New Grub Street [140]
to a pause. But she knew that his rebuke was mere unworthy evasion; she saw that her father could not meet her look, and this perception of shame in him impelled her to finish what she had begun.
'I will say nothing of mother, then, but speak only for myself. I suffer too much from your unkindness; you ask too much endurance.'
'You mean that I exact too much work from you?' asked her father, with a look which might have been directed to a recalcitrant clerk.
'No. But that you make the conditions of my work too hard. I live in constant fear of your anger.'
'Indeed? When did I last ill-use you, or threaten you?'
'I often think that threats, or even ill-usage, would be easier to bear than an unchanging gloom which always seems on the point of breaking into violence.'
'I am obliged to you for your criticism of my disposition and manner, but unhappily I am too old to reform. Life has made me what I am, and I should have thought that your knowledge of what my life has been would have gone far to excuse a lack of cheerfulness in me.'
The irony of this laborious period was full of self-pity. His voice quavered at the close, and a tremor was noticeable in his stiff frame.
'It isn't lack of cheerfulness that I mean, father. That could never have brought me to speak like this.'
'If you wish me to admit that I am bad-tempered, surly, irritable--I make no difficulty about that. The charge is true enough. I can only ask you again: What are the circumstances that have ruined my temper? When you present yourself here with a general accusation of my behaviour, I am at a loss to understand what you ask of me, what you wish me to say or do. I must beg you to speak plainly. Are you suggesting that I should make provision for the support of you and your mother away from my intolerable proximity? My income is not large, as I think you are aware, but of course, if a demand of this kind is seriously made, I must do my best to comply with it.'
'It hurts me very much that you can understand me no better than this.'
'I am sorry. I think we used to understand each other, but that was before you were subjected to the influence of strangers.'
In his perverse frame of mind he was ready to give utterance to any thought which confused the point at issue. This last allusion was suggested to him by a sudden pang of regret for the pain he was causing Marian; he defended himself against self-reproach by hinting at the true reason of much of his harshness.
'I am subjected to no influence that is hostile to you,' Marian replied.
'You may think that. But in such a matter it is very easy for you to deceive yourself.'
'Of course I know what you refer to, and I can assure you that I don't deceive myself.'
Yule flashed a searching glance at her.
'Can you deny that you are on terms of friendship with a--a person who would at any moment rejoice to injure me?'
'I am friendly with no such person. Will you say whom you are thinking of?'
'It would be useless. I have no wish to discuss a subject on which we should only disagree unprofitably.'
Marian kept silence for a moment, then said in a low, unsteady voice:
'It is perhaps because we never speak of that subject that we are so far from understanding each other. If you think that Mr Milvain is your enemy, that he would rejoice to injure you, you are grievously mistaken.'
'When I see a man in close alliance with my worst enemy, and looking to that enemy for favour, I am justified in thinking that he would injure me if the right kind of opportunity offered. One need not be very deeply read in human nature to have assurance of that.'
'But I know Mr Milvain!'
'You know him?'
'Far better than you can, I am sure. You draw conclusions from general principles; but I know that they don't apply in this case.'
'I have no doubt you sincerely think so. I repeat that nothing can be gained by such a discussion as this.'
'One thing I must tell you. There was no truth in your suspicion that Mr Milvain wrote that review in The Current. He assured me himself
'I will say nothing of mother, then, but speak only for myself. I suffer too much from your unkindness; you ask too much endurance.'
'You mean that I exact too much work from you?' asked her father, with a look which might have been directed to a recalcitrant clerk.
'No. But that you make the conditions of my work too hard. I live in constant fear of your anger.'
'Indeed? When did I last ill-use you, or threaten you?'
'I often think that threats, or even ill-usage, would be easier to bear than an unchanging gloom which always seems on the point of breaking into violence.'
'I am obliged to you for your criticism of my disposition and manner, but unhappily I am too old to reform. Life has made me what I am, and I should have thought that your knowledge of what my life has been would have gone far to excuse a lack of cheerfulness in me.'
The irony of this laborious period was full of self-pity. His voice quavered at the close, and a tremor was noticeable in his stiff frame.
'It isn't lack of cheerfulness that I mean, father. That could never have brought me to speak like this.'
'If you wish me to admit that I am bad-tempered, surly, irritable--I make no difficulty about that. The charge is true enough. I can only ask you again: What are the circumstances that have ruined my temper? When you present yourself here with a general accusation of my behaviour, I am at a loss to understand what you ask of me, what you wish me to say or do. I must beg you to speak plainly. Are you suggesting that I should make provision for the support of you and your mother away from my intolerable proximity? My income is not large, as I think you are aware, but of course, if a demand of this kind is seriously made, I must do my best to comply with it.'
'It hurts me very much that you can understand me no better than this.'
'I am sorry. I think we used to understand each other, but that was before you were subjected to the influence of strangers.'
In his perverse frame of mind he was ready to give utterance to any thought which confused the point at issue. This last allusion was suggested to him by a sudden pang of regret for the pain he was causing Marian; he defended himself against self-reproach by hinting at the true reason of much of his harshness.
'I am subjected to no influence that is hostile to you,' Marian replied.
'You may think that. But in such a matter it is very easy for you to deceive yourself.'
'Of course I know what you refer to, and I can assure you that I don't deceive myself.'
Yule flashed a searching glance at her.
'Can you deny that you are on terms of friendship with a--a person who would at any moment rejoice to injure me?'
'I am friendly with no such person. Will you say whom you are thinking of?'
'It would be useless. I have no wish to discuss a subject on which we should only disagree unprofitably.'
Marian kept silence for a moment, then said in a low, unsteady voice:
'It is perhaps because we never speak of that subject that we are so far from understanding each other. If you think that Mr Milvain is your enemy, that he would rejoice to injure you, you are grievously mistaken.'
'When I see a man in close alliance with my worst enemy, and looking to that enemy for favour, I am justified in thinking that he would injure me if the right kind of opportunity offered. One need not be very deeply read in human nature to have assurance of that.'
'But I know Mr Milvain!'
'You know him?'
'Far better than you can, I am sure. You draw conclusions from general principles; but I know that they don't apply in this case.'
'I have no doubt you sincerely think so. I repeat that nothing can be gained by such a discussion as this.'
'One thing I must tell you. There was no truth in your suspicion that Mr Milvain wrote that review in The Current. He assured me himself