A MAN FROMTHE NORTH
BY
ARNOLD BENNETT
AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WIVES' TALE,""BURIED ALIVE"
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN
1911
TO THE ONEWHOM I MOST HONOUR
A Man from the North
CHAPTER I
There grows in the North Country a certainkind of youth of whom it may be saidthat he is born to be a Londoner. Themetropolis, and everything that appertains to it,that comes down from it, that goes up into it, hasfor him an imperious fascination. Long beforeschooldays are over he learns to take a dolefulpleasure in watching the exit of the London trainfrom the railway station. He stands by the hot engineand envies the very stoker. Gazing curiouslyinto the carriages, he wonders that men and womenwho in a few hours will be treading streets calledPiccadilly and the Strand can contemplate the immediatefuture with so much apparent calmness;some of them even have the audacity to look bored.He finds it difficult to keep from throwing himselfin the guard's van as it glides past him; and not untilthe last coach is a speck upon the distance does he[Pg 2]turn away and, nodding absently to the ticket-clerk,who knows him well, go home to nurse a vague ambitionand dream of Town.
London is the place where newspapers are issued,books written, and plays performed. And thisyouth, who now sits in an office, reads all the newspapers.He knows exactly when a new work by afamous author should appear, and awaits the reviewswith impatience. He can tell you off-hand thenames of the pieces in the bills of the twenty principalWest-end theatres, what their quality is, andhow long they may be expected to run; and on theproduction of a new play, the articles of the dramaticcritics provide him with sensations almost asvivid as those of the most zealous first-nighter at theperformance itself.
Sooner or later, perhaps by painful roads, hereaches the goal of his desire. London accepts him—onprobation; and as his strength is, so she demeansherself. Let him be bold and resolute, andshe will make an obeisance, but her heel is all tooready to crush the coward and hesitant; and hervictims, once underfoot, do not often rise again.
CHAPTER II
The antique four-wheeler, top-heavy withluggage, swung unsteadily round by Tattersall'sand into Raphael Street. Richardthrust down the window with a sharp bang, indicativeof a strange new sense of power; but before thecab came to a standstill he had collected himself,and managed to alight with considerable decorum.When the door opened in answer to his second ring,a faint, sour odour escaped from the house, and heremembered the friendly feminine warnings whichhe had received at Bursley on the subject of Londonlodgings. The aspect of the landlady, however,reassured him; she was a diminutive old woman inridiculously short skirts, with a yellow, crinkled face,grey eyes, and a warm, benevolent smile that conquered.As she greeted Richard she blushed likea girl, and made a little old-fashioned curtsey.Richard offered his hand, and, after wiping hers ona clean apron, she took it timidly.
"I hope we shall get on well together, sir," shesaid, looking straight up into her new lodger's eyes.
"I'm sure we shall," answered Rich