George Gissing
New Grub Street
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 to-day, 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 warm-hearted 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 a troublous sigh, and for a few minutes pondered anxiously.
‘I wasn’t thinking so much about myself’ she said at length. ‘It’s the hindrance I should be to father. Just because of me, he mightn’t be able to use his money as he’d wish. He’d always be feeling that if it wasn’t for me things would be so much better for him and for you as well.’
‘You must remember,’ Marian replied, ‘that at father’s age people don’t care to make such great changes. His home life, I feel sure, wouldn’t be so very different from what it is now; he would prefer to use his money in starting a paper or magazine. I know that would be his first thought. If more acquaintances came to his house, what would that matter? It isn’t as if he wished for fashionable society. They would be literary people, and why ever shouldn’t you meet with them?’
‘I’ve always been the reason why he couldn’t have many friends.’
‘That’s a great mistake. If father ever said that, in his bad temper, he knew it wasn’t the truth. The chief reason has always been his poverty. It costs money to entertain friends; time as well. Don’t think in this anxious way, mother. If we are to be rich, it will be better for all of us.’
Marian had every reason for seeking to persuade herself that this was true. In her own heart there was a fear of how wealth might affect her father, but she could not bring herself to face the darker prospect. For her so much depended on that hope of a revival of generous feeling under sunny influences.
It was only after this conversation that she began to reflect on all the possible consequences of her uncle’s death. As yet she had been too much disturbed to grasp as a reality the event to which she had often looked forward, though as to something still remote, and of quite uncertain results. Perhaps at this moment, though she could not know it, the course of her life had undergone the most important change. Perhaps there was no more need for her to labour upon this ‘article’ she was manufacturing.
She did not think it probable that she herself would benefit directly by John Yule’s will. There was no certainty that even her father would, for he and his brother had never been on cordial terms. But on the whole it seemed likely that he would inherit money enough to free him from the toil of writing for periodicals. He himself anticipated that. What else could be the meaning of those words in which (and it was before the arrival of the news) he had warned her against ‘people who made connections only with self-interest in view?’ This threw a sudden light upon her father’s attitude towards Jasper Milvain. Evidently he thought that Jasper regarded her as a possible heiress, sooner or later. That suspicion was rankling in his mind; doubtless it intensified the prejudice which originated in literary animosity.
Was there any truth in his suspicion? She did not shrink from admitting that there might be. Jasper had from the first been so frank with her, had so often repeated that money was at present his chief need. If her father inherited substantial property, would it induce Jasper to declare himself more than her friend? She could view the possibility of that, and yet not for a moment be shaken in her love. It was plain that Jasper could not think of marrying until his position and prospects were greatly improved; practically, his sisters depended upon him. What folly it would be to draw back if circumstances led him to avow what hitherto he had so slightly disguised! She had the conviction that he valued her for her own sake; if the obstacle between them could only be removed, what matter how?
Would he be willing to abandon Clement Fadge, and come over to her father’s side? If Yule were able to found a magazine?
Had she read or heard of a girl who went so far in concessions, Marian would have turned away, her delicacy offended. In her own case she could indulge to the utmost that practicality which colours a woman’s thought even in mid passion. The cold exhibition of ignoble scheming will repel many a woman who, for her own heart’s desire, is capable of that same compromise with her strict sense of honour.
Marian wrote to Dora Milvain, telling her what had happened. But she refrained from visiting her friends.
Each night found her more restless, each morning less able to employ herself. She shut herself in the study merely to be alone with her thoughts, to be able to walk backwards and forwards, or sit for hours in feverish reverie. From her father came no news. Her mother was suffering dreadfully from suspense, and often had eyes red with weeping. Absorbed in her own hopes and fears, whilst every hour harassed her more intolerably, Marian was unable to play the part of an encourager; she had never known such exclusiveness of self-occupation.
Yule’s return was unannounced. Early in the afternoon, when he had been absent five days, he entered the house, deposited his travelling-bag in the passage, and went upstairs. Marian had come out of the study just in time to see him up on the first landing; at the same moment Mrs Yule ascended from the kitchen.
‘Wasn’t that father?’
‘Yes, he has gone up.’
‘Did he say anything?’
Marian shook her head. They looked at the travelling-bag, then went into the parlour and waited in silence for more than a quarter of an hour. Yule’s foot was heard on the stairs; he came down slowly, paused in the passage, entered the parlour with his usual grave, cold countenance.
