CHAPTER XXIX. CATASTROPHE
Marian had finished the rough draft of a paper on James
Harrington, author of 'Oceana.' Her father went through it by the
midnight lamp, and the next morning made his comments. A black
sky and sooty rain strengthened his inclination to sit by the
study fire and talk at large in a tone of flattering benignity.
'Those paragraphs on the Rota Club strike me as singularly
happy,' he
said, tapping the manuscript with the mouthpiece of his pipe. 'Perhaps you might say a word or two more about Cyriac Skinner; one mustn't be too allusive with general readers, their ignorance is incredible. But there is so little to add to this paper—so little to alter—that I couldn't feel justified in sending it as my own work. I think it is altogether too good to appear anonymously. You must sign it, Marian, and have the credit that is due to you.'
'Oh, do you think it's worth while?' answered the girl, who was
far from easy under this praise. Of late there had been too much
of it; it made her regard her father with suspicions which
increased her sense of trouble in keeping a momentous secret from
him.
'Yes, yes; you had better sign it. I'll undertake there's no
other girl of your age who could turn out such a piece of work. I
think we may fairly say that your apprenticeship is at an end. Before long,' he smiled anxiously, 'I may be counting upon you as a valued contributor. And that reminds me; would you be disposed to call with me on the Jedwoods at their house next Sunday?'
Marian understood the intention that lay beneath this proposal. She saw that her father would not allow himself to seem discouraged by the silence she maintained on the great subject which awaited her decision. He was endeavouring gradually to involve her in his ambitions, to carry her forward by insensible steps. It pained her to observe the suppressed eagerness with which he looked for her reply.
'I will go if you wish, father, but I had rather not.'
'I feel sure you would like Mrs Jedwood. One has no great opinion
of her novels, but she is a woman of some intellect. Let me book
you for next Sunday; surely I have a claim to your companionship
now and then.'
Marian kept silence. Yule puffed at his pipe, then said with a
speculative air:
'I suppose it has never even occurred to you to try your hand at
fiction?'
'I haven't the least inclination that way.'
'You would probably do something rather good if you tried. But I
don't urge it. My own efforts in that line were a mistake, I'm
disposed to think. Not that the things were worse than multitudes
of books which nowadays go down with the many-headed. But I never
quite knew what I wished to be at in fiction. I wasn't content to
write a mere narrative of the exciting kind, yet I couldn't hit
upon subjects of intellectual cast that altogether satisfied me. Well, well; I have tried my hand at most kinds of literature. Assuredly I merit the title of man of letters.'
'You certainly do.'
'By-the-by, what should you think of that title for a review—
Letters? It has never been used, so far as I know. I like the
word "letters." How much better "a man of letters" than "a
literary man"! And apropos of that, when was the word
"literature" first used in our modern sense to signify a body of
writing? In Johnson's day it was pretty much the equivalent of
our "culture." You remember his saying, "It is surprising how
little literature people have." His dictionary, I believe, defines the word as "learning, skill in letters"—nothing else.'
It was characteristic of Yule to dwell with gusto on little
points such as this; he prosed for a quarter of an hour, with a
pause every now and then whilst he kept his pipe alight.
'I think Letters wouldn't be amiss,' he said at length, returning
to the suggestion which he wished to keep before Marian's mind. 'It would clearly indicate our scope. No articles on bimetallism, as Quarmby said—wasn't it Quarmby?'
He laughed idly.