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

I wrong in thinking that the proprietor of this periodical would willingly grant a small annuity to the man who had firmly established it?”

“I see the force of all that,” said Marian; “but it takes for granted that the periodical will be successful.”

“It does. In the hands of a publisher like Jedwood⁠—a vigorous man of the new school⁠—its success could scarcely be doubtful.”

“Do you think five thousand pounds would be enough to start such a review?”

“Well, I can say nothing definite on that point. For one thing, the coat must be made according to the cloth; expenditure can be largely controlled without endangering success. Then again, I think Jedwood would take a share in the venture. These are details. At present I only want to familiarise you with the thought that an investment of this sort will very probably offer itself to you.”

“It would be better if we called it a speculation,” said Marian, smiling uneasily.

Her one object at present was to oblige her father to understand that the suggestion by no means lured her. She could not tell him that what he proposed was out of the question, though as yet that was the light in which she saw it. His subtlety of approach had made her feel justified in dealing with him in a matter-of-fact way. He must see that she was not to be cajoled. Obviously, and in the nature of the case, he was urging a proposal in which he himself had all faith; but Marian knew his judgment was far from infallible. It mitigated her sense of behaving unkindly to reflect that in all likelihood this disposal of her money would be the worst possible for her own interests, and therefore for his. If, indeed, his dark forebodings were warranted, then upon her would fall the care of him, and the steadiness with which she faced that responsibility came from a hope of which she could not speak.

“Name it as you will,” returned her father, hardly suppressing a note of irritation. “True, every commercial enterprise is a speculation. But let me ask you one question, and beg you to reply frankly. Do you distrust my ability to conduct this periodical?”

She did. She knew that he was not in touch with the interests of the day, and that all manner of considerations akin to the prime end of selling his review would make him an untrustworthy editor.

But how could she tell him this?

“My opinion would be worthless,” she replied.

“If Jedwood were disposed to put confidence in me, you also would?”

“There’s no need to talk of that now, father. Indeed, I can’t say anything that would sound like a promise.”

He flashed a glance at her. Then she was more than doubtful?

“But you have no objection, Marian, to talk in a friendly way of a project that would mean so much to me?”

“But I am afraid to encourage you,” she replied, frankly. “It is impossible for me to say whether I can do as you wish, or not.”

“Yes, yes; I perfectly understand that. Heaven forbid that I should regard you as a child to be led independently of your own views and wishes! With so large a sum of money at stake, it would be monstrous if I acted rashly, and tried to persuade you to do the same. The matter will have to be most gravely considered.”

“Yes.” She spoke mechanically.

“But if only it should come to something! You don’t know what it would mean to me, Marian.”

“Yes, father; I know very well how you think and feel about it.”

“Do you?” He leaned forward, his features working under stress of emotion. “If I could see myself the editor of an influential review, all my bygone toils and sufferings would be as nothing; I should rejoice in them as the steps to this triumph. Meminisse juvabit! My dear, I am not a man fitted for subordinate places. My nature is framed for authority. The failure of all my undertakings rankles so in my heart that sometimes I feel capable of every brutality, every meanness, every hateful cruelty. To you I have behaved shamefully. Don’t interrupt me, Marian. I have treated you abominably, my child, my dear daughter⁠—and all the time with a full sense of what I was doing. That’s the punishment of faults such as mine. I hate myself for every harsh word and angry look I have given you; at the time, I hated myself!”

“Father⁠—”

“No, no; let me speak, Marian. You have forgiven me; I know it. You were always ready to forgive, dear. Can I ever forget that evening when I spoke like a brute, and you came afterwards and addressed me as if the wrong had been on your side? It burns in my memory. It wasn’t I who spoke; it was the demon of failure, of humiliation. My enemies sit in triumph, and scorn at me; the thought of it is infuriating. Have I deserved this? Am I the inferior of⁠—of those men who have succeeded and now try to trample on me? No! I am not! I have a better brain and a better heart!”

Listening to this strange outpouring, Marian more than forgave the hypocrisy of the last day or two. Nay, could it be called hypocrisy? It was only his better self declared at the impulse of a passionate hope.

“Why should you think so much of these troubles, father? Is it such a great matter that narrow-minded people triumph over you?”

“Narrow-minded?” He clutched at the word. “You admit they are that?”

“I feel very sure that Mr. Fadge is.”

“Then you are not on his side against me?”

“How could you suppose such a thing?”

“Well, well; we won’t talk of that. Perhaps it isn’t a great matter. No⁠—from a philosophical point of view, such things are unspeakably petty. But I am not much of a philosopher.” He laughed, with a break in his voice. “Defeat in life is defeat, after all; and unmerited failure is a bitter curse. You see, I am not too