CHAPTER XXII. THE LEGATEES
Each day Jasper came to inquire of his sisters if they had news from Wattleborough or from Marian Yule. He exhibited no impatience, spoke of the matter in a disinterested tone; still, he came daily.
One afternoon he found Dora working alone. Maud, he was told, had gone to lunch at Mrs Lane’s.
‘So soon again? She’s getting very thick with those people. And why don’t they ask you?’
‘Maud has told them that I don’t care to go out.’
‘It’s all very well, but she mustn’t neglect her work. Did she write anything last night or this morning?’
Dora bit the end of her pen and shook her head.
‘Why not?’
‘The invitation came about five o’clock, and it seemed to unsettle her.’
‘Precisely. That’s what I’m afraid of. She isn’t the kind of girl to stick at work if people begin to send her invitations. But I tell you what it is, you must talk seriously to her; she has to get her living, you know. Mrs Lane and her set are not likely to be much use, that’s the worst of it; they’ll merely waste her time, and make her discontented.’
His sister executed an elaborate bit of cross-hatching on some waste paper. Her lips were drawn together, and her brows wrinkled. At length she broke the silence by saying:
‘Marian hasn’t been yet.’
Jasper seemed to pay no attention; she looked up at him, and saw that he was in thought.
‘Did you go to those people last night?’ she inquired.
‘Yes. By-the-bye, Miss Rupert was there.’
He spoke as if the name would be familiar to his hearer, but Dora seemed at a loss.
‘Who is Miss Rupert?’
‘Didn’t I tell you about her? I thought I did. Oh, I met her first of all at Barlow’s, just after we got back from the seaside. Rather an interesting girl. She’s a daughter of Manton Rupert, the advertising agent. I want to get invited to their house; useful people, you know.’
‘But is an advertising agent a gentleman?’
Jasper laughed.
‘Do you think of him as a bill-poster? At all events he is enormously wealthy, and has a magnificent house at Chislehurst. The girl goes about with her stepmother. I call her a girl, but she must be nearly thirty, and Mrs Rupert looks only two or three years older. I had quite a long talk with her—Miss Rupert, I mean—last night. She told me she was going to stay next week with the Barlows, so I shall have a run out to Wimbledon one afternoon.’
Dora looked at him inquiringly.
‘Just to see Miss Rupert?’ she asked, meeting his eyes.
‘To be sure. Why not?’
‘Oh!’ ejaculated his sister, as if the question did not concern her.
‘She isn’t exactly good-looking,’ pursued Jasper, meditatively, with a quick glance at the listener, ‘but fairly intellectual. Plays very well, and has a nice contralto voice; she sang that new thing of Tosti’s—what do you call it? I thought her rather masculine when I first saw her, but the impression wears off when one knows her better. She rather takes to me, I fancy.’
‘But—’ began Dora, after a minute’s silence.
‘But what?’ inquired her brother with an air of interest.
‘I don’t quite understand you.’
‘In general, or with reference to some particular?’
‘What right have you to go to places just to see this Miss Rupert?’
‘What right?’ He laughed. ‘I am a young man with my way to make. I can’t afford to lose any opportunity. If Miss Rupert is so good as to take an interest in me, I have no objection. She’s old enough to make friends for herself.’
‘Oh, then you consider her simply a friend?’
‘I shall see how things go on.’
‘But, pray, do you consider yourself perfectly free?’ asked Dora, with some indignation.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Then I think you have been behaving very strangely.’
Jasper saw that she was in earnest. He stroked the back of his head and smiled at the wall.
‘With regard to Marian, you mean?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘But Marian understands me perfectly. I have never for a moment tried to make her think that—well, to put it plainly, that I was in love with her. In all our conversations it has been my one object to afford her insight into my character, and to explain my position. She has no excuse whatever for misinterpreting me. And I feel assured that she has done nothing of the kind.’
‘Very well, if you feel satisfied with yourself—’
‘But come now, Dora; what’s all this about? You are Marian’s friend, and, of course, I don’t wish you to say a word about her.
But let me explain myself. I have occasionally walked part of the way home with Marian, when she and I have happened to go from here at the same time; now there was nothing whatever in our talk at such times that anyone mightn’t have listened to. We are both intellectual people, and we talk in an intellectual way. You seem to have rather old-fashioned ideas—provincial ideas. A girl like Marian Yule claims the new privileges of woman; she would resent it if you supposed that she couldn’t be friendly with a man without attributing “intentions” to him—to use the old word. We don’t live in Wattleborough, where liberty is rendered impossible by the cackling of gossips.’
