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

mistrust me, I suppose, is natural. You are young, and I am old. You are still full of hope, and I have been so often deceived and defeated that I dare not let a ray of hope enter my mind. Judge me; judge me as hardly as you like. My life has been one long, bitter struggle, and if now⁠—. I say,” he began a new sentence, “that only the hard side of life has been shown to me; small wonder if I have become hard myself. Desert me; go your own way, as the young always do. But bear in mind my warning. Remember the caution I have given you.”

He spoke in a strangely sudden agitation. The arm with which he leaned upon the table trembled violently. After a moment’s pause he added, in a thick voice:

“Leave me. I will speak to you again in the morning.”

Impressed in a way she did not understand, Marian at once obeyed, and rejoined her mother in the parlour. Mrs. Yule gazed anxiously at her as she entered.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Marian, with difficulty bringing herself to speak. “I think it will be better.”

“Was that a telegram that came?” her mother inquired after a silence.

“Yes. I don’t know where it was from. But father said he would have to leave town for a few days.”

They exchanged looks.

“Perhaps your uncle is very ill,” said the mother in a low voice.

“Perhaps so.”

The evening passed drearily. Fatigued with her emotions, Marian went early to bed; she even slept later than usual in the morning, and on descending she found her father already at the breakfast-table. No greeting passed, and there was no conversation during the meal. Marian noticed that her mother kept glancing at her in a peculiarly grave way; but she felt ill and dejected, and could fix her thoughts on no subject. As he left the table Yule said to her:

“I want to speak to you for a moment. I shall be in the study.”

She joined him there very soon. He looked coldly at her, and said in a distant tone:

“The telegram last night was to tell me that your uncle is dead.”

“Dead!”

“He died of apoplexy, at a meeting in Wattleborough. I shall go down this morning, and of course remain till after the funeral. I see no necessity for your going, unless, of course, it is your desire to do so.”

“No; I should do as you wish.”

“I think you had better not go to the Museum whilst I am away. You will occupy yourself as you think fit.”

“I shall go on with the Harrington notes.”

“As you please. I don’t know what mourning it would be decent for you to wear; you must consult with your mother about that. That is all I wished to say.”

His tone was dismissal. Marian had a struggle with herself but she could find nothing to reply to his cold phrases. And an hour or two afterwards Yule left the house without leave-taking.

Soon after his departure there was a visitor’s rat-tat at the door; it heralded Mrs. Goby. In the interview which then took place Marian assisted her mother to bear the vigorous onslaughts of the haberdasher’s wife. For more than two hours Mrs. Goby related her grievances, against the fugitive servant, against Mrs. Yule, against Mr. Yule; meeting with no irritating opposition, she was able in this space of time to cool down to the temperature of normal intercourse, and when she went forth from the house again it was in a mood of dignified displeasure which she felt to be some recompense for the injuries of yesterday.

A result of this annoyance was to postpone conversation between mother and daughter on the subject of John Yule’s death until a late hour of the afternoon. Marian was at work in the study, or endeavouring to work, for her thoughts would not fix themselves on the matter in hand for many minutes together, and Mrs. Yule came in with more than her customary diffidence.

“Have you nearly done for today, dear?”

“Enough for the present, I think.”

She laid down her pen, and leant back in the chair.

“Marian, do you think your father will be rich?”

“I have no idea, mother. I suppose we shall know very soon.”

Her tone was dreamy. She seemed to herself to be speaking of something which scarcely at all concerned her, of vague possibilities which did not affect her habits of thought.

“If that happens,” continued Mrs. Yule, in a low tone of distress, “I don’t know what I shall do.”

Marian looked at her questioningly.

“I can’t wish that it mayn’t happen,” her mother went on; “I can’t, for his sake and for yours; but I don’t know what I shall do. He’d think me more in his way than ever. He’d wish to have a large house, and live in quite a different way; and how could I manage then? I couldn’t show myself; he’d be too much ashamed of me. I shouldn’t be in my place; even you’d feel ashamed of me.”

“You mustn’t say that, mother. I have never given you cause to think that.”

“No, my dear, you haven’t; but it would be only natural. I couldn’t live the kind of life that you’re fit for. I shall be nothing but a hindrance and a shame to both of you.”

“To me you would never be either hindrance or shame; be quite sure of that. And as for father, I am all but certain that, if he became rich, he would be a very much kinder man, a better man in every way. It is poverty that has made him worse than he naturally is; it has that effect on almost everybody. Money does harm, too, sometimes; but never, I think, to people who have a good heart and a strong mind. Father is naturally a warmhearted man; riches would bring out all the best in him. He would be generous again, which he has almost forgotten how to be among all his disappointments and battlings. Don’t be afraid of that change, but hope for it.”

Mrs. Yule gave