New Grub Street. George Gissing

of course, understood, in outline, these affairs of the literary world; she thought of them only from the pecuniary point of view, but that made no essential distinction between her and the mass of literary people.

      ‘My word!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a thing that would be for us!’

      Marian had begun to explain her reluctance to base any hopes on Mr Quarmby’s prediction, when the sound of a postman’s knock at the house-door caused her mother to disappear for a moment.

      ‘It’s for you,’ said Mrs Yule, returning. ‘From the country.’

      Marian took the letter and examined its address with interest.

      ‘It must be one of the Miss Milvains. Yes; Dora Milvain.’

      After Jasper’s departure from Finden his sisters had seen Marian several times, and the mutual liking between her and them had been confirmed by opportunity of conversation. The promise of correspondence had hitherto waited for fulfilment. It seemed natural to Marian that the younger of the two girls should write; Maud was attractive and agreeable, and probably clever, but Dora had more spontaneity in friendship.

      ‘It will amuse you to hear,’ wrote Dora, ‘that the literary project our brother mentioned in a letter whilst you were still here is really to come to something. He has sent us a specimen chapter, written by himself of the “Child’s History of Parliament,” and Maud thinks she could carry it on in that style, if there’s no hurry. She and I have both set to work on English histories, and we shall be authorities before long. Jolly and Monk offer thirty pounds for the little book, if it suits them when finished, with certain possible profits in the future. Trust Jasper for making a bargain! So perhaps our literary career will be something more than a joke, after all. I hope it may; anything rather than a life of teaching. We shall be so glad to hear from you, if you still care to trouble about country girls.’

      And so on. Marian read with a pleased smile, then acquainted her mother with the contents.

      ‘I am very glad,’ said Mrs Yule; ‘it’s so seldom you get a letter.’

      ‘Yes.’

      Marian seemed desirous of saying something more, and her mother had a thoughtful look, suggestive of sympathetic curiosity.

      ‘Is their brother likely to call here?’ Mrs Yule asked, with misgiving.

      ‘No one has invited him to,’ was the girl’s quiet reply.

      ‘He wouldn’t come without that?’

      ‘It’s not likely that he even knows the address.’

      ‘Your father won’t be seeing him, I suppose?’

      ‘By chance, perhaps. I don’t know.’

      It was very rare indeed for these two to touch upon any subject save those of everyday interest. In spite of the affection between them, their exchange of confidence did not go very far; Mrs Yule, who had never exercised maternal authority since Marian’s earliest childhood, claimed no maternal privileges, and Marian’s natural reserve had been strengthened by her mother’s respectful aloofness. The English fault of domestic reticence could scarcely go further than it did in their case; its exaggeration is, of course, one of the characteristics of those unhappy families severed by differences of education between the old and young.

      ‘I think,’ said Marian, in a forced tone, ‘that father hasn’t much liking for Mr Milvain.’

      She wished to know if her mother had heard any private remarks on this subject, but she could not bring herself to ask directly.

      ‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ replied Mrs Yule, smoothing her dress. ‘He hasn’t said anything to me, Marian.’

      An awkward silence. The mother had fixed her eyes on the mantelpiece, and was thinking hard.

      ‘Otherwise,’ said Marian, ‘he would have said something, I should think, about meeting in London.’

      ‘But is there anything in — this gentleman that he wouldn’t like?’

      ‘I don’t know of anything.’

      Impossible to pursue the dialogue; Marian moved uneasily, then rose, said something about putting the letter away, and left the room.

      Shortly after, Alfred Yule entered the house. It was no uncommon thing for him to come home in a mood of silent moroseness, and this evening the first glimpse of his face was sufficient warning. He entered the dining-room and stood on the hearthrug reading an evening paper. His wife made a pretence of straightening things upon the table.

      ‘Well?’ he exclaimed irritably. ‘It’s after five; why isn’t dinner served?’

      ‘It’s just coming, Alfred.’

      Even the average man of a certain age is an alarming creature when dinner delays itself; the literary man in such a moment goes beyond all parallel. If there be added the fact that he has just returned from a very unsatisfactory interview with a publisher, wife and daughter may indeed regard the situation as appalling. Marian came in, and at once observed her mother’s frightened face.

      ‘Father,’ she said, hoping to make a diversion, ‘Mr Hinks has sent you his new book, and wishes — ’

      ‘Then take Mr Hinks’s new book back to him, and tell him that I have quite enough to do without reading tedious trash. He needn’t expect that I’m going to write a notice of it. The simpleton pesters me beyond endurance. I wish to know, if you please,’ he added with savage calm, ‘when dinner will be ready. If there’s time to write a few letters, just tell me at once, that I mayn’t waste half an hour.’

      Marian resented this unreasonable anger, but she durst not reply.

      At that moment the servant appeared with a smoking joint, and Mrs Yule followed carrying dishes of vegetables. The man of letters seated himself and carved angrily. He began his meal by drinking half a glass of ale; then he ate a few mouthfuls in a quick, hungry way, his head bent closely over the plate. It happened commonly enough that dinner passed without a word of conversation, and that seemed likely to be the case this evening.

      To his wife Yule seldom addressed anything but a curt inquiry or caustic comment; if he spoke humanly at table it was to Marian.

      Ten minutes passed; then Marian resolved to try any means of clearing the atmosphere.

      ‘Mr Quarmby gave me a message for you,’ she said. ‘A friend of his, Nathaniel Walker, has told him that Mr Rackett will very likely offer you the editorship of The Study.’

      Yule stopped in the act of mastication. He fixed his eyes intently on the sirloin for half a minute; then, by way of the beer-jug and the salt-cellar, turned them upon Marian’s face.

      ‘Walker told him that? Pooh!’

      ‘It was a great secret. I wasn’t to breathe a word to any one but you.’

      ‘Walker’s a fool and Quarmby’s an ass,’ remarked her father.

      But there was a tremulousness in his bushy eyebrows; his forehead half unwreathed itself; he continued to eat more slowly, and as if with appreciation of the viands.

      ‘What did he say? Repeat it to me in his words.’

      Marian did so, as nearly as possible. He listened with a scoffing expression, but still his features relaxed.

      ‘I don’t credit Rackett with enough good sense for such a proposal,’ he said deliberately. ‘And I’m not very sure that I should accept it if it were made. That fellow Fadge has all but ruined the paper. It will amuse me to see how long it takes him to make Culpepper’s new magazine a distinct failure.’

      A silence of five minutes ensued; then Yule said of a sudden.

      ‘Where is Hinks’s book?’

      Marian reached it from a side table; under this roof, literature was regarded almost as a necessary part of table