The House of Cobwebs

by George Gissing

　　It was five o'clock on a June morning. The dirty-buff blind of thelodging-house bedroom shone like cloth of gold as the sun's unclouded rayspoured through it, transforming all they illumined, so that things poor andmean seemed to share in the triumphant glory of new-born day. In the bedlay a young man who had already been awake for an hour. He kept stirringuneasily, but with no intention of trying to sleep again. His eyes followedthe slow movement of the sunshine on the wall-paper, and noted, as theynever had done before, the details of the flower pattern, which representedno flower wherewith botanists are acquainted, yet, in this summer light,turned the thoughts to garden and field and hedgerow. The young man had atroubled mind, and his thoughts ran thus:--'I must have three months at least, and how am I to live?... Fifteenshillings a week--not quite that, if I spread my money out. Can one live onfifteen shillings a week--rent, food, washing?... I shall have to leavethese lodgings at once. They're not luxurious, but I can't live here undertwenty-five, that's clear.... Three months to finish my book. It's good;I'm hanged if it isn't! This time I shall find a publisher. All I have todo is to stick at my work and keep my mind easy.... Lucky that it's summer;I don't need fires. Any corner would do for me where I can be quiet and seethe sun.... Wonder whether some cottager in Surrey would house and feed mefor fifteen shillings a week?... No use lying here. Better get up and seehow things look after an hour's walk.'So the young man arose and clad himself, and went out into the shiningstreet. His name was Goldthorpe. His years were not yet three-and-twenty.Since the age of legal independence he had been living alone in London,solitary and poor, very proud of a wholehearted devotion to the career ofauthorship. As soon as he slipped out of the stuffy house, the live air,perfumed with freshness from meadows and hills afar, made his blood pulsejoyously. He was at the age of hope, and something within him, which didnot represent mere youthful illusion, supported his courage in the face ofcalculations such as would have damped sober experience. With boyish step,so light and springy that it seemed anxious to run and leap, he took hisway through a suburb south of Thames, and pushed on towards the firstrising of the Surrey hills. And as he walked resolve strengthened itself inhis heart. Somehow or other he would live independently through the nextthree months. If the worst came to the worst, he could earn bread as clerkor labourer, but as long as his money lasted he would pursue his purpose,and that alone. He sang to himself in this gallant determination, happy asif some one had left him a fortune.In an ascending road, quiet and tree-shadowed, where the dwellings oneither side were for the most part old and small, though here and there abrand-new edifice on a larger scale showed that the neighbourhood wasundergoing change such as in our time destroys the picturesque in allLondon suburbs, the cheery dreamer chanced to turn his eyes upon a spot ofdesolation which aroused his curiosity and set his fancy at work. Beforehim stood three deserted houses, a little row once tenanted by middle-classfolk, but now for some time unoccupied and unrepaired. They were of brick,but the fronts had a stucco facing cut into imitation of ashlar, andweathered to the sombrest grey. The windows of the ground floor and of thatabove, and the fanlights above the doors, were boarded up, a guard againstunlicensed intrusion; the top story had not been thought to stand in needof this protection, and a few panes were broken. On these dead frontagescould be traced the marks of climbing plants, which once hung their leavesabout each doorway; dry fragments of the old stem still adhered to thestucco. What had been the narrow strip of fore-garden, railed from thepavement, was now a little wilderness of coarse grass, docks, nettles, anddegenerate shrubs. The paint on the doors had lost all colour, and much ofit was blistered off; the three knockers had disappeared, leavingindications of rough removal, as if--which was probably the case--they hadfallen a prey to marauders. Standing full in the brilliant sunshine, thisspectacle of abandonment seemed sadder, yet less ugly, than it would havelooked under a gloomy sky. Goldthorpe began to weave stories about itsmusty squalor. He crossed the road to make a nearer inspection; and as hestood gazing at the dishonoured thresholds, at the stained and crackedboarding of the blind windows, at the rusty paling and the broken gates,there sounded from somewhere near a thin, shaky strain of music, the notesof a concertina played with uncertain hand. The sound seemed to come fromwithin the houses, yet how could that be? Assuredly no one lived underthese crazy roofs. The musician was playing 'Home, Sweet Home,' and asGoldthorpe listened it seemed to him that the sound was not stationary.Indeed, it moved; it became more distant, then again the notes sounded moredistinctly, and now as if the player were in the open air. Perhaps he wasat the back of the houses?On either side ran a narrow passage, which parted the spot of desolationfrom inhabited dwellings. Exploring one of these, Goldthorpe found thatthere lay in the rear a tract of gardens. Each of the three lifeless houseshad its garden of about twenty yards long. The