CHAPTER IV. AN AUTHOR AND HIS WIFE
Eight flights of stairs, consisting alternately of eight and nine
steps. Amy had made the calculation, and wondered what was the
cause of this arrangement. The ascent was trying, but then no one
could contest the respectability of the abode. In the flat
immediately beneath resided a successful musician, whose carriage
and pair came at a regular hour each afternoon to take him and
his wife for a most respectable drive. In this special building
no one else seemed at present to keep a carriage, but all the
tenants were gentlefolk.
And as to living up at the very top, why, there were distinct
advantages—as so many people of moderate income are nowadays
hastening to discover. The noise from the street was diminished
at this height; no possible tramplers could establish themselves
above your head; the air was bound to be purer than that of
inferior strata; finally, one had the flat roof whereon to sit or
expatiate in sunny weather. True that a gentle rain of soot was
wont to interfere with one's comfort out there in the open, but
such minutiae are easily forgotten in the fervour of domestic
description. It was undeniable that on a fine day one enjoyed
extensive views. The green ridge from Hampstead to Highgate, with
Primrose Hill and the foliage of Regent's Park in the foreground; the suburban spaces of St John's Wood, Maida Vale, Kilburn; Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, lying low by the side of the hidden river, and a glassy gleam on far-off hills which meant the Crystal Palace; then the clouded majesty of eastern London, crowned by St Paul's dome. These things one's friends were expected to admire. Sunset often afforded rich effects, but they were for solitary musing.
A sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen. But the kitchen was called
dining-room, or even parlour at need; for the cooking-range lent
itself to concealment behind an ornamental screen, the walls
displayed pictures and bookcases, and a tiny scullery which lay
apart sufficed for the coarser domestic operations. This was
Amy's territory during the hours when her husband was working, or
endeavouring to work. Of necessity, Edwin Reardon used the front
room as his study. His writing-table stood against the window; each wall had its shelves of serried literature; vases, busts, engravings (all of the inexpensive kind) served for ornaments.
A maid-servant, recently emancipated from the Board school, came
at half-past seven each morning, and remained until two o'clock, by which time the Reardons had dined; on special occasions, her services were enlisted for later hours. But it was Reardon's habit to begin the serious work of the day at about three o'clock, and to continue with brief interruptions until ten or eleven; in many respects an awkward arrangement, but enforced by the man's temperament and his poverty.
One evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper
before him. It was the hour of sunset. His outlook was upon the
backs of certain large houses skirting Regent's Park, and lights
had begun to show here and there in the windows:in one room a man
was discoverable dressing for dinner, he had not thought it
worth while to lower the blind; in another, some people were
playing billiards. The higher windows reflected a rich glow from
the western sky.
For two or three hours Reardon had been seated in much the same
attitude. Occasionally he dipped his pen into the ink and seemed
about to write: but each time the effort was abortive. At the
head of the paper was inscribed 'Chapter III.,' but that was all.
And now the sky was dusking over; darkness would soon fall.
He looked something older than his years, which were two-and-
thirty; on his face was the pallor of mental suffering. Often he
fell into a fit of absence, and gazed at vacancy with wide, miserable eyes. Returning to consciousness, he fidgeted nervously on his chair, dipped his pen for the hundredth time, bent forward in feverish determination to work. Useless; he scarcely knew what he wished to put into words, and his brain refused to construct the simplest sentence.
The colours faded from the sky, and night came quickly. Reardon
threw his arms upon the desk, let his head fall forward, and
remained so, as if asleep.
Presently the door opened, and a young, clear voice made inquiry: