New Grub Street (50 page)

In time, however, he was able to read. He had a pleasure in
contemplating the little collection of sterling books that alone
remained to him from his library; the sight of many volumes would
have been a weariness, but these few—when he was again able to
think of books at all—were as friendly countenances. He could not
read continuously, but sometimes he opened his Shakespeare, for
instance, and dreamed over a page or two. From such glimpses there
remained in his head a line or a short passage, which he kept
repeating to himself wherever he went; generally some example of
sweet or sonorous metre which had a soothing effect upon him.

With odd result on one occasion. He was walking in one of the
back streets of Islington, and stopped idly to gaze into the window
of some small shop. Standing thus, he forgot himself and presently
recited aloud:

'Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster: An argument that he is pluck'd,
when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, Which had
superfluous kings for messengers Not many moons gone by.'

The last two lines he uttered a second time, enjoying their
magnificent sound, and then was brought back to consciousness by
the loud mocking laugh of two men standing close by, who evidently
looked upon him as a strayed lunatic.

He kept one suit of clothes for his hours of attendance at the
hospital; it was still decent, and with much care would remain so
for a long time. That which he wore at home and in his street
wanderings declared poverty at every point; it had been discarded
before he left the old abode. In his present state of mind he cared
nothing how disreputable he looked to passers-by. These seedy
habiliments were the token of his degradation, and at times he
regarded them (happening to see himself in a shop mirror) with
pleasurable contempt. The same spirit often led him for a meal to
the poorest of eating-houses, places where he rubbed elbows with
ragged creatures who had somehow obtained the price of a cup of
coffee and a slice of bread and butter. He liked to contrast
himself with these comrades in misfortune. 'This is the rate at
which the world esteems me; I am worth no better provision than
this.' Or else, instead of emphasising the contrast, he defiantly
took a place among the miserables of the nether world, and nursed
hatred of all who were well-to-do.

One of these he desired to regard with gratitude, but found it
difficult to support that feeling. Carter, the vivacious, though at
first perfectly unembarrassed in his relations with the City Road
clerk, gradually exhibited a change of demeanour. Reardon
occasionally found the young man's eye fixed upon him with a
singular expression, and the secretary's talk, though still as a
rule genial, was wont to suffer curious interruptions, during which
he seemed to be musing on something Reardon had said, or on some
point of his behaviour. The explanation of this was that Carter had
begun to think there might be a foundation for Mrs Yule's
hypothesis—that the novelist was not altogether in his sound
senses. At first he scouted the idea, but as time went on it seemed
to him that Reardon's countenance certainly had a gaunt wildness
which suggested disagreeable things. Especially did he remark this
after his return from an August holiday in Norway. On coming for
the first time to the City Road branch he sat down and began to
favour Reardon with a lively description of how he had enjoyed
himself abroad; it never occurred to him that such talk was not
likely to inspirit the man who had passed his August between the
garret and the hospital, but he observed before long that his
listener was glancing hither and thither in rather a strange
way.

'You haven't been ill since I saw you?' he inquired.

'Oh no!'

'But you look as if you might have been. I say, we must manage
for you to have a fortnight off, you know, this month.'

'I have no wish for it,' said Reardon. 'I'll imagine I have been
to Norway. It has done me good to hear of your holiday.'

'I'm glad of that; but it isn't quite the same thing, you know,
as having a run somewhere yourself.'

'Oh, much better! To enjoy myself may be mere selfishness, but
to enjoy another's enjoyment is the purest satisfaction, good for
body and soul. I am cultivating altruism.'

'What's that?'

'A highly rarefied form of happiness. The curious thing about it
is that it won't grow unless you have just twice as much faith in
it as is required for assent to the Athanasian Creed.'

'Oh!'

Carter went away more than puzzled. He told his wife that
evening that Reardon had been talking to him in the most
extraordinary fashion—no understanding a word he said.

