a novel; it failed completely, and the same result awaited a similar experiment five years later. He wrote a drama of modern life, and for some years strove to get it acted, but in vain; finally it appeared ‘for the closet’—giving Clement Fadge such an opportunity as he seldom enjoyed. The one noteworthy thing about these productions, and about others of equally mistaken direction, was the sincerity of their workmanship. Had Yule been content to manufacture a novel or a play with due disregard for literary honour, he might perchance have made a mercantile success; but the poor fellow had not pliancy enough for this. He took his efforts au grand serieux; thought he was producing works of art; pursued his ambition in a spirit of fierce conscientiousness. In spite of all, he remained only a journeyman. The kind of work he did best was poorly paid, and could bring no fame. At the age of fifty he was still living in a poor house in an obscure quarter. He earned enough for his actual needs, and was under no pressing fear for the morrow, so long as his faculties remained unimpaired; but there was no disguising from himself that his life had been a failure. And the thought tormented him.
Now there had come unexpectedly a gleam of hope. If indeed, the man Rackett thought of offering him the editorship of The Study he might even yet taste the triumphs for which he had so vehemently longed. The Study was a weekly paper of fair repute. Fadge had harmed it, no doubt of that, by giving it a tone which did not suit the majority of its readers—serious people, who thought that the criticism of contemporary writing offered an opportunity for something better than a display of malevolent wit. But a return to the old earnestness would doubtless set all right again. And the joy of sitting in that dictatorial chair! The delight of having his own organ once more, of making himself a power in the world of letters, of emphasising to a large audience his developed methods of criticism!
An embittered man is a man beset by evil temptations. The Study contained each week certain columns of flying gossip, and when he thought of this, Yule also thought of Clement Fadge, and sundry other of his worst enemies. How the gossip column can be used for hostile purposes, yet without the least overt offence, he had learnt only too well. Sometimes the mere omission of a man’s name from a list of authors can mortify and injure. In our day the manipulation of such paragraphs has become a fine art; but you recall numerous illustrations. Alfred knew well enough how incessantly the tempter would be at his ear; he said to himself that in certain instances yielding would be no dishonour. He himself had many a time been mercilessly treated; in the very interest of the public it was good that certain men should suffer a snubbing, and his fingers itched to have hold of the editorial pen. Ha, ha! Like the war-horse he snuffed the battle afar off.
No work this evening, though there were tasks which pressed for completion. His study—the only room on the ground level except the dining-room—was small, and even a good deal of the floor was encumbered with books, but he found space for walking nervously hither and thither. He was doing this when, about half-past nine, his wife appeared at the door, bringing him a cup of coffee and some biscuits, his wonted supper. Marian generally waited upon him at this time, and he asked why she had not come.
‘She has one of her headaches again, I’m sorry to say,’ Mrs Yule replied. ‘I persuaded her to go to bed early.’
Having placed the tray upon the table—books had to be pushed aside—she did not seem disposed to withdraw.
‘Are you busy, Alfred?’
‘Why?’
‘I thought I should like just to speak of something.’
She was using the opportunity of his good humour. Yule spoke to her with the usual carelessness, but not forbiddingly.
‘What is it? Those Holloway people, I’ll warrant.’
‘No, no! It’s about Marian. She had a letter from one of those young ladies this afternoon.’
‘What young ladies?’ asked Yule, with impatience of this circuitous approach.
‘The Miss Milvains.’
‘Well, there’s no harm that I know of. They’re decent people.’
‘Yes; so you told me. But she began to speak about their brother, and—’
‘What about him? Do say what you want to say, and have done with it!’
‘I can’t help thinking, Alfred, that she’s disappointed you didn’t ask him to come here.’
Yule stared at her in slight surprise. He was still not angry, and seemed quite willing to consider this matter suggested to him so timorously.
‘Oh, you think so? Well, I don’t know. Why should I have asked him? It was only because Miss Harrow seemed to wish it that I saw him down there. I have no particular interest in him. And as for—’
He broke off and seated himself. Mrs Yule stood at a distance.
‘We must remember her age,’ she said.
‘Why yes, of course.’
He mused, and began to nibble a biscuit.
‘And you know, Alfred, she never does meet any young men. I’ve often thought it wasn’t right to her.’
‘H’m! But this lad Milvain is a very doubtful sort of customer. To begin with, he has nothing, and they tell me his mother for the most part supports him. I don’t quite approve of that. She isn’t well off, and he ought to have been making a living by now.
He has a kind of cleverness, may do something; but there’s no being sure of that.’
These thoughts were not coming into his mind for the first time. On the occasion when he met Milvain and Marian together in the country road he had necessarily reflected upon the possibilities of such intercourse, and with the issue that he did not care to give any particular encouragement to its continuance. He of course heard of Milvain’s leave-taking call, and he purposely refrained from seeing the young man after that. The matter took no very clear shape in his meditations; he saw no likelihood that either of the young people would think much of the other after their parting, and time enough to trouble one’s head with such subjects when they could no longer be postponed. It would not have been pleasant to him to foresee a life of spinsterhood for his daughter; but she was young, and—she was a valuable assistant.
How far did that latter consideration weigh with him? He put the question pretty distinctly to himself now that his wife had broached the matter thus unexpectedly. Was he prepared to behave with deliberate selfishness? Never yet had any conflict been manifested between his interests and Marian’s; practically he was in the habit of counting upon her aid for an indefinite period.
If indeed he became editor of The Study, why, in that case her assistance would be less needful. And indeed it seemed probable that young Milvain had a future before him.
‘But, in any case,’ he said aloud, partly continuing his thoughts, partly replying to a look of disappointment on his wife’s face, ‘how do you know that he has any wish to come and see Marian?’
‘I don’t know anything about it, of course.’
‘And you may have made a mistake about her. What made you think she—had him in mind?’
‘Well, it was her way of speaking, you know. And then, she asked if you had got a dislike to him.’
‘She did? H’m! Well, I don’t think Milvain is any good to Marian. He’s just the kind of man to make himself agreeable to a girl for the fun of the thing.’
Mrs Yule looked alarmed.
‘Oh, if you really think that, don’t let him come. I wouldn’t for anything.’
‘I don’t say it for certain.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘I have had no opportunity of observing him with much attention. But he’s not the kind of man I care for.’
‘Then no doubt it’s better as it is.’
‘Yes. I don’t see that anything could be done now. We shall see whether he gets on. I advise you not to mention him to her.’
‘Oh no, I won’t.’
She moved as if to go away, but her heart had been made uneasy