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.’
