Supported thus long by the artist's enthusiasm, he fell into
despondency, saw the dark side of things. To be sure, his mother (a widow
in narrow circumstances) had written pressing him to take a holiday 'at
home,' 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 of
the situation was that he continued to feel anything but well; indeed, he
felt sure that he was getting worse. At night he suffered severely; sleep
had almost forsaken him. Hour after hour he lay listening to mysterious
noises, strange crackings and creakings through the desolate house;
sometimes he imagined the sound of footsteps in the bare rooms below; even
hushed voices, from he knew not where, chilled his blood at midnight. Since
crumbs had begun to lie about, mice were common; they scampered as if in
revelry above the ceiling, and under the floor, and within the walls.
Goldthorpe began to dislike this strange abode. He felt that under any
circumstances 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 sell
something for a few days' subsistence, the manuscript came back upon his
hands.
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