New Grub Street (37 page)

If Amy's love had but been of more enduring quality; if she had
strengthened him for this last endeavour with the brave tenderness
of an ideal wife! But he had seen such hateful things in her eyes.
Her love was dead, and she regarded him as the man who had spoilt
her hopes of happiness. It was only for her own sake that she urged
him to strive on; let his be the toil, that hers might be the
advantage if he succeeded.

'She would be glad if I were dead. She would be glad.'

He had the conviction of it. Oh yes, she would shed tears; they
come so easily to women. But to have him dead and out of her way;
to be saved from her anomalous position; to see once more a chance
in life; she would welcome it.

But there was no time for brooding. To-day he had to sell all
the things that were superfluous, and to make arrangements for the
removal of his effects to-morrow. By Wednesday night, in accordance
with his agreement, the flat must be free for the new occupier.

He had taken only two rooms, and fortunately as things were.
Three would have cost more than he was likely to be able to afford
for a long time. The rent of the two was to be six-and-sixpence;
and how, if Amy had consented to come, could he have met the
expenses of their living out of his weekly twenty-five shillings?
How could he have pretended to do literary work in such cramped
quarters, he who had never been able to write a line save in strict
seclusion? In his despair he had faced the impossible. Amy had
shown more wisdom, though in a spirit of unkindness.

Towards ten o'clock he was leaving the flat to go and find
people who would purchase his books and old clothing and other
superfluities; but before he could close the door behind him, an
approaching step on the stairs caught his attention. He saw the
shining silk hat of a well-equipped gentleman. It was John
Yule.

'Ha! Good-morning!' John exclaimed, looking up. 'A minute or two
and I should have been too late, I see.'

He spoke in quite a friendly way, and, on reaching the landing,
shook hands.

'Are you obliged to go at once? Or could I have a word with
you?'

'Come in.'

They entered the study, which was in some disorder; Reardon made
no reference to circumstances, but offered a chair, and seated
himself.

'Have a cigarette?' said Yule, holding out a box of them.

'No, thank you; I don't smoke so early.'

'Then I'll light one myself; it always makes talk easier to me.
You're on the point of moving, I suppose?'

'Yes, I am.'

Reardon tried to speak in quite a simple way, with no admission
of embarrassment. He was not successful, and to his visitor the
tone seemed rather offensive.

'I suppose you'll let Amy know your new address?'

'Certainly. Why should I conceal it?'

'No, no; I didn't mean to suggest that. But you might be taking
it for granted that—that the rupture was final, I thought.'

There had never been any intimacy between these two men. Reardon
regarded his wife's brother as rather snobbish and disagreeably
selfish; John Yule looked upon the novelist as a prig, and now of
late as a shuffling, untrustworthy fellow. It appeared to John that
his brother-in-law was assuming a manner wholly unjustifiable, and
he had a difficulty in behaving to him with courtesy. Reardon, on
the other hand, felt injured by the turn his visitor's remarks were
taking, and began to resent the visit altogether.

'I take nothing for granted,' he said coldly. 'But I'm afraid
nothing is to be gained by a discussion of our difficulties. The
time for that is over.

'I can't quite see that. It seems to me that the time has just
come.'

'Please tell me, to begin with, do you come on Amy's
behalf?'

'In a way, yes. She hasn't sent me, but my mother and I are so
astonished at what is happening that it was necessary for one or
other of us to see you.'

'I think it is all between Amy and myself.'

'Difficulties between husband and wife are generally best left
to the people themselves, I know. But the fact is, there are
peculiar circumstances in the present case. It can't be necessary
for me to explain further.'

Reardon could find no suitable words of reply. He understood
what Yule referred to, and began to feel the full extent of his
humiliation.

'You mean, of course—' he began; but his tongue failed him.

'Well, we should really like to know how long it is proposed
that Amy shall remain with her mother.'

John was perfectly self-possessed; it took much to disturb his
equanimity. He smoked his cigarette, which was in an amber
mouthpiece, and seemed to enjoy its flavour. Reardon found himself
observing the perfection of the young man's boots and trousers.

