New Grub Street (35 page)

Before her marriage Mrs Edmund Yule was one of seven motherless
sisters who constituted the family of a dentist slenderly provided
in the matter of income. The pinching and paring which was a chief
employment of her energies in those early days had disagreeable
effects upon a character disposed rather to generosity than the
reverse; during her husband's lifetime she had enjoyed rather too
eagerly all the good things which he put at her command, sometimes
forgetting that a wife has duties as well as claims, and in her
widowhood she indulged a pretentiousness and querulousness which
were the natural, but not amiable, results of suddenly restricted
circumstances.

Like the majority of London people, she occupied a house of
which the rent absurdly exceeded the due proportion of her income,
a pleasant foible turned to such good account by London landlords.
Whereas she might have lived with a good deal of modest comfort,
her existence was a perpetual effort to conceal the squalid
background of what was meant for the eyes of her friends and
neighbours. She kept only two servants, who were so ill paid and so
relentlessly overworked that it was seldom they remained with her
for more than three months. In dealings with other people whom she
perforce employed, she was often guilty of incredible meanness; as,
for instance, when she obliged her half-starved dressmaker to
purchase material for her, and then postponed payment alike for
that and for the work itself to the last possible moment. This was
not heartlessness in the strict sense of the word; the woman not
only knew that her behaviour was shameful, she was in truth ashamed
of it and sorry for her victims. But life was a battle. She must
either crush or be crushed. With sufficient means, she would have
defrauded no one, and would have behaved generously to many; with
barely enough for her needs, she set her face and defied her
feelings, inasmuch as she believed there was no choice.

She would shed tears over a pitiful story of want, and without
shadow of hypocrisy. It was hard, it was cruel; such things
oughtn't to be allowed in a world where there were so many rich
people. The next day she would argue with her charwoman about
halfpence, and end by paying the poor creature what she knew was
inadequate and unjust. For the simplest reason: she hadn't more to
give, without submitting to privations which she considered
intolerable.

But whilst she could be a positive hyena to strangers, to those
who were akin to her, and those of whom she was fond, her
affectionate kindness was remarkable. One observes this peculiarity
often enough; it reminds one how savage the social conflict is, in
which those little groups of people stand serried against their
common enemies; relentless to all others, among themselves only the
more tender and zealous because of the ever-impending danger. No
mother was ever more devoted. Her son, a gentleman of quite
noteworthy selfishness, had board and lodging beneath her roof on
nominal terms, and under no stress of pecuniary trouble had Mrs
Yule called upon him to make the slightest sacrifice on her behalf.
Her daughter she loved with profound tenderness, and had no will
that was opposed to Amy's. And it was characteristic of her that
her children were never allowed to understand of what baseness she
often became guilty in the determination to support appearances.
John Yule naturally suspected what went on behind the scenes; on
one occasion—since Amy's marriage—he had involuntarily overheard a
dialogue between his mother and a servant on the point of departing
which made even him feel ashamed. But from Amy every paltriness and
meanness had always been concealed with the utmost care; Mrs Yule
did not scruple to lie heroically when in danger of being detected
by her daughter.

Yet this energetic lady had no social ambitions that pointed
above her own stratum. She did not aim at intimacy with her
superiors; merely at superiority among her intimates. Her circle
was not large, but in that circle she must be regarded with the
respect due to a woman of refined tastes and personal distinction.
Her little dinners might be of rare occurrence, but to be invited
must be felt a privilege. 'Mrs Edmund Yule' must sound well on
people's lips; never be the occasion of those peculiar smiles which
she herself was rather fond of indulging at the mention of other
people's names.

The question of Amy's marriage had been her constant thought
from the time when the little girl shot into a woman grown. For Amy
no common match, no acceptance of a husband merely for money or
position. Few men who walked the earth were mates for Amy. But
years went on, and the man of undeniable distinction did not yet
present himself. Suitors offered, but Amy smiled coldly at their
addresses, in private not seldom scornfully, and her mother, though
growing anxious, approved. Then of a sudden appeared Edwin
Reardon.

