Will Warburton , livre ebook

The Floating Press - George Gissing

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

238 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

In the later years of his career, popular Victorian-era writer George Gissing turned his attention to the social ills and challenges of the time. His last published novel, Will Warburton, is a prime example of social realism. The story following the travails of the title character, whose fortune is depleted through a series of shady business deals and who is subsequently forced to go into business as a shopkeeper.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 janvier 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775450795
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.

Extrait

WILL WARBURTON
* * *
GEORGE GISSING

*

Will Warburton First published in 1905 ISBN 978-1-775450-79-5 © 2011 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 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48
Chapter 1
*
The sea-wind in his hair, his eyes agleam with the fresh memory ofAlpine snows, Will Warburton sprang out of the cab, paid the driver adouble fare, flung on to his shoulder a heavy bag and ran up, two stepsat a stride, to a flat on the fourth floor of the many-tenantedbuilding hard by Chelsea Bridge. His rat-tat-tat brought to the door athin yellow face, cautious in espial, through the narrow opening.
"Is it you, sir?"
"All right, Mrs. Hopper! How are you?—how are you?"
He threw his bag into the passage, and cordially grasped the woman'shands.
"Dinner ready? Savagely hungry. Give me three minutes, and serve."
For about that length of time there sounded in the bedroom a splashingand a blowing; then Warburton came forth with red cheeks. He seizedupon a little pile of letters and packets which lay on hiswriting-table, broke envelopes, rent wrappers, and read with now anejaculation of pleasure, now a grunt of disgust, and again a mirthfulhalf roar. Then, dinner—the feeding of a famished man of robustappetite and digestion, a man three or four years on the green side ofthirty. It was a speedy business, in not much more than a quarter of anhour there disappeared a noble steak and its appurtenances, agolden-crusted apple tart, a substantial slice of ripe Cheddar, twobottles of creamy Bass.
"Now I can talk!" cried Will to his servant, as he threw himself into adeep chair, and began lighting his pipe. "What's the news? I seem tohave been away three months rather than three weeks."
"Mr. Franks called yesterday, sir, late in the afternoon, when I washere cleaning. He was very glad to hear you'd be back to-day, and saidhe might look in to-night."
"Good! What else?"
"My brother-in-law wishes to see you, sir. He's in trouble again—losthis place at Boxon's a few days ago. I don't exac'ly know how ithappened, but he'll explain everything. He's very unfortunate, sir, isAllchin."
"Tell him to come before nine to-morrow morning, if he can."
"Yes, sir. I'm sure it's very kind of you, sir."
"What else?"
"Nothing as I can think of just now, sir."
Warburton knew from the woman's way of speaking that she had somethingstill in her mind; but his pipe being well lit, and a pleasantlassitude creeping over him, he merely nodded. Mrs. Hopper cleared thetable, and withdrew.
The window looked across the gardens of Chelsea Hospital (old-timeRanelagh) to the westward reach of the river, beyond which layBattersea Park, with its lawns and foliage. A beam of the July sunsetstruck suddenly through the room. Warburton was aware of it withhalf-closed eyes; he wished to stir himself, and look forth, butlanguor held his limbs, and wreathing tobacco-smoke kept his thoughtsamong the mountains. He might have quite dozed off had not a suddennoise from within aroused him—the unmistakable crash of fallingcrockery. It made him laugh, a laugh of humorous expostulation. Aminute or two passed, then came a timid tap at his door, and Mrs.Hopper showed her face.
"Another accident, sir, I'm sorry to say," were her faltering words.
"Extensive?"
"A dish and two plates, I'm sorry to say, sir."
"Oh, that's nothing."
"Of course I shall make them good, sir."
"Pooh! Aren't there plates enough?"
"Oh, quite enough—just yet, sir."
Warburton subdued a chuckle, and looked with friendly smile at hisdomestic, who stood squeezing herself between the edge of the door andthe jamb—her habit when embarrassed. Mrs. Hopper had served him forthree years; he knew all her weaknesses, but thought more of hervirtues, chief of which were honest intention and a moderate aptitudefor plain cooking. A glance about this room would have proved to anyvisitor that Mrs. Hopper's ideas of cleanliness were by no means rigid,her master had made himself to a certain extent responsible for thisdefect; he paid little attention to dust, provided that things were intheir wonted order. Mrs. Hopper was not a resident domestic; she cameat stated hours. Obviously a widow, she had a poor, loose-hung,trailing little body, which no nourishment could plump or fortify. Hervisage was habitually doleful, but contracted itself at moments into agrin of quaint drollery, which betrayed her for something of a humorist.