bordering wall along thepassage allowed a man of average height to peer over it, and Goldthorpesearched with curious eye the piece of ground which was nearest to him.Many a year must have gone by since any gardening was done here. Once upona time the useful and ornamental had both been represented in this modestspace; now, flowers and vegetables, such of them as survived in thestruggle for existence, mingled together, and all alike were threatened bya wild, rank growth of grasses and weeds, which had obliterated the beds,hidden the paths, and made of the whole garden plot a green jungle. ButGoldthorpe gave only a glance at this still life; his interest wasengrossed by a human figure, seated on a campstool near the back wall ofthe house, and holding a concertina, whence, at this moment, in slow,melancholy strain, 'Home, Sweet Home' began to wheeze forth. The player wasa middle-aged man, dressed like a decent clerk or shopkeeper, his headshaded with an old straw hat rather too large for him, and on his feet--oneof which swung as he sat with legs crossed--a pair of still more ancientslippers, also too large. With head aside, and eyes looking upward, heseemed to listen in a mild ecstasy to the notes of his instrument. He had around face of much simplicity and good-nature, semicircular eyebrows,pursed little mouth with abortive moustache, and short thin beard fringingthe chinless lower jaw. Having observed this unimposing person for a minuteor two, himself unseen, Goldthorpe surveyed the rear of the building,anxious to discover any sign of its still serving as human habitation; butnothing spoke of tenancy. The windows on this side were not boarded, andonly a few panes were broken; but the chief point of contrast with thedesolate front was made by a Virginia creeper, which grew luxuriantly up tothe eaves, hiding every sign of decay save those dim, dusty apertures whichseemed to deny all possibility of life within. And yet, on lookingsteadily, did he not discern something at one of the windows on the topstory--something like a curtain or a blind? And had not that same windowthe appearance of having been more recently cleaned than the others? Hecould not be sure; perhaps he only fancied these things. With neck achingfrom the strained position in which he had made his survey over the wall,the young man turned away. In the same moment 'Home, Sweet Home' came to anend, and, but for the cry of a milkman, the early-morning silence wasundisturbed.Goldthorpe pursued his walk, thinking of what he had seen, and wonderingwhat it all meant. On his way back he made a point of again passing thedeserted houses, and again he peered over the wall of the passage. The manwas still there, but no longer seated with the concertina; wearing a roundfelt hat instead of the straw, he stood almost knee-deep in vegetation, andappeared to be examining the various growths about him. Presently he movedforward, and, with head still bent, approached the lower end of the garden,where, in a wall higher than that over which Goldthorpe made his espial,there was a wooden door. This the man opened with a key, and, having passedout, could be heard to turn a lock behind him. A minute more, and thisshort, respectable figure came into sight at the end of the passage.Goldthorpe could not resist the opportunity thus offered. Affecting to turna look of interest towards the nearest roof, he waited until the strangerwas about to pass him, then, with civil greeting, ventured upon a question.'Can you tell me how these houses come to be in this neglected state?'The stranger smiled; a soft, modest, deferential smile such as became hiscountenance, and spoke in a corresponding voice, which had a vaguelyprovincial accent.'No wonder it surprises you, sir. I should be surprised myself. It comes ofquarrels and lawsuits.''So I supposed. Do you know who the property belongs to?''Well, yes, sir. The fact is--it belongs to me.'The avowal was made apologetically, and yet with a certain timid pride.Goldthorpe exhibited all the interest he felt. An idea had suddenly sprungup in his mind; he met the stranger's look, and spoke with the easygood-humour natural to him.'It seems a great pity that houses should be standing empty like that. Arethey quite uninhabitable? Couldn't one camp here during this fine summerweather? To tell you the truth, I'm looking for a room--as cheap a room asI can get. Could you let me one for the next three months?'The stranger was astonished. He regarded the young man with an uneasysmile.'You are joking, sir.''Not a bit of it. Is the thing quite impossible? Are all the rooms in toobad a state?''I won't say that,' replied the other cautiously, still eyeing hisinterlocutor with surprised glances. 'The upper rooms are really not sobad--that is to say, from a humble point of view. I--I have been looking atthem just now. You really mean, sir--?''I'm quite in earnest, I assure you,' cried Goldthorpe cheerily. 'You seeI'm tolerably well dressed still, but I've precious little money, and Iwant to eke out the little I've got for about three months. I'm writing abook. I think I shall manage to sell it when it's done, but it'll take meabout three months yet. I don't care what sort of place I live in, so longas it's quiet. Couldn't we come to terms?'The listener's visage seemed to grow rounder in progressive astonishment;his eyes declared an emotion akin to awe; his little mouth shaped itself asif about to whistle.'A book, sir? You are writing a book? You are a literary man?''Well, a beginner. I have poverty on my side, you see.''Why, it's like Dr. Johnson!' cried the other, his face glowing withinterest. 