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

felt that she was playing a sorry part. She thought of sour grapes, and of the fox who had lost his tail. Worst of all, perhaps Edith suspected the truth. She began to make inquiries about common acquaintances, and fell into an easier current of gossip.

A quarter of an hour after the visitor’s departure Reardon came back. Amy had guessed aright; the necessity of selling his books weighed upon him so that for the present he could do nothing. The evening was spent gloomily, with very little conversation.

Next day came the bookseller to make his inspection. Reardon had chosen out and ranged upon a table nearly a hundred volumes. With a few exceptions, they had been purchased secondhand. The tradesman examined them rapidly.

“What do you ask?” he inquired, putting his head aside.

“I prefer that you should make an offer,” Reardon replied, with the helplessness of one who lives remote from traffic.

“I can’t say more than two pounds ten.”

“That is at the rate of sixpence a volume⁠—?”

“To me that’s about the average value of books like these.”

Perhaps the offer was a fair one; perhaps it was not. Reardon had neither time nor spirit to test the possibilities of the market; he was ashamed to betray his need by higgling.

“I’ll take it,” he said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

A messenger was sent for the books that afternoon. He stowed them skilfully in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that was waiting.

Reardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves. Many of those vanished volumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told you where he had picked them up and when; to open them recalled a past moment of intellectual growth, a mood of hope or despondency, a stage of struggle. In most of them his name was written, and there were often pencilled notes in the margin. Of course he had chosen from among the most valuable he possessed; such a multitude must else have been sold to make this sum of two pounds ten. Books are cheap, you know. At need, one can buy a Homer for fourpence, a Sophocles for sixpence. It was not rubbish that he had accumulated at so small expenditure, but the library of a poor student⁠—battered bindings, stained pages, supplanted editions. He loved his books, but there was something he loved more, and when Amy glanced at him with eyes of sympathy he broke into a cheerful laugh.

“I’m only sorry they have gone for so little. Tell me when the money is nearly at an end again, and you shall have more. It’s all right; the novel will be done soon.”

And that night he worked until twelve o’clock, doggedly, fiercely.

The next day was Sunday. As a rule he made it a day of rest, and almost perforce, for the depressing influence of Sunday in London made work too difficult. Then, it was the day on which he either went to see his own particular friends or was visited by them.

“Do you expect anyone this evening?” Amy inquired.

“Biffen will look in, I dare say. Perhaps Milvain.”

“I think I shall take Willie to mother’s. I shall be back before eight.”

“Amy, don’t say anything about the books.”

“No, no.”

“I suppose they always ask you when we think of removing over the way?”

He pointed in a direction that suggested Marylebone Workhouse. Amy tried to laugh, but a woman with a child in her arms has no keen relish for such jokes.

“I don’t talk to them about our affairs,” she said.

“That’s best.”

She left home about three o’clock, the servant going with her to carry the child.

At five a familiar knock sounded through the flat; it was a heavy rap followed by half-a-dozen light ones, like a reverberating echo, the last stroke scarcely audible. Reardon laid down his book, but kept his pipe in his mouth, and went to the door. A tall, thin man stood there, with a slouch hat and long grey overcoat. He shook hands silently, hung his hat in the passage, and came forward into the study.

His name was Harold Biffen, and, to judge from his appearance, he did not belong to the race of common mortals. His excessive meagreness would all but have qualified him to enter an exhibition in the capacity of living skeleton, and the garments which hung upon this framework would perhaps have sold for three-and-sixpence at an old-clothes dealer’s. But the man was superior to these accidents of flesh and raiment. He had a fine face: large, gentle eyes, nose slightly aquiline, small and delicate mouth. Thick black hair fell to his coat-collar; he wore a heavy moustache and a full beard. In his gait there was a singular dignity; only a man of cultivated mind and graceful character could move and stand as he did.

His first act on entering the room was to take from his pocket a pipe, a pouch, a little tobacco-stopper, and a box of matches, all of which he arranged carefully on a corner of the central table. Then he drew forward a chair and seated himself.

“Take your topcoat off;” said Reardon.

“Thanks, not this evening.”

“Why the deuce not?”

“Not this evening, thanks.”

The reason, as soon as Reardon sought for it, was obvious. Biffen had no ordinary coat beneath the other. To have referred to this fact would have been indelicate; the novelist of course understood it, and smiled, but with no mirth.

“Let me have your Sophocles,” were the visitor’s next words.

Reardon offered him a volume of the Oxford Pocket Classics.

“I prefer the Wunder, please.”

“It’s gone, my boy.”

“Gone?”

“Wanted a little cash.”

Biffen uttered a sound in which remonstrance and sympathy were blended.

“I’m sorry to hear that; very sorry. Well, this must do. Now, I want to know how you scan this chorus in the Oedipus Rex.”

Reardon took the volume, considered, and began to read aloud with metric emphasis.

“Choriambics, eh?” cried the other. “Possible, of course; but treat them as Ionics a minore with an anacrusis, and see if they don’t go better.”

He involved himself in terms