New Grub Street (24 page)

He was beginning to dislike the child. But for Willie's
existence Amy would still love him with undivided heart; not,
perhaps, so passionately as once, but still with lover's love. And
Amy understood—or, at all events, remarked—this change in him. She
was aware that he seldom asked a question about Willie, and that he
listened with indifference when she spoke of the little fellow's
progress. In part offended, she was also in part pleased.

But for the child, mere poverty, he said to himself, should
never have sundered them. In the strength of his passion he could
have overcome all her disappointments; and, indeed, but for that
new care, he would most likely never have fallen to this extremity
of helplessness. It is natural in a weak and sensitive man to dream
of possibilities disturbed by the force of circumstance. For one
hour which he gave to conflict with his present difficulties,
Reardon spent many in contemplation of the happiness that might
have been.

Even yet, it needed but a little money to redeem all. Amy had no
extravagant aspirations; a home of simple refinement and freedom
from anxiety would restore her to her nobler self. How could he
find fault with her? She knew nothing of such sordid life as he had
gone through, and to lack money for necessities seemed to her
degrading beyond endurance. Why, even the ordinary artisan's wife
does not suffer such privations as hers at the end of the past
year. For lack of that little money his life must be ruined. Of
late he had often thought about the rich uncle, John Yule, who
might perhaps leave something to Amy; but the hope was so
uncertain. And supposing such a thing were to happen; would it be
perfectly easy to live upon his wife's bounty—perhaps exhausting a
small capital, so that, some years hence, their position would be
no better than before? Not long ago, he could have taken anything
from Amy's hand; would it be so simple since the change that had
come between them?

Having written his second magazine-article (it was rejected by
two editors, and he had no choice but to hold it over until
sufficient time had elapsed to allow of his again trying The
Wayside), he saw that he must perforce plan another novel. But this
time he was resolute not to undertake three volumes. The
advertisements informed him that numbers of authors were abandoning
that procrustean system; hopeless as he was, he might as well try
his chance with a book which could be written in a few weeks. And
why not a glaringly artificial story with a sensational title? It
could not be worse than what he had last written.

So, without a word to Amy, he put aside his purely intellectual
work and began once more the search for a 'plot.' This was towards
the end of February. The proofs of 'Margaret Home' were coming in
day by day; Amy had offered to correct them, but after all he
preferred to keep his shame to himself as long as possible, and
with a hurried reading he dismissed sheet after sheet. His
imagination did not work the more happily for this repugnant task;
still, he hit at length upon a conception which seemed absurd
enough for the purpose before him. Whether he could persevere with
it even to the extent of one volume was very doubtful. But it
should not be said of him that he abandoned his wife and child to
penury without one effort of the kind that Milvain and Amy herself
had recommended.

Writing a page or two of manuscript daily, and with several
holocausts to retard him, he had done nearly a quarter of the story
when there came a note from Jasper telling of Mrs Milvain's death.
He handed it across the breakfast-table to Amy, and watched her as
she read it.

'I suppose it doesn't alter his position,' Amy remarked, without
much interest.

'I suppose not appreciably. He told me once his mother had a
sufficient income; but whatever she leaves will go to his sisters,
I should think. He has never said much to me.'

Nearly three weeks passed before they heard anything more from
Jasper himself; then he wrote, again from the country, saying that
he purposed bringing his sisters to live in London. Another week,
and one evening he appeared at the door.

A want of heartiness in Reardon's reception of him might have
been explained as gravity natural under the circumstances. But
Jasper had before this become conscious that he was not welcomed
here quite so cheerily as in the old days. He remarked it
distinctly on that evening when he accompanied Amy home from Mrs
Yule's; since then he had allowed his pressing occupations to be an
excuse for the paucity of his visits. It seemed to him perfectly
intelligible that Reardon, sinking into literary insignificance,
should grow cool to a man entering upon a successful career; the
vein of cynicism in Jasper enabled him to pardon a weakness of this
kind, which in some measure flattered him. But he both liked and
respected Reardon, and at present he was in the mood to give
expression to his warmer feelings.

'Your book is announced, I see,' he said with an accent of
pleasure, as soon as he had seated himself.

'I didn't know it.'

'Yes. "New novel by the author of 'On Neutral Ground.'" Down for
the sixteenth of April. And I have a proposal to make about it.
Will you let me ask Fadge to have it noticed in "Books of the
Month," in the May Current?'

'I strongly advise you to let it take its chance. The book isn't
worth special notice, and whoever undertook to review it for Fadge
would either have to lie, or stultify the magazine.'

Jasper turned to Amy.

'Now what is to be done with a man like this? What is one to say
to him, Mrs Reardon?'

'Edwin dislikes the book,' Amy replied, carelessly.

'That has nothing to do with the matter. We know quite well that
in anything he writes there'll be something for a well-disposed
reviewer to make a good deal of. If Fadge will let me, I should do
the thing myself.'

Neither Reardon nor his wife spoke.

'Of course,' went on Milvain, looking at the former, 'if you had
rather I left it alone—'

'I had much rather. Please don't say anything about it.'

There was an awkward silence. Amy broke it by saying:

'Are your sisters in town, Mr Milvain?'

'Yes. We came up two days ago. I found lodgings for them not far
from Mornington Road. Poor girls! they don't quite know where they
are, yet. Of course they will keep very quiet for a time, then I
must try to get friends for them. Well, they have one already—your
cousin, Miss Yule. She has already been to see them.'

'I'm very glad of that.'

Amy took an opportunity of studying his face. There was again a
silence as if of constraint. Reardon, glancing at his wife, said
with hesitation:

'When they care to see other visitors, I'm sure Amy would be
very glad—'

'Certainly!' his wife added.

'Thank you very much. Of course I knew I could depend on Mrs
Reardon to show them kindness in that way. But let me speak frankly
of something. My sisters have made quite a friend of Miss Yule,
since 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.

Good-bye, 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 without speaking for several
minutes.

'Do you care to make friends with those girls?' asked Reardon at
length.

'I suppose in decency I must call upon them?'

'I suppose so.'

'You may find them very agreeable.'

'Oh yes.'

They conversed with their own thoughts for a while. Then Reardon
burst out laughing.

'Well, there's the successful man, you see. Some day he'll live
in a mansion, and dictate literary opinions to the universe.'

'How has he offended you?'

'Offended me? Not at all. I am glad of his cheerful
prospects.'

'Why should you refuse to go among those people? It might be
good for you in several ways.'