New Grub Street

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Dora sighed, and shook her little head, and thought of her
brother with unspeakable disdain.

CHAPTER XXXVII. REWARDS

When the fitting moment arrived, Alfred Yule underwent an
operation for cataract, and it was believed at first that the
result would be favourable. This hope had but short duration;
though the utmost prudence was exercised, evil symptoms declared
themselves, and in a few months' time all prospect of restoring
his vision was at an end. Anxiety, and then the fatal assurance,
undermined his health; with blindness, there fell upon him the
debility of premature old age.

The position of the family was desperate. Marian had suffered
much all the winter from attacks of nervous disorder, and by no
effort of will could she produce enough literary work to
supplement adequately the income derived from her fifteen hundred
pounds. In the summer of 1885 things were at the worst; Marian
saw no alternative but to draw upon her capital, and so relieve
the present at the expense of the future. She had a mournful
warning before her eyes in the case of poor Hinks and his wife,
who were now kept from the workhouse only by charity. But at this
juncture the rescuer appeared. Mr Quarmby and certain of his
friends were already making a subscription for the Yules'
benefit, when one of their number--Mr Jedwood, the publisher--
came forward with a proposal which relieved the minds of all
concerned. Mr Jedwood had a brother who was the director of a
public library in a provincial town, and by this means he was
enabled to offer Marian Yule a place as assistant in that
institution; she would receive seventy-five pounds a year, and
thus, adding her own income, would be able to put her parents
beyond the reach of want. The family at once removed from London,
and the name of Yule was no longer met with in periodical
literature.

By an interesting coincidence, it was on the day of this
departure that there appeared a number of The West End in which
the place of honour, that of the week's Celebrity, was occupied
by Clement Fadge. A coloured portrait of this illustrious man
challenged the admiration of all who had literary tastes, and two
columns of panegyric recorded his career for the encouragement of
aspiring youth. This article, of course unsigned, came from the
pen of Jasper Milvain.

It was only by indirect channels that Jasper learnt how Marian
and her parents had been provided for. Dora's correspondence with
her friend soon languished; in the nature of things this could
not but happen; and about the time when Alfred Yule became
totally blind the girls ceased to hear anything of each other. An
event which came to pass in the spring sorely tempted Dora to
write, but out of good feeling she refrained.

For it was then that she at length decided to change her name for
that of Whelpdale. Jasper could not quite reconcile himself to
this condescension; in various discourses he pointed out to his
sister how much higher she might look if she would only have a
little patience.

'Whelpdale will never be a man of any note. A good fellow, I
admit, but borne in all senses. Let me impress upon you, my dear
girl, that I have a future before me, and that there is no
reason--with your charm of person and mind--why you should not
marry brilliantly. Whelpdale can give you a decent home, I admit,
but as regards society he will be a drag upon you.'

'It happens, Jasper, that I have promised to marry him,' replied
Dora, in a significant tone.

'Well, I regret it, but--you are of course your own mistress. I
shall make no unpleasantness. I don't dislike Whelpdale, and I
shall remain on friendly terms with him.'

'That is very kind of you,' said his sister suavely.

Whelpdale was frantic with exultation. When the day of the
wedding had been settled, he rushed into Jasper's study and
fairly shed tears before he could command his voice.

'There is no mortal on the surface of the globe one-tenth so
happy as I am!' he gasped. 'I can't believe it! Why in the name
of sense and justice have I been suffered to attain this
blessedness? Think of the days when I all but starved in my
Albany Street garret, scarcely better off than poor, dear old
Biffen! Why should I have come to this, and Biffen have poisoned
himself in despair? He was a thousand times a better and cleverer
fellow than I. And poor old Reardon, dead in misery! Could I for
a moment compare with him?'

'My dear fellow,' said Jasper, calmly, 'compose yourself and be
logical. In the first place, success has nothing whatever to do
with moral deserts; and then, both Reardon and Biffen were
hopelessly unpractical. In such an admirable social order as
ours, they were bound to go to the dogs. Let us be sorry for
them, but let us recognise causas rerum, as Biffen would have
said. You have exercised ingenuity and perseverance; you have
your reward.'

