New Grub Street (33 page)

'There'll be the expense of moving it, you know. Unless money
comes from The Wayside, you'll only have two or three pounds
left.'

Reardon made no reply. He was overcome by the bitterness of
shame.

'I shall say, then,' pursued Amy, who spoke with averted face,
'that I am to go there for good on Tuesday? I mean, of course, for
the summer months.'

'I suppose so.'

Then he turned suddenly upon her.

'Do you really imagine that at the end of the summer I shall be
a rich man? What do you mean by talking in this way? If the
furniture is sold to supply me with a few pounds for the present,
what prospect is there that I shall be able to buy new?'

'How can we look forward at all?' replied Amy. 'It has come to
the question of how we are to subsist. I thought you would rather
get money in this way than borrow of mother—when she has the
expense of keeping me and Willie.'

'You are right,' muttered Reardon. 'Do as you think best.' Amy
was in her most practical mood, and would not linger for
purposeless talk. A few minutes, and Reardon was left alone.

He stood before his bookshelves and began to pick out the
volumes which he would take away with him. Just a few, the
indispensable companions of a bookish man who still clings to
life—his Homer, his Shakespeare—

The rest must be sold. He would get rid of them to-morrow
morning. All together they might bring him a couple of
sovereigns.

Then his clothing. Amy had fulfilled all the domestic duties of
a wife; his wardrobe was in as good a state as circumstances
allowed. But there was no object in burdening himself with winter
garments, for, if he lived through the summer at all, he would be
able to repurchase such few poor things as were needful; at present
he could only think of how to get together a few coins. So he made
a heap of such things as might be sold.

The furniture? If it must go, the price could scarcely be more
than ten or twelve pounds; well, perhaps fifteen. To be sure, in
this way his summer's living would be abundantly provided for.

He thought of Biffen enviously. Biffen, if need be, could
support life on three or four shillings a week, happy in the
thought that no mortal had a claim upon him. If he starved to
death—well, many another lonely man has come to that end. If he
preferred to kill himself, who would be distressed? Spoilt child of
fortune!

The bells of St Marylebone began to clang for afternoon service.
In the idleness of dull pain his thoughts followed their summons,
and he marvelled that there were people who could imagine it a duty
or find it a solace to go and sit in that twilight church and
listen to the droning of prayers. He thought of the wretched
millions of mankind to whom life is so barren that they must needs
believe in a recompense beyond the grave. For that he neither
looked nor longed. The bitterness of his lot was that this world
might be a sufficing paradise to him if only he could clutch a poor
little share of current coin. He had won the world's greatest
prize—a woman's love—but could not retain it because his pockets
were empty.

That he should fail to make a great name, this was grievous
disappointment to Amy, but this alone would not have estranged her.
It was the dread and shame of penury that made her heart cold to
him. And he could not in his conscience scorn her for being thus
affected by the vulgar circumstances of life; only a few supreme
natures stand unshaken under such a trial, and though his love of
Amy was still passionate, he knew that her place was among a
certain class of women, and not on the isolated pinnacle where he
had at first visioned her. It was entirely natural that she shrank
at the test of squalid suffering. A little money, and he could have
rested secure in her love, for then he would have been able to keep
ever before her the best qualities of his heart and brain. Upon
him, too, penury had its debasing effect; as he now presented
himself he was not a man to be admired or loved. It was all simple
and intelligible enough—a situation that would be misread only by
shallow idealism.

Worst of all, she was attracted by Jasper Milvain's energy and
promise of success. He had no ignoble suspicions of Amy, but it was
impossible for him not to see that she habitually contrasted the
young journalist, who laughingly made his way among men, with her
grave, dispirited husband, who was not even capable of holding such
position as he had gained. She enjoyed Milvain's conversation, it
put her into a good humour; she liked him personally, and there
could be no doubt that she had observed a jealous tendency in
Reardon's attitude to his former friend—always a harmful suggestion
to a woman. Formerly she had appreciated her husband's superiority;
she had smiled at Milvain's commoner stamp of mind and character.
But tedious repetition of failure had outwearied her, and now she
saw Milvain in the sunshine of progress, dwelt upon the worldly
advantages of gifts and a temperament such as his. Again, simple
and intelligible enough.

