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

father is away, Miss Yule,” Jasper began, in an animated voice. “I wanted to say goodbye to him. I return to London in a few hours.”

“You are going sooner than you intended?”

“Yes, I feel I mustn’t waste any more time. I think the country air is doing you good; you certainly look better than when I passed you that first day.”

“I feel better, much.”

“My sisters are anxious to see you again. I shouldn’t wonder if they come up this afternoon.”

Marian had seated herself on the sofa, and her hands were linked upon her lap in the same way as when Jasper spoke with her here before, the palms downward. The beautiful outline of her bent head was relieved against a broad strip of sunlight on the wall behind her.

“They deplore,” he continued in a moment, “that they should come to know you only to lose you again so soon.”

“I have quite as much reason to be sorry,” she answered, looking at him with the slightest possible smile. “But perhaps they will let me write to them, and hear from them now and then.”

“They would think it an honour. Country girls are not often invited to correspond with literary ladies in London.”

He said it with as much jocoseness as civility allowed, then at once rose.

“Father will be very sorry,” Marian began, with one quick glance towards the window and then another towards the door. “Perhaps he might possibly be able to see you before you go?”

Jasper stood in hesitation. There was a look on the girl’s face which, under other circumstances, would have suggested a ready answer.

“I mean,” she added, hastily, “he might just call, or even see you at the station?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t like to give Mr. Yule any trouble. It’s my own fault, for deciding to go today. I shall leave by the 2:45.”

He offered his hand.

“I shall look for your name in the magazines, Miss Yule.”

“Oh, I don’t think you will ever find it there.”

He laughed incredulously, shook hands with her a second time, and strode out of the room, head erect⁠—feeling proud of himself.

When Dora came home at dinnertime, he informed her of what he had done.

“A very interesting girl,” he added impartially. “I advise you to make a friend of her. Who knows but you may live in London some day, and then she might be valuable⁠—morally, I mean. For myself, I shall do my best not to see her again for a long time; she’s dangerous.”

Jasper was unaccompanied when he went to the station. Whilst waiting on the platform, he suffered from apprehension lest Alfred Yule’s seamed visage should present itself; but no acquaintance approached him. Safe in the corner of his third-class carriage, he smiled at the last glimpse of the familiar fields, and began to think of something he had decided to write for The West End.

IV An Author and His Wife

Eight flights of stairs, consisting alternately of eight and nine steps. Amy had made the calculation, and wondered what was the cause of this arrangement. The ascent was trying, but then no one could contest the respectability of the abode. In the flat immediately beneath resided a successful musician, whose carriage and pair came at a regular hour each afternoon to take him and his wife for a most respectable drive. In this special building no one else seemed at present to keep a carriage, but all the tenants were gentlefolk.

And as to living up at the very top, why, there were distinct advantages⁠—as so many people of moderate income are nowadays hastening to discover. The noise from the street was diminished at this height; no possible tramplers could establish themselves above your head; the air was bound to be purer than that of inferior strata; finally, one had the flat roof whereon to sit or expatiate in sunny weather. True that a gentle rain of soot was wont to interfere with one’s comfort out there in the open, but such minutiae are easily forgotten in the fervour of domestic description. It was undeniable that on a fine day one enjoyed extensive views. The green ridge from Hampstead to Highgate, with Primrose Hill and the foliage of Regent’s Park in the foreground; the suburban spaces of St. John’s Wood, Maida Vale, Kilburn; Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, lying low by the side of the hidden river, and a glassy gleam on far-off hills which meant the Crystal Palace; then the clouded majesty of eastern London, crowned by St. Paul’s dome. These things one’s friends were expected to admire. Sunset often afforded rich effects, but they were for solitary musing.

A sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen. But the kitchen was called dining-room, or even parlour at need; for the cooking-range lent itself to concealment behind an ornamental screen, the walls displayed pictures and bookcases, and a tiny scullery which lay apart sufficed for the coarser domestic operations. This was Amy’s territory during the hours when her husband was working, or endeavouring to work. Of necessity, Edwin Reardon used the front room as his study. His writing-table stood against the window; each wall had its shelves of serried literature; vases, busts, engravings (all of the inexpensive kind) served for ornaments.

A maidservant, recently emancipated from the Board school, came at half-past seven each morning, and remained until two o’clock, by which time the Reardons had dined; on special occasions, her services were enlisted for later hours. But it was Reardon’s habit to begin the serious work of the day at about three o’clock, and to continue with brief interruptions until ten or eleven; in many respects an awkward arrangement, but enforced by the man’s temperament and his poverty.

One evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper before him. It was the hour of sunset. His outlook was upon the backs of certain large houses skirting Regent’s Park, and lights had begun to show here and there in the windows: in one room a man was discoverable