'And when I think that I might have married fatally on thirteen
or fourteen different occasions. By-the-by, I implore you never
to tell Dora those stories about me. I should lose all her
respect. Do you remember the girl from Birmingham?' He laughed
wildly. 'Heaven be praised that she threw me over! Eternal
gratitude to all and sundry of the girls who have plunged me into
wretchedness!'

'I admit that you have run the gauntlet, and that you have had
marvellous escapes. But be good enough to leave me alone for the
present. I must finish this review by midday.'

'Only one word. I don't know how to thank Dora, how to express my
infinite sense of her goodness. Will you try to do so for me? You
can speak to her with calmness. Will you tell her what I have
said to you?'

'Oh, certainly.--I should recommend a cooling draught of some
kind. Look in at a chemist's as you walk on.'

The heavens did not fall before the marriage-day, and the wedded
pair betook themselves for a few weeks to the Continent. They had
been back again and established in their house at Earl's Court
for a month, when one morning about twelve o'clock Jasper dropped
in, as though casually. Dora was writing; she had no thought of
entirely abandoning literature, and had in hand at present a very
pretty tale which would probably appear in The English Girl. Her
boudoir, in which she sat, could not well have been daintier and
more appropriate to the charming characteristics of its mistress.

Mrs Whelpdale affected no literary slovenliness; she was dressed
in light colours, and looked so lovely that even Jasper paused on
the threshold with a smile of admiration.

'Upon my word,' he exclaimed, 'I am proud of my sisters! What did
you think of Maud last night? Wasn't she superb?'

'She certainly did look very well. But I doubt if she's very
happy.'

'That is her own look out; I told her plainly enough my opinion
of Dolomore. But she was in such a tremendous hurry.'

'You are detestable, Jasper! Is it inconceivable to you that a
man or woman should be disinterested when they marry?'

'By no means.'

'Maud didn't marry for money any more than I did.'

'You remember the Northern Farmer: "Doan't thou marry for money,
but go where money is." An admirable piece of advice. Well, Maud
made a mistake, let us say. Dolomore is a clown, and now she
knows it. Why, if she had waited, she might have married one of
the leading men of the day. She is fit to be a duchess, as far as
appearance goes; but I was never snobbish. I care very little
about titles; what I look to is intellectual distinction.'

'Combined with financial success.'

'Why, that is what distinction means.' He looked round the room
with a smile. 'You are not uncomfortable here, old girl. I wish
mother could have lived till now.'

'I wish it very, very often,' Dora replied in a moved voice.

'We haven't done badly, drawbacks considered. Now, you may speak
of money as scornfully as you like; but suppose you had married a
man who could only keep you in lodgings! How would life look to
you?'

'Who ever disputed the value of money? But there are things one
mustn't sacrifice to gain it.'

'I suppose so. Well, I have some news for you, Dora. I am
thinking of following your example.'

Dora's face changed to grave anticipation.

'And who is it?'

'Amy Reardon.'

His sister turned away, with a look of intense annoyance.

'You see, I am disinterested myself,' he went on. 'I might find a
wife who had wealth and social standing. But I choose Amy
deliberately.'

'An abominable choice!'

'No; an excellent choice. I have never yet met a woman so well
fitted to aid me in my career. She has a trifling sum of money,
which will be useful for the next year or two--'

'What has she done with the rest of it, then?'

'Oh, the ten thousand is intact, but it can't be seriously spoken
of. It will keep up appearances till I get my editorship and so
on. We shall be married early in August, I think. I want to ask
you if you will go and see her.'

'On no account! I couldn't be civil to her.'

Jasper's brows blackened.

'This is idiotic prejudice, Dora. I think I have some claim upon
you; I have shown some kindness--'

'You have, and I am not ungrateful. But I dislike Mrs Reardon,
and I couldn't bring myself to be friendly with her.'

'You don't know her.'

'Too well. You yourself have taught me to know her. Don't compel
me to say what I think of her.'

'She is beautiful, and high-minded, and warm-hearted. I don't
know a womanly quality that she doesn't possess. You will offend
me most seriously if you speak a word against her.'

'Then I will be silent. But you must never ask me to meet her.'

'Never?'

'Never!'

