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The Floating Press - George Gissing

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204 pages

English

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Popular Victorian-era novelist George Gissing was best known for his realistic portrayals of social problems in the period in texts such as New Grub Street. The novel Denzil Quarrier finds Gissing stretching beyond this well-trod comfort zone, telling the story of an heir to a Norwegian timber fortune in a gripping character study that is heavily influenced by the work of playwright Henrik Ibsen.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 décembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775450498
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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DENZIL QUARRIER
* * *
GEORGE GISSING

*

Denzil Quarrier First published in 1892 ISBN 978-1-775450-49-8 © 2010 The Floating Press
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII
Chapter I
*
For half an hour there had been perfect silence in the room. The catupon the hearthrug slept profoundly; the fire was sunk to a still redglow; the cold light of the autumn afternoon thickened into dusk.
Lilian seemed to be reading. She sat on a footstool, her arm resting onthe seat of a basket-chair, which supported a large open volume. Buther hand was never raised to turn a page, and it was long since hereyes had gathered the sense of the lines on which they were fixed. Thisattitude had been a favourite one with her in childhood, and nowadays,in her long hours of solitude, she often fell into the old habit. Itwas a way of inviting reverie, which was a way of passing the time.
She stirred at length; glanced at the windows, at the fire, and rose.
A pleasant little sitting-room, furnished in the taste of our time;with harmonies and contrasts of subdued colour, with picturesintelligently chosen, with store of graceful knick-knacks. Lilian'sperson was in keeping with such a background; her dark gold hair, herpale, pensive, youthful features, her slight figure in its looseraiment, could not have been more suitably displayed. In a room ofstatelier proportions she would have looked too frail, too young forsignificance; out of doors she was seldom seen to advantage; here onerecognized her as the presiding spirit in a home fragrant of womanhood.The face, at this moment, was a sad one, but its lines expressed noweak surrender to dolefulness; her lips were courageous, and her eyessuch as brighten readily with joy.
A small table bore a tea-tray with a kettle and spirit-lamp; theservice for two persons only. Lilian, after looking at her watch,ignited the lamp and then went to the window as if in expectation ofsome one's arrival.
The house stood in a row of small new dwellings on the outskirts ofClapham Common; there was little traffic along the road at any time,and in this hour of twilight even a passing footstep became a thing tonotice. Some one approached on her side of the way she listened, butwith disappointment; it was not the step for which she waited. None theless it paused at this house, and she was startled to perceive atelegraph messenger on the point of knocking. At once she hastened tothe front door.
"Mrs. Quarrier?" inquired the boy, holding out his missive.
Lilian drew back with it into the passage. But there was not lightenough to read by; she had to enter the sitting-room and hold the sheetof paper close to the kettle-lamp.
"Very sorry that I cannot get home before ten. Unexpected business."
She read it carefully, then turned with a sigh and dismissed themessenger.
In a quarter of an hour she had made tea, and sat down to take a cup.The cat, refreshed after slumber, jumped on to her lap and lay therepawing playfully at the trimming of her sleeves. Lilian at firstrewarded this friendliness only with absent stroking, but when she haddrunk her tea and eaten a slice of bread and butter the melancholy mooddispersed; pussy's sportiveness was then abundantly indulged, and forawhile Lilian seemed no less merry than her companion.
The game was interrupted by another knock at the house-door; this timeit was but the delivery of the evening paper. Lilian settled herself ina chair by the fireside, and addressed herself with a seriouscountenance to the study of the freshly-printed columns. Beginning withthe leading-article, she read page after page in the most conscientiousway, often pausing to reflect, and once even to pencil a note on themargin. The paper finished, she found it necessary for the clearunderstanding of a certain subject to consult a book of reference, andfor this purpose she went to a room in the rear—a small study,comfortably but plainly furnished, smelling of tobacco. It was verychilly, and she did not spend much time over her researches.