‘No, but—’
‘Well?’
‘It seems to me rather strange, that’s all. We had better not talk about it any more.’
‘But I have only just begun to talk about it; I must try to make my position intelligible to you. Now, suppose—a quite impossible thing—that Marian inherited some twenty or thirty thousand pounds; I should forthwith ask her to be my wife.’
‘Oh indeed!’
‘I see no reason for sarcasm. It would be a most rational proceeding. I like her very much; but to marry her (supposing she would have me) without money would he a gross absurdity, simply spoiling my career, and leading to all sorts of discontents.’
‘No one would suggest that you should marry as things are.’
‘No; but please to bear in mind that to obtain money somehow or other—and I see no other way than by marriage—is necessary to me, and that with as little delay as possible. I am not at all likely to get a big editorship for some years to come, and I don’t feel disposed to make myself prematurely old by toiling for a few hundreds per annum in the meantime. Now all this I have frankly and fully explained to Marian. I dare say she suspects what I should do if she came into possession of money; there’s no harm in that. But she knows perfectly well that, as things are, we remain intellectual friends.’
‘Then listen to me, Jasper. If we hear that Marian gets nothing from her uncle, you had better behave honestly, and let her see that you haven’t as much interest in her as before.’
‘That would be brutality.’
‘It would be honest.’
‘Well, no, it wouldn’t. Strictly speaking, my interest in Marian wouldn’t suffer at all. I should know that we could be nothing but friends, that’s all. Hitherto I haven’t known what might come to pass; I don’t know yet. So far from following your advice, I shall let Marian understand that, if anything, I am more her friend than ever, seeing that henceforth there can be no ambiguities.’
‘I can only tell you that Maud would agree with me in what I have been saying.’
‘Then both of you have distorted views.’
‘I think not. It’s you who are unprincipled.’
‘My dear girl, haven’t I been showing you that no man could be more above-board, more straightforward?’
‘You have been talking nonsense, Jasper.’
‘Nonsense? Oh, this female lack of logic! Then my argument has been utterly thrown away. Now that’s one of the things I like in Miss Rupert; she can follow an argument and see consequences. And for that matter so can Marian. I only wish it were possible to refer this question to her.’
There was a tap at the door. Dora called ‘Come in!’ and Marian herself appeared.
‘What an odd thing!’ exclaimed Jasper, lowering his voice. ‘I was that moment saying I wished it were possible to refer a question to you.’
Dora reddened, and stood in an embarrassed attitude.
‘It was the old dispute whether women in general are capable of logic. But pardon me, Miss Yule; I forget that you have been occupied with sad things since I last saw you.’
Dora led her to a chair, asking if her father had returned.
‘Yes, he came back yesterday.’
Jasper and his sister could not think it likely that Marian had suffered much from grief at her uncle’s death; practically John Yule was a stranger to her. Yet her face bore the signs of acute mental trouble, and it seemed as if some agitation made it difficult for her to speak. The awkward silence that fell upon the three was broken by Jasper, who expressed a regret that he was obliged to take his leave.
‘Maud is becoming a young lady of society,’ he said—just for the sake of saying something—as he moved towards the door. ‘If she comes back whilst you are here, Miss Yule, warn her that that is the path of destruction for literary people.’
‘You should bear that in mind yourself’ remarked Dora, with a significant look.
‘Oh, I am cool-headed enough to make society serve my own ends.’
Marian turned her head with a sudden movement which was checked before she had quite looked round to him. The phrase he uttered last appeared to have affected her in some way; her eyes fell, and an expression of pain was on her brows for a moment.
‘I can only stay a few minutes,’ she said, bending with a faint smile towards Dora, as soon as they were alone. ‘I have come on my way from the Museum.’
‘Where you have tired yourself to death as usual, I can see.’
‘No; I have done scarcely anything. I only pretended to read; my mind is too much troubled. Have you heard anything about my uncle’s will?’
‘Nothing whatever.’
‘I thought it might have been spoken of in Wattleborough, and some friend might have written to you. But I suppose there has hardly been time for that. I shall surprise you very much. Father receives nothing, but I have a legacy of five thousand pounds.’
Dora kept her eyes down.
‘Then—what do you think?’ continued Marian. ‘My cousin Amy has ten thousand pounds.’
