New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

Mr. Milvain 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 looking to 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. Milvain!”

“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. Milvain wrote that review in The Current. He assured me himself that he was not the writer, that he had nothing to do with it.”

Yule looked askance 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?” broke from Marian, whose eyes of a sudden flashed stormily. “Would Mr. Milvain 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 warned 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.”

And he glared at her with much 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 return towards the study. Yes, it was a telegram. Such despatches 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 and had made him almost indifferent to the past dispute. “But of course I am 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 judgment. 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 he softened 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 am 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