New Grub Street [216]
of London as the last place where life can be lived worthily.'
'And the place where you are most likely to die in squalid wretchedness.'
'The one happy result of my experiences,' said Reardon, is that they have cured me of ambition. What a miserable fellow I should be if I were still possessed with the desire to make a name! I can't even recall very clearly that state of mind. My strongest desire now is for peaceful obscurity. I am tired out; I want to rest for the remainder of my life.'
'You won't have much rest at Croydon.'
'Oh, it isn't impossible. My time will be wholly occupied in a round of all but mechanical duties, and I think that will be the best medicine for my mind. I shall read very little, and that only in the classics. I don't say that I shall always be content in such a position; in a few years perhaps something pleasanter will offer. But in the meantime it will do very well. Then there is our expedition to Greece to look forward to. I am quite in earnest about that. The year after next, if we are both alive, assuredly we go.'
'The year after next.' Biffen smiled dubiously.
'I have demonstrated to you mathematically that it is possible.'
'You have; but so are a great many other things that one does not dare to hope for.'
Someone knocked at the door, opened it, and said:
'Here's a telegram for you, Mr Reardon.'
The friends looked at each other, as if some fear had entered the minds of both. Reardon opened the despatch. It was from his wife, and ran thus:
'Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am staying with Mrs Carter, at her mother's, at Brighton.'
The full address was given.
'You hadn't heard of her going there?' said Biffen, when he had read the lines.
'No. I haven't seen Carter for several days, or perhaps he would have told me. Brighton, at this time of year? But I believe there's a fashionable "season" about now, isn't there? I suppose that would account for it.'
He spoke in a slighting tone, but showed increasing agitation.
'Of course you will go?'
'I must. Though I'm in no condition for making a journey.'
His friend examined him anxiously.
'Are you feverish at all this evening?'
Reardon held out a hand that the other might feel his pulse. The beat was rapid to begin with, and had been heightened since the arrival of the telegram.
'But go I must. The poor little fellow has no great place in my heart, but, when Amy sends for me, I must go. Perhaps things are at the worst.'
'When is there a train? Have you a time table?'
Biffen was despatched to the nearest shop to purchase one, and in the meanwhile Reardon packed a few necessaries in a small travelling-bag, ancient and worn, but the object of his affection because it had accompanied him on his wanderings in the South. When Harold returned, his appearance excited Reardon's astonishment--he was white from head to foot.
'Snow?'
'It must have been falling heavily for an hour or more.'
'Can't be helped; I must go.'
The nearest station for departure was London Bridge, and the next train left at 7.20. By Reardon's watch it was now about five minutes to seven.
'I don't know whether it's possible,' he said, in confused hurry, 'but I must try. There isn't another train till ten past nine. Come with me to the station, Biffen.'
Both were ready. They rushed from the house, and sped through the soft, steady fall of snowflakes into Upper Street. Here they were several minutes before they found a disengaged cab. Questioning the driver, they learnt what they would have known very well already but for their excitement: impossible to get to London Bridge Station in a quarter of an hour.
'Better to go on, all the same,' was Reardon's opinion. 'If the snow gets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all. But you had better not come; I forgot that you are as much out of sorts as I am.'
'How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you!'
'Diphtheria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age, isn't it?' Reardon asked when they were
'And the place where you are most likely to die in squalid wretchedness.'
'The one happy result of my experiences,' said Reardon, is that they have cured me of ambition. What a miserable fellow I should be if I were still possessed with the desire to make a name! I can't even recall very clearly that state of mind. My strongest desire now is for peaceful obscurity. I am tired out; I want to rest for the remainder of my life.'
'You won't have much rest at Croydon.'
'Oh, it isn't impossible. My time will be wholly occupied in a round of all but mechanical duties, and I think that will be the best medicine for my mind. I shall read very little, and that only in the classics. I don't say that I shall always be content in such a position; in a few years perhaps something pleasanter will offer. But in the meantime it will do very well. Then there is our expedition to Greece to look forward to. I am quite in earnest about that. The year after next, if we are both alive, assuredly we go.'
'The year after next.' Biffen smiled dubiously.
'I have demonstrated to you mathematically that it is possible.'
'You have; but so are a great many other things that one does not dare to hope for.'
Someone knocked at the door, opened it, and said:
'Here's a telegram for you, Mr Reardon.'
The friends looked at each other, as if some fear had entered the minds of both. Reardon opened the despatch. It was from his wife, and ran thus:
'Willie is ill of diphtheria. Please come to us at once. I am staying with Mrs Carter, at her mother's, at Brighton.'
The full address was given.
'You hadn't heard of her going there?' said Biffen, when he had read the lines.
'No. I haven't seen Carter for several days, or perhaps he would have told me. Brighton, at this time of year? But I believe there's a fashionable "season" about now, isn't there? I suppose that would account for it.'
He spoke in a slighting tone, but showed increasing agitation.
'Of course you will go?'
'I must. Though I'm in no condition for making a journey.'
His friend examined him anxiously.
'Are you feverish at all this evening?'
Reardon held out a hand that the other might feel his pulse. The beat was rapid to begin with, and had been heightened since the arrival of the telegram.
'But go I must. The poor little fellow has no great place in my heart, but, when Amy sends for me, I must go. Perhaps things are at the worst.'
'When is there a train? Have you a time table?'
Biffen was despatched to the nearest shop to purchase one, and in the meanwhile Reardon packed a few necessaries in a small travelling-bag, ancient and worn, but the object of his affection because it had accompanied him on his wanderings in the South. When Harold returned, his appearance excited Reardon's astonishment--he was white from head to foot.
'Snow?'
'It must have been falling heavily for an hour or more.'
'Can't be helped; I must go.'
The nearest station for departure was London Bridge, and the next train left at 7.20. By Reardon's watch it was now about five minutes to seven.
'I don't know whether it's possible,' he said, in confused hurry, 'but I must try. There isn't another train till ten past nine. Come with me to the station, Biffen.'
Both were ready. They rushed from the house, and sped through the soft, steady fall of snowflakes into Upper Street. Here they were several minutes before they found a disengaged cab. Questioning the driver, they learnt what they would have known very well already but for their excitement: impossible to get to London Bridge Station in a quarter of an hour.
'Better to go on, all the same,' was Reardon's opinion. 'If the snow gets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all. But you had better not come; I forgot that you are as much out of sorts as I am.'
'How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you!'
'Diphtheria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age, isn't it?' Reardon asked when they were