New Grub Street

therto rescued him in sudden ways when he was on the brink of self-abandonment, and it was

s with the result of losing the little capital he ventured. Mrs Reardon died when Edwin had reached his fifteenth year. In breeding and education she was superior to her husband, to whom, moreover, she had brought something between four and five hundred pounds; her temper was passionate in both senses of the word, and the marriage could hardly be called a happy one, though it was never disturbed by serious disco

assistant in Mr Reardon's business, he not only read French, but could talk it with a certain haphazard fluency. These attainments, however, were not of much practical use; the best that could be done for Edwin was to place him in the of

ndred had been sacrificed to exigencies not very long before. He had no difficulty in deciding how to use this money. His mother's desire to live in London had in him the force of an inherited m

literary man

certain street which runs parallel with that thoroughfare; for the greater part of these four years the garret in question was Reardon's home. He paid only three-and-sixpence a week for the privilege of living there; his food cost him about a sh

tion. There was nothing for it but to take a bold step, to force himself upon the attention of a stranger - the thing from which his pride had always shrunk. He wrote to a well-known novelist - a man with whose works he had some sympathy. 'I am trying to prepare myself for a literary career. I wish to study in the Reading-room of the British Museum, but have no acquaintance to whom I can refer in the ordinary way. Will you help me - I mean, in this particular only?' That was the su

he inquired, for the young man'

the magazines, but as

t do you

ays on liter

thing is supplied either by men of established reputation, or by anonymous writers who

something lately

a schoolboy. Far be it from me to discourage you, if your line is to be solid literary criticism; I will only mention, as a matt

beamed; to him it meant

I have no tal

h his brain in a whirl. He had had his first glimpse of what was meant by literary success. That luxurious study, with its shelves of handsomely

art, and by degrees came to fancy that, after all, perhaps he had some talent for fiction. It was significant, however, that no native impulse had directed him to novel-writing. His intellectual temper was that of the student, the schol

n his windy garret with the mere pretence of a fire! The Reading-room was his true home; its warmth enwrapped him kindly; the peculiar odour of its atmosphere - at first a cause of h

and he could not make acquaintances below his own intellectual level. Solitude fostered a sensitiveness which to begin with was extreme; the lack of stated occupation encouraged his natu

by, retired from the business of a draper, and spending his last years pleasantly enough with a daughter who had remained single. Edwin had always been a favourite with his grandfather, though they had met only once

ented himself personally at offices, but his reception was so mortifying that death by hunger seemed preferable to a continuance of such expe

rse they brought only a trifling sum. That exhaust

two days later, to his astonishment, received a reply asking him to wait upon the secretary at a certain hour. In a fever of agitation he kept the appointment, and found that his business was with a

younger - quite a lad, in fact. But look ther

ive or six hundred letter

in, and take out one by chance. If it didn't seem very promising, I would try a second time. But the first letter was yours, a

to take that,' said Reardon,

on?' proceeded the young man, chuc

for the first time, sensible of the extreme physical weakness into which he had sunk. For the next week he was

He generally got home from the hospital about six o'clock, and the evening was his own. In this leisure time he wrote a novel in two volumes; one publisher refused it, but a second offered to bring it out on the terms of half profits to the author. The book appeared, and was well spoken of in one or two papers; but profits there were none to divide

he rate of eighty pounds a year, meant five years of literary endeavour. In that per

terary man ceased to be a clerk, there was nothing to prevent association on equal terms between him and his former employer. They continued to see a good deal of each other, and Carter made Reardon acquainted with certain of

colour. Their interest was almost purely psychological. It was clear that the author had no faculty for constructing a story, and that pictures of active life were not to be expected of him; he

ny case out of the question; possibly a book every two or three years might not prove too great a strain upon his delicate mental organism, but for him to attempt more than that would certainly be fatal to the peculiar merit of his work. Of this he was dimly con

a tailor's. His friend Carter vent

views were generally favourable. For the story which followed, 'On Neutral Ground,' he received

he was aware of Mr Carter, resplendent in fashionable summer attire, and accompanied by a young lady of some charms. Reardon had formerly feared encounters of this kind, too conscious of the defects of his attire; but at present there was no reason

d daughter, whose attendant was another of Reardon's acquaintances, Mr John Yu

to my mother and sister. Your fame

repute, and were all distinctly glad to number among their acquaintances an unmistakable author, one, too, who was fresh from Italy and Greece. Mrs Yule, a lady rather too pretentious in her tone to be attractive to a man of Reardon's refinement, hastened to assure him how well his books were known in her house, 'thou

Edmund Yule had but a small income, and that she was often put to desperate expedients to keep up the gloss of easy circumstances. In the gauzy and fluffy and varnishy little drawing-room Reardon found a youngish

wait so long for the pleasure of knowing you, Mr Reardon. If John were not

ter, Miss Yule be

had not dared to hope that such a triumph would be his. Life had been too hard with him on the whole. He, who hungered for sympathy, who thought of a woman's love as the prize of mo

er from that little inheritance, that his books sold for a trifle, that he had no wealthy relative

ed you from

e lovable in me? I am afraid of waking up and f

l be a g

In many ways I am wretchedly weak.

have confiden

e for my own sake -

ove

hot tears, to cry to her in insane worship. He thought her beautiful beyond anything his heart had imagined; her warm gold hair was the rapture of his eyes and o

is wish and acted frankly upon it. No pretty petulance, no affectation of silly-sweet languishing, none of the weaknesses of woman. A

before, recklessly, exultantly, insolently - in the nobler sense. He made friends on

fell asleep in weariness of joy; it awakened him on the m

ess. His brain burned with visions of the books he would henceforth write, but his hand was incapable of anything but a love-letter. And what letters! Reardon never publi

d Greek, no. Ah! but she should learn them both, that there might be nothing wanting in the communion between his thou

said that would be an imprudent expense; but as soon as he had got a good price for a book. Will not

the pressure of some troublesome thought upon the dreaming brain. 'Suppose I should not succeed henceforth? Suppose I could never get more than this poo

e hands, the slow gathering about one of fear and shame and impotent wrath, the

he beating of his heart was low; and in his solitude he called upon A

's heart burst with happiness? The flat is taken, is furnis

d Milvain, who had already become very intimate with h

I had a horrib

th her, though I admired her. She would never have c

deu

e sense. She and I are rath

d Reardon, puzzled, and

about Miss Yule, you know. She was sure

talking nonsense,

women yet. It is one of the things in which I hope to be a specialist some day, tho

- two day

when a marriage is over? Here in London we can have no such music; but for us, my dear one, all the roaring life of the great city is wedding-hymn. Sweet,

etly until some suggestive 'situation,' some group of congenial characters, came with sudden delightfulness before his mind and urged him to write; but nothing so spontaneous could now be hoped for. His brain was too weary with months of fruitless, harassing endeavour; moreover, he was