New Grub Street by George Gissing (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

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