New Grub Street, George Gissing [10 best books of all time TXT] 📗

Marian had just caught the far-off sound of the train. She looked eagerly, and in a few moments saw it approaching. The front of the engine blackened nearer and nearer, coming on with dread force and speed. A blinding rush, and there burst against the bridge a great volley of sunlit steam. Milvain and his companion ran to the opposite parapet, but already the whole train had emerged, and in a few seconds it had disappeared round a sharp curve. The leafy branches that grew out over the line swayed violently backwards and forwards in the perturbed air.

“If I were ten years younger,” said Jasper, laughing, “I should say that was jolly! It enspirits me. It makes me feel eager to go back and plunge into the fight again.”

“Upon me it has just the opposite effect,” fell from Marian, in very low tones.

“Oh, don’t say that! Well, it only means that you haven’t had enough holiday yet. I have been in the country more than a week; a few days more and I must be off. How long do you think of staying?”

“Not much more than a week, I think.”

“By the by, you are coming to have tea with us tomorrow,” Jasper remarked apropos of nothing. Then he returned to another subject that was in his thoughts.

“It was by a train like that that I first went up to London. Not really the first time; I mean when I went to live there, seven years ago. What spirits I was in! A boy of eighteen going to live independently in London; think of it!”

“You went straight from school?”

“I was for two years at Redmayne College after leaving Wattleborough Grammar School. Then my father died, and I spent nearly half a year at home. I was meant to be a teacher, but the prospect of entering a school by no means appealed to me. A friend of mine was studying in London for some Civil Service exam, so I declared that I would go and do the same thing.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Not I! I never worked properly for that kind of thing. I read voraciously, and got to know London. I might have gone to the dogs, you know; but by when I had been in London a year a pretty clear purpose began to form in me. Strange to think that you were growing up there all the time. I may have passed you in the street now and then.”

Marian laughed.

“And I did at length see you at the British Museum, you know.”

They turned a corner of the road, and came full upon Marian’s father, who was walking in this direction with eyes fixed upon the ground.

“So here you are!” he exclaimed, looking at the girl, and for the moment paying no attention to Jasper. “I wondered whether I should meet you.” Then, more dryly, “How do you do, Mr. Milvain?”

In a tone of easy indifference Jasper explained how he came to be accompanying Miss Yule.

“Shall I walk on with you, father?” Marian asked, scrutinising his rugged features.

“Just as you please; I don’t know that I should have gone much further. But we might take another way back.”

Jasper readily adapted himself to the wish he discerned in Mr. Yule; at once he offered leave-taking in the most natural way. Nothing was said on either side about another meeting.

The young man proceeded homewards, but, on arriving, did not at once enter the house. Behind the garden was a field used for the grazing of horses; he entered it by the unfastened gate, and strolled idly hither and thither, now and then standing to observe a poor worn-out beast, all skin and bone, which had presumably been sent here in the hope that a little more labour might still be exacted from it if it were suffered to repose for a few weeks. There were sores upon its back and legs; it stood in a fixed attitude of despondency, just flicking away troublesome flies with its grizzled tail.

It was teatime when he went in. Maud was not at home, and Mrs. Milvain, tormented by a familiar headache, kept her room; so Jasper and Dora sat down together. Each had an open book on the table; throughout the meal they exchanged only a few words.

“Going to play a little?” Jasper suggested when they had gone into the sitting-room.

“If you like.”

She sat down at the piano, whilst her brother lay on the sofa, his hands clasped beneath his head. Dora did not play badly, but an absentmindedness which was commonly observable in her had its effect upon the music. She at length broke off idly in the middle of a passage, and began to linger on careless chords. Then, without turning her head, she asked:

“Were you serious in what you said about writing storybooks?”

“Quite. I see no reason why you shouldn’t do something in that way. But I tell you what; when I get back, I’ll inquire into the state of the market. I know a man who was once engaged at Jolly & Monk’s⁠—the chief publishers of that kind of thing, you know; I must look him up⁠—what a mistake it is to neglect any acquaintance!⁠—and get some information out of him. But it’s obvious what an immense field there is for anyone who can just hit the taste of the new generation of Board school children. Mustn’t be too goody-goody; that kind of thing is falling out of date. But you’d have to cultivate a particular kind of vulgarity. There’s an idea, by the by. I’ll write a paper on the characteristics of that new generation; it may bring me a few guineas, and it would be a help to you.”

“But what do you know about the subject?” asked Dora doubtfully.

“What a comical question! It is my business to know something about every subject⁠—or to know where to get the knowledge.”

“Well,” said Dora, after a pause, “there’s no doubt Maud and I ought to think very seriously about the future. You are aware, Jasper, that mother has