‘Good gracious! What a difference that will make!’
‘Yes, indeed. And her brother John has six thousand. But nothing to their mother. There are a good many other legacies, but most of the property goes to the Wattleborough park—“Yule Park” it will be called—and to the volunteers, and things of that kind. They say he wasn’t as rich as people thought.’
‘Do you know what Miss Harrow gets?’
‘She has the house for her life, and fifteen hundred pounds.’
‘And your father nothing whatever?’
‘Nothing. Not a penny. Oh I am so grieved! I think it so unkind, so wrong. Amy and her brother to have sixteen thousand pounds and father nothing! I can’t understand it. There was no unkind feeling between him and father. He knew what a hard life father has had. Doesn’t it seem heartless?’
‘What does your father say?’
‘I think he feels the unkindness more than he does the disappointment; of course he must have expected something. He came into the room where mother and I were, and sat down, and began to tell us about the will just as if he were speaking to strangers about something he had read in the newspaper—that’s the only way I can describe it. Then he got up and went away into the study. I waited a little, and then went to him there; he was sitting at work, as if he hadn’t been away from home at all. I tried to tell him how sorry I was, but I couldn’t say anything. I began to cry foolishly. He spoke kindly to me, far more kindly than he has done for a long time; but he wouldn’t talk about the will, and I had to go away and leave him. Poor mother! for all she was afraid that we were going to be rich, is broken-hearted at his disappointment.’
‘Your mother was afraid?’ said Dora.
‘Because she thought herself unfitted for life in a large house, and feared we should think her in our way.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Poor mother! she is so humble and so good. I do hope that father will be kinder to her. But there’s no telling yet what the result of this may be. I feel guilty when I stand before him.’
‘But he must feel glad that you have five thousand pounds.’
Marian delayed her reply for a moment, her eyes down.
‘Yes, perhaps he is glad of that.’
‘Perhaps!’
‘He can’t help thinking, Dora, what use he could have made of it.
It has always been his greatest wish to have a literary paper of his own—like The Study, you know. He would have used the money in that way, I am sure.’
‘But, all the same, he ought to feel pleasure in your good fortune.’
Marian turned to another subject.
‘Think of the Reardons; what a change all at once! What will they do, I wonder? Surely they won’t continue to live apart?’
‘We shall hear from Jasper.’
Whilst they were discussing the affairs of that branch of the family, Maud returned. There was ill-humour on her handsome face, and she greeted Marian but coldly. Throwing off her hat and gloves and mantle she listened to the repeated story of John Yule’s bequests.
‘But why ever has Mrs Reardon so much more than anyone else?’ she asked.
‘We can only suppose it is because she was the favourite child of the brother he liked best. Yet at her wedding he gave her nothing, and spoke contemptuously of her for marrying a literary man.’
‘Fortunate for her poor husband that her uncle was able to forgive her. I wonder what’s the date of the will? Who knows but he may have rewarded her for quarrelling with Mr Reardon.’
This excited a laugh.
‘I don’t know when the will was made,’ said Marian. ‘And I don’t know whether uncle had even heard of the Reardons’ misfortunes. I suppose he must have done. My cousin John was at the funeral, but not my aunt. I think it most likely father and John didn’t speak a word to each other. Fortunately the relatives were lost sight of in the great crowd of Wattleborough people; there was an enormous procession, of course.’
Maud kept glancing at her sister. The ill-humour had not altogether passed from her face, but it was now blended with reflectiveness.
A few moments more, and Marian had to hasten home. When she was gone the sisters looked at each other.
‘Five thousand pounds,’ murmured the elder. ‘I suppose that is considered nothing.’
‘I suppose so.—He was here when Marian came, but didn’t stay.’
‘Then you’ll take him the news this evening?’
‘Yes,’ replied Dora. Then, after musing, ‘He seemed annoyed that you were at the Lanes’ again.’
Maud made a movement of indifference.
‘What has been putting you out?’
‘Things were rather stupid. Some people who were to have come didn’t turn up. And—well, it doesn’t matter.’
She rose and glanced at herself in the little oblong mirror over the mantelpiece.
‘Did Jasper ever speak to you of a Miss Rupert?’ asked Dora.
‘Not that I remember.’
‘What do you think? He told me in the calmest way that he didn’t see why Marian should think of him as anything but the most ordinary friend—said he had never given her reason to think anything else.’
‘Indeed! And Miss Rupert is someone who has the honour of his preference?’
‘He says she is about thirty, and rather masculine, but a great heiress. Jasper is shameful!’
‘What do you expect? I consider it is your duty to let Marian know everything he says. Otherwise you help to deceive her. He has no sense of honour in such things.’
Dora was so impatient to let her brother have the news that she left the house as soon as she had had tea on the chance of finding Jasper at home. She had not gone a dozen yards before she encountered him in person.
‘I was afraid Marian might still be with you,’ he said, laughing.
‘I should have asked the landlady. Well?’
‘We can’t stand talking here. You had better come in.’
He was in too much excitement to wait.
‘Just tell me. What has she?’
Dora walked quickly towards the house, looking annoyed.
‘Nothing at all? Then what has her father?’
‘He has nothing,’ replied his sister, ‘and she has five thousand pounds.’
Jasper walked on with bent head. He said nothing more until he was upstairs in the sitting-room, where Maud greeted him carelessly.
‘Mrs Reardon anything?’
Dora informed him.
‘What?’ he cried incredulously. ‘Ten thousand? You don’t say so!’
He burst into uproarious laughter.
‘So Reardon is rescued from the slum and the clerk’s desk! Well, I’m glad; by Jove, I am. I should have liked it better if Marian had had the ten thousand and he the five, but it’s an excellent joke. Perhaps the next thing will be that he’ll refuse to have anything to do with his wife’s money; that would be just like him.’ After amusing himself with this subject for a few minutes more, he turned to the window and stood there in silence.
‘Are you going to have tea with us?’ Dora inquired.
He did not seem to hear her. On a repetition of the inquiry, he answered absently:
‘Yes, I may as well. Then I can go home and get to work.’
During the remainder of his stay he talked very little, and as Maud also was in an abstracted mood, tea passed almost in silence. On the point of departing he asked:
‘When is Marian likely to come here again?’
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ answered Dora.
He nodded, and went his way.
It was necessary for him to work at a magazine article which he had begun this morning, and on reaching home he spread out his papers in the usual businesslike fashion. The subject out of which he was manufacturing ‘copy’ had its difficulties, and was not altogether congenial to him; this morning he had laboured with unwonted effort to produce about a page of manuscript, and now that he tried to resume the task his thoughts would not centre upon it. Jasper was too young to have thoroughly mastered the art of somnambulistic composition; to write, he was still obliged to give exclusive attention to the matter under treatment. Dr Johnson’s saying, that a man may write at any time if he will set himself doggedly to it, was often upon his lips, and had even been of help to him, as no doubt it has to many another man obliged to compose amid distracting circumstances; but the formula had no efficacy this evening. Twice or thrice he rose from his chair, paced the room with a determined brow, and sat down again with vigorous clutch of the pen; still he failed to excogitate a single sentence that would serve his purpose.
‘I must have it out with myself before I can do anything,’ was his thought as he finally abandoned the endeavour. ‘I must make up my mind.’
To this end he settled himself in an easy-chair and began to smoke cigarettes. Some dozen of these aids to reflection only made him so nervous that he could no longer remain alone. He put on his hat and overcoat and went out—to find that it was raining heavily. He returned for an umbrella, and before long was walking aimlessly about the Strand, unable to make up his mind whether to turn into a theatre or not. Instead of doing so, he sought a certain upper room of a familiar restaurant, where the day’s papers were to be seen, and perchance an acquaintance might be met. Only half-a-dozen men were there, reading and smoking, and all were unknown to him. He drank a glass of lager beer, skimmed the news of the evening, and again went out into the bad weather.
After all it was better to go home. Everything he encountered had an unsettling effect upon him, so that he was further than ever from the decision at which he wished to arrive. In Mornington Road he came upon Whelpdale, who was walking slowly under an umbrella.
‘I’ve just called at your place.’
‘All right; come back if you like.’
‘But perhaps I shall waste your time?’ said Whelpdale, with unusual diffidence.
Reassured, he gladly returned to the house. Milvain acquainted him with the fact of John Yule’s death, and with its result so far as it concerned the Reardons. They talked of how the couple would probably behave under this decisive change of circumstances.
‘Biffen professes to know nothing about Mrs Reardon,’ said Whelpdale. ‘I suspect he keeps his knowledge to himself, out of regard for Reardon. It wouldn’t surprise me if they live apart for a long time yet.’
