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

a remarkable freedom from snobbishness in this young man; the fact of Reardon’s intellectual superiority had long ago counteracted Carter’s social prejudices.

“I should like to have a word with you.”

“Right you are!”

They went into a small inner room. Reardon’s pulse beat at fever-rate; his tongue was cleaving to his palate.

“What is it, old man?” asked the secretary, seating himself and flinging one of his legs over the other. “You look rather seedy, do you know. Why the deuce don’t you and your wife look us up now and then?”

“I’ve had a hard pull to finish my novel.”

“Finished, is it? I’m glad to hear that. When’ll it be out? I’ll send scores of people to Mudie’s after it.”

“Thanks; but I don’t think much of it, to tell you the truth.”

“Oh, we know what that means.”

Reardon was talking like an automaton. It seemed to him that he turned screws and pressed levers for the utterance of his next words.

“I may as well say at once what I have come for. Could you lend me ten pounds for a month⁠—in fact, until I get the money for my book?”

The secretary’s countenance fell, though not to that expression of utter coldness which would have come naturally under the circumstances to a great many vivacious men. He seemed genuinely embarrassed.

“By Jove! I⁠—confound it! To tell you the truth, I haven’t ten pounds to lend. Upon my word, I haven’t, Reardon! These infernal housekeeping expenses! I don’t mind telling you, old man, that Edith and I have been pushing the pace rather.” He laughed, and thrust his hands down into his trousers-pockets. “We pay such a darned rent, you know⁠—hundred and twenty-five. We’ve only just been saying we should have to draw it mild for the rest of the winter. But I’m infernally sorry; upon my word I am.”

“And I am sorry to have annoyed you by the unseasonable request.”

“Devilish seasonable, Reardon, I assure you!” cried the secretary, and roared at his joke. It put him into a better temper than ever, and he said at length: “I suppose a fiver wouldn’t be much use?⁠—For a month, you say?⁠—I might manage a fiver, I think.”

“It would be very useful. But on no account if⁠—”

“No, no; I could manage a fiver, for a month. Shall I give you a cheque?”

“I’m ashamed⁠—”

“Not a bit of it! I’ll go and write the cheque.”

Reardon’s face was burning. Of the conversation that followed when Carter again presented himself he never recalled a word. The bit of paper was crushed together in his hand. Out in the street again, he all but threw it away, dreaming for the moment that it was a bus ticket or a patent medicine bill.

He reached home much after the dinner-hour. Amy was surprised at his long absence.

“Got anything?” she asked.

“Yes.”

It was half his intention to deceive her, to say that the publishers had advanced him five pounds. But that would be his first word of untruth to Amy, and why should he be guilty of it? He told her all that had happened. The result of this frankness was something that he had not anticipated; Amy exhibited profound vexation.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you come home and tell me? I would have gone to mother at once.”

“But does it matter?”

“Of course it does,” she replied sharply. “Mr. Carter will tell his wife, and how pleasant that is?”

“I never thought of that. And perhaps it wouldn’t have seemed to me so annoying as it does to you.”

“Very likely not.”

She turned abruptly away, and stood at a distance in gloomy muteness.

“Well,” she said at length, “there’s no helping it now. Come and have your dinner.”

“You have taken away my appetite.”

“Nonsense! I suppose you’re dying of hunger.”

They had a very uncomfortable meal, exchanging few words. On Amy’s face was a look more resembling bad temper than anything Reardon had ever seen there. After dinner he went and sat alone in the study. Amy did not come near him. He grew stubbornly angry; remembering the pain he had gone through, he felt that Amy’s behaviour to him was cruel. She must come and speak when she would.

At six o’clock she showed her face in the doorway and asked if he would come to tea.

“Thank you,” he replied, “I had rather stay here.”

“As you please.”

And he sat alone until about nine. It was only then he recollected that he must send a note to the publishers, calling their attention to the parcel he had left. He wrote it, and closed with a request that they would let him hear as soon as they conveniently could. As he was putting on his hat and coat to go out and post the letter Amy opened the dining-room door.

“You’re going out?”

“Yes.”

“Shall you be long?”

“I think not.”

He was away only a few minutes. On returning he went first of all into the study, but the thought of Amy alone in the other room would not let him rest. He looked in and saw that she was sitting without a fire.

“You can’t stay here in the cold, Amy.”

“I’m afraid I must get used to it,” she replied, affecting to be closely engaged upon some sewing.

That strength of character which it had always delighted him to read in her features was become an ominous hardness. He felt his heart sink as he looked at her.

“Is poverty going to have the usual result in our case?” he asked, drawing nearer.

“I never pretended that I could be indifferent to it.”

“Still, don’t you care to try and resist it?”

She gave no answer. As usual in conversation with an aggrieved woman it was necessary to go back from the general to the particular.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that the Carters already knew pretty well how things were going with us.”

“That’s a very different thing. But when it comes to asking them for money⁠—”

“I’m very sorry. I would rather have done anything if I had known how it would annoy you.”

“If we have to wait a month, five pounds