New Grub Street (51 page)

Reardon turned abruptly as if to leave her, but checked himself
at a little distance.

Both had come to this meeting prepared for a renewal of amity,
but in these first few moments each was so disagreeably impressed
by the look and language of the other that a revulsion of feeling
undid all the more hopeful effects of their long severance. On
entering, Amy had meant to offer her hand, but the unexpected
meanness of Reardon's aspect shocked and restrained her. All but
every woman would have experienced that shrinking from the livery
of poverty. Amy had but to reflect, and she understood that her
husband could in no wise help this shabbiness; when he parted from
her his wardrobe was already in a long-suffering condition, and how
was he to have purchased new garments since then? None the less
such attire degraded him in her eyes; it symbolised the melancholy
decline which he had suffered intellectually. On Reardon his wife's
elegance had the same repellent effect, though this would not have
been the case but for the expression of her countenance. Had it
been possible for them to remain together during the first five
minutes without exchange of words, sympathies might have prevailed
on both sides; the first speech uttered would most likely have
harmonised with their gentler thoughts. But the mischief was done
so speedily.

A man must indeed be graciously endowed if his personal
appearance can defy the disadvantage of cheap modern clothing worn
into shapelessness. Reardon had no such remarkable physique, and it
was not wonderful that his wife felt ashamed of him. Strictly
ashamed; he seemed to her a social inferior; the impression was so
strong that it resisted all memory of his spiritual qualities. She
might have anticipated this state of things, and have armed herself
to encounter it, but somehow she had not done so. For more than
five months she had been living among people who dressed well; the
contrast was too suddenly forced upon her. She was especially
susceptible in such matters, and had become none the less so under
the demoralising influence of her misfortunes. True, she soon began
to feel ashamed of her shame, but that could not annihilate the
natural feeling and its results.

'I don't love him. I can't love him.' Thus she spoke to herself,
with immutable decision. She had been doubtful till now, but all
doubt was at an end. Had Reardon been practical man enough to
procure by hook or by crook a decent suit of clothes for this
interview, that ridiculous trifle might have made all the
difference in what was to result.

He turned again, and spoke with the harshness of a man who feels
that he is despised, and is determined to show an equal
contempt.

'I came to ask you what you propose to do in case I go to
Croydon.'

'I have no proposal to make whatever.'

'That means, then, that you are content to go on living
here?'

'If I have no choice, I must make myself content.'

'But you have a choice.'

'None has yet been offered me.'

'Then I offer it now,' said Reardon, speaking less aggressively.
'I shall have a dwelling rent free, and a hundred and fifty pounds
a year—perhaps it would be more in keeping with my station if I say
that I shall have something less than three pounds a week. You can
either accept from me half this money, as up to now, or come and
take your place again as my wife. Please to decide what you will
do.'

'I will let you know by letter in a few days.'

It seemed impossible to her to say she would return, yet a
refusal to do so involved nothing less than separation for the rest
of their lives. Postponement of decision was her only resource.

'I must know at once,' said Reardon.

'I can't answer at once.'

'If you don't, I shall understand you to mean that you refuse to
come to me. You know the circumstances; there is no reason why you
should consult with anyone else. You can answer me immediately if
you will.'

'I don't wish to answer you immediately,' Amy replied, paling
slightly.

'Then that decides it. When I leave you we are strangers to each
other.'

Amy made a rapid study of his countenance. She had never
entertained for a moment the supposition that his wits were
unsettled, but none the less the constant recurrence of that idea
in her mother's talk had subtly influenced her against her husband.
It had confirmed her in thinking that his behaviour was
inexcusable. And now it seemed to her that anyone might be
justified in holding him demented, so reckless was his
utterance.

It was difficult to know him as the man who had loved her so
devotedly, who was incapable of an unkind word or look.

'If that is what you prefer,' she said, 'there must be a formal
separation. I can't trust my future to your caprice.'

'You mean it must be put into the hands of a lawyer?'

'Yes, I do.'

'That will be the best, no doubt.'

'Very well; I will speak with my friends about it.'

'Your friends!' he exclaimed bitterly. 'But for those friends of
yours, this would never have happened. I wish you had been alone in
the world and penniless.'

'A kind wish, all things considered.'

'Yes, it is a kind wish. Then your marriage with me would have
been binding; you would have known that my lot was yours, and the
knowledge would have helped your weakness. I begin to see how much
right there is on the side of those people who would keep women in
subjection. You have been allowed to act with independence, and the
result is that you have ruined my life and debased your own. If I
had been strong enough to treat you as a child, and bid you follow
me wherever my own fortunes led, it would have been as much better
for you as for me. I was weak, and I suffer as all weak people
do.'

'You think it was my duty to share such a home as you have at
present?'

'You know it was. And if the choice had lain between that and
earning your own livelihood you would have thought that even such a
poor home might be made tolerable. There were possibilities in you
of better things than will ever come out now.'

There followed a silence. Amy sat with her eyes gloomily fixed
on the carpet; Reardon looked about the room, but saw nothing. He
had thrown his hat into a chair, and his fingers worked nervously
together behind his back.

'Will you tell me,' he said at length, 'how your position is
regarded by these friends of yours? I don't mean your mother and
brother, but the people who come to this house.'

'I have not asked such people for their opinion.'

'Still, I suppose some sort of explanation has been necessary in
your intercourse with them. How have you represented your relations
with me?'

'I can't see that that concerns you.'

'In a manner it does. Certainly it matters very little to me how
I am thought of by people of this kind, but one doesn't like to be
reviled without cause. Have you allowed it to be supposed that I
have made life with me intolerable for you?'

