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

not quite so far away as St. Paul’s Crescent; they rented four rooms, one of which had to serve both as Alfred Yule’s sitting-room and for the gatherings of the family at meals. Mrs. Yule generally sat in the kitchen, and Marian used her bedroom as a study. About half the collection of books had been sold; those that remained were still a respectable library, almost covering the walls of the room where their disconsolate possessor passed his mournful days.

He could read for a few hours a day, but only large type, and fear of consequences kept him well within the limit of such indulgence laid down by his advisers. Though he inwardly spoke as if his case were hopeless, Yule was very far from having resigned himself to this conviction; indeed, the prospect of spending his latter years in darkness and idleness was too dreadful to him to be accepted so long as a glimmer of hope remained. He saw no reason why the customary operation should not restore him to his old pursuits, and he would have borne it ill if his wife or daughter had ever ceased to oppose the despair which it pleased him to affect.

On the whole, he was noticeably patient. At the time of their removal to these lodgings, seeing that Marian prepared herself to share the change as a matter of course, he let her do as she would without comment; nor had he since spoken to her on the subject which had proved so dangerous. Confidence between them there was none; Yule addressed his daughter in a grave, cold, civil tone, and Marian replied gently, but without tenderness. For Mrs. Yule the disaster to the family was distinctly a gain; she could not but mourn her husband’s affliction, yet he no longer visited her with the fury or contemptuous impatience of former days. Doubtless the fact of needing so much tendance had its softening influence on the man; he could not turn brutally upon his wife when every hour of the day afforded him some proof of her absolute devotion. Of course his open-air exercise was still unhindered, and in this season of the returning sun he walked a great deal, decidedly to the advantage of his general health⁠—which again must have been a source of benefit to his temper. Of evenings, Marian sometimes read to him. He never requested this, but he did not reject the kindness.

This afternoon Marian found her father examining a volume of prints which had been lent him by Mr. Quarmby. The table was laid for dinner (owing to Marian’s frequent absence at the Museum, no change had been made in the order of meals), and Yule sat by the window, his book propped on a second chair. A whiteness in his eyes showed how the disease was progressing, but his face had a more wholesome colour than a year ago.

“Mr. Hinks and Mr. Gorbutt inquired very kindly after you today,” said the girl, as she seated herself.

“Oh, is Hinks out again?”

“Yes, but he looks very ill.”

They conversed of such matters until Mrs. Yule⁠—now her own servant⁠—brought in the dinner. After the meal, Marian was in her bedroom for about an hour; then she went to her father, who sat in idleness, smoking.

“What is your mother doing?” he asked, as she entered.

“Some needlework.”

“I had perhaps better say”⁠—he spoke rather stiffly, and with averted face⁠—“that I make no exclusive claim to the use of this room. As I can no longer pretend to study, it would be idle to keep up the show of privacy that mustn’t be disturbed. Perhaps you will mention to your mother that she is quite at liberty to sit here whenever she chooses.”

It was characteristic of him that he should wish to deliver this permission by proxy. But Marian understood how much was implied in such an announcement.

“I will tell mother,” she said. “But at this moment I wished to speak to you privately. How would you advise me to invest my money?”

Yule looked surprised, and answered with cold dignity.

“It is strange that you should put such a question to me. I should have supposed your interests were in the hands of⁠—of some competent person.”

“This will be my private affair, father. I wish to get as high a rate of interest as I safely can.”

“I really must decline to advise, or interfere in any way. But, as you have introduced this subject, I may as well put a question which is connected with it. Could you give me any idea as to how long you are likely to remain with us?”

“At least a year,” was the answer, “and very likely much longer.”

“Am I to understand, then, that your marriage is indefinitely postponed?”

“Yes, father.”

“And will you tell me why?”

“I can only say that it has seemed better⁠—to both of us.”

Yule detected the sorrowful emotion she was endeavouring to suppress. His conception of Milvain’s character made it easy for him to form a just surmise as to the reasons for this postponement; he was gratified to think that Marian might learn how rightly he had judged her wooer, and an involuntary pity for the girl did not prevent his hoping that the detestable alliance was doomed. With difficulty he refrained from smiling.

“I will make no comment on that,” he remarked, with a certain emphasis. “But do you imply that this investment of which you speak is to be solely for your own advantage?”

“For mine, and for yours and mother’s.”

There was a silence of a minute or two. As yet it had not been necessary to take any steps for raising money, but a few months more would see the family without resources, save those provided by Marian, who, without discussion, had been simply setting aside what she received for her work.

“You must be well aware,” said Yule at length, “that I cannot consent to benefit by any such offer. When it is necessary, I shall borrow on the security of⁠—”

“Why should you do that, father?” Marian interrupted. “My money is yours. If