All this time he was on the look-out for employment that would
be more suitable to his unfortunate clerk. Whether slightly
demented or not, Reardon gave no sign of inability to discharge his
duties; he was conscientious as ever, and might, unless he changed
greatly, be relied upon in positions of more responsibility than
his present one. And at length, early in October, there came to the
secretary's knowledge an opportunity with which he lost no time in
acquainting Reardon. The latter repaired that evening to Clipstone
Street, and climbed to Biffen's chamber. He entered with a cheerful
look, and exclaimed:

'I have just invented a riddle; see if you can guess it. Why is
a London lodging-house like the human body?'

Biffen looked with some concern at his friend, so unwonted was a
sally of this kind.

'Why is a London lodging-house—? Haven't the least idea.'

'Because the brains are always at the top. Not bad, I think,
eh?'

'Well, no; it'll pass. Distinctly professional though. The
general public would fail to see the point, I'm afraid. But what
has come to you?'

'Good tidings. Carter has offered me a place which will be a
decided improvement. A house found—or rooms, at all events—and
salary a hundred and fifty a year.

'By Plutus! That's good hearing. Some duties attached, I
suppose?'

'I'm afraid that was inevitable, as things go. It's the
secretaryship of a home for destitute boys at Croydon. The post is
far from a sinecure, Carter assures me. There's a great deal of
purely secretarial work, and there's a great deal of practical
work, some of it rather rough, I fancy. It seems doubtful whether I
am exactly the man. The present holder is a burly fellow over six
feet high, delighting in gymnastics, and rather fond of a fight now
and then when opportunity offers. But he is departing at
Christmas—going somewhere as a missionary; and I can have the place
if I choose.'

'As I suppose you do?'

'Yes. I shall try it, decidedly.'

Biffen waited a little, then asked:

'I suppose your wife will go with you?'

'There's no saying.'

Reardon tried to answer indifferently, but it could be seen that
he was agitated between hopes and fears.

'You'll ask her, at all events?'

'Oh yes,' was the half-absent reply.

'But surely there can be no doubt that she'll come. A hundred
and fifty a year, without rent to pay. Why, that's affluence!'

'The rooms I might occupy are in the home itself. Amy won't take
very readily to a dwelling of that kind. And Croydon isn't the most
inviting locality.'

'Close to delightful country.'

'Yes, yes; but Amy doesn't care about that.'

'You misjudge her, Reardon. You are too harsh. I implore you not
to lose the chance of setting all right again! If only you could be
put into my position for a moment, and then be offered the
companionship of such a wife as yours!'

Reardon listened with a face of lowering excitement.

'I should be perfectly within my rights,' he said sternly, 'if I
merely told her when I have taken the position, and let her ask me
to take her back—if she wishes.'

'You have changed a great deal this last year,' replied Biffen,
shaking his head, 'a great deal. I hope to see you your old self
again before long. I should have declared it impossible for you to
become so rugged. Go and see your wife, there's a good fellow.'

'No; I shall write to her.'

'Go and see her, I beg you! No good ever came of letter-writing
between two people who have misunderstood each other. Go to
Westbourne Park to-morrow. And be reasonable; be more than
reasonable. The happiness of your life depends on what you do now.
Be content to forget whatever wrong has been done you. To think
that a man should need persuading to win back such a wife!'

In truth, there needed little persuasion. Perverseness, one of
the forms or issues of self-pity, made him strive against his
desire, and caused him to adopt a tone of acerbity in excess of
what he felt; but already he had made up his mind to see Amy. Even
if this excuse had not presented itself he must very soon have
yielded to the longing for a sight of his wife's face which day by
day increased among all the conflicting passions of which he was
the victim. A month or two ago, when the summer sunshine made his
confinement to the streets a daily torture, he convinced himself
that there remained in him no trace of his love for Amy; there were
moments when he thought of her with repugnance, as a cold, selfish
woman, who had feigned affection when it seemed her interest to do
so, but brutally declared her true self when there was no longer
anything to be hoped from him. That was the self-deception of
misery. Love, even passion, was still alive in the depths of his
being; the animation with which he sped to his friend as soon as a
new hope had risen was the best proof of his feeling.

