New Grub Street (65 page)

Reardon stared through the glass at the snow that fell thicker
and thicker.

'What are we—you and I?' pursued the other. 'We have no belief
in immortality; we are convinced that this life is all; we know
that human happiness is the origin and end of all moral
considerations. What right have we to make ourselves and others
miserable for the sake of an obstinate idealism? It is our duty to
make the best of circumstances. Why will you go cutting your loaf
with a razor when you have a serviceable bread-knife?'

Still Reardon did not speak. The cab rolled on almost
silently.

'You love your wife, and this summons she sends is proof that
her thought turns to you as soon as she is in distress.'

'Perhaps she only thought it her duty to let the child's father
know—'

'Perhaps—perhaps—perhaps!' cried Biffen, contemptuously. 'There
goes the razor again! Take the plain, human construction of what
happens. Ask yourself what the vulgar man would do, and do
likewise; that's the only safe rule for you.'

They were both hoarse with too much talking, and for the last
half of the drive neither spoke.

At the railway-station they ate and drank together, but with
poor pretence of appetite. As long as possible they kept within the
warmed rooms. Reardon was pale, and had anxious, restless eyes; he
could not remain seated, though when he had walked about for a few
minutes the trembling of his limbs obliged him to sink down. It was
an unutterable relief to both when the moment of the train's
starting approached.

They clasped hands warmly, and exchanged a few last requests and
promises.

'Forgive my plain speech, old fellow,' said Biffen. 'Go and be
happy!'

Then he stood alone on the platform, watching the red light on
the last carriage as the train whirled away into darkness and
storm.

Reardon had never been to Brighton, and of his own accord never
would have gone; he was prejudiced against the place because its
name has become suggestive of fashionable imbecility and the
snobbishness which tries to model itself thereon; he knew that the
town was a mere portion of London transferred to the sea-shore, and
as he loved the strand and the breakers for their own sake, to
think of them in such connection could be nothing but a trial of
his temper. Something of this species of irritation affected him in
the first part of his journey, and disturbed the mood of kindliness
with which he was approaching Amy; but towards the end he forgot
this in a growing desire to be beside his wife in her trouble. His
impatience made the hour and a half seem interminable.

The fever which was upon him had increased. He coughed
frequently; his breathing was difficult; though constantly moving,
he felt as if, in the absence of excitement, his one wish would
have been to lie down and abandon himself to lethargy. Two men who
sat with him in the third-class carriage had spread a rug over
their knees and amused themselves with playing cards for trifling
sums of money; the sight of their foolish faces, the sound of their
laughs, the talk they interchanged, exasperated him to the last
point of endurance; but for all that he could not draw his
attention from them. He seemed condemned by some spiritual
tormentor to take an interest in their endless games, and to
observe their visages until he knew every line with a hateful
intimacy. One of the men had a moustache of unusual form; the ends
curved upward with peculiar suddenness, and Reardon was constrained
to speculate as to the mode of training by which this singularity
had been produced. He could have shed tears of nervous distraction
in his inability to turn his thoughts upon other things.

On alighting at his journey's end he was seized with a fit of
shivering, an intense and sudden chill which made his teeth
chatter. In an endeavour to overcome this he began to run towards
the row of cabs, but his legs refused such exercise, and coughing
compelled him to pause for breath. Still shaking, he threw himself
into a vehicle and was driven to the address Amy had mentioned. The
snow on the ground lay thick, but no more was falling.

Heedless of the direction which the cab took, he suffered his
physical and mental unrest for another quarter of an hour, then a
stoppage told him that the house was reached. On his way he had
heard a clock strike eleven.

The door opened almost as soon as he had rung the bell. He
mentioned his name, and the maid-servant conducted him to a
drawing-room on the ground-floor. The house was quite a small one,
but seemed to be well furnished. One lamp burned on the table, and
the fire had sunk to a red glow. Saying that she would inform Mrs
Reardon at once, the servant left him alone.

