New Grub Street (32 page)

'Well,' began Whelpdale, crossing his legs and watching a wreath
he had just puffed from the cigar, 'you know all about my literary
advisership. The business goes on reasonably well. I'm going to
extend it in ways I'll explain to you presently. About six weeks
ago I received a letter from a lady who referred to my
advertisements, and said she had the manuscript of a novel which
she would like to offer for my opinion. Two publishers had refused
it, but one with complimentary phrases, and she hoped it mightn't
be impossible to put the thing into acceptable shape. Of course I
wrote optimistically, and the manuscript was sent to me.

Well, it wasn't actually bad—by Jove! you should have seen some
of the things I have been asked to recommend to publishers! It
wasn't hopelessly bad by any means, and I gave serious thought to
it. After exchange of several letters I asked the authoress to come
and see me, that we might save postage stamps and talk things over.
She hadn't given me her address: I had to direct to a stationer's
in Bayswater. She agreed to come, and did come. I had formed a sort
of idea, but of course I was quite wrong. Imagine my excitement
when there came in a very beautiful girl, a tremendously
interesting girl, about one-and-twenty—just the kind of girl that
most strongly appeals to me; dark, pale, rather
consumptive-looking, slender—no, there's no describing her; there
really isn't! You must wait till you see her.'

'I hope the consumption was only a figure of speech,' remarked
Biffen in his grave way.

'Oh, there's nothing serious the matter, I think. A slight
cough, poor girl.'

'The deuce!' interjected Reardon.

'Oh, nothing, nothing! It'll be all right. Well, now, of course
we talked over the story—in good earnest, you know. Little by
little I induced her to speak of herself—this, after she'd come two
or three times—and she told me lamentable things. She was
absolutely alone in London, and hadn't had sufficient food for
weeks; had sold all she could of her clothing; and so on. Her home
was in Birmingham; she had been driven away by the brutality of a
stepmother; a friend lent her a few pounds, and she came to London
with an unfinished novel. Well, you know, this kind of thing would
be enough to make me soft-hearted to any girl, let alone one who,
to begin with, was absolutely my ideal. When she began to express a
fear that I was giving too much time to her, that she wouldn't be
able to pay my fees, and so on, I could restrain myself no longer.
On the spot I asked her to marry me. I didn't practise any
deception, mind. I told her I was a poor devil who had failed as a
realistic novelist and was earning bread in haphazard ways; and I
explained frankly that I thought we might carry on various kinds of
business together: she might go on with her novel-writing, and—so
on. But she was frightened; I had been too abrupt. That's a fault
of mine, you know; but I was so confoundedly afraid of losing her.
And I told her as much, plainly.'

Biffen smiled.

'This would be exciting,' he said, 'if we didn't know the end of
the story.'

'Yes. Pity I didn't keep it a secret. Well, she wouldn't say
yes, but I could see that she didn't absolutely say no. "In any
case," I said, "you'll let me see you often? Fees be hanged! I'll
work day and night for you. I'll do my utmost to get your novel
accepted." And I implored her to let me lend her a little money. It
was very difficult to persuade her, but at last she accepted a few
shillings. I could see in her face that she was hungry. Just
imagine! A beautiful girl absolutely hungry; it drove me
frantic!

But that was a great point gained. After that we saw each other
almost every day, and at last—she consented! Did indeed! I can
hardly believe it yet. We shall be married in a fortnight's
time.'

'I congratulate you,' said Reardon.

'So do I,' sighed Biffen.