'Then we shall quarrel. I haven't deserved this, Dora. If you
refuse to meet my wife on terms of decent friendliness, there's
no more intercourse between your house and mine. You have to
choose. Persist in this fatuous obstinacy, and I have done with
you!'

'So be it!'

'That is your final answer?'

Dora, who was now as angry as he, gave a short affirmative, and
Jasper at once left her.

But it was very unlikely that things should rest at this pass.
The brother and sister were bound by a strong mutual affection,
and Whelpdale was not long in effecting a compromise.

'My dear wife,' he exclaimed, in despair at the threatened
calamity, 'you are right, a thousand times, but it's impossible
for you to be on ill terms with Jasper. There's no need for you
to see much of Mrs Reardon--'

'I hate her! She killed her husband; I am sure of it.'

'My darling!'

'I mean by her base conduct. She is a cold, cruel, unprincipled
creature! Jasper makes himself more than ever contemptible by
marrying her.'

All the same, in less than three weeks Mrs Whelpdale had called
upon Amy, and the call was returned. The two women were perfectly
conscious of reciprocal dislike, but they smothered the feeling
beneath conventional suavities. Jasper was not backward in making
known his gratitude for Dora's concession, and indeed it became
clear to all his intimates that this marriage would be by no
means one of mere interest; the man was in love at last, if he
had never been before.

Let lapse the ensuing twelve months, and come to an evening at
the end of July, 1886. Mr and Mrs Milvain are entertaining a
small and select party of friends at dinner. Their house in
Bayswater is neither large nor internally magnificent, but it
will do very well for the temporary sojourn of a young man of
letters who has much greater things in confident expectation, who
is a good deal talked of, who can gather clever and worthy people
at his table, and whose matchless wife would attract men of taste
to a very much poorer abode.

Jasper had changed considerably in appearance since that last
holiday that he spent in his mother's house at Finden. At present
he would have been taken for five-and-thirty, though only in his
twenty-ninth year; his hair was noticeably thinning; his
moustache had grown heavier; a wrinkle or two showed beneath his
eyes; his voice was softer, yet firmer. It goes without saying
that his evening uniform lacked no point of perfection, and
somehow it suggested a more elaborate care than that of other men
in the room. He laughed frequently, and with a throwing back of
the head which seemed to express a spirit of triumph.

Amy looked her years to the full, but her type of beauty, as you
know, was independent of youthfulness. That suspicion of
masculinity observable in her when she became Reardon's wife
impressed one now only as the consummate grace of a
perfectly-built woman. You saw that at forty, at fifty, she would
be one of the stateliest of dames. When she bent her head towards
the person with whom she spoke, it was an act of queenly favour.
Her words were uttered with just enough deliberation to give them
the value of an opinion; she smiled with a delicious shade of
irony; her glance intimated that nothing could be too subtle for
her understanding.

The guests numbered six, and no one of them was insignificant.
Two of the men were about Jasper's age, and they had already made
their mark in literature; the third was a novelist of circulating
fame, spirally crescent. The three of the stronger sex were
excellent modern types, with sweet lips attuned to epigram, and
good broad brows.

The novelist at one point put an interesting question to Amy.

'Is it true that Fadge is leaving The Current?'

'It is rumoured, I believe.'

'Going to one of the quarterlies, they say,' remarked a lady. 'He
is getting terribly autocratic. Have you heard the delightful
story of his telling Mr Rowland to persevere, as his last work
was one of considerable promise?'

Mr Rowland was a man who had made a merited reputation when Fadge
was still on the lower rungs of journalism. Amy smiled and told
another anecdote of the great editor. Whilst speaking, she caught
her husband's eye, and perhaps this was the reason why her story,
at the close, seemed rather amiably pointless--not a common fault
when she narrated.

When the ladies had withdrawn, one of the younger men, in a
conversation about a certain magazine, remarked:

'Thomas always maintains that it was killed by that solemn old
stager, Alfred Yule. By the way, he is dead himself, I hear.'

Jasper bent forward.

'Alfred Yule is dead?'

'So Jedwood told me this morning. He died in the country
somewhere, blind and fallen on evil days, poor old fellow.'

All the guests were ignorant of any tie of kindred between their
host and the man spoken of.

'I believe,' said the novelist, 'that he had a clever daughter
who used to do all the work he signed. That used to be a current
bit of scandal in Fadge's circle.'

