New Grub Street [73]
This gentleman was not in town; he would be away for a few days. Reardon left the manuscript, and came out into the street again.
He crossed, and looked up at the publishers' windows from the opposite pavement. 'Do they suspect in what wretched circumstances I am? Would it surprise them to know all that depends upon that budget of paltry scribbling? I suppose not; it must be a daily experience with them. Well, I must write a begging letter.'
It was raining and windy. He went slowly homewards, and was on the point of entering the public door of the flats when his uneasiness became so great that he turned and walked past. If he went in, he must at once write his appeal for money, and he felt that he could not. The degradation seemed too great.
Was there no way of getting over the next few weeks? Rent, of course, would be due at Christmas, but that payment might be postponed; it was only a question of buying food and fuel. Amy had offered to ask her mother for a few pounds; it would be cowardly to put this task upon her now that he had promised to meet the difficulty himself. What man in all London could and would lend him money? He reviewed the list of his acquaintances, but there was only one to whom he could appeal with the slightest hope--that was Carter.
Half an hour later he entered that same hospital door through which, some years ago, he had passed as a half-starved applicant for work. The matron met him.
'Is Mr Carter here?'
'No, sir. But we expect him any minute. Will you wait?'
He entered the familiar office, and sat down. At the table where he had been wont to work, a young clerk was writing. If only all the events of the last few years could be undone, and he, with no soul dependent upon him, be once more earning his pound a week in this room! What a happy man he was in those days!
Nearly half an hour passed. It is the common experience of beggars to have to wait. Then Carter came in with quick step; he wore a heavy ulster of the latest fashion, new gloves, a resplendent silk hat; his cheeks were rosy from the east wind.
'Ha, Reardon! How do? how do? Delighted to see you!'
'Are you very busy?'
'Well, no, not particularly. A few cheques to sign, and we're just getting out our Christmas appeals. You remember?'
He laughed gaily. There was a remarkable freedom from snobbishness in this young man; the fact of Reardon's intellectual superiority had long ago counteracted Carter's social prejudices.
'I should like to have a word with you.'
'Right you are!'
They went into a small inner room. Reardon's pulse beat at fever- rate; his tongue was cleaving to his palate.
'What is it, old man?' asked the secretary, seating himself and flinging one of his legs over the other. 'You look rather seedy, do you know. Why the deuce don't you and your wife look us up now and then?'
'I've had a hard pull to finish my novel.'
'Finished, is it? I'm glad to hear that. When'll it be out? I'll send scores of people to Mudie's after it.
'Thanks; but I don't think much of it, to tell you the truth.'
'Oh, we know what that means.'
Reardon was talking like an automaton. It seemed to him that he turned screws and pressed levers for the utterance of his next words.
'I may as well say at once what I have come for. Could you lend me ten pounds for a month--in fact, until I get the money for my book?'
The secretary's countenance fell, though not to that expression of utter coldness which would have come naturally under the circumstances to a great many vivacious men. He seemed genuinely embarrassed.
'By Jove! I--confound it! To tell you the truth, I haven't ten pounds to lend. Upon my word, I haven't, Reardon! These infernal housekeeping expenses! I don't mind telling you, old man, that Edith and I have been pushing the pace rather.' He laughed, and thrust his hands down into his trousers-pockets. 'We pay such a darned rent, you know--hundred and twenty-five. We've only just been saying we should have to draw it mild for the rest of the winter. But I'm infernally sorry; upon my
He crossed, and looked up at the publishers' windows from the opposite pavement. 'Do they suspect in what wretched circumstances I am? Would it surprise them to know all that depends upon that budget of paltry scribbling? I suppose not; it must be a daily experience with them. Well, I must write a begging letter.'
It was raining and windy. He went slowly homewards, and was on the point of entering the public door of the flats when his uneasiness became so great that he turned and walked past. If he went in, he must at once write his appeal for money, and he felt that he could not. The degradation seemed too great.
Was there no way of getting over the next few weeks? Rent, of course, would be due at Christmas, but that payment might be postponed; it was only a question of buying food and fuel. Amy had offered to ask her mother for a few pounds; it would be cowardly to put this task upon her now that he had promised to meet the difficulty himself. What man in all London could and would lend him money? He reviewed the list of his acquaintances, but there was only one to whom he could appeal with the slightest hope--that was Carter.
Half an hour later he entered that same hospital door through which, some years ago, he had passed as a half-starved applicant for work. The matron met him.
'Is Mr Carter here?'
'No, sir. But we expect him any minute. Will you wait?'
He entered the familiar office, and sat down. At the table where he had been wont to work, a young clerk was writing. If only all the events of the last few years could be undone, and he, with no soul dependent upon him, be once more earning his pound a week in this room! What a happy man he was in those days!
Nearly half an hour passed. It is the common experience of beggars to have to wait. Then Carter came in with quick step; he wore a heavy ulster of the latest fashion, new gloves, a resplendent silk hat; his cheeks were rosy from the east wind.
'Ha, Reardon! How do? how do? Delighted to see you!'
'Are you very busy?'
'Well, no, not particularly. A few cheques to sign, and we're just getting out our Christmas appeals. You remember?'
He laughed gaily. There was a remarkable freedom from snobbishness in this young man; the fact of Reardon's intellectual superiority had long ago counteracted Carter's social prejudices.
'I should like to have a word with you.'
'Right you are!'
They went into a small inner room. Reardon's pulse beat at fever- rate; his tongue was cleaving to his palate.
'What is it, old man?' asked the secretary, seating himself and flinging one of his legs over the other. 'You look rather seedy, do you know. Why the deuce don't you and your wife look us up now and then?'
'I've had a hard pull to finish my novel.'
'Finished, is it? I'm glad to hear that. When'll it be out? I'll send scores of people to Mudie's after it.
'Thanks; but I don't think much of it, to tell you the truth.'
'Oh, we know what that means.'
Reardon was talking like an automaton. It seemed to him that he turned screws and pressed levers for the utterance of his next words.
'I may as well say at once what I have come for. Could you lend me ten pounds for a month--in fact, until I get the money for my book?'
The secretary's countenance fell, though not to that expression of utter coldness which would have come naturally under the circumstances to a great many vivacious men. He seemed genuinely embarrassed.
'By Jove! I--confound it! To tell you the truth, I haven't ten pounds to lend. Upon my word, I haven't, Reardon! These infernal housekeeping expenses! I don't mind telling you, old man, that Edith and I have been pushing the pace rather.' He laughed, and thrust his hands down into his trousers-pockets. 'We pay such a darned rent, you know--hundred and twenty-five. We've only just been saying we should have to draw it mild for the rest of the winter. But I'm infernally sorry; upon my