Marian had lost her vehemence. She was absent and melancholy.
‘I can only ask you,’ she replied, ‘to try and make life less of a burden to us.’
‘I shall have to leave town tomorrow for a few days; no doubt it will be some satisfaction to you to hear that.’
Marian’s eyes turned involuntarily towards the telegram.
‘As for your occupation in my absence,’ he went on, in a hard tone which yet had something tremulous, emotional, making it quite different from the voice he had hitherto used, ‘that will be entirely a matter for your own judgment. I have felt for some time that you assisted me with less good-will than formerly, and now that you have frankly admitted it, I shall of course have very little satisfaction in requesting your aid. I must leave it to you; consult your own inclination.’
It was resentful, but not savage; between the beginning and the end of his speech he softened to a sort of self-satisfied pathos.
‘I can’t pretend,’ replied Marian, ‘that I have as much pleasure in the work as I should have if your mood were gentler.’
‘I am sorry. I might perhaps have made greater efforts to appear at ease when I was suffering.’
‘Do you mean physical suffering?’
‘Physical and mental. But that can’t concern you. During my absence I will think of your reproof. I know that it is deserved, in some degree. If it is possible, you shall have less to complain of in future.’
He looked about the room, and at length seated himself; his eyes were fixed in a direction away from Marian.
‘I suppose you had dinner somewhere?’ Marian asked, after catching a glimpse of his worn, colourless face.
‘Oh, I had a mouthful of something. It doesn’t matter.’
It seemed as if he found some special pleasure in assuming this tone of martyrdom just now. At the same time he was becoming more absorbed in thought.
‘Shall I have something brought up for you, father?’
‘Something—? Oh no, no; on no account.’
He rose again impatiently, then approached his desk, and laid a hand on the telegram. Marian observed this movement, and examined his face; it was set in an expression of eagerness.
‘You have nothing more to say, then?’ He turned sharply upon her.
‘I feel that I haven’t made you understand me, but I can say nothing more.’
‘I understand you very well—too well. That you should misunderstand and mistrust me, I suppose, is natural. You are young, and I am old. You are still full of hope, and I have been so often deceived and defeated that I dare not let a ray of hope enter my mind. Judge me; judge me as hardly as you like. My life has been one long, bitter struggle, and if now—. I say,’ he began a new sentence, ‘that only the hard side of life has been shown to me; small wonder if I have become hard myself. Desert me; go your own Way, as the young always do. But bear in mind my warning. Remember the caution I have given you.’
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.’