'Oh, there was much exaggeration in that,' remarked Jasper,
blandly. 'His daughter assisted him, doubtless, but in quite a
legitimate way. One used to see her at the Museum.'

The subject was dropped.

An hour and a half later, when the last stranger had taken his
leave, Jasper examined two or three letters which had arrived
since dinner-time and were lying on the hall table. With one of
them open in his hand, he suddenly sprang up the stairs and
leaped, rather than stepped, into the drawing-room. Amy was
reading an evening paper.

'Look at this!' he cried, holding the letter to her.

It was a communication from the publishers who owned The Current;
they stated that the editorship of that review would shortly be
resigned by Mr Fadge, and they inquired whether Milvain would
feel disposed to assume the vacant chair.

Amy sprang up and threw her arms about her husband's neck,
uttering a cry of delight.

'So soon! Oh, this is great! this is glorious!'

'Do you think this would have been offered to me but for the
spacious life we have led of late? Never! Was I right in my
calculations, Amy?'

'Did I ever doubt it?'

He returned her embrace ardently, and gazed into her eyes with
profound tenderness.

'Doesn't the future brighten?'

'It has been very bright to me, Jasper, since I became your
wife.'

'And I owe my fortune to you, dear girl. Now the way is smooth!'

They placed themselves on a settee, Jasper with an arm about his
wife's waist, as if they were newly plighted lovers. When they
had talked for a long time, Milvain said in a changed tone:

'I am told that your uncle is dead.'

He mentioned how the news had reached him.

'I must make inquiries to-morrow. I suppose there will be a
notice in The Study and some of the other papers. I hope somebody
will make it an opportunity to have a hit at that ruffian Fadge.
By-the-by, it doesn't much matter now how you speak of Fadge; but
I was a trifle anxious when I heard your story at dinner.'

'Oh, you can afford to be more independent.--What are you
thinking about?'

'Nothing.'

'Why do you look sad?--Yes, I know, I know. I'll try to forgive
you.'

'I can't help thinking at times of the poor girl, Amy. Life will
be easier for her now, with only her mother to support. Someone
spoke of her this evening, and repeated Fadge's lie that she used
to do all her father's writing.'

'She was capable of doing it. I must seem to you rather a poor-
brained woman in comparison. Isn't it true?'

'My dearest, you are a perfect woman, and poor Marian was only a
clever school-girl. Do you know, I never could help imagining
that she had ink-stains on her fingers. Heaven forbid that I
should say it unkindly! It was touching to me at the time, for I
knew how fearfully hard she worked.'

'She nearly ruined your life; remember that.'

Jasper was silent.

'You will never confess it, and that is a fault in you.'

'She loved me, Amy.'

'Perhaps! as a school-girl loves. But you never loved her.'

'No.'

Amy examined his face as he spoke.

'Her image is very faint before me,' Jasper pursued, 'and soon I
shall scarcely be able to recall it. Yes, you are right; she
nearly ruined me. And in more senses than one. Poverty and
struggle, under such circumstances, would have made me a
detestable creature. As it is, I am not such a bad fellow, Amy.'

She laughed, and caressed his cheek.

'No, I am far from a bad fellow. I feel kindly to everyone who
deserves it. I like to be generous, in word and deed. Trust me,
there's many a man who would like to be generous, but is made
despicably mean by necessity. What a true sentence that is of
Landor's: "It has been repeated often enough that vice leads to
misery; will no man declare that misery leads to vice?" I have
much of the weakness that might become viciousness, but I am now
far from the possibility of being vicious. Of course there are
men, like Fadge, who seem only to grow meaner the more prosperous
they are; but these are exceptions. Happiness is the nurse of virtue.'

'And independence the root of happiness.'

'True. "The glorious privilege of being independent"--yes, Burns
understood the matter. Go to the piano, dear, and play me
something. If I don't mind, I shall fall into Whelpdale's vein,
and talk about my "blessedness". Ha! isn't the world a glorious place?'

'For rich people.'

'Yes, for rich people. How I pity the poor devils!--Play
anything. Better still if you will sing, my nightingale!'

So Amy first played and then sang, and Jasper lay back in dreamy bliss.