He placed his bag on the floor, took off his muffler, threw back
his overcoat, and sat waiting. The overcoat was new, but the
garments beneath it were his poorest, those he wore when sitting in
his garret, for he had neither had time to change them, nor thought
of doing so.

He heard no approaching footstep but Amy came into the room in a
way which showed that she had hastened downstairs. She looked at
him, then drew near with both hands extended, and laid them on his
shoulders, and kissed him. Reardon shook so violently that it was
all he could do to remain standing; he seized one of her hands, and
pressed it against his lips.

'How hot your breath is!' she said. 'And how you tremble! Are
you ill?'

'A bad cold, that's all,' he answered thickly, and coughed. 'How
is Willie?'

'In great danger. The doctor is coming again to-night; we
thought that was his ring.'

'You didn't expect me to-night?'

'I couldn't feel sure whether you would come.'

'Why did you send for me, Amy? Because Willie was in danger, and
you felt I ought to know about it?'

'Yes—and because I—'

She burst into tears. The display of emotion came very suddenly;
her words had been spoken in a firm voice, and only the pained
knitting of her brows had told what she was suffering.

'If Willie dies, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?' broke
forth between her sobs.

Reardon took her in his arms, and laid his hand upon her head in
the old loving way.

'Do you wish me to go up and see him, Amy?'

'Of course. But first, let me tell you why we are here.
Edith—Mrs Carter—was coming to spend a week with her mother, and
she pressed me to join her. I didn't really wish to; I was unhappy,
and felt how impossible it was to go on always living away from
you. Oh, that I had never come! Then Willie would have been as well
as ever.'

'Tell me when and how it began.'

She explained briefly, then went on to tell of other
circumstances.

'I have a nurse with me in the room. It's my own bedroom, and
this house is so small it will be impossible to give you a bed
here, Edwin. But there's an hotel only a few yards away.'

'Yes, yes; don't trouble about that.'

'But you look so ill—you are shaking so. Is it a cold you have
had long?'

'Oh, my old habit; you remember. One cold after another, all
through the accursed winter. What does that matter when you speak
kindly to me once more? I had rather die now at your feet and see
the old gentleness when you look at me, than live on estranged from
you. No, don't kiss me, I believe these vile sore-throats are
contagious.'

'But your lips are so hot and parched! And to think of your
coming this journey, on such a night!'

'Good old Biffen came to the station with me. He was angry
because I had kept away from you so long. Have you given me your
heart again, Amy?'

'Oh, it has all been a wretched mistake! But we were so poor.
Now all that is over; if only Willie can be saved to me! I am so
anxious for the doctor's coming; the poor little child can hardly
draw a breath. How cruel it is that such suffering should come upon
a little creature who has never done or thought ill!'

'You are not the first, dearest, who has revolted against
nature's cruelty.'

'Let us go up at once, Edwin. Leave your coat and things here.
Mrs Winter—Edith's mother—is a very old lady; she has gone to bed.
And I dare say you wouldn't care to see Mrs Carter to-night?'

'No, no! only you and Willie.'

'When the doctor comes hadn't you better ask his advice for
yourself?'

'We shall see. Don't trouble about me.'

They went softly up to the first floor, and entered a bedroom.
Fortunately the light here was very dim, or the nurse who sat by
the child's bed must have wondered at the eccentricity with which
her patient's father attired himself. Bending over the little
sufferer, Reardon felt for the first time since Willie's birth a
strong fatherly emotion; tears rushed to his eyes, and he almost
crushed Amy's hand as he held it during the spasm of his intense
feeling.

He sat here for a long time without speaking. The warmth of the
chamber had the reverse of an assuaging effect upon his difficult
breathing and his frequent short cough—it seemed to oppress and
confuse his brain. He began to feel a pain in his right side, and
could not sit upright on the chair.

Amy kept regarding him, without his being aware of it.

'Does your head ache?' she whispered.

He nodded, but did not speak.

'Oh, why doesn't the doctor come? I must send in a few
minutes.'

