled you about such things but I can't see that mother was to blame I don't think you ought to be so angry with her it cost Marian a terrible effort to address her father in these terms when he turned fiercely upon her she shrank back and felt as if strength must fail her even to stand you can't see that she was to blame isn't it entirely against my wish that she keeps up any intercourse with these low people am I to be exposed to insulting disturbance in my very study because she chooses to introduce girls of bad character as servants to vulgar women I don't think any rud can be called a girl of bad character and it was very natural that mother should try to do something for her you have never actually forbidden her to see her relatives a thousand times I have given her to understand that I utterly disapproved of such association she knew perfectly well that this girl was as likely as not to discredit her if she had consulted me I should at once have forbidden anything of the kind she was aware of that she kept it secret from me knowing that it would excite my displeasure I will not be drawn into such squalid affairs I won't have my name spoken in such connection your mother has only herself to blame if I am angry with her your anger goes beyond all bounds at the very worst mother behaved imprudently and with a very good motive it is cruel that you should make her suffer as she is doing Marion was being strengthened to resist her blood grew hot the sensation which once before had brought her to the verge of conflict with her father possessed her heart and brain you are not a suitable judge of my behaviour replied you severely I am driven to speak we can't go on living in this way father for months our home has been almost ceaselessly wretched because of the ill temper you are always in mother and I must defend ourselves we can't bear it any longer you must surely feel how ridiculous it is to make such a thing as happened this morning the excuse for violent anger how can I help judging your behaviour when mother is brought to the point of saying that she would rather leave home and everything than endure her misery any longer I should be wrong if I didn't speak to you why are you so unkind what serious cause has mother ever given you I refuse to argue such questions with you then you are very unjust I am not a child and there's nothing wrong in my asking you why home is made a place of misery instead of being what home ought to be you prove that you are a child in asking for explanations which ought to be clear enough to you you mean that mother is to blame for everything the subject is no fit one to be discussed between a father and his daughter if you cannot see the impropriety of it be so good as to go away and reflect and leave me to my occupations Marian came to a pause but she knew that his rebuke was mere unworthy evasion she saw that her father could not meet her look and this perception of shame in him impelled her to finish what she had begun I will say nothing of mother then but speak only for myself I suffer too much from your unkindness you ask too much endurance you mean that I exact too much work from you asked her father with a look that might have been directed to a recalcitrant clerk no, but that you make the conditions of my work too hard I live in constant fear of your anger indeed when did I last ill use you or threaten you I often think that threats or even ill usage would be easier to bear than an unchanging gloom which always seems on the point of breaking into violence I'm obliged to you for your criticism of my disposition and manner but unhappily I'm too old to reform life has made me what I am and I should have thought that your knowledge of what my life has been would have gone far to excuse a lack of cheerfulness in me the irony of this laborious period was full of self-pity his voice quavered at the close and a tremor was noticeable in his stiff frame it isn't lack of cheerfulness that I mean father that could never have brought me to speak like this if you wish me to admit that I am bad tempered sorely irritable I make no difficulty about that the charge is true enough I can only ask you again what are the circumstances that have ruined my temper when you present yourself here with a general accusation of my behaviour I am at a loss to understand what you ask of me what you wish me to say or do I must beg you to speak plainly are you suggesting that I should make provision for the support of you and your mother away from my intolerable proximity my income is not large as I think you are aware but of course if a demand of this kind is seriously made I must do my best to comply with it it hurts me very much that you can understand me no better than this I am sorry I think we used to understand each other but that was before you were subjected to the influence of strangers in his perverse frame of mind he was ready to give utterance to any thought which confused the point at issue this last allusion was suggested to him by a sudden pang of regret for the pain he was causing Marion he defended himself against self-reproach by hinting at the true reason of much of his harshness I am subjected to no influence that is hostile to you Marion replied you may think that but in such a matter it is very easy for you to deceive yourself of course I know what you refer to and I can assure you that I don't deceive myself you all flashed a searching glance at her can you deny that you are in terms of friendship with a person who would at any moment rejoice to injure me I am friendly with no such person will you say whom you are thinking of it would be useless I have no wish to discuss a subject on which we should only disagree unprofitably Marion kept silence for a moment then said in a low unsteady voice it is perhaps because we never speak of that subject that we are so far from understanding each other if you think that Mr. Milvane is your enemy that he would rejoice to injure you you are grievously mistaken when I see a man in close alliance with my worst enemy and look into that enemy for favour I am justified in thinking that he would injure me if the right kind of opportunity offered one need not be very deeply read in human nature to have assurance of that but I know Mr. Milvane you know him far better than you can I am sure you draw conclusions from general principles but I know that they don't apply in this case I have no doubt you sincerely think so I repeat that nothing can be gained by such a discussion as this one thing I must tell you there was no truth in your suspicion that