A literary man? Well, it was one mode of distinction. Happily, a
novelist; novelists now and then had considerable social
success.

Mr Reardon, it was true, did not impress one as a man likely to
push forward where the battle called for rude vigour, but Amy soon
assured herself that he would have a reputation far other than that
of the average successful storyteller. The best people would regard
him; he would be welcomed in the penetralia of culture; superior
persons would say: 'Oh, I don't read novels as a rule, but of
course Mr Reardon's—' If that really were to be the case, all was
well; for Mrs Yule could appreciate social and intellectual
differences.

Alas! alas! What was the end of those shining anticipations?

First of all, Mrs Yule began to make less frequent mention of
'my son-in-law, Mr Edwin Reardon.' Next, she never uttered his name
save when inquiries necessitated it. Then, the most intimate of her
intimates received little hints which were not quite easy to
interpret. 'Mr Reardon is growing so very eccentric—has an odd
distaste for society—occupies himself with all sorts of
out-of-the-way interests. No, I'm afraid we shan't have another of
his novels for some time. I think he writes anonymously a good
deal. And really, such curious eccentricities!' Many were the tears
she wept after her depressing colloquies with Amy; and, as was to
be expected, she thought severely of the cause of these sorrows. On
the last occasion when he came to her house she received him with
such extreme civility that Reardon thenceforth disliked her,
whereas before he had only thought her a good-natured and silly
woman.

Alas for Amy's marriage with a man of distinction! From step to
step of descent, till here was downright catastrophe. Bitter enough
in itself, but most lamentable with reference to the friends of the
family. How was it to be explained, this return of Amy to her home
for several months, whilst her husband was no further away than
Worthing? The bald, horrible truth—impossible! Yet Mr Milvain knew
it, and the Carters must guess it. What colour could be thrown upon
such vulgar distress?

The worst was not yet. It declared itself this May morning,
when, quite unexpectedly, a cab drove up to the house, bringing Amy
and her child, and her trunks, and her band-boxes, and her
what-nots.

From the dining-room window Mrs Yule was aware of this arrival,
and in a few moments she learnt the unspeakable cause.

She burst into tears, genuine as ever woman shed.

'There's no use in that, mother,' said Amy, whose temper was in
a dangerous state. 'Nothing worse can happen, that's one
consolation.'

'Oh, it's disgraceful! disgraceful!' sobbed Mrs Yule. 'What we
are to say I can NOT think.'

'I shall say nothing whatever. People can scarcely have the
impertinence to ask us questions when we have shown that they are
unwelcome.'

'But there are some people I can't help giving some explanation
to. My dear child, he is not in his right mind. I'm convinced of
it, there! He is not in his right mind.'

'That's nonsense, mother. He is as sane as I am.'

'But you have often said what strange things he says and does;
you know you have, Amy. That talking in his sleep; I've thought a
great deal of it since you told me about that. And—and so many
other things. My love, I shall give it to be understood that he has
become so very odd in his ways that—'

'I can't have that,' replied Amy with decision. 'Don't you see
that in that case I should be behaving very badly?'

'I can't see that at all. There are many reasons, as you know
very well, why one shouldn't live with a husband who is at all
suspected of mental derangement. You have done your utmost for him.
And this would be some sort of explanation, you know. I am so
convinced that there is truth in it, too.'

'Of course I can't prevent you from saying what you like, but I
think it would be very wrong to start a rumour of this kind.'

There was less resolve in this utterance. Amy mused, and looked
wretched.

'Come up to the drawing-room, dear,' said her mother, for they
had held their conversation in the room nearest to the house-door.
'What a state your mind must be in! Oh dear! Oh dear!'

She was a slender, well-proportioned woman, still pretty in
face, and dressed in a way that emphasised her abiding charms. Her
voice had something of plaintiveness, and altogether she was of
frailer type than her daughter.

