One day at the end of the month she sat with books open before her, but by no effort could fix her attention upon them. It was gloomy, and one could scarcely see to read; a taste of fog grew perceptible in the warm, headachy air. Such profound discouragement possessed her that she could not even maintain the pretence of study; heedless whether anyone observed her, she let her hands fall and her head droop. She kept asking herself what was the use and purpose of such a life as she was condemned to lead. When already there was more good literature in the world than any mortal could cope with in his lifetime, here was she exhausting herself in the manufacture of printed stuff which no one even pretended to be more than a commodity for the days market. What unspeakable folly! To writewas not that the joy and the privilege of one who had an urgent message for the world?
Her father, she knew well, had no such message; he had abandoned all thought of original production, and only wrote about writing.
She herself would throw away her pen with joy but for the need of earning money. And all these people about her, what aim had they save to make new books out of those already existing, that yet newer books might in turn be made out of theirs? This huge library, growing into unwieldiness, threatening to become a trackless desert of printhow intolerably it weighed upon the spirit!
Oh, to go forth and labour with ones hands, to do any poorest, commonest work of which the world had truly need! It was ignoble to sit here and support the paltry pretence of intellectual dignity. A few days ago her startled eye had caught an advertisement in the newspaper, headed Literary Machine; had it then been invented at last, some automaton to supply the place of such poor creatures as herself to turn out books and articles? Alas! the machine was only one for holding volumes conveniently, that the work of literary manufacture might be physically lightened. But surely before long some Edison would make the true automaton; the problem must be comparatively such a simple one. Only to throw in a given number of old books, and have them reduced, blended, modernised into a single one for to-days consumption.
The fog grew thicker; she looked up at the windows beneath the dome and saw that they were a dusky yellow. Then her eye discerned an official walking along the upper gallery, and in pursuance of her grotesque humour, her mocking misery, she likened him to a black, lost soul, doomed to wander in an eternity of vain research along endless shelves. Or again, the readers who sat here at these radiating lines of desks, what were they but hapless flies caught in a huge web, its nucleus the great circle of the Catalogue? Darker, darker. From the towering wall of volumes seemed to emanate visible motes, intensifying the obscurity; in a moment the book-lined circumference of the room would be but a featureless prison-limit.
But then flashed forth the sputtering whiteness of the electric light, and its ceaseless hum was henceforth a new source of headache. It reminded her how little work she had done to-day; she must, she must force herself to think of the task in hand. A machine has no business to refuse its duty. But the pages were blue and green and yellow before her eyes; the uncertainty of the light was intolerable. Right or wrong she would go home, and hide herself, and let her heart unburden itself of tears.
On her way to return books she encountered Jasper Milvain. Face to face; no possibility of his avoiding her.
And indeed he seemed to have no such wish. His countenance lighted up with unmistakable pleasure.
At last we meet, as they say in the melodramas. Oh, do let me help you with those volumes, which wont even let you shake hands. How do you do? How do you like this weather? And how do you like this light?
Its very bad.
Thatll do both for weather and light, but not for yourself. How glad I am to see you! Are you just going?
Yes.
I have scarcely been here half-a-dozen times since I came back to London.
But you are writing still?
Oh yes! But I draw upon my genius, and my stores of observation, and the living world.
Marian received her vouchers for the volumes, and turned to face Jasper again. There was a smile on her lips.
The fog is terrible, Milvain went on. How do you get home?
By omnibus from Tottenham Court Road.
Then do let me go a part of the way with you. I live in Mornington Roadup yonder, you know. I have only just come in to waste half an hour, and after all I think I should be better at home. Your father is all right, I hope?
He is not quite well.
Im sorry to hear that. You are not exactly up to the mark, either. What weather! What a place to live in, this London, in winter! It would be a little better down at Finden.
A good deal better, I should think. If the weather were bad, it would be bad in a natural way; but this is artificial misery.
I dont let it affect me much, said Milvain. Just of late I have been in remarkably good spirits. Im doing a lot of work. No end of workmore than Ive ever done.
