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

she was down there last year. Wouldn’t that”⁠—he turned to Amy⁠—“cause you a little awkwardness?”

Amy had a difficulty in replying. She kept her eyes on the ground.

“You have had no quarrel with your cousin,” remarked Reardon.

“None whatever. It’s only my mother and my uncle.”

“I can’t imagine Miss Yule having a quarrel with anyone,” said Jasper. Then he added quickly: “Well, things must shape themselves naturally. We shall see. For the present they will be fully occupied. Of course it’s best that they should be. I shall see them every day, and Miss Yule will come pretty often, I dare say.”

Reardon caught Amy’s eye, but at once looked away again.

“My word!” exclaimed Milvain, after a moment’s meditation. “It’s well this didn’t happen a year ago. The girls have no income; only a little cash to go on with. We shall have our work set. It’s a precious lucky thing that I have just got a sort of footing.”

Reardon muttered an assent.

“And what are you doing now?” Jasper inquired suddenly.

“Writing a one-volume story.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Any special plan for its publication?”

“No.”

“Then why not offer it to Jedwood? He’s publishing a series of one-volume novels. You know of Jedwood, don’t you? He was Culpepper’s manager; started business about half a year ago, and it looks as if he would do well. He married that woman⁠—what’s her name?⁠—Who wrote Mr. Henderson’s Wives?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Nonsense!⁠—Miss Wilkes, of course. Well, she married this fellow Jedwood, and there was a great row about something or other between him and her publishers. Mrs. Boston Wright told me all about it. An astonishing woman that; a cyclopaedia of the day’s small talk. I’m quite a favourite with her; she’s promised to help the girls all she can. Well, but I was talking about Jedwood. Why not offer him this book of yours? He’s eager to get hold of the new writers. Advertises hugely; he has the whole back page of The Study about every other week. I suppose Miss Wilkes’s profits are paying for it. He has just given Markland two hundred pounds for a paltry little tale that would scarcely swell out to a volume. Markland told me himself. You know that I’ve scraped an acquaintance with him? Oh! I suppose I haven’t seen you since then. He’s a dwarfish fellow with only one eye. Mrs. Boston Wright cries him up at every opportunity.”

“Who is Mrs. Boston Wright?” asked Reardon, laughing impatiently.

“Edits The English Girl, you know. She’s had an extraordinary life. Was born in Mauritius⁠—no, Ceylon⁠—I forget; some such place. Married a sailor at fifteen. Was shipwrecked somewhere, and only restored to life after terrific efforts;⁠—her story leaves it all rather vague. Then she turns up as a newspaper correspondent at the Cape. Gave up that, and took to some kind of farming, I forget where. Married again (first husband lost in aforementioned shipwreck), this time a Baptist minister, and began to devote herself to soup-kitchens in Liverpool. Husband burned to death, somewhere. She’s next discovered in the thick of literary society in London. A wonderful woman, I assure you. Must be nearly fifty, but she looks twenty-five.”

He paused, then added impulsively:

“Let me take you to one of her evenings⁠—nine on Thursday. Do persuade him, Mrs. Reardon?”

Reardon shook his head.

“No, no. I should be horribly out of my element.”

“I can’t see why. You would meet all sorts of well-known people; those you ought to have met long ago. Better still, let me ask her to send an invitation for both of you. I’m sure you’d like her, Mrs. Reardon. There’s a good deal of humbug about her, it’s true, but some solid qualities as well. No one has a word to say against her. And it’s a splendid advertisement to have her for a friend. She’ll talk about your books and articles till all is blue.”

Amy gave a questioning look at her husband. But Reardon moved in an uncomfortable way.

“We’ll see about it,” he said. “Some day, perhaps.”

“Let me know whenever you feel disposed. But about Jedwood: I happen to know a man who reads for him.”

“Heavens!” cried Reardon. “Who don’t you know?”

“The simplest thing in the world. At present it’s a large part of my business to make acquaintances. Why, look you; a man who has to live by miscellaneous writing couldn’t get on without a vast variety of acquaintances. One’s own brain would soon run dry; a clever fellow knows how to use the brains of other people.”

Amy listened with an unconscious smile which expressed keen interest.

“Oh,” pursued Jasper, “when did you see Whelpdale last?”

“Haven’t seen him for a long time.”

“You don’t know what he’s doing? The fellow has set up as a ‘literary adviser.’ He has an advertisement in The Study every week. ‘To Young Authors and Literary Aspirants’⁠—something of the kind. ‘Advice given on choice of subjects, MSS. read, corrected, and recommended to publishers. Moderate terms.’ A fact! And what’s more, he made six guineas in the first fortnight; so he says, at all events. Now that’s one of the finest jokes I ever heard. A man who can’t get anyone to publish his own books makes a living by telling other people how to write!”

“But it’s a confounded swindle!”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s capable of correcting the grammar of ‘literary aspirants,’ and as for recommending to publishers⁠—well, anyone can recommend, I suppose.”

Reardon’s indignation yielded to laughter.

“It’s not impossible that he may thrive by this kind of thing.”

“Not at all,” assented Jasper.

Shortly after this he looked at his watch.

“I must be off, my friends. I have something to write before I can go to my truckle-bed, and it’ll take me three hours at least.

“Goodbye, old man. Let me know when your story’s finished, and we’ll talk about it. And think about Mrs. Boston Wright; oh, and about that review in The Current. I wish you’d let me do it. Talk it over with your guide, philosopher, and friend.”

He indicated Amy, who laughed in a forced way.

When he was gone, the two sat