'It's like Chatterton!--though I'm sure I hope you won't end likehim, sir. It's like Goldsmith!--indeed it is!''I've got half Oliver's name, at all events,' laughed the young man. 'Mineis Goldthorpe.''You don't say so, sir! What a strange coincidence! Mine, sir, is Spicer.I--I don't know whether you'd care to come into my garden? We might talkthere--'In a minute or two they were standing amid the green jungle, whichGoldthorpe viewed with delight. He declared it the most picturesque gardenhe had ever seen.'Why, there are potatoes growing there. And what are those things?Jerusalem artichokes? And look at that magnificent thistle; I never saw afiner thistle in my life! And poppies--and marigolds--and broad-beans--andisn't that lettuce?'Mr. Spicer was red with gratification.'I feel that something might be done with the garden, sir,' he said. 'Thefact is, sir, I've only lately come into this property, and I'm sorry tosay it'll only be mine for a little more than a year--a year from nextmidsummer day, sir. There's the explanation of what you see. It's leaseholdproperty, and the lease is just coming to its end. Five years ago, sir, anuncle of mine inherited the property from his brother. The houses were thenin a very bad state, and only one of them let, and there had been lawsuitsgoing on for a long time between the leaseholder and the ground-landlord--Ican't quite understand these matters, they're not at all in my line, sir;but at all events there were quarrels and lawsuits, and I'm told one of thetenants was somehow mixed up in it. The fact is, my uncle wasn't a verywell-to-do man, and perhaps he didn't feel able to repair the houses,especially as the lease was drawing to its end. Would you like to go in andhave a look round?'They entered by the back door, which admitted them to a little wash-house.The window was over-spun with cobwebs, thick, hoary; each corner of theceiling was cobweb-packed; long, dusty filaments depended along the walls.Notwithstanding, Goldthorpe noticed that the house had a water-supply; thesink was wet, the tap above it looked new. This confirmed a suspicion inhis mind, but he made no remark. They passed into the kitchen. Here againthe work of the spider showed thick on every hand. The window, however,though uncleaned for years, had recently been opened; one knew that by thetorn and ragged condition of the webs where the sashes joined. And lo! onthe window-sill stood a plate, a cup and saucer, a knife, a fork, aspoon--all of them manifestly new-washed. Goldthorpe affected not to seethese objects; he averted his face to hide an involuntary smile.'I must light a candle,' said Mr. Spicer. 'The staircase is quite dark.'A candle stood ready, with a box of matches, on the rusty cooking-stove. Nofire had burned in the grate for many a long day; of that the visitorassured himself. Save the objects on the window-sill, no evidence of humanoccupation was discoverable. Having struck a light, Mr. Spicer advanced. Inthe front passage, on the stairs, on the landing, every angle and everyprojection had its drapery of cobwebs. The stuffy, musty air smelt ofcobwebs; so, at all events, did Goldthorpe explain to himself a peculiarodour which he seemed never to have smelt. It was the same in the two roomson the first floor. Through the boarded windows of that in front penetrateda few thin rays from the golden sky; they gleamed upon dust and web, onfaded, torn wall-paper and a fireplace in ruins.'I shouldn't recommend you to take either of these rooms,' said Mr.Spicer, looking nervously at his companion. 'They really can't be calledattractive.''Those on the top are healthier, no doubt,' was the young man's reply. 'Inoticed that some of the window-glass is broken. That must have been goodfor airing.'Mr. Spicer grew more and more nervous. He opened his little round mouth,very much like a fish gasping, but seemed unable to speak. Silently he ledthe way to the top story, still amid cobwebs; the atmosphere was certainlypurer up here, and when they entered the first room they found themselvesall at once in such a flood of glorious sunshine that Goldthorpe shoutedwith delight.'Ah, I could live here! Would it cost much to have panes put in? An oldwoman with a broom would do the rest.' He added in a moment, 'But the backwindows are not broken, I think?''No--I think not--I--no--'Mr. Spicer gasped and stammered. He stood holding the candle (its lightinvisible) so that the grease dripped steadily on his trousers.'Let's have a look at the other,' cried Goldthorpe. 'It gets the afternoonsun, no doubt. And one would have a view of the garden.''Stop, sir!' broke from his companion, who was red and perspiring. 'There'ssomething I should like to tell you before you go into that room.I--it--the fact is, sir, that--temporarily--I am occupying it myself.''Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Spicer!''Not at all, sir! Don't mention it, sir. I have a reason--it seemed tome--I've merely put in a bed and a table, sir, that's all--a temporaryarrangement.''Yes, yes; I quite understand. What could be more sensible? If the housewere mine, I should do the same. What's the good of owning a house, andmaking no use of it?'Great was Mr. Spicer's satisfaction.'See what it is, sir,' he exclaimed, 'to have to do with a literary man!You are large-minded, sir; you see things from an intellectual point ofview. I can't tell you how it gratifies me, sir, to have made youracquaintance. Let us go into the back room.'With nervous boldness he threw the door open. Goldthorpe, advancingrespectfully, saw that Mr. Spicer had not exaggerated the simplicity of hisarrangements. In a certain measure the room had been cleaned, but along theangle of walls and ceiling there still clung a good many cobwebs, and thestate of the paper was deplorable. A blind hung at the window, but thefloor had no carpet. In one corner stood a little camp bed, neatly made forthe day; a table and a chair, of the cheapest species, occupied the middleof the floor, and on the hearth was an oil cooking-stove.'It's wonderful how little one really wants,' remarked Mr. Spicer, 'at allevents in weather such as this. I find that I get along here very wellindeed. The only expense I had was for the water-supply. And really, sir,when one comes to think of it, the situation is pleasant. If one doesn'tmind loneliness--and it happens that I don't. I have my books, sir--'He opened the door of a cupboard containing several shelves. The firstthing Goldthorpe's eye fell upon was the concertina; he saw also sundryarticles of clothing, neatly disposed, a little crockery, and, ranged onthe two top shelves, some thirty volumes, all of venerable aspect.'Literature, sir,' pursued Mr. Spicer modestly, 'has always been mycomfort. I haven't had very much time for reading, but my motto, sir, hasbeen nulla dies sine linea.'It appeared from his pronunciation that Mr. Spicer was no classicalscholar, but he uttered the Latin words with infinite gusto, and timidlywatched their effect upon the listener.'This is delightful,' cried Mr. Goldthorpe. 'Will you let me have the frontroom? I could work here splendidly--splendidly! What rent do you ask, Mr.Spicer?''Why really, sir, to tell you the truth I don't know what to say. Of coursethe windows must be seen to. The fact is, sir, if you felt disposed to dothat at your own expense, and--and to have the room cleaned, and--and, letus say, to bear half the water-rate whilst you are here, why, really, Ihardly feel justified in asking anything more.'It was Goldthorpe's turn to be embarrassed, for, little as he was preparedto pay, he did not like to accept a stranger's generosity. They discussedthe matter in detail, with the result that for the arrangement which Mr.Spicer had proposed there was substituted a weekly rent of two shillings,the lease extending over a period of three months. Goldthorpe was to livequite independently, asking nothing in the way of domestic service;moreover, he was requested to introduce no other person to the house, evenas casual visitor. These conditions Mr. Spicer set forth, in a commercialhand, on a sheet of notepaper, and the agreement was solemnly signed byboth contracting parties.On the way home to breakfast Goldthorpe reviewed his position now that hehad taken this decisive step. It was plain that he must furnish his roomwith the articles which Mr. Spicer found indispensable, and this outlay, beas economical as he might, would tell upon the little capital which was tosupport him for three months. Indeed, when all had been done, and he foundhimself, four days later, dwelling on the top story of the house ofcobwebs, a simple computation informed him that his total expenditure,after payment of rent, must not exceed fifteenpence a day. What matter? Hewas in the highest spirits, full of energy and hope. His landlord had beenkind and helpful in all sorts of ways, helping him to clean the room, toremove his property from the old lodgings, to make purchases at the lowestpossible rate, to establish himself as comfortably as circumstancespermitted. And when, on the first morning of his tenancy, he was awakenedby a brilliant sun, the young man had a sensation of comfort andsatisfaction quite new in his experience; for he was really at home; thebed he slept on, the table he ate at and wrote upon, were his ownpossessions; he thought with pity of his lodging-house life, and felt ajoyous assurance that here he would do better work than ever before.In less than a week Mr. Spicer and he were so friendly that they began toeat together, taking it in turns to prepare the meal. Now and then theywalked in company, and every evening they sat smoking (very cheap tobacco)in the wild garden. Little by little Mr. Spicer revealed the facts of hishistory. He had begun life, in a midland town, as a chemist's errand-boy,and by steady perseverance, with a little pecuniary help from relatives,had at length risen to the position of chemist's assistant. Forfive-and-twenty years he practised such rigid economy that, having no onebut himself to provide for, he began to foresee a possibility of passinghis old age elsewhere than in the workhouse. Then befell the death of hisuncle, which was to have important consequences for him. Mr. Spicer toldthe story of this exciting moment late one evening, when, kept indoors byrain, the companions sat together upstairs, one on each side of the rustyand empty fireplace.'All my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, I've thought what a delightful thing it mustbe to have a house of one's own. I mean, really of one's own; not only arented house, but one in which you could