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

knocked. This lodging spoke more distinctly of civilisation than that inhabited by Biffen; it contained the minimum supply of furniture needed to give it somewhat the appearance of a study, but the articles were in good condition. One end of the room was concealed by a chintz curtain; scrutiny would have discovered behind the draping the essential equipments of a bedchamber.

Mr. Whelpdale sat by the fire, smoking a cigar. He was a plain-featured but graceful and refined-looking man of thirty, with wavy chestnut hair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At present he wore a dressing-gown and was without collar.

“Welcome, gents both!” he cried facetiously. “Ages since I saw you, Reardon. I’ve been reading your new book. Uncommonly good things in it here and there⁠—uncommonly good.”

Whelpdale had the weakness of being unable to tell a disagreeable truth, and a tendency to flattery which had always made Reardon rather uncomfortable in his society. Though there was no need whatever of his mentioning Margaret Home, he preferred to frame smooth fictions rather than keep a silence which might be construed as unfavourable criticism.

“In the last volume,” he went on, “I think there are one or two things as good as you ever did; I do indeed.”

Reardon made no acknowledgment of these remarks. They irritated him, for he knew their insincerity. Biffen, understanding his friend’s silence, struck in on another subject.

“Who is this lady of whom you write to me?”

“Ah, quite a story! I’m going to be married, Reardon. A serious marriage. Light your pipes, and I’ll tell you all about it. Startled you, I suppose, Biffen? Unlikely news, eh? Some people would call it a rash step, I dare say. We shall just take another room in this house, that’s all. I think I can count upon an income of a couple of guineas a week, and I have plans without end that are pretty sure to bring in coin.”

Reardon did not care to smoke, but Biffen lit his pipe and waited with grave interest for the romantic narrative. Whenever he heard of a poor man’s persuading a woman to share his poverty he was eager of details; perchance he himself might yet have that heavenly good fortune.

“Well,” began Whelpdale, crossing his legs and watching a wreath he had just puffed from the cigar, “you know all about my literary advisership. The business goes on reasonably well. I’m going to extend it in ways I’ll explain to you presently. About six weeks ago I received a letter from a lady who referred to my advertisements, and said she had the manuscript of a novel which she would like to offer for my opinion. Two publishers had refused it, but one with complimentary phrases, and she hoped it mightn’t be impossible to put the thing into acceptable shape. Of course I wrote optimistically, and the manuscript was sent to me. Well, it wasn’t actually bad⁠—by Jove! you should have seen some of the things I have been asked to recommend to publishers! It wasn’t hopelessly bad by any means, and I gave serious thought to it. After exchange of several letters I asked the authoress to come and see me, that we might save postage stamps and talk things over. She hadn’t given me her address: I had to direct to a stationer’s in Bayswater. She agreed to come, and did come. I had formed a sort of idea, but of course I was quite wrong. Imagine my excitement when there came in a very beautiful girl, a tremendously interesting girl, about one-and-twenty⁠—just the kind of girl that most strongly appeals to me; dark, pale, rather consumptive-looking, slender⁠—no, there’s no describing her; there really isn’t! You must wait till you see her.”

“I hope the consumption was only a figure of speech,” remarked Biffen in his grave way.

“Oh, there’s nothing serious the matter, I think. A slight cough, poor girl.”

“The deuce!” interjected Reardon.

“Oh, nothing, nothing! It’ll be all right. Well, now, of course we talked over the story⁠—in good earnest, you know. Little by little I induced her to speak of herself⁠—this, after she’d come two or three times⁠—and she told me lamentable things. She was absolutely alone in London, and hadn’t had sufficient food for weeks; had sold all she could of her clothing; and so on. Her home was in Birmingham; she had been driven away by the brutality of a stepmother; a friend lent her a few pounds, and she came to London with an unfinished novel. Well, you know, this kind of thing would be enough to make me softhearted to any girl, let alone one who, to begin with, was absolutely my ideal. When she began to express a fear that I was giving too much time to her, that she wouldn’t be able to pay my fees, and so on, I could restrain myself no longer. On the spot I asked her to marry me. I didn’t practise any deception, mind. I told her I was a poor devil who had failed as a realistic novelist and was earning bread in haphazard ways; and I explained frankly that I thought we might carry on various kinds of business together: she might go on with her novel-writing, and⁠—so on. But she was frightened; I had been too abrupt. That’s a fault of mine, you know; but I was so confoundedly afraid of losing her. And I told her as much, plainly.”

Biffen smiled.

“This would be exciting,” he said, “if we didn’t know the end of the story.”

“Yes. Pity I didn’t keep it a secret. Well, she wouldn’t say yes, but I could see that she didn’t absolutely say no. ‘In any case,’ I said, ‘you’ll let me see you often? Fees be hanged! I’ll work day and night for you. I’ll do my utmost to get your novel accepted.’ And I implored her to let me lend her a little money. It was very difficult to persuade her, but at last she accepted a few shillings. I could