Mr. Milvane wrote that review in the current he assured me himself that he was not the writer that he had nothing to do with it you all look to skance at her and his face displayed solicitude which soon passed however into a smile of sarcasm the gentleman's word no doubt has weight with you father what do you mean? wrote from Marion whose eyes have a sudden flashed stormily would Mr. Milvane tell me a lie? I shouldn't like to say that it is impossible replied her father in the same tone as before but what right have you to insult him so grossly? I have every right my dear child to express an opinion about him or any other man provided I do it honestly I beg you not to strike attitudes and address me in the language of the stage you insist on my speaking plainly and I have spoken plainly I warn you that we were not likely to agree on this topic literary quarrels have made you incapable of judging honestly in things such as this I wish I could have done forever with the hateful profession that so poisons men's minds believe me my girl said her father incisively the simpler thing would be to hold aloof from such people as use the profession in a spirit of unalloyed selfishness who seek only material advancement and who whatever connection they form have nothing but self-interest in view that he glared at her with such meaning Marian both had remained standing all through the dialogue cast down her eyes and became lost in brooding I speak with profound conviction pursued her father and however little you credit me with such a motive out of desire to guard you against the dangers to which your inexperience is exposed it is perhaps as well that you have afforded me this there sounded at the house door that duplicated double knock which generally announces the bearer of a telegram Yule interrupted himself and stood in an attitude of waiting the servant was heard to go along the passage to open the door and then returned towards the study yes it was a telegram such dispatches rarely came to this house Yule tore the envelope, read its contents and stood with gaze fixed upon the slip of paper until the servant inquired if there was any reply for the boy to take with him no reply he slowly crumpled the envelope and stepped aside to throw it into the paper basket the telegram he laid on his desk Marian stood all the time with bent head he now looked at her with an expression of meditative displeasure I don't know that there's much good in resuming our conversation he said in quite a changed tone as if something of more importance had taken possession of his thoughts that had made him almost indifferent to the past dispute but of course I'm quite willing to hear anything you would still like to say Marian had lost her vehemence she was absent and melancholy I can only ask you she replied to try and make life less of a burden to us I shall have to leave town tomorrow for a few days no doubt it will be some satisfaction to you to hear that Marian's eyes turned involuntarily towards the telegram as for your occupation in my absence he went on in a hard tone which yet had something tremulous, emotional making it quite different from the voice he had hitherto used that will be entirely a matter for your own judgement I have felt for some time that you assisted me with less goodwill than formerly and now that you have frankly admitted it I shall of course have very little satisfaction in requesting your aid I must leave it to you, consult your own inclination it was resentful but not savage between the beginning and the end of his speech and often to a sort of self-satisfied pathos I can't pretend, replied Marian that I have as much pleasure in the work as I should have if your mood were gentler I'm 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 the exchange 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 ejected 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 morning it would be decent for you to wear you must consult with your mother about that that is all I wish 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 you all left the house without leave taking soon after his departure there was a visitors rat tat at the door it heralded Mrs. Gobi 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. Gobi 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 today dear? enough for the present I think she laid down her pen and lent 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 meant happen a 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 on 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 this 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'd be such kind a 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 to be amongst all his disappointments and battlings don't be afraid of that change but hope for it Mrs. Yule go a trouble 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 beat a father just because of me he might not be able to use his money as he'd wish he'd always be feeling that if it wasn't for me it would be so much better for him and for you as well you must remember Marion 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 but in this anxious way mother if we are to be rich it will be better for all of us Marion 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 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 to labour upon this article she was manufacturing she did not think it probable that she herself would benefit directly by John Yel'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 Milvane 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 to 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 you were able to found a magazine had she read or heard of a girl who went so far in concessions Marion 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 Marion wrote to Dora Milvane 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 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 Marion was unable to play the part of an encourager she had never known such exclusiveness of self-occupation Ewell'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 Marion had come out of the study just in time to see him up on the first landing at the same moment Mrs Ewell ascended from the kitchen wasn't that father yes he has gone up did he say anything they looked at the travelling bag then went into the parlour and waited in silence for more than a quarter of an hour Ewell's foot was heard on the stairs he came down slowly paused in the passage entered the parlour with his usual grave cold countenance and of chapter 21 part 2 and of chapter 21