'That depends entirely on my wife herself;' he replied
mechanically.

'How so?'

'I offer her the best home I can.'

Reardon felt himself a poor, pitiful creature, and hated the
well-dressed man who made him feel so.

'But really, Reardon,' began the other, uncrossing and
recrossing his legs, 'do you tell me in seriousness that you expect
Amy to live in such lodgings as you can afford on a pound a
week?'

'I don't. I said that I had offered her the best home I could. I
know it's impossible, of course.'

Either he must speak thus, or break into senseless wrath. It was
hard to hold back the angry words that were on his lips, but he
succeeded, and he was glad he had done so.

'Then it doesn't depend on Amy,' said John.

'I suppose not.'

'You see no reason, then, why she shouldn't live as at present
for an indefinite time?'

To John, whose perspicacity was not remarkable, Reardon's
changed tone conveyed simply an impression of bland impudence. He
eyed his brother-in-law rather haughtily.

'I can only say,' returned the other, who was become wearily
indifferent, 'that as soon as I can afford a decent home I shall
give my wife the opportunity of returning to me.'

'But, pray, when is that likely to be?'

John had passed the bounds; his manner was too frankly
contemptuous.

'I see no right you have to examine me in this fashion,' Reardon
exclaimed. 'With Mrs Yule I should have done my best to be patient
if she had asked these questions; but you are not justified in
putting them, at all events not in this way.'

'I'm very sorry you speak like this, Reardon,' said the other,
with calm insolence. 'It confirms unpleasant ideas, you know.'

'What do you mean?'

'Why, one can't help thinking that you are rather too much at
your ease under the circumstances. It isn't exactly an everyday
thing, you know, for a man's wife to be sent back to her own
people—'

Reardon could not endure the sound of these words. He
interrupted hotly.

'I can't discuss it with you. You are utterly unable to
comprehend me and my position, utterly! It would be useless to
defend myself. You must take whatever view seems to you the natural
one.'

John, having finished his cigarette, rose.

'The natural view is an uncommonly disagreeable one,' he said.
'However, I have no intention of quarrelling with you. I'll only
just say that, as I take a share in the expenses of my mother's
house, this question decidedly concerns me; and I'll add that I
think it ought to concern you a good deal more than it seems
to.'

Reardon, ashamed already of his violence, paused upon these
remarks.

'It shall,' he uttered at length, coldly. 'You have put it
clearly enough to me, and you shan't have spoken in vain. Is there
anything else you wish to say?'

'Thank you; I think not.'

They parted with distant civility, and Reardon closed the door
behind his visitor.

He knew that his character was seen through a distorting medium
by Amy's relatives, to some extent by Amy herself; but hitherto the
reflection that this must always be the case when a man of his kind
is judged by people of the world had strengthened him in defiance.
An endeavour to explain himself would be maddeningly hopeless; even
Amy did not understand aright the troubles through which his
intellectual and moral nature was passing, and to speak of such
experiences to Mrs Yule or to John would be equivalent to
addressing them in alien tongues; he and they had no common
criterion by reference to which he could make himself intelligible.
The practical tone in which John had explained the opposing view of
the situation made it impossible for him to proceed as he had
purposed. Amy would never come to him in his poor lodgings; her
mother, her brother, all her advisers would regard such a thing as
out of the question. Very well; recognising this, he must also
recognise his wife's claim upon him for material support. It was
not in his power to supply her with means sufficient to live upon,
but what he could afford she should have.

When he went out, it was with a different purpose from that of
half an hour ago. After a short search in the direction of Edgware
Road, he found a dealer in second-hand furniture, whom he requested
to come as soon as possible to the flat on a matter of business. An
hour later the man kept his appointment. Having brought him into
the study, Reardon said:

'I wish to sell everything in this flat, with a few exceptions
that I'll point out to you'.

'Very good, sir,' was the reply. 'Let's have a look through the
rooms.'