live and die, feeling that no onehad a right to turn you out. Often and often I've dreamt of it, and triedto imagine what the feeling would be like. Not a large, fine house--ohdear, no! I didn't care how small it might be; indeed, the smaller thebetter for a man of my sort. Well, then, you can imagine how it came uponme when I heard--But let me tell you first that I hadn't seen my uncle forfifteen years or more. I had always thought him a well-to-do man, and Iknew he wasn't married, but the truth is, it never came into my head thathe might leave me something. Picture me, Mr. Goldthorpe--you haveimagination, sir--standing behind the counter and thinking about nothingbut business, when in comes a young gentleman--I see him now--and asks forMr. Spicer. "Spicer is my name, sir," I said. "And you are the nephew,"were his next words, "of the late Mr. Isaac Spicer, of Clapham, London?"That shook me, sir, I assure you it did, but I hope I behaved decently. Theyoung gentleman went on to tell me that my uncle had left no will, and thatI was believed to be his next-of-kin, and that if so, I inherited all hisproperty, the principal part of which was three houses in London. Now tryand think, Mr. Goldthorpe, what sort of state I was in after hearing that.You're an intellectual man, and you can enter into another's mind. Threehouses! Well, sir, you know what houses those were. I came up to London atonce (it was last autumn), and I saw my uncle's lawyer, and he told me allabout the property, and I saw it for myself. Ah, Mr. Goldthorpe! If ever aman suffered a bitter disappointment, sir!'He ended on a little laugh, as if excusing himself for making so much ofhis story, and sat for a moment with head bowed.'Fate played you a nasty trick there,' said Goldthorpe. 'A knavish trick.''One felt almost justified in using strong language, sir--though I alwaysavoid it on principle. However, I must tell you that the houses weren'tall. Luckily there was a little money as well, and, putting it with my ownsavings, sir, I found it would yield me an income. When I say an income, Imean, of course, for a man in my position. Even when I have to go intolodgings, when my houses become the property of the ground-landlord--to mymind, Mr. Goldthorpe, a very great injustice, but I don't set myself upagainst the law of the land--I shall just be able to live. And that's nosmall blessing, sir, as I think you'll agree.''Rather! It's the height of human felicity, Mr. Spicer. I envy you vastly.''Well, sir, I'm rather disposed to look at it in that light myself. Mynature is not discontented, Mr. Goldthorpe. But, sir, if you could haveseen me when the lawyer began to explain about the houses! I was absolutelyignorant of the leasehold system; and at first I really couldn'tunderstand. The lawyer thought me a fool, I fear, sir. And when I came downhere and saw the houses themselves! I'm afraid, Mr. Goldthorpe, I'm reallyafraid, sir, I was weak enough to shed a tear.'They were sitting by the light of a very small lamp, which did not tend tocheerfulness.'Come,' cried Goldthorpe, 'after all, the houses are yours for atwelvemonth. Why shouldn't we both live on here all the time? It'll be alittle breezy in winter, but we could have the fireplaces knocked intoshape, and keep up good fires. When I've sold my book I'll pay a higherrent, Mr. Spicer. I like the old house, upon my word I do! Come, let ushave a tune before we go to bed.'Smiling and happy, Mr. Spicer fetched from the cupboard his concertina, andafter the usual apology for what he called his 'imperfect mastery of theinstrument,' sat down to play 'Home, Sweet Home.' He had played it foryears, and evidently would never improve in his execution. After 'Home,Sweet Home' came 'The Bluebells of Scotland,' after that 'Annie Laurie';and Mr. Spicer's repertory was at an end. He talked of learning new pieces,but there was not the slightest hope of this achievement.Mr. Spicer's mental development had ceased more than twenty years ago,when, after extreme efforts, he had attained the qualification of chemist'sassistant. Since then the world had stood still with him. Though a truelover of books, he knew nothing of any that had been published during hisown lifetime. His father, though very poor, had possessed a littlecollection of volumes, the very same which now stood in Mr. Spicer'scupboard. The authors represented in this library were either Englishclassics or obscure writers of the early part of the nineteenth century.Knowing these books very thoroughly, Mr. Spicer sometimes indulged in aquotation which would have puzzled even the erudite. His favourite poet wasCowper, whose moral sentiments greatly soothed him. He spoke of Byron likesome contemporary who, whilst admitting his lordship's genius, felt anabhorrence of his life. He judged literature solely from the moral point ofview, and was incapable of understanding any other. Of fiction he had readvery little indeed, for it was not regarded with favour by his parents.Scott was hardly more than a name to him. And though he avowed acquaintancewith one or two works of Dickens, he spoke of them with an uneasy smile, asif in some doubt as to their tendency. With these intellectualcharacteristics, Mr. Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate theattitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled inresponse to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leaderof a new school of fiction. Not indiscreet, Goldthorpe soon became awarethat he had better talk as little as possible of the work which absorbedhis energies. He had enough liberality and sense of humour to understandand enjoy his landlord's conversation, and the simple goodness of the maninspired him with no little respect. Thus they got along togetherremarkably well. Mr. Spicer never ceased to feel himself honoured by thepresence under his roof of one who--as he was wont to say--wielded the pen.The tradition of Grub Street was for him a living fact. He thought of allauthors as struggling with poverty, and continued to citeeighteenth-century examples by way of encouraging Goldthorpe and animatinghis zeal. Whilst the young man was at work Mr. Spicer moved about the housewith soundless footsteps. When invited into his tenant's room he had areverential demeanour, and the sight of manuscript on the bare deal tablecaused him to subdue his voice.The weeks went by, and Goldthorpe's novel steadily progressed. In London hehad only two or three acquaintances, and from them he held aloof, lestnecessity or temptation should lead to his spending money which he couldnot spare. The few letters which he received were addressed to apost-office--impossible to shock the nerves of a postman by requesting himto deliver correspondence at this dead house, of which the front door hadnot been opened for years. The weather was perfect; a great deal ofsunshine, but as yet no oppressive heat, even in the chambers under theroof. Towards the end of June Mr. Spicer began to amuse himself with alittle gardening. He had discovered in the coal-hole an ancient fork, withone prong broken and the others rusting away. This implement served him inhis slow, meditative attack on that part of the jungle which seemed tooffer least resistance. He would work for a quarter of an hour, then,resting on his fork, contemplate the tangled mass of vegetation which hehad succeeded in tearing up.'Our aim should be,' he said gravely, when Goldthorpe came to observe hisprogress, 'to clear the soil round about those vegetables and flowers whichseem worth preserving. These broad-beans, for instance--they seem to be avery fine sort. And the Jerusalem artichokes. I've been making inquiryabout the artichokes, and I'm told they are not ready to eat till theautumn. The first frost is said to improve them. They're fine plants--veryfine plants.'Already the garden had supplied them with occasional food, but they had toconfess that, for the most part, these wild vegetables lacked savour. Theartichokes, now shooting up into a leafy grove, were the great hope of thefuture. It would be deplorable to quit the house before this tuber came tomaturity.'The worst of it is,' remarked Mr. Spicer one day, when he was perspiringfreely, 'that I can't help thinking of how different it would be if thisgarden was really my own. The fact is, Mr. Goldthorpe, I can't put muchheart into the work; no, I can't. The more I reflect, the more indignant Ibecome. Really now, Mr. Goldthorpe, speaking as an intellectual man, as aman of imagination, could anything be more cruelly unjust than thisleasehold system? I assure you, it keeps me awake at night; it reallydoes.'The tenor of his conversation proved that Mr. Spicer had no intention ofleaving the house until he was legally obliged to do so. More than once hehad an interview with his late uncle's solicitor, and each time he cameback with melancholy brow. All the details of the story were now familiarto him; he knew all about the lawsuits which had ruined the property.Whenever he spoke of the ground-landlord, known to him only by name, it waswith a severity such as he never permitted himself on any other subject.The ground-landlord was, to his mind, an embodiment of social injustice.'Never in my life, Mr. Goldthorpe, did I grudge any payment of money as Igrudge the ground-rent of these houses. I feel it as robbery, sir, as sheerrobbery, though the sum is so small. When, in my ignorance, the matter wasfirst explained to me, I wondered why my uncle had continued to pay thisrent, the houses being of no profit to him. But now I understand, Mr.Goldthorpe; the sense of possession is very sweet. Property's property,even when it's leasehold and in ruins. I grudge the ground-rent bitterly,but I feel, sir, that I couldn't bear to lose my houses until the fatalmoment, when lose them I must.'In August the thermometer began to mark high degrees. Goldthorpe found itnecessary to dispense with coat and waistcoat when he was working, and attimes a treacherous languor whispered to him of the delights of idleness.After one particularly hot day, he and his landlord smoked together in thedusking garden, both unusually silent. Mr. Spicer's eye dwelt upon thegreat heap of weeds which was resulting from his labour; an odour somewhattoo poignant arose from it upon the close air. Goldthorpe, who had beenrather headachy all day, was trying to think into perfect clearness thelast chapters of his book, and found it difficult.'You know,' he said all at once, with an impatient movement, 'we ought tobe at the seaside.''The seaside?' echoed his companion, in surprise. 