I am very glad.
Where are your out-of-door things? I think theres a ladies vestry somewhere, isnt there?
Oh yes.
Then will you go and get ready? Ill wait for you in the hall. But, by-the-bye, I am taking it for granted that you were going alone.
I was, quite alone.
The quite seemed excessive; it made Jasper smile.
And also, he added, that I shall not annoy you by offering my company?
Why should it annoy me?
Good!
Milvain had only to wait a minute or two. He surveyed Marian from head to foot when she appearedan impertinence as unintentional as that occasionally noticeable in his speechand smiled approval. They went out into the fog, which was not one of Londons densest, but made walking disagreeable enough.
You have heard from the girls, I think? Jasper resumed.
Your sisters? Yes; they have been so kind as to write to me.
Told you all about their great work? I hope itll be finished by the end of the year. The bits they have sent me will do very well indeed. I knew they had it in them to put sentences together. Now I want them to think of patching up something or other for The English Girl; you know the paper?
I have heard of it.
I happen to know Mrs Boston Wright, who edits it. Met her at a house the other day, and told her frankly that she would have to give my sisters something to do. Its the only way to get on; one has to take it for granted that people are willing to help you. I have made a host of new acquaintances just lately.
Im glad to hear it, said Marian.
Do you knowbut how should you? I am going to write for the new magazine, The Current.
Indeed!
Edited by that man Fadge.
Yes.
Your father has no affection for him, I know.
He has no reason to have, Mr Milvain.
No, no. Fadge is an offensive fellow, when he likes; and I fancy he very often does like. Well, I must make what use of him I can.
You wont think worse of me because I write for him?
I know that one cant exercise choice in such things.
True. I shouldnt like to think that you regard me as a Fadge-like individual, a natural Fadgeite.
Marian laughed.
True. I shouldnt like to think that you regard me as a Fadge-like individual, a natural Fadgeite.
Marian laughed.
Theres no danger of my thinking that.
But the fog was making their eyes water and getting into their throats. By when they reached Tottenham Court Road they were both thoroughly uncomfortable. The bus had to be waited for, and in the meantime they talked scrappily, coughily. In the vehicle things were a little better, but here one could not converse with freedom.
What pestilent conditions of life! exclaimed Jasper, putting his face rather near to Marians. I wish to goodness we were back in those quiet fieldsyou remember?with the September sun warm about us. Shall you go to Finden again before long?
I really dont know.
Im sorry to say my mother is far from well. In any case I must go at Christmas, but Im afraid it wont be a cheerful visit.
Arrived in Hampstead Road he offered his hand for good-bye.
I wanted to talk about all sorts of things. But perhaps I shall find you again some day.
He jumped out, and waved his hat in the lurid fog.
Shortly before the end of December appeared the first number of The Current. Yule had once or twice referred to the forthcoming magazine with acrid contempt, and of course he did not purchase a copy.
So young Milvain has joined Fadges hopeful standard, he remarked, a day or two later, at breakfast. They say his paper is remarkably clever; I could wish it had appeared anywhere else.
Evil communications, &c.
But I shouldnt think theres any personal connection, said Marian.
Very likely not. But Milvain has been invited to contribute, you see.
Do you think he ought to have refused?
Oh no. Its nothing to me; nothing whatever.
Mrs Yule glanced at her daughter, but Marian seemed unconcerned. The subject was dismissed. In introducing it Yule had had his purpose; there had always been an unnatural avoidance of Milvains name in conversation, and he wished to have an end of this. Hitherto he had felt a troublesome uncertainty regarding his position in the matter. From what his wife had told him it seemed pretty certain that Marian was disappointed by the abrupt closing of her brief acquaintance with the young man, and Yules affection for his daughter caused him to feel uneasy in the thought that perhaps he had deprived her of a chance of happiness. His conscience readily took hold of an excuse for justifying the course he had followed. Milvain had gone over to the enemy. Whether or not the young man understood how relentless the hostility was between Yule and Fadge mattered little; the probability was that he knew all about it. In any case intimate relations with him could not have survived this alliance with Fadge, so that, after all, there had been wisdom in letting the acquaintance lapse. To be sure, nothing could have come of it. Milvain was the kind of man who weighed opportunities; every step he took would be regulated by considerations of advantage; at all events that was the impression his character had made upon Yule. Any hopes that Marian might have been induced to form would assuredly have ended in disappointment. It was kindness to interpose before things had gone so far.
