CHAPTER XI. RESPITE
The last volume was written in fourteen days. In this achievement
Reardon rose almost to heroic pitch, for he had much to contend
with beyond the mere labour of composition. Scarcely had he begun
when a sharp attack of lumbago fell upon him; for two or three
days it was torture to support himself at the desk, and he moved
about like a cripple. Upon this ensued headaches, sore-throat, general enfeeblement. And before the end of the fortnight it was necessary to think of raising another small sum of money; he took his watch to the pawnbroker's (you can imagine that it would not stand as security for much), and sold a few more books. All this notwithstanding, here was the novel at length finished. When he had written 'The End' he lay back, closed his eyes, and let time pass in blankness for a quarter of an hour.
It remained to determine the title. But his brain refused another
effort; after a few minutes' feeble search he simply took the
name of the chief female character, Margaret Home. That must do
for the book. Already, with the penning of the last word, all its
scenes, personages, dialogues had slipped away into oblivion; he
knew and cared nothing more about them.
'Amy, you will have to correct the proofs for me. Never as long
as I live will I look upon a page of this accursed novel. It has
all but killed me.'
'The point is,' replied Amy, 'that here we have it complete. Pack
it up and take it to the publishers' to-morrow morning.'
'I will.'
'And—you will ask them to advance you a few pounds?'
'I must.'
But that undertaking was almost as hard to face as a rewriting of
the last volume would have been. Reardon had such superfluity of
sensitiveness that, for his own part, he would far rather have
gone hungry than ask for money not legally his due. To-day there
was no choice. In the ordinary course of business it would be
certainly a month before he heard the publishers' terms, and
perhaps the Christmas season might cause yet more delay. Without
borrowing, he could not provide for the expenses of more than
another week or two.
His parcel under his arm, he entered the ground-floor office, and
desired to see that member of the firm with whom he had
previously had personal relations. 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!