style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Why can’t Mr Yule make them friends, those two lots of people?’ asked Dora. ‘You say he’s on good terms with both.’
‘I suppose he thinks it’s no business of his.’
Jasper mused over the letter from his friend.
‘Ten years hence,’ he said, ‘if Reardon is still alive, I shall be lending him five-pound notes.’
A smile of irony rose to Maud’s lips. Dora laughed.
‘To be sure! To be sure!’ exclaimed their brother. ‘You have no faith. But just understand the difference between a man like Reardon and a man like me. He is the old type of unpractical artist; I am the literary man of 1882. He won’t make concessions, or rather, he can’t make them; he can’t supply the market. I—well, you may say that at present I do nothing; but that’s a great mistake, I am learning my business. Literature nowadays is a trade. Putting aside men of genius, who may succeed by mere cosmic force, your successful man of letters is your skilful tradesman. He thinks first and foremost of the markets; when one kind of goods begins to go off slackly, he is ready with something new and appetising. He knows perfectly all the possible sources of income. Whatever he has to sell he’ll get payment for it from all sorts of various quarters; none of your unpractical selling for a lump sum to a middleman who will make six distinct profits. Now, look you: if I had been in Reardon’s place, I’d have made four hundred at least out of “The Optimist”; I should have gone shrewdly to work with magazines and newspapers and foreign publishers, and—all sorts of people. Reardon can’t do that kind of thing, he’s behind his age; he sells a manuscript as if he lived in Sam Johnson’s Grub Street. But our Grub Street of to-day is quite a different place: it is supplied with telegraphic communication, it knows what literary fare is in demand in every part of the world, its inhabitants are men of business, however seedy.’
‘It sounds ignoble,’ said Maud.
‘I have nothing to do with that, my dear girl. Now, as I tell you, I am slowly, but surely, learning the business. My line won’t be novels; I have failed in that direction, I’m not cut out for the work. It’s a pity, of course; there’s a great deal of money in it. But I have plenty of scope. In ten years, I repeat, I shall be making my thousand a year.’
‘I don’t remember that you stated the exact sum before,’ Maud observed.
‘Let it pass. And to those who have shall be given. When I have a decent income of my own, I shall marry a woman with an income somewhat larger, so that casualties may be provided for.’
Dora exclaimed, laughing:
‘It would amuse me very much if the Reardons got a lot of money at Mr Yule’s death—and that can’t be ten years off, I’m sure.’
‘I don’t see that there’s any chance of their getting much,’ replied Jasper, meditatively. ‘Mrs Reardon is only his niece. The man’s brother and sister will have the first helping, I suppose. And then, if it comes to the second generation, the literary Yule has a daughter, and by her being invited here I should think she’s the favourite niece. No, no; depend upon it they won’t get anything at all.’
Having finished his breakfast, he leaned back and began to unfold the London paper that had come by post.
‘Had Mr Reardon any hopes of that kind at the time of his marriage, do you think?’ inquired Mrs Milvain.
‘Reardon? Good heavens, no! Would he were capable of such forethought!’
In a few minutes Jasper was left alone in the room. When the servant came to clear the table he strolled slowly away, humming a tune.
The house was pleasantly situated by the roadside in a little village named Finden. Opposite stood the church, a plain, low, square-towered building. As it was cattle-market to-day in the town of Wattleborough, droves of beasts and sheep occasionally went by, or the rattle of a grazier’s cart sounded for a moment. On ordinary days the road saw few vehicles, and pedestrians were rare.
Mrs Milvain and her daughters had lived here for the last seven years, since the death of the father, who was a veterinary surgeon. The widow enjoyed an annuity of two hundred and forty pounds, terminable with her life; the children had nothing of their own. Maud acted irregularly as a teacher of music; Dora had an engagement as visiting governess in a Wattleborough family. Twice a year, as a rule, Jasper came down from London to spend a fortnight with them; to-day marked the middle of his autumn visit, and the strained relations between him and his sisters which invariably made the second week rather trying for all in the house had already become noticeable.
In the course of the morning Jasper had half an hour’s private talk with his mother, after which he set off to roam in the sunshine. Shortly after he had left the house, Maud, her domestic duties dismissed for the time, came into the parlour where Mrs Milvain was reclining on the sofa.
‘Jasper wants more money,’ said the mother, when Maud had sat in meditation for a few minutes.
‘Of course. I knew that. I hope you told him he couldn’t have it.’
‘I really didn’t know what to say,’ returned Mrs Milvain, in a feeble tone of worry.
‘Then you must leave the matter to me, that’s all. There’s no money for him, and there’s an end of it.’
Maud set her features in sullen determination. There was a brief silence.
‘What’s he to do, Maud?’
‘To do? How do other people do? What do Dora and I do?’
‘You don’t earn enough for your support, my dear.’
‘Oh, well!’ broke from the girl. ‘Of course, if you grudge us our food and lodging—’
‘Don’t be so quick-tempered. You know very well I am far from grudging you anything, dear. But I only meant to say that Jasper does earn something, you know.’
‘It’s a disgraceful thing that he doesn’t earn as much as he needs. We are sacrificed to him, as we always have been. Why should we be pinching and stinting to keep him in idleness?’
‘But you really can’t call it idleness, Maud. He is studying his profession.’
‘Pray call it trade; he prefers it. How do I know that he’s studying anything? What does he mean by “studying”? And to hear him speak scornfully of his friend Mr Reardon, who seems to work hard all through the year! It’s disgusting, mother. At this rate he will never earn his own living. Who hasn’t seen or heard of such men? If we had another hundred a year, I would say nothing. But we can’t live on what he leaves us, and I’m not going to let you try. I shall tell Jasper plainly that he’s got to work for his own support.’
Another silence, and a longer one. Mrs Milvain furtively wiped a tear from her cheek.
‘It seems very cruel to refuse,’ she said at length, ‘when another year may give him the opportunity he’s waiting for.’
‘Opportunity? What does he mean by his opportunity?’
‘He says that it always comes, if a man knows how to wait.’
‘And the people who support him may starve meanwhile! Now just think a bit, mother. Suppose anything were to happen to you, what becomes of Dora and me? And what becomes of Jasper, too? It’s the