That the price offered would be strictly a minimum Reardon knew
well enough. The dealer was a rough and rather dirty fellow, with
the distrustful glance which distinguishes his class. Men of
Reardon's type, when hapless enough to be forced into vulgar
commerce, are doubly at a disadvantage; not only their ignorance,
but their sensitiveness, makes them ready victims of even the least
subtle man of business. To deal on equal terms with a person you
must be able to assert with calm confidence that you are not to be
cheated; Reardon was too well aware that he would certainly be
cheated, and shrank scornfully from the higgling of the market.
Moreover, he was in a half-frenzied state of mind, and cared for
little but to be done with the hateful details of this process of
ruin.

He pencilled a list of the articles he must retain for his own
use; it would of course be cheaper to take a bare room than
furnished lodgings, and every penny he could save was of importance
to him. The chair-bedstead, with necessary linen and blankets, a
table, two chairs, a looking-glass—strictly the indispensable
things; no need to complete the list. Then there were a few
valuable wedding-presents, which belonged rather to Amy than to
him; these he would get packed and send to Westbourne Park.

The dealer made his calculation, with many side-glances at the
vendor.

'And what may you ask for the lot?'

'Please to make an offer.'

'Most of the things has had a good deal of wear—'

'I know, I know. Just let me hear what you will give.'

'Well, if you want a valuation, I say eighteen pound ten.'

It was more than Reardon had expected, though much less than a
man who understood such affairs would have obtained.

'That's the most you can give?'

'Wouldn't pay me to give a sixpence more. You see—'

He began to point out defects, but Reardon cut him short.

'Can you take them away at once?'

'At wunst? Would two o'clock do?'

'Yes, it would.'

'And might you want these other things takin' anywheres?'

'Yes, but not till to-morrow. They have to go to Islington. What
would you do it for?'

This bargain also was completed, and the dealer went his way.
Thereupon Reardon set to work to dispose of his books; by half-past
one he had sold them for a couple of guineas. At two came the cart
that was to take away the furniture, and at four o'clock nothing
remained in the flat save what had to be removed on the morrow.

The next thing to be done was to go to Islington, forfeit a
week's rent for the two rooms he had taken, and find a single room
at the lowest possible cost. On the way, he entered an eating-house
and satisfied his hunger, for he had had nothing since breakfast.
It took him a couple of hours to discover the ideal garret; it was
found at length in a narrow little by-way running out of Upper
Street. The rent was half-a-crown a week.

At seven o'clock he sat down in what once was called his study,
and wrote the following letter:

'Enclosed in this envelope you will find twenty pounds. I have
been reminded that your relatives will be at the expense of your
support; it seemed best to me to sell the furniture, and now I send
you all the money I can spare at present. You will receive
to-morrow a box containing several things I did not feel justified
in selling. As soon as I begin to have my payment from Carter, half
of it shall be sent to you every week. My address is: 5 Manville
Street, Upper Street, Islington.—EDWIN REARDON.'

He enclosed the money, in notes and gold, and addressed the
envelope to his wife. She must receive it this very night, and he
knew not how to ensure that save by delivering it himself. So he
went to Westbourne Park by train, and walked to Mrs Yule's
house.

At this hour the family were probably at dinner; yes, the window
of the dining-room showed lights within, whilst those of the
drawing-room were in shadow. After a little hesitation he rang the
servants' bell. When the door opened, he handed his letter to the
girl, and requested that it might be given to Mrs Reardon as soon
as possible. With one more hasty glance at the window—Amy was
perhaps enjoying her unwonted comfort—he walked quickly away.

As he re-entered what had been his home, its bareness made his
heart sink. An hour or two had sufficed for this devastation;
nothing remained upon the uncarpeted floors but the needments he
would carry with him into the wilderness, such few evidences of
civilisation as the poorest cannot well dispense with. Anger,
revolt, a sense of outraged love—all manner of confused passions
had sustained him throughout this day of toil; now he had leisure
to know how faint he was. He threw himself upon his chair-bedstead,
and lay for more than an hour in torpor of body and mind.