His doubts came to an end two days after that proposal of a title for the new review. As he sat in his study the servant brought him a letter delivered by the last evening post. The handwriting was unknown to him; the contents were these:
'DEAR MR YULE,--It is my desire to write to you with perfect frankness and as simply as I can on a subject which has the deepest interest for me, and which I trust you will consider in that spirit of kindness with which you received me when we first met at Finden.
'On the occasion of that meeting I had the happiness of being presented to Miss Yule. She was not totally a stranger to me; at that time I used to work pretty regularly in the Museum Reading-room, and there I had seen Miss Yule, had ventured to observe her at moments with a young man's attention, and had felt my interest aroused, though I did not know her name. To find her at Finden seemed to me a very unusual and delightful piece of good fortune.
When I came back from my holiday I was conscious of a new purpose in life, a new desire and a new motive to help me on in my chosen career.
'My mother's death led to my sisters' coming to live in London.
Already there had been friendly correspondence between Miss Yule and the two girls, and now that the opportunity offered they began to see each other frequently. As I was often at my sisters'
lodgings it came about that I met Miss Yule there from time to time. In this way was confirmed my attachment to your daughter.
The better I knew her, the more worthy I found her of reverence and love.
'Would it not have been natural for me to seek a renewal of the acquaintance with yourself which had been begun in the country?
Gladly I should have done so. Before my sisters' coming to London I did call one day at your house with the desire of seeing you, but unfortunately you were not at home. Very soon after that Ilearnt to my extreme regret that my connection with The Current and its editor would make any repetition of my visit very distasteful to you. I was conscious of nothing in my literary life that could justly offend you--and at this day I can say the same--but I shrank from the appearance of importunity, and for some months I was deeply distressed by the fear that what I most desired in life had become unattainable. My means were very slight; I had no choice but to take such work as offered, and mere chance had put me into a position which threatened ruin to the hope that you would some day regard me as a not unworthy suitor for your daughter's hand.
'Circumstances have led me to a step which at that time seemed impossible. Having discovered that Miss Yule returned the feeling I entertained for her, I have asked her to be my wife, and she has consented. It is now my hope that you will permit me to call upon you. Miss Yule is aware that I am writing this letter; will you not let her plead for me, seeing that only by an unhappy chance have I been kept aloof from you? Marian and I are equally desirous that you should approve our union; without that approval, indeed, something will be lacking to the happiness for which we hope.
'Believe me to be sincerely yours,'JASPER MILVAIN.'
Half an hour after reading this Yule was roused from a fit of the gloomiest brooding by Marian's entrance. She came towards him timidly, with pale countenance. He had glanced round to see who it was, but at once turned his head again.
'Will you forgive me for keeping this secret from you, father?'
'Forgive you?' he replied in a hard, deliberate voice. 'I assure you it is a matter of perfect indifference to me. You are long since of age, and I have no power whatever to prevent your falling a victim to any schemer who takes your fancy. It would be folly in me to discuss the question. I recognise your right to have as many secrets as may seem good to you. To talk of forgiveness is the merest affectation.'
'No, I spoke sincerely. If it had seemed possible I should gladly have let you know about this from the first. That would have been natural and right. But you know what prevented me.'
'I do. I will try to hope that even a sense of shame had something to do with it.'
'That had nothing to do with it,' said Marian, coldly. 'I have never had reason to feel ashamed.'
'Be it so. I trust you may never have reason to feel repentance.
May I ask when you propose to be married?'
'I don't know when it will take place.'
'As soon, I suppose, as your uncle's executors have discharged a piece of business which is distinctly germane to the matter?'
'Perhaps.'
'Does your mother know?'
'I have just told her.'
'Very well, then it seems to me that there's nothing more to be said.'
'Do you refuse to see Mr Milvain?'
'Most decidedly I do. You will have the goodness to inform him that that is my reply to his letter.'
'I don't think that is the behaviour of a gentleman,' said Marian, her eyes beginning to gleam with resentment.
'I am obliged to you for your instruction.'
'Will you tell me, father, in plain words, why you dislike Mr Milvain?'
'I am not inclined to repeat what I have already fruitlessly told you. For the sake of a clear understanding, however, I will let you know the practical result of my dislike. From the day of your marriage with that man you are nothing to me. I shall distinctly forbid you to enter my house. You make your choice, and go your own way. I shall hope never to see your face again.'
Their eyes met, and the look of each seemed to fascinate the other.
'If you have made up your mind to that,' said Marian in a shaking voice, 'I can remain here no longer. Such words are senselessly cruel. To-morrow I shall leave the house.'
'I repeat that you are of age, and perfectly independent. It can be nothing to me how soon you go. You have given proof that I am of less than no account to you, and doubtless the sooner we cease to afflict each other the better.'