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

sorts of superstitions⁠—belief in personal immortality, in superior beings, in⁠—all the rest of it. What we think of now is moral and intellectual and physical compatibility; I mean, if we are reasonable people.”

“And if we are not so unfortunate as to fall in love with an incompatible,” added Whelpdale, laughing.

“Well, that is a form of unreason⁠—a blind desire which science could explain in each case. I rejoice that I am not subject to that form of epilepsy.”

“You positively never were in love!”

“As you understand it, never. But I have felt a very distinct preference.”

“Based on what you think compatibility?”

“Yes. Not strong enough to make me lose sight of prudence and advantage. No, not strong enough for that.”

He seemed to be reassuring himself.

“Then of course that can’t be called love,” said Whelpdale.

“Perhaps not. But, as I told you, a preference of this kind can be heightened into emotion, if one chooses. In the case of which I am thinking it easily might be. And I think it very improbable indeed that I should repent it if anything led me to indulge such an impulse.”

Whelpdale smiled.

“This is very interesting. I hope it may lead to something.”

“I don’t think it will. I am far more likely to marry some woman for whom I have no preference, but who can serve me materially.”

“I confess that amazes me. I know the value of money as well as you do, but I wouldn’t marry a rich woman for whom I had no preference. By Jove, no!”

“Yes, yes. You are a consistent sentimentalist.”

“Doomed to perpetual disappointment,” said the other, looking disconsolately about the room.

“Courage, my boy! I have every hope that I shall see you marry and repent.”

“I admit the danger of that. But shall I tell you something I have observed? Each woman I fall in love with is of a higher type than the one before.”

Jasper roared irreverently, and his companion looked hurt.

“But I am perfectly serious, I assure you. To go back only three or four years. There was the daughter of my landlady in Barham Street; well, a nice girl enough, but limited, decidedly limited. Next came that girl at the stationer’s⁠—you remember? She was distinctly an advance, both in mind and person. Then there was Miss Embleton; yes, I think she made again an advance. She had been at Bedford College, you know, and was really a girl of considerable attainments; morally, admirable. Afterwards⁠—”

He paused.

“The maiden from Birmingham, wasn’t it?” said Jasper, again exploding.

“Yes, it was. Well, I can’t be quite sure. But in many respects that girl was my ideal; she really was.”

“As you once or twice told me at the time.”

“I really believe she would rank above Miss Embleton⁠—at all events from my point of view. And that’s everything, you know. It’s the effect a woman produces on one that has to be considered.”

“The next should be a paragon,” said Jasper.

“The next?”

Whelpdale again looked about the room, but added nothing, and fell into a long silence.

When left to himself Jasper walked about a little, then sat down at his writing-table, for he felt easier in mind, and fancied that he might still do a couple of hours’ work before going to bed. He did in fact write half-a-dozen lines, but with the effort came back his former mood. Very soon the pen dropped, and he was once more in the throes of anxious mental debate.

He sat till after midnight, and when he went to his bedroom it was with a lingering step, which proved him still a prey to indecision.

XXIII A Proposed Investment

Alfred Yule’s behaviour under his disappointment seemed to prove that even for him the uses of adversity could be sweet. On the day after his return home he displayed a most unwonted mildness in such remarks as he addressed to his wife, and his bearing towards Marian was gravely gentle. At meals he conversed, or rather monologised, on literary topics, with occasionally one of his grim jokes, pointed for Marian’s appreciation. He became aware that the girl had been overtaxing her strength of late, and suggested a few weeks of recreation among new novels. The coldness and gloom which had possessed him when he made a formal announcement of the news appeared to have given way before the sympathy manifested by his wife and daughter; he was now sorrowful, but resigned.

He explained to Marian the exact nature of her legacy. It was to be paid out of her uncle’s share in a wholesale stationery business, with which John Yule had been connected for the last twenty years, but from which he had not long ago withdrawn a large portion of his invested capital. This house was known as “Turberville & Co.,” a name which Marian now heard for the first time.

“I knew nothing of his association with them,” said her father. “They tell me that seven or eight thousand pounds will be realised from that source; it seems a pity that the investment was not left to you intact. Whether there will be any delay in withdrawing the money I can’t say.”

The executors were two old friends of the deceased, one of them a former partner in his paper-making concern.

On the evening of the second day, about an hour after dinner was over, Mr. Hinks called at the house; as usual, he went into the study. Before long came a second visitor, Mr. Quarmby, who joined Yule and Hinks. The three had all sat together for some time, when Marian, who happened to be coming downstairs, saw her father at the study door.

“Ask your mother to let us have some supper at a quarter to ten,” he said urbanely. “And come in, won’t you? We are only gossiping.”

It had not often happened that Marian was invited to join parties of this kind.

“Do you wish me to come?” she asked.

“Yes, I should like you to, if you have nothing particular to do.”

Marian informed Mrs. Yule that the visitors would have supper, and then went to the study.