'The day before yesterday she went to Birmingham to see her
father and tell him all about the affair. I agreed with her it was
as well; the old fellow isn't badly off; and he may forgive her for
running away, though he's under his wife's thumb, it appears. I had
a note yesterday. She had gone to a friend's house for the first
day. I hoped to have heard again this morning—must to-morrow, in
any case. I live, as you may imagine, in wild excitement. Of
course, if the old man stumps up a wedding present, all the better.
But I don't care; we'll make a living somehow. What do you think
I'm writing just now? An author's Guide. You know the kind of
thing; they sell splendidly. Of course I shall make it a good
advertisement of my business. Then I have a splendid idea. I'm
going to advertise: "Novel-writing taught in ten lessons!" What do
you think of that? No swindle; not a bit of it. I am quite capable
of giving the ordinary man or woman ten very useful lessons. I've
been working out the scheme; it would amuse you vastly, Reardon.
The first lesson deals with the question of subjects, local
colour—that kind of thing. I gravely advise people, if they
possibly can, to write of the wealthy middle class; that's the
popular subject, you know. Lords and ladies are all very well, but
the real thing to take is a story about people who have no titles,
but live in good Philistine style. I urge study of horsey matters
especially; that's very important. You must be well up, too, in
military grades, know about Sandhurst, and so on. Boating is an
important topic. You see? Oh, I shall make a great thing of this. I
shall teach my wife carefully, and then let her advertise lessons
to girls; they'll prefer coming to a woman, you know.'

Biffen leant back and laughed noisily.

'How much shall you charge for the course?' asked Reardon.

'That'll depend. I shan't refuse a guinea or two; but some
people may be made to pay five, perhaps.'

Someone knocked at the door, and a voice said:

'A letter for you, Mr Whelpdale.'

He started up, and came back into the room with face
illuminated.

'Yes, it's from Birmingham; posted this morning. Look what an
exquisite hand she writes!'

He tore open the envelope. In delicacy Reardon and Biffen
averted their eyes. There was silence for a minute, then a strange
ejaculation from Whelpdale caused his friends to look up at him. He
had gone pale, and was frowning at the sheet of paper which
trembled in his hand.

'No bad news, I hope?' Biffen ventured to say.

Whelpdale let himself sink into a chair.

'Now if this isn't too bad!' he exclaimed in a thick voice. 'If
this isn't monstrously unkind! I never heard anything so gross as
this—never!'

The two waited, trying not to smile.

'She writes—that she has met an old lover—in Birmingham—that it
was with him she had quarrelled-not with her father at all—that she
ran away to annoy him and frighten him—that she has made it up
again, and they're going to be married!'

He let the sheet fall, and looked so utterly woebegone that his
friends at once exerted themselves to offer such consolation as the
case admitted of. Reardon thought better of Whelpdale for this
emotion; he had not believed him capable of it.

'It isn't a case of vulgar cheating!' cried the forsaken one
presently. 'Don't go away thinking that. She writes in real
distress and penitence—she does indeed. Oh, the devil! Why did I
let her go to Birmingham? A fortnight more, and I should have had
her safe. But it's just like my luck. Do you know that this is the
third time I've been engaged to be married?—no, by Jove, the
fourth! And every time the girl has got out of it at the last
moment. What an unlucky beast I am! A girl who was positively my
ideal! I haven't even a photograph of her to show you; but you'd be
astonished at her face. Why, in the devil's name, did I let her go
to Birmingham?'

The visitors had risen. They felt uncomfortable, for it seemed
as if Whelpdale might find vent for his distress in tears.

'We had better leave you,' suggested Biffen. 'It's very hard—it
is indeed.'

'Look here! Read the letter for yourselves! Do!'

They declined, and begged him not to insist.

'But I want you to see what kind of girl she is. It isn't a case
of farcical deceiving—not a bit of it! She implores me to forgive
her, and blames herself no end. Just my luck! The third—no, the
fourth time, by Jove! Never was such an unlucky fellow with women.
It's because I'm so damnably poor; that's it, of course!'

Reardon and his companion succeeded at length in getting away,
though not till they had heard the virtues and beauty of the
vanished girl described again and again in much detail. Both were
in a state of depression as they left the house.

'What think you of this story?' asked Biffen. 'Is this possible
in a woman of any merit?'

'Anything is possible in a woman,' Reardon replied, harshly.

They walked in silence as far as Portland Road Station. There,
with an assurance that he would come to a garret-supper before
leaving London, Reardon parted from his friend and turned
westward.

