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

will make his way right enough. A good, modest fellow. You noticed how respectfully he spoke to me? It doesn’t make any difference to him that I live in a garret like this; I’m a man of education, and he can separate this fact from my surroundings.”

“Biffen, why don’t you get some decent position? Surely you might.”

“What position? No school would take me; I have neither credentials nor conventional clothing. For the same reason I couldn’t get a private tutorship in a rich family. No, no; it’s all right. I keep myself alive, and I get on with my work.⁠—By the by, I’ve decided to write a book called Mr. Bailey, Grocer.”

“What’s the idea?”

“An objectionable word, that. Better say: ‘What’s the reality?’ Well, Mr. Bailey is a grocer in a little street by here. I have dealt with him for a long time, and as he’s a talkative fellow I’ve come to know a good deal about him and his history. He’s fond of talking about the struggle he had in his first year of business. He had no money of his own, but he married a woman who had saved forty-five pounds out of a cat’s-meat business. You should see that woman! A big, coarse, squinting creature; at the time of the marriage she was a widow and forty-two years old. Now I’m going to tell the true story of Mr. Bailey’s marriage and of his progress as a grocer. It’ll be a great book⁠—a great book!”

He walked up and down the room, fervid with his conception.

“There’ll be nothing bestial in it, you know. The decently ignoble⁠—as I’ve so often said. The thing’ll take me a year at least. I shall do it slowly, lovingly. One volume, of course; the length of the ordinary French novel. There’s something fine in the title, don’t you think? Mr. Bailey, Grocer!”

“I envy you, old fellow,” said Reardon, sighing. “You have the right fire in you; you have zeal and energy. Well, what do you think I have decided to do?”

“I should like to hear.”

Reardon gave an account of his project. The other listened gravely, seated across a chair with his arms on the back.

“Your wife is in agreement with this?”

“Oh yes.” He could not bring himself to say that Amy had suggested it. “She has great hopes that the change will be just what I need.”

“I should say so too⁠—if you were going to rest. But if you have to set to work at once it seems to me very doubtful.”

“Never mind. For Heaven’s sake don’t discourage me! If this fails I think⁠—upon my soul, I think I shall kill myself.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed Biffen, gently. “With a wife like yours?”

“Just because of that.”

“No, no; there’ll be some way out of it. By the by, I passed Mrs. Reardon this morning, but she didn’t see me. It was in Tottenham Court Road, and Milvain was with her. I felt myself too seedy in appearance to stop and speak.”

“In Tottenham Court Road?”

That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon’s attention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His mind involuntarily played this trick.

“I only saw them just as they were passing,” pursued Biffen. “Oh, I knew I had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale is going to be married?”

Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way.

“I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to look him up tonight, and he’d let me know all about it. Let’s go together, shall we?”

“I don’t feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I’ll walk with you, and go on home.”

“No, no; come and see him. It’ll do you good to talk a little.⁠—But I must positively eat a mouthful before we go. I’m afraid you won’t care to join?”

He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of dripping, with salt and pepper.

“Better dripping this than I’ve had for a long time. I get it at Mr. Bailey’s⁠—that isn’t his real name, of course. He assures me it comes from a large hotel where his wife’s sister is a kitchen-maid, and that it’s perfectly pure; they very often mix flour with it, you know, and perhaps more obnoxious things that an economical man doesn’t care to reflect upon. Now, with a little pepper and salt, this bread and dripping is as appetising food as I know. I often make a dinner of it.”

“I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-pudding?”

“I should think so! I get magnificent pennyworths at a shop in Cleveland Street, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent faggots they have there, too. I’ll give you a supper of them some night before you go.”

Biffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties.

He ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork; this always made the fare seem more substantial.

“Is it very cold out?” he asked, rising from the table. “Need I put my overcoat on?”

This overcoat, purchased secondhand three years ago, hung on a doornail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to the realist his ordinary indoor garment⁠—a morning coat of the cloth called diagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation than the other articles of his attire.

Reardon judging the overcoat necessary, his friend carefully brushed it and drew it on with a caution which probably had reference to starting seams. Then he put into the pocket his pipe, his pouch, his tobacco-stopper, and his matches, murmuring to himself a Greek iambic line which had come into his head apropos of nothing obvious.

“Go out,” he said, “and then I’ll extinguish the lamp. Mind the second step down, as usual.”

They issued into Clipstone Street, turned northward, crossed Euston Road, and came into Albany Street, where, in a house of decent exterior, Mr. Whelpdale had his present abode. A girl who opened the door requested them to walk up to the topmost storey.

A cheery voice called to them from within the room at which they