Henceforth, if Milvains name was unavoidable, it should be mentioned just like that of any other literary man. It seemed very unlikely indeed that Marian would continue to think of him with any special and personal interest. The fact of her having got into correspondence with his sisters was unfortunate, but this kind of thing rarely went on for very long.
Yule spoke of the matter with his wife that evening.
By-the-bye, has Marian heard from those girls at Finden lately?
She had a letter one afternoon last week.
Do you see these letters?
No; she told me what was in them at first, but now she doesnt.
She hasnt spoken to you again of Milvain?
Not a word.
Well, I understood what I was about, Yule remarked, with the confident air of one who doesnt wish to remember that he had ever felt doubtful. There was no good in having the fellow here.
He has got in with a set that I dont at all care for. If she ever says anythingyou understandyou can just let me know.
Marian had already procured a copy of The Current, and read it privately. Of the cleverness of Milvains contribution there could be no two opinions; it drew the attention of the public, and all notices of the new magazine made special reference to this article. With keen interest Marian sought after comments of the press; when it was possible she cut them out and put them carefully away.
January passed, and February. She saw nothing of Jasper. A letter from Dora in the first week of March made announcement that the Childs History of the English Parliament would be published very shortly; it told her, too, that Mrs Milvain had been very ill indeed, but that she seemed to recover a little strength as the weather improved. Of Jasper there was no mention.
A week later came the news that Mrs Milvain had suddenly died.
This letter was received at breakfast-time. The envelope was an ordinary one, and so little did Marian anticipate the nature of its contents that at the first sight of the words she uttered an exclamation of pain. Her father, who had turned from the table to the fireside with his newspaper, looked round and asked what was the matter.
Mrs Milvain died the day before yesterday.
Indeed!
He averted his face again and seemed disposed to say no more. But in a few moments he inquired:
What are her daughters likely to do?
I have no idea.
Do you know anything of their circumstances?
I believe they will have to depend upon themselves.
Nothing more was said. Afterwards Mrs Yule made a few sympathetic inquiries, but Marian was very brief in her replies.
Ten days after that, on a Sunday afternoon when Marian and her mother were alone in the sitting-room, they heard the knock of a visitor at the front door. Yule was out, and there was no likelihood of the visitors wishing to see anyone but him. They listened; the servant went to the door, and, after a murmur of voices, came to speak to her mistress.
Its a gentleman called Mr Milvain, the girl reported, in a way that proved how seldom callers presented themselves. He asked for Mr Yule, and when I said he was out, then he asked for Miss Yule. Mother and daughter looked anxiously at each other. Mrs Yule was nervous and helpless.
Show Mr Milvain into the study, said Marian, with sudden decision.
Are you going to see him there? asked her mother in a hurried whisper.
I thought you would prefer that to his coming in here.
Yesyes. But suppose father comes back before hes gone?
What will it matter? You forget that he asked for father first.
Oh yes! Then dont wait.
Marian, scarcely less agitated than her mother, was just leaving the room, when she turned back again.
If father comes in, you will tell him before he goes into the study?
Yes, I will.
The fire in the study was on the point of extinction; this was the first thing Marians eye perceived on entering, and it gave her assurance that her father would not be back for some hours. Evidently he had intended it to go out; small economies of this kind, unintelligible to people who have always lived at ease, had been the life-long rule with him. With a sensation of gladness at having free time before her, Marian turned to where Milvain was standing, in front of one of the bookcases. He wore no symbol of mourning, but his countenance was far graver than usual, and rather paler. They shook hands in silence.