Living apart from her husband, she could not be expected to
forswear society, and doubtless she would see Milvain pretty often.
He called occasionally at Mrs Yule's, and would not do so less
often when he knew that Amy was to be met there. There would be
chance encounters like that of yesterday, of which she had chosen
to keep silence.

A dark fear began to shadow him. In yielding thus passively to
stress of circumstances, was he not exposing his wife to a danger
which outweighed all the ills of poverty? As one to whom she was
inestimably dear, was he right in allowing her to leave him, if
only for a few months? He knew very well that a man of strong
character would never have entertained this project. He had got
into the way of thinking of himself as too weak to struggle against
the obstacles on which Amy insisted, and of looking for safety in
retreat; but what was to be the end of this weakness if the summer
did not at all advance him? He knew better than Amy could how
unlikely it was that he should recover the energies of his mind in
so short a time and under such circumstances; only the feeble man's
temptation to postpone effort had made him consent to this step,
and now that he was all but beyond turning back, the perils of
which he had thought too little forced themselves upon his
mind.

He rose in anguish, and stood looking about him as if aid might
somewhere be visible.

Presently there was a knock at the front door, and on opening he
beheld the vivacious Mr Carter. This gentleman had only made two or
three calls here since Reardon's marriage; his appearance was a
surprise.

'I hear you are leaving town for a time,' he exclaimed. 'Edith
told me yesterday, so I thought I'd look you up.'

He was in spring costume, and exhaled fresh odours. The contrast
between his prosperous animation and Reardon's broken-spirited
quietness could not have been more striking.

'Going away for your health, they tell me. You've been working
too hard, you know. You mustn't overdo it. And where do you think
of going to?'

'It isn't at all certain that I shall go,' Reardon replied. 'I
thought of a few weeks—somewhere at the seaside.'

'I advise you to go north,' went on Carter cheerily. 'You want a
tonic, you know. Get up into Scotland and do some boating and
fishing—that kind of thing. You'd come back a new man. Edith and I
had a turn up there last year, you know; it did me heaps of
good.'

'Oh, I don't think I should go so far as that.'

'But that's just what you want—a regular change, something
bracing. You don't look at all well, that's the fact. A winter in
London tries any man—it does me, I know. I've been seedy myself
these last few weeks. Edith wants me to take her over to Paris at
the end of this month, and I think it isn't a bad idea; but I'm so
confoundedly busy. In the autumn we shall go to Norway, I think; it
seems to be the right thing to do nowadays. Why shouldn't you have
a run over to Norway? They say it can be done very cheaply; the
steamers take you for next to nothing.'

He talked on with the joyous satisfaction of a man whose income
is assured, and whose future teems with a succession of lively
holidays. Reardon could make no answer to such suggestions; he sat
with a fixed smile on his face.

'Have you heard,' said Carter, presently, 'that we're opening a
branch of the hospital in the City Road?'

'No; I hadn't heard of it.'

'It'll only be for out-patients. Open three mornings and three
evenings alternately.'

'Who'll represent you there?''I shall look in now and then, of
course; there'll be a clerk, like at the old place.'

He talked of the matter in detail—of the doctors who would
attend, and of certain new arrangements to be tried.

'Have you engaged the clerk?' Reardon asked.

'Not yet. I think I know a man who'll suit me, though.'

'You wouldn't be disposed to give me the chance?'

Reardon spoke huskily, and ended with a broken laugh.

'You're rather above my figure nowadays, old man!' exclaimed
Carter, joining in what he considered the jest.

'Shall you pay a pound a week?'

'Twenty-five shillings. It'll have to be a man who can be
trusted to take money from the paying patients.'

'Well, I am serious. Will you give me the place?'

Carter gazed at him, and checked another laugh.

'What the deuce do you mean?'