'No, I have not. You insult me by asking the question, but as
you don't seem to understand feelings of that kind I may as well
answer you simply.'

'Then have you told them the truth? That I became so poor you
couldn't live with me?'

'I have never said that in so many words, but no doubt it is
understood. It must be known also that you refused to take the step
which might have helped you out of your difficulties.'

'What step?'

She reminded him of his intention to spend half a year in
working at the seaside.

'I had utterly forgotten it,' he returned with a mocking laugh.
'That shows how ridiculous such a thing would have been.'

'You are doing no literary work at all?' Amy asked.

'Do you imagine that I have the peace of mind necessary for
anything of that sort?'

This was in a changed voice. It reminded her so strongly of her
husband before his disasters that she could not frame a reply.

'Do you think I am able to occupy myself with the affairs of
imaginary people?'

'I didn't necessarily mean fiction.'

'That I can forget myself, then, in the study of literature?—I
wonder whether you really think of me like that. How, in Heaven's
name, do you suppose I spend my leisure time?'

She made no answer.

'Do you think I take this calamity as light-heartedly as you do,
Amy?'

'I am far from taking it light-heartedly.'

'Yet you are in good health. I see no sign that you have
suffered.'

She kept silence. Her suffering had been slight enough, and
chiefly due to considerations of social propriety; but she would
not avow this, and did not like to make admission of it to herself.
Before her friends she frequently affected to conceal a profound
sorrow; but so long as her child was left to her she was in no
danger of falling a victim to sentimental troubles.

'And certainly I can't believe it,' he continued, 'now you
declare your wish to be formally separated from me.'

'I have declared no such wish.'

'Indeed you have. If you can hesitate a moment about returning
to me when difficulties are at an end, that tells me you would
prefer final separation.'

'I hesitate for this reason,' Amy said after reflecting. 'You
are so very greatly changed from what you used to be, that I think
it doubtful if I could live with you.'

'Changed?—Yes, that is true, I am afraid. But how do you think
this change will affect my behaviour to you?'

'Remember how you have been speaking to me.'

'And you think I should treat you brutally if you came into my
power?'

'Not brutally, in the ordinary sense of the word. But with
faults of temper which I couldn't bear. I have my own faults. I
can't behave as meekly as some women can.'

It was a small concession, but Reardon made much of it.

'Did my faults of temper give you any trouble during the first
year of our married life?' he asked gently.

'No,' she admitted.

'They began to afflict you when I was so hard driven by
difficulties that I needed all your sympathy, all your forbearance.
Did I receive much of either from you, Amy?'

'I think you did—until you demanded impossible things of
me.'

'It was always in your power to rule me. What pained me worst,
and hardened me against you, was that I saw you didn't care to
exert your influence. There was never a time when I could have
resisted a word of yours spoken out of your love for me. But even
then, I am afraid, you no longer loved me, and now—'

He broke off, and stood watching her face.

'Have you any love for me left?' burst from his lips, as if the
words all but choked him in the utterance.

Amy tried to shape some evasive answer, but could say
nothing.

'Is there ever so small a hope that I might win some love from
you again?'

'If you wish me to come and live with you when you go to Croydon
I will do so.'

'But that is not answering me, Amy.'

'It's all I can say.'

'Then you mean that you would sacrifice yourself out of—what?
Out of pity for me, let us say.'

'Do you wish to see Willie?' asked Amy, instead of replying.

'No. It is you I have come to see. The child is nothing to me,
compared with you. It is you, who loved me, who became my wife—you
only I care about. Tell me you will try to be as you used to be.
Give me only that hope, Amy; I will ask nothing except that,
now.'

'I can't say anything except that I will come to Croydon if you
wish it.'

'And reproach me always because you have to live in such a
place, away from your friends, without a hope of the social success
which was your dearest ambition?'

Her practical denial that she loved him wrung this taunt from
his anguished heart. He repented the words as soon as they were
spoken.

'What is the good?' exclaimed Amy in irritation, rising and
moving away from him. 'How can I pretend that I look forward to
such a life with any hope?'

He stood in mute misery, inwardly cursing himself and his
fate.

'I have said I will come,' she continued, her voice shaken with
nervous tension. 'Ask me or not, as you please, when you are ready
to go there. I can't talk about it.'

'I shall not ask you,' he replied. 'I will have no woman slave
dragging out a weary life with me. Either you are my willing wife,
or you are nothing to me.'

'I am married to you, and that can't be undone. I repeat that I
shan't refuse to obey you. I shall say no more.'

She moved to a distance, and there seated herself, half turned
from him.

'I shall never ask you to come,' said Reardon, breaking a short
silence. 'If our married life is ever to begin again it must be of
your seeking. Come to me of your own will, and I shall never reject
you. But I will die in utter loneliness rather than ask you
again.'

He lingered a few moments, watching her; she did not move. Then
he took his hat, went in silence from the room, and left the
house.

It rained harder than before. As no trains were running at this
hour, he walked in the direction where he would be likely to meet
with an omnibus. But it was a long time before one passed which was
any use to him. When he reached home he was in cheerless plight
enough; to make things pleasanter, one of his boots had let in
water abundantly.

'The first sore throat of the season, no doubt,' he muttered to
himself.

Nor was he disappointed. By Tuesday the cold had firm grip of
him. A day or two of influenza or sore throat always made him so
weak that with difficulty he supported the least physical exertion;
but at present he must go to his work at the hospital. Why stay at
home? To what purpose spare himself? It was not as if life had any
promise for him. He was a machine for earning so much money a week,
and would at least give faithful work for his wages until the day
of final breakdown.