"My fingers is all gone silly to-day, sir," she pursued. "I daresayit's because I haven't had much sleep these last few nights."
"How's that?"
"It's my poor sister, sir—my sister Liza, I mean—she's had one of herworst headaches—the extra special, we call 'em. This time it's lastedmore than three days, and not one minute of rest has the poor thinggot."
Warburton was all sympathy; he inquired about the case as though itwere that of an intimate friend. Change of air and repose were obviousremedies; no less obviously, these things were out of the question fora working woman who lived on a few shillings a week.
"Do you know of any place she could go to?" asked Warburton, addingcarelessly, "if the means were provided."
Mrs. Hopper squeezed herself more tightly than ever between door andjamb. Her head was bent in an abashed way, and when she spoke it was ina thick, gurgling tone, only just intelligible.
"There's a little lodging 'ouse at Southend, sir, where we used to gowhen my 'usband could afford it."
"Well, look here. Get a doctor's opinion whether Southend would do; ifnot, which place would. And just send her away. Don't worry about themoney."
Experience enabled Mrs. Hopper to interpret this advice. She stammeredgratitude.
"How's your other sister—Mrs. Allchin?" Warburton inquired kindly.
"Why, sir, she's doing pretty well in her 'ealth, sir, but her babydied yesterday week. I hope you'll excuse me, sir, for all this badnews just when you come back from your holiday, and when it's naturalas you don't feel in very good spirits."
Will had much ado not to laugh. On his return from a holiday, Mrs.Hopper always presumed him to be despondent in view of the resumptionof daily work. He was beginning to talk of Mrs. Allchin's troubles,when at the outer door sounded a long nervous knock.
"Ha! That's Mr. Franks."
Mrs. Hopper ran to admit the visitor.
Chapter 2
*
"Warburton!" cried a high-pitched voice from the passage. "Have youseen The Art World ?"
And there rushed into the room a tall, auburn-headed young man offive-and-twenty, his comely face glowing in excitement. With one handhe grasped his friend's, in the other he held out a magazine.
"You haven't seen it! Look here! What d'you think of that, confoundyou!"
He had opened the magazine so as to display an illustration, entitled"Sanctuary," and stated to be after a painting by Norbert Franks.
"Isn't it good? Doesn't it come out well?—deuce take you, why don'tyou speak?"
"Not bad—for a photogravure," said Warburton, who had the air of agrave elder in the presence of this ebullient youth.
"Be hanged! We know all about that. The thing is that it's there .Don't you feel any surprise? Haven't you got anything to say? Don't yousee what this means, you old ragamuffin?"
"Shouldn't wonder if it meant coin of the realm—for your shrewddealer."
"For me too, my boy, for me too! Not out of this thing, of course. ButI've arrived, I'm lance , the way is clear! Why, you don't seem toknow what it means getting into The Art World ."
"I seem to remember," said Warburton, smiling, "that a month or twoago, you hadn't language contemptuous enough for this magazine and allconnected with it."
"Don't be an ass!" shrilled the other, who was all this time circlingabout the little room with much gesticulation. "Of course one talkslike that when one hasn't enough to eat and can't sell a picture. Idon't pretend to have altered my opinion about photogravures, and allthat. But come now, the thing itself? Be honest, Warburton. Is it bad,now? Can you look at that picture, and say that it's worthless?"
"I never said anything of the kind."
"No, no! You're too deucedly good-natured. But I always detected whatyou were thinking, and I saw it didn't surprise you at all when theAcademy muffs refused it."
"There you're wrong," cried Warburton. "I was really surprised."
"Confound your impudence! Well, you may think what you like. I maintainthat the thing isn't half bad. It grows upon me. I see its merits moreand more."
Franks was holding up the picture, eyeing it intently. "Sanctuary"represented the interior of an old village church. On the groundagainst a pillar, crouched a young and beautiful woman, her dress andgeneral aspect indicating the last degree of vagrant wretchedness; wornout, she had fallen asleep in a most graceful attitude, and the rays ofa winter sunset smote upon her pallid countenance. Before her stood thevillage clergyman, who had evidently just entered, and found her here;his white head was bent in the wonted attitude of cle