A sound from the lower part of the house checked her returning steps;some one was rapping at the door down in the area. It happened that shewas to-day without a servant; she must needs descend into the kitchenherself and answer the summons. When the nether regions were illuminedand the door thrown open, Lilian beheld a familiar figure, that of ascraggy and wretchedly clad woman with a moaning infant in her arms.
"Oh, it's you, Mrs. Wilson!" she exclaimed. "Please to come in. Howhave you been getting on? And how is baby?"
The woman took a seat by the kitchen fire, and began to talk in awhining, mendicant tone. From the conversation it appeared that thiswas by no means the first time she had visited Lilian and sought toarouse her compassion; the stories she poured forth consisted in agreat measure of excuses for not having profited more substantially bythe help already given her. The eye and the ear of experience wouldreadily enough have perceived in Mrs. Wilson a very coarse type ofimpostor, and even Lilian, though showing a face of distress at whatshe heard, seemed to hesitate in her replies and to entertaintroublesome doubts. But the objection she ventured to make to aflagrant inconsistency in the tale called forth such loud indignation,such a noisy mixture of insolence and grovelling entreaty, that hermoral courage gave way and Mrs. Wilson whined for another quarter of anhour in complete security from cross-examination. In the end Lilianbrought out her purse and took from it half-a-sovereign.
"Now, if I give you this, Mrs. Wilson, I do hope to have a betteraccount"—
Her admonitions were cut short, and with difficulty she managed toobtain hearing for a word or two of what was meant for grave counselwhilst taking leave of her visitor. Mrs. Wilson, a gleam in her redeyes, vanished up the area steps, and left Lilian to meditate on theinterview.
The evening passed on, and her solitude was undisturbed. Whendinner-time came, she sat down to the wing of a cold chicken and athimbleful of claret much diluted; the repast was laid out withperfection of neatness, and at its conclusion she cleared the tablelike the handiest of parlour-maids. Whatever she did was donegracefully; she loved order, and when alone was no less scrupulous insatisfying her idea of the becoming than when her actions were allobserved.
After dinner, she played a little on the piano. Here, as over her bookin the afternoon, the absent fit came upon her. Her fingers had restedidly on the keyboard for some minutes, when they began to touch solemnchords, and at length there sounded the first notes of a homely strain,one of the most familiar of the Church's hymns. It ceased abruptly;Lilian rose and went to another part of the room.
A few minutes later her ear caught the sound for which she was nowwaiting—that of a latch-key at the front door. She stepped quickly outinto the passage, where the lamp-light fell upon a tall and robust manwith dark, comely, bearded visage.
"Poor little girl!" he addressed her, affectionately, as he pulled offhis overcoat. "I couldn't help it, Lily; bound to stay."
"Never mind!" was her laughing reply, as she stood on tip-toe and drewdown his face to hers. "I was disappointed, but it's as well you didn'tcome to dinner. Sarah had to go away this morning."
"Oh! How's that? How have you managed then?"
They passed into the front room, and Quarrier repeated his inquiries.
"She had a letter from Birmingham," Lilian explained. "Her brother hasbeen all but killed in some dreadful accident, and he's in a hospital.I saw she wished to go—so I gave her some money and sent her off assoon as possible. Perhaps it was her only chance of seeing him alive,Denzil."
"Yes, yes of course you did right," he answered, after a moment'shesitation.
"I knew you wouldn't mind a dinner of my cooking—under thecircumstances."
"But what are we to do? You can't take her place in the kitchen tillshe comes back."
"I'll get some one for a few days."
"But, confound it! how about to-morrow morning? It's very awkward"—
"Oh, I shall easily manage."
"What?—go down at eight o'clock and light fires! Hang it, no! Allright; I'll turn out and see to breakfast. But you must get anothergirl; a second servant, I mean. Yes, you ought really to have two. Geta decent cook."
"Do you think it necessary?"
Quarrier was musing, a look of annoyance on his face.
"It couldn't have happened more inconveniently," he said, withoutregard to Lilian's objection. "I had better tell you at once, Lily:I've asked a friend of mine to come and dine with us to-morrow."
She started and looked at him with anxious eyes.
"A friend?"
"Yes; Glazzard—the man who spoke to me at Kew Station the otherday—you remember?"
"Oh yes!"
Lilian seated herself by the piano and stroked the keys with the tipsof her fingers. Standing on the hearth-rug, her companion watched herclosely for a moment; his forehead was wrinkled, and he did not seemquite at ease.
"Glazzard is a very good fellow," he pursued, looking about the roomand thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets. "I've known him sinceI was a boy—a well-read man,