New Grub Street, George Gissing [10 best books of all time TXT] 📗

himself; he did not ask himself whether Marian would today leave her home, or if her mother would take him at his word and also depart. These seemed to be details which his brain was too weary to consider. But he wished to be away from the wretchedness of his house, and to let things go as they would whilst he was absent. As he closed the front door he felt as if he were escaping from an atmosphere that threatened to stifle him.

His steps directing themselves more by habit than with any deliberate choice, he walked towards Camden Road. When he had reached Camden Town railway-station he was attracted by a coffee-stall; a draught of the steaming liquid, no matter its quality, would help his blood to circulate. He laid down his penny, and first warmed his hands by holding them round the cup. Whilst standing thus he noticed that the objects at which he looked had a blurred appearance; his eyesight seemed to have become worse this morning. Only a result of his insufficient sleep perhaps. He took up a scrap of newspaper that lay on the stall; he could read it, but one of his eyes was certainly weaker than the other; trying to see with that one alone, he found that everything became misty.

He laughed, as if the threat of new calamity were an amusement in his present state of mind. And at the same moment his look encountered that of a man who had drawn near to him, a shabbily-dressed man of middle age, whose face did not correspond with his attire.

“Will you give me a cup of coffee?” asked the stranger, in a low voice and with shamefaced manner. “It would be a great kindness.”

The accent was that of good breeding. Yule hesitated in surprise for a moment, then said:

“Have one by all means. Would you care for anything to eat?”

“I am much obliged to you. I think I should be none the worse for one of those solid slices of bread and butter.”

The stall-keeper was just extinguishing his lights; the frosty sky showed a pale gleam of sunrise.

“Hard times, I’m afraid,” remarked Yule, as his beneficiary began to eat the luncheon with much appearance of grateful appetite.

“Very hard times.” He had a small, thin, colourless countenance, with large, pathetic eyes; a slight moustache and curly beard. His clothes were such as would be worn by some very poor clerk. “I came here an hour ago,” he continued, “with the hope of meeting an acquaintance who generally goes from this station at a certain time. I have missed him, and in doing so I missed what I had thought my one chance of a breakfast. When one has neither dined nor supped on the previous day, breakfast becomes a meal of some importance.”

“True. Take another slice.”

“I am greatly obliged to you.”

“Not at all. I have known hard times myself, and am likely to know worse.”

“I trust not. This is the first time that I have positively begged. I should have been too much ashamed to beg of the kind of men who are usually at these places; they certainly have no money to spare. I was thinking of making an appeal at a baker’s shop, but it is very likely I should have been handed over to a policeman. Indeed I don’t know what I should have done; the last point of endurance was almost reached. I have no clothes but these I wear, and they are few enough for the season. Still, I suppose the waistcoat must have gone.”

He did not talk like a beggar who is trying to excite compassion, but with a sort of detached curiosity concerning the difficulties of his position.

“You can find nothing to do?” said the man of letters.

“Positively nothing. By profession I am a surgeon, but it’s a long time since I practised. Fifteen years ago I was comfortably established at Wakefield; I was married and had one child. But my capital ran out, and my practice, never anything to boast of, fell to nothing. I succeeded in getting a place as an assistant to a man at Chester. We sold up, and started on the journey.”

He paused, looking at Yule in a strange way.

“What happened then?”

“You probably don’t remember a railway accident that took place near Crewe in that year⁠—it was 1869? I and my wife and child were alone in a carriage that was splintered. One moment I was talking with them, in fairly good spirits, and my wife was laughing at something I had said; the next, there were two crushed, bleeding bodies at my feet. I had a broken arm, that was all. Well, they were killed on the instant; they didn’t suffer. That has been my one consolation.”

Yule kept the silence of sympathy.

“I was in a lunatic asylum for more than a year after that,” continued the man. “Unhappily, I didn’t lose my senses at the moment; it took two or three weeks to bring me to that pass. But I recovered, and there has been no return of the disease. Don’t suppose that I am still of unsound mind. There can be little doubt that poverty will bring me to that again in the end; but as yet I am perfectly sane. I have supported myself in various ways. No, I don’t drink; I see the question in your face. But I am physically weak, and, to quote Mrs. Gummidge, ‘things go contrary with me.’ There’s no use lamenting; this breakfast has helped me on, and I feel in much better spirits.”

“Your surgical knowledge is no use to you?”

The other shook his head and sighed.

“Did you ever give any special attention to diseases of the eyes?”

“Special, no. But of course I had some acquaintance with the subject.”

“Could you tell by examination whether a man was threatened with cataract, or anything of that kind?”

“I think I could.”

“I am speaking of myself.”

The stranger made a close scrutiny of Yule’s face, and asked certain questions