Part 68 (2/2)

It occupied them until Mrs Yule announced at the door that supper was ready.

During the meal Marian found herself the object of unusual attention; her father troubled to inquire if the cut of cold beef he sent her was to her taste, and kept an eye on her progress. Mr Hinks talked to her in a tone of respectful sympathy, and Mr Quarmby was paternally jovial when he addressed her. Mrs Yule would have kept silence, in her ordinary way, but this evening her husband made several remarks which he had adapted to her intellect, and even showed that a reply would be graciously received.

Mother and daughter remained together when the men withdrew to their tobacco and toddy. Neither made allusion to the wonderful change, but they talked more light-heartedly than for a long time.

On the morrow Yule began by consulting Marian with regard to the disposition of matter in an essay he was writing. What she said he weighed carefully, and seemed to think that she had set his doubts at rest.

'Poor old Hinks!' he said presently, with a sigh. 'Breaking up, isn't he? He positively totters in his walk. I'm afraid he's the kind of man to have a paralytic stroke; it wouldn't astonish me to hear at any moment that he was lying helpless.'

'What ever would become of him in that case?'

'Goodness knows! One might ask the same of so many of us. What would become of me, for instance, if I were incapable of work?'

Marian could make no reply.

'There's something I'll just mention to you,' he went on in a lowered tone, 'though I don't wish you to take it too seriously. I'm beginning to have a little trouble with my eyes.'

She looked at him, startled.

'With your eyes?'

'Nothing, I hope; but--well, I think I shall see an oculist. One doesn't care to face a prospect of failing sight, perhaps of cataract, or something of that kind; still, it's better to know the facts, I should say.'

'By all means go to an oculist,' said Marian, earnestly.

'Don't disturb yourself about it. It may be nothing at all. But in any case I must change my gla.s.ses.'

He rustled over some slips of ma.n.u.script, whilst Marian regarded him anxiously.

'Now, I appeal to you, Marian,' he continued: 'could I possibly save money out of an income that has never exceeded two hundred and fifty pounds, and often--I mean even in latter years--has been much less?'

'I don't see how you could.'

'In one way, of course, I have managed it. My life is insured for five hundred pounds. But that is no provision for possible disablement. If I could no longer earn money with my pen, what would become of me?'

Marian could have made an encouraging reply, but did not venture to utter her thoughts.

'Sit down,' said her father. 'You are not to work for a few days, and I myself shall be none the worse for a morning's rest. Poor old Hinks!

I suppose we shall help him among us, somehow. Quarmby, of course, is comparatively flouris.h.i.+ng. Well, we have been companions for a quarter of a century, we three. When I first met Quarmby I was a Grub Street gazetteer, and I think he was even poorer than I. A life of toil! A life of toil!'

'That it has been, indeed.'

'By-the-bye'--he threw an arm over the back of his chair--'what did you think of our imaginary review, the thing we were talking about last night?'

'There are so many periodicals,' replied Marian, doubtfully.

'So many? My dear child, if we live another ten years we shall see the number trebled.'

'Is it desirable?'

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