'The fact is,' Reardon replied, 'I want variety of occupation. I
can't stick at writing for more than a month or two at a time. It's
because I have tried to do so that—well, practically, I have broken
down. If you will give me this clerkship, it will relieve me from
the necessity of perpetually writing novels; I shall be better for
it in every way. You know that I'm equal to the job; you can trust
me; and I dare say I shall be more useful than most clerks you
could get.'

It was done, most happily done, on the first impulse. A minute
more of pause, and he could not have faced the humiliation. His
face burned, his tongue was parched.

'I'm floored!' cried Carter. 'I shouldn't have thought—but of
course, if you really want it. I can hardly believe yet that you're
serious, Reardon.'

'Why not? Will you promise me the work?'

'Well, yes.'

'When shall I have to begin?'

'The place'll be opened to-morrow week. But how about your
holiday?'

'Oh, let that stand over. It'll be holiday enough to occupy
myself in a new way. An old way, too; I shall enjoy it.'

He laughed merrily, relieved beyond measure at having come to
what seemed an end of his difficulties. For half an hour they
continued to talk over the affair.

'Well, it's a comical idea,' said Carter, as he took his leave,
'but you know your own business best.'

When Amy returned, Reardon allowed her to put the child to bed
before he sought any conversation. She came at length and sat down
in the study.

'Mother advises us not to sell the furniture,' were her first
words.

'I'm glad of that, as I had quite made up my mind not to.' There
was a change in his way of speaking which she at once noticed.

'Have you thought of something?'

'Yes. Carter has been here, and he happened to mention that
they're opening an out-patient department of the hospital, in the
City Road. He'll want someone to help him there. I asked for the
post, and he promised it me.'

The last words were hurried, though he had resolved to speak
with deliberation. No more feebleness; he had taken a decision, and
would act upon it as became a responsible man.

'The post?' said Amy. 'What post?'

'In plain English, the clerkship. It'll be the same work as I
used to have—registering patients, receiving their "letters," and
so on. The pay is to be five-and-twenty shillings a week.'

Amy sat upright and looked steadily at him.

'Is this a joke?'

'Far from it, dear. It's a blessed deliverance.'

'You have asked Mr Carter to take you back as a clerk?'

'I have.'

'And you propose that we shall live on twenty-five shillings a
week?'

'Oh no! I shall be engaged only three mornings in the week and
three evenings. In my free time I shall do literary work, and no
doubt I can earn fifty pounds a year by it—if I have your sympathy
to help me. To-morrow I shall go and look for rooms some distance
from here; in Islington, I think. We have been living far beyond
our means; that must come to an end. We'll have no more keeping up
of sham appearances. If I can make my way in literature, well and
good; in that case our position and prospects will of course
change. But for the present we are poor people, and must live in a
poor way. If our friends like to come and see us, they must put
aside all snobbishness, and take us as we are. If they prefer not
to come, there'll be an excuse in our remoteness.'

Amy was stroking the back of her hand. After a long silence, she
said in a very quiet, but very resolute tone:

'I shall not consent to this.'

'In that case, Amy, I must do without your consent. The rooms
will be taken, and our furniture transferred to them.'

'To me that will make no difference,' returned his wife, in the
same voice as before. 'I have decided—as you told me to—to go with
Willie to mother's next Tuesday. You, of course, must do as you
please. I should have thought a summer at the seaside would have
been more helpful to you; but if you prefer to live in
Islington—'

Reardon approached her, and laid a hand on her shoulder.

'Amy, are you my wife, or not?'

'I am certainly not the wife of a clerk who is paid so much a
week.'

He had foreseen a struggle, but without certainty of the form
Amy's opposition would take. For himself he meant to be gently
resolute, calmly regardless of protest. But in a man to whom such
self-assertion is a matter of conscious effort, tremor of the
nerves will always interfere with the line of conduct he has
conceived in advance. Already Reardon had spoken with far more
bluntness than he proposed; involuntarily, his voice slipped from
earnest determination to the note of absolutism, and, as is wont to
be the case, the sound of these strange tones instigated him to
further utterances of the same kind. He lost control of himself.
Amy's last reply went through him like an electric shock, and for
the moment he was a mere husband defied by his wife, the male stung
to exertion of his brute force against the physically weaker
sex.