He went home and wrote to Amy.

'I have a reason for wishing to see you. Will you have the
kindness to appoint an hour on Sunday morning when I can speak with
you in private? It must be understood that I shall see no one
else.'

She would receive this by the first post to-morrow, Saturday,
and doubtless would let him hear in reply some time in the
afternoon. Impatience allowed him little sleep, and the next day
was a long weariness of waiting. The evening he would have to spend
at the hospital; if there came no reply before the time of his
leaving home, he knew not how he should compel himself to the
ordinary routine of work. Yet the hour came, and he had heard
nothing. He was tempted to go at once to Westbourne Park, but
reason prevailed with him. When he again entered the house, having
walked at his utmost speed from the City Road, the letter lay
waiting for him; it had been pushed beneath his door, and when he
struck a match he found that one of his feet was upon the white
envelope.

Amy wrote that she would be at home at eleven to-morrow morning.
Not another word.

In all probability she knew of the offer that had been made to
him; Mrs Carter would have told her. Was it of good or of ill omen
that she wrote only these half-dozen words? Half through the night
he plagued himself with suppositions, now thinking that her brevity
promised a welcome, now that she wished to warn him against
expecting anything but a cold, offended demeanour. At seven he was
dressed; two hours and a half had to be killed before he could
start on his walk westward. He would have wandered about the
streets, but it rained.

He had made himself as decent as possible in appearance, but he
must necessarily seem an odd Sunday visitor at a house such as Mrs
Yule's. His soft felt hat, never brushed for months, was a greyish
green, and stained round the band with perspiration. His necktie
was discoloured and worn. Coat and waistcoat might pass muster, but
of the trousers the less said the better. One of his boots was
patched, and both were all but heelless.

Very well; let her see him thus. Let her understand what it
meant to live on twelve and sixpence a week.

Though it was cold and wet he could not put on his overcoat.
Three years ago it had been a fairly good ulster; at present, the
edges of the sleeves were frayed, two buttons were missing, and the
original hue of the cloth was indeterminable.

At half-past nine he set out and struggled with his shabby
umbrella against wind and rain. Down Pentonville Hill, up Euston
Road, all along Marylebone Road, then north-westwards towards the
point of his destination. It was a good six miles from the one
house to the other, but he arrived before the appointed time, and
had to stray about until the cessation of bell-clanging and the
striking of clocks told him it was eleven. Then he presented
himself at the familiar door.

On his asking for Mrs Reardon, he was at once admitted and led
up to the drawing-room; the servant did not ask his name.

Then he waited for a minute or two, feeling himself a squalid
wretch amid the dainty furniture. The door opened. Amy, in a simple
but very becoming dress, approached to within a yard of him; after
the first glance she had averted her eyes, and she did not offer to
shake hands. He saw that his muddy and shapeless boots drew her
attention.

'Do you know why I have come?' he asked.

He meant the tone to be conciliatory, but he could not command
his voice, and it sounded rough, hostile.

'I think so,' Amy answered, seating herself gracefully. She
would have spoken with less dignity but for that accent of his.

'The Carters have told you?'

'Yes; I have heard about it.'

There was no promise in her manner. She kept her face turned
away, and Reardon saw its beautiful profile, hard and cold as
though in marble.

'It doesn't interest you at all?'

'I am glad to hear that a better prospect offers for you.'

He did not sit down, and was holding his rusty hat behind his
back.

'You speak as if it in no way concerned yourself. Is that what
you wish me to understand?'

'Won't it be better if you tell me why you have come here? As
you are resolved to find offence in whatever I say, I prefer to
keep silence. Please to let me know why you have asked to see
me.'