New Grub Street - George Gissing (e book reader free TXT) 📗

for me, I must go. Perhaps things are at the worst.”

“When is there a train? Have you a timetable?”

Biffen was despatched to the nearest shop to purchase one, and in the meanwhile Reardon packed a few necessaries in a small travelling-bag, ancient and worn, but the object of his affection because it had accompanied him on his wanderings in the South. When Harold returned, his appearance excited Reardon’s astonishment⁠—he was white from head to foot.

“Snow?”

“It must have been falling heavily for an hour or more.”

“Can’t be helped; I must go.”

The nearest station for departure was London Bridge, and the next train left at 7:20. By Reardon’s watch it was now about five minutes to seven.

“I don’t know whether it’s possible,” he said, in confused hurry, “but I must try. There isn’t another train till ten past nine. Come with me to the station, Biffen.”

Both were ready. They rushed from the house, and sped through the soft, steady fall of snowflakes into Upper Street. Here they were several minutes before they found a disengaged cab. Questioning the driver, they learnt what they would have known very well already but for their excitement: impossible to get to London Bridge Station in a quarter of an hour.

“Better to go on, all the same,” was Reardon’s opinion. “If the snow gets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all. But you had better not come; I forgot that you are as much out of sorts as I am.”

“How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you!”

“Diphtheria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age, isn’t it?” Reardon asked when they were speeding along City Road.

“I’m afraid there’s much danger.”

“Why did she send?”

“What an absurd question! You seem to have got into a thoroughly morbid state of mind about her. Do be human, and put away your obstinate folly.”

“In my position you would have acted precisely as I have done. I have had no choice.”

“I might; but we have both of us too little practicality. The art of living is the art of compromise. We have no right to foster sensibilities, and conduct ourselves as if the world allowed of ideal relations; it leads to misery for others as well as ourselves. Genial coarseness is what it behoves men like you and me to cultivate. Your reply to your wife’s last letter was preposterous. You ought to have gone to her of your own accord as soon as ever you heard she was rich; she would have thanked you for such commonsense disregard of delicacies. Let there be an end of this nonsense, I implore you!”

Reardon stared through the glass at the snow that fell thicker and thicker.

“What are we⁠—you and I?” pursued the other. “We have no belief in immortality; we are convinced that this life is all; we know that human happiness is the origin and end of all moral considerations. What right have we to make ourselves and others miserable for the sake of an obstinate idealism? It is our duty to make the best of circumstances. Why will you go cutting your loaf with a razor when you have a serviceable bread-knife?”

Still Reardon did not speak. The cab rolled on almost silently.

“You love your wife, and this summons she sends is proof that her thought turns to you as soon as she is in distress.”

“Perhaps she only thought it her duty to let the child’s father know⁠—”

“Perhaps⁠—perhaps⁠—perhaps!” cried Biffen, contemptuously. “There goes the razor again! Take the plain, human construction of what happens. Ask yourself what the vulgar man would do, and do likewise; that’s the only safe rule for you.”

They were both hoarse with too much talking, and for the last half of the drive neither spoke.

At the railway-station they ate and drank together, but with poor pretence of appetite. As long as possible they kept within the warmed rooms. Reardon was pale, and had anxious, restless eyes; he could not remain seated, though when he had walked about for a few minutes the trembling of his limbs obliged him to sink down. It was an unutterable relief to both when the moment of the train’s starting approached.

They clasped hands warmly, and exchanged a few last requests and promises.

“Forgive my plain speech, old fellow,” said Biffen. “Go and be happy!”

Then he stood alone on the platform, watching the red light on the last carriage as the train whirled away into darkness and storm.

XXXII Reardon Becomes Practical

Reardon had never been to Brighton, and of his own accord never would have gone; he was prejudiced against the place because its name has become suggestive of fashionable imbecility and the snobbishness which tries to model itself thereon; he knew that the town was a mere portion of London transferred to the seashore, and as he loved the strand and the breakers for their own sake, to think of them in such connection could be nothing but a trial of his temper. Something of this species of irritation affected him in the first part of his journey, and disturbed the mood of kindliness with which he was approaching Amy; but towards the end he forgot this in a growing desire to be beside his wife in her trouble. His impatience made the hour and a half seem interminable.

The fever which was upon him had increased. He coughed frequently; his breathing was difficult; though constantly moving, he felt as if, in the absence of excitement, his one wish would have been to lie down and abandon himself to lethargy. Two men who sat with him in the third-class carriage had spread a rug over their knees and amused themselves with playing cards for trifling sums of money; the sight of their foolish faces, the sound of their laughs, the talk they interchanged, exasperated him to the last point of endurance; but for all that he could not draw his attention from them. He seemed condemned by some