'Is my room ready?' Amy inquired on the stairs.

'I'm sorry to say it isn't, dear, as I didn't expect you till
tomorrow. But it shall be seen to immediately.'

This addition to the household was destined to cause grave
difficulties with the domestic slaves. But Mrs Yule would prove
equal to the occasion. On Amy's behalf she would have worked her
servants till they perished of exhaustion before her eyes.

'Use my room for the present,' she added. 'I think the girl has
finished up there. But wait here; I'll just go and see to
things.'

'Things' were not quite satisfactory, as it proved. You should
have heard the change that came in that sweetly plaintive voice
when it addressed the luckless housemaid. It was not brutal; not at
all. But so sharp, hard, unrelenting—the voice of the goddess
Poverty herself perhaps sounds like that.

Mad? Was he to be spoken of in a low voice, and with finger
pointing to the forehead? There was something ridiculous, as well
as repugnant, in such a thought; but it kept possession of Amy's
mind. She was brooding upon it when her mother came into the
drawing-room.

'And he positively refused to carry out the former plan?'

'Refused. Said it was useless.'

'How could it be useless? There's something so unaccountable in
his behaviour.'

'I don't think it unaccountable,' replied Amy. 'It's weak and
selfish, that's all. He takes the first miserable employment that
offers rather than face the hard work of writing another book.'

She was quite aware that this did not truly represent her
husband's position. But an uneasiness of conscience impelled her to
harsh speech.

'But just fancy!' exclaimed her mother. 'What can he mean by
asking you to go and live with him on twenty-five shillings a week?
Upon my word. if his mind isn't disordered he must have made a
deliberate plan to get rid of you.'

Amy shook her head.

'You mean,' asked Mrs Yule, 'that he really thinks it possible
for all of you to be supported on those wages?'

The last word was chosen to express the utmost scorn.

'He talked of earning fifty pounds a year by writing.'

'Even then it could only make about a hundred a year. My dear
child, it's one of two things: either he is out of his mind, or he
has purposely cast you off.'

Amy laughed, thinking of her husband in the light of the latter
alternative.

'There's no need to seek so far for explanations,' she said. 'He
has failed, that's all; just like a man might fail in any other
business. He can't write like he used to. It may be all the result
of ill-health; I don't know. His last book, you see, is positively
refused. He has made up his mind that there's nothing but poverty
before him, and he can't understand why I should object to live
like the wife of a working-man.'

'Well, I only know that he has placed you in an exceedingly
difficult position. If he had gone away to Worthing for the summer
we might have made it seem natural; people are always ready to
allow literary men to do rather odd things—up to a certain point.
We should have behaved as if there were nothing that called for
explanation. But what are we to do now?'

Like her multitudinous kind, Mrs Yule lived only in the opinions
of other people. What others would say was her ceaseless
preoccupation. She had never conceived of life as something proper
to the individual; independence in the directing of one's course
seemed to her only possible in the case of very eccentric persons,
or of such as were altogether out of society. Amy had advanced,
intellectually, far beyond this standpoint, but lack of courage
disabled her from acting upon her convictions.

'People must know the truth, I suppose,' she answered
dispiritedly.

Now, confession of the truth was the last thing that would occur
to Mrs Yule when social relations were concerned. Her whole
existence was based on bold denial of actualities. And, as is
natural in such persons, she had the ostrich instinct strongly
developed; though very acute in the discovery of her friends' shams
and lies, she deceived herself ludicrously in the matter of
concealing her own embarrassments.

'But the fact is, my dear,' she answered, 'we don't know the
truth ourselves. You had better let yourself be directed by me. It
will be better, at first, if you see as few people as possible. I
suppose you must say something or other to two or three of your own
friends; if you take my advice you'll be rather mysterious. Let
them think what they like; anything is better than to say plainly.
"My husband can't support me, and he has gone to work as a clerk
for weekly wages." Be mysterious, darling; depend upon it, that's
the safest.'