'Ah, it's a long timesince I saw the sea, Mr. Goldthorpe. Why, it must be--yes, it is at leasttwenty years.''Really? I've been there every year of my life till this. One gets into theway of thinking of luxuries as necessities. I tell you what it is. If Isell my book as soon as it's done, we'll have a few days somewhere on thesouth coast together.'Mr. Spicer betrayed uneasiness.'I should like it much,' he murmured, 'but I fear, Mr. Goldthorpe, Igreatly fear I can't afford it.''Oh, but I mean that you shall go with me as my guest! But for you, Mr.Spicer, I might never have got my book written at all.''I feel it an honour, sir, I assure you, to have a literary man in myhouse,' was the genial reply. 'And you think the work will soon befinished, sir?'Mr. Spicer always spoke of his tenant's novel as 'the work'--which on hislips had a very large and respectful sound.'About a fortnight more,' answered Goldthorpe with grave intensity.The heat continued. As he lay awake before getting up, eager to finish hisbook, yet dreading the torrid temperature of his room, which made the brainsluggish and the hand slow, Goldthorpe saw how two or three energeticspiders had begun to spin webs once more at the corners of the ceiling; nowand then he heard the long buzzing of a fly entangled in one of these webs.The same thing was happening in Mr. Spicer's chamber. It did not seem worthwhile to brush the new webs away.'When you come to think of it, sir,' said the landlord, 'it's the spiderswho are the real owners of these houses. When I go away, they'll be pulleddown; they're not fit for human habitation. Only the spiders are really athome here, and the fact is, sir, I don't feel I have the right to disturbthem. As a man of imagination, Mr. Goldthorpe, you'll understand mythoughts!'Only with a great effort was the novel finished. Goldthorpe had lost hisappetite (not, perhaps, altogether a disadvantage), and he could not sleep;a slight fever seemed to be constantly upon him. But this work was aquestion of life and death to him, and he brought it to an end only a fewdays after the term he had set himself. The complete manuscript wasexhibited to Mr. Spicer, who expressed his profound sense of the privilege.Then, without delay, Goldthorpe took it to the publishing house in which hehad most hope.The young author could now do nothing but wait, and, under thecircumstances, waiting meant torture. His money was all but exhausted; ifhe could not speedily sell the book, his position would be that of a merepauper. Supported thus long by the artist's enthusiasm, he fell intodespondency, saw the dark side of things. To be sure, his mother (a widowin narrow circumstances) had written pressing him to take a holiday 'athome,' but he dreaded the thought of going penniless to his mother's house,and there, perchance, receiving bad news about his book. An ugly feature ofthe situation was that he continued to feel anything but well; indeed, hefelt sure that he was getting worse. At night he suffered severely; sleephad almost forsaken him. Hour after hour he lay listening to mysteriousnoises, strange crackings and creakings through the desolate house;sometimes he imagined the sound of footsteps in the bare rooms below; evenhushed voices, from he knew not where, chilled his blood at midnight. Sincecrumbs had begun to lie about, mice were common; they scampered as if inrevelry above the ceiling, and under the floor, and within the walls.Goldthorpe began to dislike this strange abode. He felt that under anycircumstances it would be impossible for him to dwell here much longer.When his last coin was spent, and he had no choice but to pawn or sellsomething for a few days' subsistence, the manuscript came back upon hishands. It had been judged--declined.That morning he felt seriously unwell. After making known the catastropheto Mr. Spicer--who was stricken voiceless--he stood silent for a minute ortwo, then said with quiet resolve:'It's all up. I've no money, and I feel as if I were going to have anillness. I must say good-bye to you, old friend.''Mr. Goldthorpe!' exclaimed the other solemnly; 'I entreat you, sir, to donothing rash! Take heart, sir! Think of Samuel Johnson, think ofGoldsmith--''The extent of my rashness, Mr. Spicer, will be to raise enough money on mywatch to get down into Derbyshire. I must go home. If I don't, you'll havethe pleasant job of taking me to a hospital.'Mr. Spicer insisted on lending him the small sum he needed. An hour or twolater they were at St. Pancras Station, and before sunset Goldthorpe hadfound harbourage under his mother's roof. There he lay ill for more than amonth, and convalescent for as long again. His doctor declared that he musthave been living in some very unhealthy place, but the young man preferredto explain his illness by overwork. It seemed to him sheer ingratitude tothrow blame on Mr. Spicer's house, where he had been so contented andworked so well until the hot days of latter August. Mr. Spicer himselfwrote kind and odd little letters, giving an account of the garden, andearnestly hoping that his literary friend would be back in London to tastethe Jerusalem artichokes. But Christmas came and went, and Goldthorpe wasstill at his mother's house.Meanwhile the manuscript had gone from publisher to publisher, and atlength, on a day in January--date ever memorable in Goldthorpe'slife--there arrived a short letter in which a certain firm dryly intimatedtheir approval of the story offered them, and their willingness to purchasethe copyright for a sum of fifty pounds. The next morning the triumphantauthor travelled to London. For two or three days a violent gale had beenblowing, with much damage