But as soon as she had spoken a bell rang in the lower part of
the house. Amy had no doubt that it announced the promised
visit.

She left the room, and in a minute or two returned with the
medical man. When the examination of the child was over, Reardon
requested a few words with the doctor in the room downstairs.

'I'll come back to you,' he whispered to Amy.

The two descended together, and entered the drawing-room.

'Is there any hope for the little fellow?' Reardon asked.

Yes, there was hope; a favourable turn might be expected.

'Now I wish to trouble you for a moment on my own account. I
shouldn't be surprised if you tell me that I have congestion of the
lungs.'

The doctor, a suave man of fifty, had been inspecting his
interlocutor with curiosity. He now asked the necessary questions,
and made an examination.

'Have you had any lung trouble before this?' he inquired
gravely.

'Slight congestion of the right lung not many weeks ago.'

'I must order you to bed immediately. Why have you allowed your
symptoms to go so far without—'

'I have just come down from London,' interrupted Reardon.

'Tut, tut, tut! To bed this moment, my dear sir! There is
inflammation, and—'

'I can't have a bed in this house; there is no spare room. I
must go to the nearest hotel.'

'Positively? Then let me take you. My carriage is at the
door.'

'One thing—I beg you won't tell my wife that this is serious.
Wait till she is out of her anxiety about the child.'

'You will need the services of a nurse. A most unfortunate thing
that you are obliged to go to the hotel.'

'It can't be helped. If a nurse is necessary, I must engage
one.'

He had the strange sensation of knowing that whatever was
needful could be paid for; it relieved his mind immensely. To the
rich, illness has none of the worst horrors only understood by the
poor.

'Don't speak a word more than you can help,' said the doctor as
he watched Reardon withdraw.

Amy stood on the lower stairs, and came down as soon as her
husband showed himself.

'The doctor is good enough to take me in his carriage,' he
whispered. 'It is better that I should go to bed, and get a good
night's rest. I wish I could have sat with you, Amy.'

'Is it anything? You look worse than when you came, Edwin.'

'A feverish cold. Don't give it a thought, dearest. Go to
Willie. Good-night!'

She threw her arms about him.

'I shall come to see you if you are not able to be here by nine
in the morning,' she said, and added the name of the hotel to which
he was to go.

At this establishment the doctor was well known. By midnight
Reardon lay in a comfortable room, a huge cataplasm fixed upon him,
and other needful arrangements made. A waiter had undertaken to
visit him at intervals through the night, and the man of medicine
promised to return as soon as possible after daybreak.

What sound was that, soft and continuous, remote, now clearer,
now confusedly murmuring? He must have slept, but now he lay in
sudden perfect consciousness, and that music fell upon his ears.
Ah! of course it was the rising tide; he was near the divine
sea.

The night-light enabled him to discern the principal objects in
the room, and he let his eyes stray idly hither and thither. But
this moment of peacefulness was brought to an end by a fit of
coughing, and he became troubled, profoundly troubled, in mind. Was
his illness really dangerous? He tried to draw a deep breath, but
could not. He found that he could only lie on his right side with
any ease. And with the effort of turning he exhausted himself; in
the course of an hour or two all his strength had left him. Vague
fears flitted harassingly through his thoughts. If he had
inflammation of the lungs—that was a disease of which one might
die, and speedily. Death? No, no, no; impossible at such a time as
this, when Amy, his own dear wife, had come back to him, and had
brought him that which would insure their happiness through all the
years of a long life.

He was still quite a young man; there must be great reserves of
strength in him. And he had the will to live, the prevailing will,
the passionate all-conquering desire of happiness.

How he had alarmed himself! Why, now he was calmer again, and
again could listen to the music of the breakers. Not all the folly
and baseness that paraded along this strip of the shore could
change the sea's eternal melody. In a day or two he would walk on
the sands with Amy, somewhere quite out of sight of the repulsive
town. But Willie was ill; he had forgotten that. Poor little boy!
In future the child should be more to him; though never what the
mother was, his own love, won again and for ever.