As soon as he had entered, Amy's voice called to him:

'Here's a letter from Jedwood, Edwin!'

He stepped into the study.

'It came just after you went out, and it has been all I could do
to resist the temptation to open it.'

'Why shouldn't you have opened it?' said her husband,
carelessly.

He tried to do so himself, but his shaking hand thwarted him at
first. Succeeding at length, he found a letter in the publisher's
own writing, and the first word that caught his attention was
'regret.' With an angry effort to command himself he ran through
the communication, then held it out to Amy.

She read, and her countenance fell. Mr Jedwood regretted that
the story offered to him did not seem likely to please that
particular public to whom his series of one-volume novels made
appeal. He hoped it would be understood that, in declining, he by
no means expressed an adverse judgment on the story itself
&c.

'It doesn't surprise me,' said Reardon. 'I believe he is quite
right. The thing is too empty to please the better kind of readers,
yet not vulgar enough to please the worse.'

'But you'll try someone else?'

'I don't think it's much use.'

They sat opposite each other, and kept silence. Jedwood's letter
slipped from Amy's lap to the ground.

'So,' said Reardon, presently, 'I don't see how our plan is to
be carried out.'

'Oh, it must be!'

'But how?'

'You'll get seven or eight pounds from The Wayside. And—hadn't
we better sell the furniture, instead of—'

His look checked her.

'It seems to me, Amy, that your one desire is to get away from
me, on whatever terms.'

'Don't begin that over again!' she exclaimed, fretfully. 'If you
don't believe what I say—'

They were both in a state of intolerable nervous tension. Their
voices quivered, and their eyes had an unnatural brightness.

'If we sell the furniture,' pursued Reardon, 'that means you'll
never come back to me. You wish to save yourself and the child from
the hard life that seems to be before us.'

'Yes, I do; but not by deserting you. I want you to go and work
for us all, so that we may live more happily before long. Oh, how
wretched this is!'

She burst into hysterical weeping. But Reardon, instead of
attempting to soothe her, went into the next room, where he sat for
a long time in the dark. When he returned Amy was calm again; her
face expressed a cold misery.

'Where did you go this morning?' he asked, as if wishing to talk
of common things.

'I told you. I went to buy those things for Willie.'

'Oh yes.'

There was a silence.

'Biffen passed you in Tottenham Court Road,' he added.

'I didn't see him.'

'No; he said you didn't.'

'Perhaps,' said Amy, 'it was just when I was speaking to Mr
Milvain.'

'You met Milvain?'

'Yes.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I'm sure I don't know. I can't mention every trifle that
happens.'

'No, of course not.'

Amy closed her eyes, as if in weariness, and for a minute or two
Reardon observed her countenance.

'So you think we had better sell the furniture.'

'I shall say nothing more about it. You must do as seems best to
you, Edwin.'

'Are you going to see your mother to-morrow?'

'Yes. I thought you would like to come too.'

'No; there's no good in my going.'

He again rose, and that night they talked no more of their
difficulties, though on the morrow (Sunday) it would be necessary
to decide their course in every detail.

Amy did not go to church. Before her marriage she had done so as
a mere matter of course, accompanying her mother, but Reardon's
attitude with regard to the popular religion speedily became her
own; she let the subject lapse from her mind, and cared neither to
defend nor to attack where dogma was concerned. She had no
sympathies with mysticism; her nature was strongly practical, with
something of zeal for intellectual attainment superadded.

This Sunday morning she was very busy with domestic minutiae.
Reardon noticed what looked like preparations for packing, and
being as little disposed for conversation as his wife, he went out
and walked for a couple of hours in the Hampstead region. Dinner
over, Amy at once made ready for her journey to Westbourne
Park.

'Then you won't come?' she said to her husband.

'No. I shall see your mother before I go away, but I don't care
to till you have settled everything.'

It was half a year since he had met Mrs Yule. She never came to
their dwelling, and Reardon could not bring himself to visit
her.

'You had very much rather we didn't sell the furniture?' Amy
asked.

'Ask your mother's opinion. That shall decide.'