New Grub Street [124]
to which he could make himself intelligible. The practical tone in which John had explained the opposing view of the situation made it impossible for him to proceed as he had purposed. Amy would never come to him in his poor lodgings; her mother, her brother, all her advisers would regard such a thing as out of the question. Very well; recognising this, he must also recognise his wife's claim upon him for material support. It was not in his power to supply her with means sufficient to live upon, but what he could afford she should have.
When he went out, it was with a different purpose from that of half an hour ago. After a short search in the direction of Edgware Road, he found a dealer in second-hand furniture, whom he requested to come as soon as possible to the flat on a matter of business. An hour later the man kept his appointment. Having brought him into the study, Reardon said:
'I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions that I'll point out to you'.
'Very good, sir,' was the reply. 'Let's have a look through the rooms.'
That the price offered would be strictly a minimum Reardon knew well enough. The dealer was a rough and rather dirty fellow, with the distrustful glance which distinguishes his class. Men of Reardon's type, when hapless enough to be forced into vulgar commerce, are doubly at a disadvantage; not only their ignorance, but their sensitiveness, makes them ready victims of even the least subtle man of business. To deal on equal terms with a person you must be able to assert with calm confidence that you are not to be cheated; Reardon was too well aware that he would certainly be cheated, and shrank scornfully from the higgling of the market. Moreover, he was in a half-frenzied state of mind, and cared for little but to be done with the hateful details of this process of ruin.
He pencilled a list of the articles he must retain for his own use; it would of course be cheaper to take a bare room than
furnished lodgings, and every penny he could save was of importance to him. The chair-bedstead, with necessary linen and blankets, a table, two chairs, a looking-glass--strictly the indispensable things; no need to complete the list. Then there were a few valuable wedding-presents, which belonged rather to Amy than to him; these he would get packed and send to Westbourne Park.
The dealer made his calculation, with many side-glances at the vendor.
'And what may you ask for the lot?'
'Please to make an offer.'
'Most of the things has had a good deal of wear--'
'I know, I know. Just let me hear what you will give.'
'Well, if you want a valuation, I say eighteen pound ten.'
It was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a man who understood such affairs would have obtained.
'That's the most you can give?'
'Wouldn't pay me to give a sixpence more. You see--'
He began to point out defects, but Reardon cut him short.
'Can you take them away at once?'
'At wunst? Would two o'clock do?'
'Yes, it would.'
'And might you want these other things takin' anywheres?'
'Yes, but not till to-morrow. They have to go to Islington. What would you do it for?'
This bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way. Thereupon Reardon set to work to dispose of his books; by half-past one he had sold them for a couple of guineas. At two came the cart that was to take away the furniture, and at four o'clock nothing remained in the flat save what had to be removed on the morrow.
The next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a week's rent for the two rooms he had taken, and find a single room at the lowest possible cost. On the way, he entered an eating-house and satisfied his hunger, for he had had nothing since breakfast. It took him a couple of hours to discover the ideal garret; it was found at length in a narrow little by-way running out of Upper Street. The rent was half-a-crown a week.
At seven o'clock he sat down in what once was called his study, and wrote the following letter:
'Enclosed in this envelope
When he went out, it was with a different purpose from that of half an hour ago. After a short search in the direction of Edgware Road, he found a dealer in second-hand furniture, whom he requested to come as soon as possible to the flat on a matter of business. An hour later the man kept his appointment. Having brought him into the study, Reardon said:
'I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions that I'll point out to you'.
'Very good, sir,' was the reply. 'Let's have a look through the rooms.'
That the price offered would be strictly a minimum Reardon knew well enough. The dealer was a rough and rather dirty fellow, with the distrustful glance which distinguishes his class. Men of Reardon's type, when hapless enough to be forced into vulgar commerce, are doubly at a disadvantage; not only their ignorance, but their sensitiveness, makes them ready victims of even the least subtle man of business. To deal on equal terms with a person you must be able to assert with calm confidence that you are not to be cheated; Reardon was too well aware that he would certainly be cheated, and shrank scornfully from the higgling of the market. Moreover, he was in a half-frenzied state of mind, and cared for little but to be done with the hateful details of this process of ruin.
He pencilled a list of the articles he must retain for his own use; it would of course be cheaper to take a bare room than
furnished lodgings, and every penny he could save was of importance to him. The chair-bedstead, with necessary linen and blankets, a table, two chairs, a looking-glass--strictly the indispensable things; no need to complete the list. Then there were a few valuable wedding-presents, which belonged rather to Amy than to him; these he would get packed and send to Westbourne Park.
The dealer made his calculation, with many side-glances at the vendor.
'And what may you ask for the lot?'
'Please to make an offer.'
'Most of the things has had a good deal of wear--'
'I know, I know. Just let me hear what you will give.'
'Well, if you want a valuation, I say eighteen pound ten.'
It was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a man who understood such affairs would have obtained.
'That's the most you can give?'
'Wouldn't pay me to give a sixpence more. You see--'
He began to point out defects, but Reardon cut him short.
'Can you take them away at once?'
'At wunst? Would two o'clock do?'
'Yes, it would.'
'And might you want these other things takin' anywheres?'
'Yes, but not till to-morrow. They have to go to Islington. What would you do it for?'
This bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way. Thereupon Reardon set to work to dispose of his books; by half-past one he had sold them for a couple of guineas. At two came the cart that was to take away the furniture, and at four o'clock nothing remained in the flat save what had to be removed on the morrow.
The next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a week's rent for the two rooms he had taken, and find a single room at the lowest possible cost. On the way, he entered an eating-house and satisfied his hunger, for he had had nothing since breakfast. It took him a couple of hours to discover the ideal garret; it was found at length in a narrow little by-way running out of Upper Street. The rent was half-a-crown a week.
At seven o'clock he sat down in what once was called his study, and wrote the following letter:
'Enclosed in this envelope