throughout the country; on his journey Goldthorpesaw many great trees lying prostrate, beaten, as though scornfully, by thecold rain which now descended in torrents. Arrived in town, he went to thehouse where he had lodged in the time of comparative prosperity, and therewas lucky enough to find his old rooms vacant. On the morrow he called uponthe gracious publishers, and after that, under a sky now become moregentle, he took his way towards the abode of Mr. Spicer.Eager to communicate the joyous news, glad in the prospect of seeing hissimple-hearted friend, he went at a great pace up the ascending road. Therewere the three houses, looking drearier than ever in a faint gleam ofwinter sunshine. There were his old windows. But--what had happened to theroof? He stood in astonishment and apprehension, for, just above the roomwhere he had dwelt, the roof was an utter wreck, showing a great hole, asif something had fallen upon it with crushing weight. As indeed was thecase; evidently the chimney-stack had come down, and doubtless in therecent gale. Seized with anxiety on Mr. Spicer's account, he ran round tothe back of the garden and tried the door; but it was locked as usual. Hestrained to peer over the garden wall, but could discover nothing thatthrew light on his friend's fate; he noticed, however, a great grove ofdead, brown artichoke stems, seven or eight feet high. Looking up at theback windows, he shouted Mr. Spicer's name; it was useless. Then, inserious alarm, he betook himself to the house on the other side of thepassage, knocked at the door, and asked of the woman who presented herselfwhether anything was known of a gentleman who dwelt where the chimney-stackhad just fallen. News was at once forthcoming; the event had obviouslycaused no small local excitement. It was two days since the falling of thechimney, which happened towards evening, when the gale blew its hardest.Mr. Spicer was at that moment sitting before the fire, and only by amiracle had he escaped destruction, for an immense weight of material camedown through the rotten roof, and even broke a good deal of the flooring.Had the occupant been anywhere but close by the fireplace, he must havebeen crushed to a mummy; as it was, only a few bricks struck him,inflicting severe bruises on back and arms. But the shock had been serious.When his shouts from the window at length attracted attention and broughthelp, the poor man had to be carried downstairs, and in a thoroughlyhelpless state was removed to the nearest hospital.'Which room was he in?' inquired Goldthorpe. 'Back or front?''In the front room. The back wasn't touched.'Musing on Mr. Spicer's bad luck--for it seemed as if he had changed fromthe back to the front room just in order that the chimney might fall onhim--Goldthorpe hastened away to the hospital. He could not be admittedto-day, but heard that his friend was doing very well; on the morrow hewould be allowed to see him.So at the visitors' hour Goldthorpe returned. Entering the long accidentward, he searched anxiously for the familiar face, and caught sight of itjust as it began to beam recognition. Mr. Spicer was sitting up in bed; helooked pale and meagre, but not seriously ill; his voice quivered withdelight as he greeted the young man.'I heard of your inquiring for me yesterday, Mr. Goldthorpe, and I'vehardly been able to live for impatience to see you. How are you, sir? Howare you? And what news about the work, sir?''We'll talk about that presently, Mr. Spicer. Tell me all about youraccident. How came you to be in the front room?''Ah, sir,' replied the patient, with a little shake of the head, 'thatindeed was singular. Only a few days before, I had made a removal from myroom into yours. I call it yours, sir, for I always thought of it as yours;but thank heaven you were not there. Only a few days before. I took thatstep, Mr. Goldthorpe, for two reasons: first, because water was comingthrough the roof at the back in rather unpleasant quantities, and secondly,because I hoped to get a little morning sun in the front. The fact is, sir,my room had been just a little depressing. Ah, Mr. Goldthorpe, if you knewhow I have missed you, sir! But the work--what news of the work?'Smiling as though carelessly, the author made known his good fortune. For aquarter of an hour Mr. Spicer could talk of nothing else.'This has completed my cure!' he kept repeating. 'The work was composedunder my roof, my own roof, sir! Did I not tell you to take heart?''And where are you going to live?' asked Goldthorpe presently. 'You can'tgo back to the old house.''Alas! no, sir. All my life I have dreamt of the joy of owning a house. Youknow how the dream was realised, Mr. Goldthorpe, and you see what has comeof it at last. Probably it is a chastisement for overweening desires, sir.I should have remembered my position, and kept my wishes within bounds.But, Mr. Goldthorpe, I shall continue to cultivate the garden, sir. I shallput in spring lettuces, and radishes, and mustard and cress. The propertyis mine till midsummer day. You shall eat a lettuce of my growing, Mr.Goldthorpe; I am bent on that. And how I grieve that you were not with meat the time of the artichokes--just at the moment when they were touched bythe first frost!''Ah! They were really good, Mr. Spicer?''Sir, they seemed good to me, very good. Just at the moment of the firstfrost!'

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