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Updated: May 28, 2025
Biffen was a man of so much natural delicacy, that there was a pleasure in imparting to him the details of private sorrow; though profoundly sympathetic, he did his best to oppose Reardon's harsher judgments of Amy, and herein he gave his friend a satisfaction which might not be avowed.
'It must have been falling heavily for an hour or more. 'Can't be helped; I must go. The nearest station for departure was London Bridge, and the next train left at 7.20. By Reardon's watch it was now about five minutes to seven. 'I don't know whether it's possible, he said, in confused hurry, 'but I must try. There isn't another train till ten past nine. Come with me to the station, Biffen.
This he saw, and it ran on in a confirming horrible sequence from Reardon's speech. "Esther!" he repeated. He was still holding her hands and feeling they had no possibility of escape from each other, she in the weakness of her fear and he in passionate ruth. "Are you afraid of me?" That was her cue. "Yes," she whispered.
On Reardon's desk were lying slips of blank paper. Edith, approaching on tiptoe with what was partly make believe, partly genuine, awe, looked at the literary apparatus, then turned with a laugh to her friend. 'How delightful it must be to sit down and write about people one has invented! Ever since I have known you and Mr Reardon I have been tempted to try if I couldn't write a story.
And then he had pressed her hand so warmly. Before long he would ask her love. The unhoped was all but granted her. She could labour on in the valley of the shadow of books, for a ray of dazzling sunshine might at any moment strike into its musty gloom. The past twelve months had added several years to Edwin Reardon's seeming age; at thirty-three he would generally have been taken for forty.
His capital lasted him nearly four years, for, notwithstanding his age, he lived with painful economy. The strangest life, of almost absolute loneliness. From a certain point of Tottenham Court Road there is visible a certain garret window in a certain street which runs parallel with that thoroughfare; for the greater part of these four years the garret in question was Reardon's home.
'No, no; I could manage a fiver, for a month. Shall I give you a cheque? 'I'm ashamed 'Not a bit of it! I'll go and write the cheque. Reardon's face was burning. Of the conversation that followed when Carter again presented himself he never recalled a word. The bit of paper was crushed together in his hand.
Now that's one of the finest jokes I ever heard. A man who can't get anyone to publish his own books makes a living by telling other people how to write! 'But it's a confounded swindle! 'Oh, I don't know. He's capable of correcting the grammar of "literary aspirants," and as for recommending to publishers well, anyone can recommend, I suppose. Reardon's indignation yielded to laughter.
There was another long silence. Reardon's face was that of a man in blank misery. 'I have been trying, he said at length, after an attempt to speak which was checked by a huskiness in his throat, 'to explain to myself how this state of things has come about. I almost think I can do so. 'How?
The best people would regard him; he would be welcomed in the penetralia of culture; superior persons would say: 'Oh, I don't read novels as a rule, but of course Mr Reardon's If that really were to be the case, all was well; for Mrs Yule could appreciate social and intellectual differences. Alas! alas! What was the end of those shining anticipations?
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