Maud began to gnaw her fingers, a disagreeable habit she had in privacy.
Then why doesnt he live more economically?
I really dont see how he can live on less than a hundred and fifty a year. London, you know
The cheapest place in the world.
Nonsense, Maud!
But I know what Im saying. Ive read quite enough about such things. He might live very well indeed on thirty shillings a week, even buying his clothes out of it.
But he has told us so often that its no use to him to live like that. He is obliged to go to places where he must spend a little, or he makes no progress.
Well, all I can say is, exclaimed the girl impatiently, its very lucky for him that hes got a mother who willingly sacrifices her daughters to him.
Thats how you always break out. You dont care what unkindness you say!
Its a simple truth.
Dora never speaks like that.
Because shes afraid to be honest.
No, because she has too much love for her mother. I cant bear to talk to you, Maud. The older I get, and the weaker I get, the more unfeeling you are to me.
Scenes of this kind were no uncommon thing. The clash of tempers lasted for several minutes, then Maud flung out of the room. An hour later, at dinner-time, she was rather more caustic in her remarks than usual, but this was the only sign that remained of the stormy mood.
Jasper renewed the breakfast-table conversation.
Look here, he began, why dont you girls write something? Im convinced you could make money if you tried. Theres a tremendous sale for religious stories; why not patch one together? I am quite serious.
Why dont you do it yourself, retorted Maud.
I cant manage stories, as I have told you; but I think you could. In your place, Id make a speciality of Sunday-school prize-books; you know the kind of thing I mean. They sell like hot cakes. And theres so deuced little enterprise in the business. If youd give your mind to it, you might make hundreds a year.
Better say abandon your mind to it.
Why, there you are! Youre a sharp enough girl. You can quote as well as anyone I know.
And please, why am I to take up an inferior kind of work?
Inferior? Oh, if you can be a George Eliot, begin at the earliest opportunity. I merely suggested what seemed practicable. But I dont think you have genius, Maud. People have got that ancient prejudice so firmly rooted in their headsthat one mustnt write save at the dictation of the Holy Spirit. I tell you, writing is a business. Get together half-a-dozen fair specimens of the Sunday-school prize; study them; discover the essential points of such composition; hit upon new attractions; then go to work methodically, so many pages a day. Theres no question of the divine afflatus; that belongs to another sphere of life. We talk of literature as a trade, not of Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare. If I could only get that into poor Reardons head. He thinks me a gross beast, often enough. What the devilI mean what on earth is there in typography to make everything it deals with sacred? I dont advocate the propagation of vicious literature; I speak only of good, coarse, marketable stuff for the worlds vulgar. You just give it a thought, Maud; talk it over with Dora.
He resumed presently:
I maintain that we people of brains are justified in supplying the mob with the food it likes. We are not geniuses, and if we sit down in a spirit of long-eared gravity we shall produce only commonplace stuff. Let us use our wits to earn money, and make the best we can of our lives. If only I had the skill, I would produce novels out-trashing the trashiest that ever sold fifty thousand copies. But it needs skill, mind you: and to deny it is a gross error of the literary pedants. To please the vulgar you must, one way or another, incarnate the genius of vulgarity. For my own part, I shant be able to address the bulkiest multitude; my talent doesnt lend itself to that form. I shall write for the upper middle-class of intellect, the people who like to feel that what they are reading has some special cleverness, but who cant distinguish between stones and paste. Thats why Im so slow in warming to the work. Every month I feel surer of myself, however.
That last thing of mine in The West End distinctly hit the mark; it wasnt too flashy, it wasnt too solid. I heard fellows speak of it in the train.
Mrs Milvain kept glancing at Maud, with eyes which desired her attention to these utterances. None the less, half an hour after dinner, Jasper found himself encountered by his sister in the garden, on her face a look which warned him of what was coming.
I want you to tell me something, Jasper. How much longer shall you look to mother for support? I mean it literally; let me have an idea of how much longer it will be.
He looked away and reflected.
To leave a margin, was his reply, let us say twelve months.
Better say your favourite ten years at once.
No. I speak by the card. In twelve months time, if not before, I shall begin to pay my debts. My dear girl, I have the honour to be a tolerably long-headed individual. I know what Im about.
And let us suppose mother were to die within half a year?
I should make shift to do very well.
You? And pleasewhat of Dora and me?
You would write Sunday-school prizes.
Maud turned away and left him.
He knocked the dust out of the pipe he had been smoking, and again set off for a stroll along the lanes. On his countenance was just a trace of solicitude, but for the most part he wore a thoughtful smile. Now and then he stroked his smoothly-shaven jaws with thumb and fingers. Occasionally he became observant of wayside detailsof the colour of a maple leaf, the shape of a tall thistle, the consistency of a fungus. At the few people who passed he looked keenly, surveying them from head to foot.
On turning, at the limit of his walk, he found himself almost face to face with two persons, who were coming along in silent companionship; their appearance interested him. The one was a man of fifty, grizzled, hard featured, slightly bowed in the shoulders; he wore a grey felt hat with a broad brim and a decent suit of broadcloth. With him was a girl of perhaps two-and-twenty, in a slate-coloured dress with very little ornament, and a yellow straw hat of the shape originally appropriated to males; her dark hair was cut short, and lay in innumerable crisp curls. Father and daughter, obviously. The girl, to a casual eye, was neither pretty nor beautiful, but she had a grave and impressive face, with a complexion of ivory tone; her walk was gracefully modest, and she seemed to be enjoying the country air.
Jasper mused concerning them. When he had walked a few yards, he looked back; at the same moment the unknown man also turned his head.
Where the deuce have I seen themhim and the girl too? Milvain asked himself.
And before he reached home the recollection he sought flashed upon his mind.
The Museum Reading-room, of course!
Chapter 2. The House Of Yule
I think said Jasper, as he entered the room where his mother and Maud were busy with plain needlework, I must have met Alfred Yule and his daughter.
How did you recognise them? Mrs Milvain inquired.
I passed an old buffer and a pale-faced girl whom I know by sight at the British Museum. It wasnt near Yules house, but they were taking a walk.