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

seashore. “You are not to blame that you live without conventional protection, but it necessitates your being very careful. These people you are getting to know are not rigid about social observances, and they won’t exactly despise you for poverty; all the same, their charity mustn’t be tested too severely. Be very quiet for the present; let it be seen that you understand that your position isn’t quite regular⁠—I mean, of course, do so in a modest and nice way. As soon as ever it’s possible, we’ll arrange for you to live with someone who will preserve appearances. All this is contemptible, of course; but we belong to a contemptible society, and can’t help ourselves. For Heaven’s sake, don’t spoil your chances by rashness; be content to wait a little, till some more money comes in.”

Midway in October, about half-past eight one evening, Jasper received an unexpected visit from Dora. He was in his sitting-room, smoking and reading a novel.

“Anything wrong?” he asked, as his sister entered.

“No; but I’m alone this evening, and I thought I would see if you were in.”

“Where’s Maud, then?”

“She went to see the Lanes this afternoon, and Mrs. Lane invited her to go to the Gaiety tonight; she said a friend whom she had invited couldn’t come, and the ticket would be wasted. Maud went back to dine with them. She’ll come home in a cab.”

“Why is Mrs. Lane so affectionate all at once? Take your things off; I have nothing to do.”

“Miss Radway was going as well.”

“Who’s Miss Radway?”

“Don’t you know her? She’s staying with the Lanes. Maud says she writes for The West End.”

“And will that fellow Lane be with them?”

“I think not.”

Jasper mused, contemplating the bowl of his pipe.

“I suppose she was in rare excitement?”

“Pretty well. She has wanted to go to the Gaiety for a long time. There’s no harm, is there?”

Dora asked the question with that absent air which girls are wont to assume when they touch on doubtful subjects.

“Harm, no. Idiocy and lively music, that’s all. It’s too late, or I’d have taken you, for the joke of the thing. Confound it! she ought to have better dresses.”

“Oh, she looked very nice, in that best.”

“Pooh! But I don’t care for her to be running about with the Lanes. Lane is too big a blackguard; it reflects upon his wife to a certain extent.”

They gossiped for half an hour, then a tap at the door interrupted them; it was the landlady.

“Mr. Whelpdale has called to see you, sir. I mentioned as Miss Milvain was here, so he said he wouldn’t come up unless you sent to ask him.”

Jasper smiled at Dora, and said in a low voice.

“What do you say? Shall he come up? He can behave himself.”

“Just as you please, Jasper.”

“Ask him to come up, Mrs. Thompson, please.”

Mr. Whelpdale presented himself. He entered with much more ceremony than when Milvain was alone; on his visage was a grave respectfulness, his step was light, his whole bearing expressed diffidence and pleasurable anticipation.

“My younger sister, Whelpdale,” said Jasper, with subdued amusement.

The dealer in literary advice made a bow which did him no discredit, and began to speak in a low, reverential tone not at all disagreeable to the ear. His breeding, in truth, had been that of a gentleman, and it was only of late years that he had fallen into the hungry region of New Grub Street.

“How’s the Manual going off?” Milvain inquired.

“Excellently! We have sold nearly six hundred.”

“My sister is one of your readers. I believe she has studied the book with much conscientiousness.”

“Really? You have really read it, Miss Milvain?”

Dora assured him that she had, and his delight knew no bounds.

“It isn’t all rubbish, by any means,” said Jasper, graciously. “In the chapter on writing for magazines, there are one or two very good hints. What a pity you can’t apply your own advice, Whelpdale!”

“Now that’s horribly unkind of you!” protested the other. “You might have spared me this evening. But unfortunately it’s quite true, Miss Milvain. I point the way, but I haven’t been able to travel it myself. You mustn’t think I have never succeeded in getting things published; but I can’t keep it up as a profession. Your brother is the successful man. A marvellous facility! I envy him. Few men at present writing have such talent.”

“Please don’t make him more conceited than he naturally is,” interposed Dora.

“What news of Biffen?” asked Jasper, presently.

“He says he shall finish Mr. Bailey, Grocer, in about a month. He read me one of the later chapters the other night. It’s really very fine; most remarkable writing, it seems to me. It will be scandalous if he can’t get it published; it will, indeed.”

“I do hope he may!” said Dora, laughing. “I have heard so much of Mr. Bailey, that it will be a great disappointment if I am never to read it.”

“I’m afraid it would give you very little pleasure,” Whelpdale replied, hesitatingly. “The matter is so very gross.”

“And the hero grocer!” shouted Jasper, mirthfully. “Oh, but it’s quite decent; only rather depressing. The decently ignoble⁠—or, the ignobly decent? Which is Biffen’s formula? I saw him a week ago, and he looked hungrier than ever.”

“Ah, but poor Reardon! I passed him at King’s Cross not long ago. He didn’t see me⁠—walks with his eyes on the ground always⁠—and I hadn’t the courage to stop him. He’s the ghost of his old self. He can’t live long.”

Dora and her brother exchanged a glance. It was a long time since Jasper had spoken to his sisters about the Reardons; nowadays he seldom heard either of husband or wife.

The conversation that went on was so agreeable to Whelpdale, that he lost consciousness of time. It was past eleven o’clock when Jasper felt obliged to remind him.

“Dora, I think I must be taking you home.”

The visitor at once made ready for departure, and his leave-taking was as respectful as his entrance had been. Though he might not say what he thought, there was very legible